"Take this as a message to all those who stand in the way of progress.
Who stands in the way of the Empire we will create."
Crimson Craiasa - 28 August, 309 AC.
A tale of four unchanging vices spoke in its many faces: a cherub's smiling ignorance, a demon's incensed grin, a lunatic's maddened laughter, and an expressionless' bereaved silence. What countenance would it suit, in this very moment, as each step they took was them nearing the famously blood-stained guillotines? A night of bleeding out from a skewering wound, a night of mockery, and a night of humiliation had left it determining the stairs nigh interminable... unending even. They were all too debilitated and exhausted, forcefully pulled along in their shackles regardless. Could they say that their execution was well-justified?
No, not really.
There was the uproarious crowd that was oh-so-very loud, quietening in expectation now; calming down to mere susurrus eventually. It was each and every face they saw, that actually deserved to be on the spot where Drulailmon stood. As the cavorting dance of crimson flashed through the crowds, the furtive creatures of the night no longer hid away their accursed figures: a zoic conglomeration of beasts caterwauling their abated cheers at its eventual death.
Sensing pleasure in suffering, sensing the un-lovely as lovely.
At least, that was how the Cahal would put it. Now standing upon the platforms, Drulailmon's eyes were set upon the dusty wooden planks below, allowing themselves to be reminded of their father's cottage, of the days they spent there peacefully. Their tears never came, weltering emotions crunched and seized: they were desperate to keep the last vestiges of their honour intact, not a moment to be given relief in front of this vile crowd.
"Push them to their knees and hold them still."
Keeling over with the forceful shove thrust upon them, a flurry of tempestuous fires escaped from its combusted breaths. Its pathetic figure writhed on the spot in a series of unceremonious, pained croaks as they felt something torn and ripped away. They came to see a ghastly copy of themselves made from thaumaturgical blood magics, making praises of their Lord and Creator, Valerica. Such an entity receded into a corner, with Drulailmon making utterances of 'vile', 'abomination' and all that cursed unholy.
"I will offer you this chance to repent. Pledge what remains of your pitiful life to serving your betters, and I will let you live."
... Pfah. How ridiculous, they thought. They knew better than anyone else that the manifestation of evil before them sought nothing more than their destruction and in the gravitas of this situation, they found it all too amusing. Drulailmon's many eyes gazed skywards, in slow search for a higher being at this moment. Were they finally abandoned? Was this their end? They knew nought until their last breaths. There was a halo of silence encapsulating their figure before speaking out in hollowed returns, a final bout of rebellion.
No, not really.
There was the uproarious crowd that was oh-so-very loud, quietening in expectation now; calming down to mere susurrus eventually. It was each and every face they saw, that actually deserved to be on the spot where Drulailmon stood. As the cavorting dance of crimson flashed through the crowds, the furtive creatures of the night no longer hid away their accursed figures: a zoic conglomeration of beasts caterwauling their abated cheers at its eventual death.
Sensing pleasure in suffering, sensing the un-lovely as lovely.
At least, that was how the Cahal would put it. Now standing upon the platforms, Drulailmon's eyes were set upon the dusty wooden planks below, allowing themselves to be reminded of their father's cottage, of the days they spent there peacefully. Their tears never came, weltering emotions crunched and seized: they were desperate to keep the last vestiges of their honour intact, not a moment to be given relief in front of this vile crowd.
"Push them to their knees and hold them still."
Keeling over with the forceful shove thrust upon them, a flurry of tempestuous fires escaped from its combusted breaths. Its pathetic figure writhed on the spot in a series of unceremonious, pained croaks as they felt something torn and ripped away. They came to see a ghastly copy of themselves made from thaumaturgical blood magics, making praises of their Lord and Creator, Valerica. Such an entity receded into a corner, with Drulailmon making utterances of 'vile', 'abomination' and all that cursed unholy.
"I will offer you this chance to repent. Pledge what remains of your pitiful life to serving your betters, and I will let you live."
... Pfah. How ridiculous, they thought. They knew better than anyone else that the manifestation of evil before them sought nothing more than their destruction and in the gravitas of this situation, they found it all too amusing. Drulailmon's many eyes gazed skywards, in slow search for a higher being at this moment. Were they finally abandoned? Was this their end? They knew nought until their last breaths. There was a halo of silence encapsulating their figure before speaking out in hollowed returns, a final bout of rebellion.
"ł₦ ₮ⱧɆ Ⱨ₳Ɽ₴ⱧɆ₴₮ Ø₣ ₴Ɇ₳₴Ø₦₴, ₩Ɇ ₴ł₦₲ ₮ⱧɆ ₥Ø₴₮ ฿ł₮₮ɆⱤ Ø₣ ₴Ø₦₲₴.
₣₳ⱤɆ₩ɆⱠⱠ₴, ₳₴ ł ₥₳Ɽ₭ Ɇ₳₵Ⱨ ₳₦Đ ɆVɆⱤɎ Ø₦Ɇ Ø₣ ɎØɄ ₩ł₮Ⱨ ₥Ɏ Ʉ₮₥Ø₴₮ ₵Ø₦₮Ɇ₥₱₮, ₥Ɏ ₣ł₦₳Ⱡ VɆ₴₮ł₲Ɇ₴ Ø₣ łⱤɆ."
₣₳ⱤɆ₩ɆⱠⱠ₴, ₳₴ ł ₥₳Ɽ₭ Ɇ₳₵Ⱨ ₳₦Đ ɆVɆⱤɎ Ø₦Ɇ Ø₣ ɎØɄ ₩ł₮Ⱨ ₥Ɏ Ʉ₮₥Ø₴₮ ₵Ø₦₮Ɇ₥₱₮, ₥Ɏ ₣ł₦₳Ⱡ VɆ₴₮ł₲Ɇ₴ Ø₣ łⱤɆ."
Valerica's hand rose slowly in a theatrical display, the cruel sword held within her grasp playfully glinting in the low light of the blazing afternoon. Her wicked smile remained ever-present, glancing across the crowd briefly before the task reared her attention back. Her body began to writhe and gruesomely contort as the Desprince burst free from within her confined cells, her vampiric form appearing as the blade was levelled against Drulailmon's shoulder.
"Take your last breath, pet. I would say I'd miss our chats, but I'd be lying."
Drulailmon readily accepted the guillotine that was about to come, lifting their neck up high. Like a king sitting upon their lofty dais, to stare down at his subjects, the crowds, with venomous wrath. Where were their gods? Where was the Colossi? Where were their friends? They only knew one answer then: that they had been forsaken.
And as the Ithanians would say, adieu, as the executioner's blade came swinging in.
OOC TAGS: @BiBiBirdie
