Eralam
Character
Eight, sir; seven, sir;
Slow, steady, pulsing. Like the fetid pulse of maggots feeding on not quite dead flesh, the bass thrummed.
Six, sir; five, sir;
Bodies writhed in the darkness, pale flesh illuminated only by the moonlight that managed to seep through the shattered roof and grimy windows.
Four, sir; three, sir;
The beat was as sensual as an accountant's ledger; slow and monotonous, but equally as corrupt.
Two, sir; one!
And yet, the dancers howled in ecstasy. The cacophony was barely audible over the music, but it was written in their faces, in their movements, the way they gasped and clutched and pawed at one another like starving animals.
Tenser, said the Tensor.
Tenser, said the Tensor.
Tension, apprehension,
And dissension have begun.
The sickening stench of corruption fills the old cathedral. It's a physical force that assails the senses, batters the brain into a more primitive state. Stale, musty, rotten, repulsive, but once it enters the nostrils, it worms its way past defenses and into the hindbrain, into the oldest parts of man, locked away long ago by the pressures of civilization.
There is no escape.
See the clothes, discard on the floor, trampled underfoot. There are uniforms here. Doctors and preachers, officers of the peace, none were immune. They too joined the fray, thrust headlong into the damnation shared by all who approached this place.
All, save one.
A lone figure on the edge of the mass stands tall, as motionless as the pillars that support the arched roof. Moonlight reflects off of him, casting its silver reflection on the dancers. It watches, eyes glowing in the darkness. And then, without warning, it snatches a dancer off the floor, a young woman, maybe 25 years old.
She is startlingly, inhumanly beautiful. She barely notices as songsteel fingers wrap around her throat and hoist her into the air. She continues her dance, pale skin flashing in the argent light of the moon, far too luminous to be natural.
Eralam, the oldest of hunters, thrusts his other hand, fingers outstretched, through her sternum. She gasps, eyes rolling back, as though he granted her the greatest pleasure the universe had to offer. She gives one last shudder, and falls still.
Has he taken leave of his senses? Why would he slay an innocent girl, caught in the throes of powers beyond her understanding?
Look closer. That is not blood that drips from the Iron Knight's hand, but sand. Her bones are bones no more. They are stone, harder than anything natural selection has ever devised. Her organs, heart, lungs, liver, bowels, are no longer flesh, but crystal. Fingernails gave way to obsidian claws, sharper than any razor.
All eyes turn to Eralam, but the dancing never stops. On the altar, the Queen laughs from her throne made of flesh.
Tenser, said the Tensor.
Tenser, said the Tensor.
Tension, apprehension,
And dissension have begun.
Slow, steady, pulsing. Like the fetid pulse of maggots feeding on not quite dead flesh, the bass thrummed.
Six, sir; five, sir;
Bodies writhed in the darkness, pale flesh illuminated only by the moonlight that managed to seep through the shattered roof and grimy windows.
Four, sir; three, sir;
The beat was as sensual as an accountant's ledger; slow and monotonous, but equally as corrupt.
Two, sir; one!
And yet, the dancers howled in ecstasy. The cacophony was barely audible over the music, but it was written in their faces, in their movements, the way they gasped and clutched and pawed at one another like starving animals.
Tenser, said the Tensor.
Tenser, said the Tensor.
Tension, apprehension,
And dissension have begun.
The sickening stench of corruption fills the old cathedral. It's a physical force that assails the senses, batters the brain into a more primitive state. Stale, musty, rotten, repulsive, but once it enters the nostrils, it worms its way past defenses and into the hindbrain, into the oldest parts of man, locked away long ago by the pressures of civilization.
There is no escape.
See the clothes, discard on the floor, trampled underfoot. There are uniforms here. Doctors and preachers, officers of the peace, none were immune. They too joined the fray, thrust headlong into the damnation shared by all who approached this place.
All, save one.
A lone figure on the edge of the mass stands tall, as motionless as the pillars that support the arched roof. Moonlight reflects off of him, casting its silver reflection on the dancers. It watches, eyes glowing in the darkness. And then, without warning, it snatches a dancer off the floor, a young woman, maybe 25 years old.
She is startlingly, inhumanly beautiful. She barely notices as songsteel fingers wrap around her throat and hoist her into the air. She continues her dance, pale skin flashing in the argent light of the moon, far too luminous to be natural.
Eralam, the oldest of hunters, thrusts his other hand, fingers outstretched, through her sternum. She gasps, eyes rolling back, as though he granted her the greatest pleasure the universe had to offer. She gives one last shudder, and falls still.
Has he taken leave of his senses? Why would he slay an innocent girl, caught in the throes of powers beyond her understanding?
Look closer. That is not blood that drips from the Iron Knight's hand, but sand. Her bones are bones no more. They are stone, harder than anything natural selection has ever devised. Her organs, heart, lungs, liver, bowels, are no longer flesh, but crystal. Fingernails gave way to obsidian claws, sharper than any razor.
All eyes turn to Eralam, but the dancing never stops. On the altar, the Queen laughs from her throne made of flesh.
Tenser, said the Tensor.
Tenser, said the Tensor.
Tension, apprehension,
And dissension have begun.