Friday, March 19, 2010

If he bellows let him wail

The thunder of horns greeted the Vortex he descended the concrete steps built into the crater. He adjusted his resplendent spidersilk robe that matched his crimson fur to avoid an unfortunate rip from being pinned to his footpaws, and ensure it was hanging correctly around the hole cut for his slowly writhing tail. Two dwarfish demons waddled hurriedly behind him, taking quick jumps to reach the following step.

When the demon prince reached the floor of the crater, he flexed his paws to feel the red velvet stretching out all the way to his new throne. He admired the avant-garde design of the strips of black metal that were re-welded to again form the Throne of Erebus, albeit in a form unrecognizable from the original rococo design the Ereb'ai were infamous for.

"I especially like the red particle effects," he muttered to his advisers as he adjusted his collar before continuing. The advisers stared at the patches of magic radiating from the center of the throne like shimmering rubies. They looked back to each other each other and pointed back and forth, shrugging in bewilderment. They looked back to the throne nervously in the stoic silence shared by all of the neko-demon's servants.

Vortex gazed straight up at the names engraved on the flanges of steel, hammered out to abstractly resemble the Hydra he slew, just enough to remind the residents of this faded province of Hell of his mythic feat without reawakening racial memories of stark terror. The names of his collective self were inscribed on the nine metal ribbons that hung closest. One of them had to be twisted at the end to hide the name "Koen" (whose name was now shorthand within the capital walls for "coward") and etch in the name "Marcus" (now whispered outside the Imperial Sector as a synonym for "opportunist") on the reverse of the leaf in its place.

Vortex sighed happily, and in a fluid twirl of his gold-trimmed robe sat down upon the down cushions.

And promptly jumped high into the air howling in outrage. As he shredded the silk with his claws he roared GET IF OFF GET IT OFF as his diminutive servants fell over each other circling their master, trying glimpse the trouble without being eviscerated by a flying claw. Like that one just did.

(I'm sorry, I seem to have gotten some gore on the camera.)


"It seems to be a..."

"YES I KNOW WHAT THE HELL IT IS! It's...oh...what? You're kidding!"

"Sir! We've got the axe! Hold still!"

"GET AWAY YOU IDIOTS! Can't you see it's my...!"


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