The final plea of the gambler. The endless prayer of the penitent. The epitaph of a thousand kings.
"How did it come to this?"
For more than four decades have I lurked in the collected dust of ages, holding court over as the once proud empire of man stirred to motion after generations of decay. Maggots emerging from a corpse.
Holding court, and little else. My once respected House, as pitiful an edifice as any other, was ruled in ages past by men wise and just. Having see the civilized universe all but torn asunder by war, they passed down through the warrior princes of my dynasty one lesson above all others. A warrior possesses no greater strength, than the power to stay his hand.
I can only hope, in my vain and mortal heart, that in some distant time beyond this coming darkness that humble men will remember me as a patient tyrant, who sought peace above all.
As a thousand noble kings before me learned, the only reward an honorable warrior can truly expect is an honorable death. So many times before, and I fear this may be the very last.
The blade is heavier than I recall. Even with the greatest riches and knowledge faithful men possess, forty two years take a great toll. Forty two years since my brethren, curse the name, chose me to guide them. That they might in turn ignore all they professed to obey. Chose me to divvy up the last riches of a dying realm, and chose me to blame for their failure to stay their own wrath and greed. I gave them my patience, a patience so magnanimous I all but rendered the third greatest seat of power in the mortal universe all but irrelevant. For all their plots and machinations, far more volumes of my ineptitude are spoken by how long it took them to care to depose me.
I can smell the fires now, raging in the hulk of a palace I've not entered in decades. My own blood is on the wind. There, the cry of valiant warriors, fighting on to the bitter end. Do they even think they're fighting in my name now? There, the unholy light of a warlock, a skean in the fabric of reality let loose for such petty ends. There, the terrible cry of an alien beast on wing, scything any human in its path for some goal it couldn't hope to comprehend. There, Vau pennants fluttering alongside their employers, knowing their newest vassal is all but secured.
The mightiest legion in human history stands about me resolute, heedless of errant missiles and desperate wails alike. The oldest concord of the Empire still holds even now - the Guard does not leave, and the Rabble do not enter. They would give their lives to defend the seat of Imperial power. But of any fool who successfully schemes to sit upon it? They could not care less.
The Hazat champion ascends to face me, flanked by his coterie of alien mercenaries. They will not and cannot take my authority, not without a hollow excuse for political process. They simply come to clear the way for Lazarus, and make clear what was already known.
I do not give them the satisfaction of conversation. He raises his glaive in salute, to meet my coming blade. I do not know how many I can strike down, but I cannot count how many more will follow...
How did it come to this?
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Topic: EoFS Revisited - 50027AD (Year 72) - Closing discussion (Read 70169 times)