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This is the intro to the series. I'll be writing more when I find the motivation.
(By the way, if any of you read my other Story, the curious concoction of Count Crotchet (in my other thread) I haven't given up on it. It's just that I've got writer's block for it).
Quote
Metal claws retched the eardrums of the company General Tylo, whom had been brandishing them against the wall, to stifle the crowd.
“Gentlemen, you are over-looking the obvious.” He spoke with a worn and old voice, filled with wisdom. Taking his hand off the wall, he walked over to his desk, which dominated the room.
“To win a war, you first must demoralise, then you must devastate, and then you must decapitate.” His face curled into a smile. The scarred, and singed skin looked at peace with it's wrinkly neighbours.
“I have won many wars - perhaps too many, and the tactic is simple and effective.” He seated himself on the large black chair behind his wooden desk. Behind him was a window, over-looking the glorious Steam-city known as Mina. It's busy conditions left the city in a constant fog, consisting mainly of water vapour. Tylo adjusted his monocle.
“We cannot afford to let the enemy meet us here. We are not prepared enough.” Tylo strained his voice to capture the men's attention.
“Think of the losses which could occur.” His head tiled to the side, eyebrows launching up his face.
He stood up, and walked with gestures, wading through the crowd of no-doubt important men.
“This city was built in peace. It was not built for war.”
Once getting back to where he started, he looked out the window, and smirked.
“Gentlemen. We know the enemy.” He paused, “and the enemy knows us.”
He sighed, and rubbed his eyes with the one hand he still had.
“I have no doubt that they will soon attack. We must make ready.”
A man stood up. He was dressed in white, and spoke with authority.
“Riveting speech, general; but, tell me.. who is the enemy?” His face held a accusing look.
Tylo started his reply by eyeing the man, who he recognised, and then spoke.
“The enemy? Mayor?” He laughed.
“General, answer the question.”
“Of course.”
Tylo gestured the window.
The crowd moved over to the window, where they witnessed an army of men and machines, some already descending on the city.
The white clothed man gasped in shock, and ran over to the General, grabbing his suit.
“Tylo! What do we do?!”
The General smiled, and took the man's hand off him.
“Well first, you demoralise.” His smile curled at the crowd, citing the obvious fear.
“Then, you devastate.”
Outside, artillery fire obliterated the military district of the city; the explosion ruptured through the streets, deafening anyone too close. The flash of the explosions lit the room with an orange tint, flaring up the general's shadow, and increasing the look of pure malice drawn on his face.
“And then of course..”
The man turned pure white, as he saw the general's metal hand transform into a blade.
“You decapitate.”
Tylo sliced the man's neck, separating it from his body. His other hand grabbed for his steam pistol on his belt, mercilessly gunning down the group before him.
Some men attempted the flee the scene, some begged for mercy. They found the doors locked, and the room sealed. As their bodies slummed to the floor, the last of the men looked at the general.
“Please, Tylo.. my wife..” His voice feeble and weak, the general walked over, and spoke with condolence, and smiled.
“I know the feeling.” He pushed his bladed hand into the man's stomach, sinking it into the flesh.
The deed finished, the general sat down behind his desk. He wiped his bladed hand, and flicked a button to turn it back into a hand. The steam still coming out of his changing fist, he took out a glass, some aged brandy. He poured the brandy, swirling it about in the glass, whilst turning to the window. His telescopic monocle gave him the perfect view. The orange glow, from both the gentle sunset, and the deafening explosions, bathed the room, glinting off the contrasting blood. All the while the general drank the brandy, swirling it.
The invasion force sliced through the defences of the city. What was left of them. The artillery bombarded the main district, forbidding any organised resistance. The few citizens brave enough to fight back soon found a musket ball in their body, as they slumped to the floor. Masses of men with gas masks attached to their faces stormed the city, quelling any and all resistance. Within meagre hours, what was an invasion force, quickly became an occupying force.
“Mum!” A young voice ended the silence. “Mum! Where are you?”
A small child entered the scene: a destroyed house, which could only be described as rubble. The small child searched through the wreck. “Mum!” Pulling up small pieces of brick, stone and metal, with splinters of wood, he searched. A small plumbing pipe in the corner smashed open, filling up the rubble with water. “Mum!” Tears began welling in his eyes. “Mum! Please mum.. Please!” Sitting down, the small boy dragged his legs close to his body, and sat there crying. “Mum..”
“Ceric?” A weak voice, barely audible through the crying, perked the boy's head from his arms.
“Mum! Where are you?” He stood up, and looked around frantically.
“Over here..”
Ceric followed the sound of his mother's voice, finding her under a pile of metal and wood; only her arm told him she was there.
“Ceric.. listen..”
“Mum! Are you alright?” His voice full of innocence, he grabbed her arm, and pulled it close.
“Ceric, listen to me..” She tightened her hand around the boy.
“Yes mummy?”
Water was reaching her face, any and all hope escaped from her body.
“Hide Ceric, stay alive.”
“What do you mean mummy?”
The water was rising to her mouth.
“Ceric, I love yo-” The water engulfed the figure of the mother, drowning her last word.
“Mummy?” He grabbed hold of her hand, it still holding on to him.
“Mummy!” He cried on her hand, feeling the last moments as it went limp, falling from the boy.
Ceric sat there, crying loudly, not knowing what to do. He screamed for his mother, not understanding what had happened.
He lied in the corner of the house, sobbing.
Nearby, metal-clad Soldiers heard the screams of the boy. They readied their muskets, as they made their way towards the eruption of sound.
As they made their way, a lone man rushed towards the noise, dodging the invading rubble and wreckage, evading the intruding offenders wielding weapons, dashing towards his son; intent on protecting him for the massacre. The metal-clad men soon found the boy, whose screams turned an octave higher upon sight of the iron monsters. The leftmost soldier readied his musket, aiming for the boy's head to ensure a quick demise, but the father figure dived on the pair, his bravery foolish in the face of danger. The musket shot, ringing the ears of the man, whilst the boy lay unconscious from the musket ball, which had nestled a new home in the boy's chest. The metal soldier shoved the defiant offender of his person, and readied his musket. A stroke of luck, however, befell this lost family, as a nearby soldier of the city shot his musket at the soldier, propelling the musket ball into the metal soldier's brain. Swiftly, with a trained technique, the second soldier immediately turned and shot the defender, whilst the father picked up the dead soldier's discarded knife and with a trained hand, quickly and precisely cut both the soldier's vertebral artery along with the brachiocephalic artery, quickly sending the soldier into shock and panic. As he fell, slowly; blood shooting out of his mutilated neck.
The father, now caked in blood, quickly picked up the boy, intending to fix the damage. In his desperate love he was careless and quick, as he slid on the wet rubble, smashing the back of his skull. The boy lied unconscious still, on his father's immobile figure, as it bleed red and grey, the brain mass slowly extruding from his cracked skull. The offending metal spike, dug into the father's head, slowed the bleeding, and the exudation of mass. Though he lay still, and dead. The boy bleed, his face turning pale, as an old man made he was towards the disturbance of noise, he saw the pair. He noted the damage, deciding to take the boy, hoping his home experiments might come to fruition finally.
Place upon on the surgical table, the boy witnessed dark. Humans find comfort in categorising, in assigning night and day a name, deciding which one they feel comfort in, and which one they do not. Which one they find salvation, and which one they do not. The boy was playfully wisting through the boundaries, as the steady, precise hand of the old man worked fast and quickly, taking out and putting in, replacing what did not need to be replaced. Immense pain kept the barrier the boy touched lightly distinct, while it also drew closer, the pinnacle of light enclosing the boy, giving him comfort from the dark, and the cold. Suddenly the frail figure of the old man slipped, sending the boy smashing through the barrier, as he saw himself on the table. Still, and dead.
He saw the frenzy of the old man cursing and frantically moving about, trying desperately to revive the small boy, whose figure was drastically changed with metal, and cogs, and clockwork pieces. He saw the sudden intake of breath upon himself, as he suddenly rushed into consciousness, feeling the pain. He felt the alien metal in his body. The man kept trying to calm the boy, as he tried to explain the reason that required parts of the boy's body to go.
“A f-fract- the musket ball, it sent shrapne-”
Suddenly the door to the workshop smashed open, as soldiers stormed and murdered the old man, clearing the workshop, ignoring the poor boy on the table top, crying, fearing his death. The shadow of a large men bloomed over the workshop, his faced curling into a smile.
Tylo laughed.
“So this is the boy who thinks he can cheat death?” He raised his hand to his chin, as he stared the crying boy in the eyes, and smiled. “We may have use for you.”
“Gentlemen, you are over-looking the obvious.” He spoke with a worn and old voice, filled with wisdom. Taking his hand off the wall, he walked over to his desk, which dominated the room.
“To win a war, you first must demoralise, then you must devastate, and then you must decapitate.” His face curled into a smile. The scarred, and singed skin looked at peace with it's wrinkly neighbours.
“I have won many wars - perhaps too many, and the tactic is simple and effective.” He seated himself on the large black chair behind his wooden desk. Behind him was a window, over-looking the glorious Steam-city known as Mina. It's busy conditions left the city in a constant fog, consisting mainly of water vapour. Tylo adjusted his monocle.
“We cannot afford to let the enemy meet us here. We are not prepared enough.” Tylo strained his voice to capture the men's attention.
“Think of the losses which could occur.” His head tiled to the side, eyebrows launching up his face.
He stood up, and walked with gestures, wading through the crowd of no-doubt important men.
“This city was built in peace. It was not built for war.”
Once getting back to where he started, he looked out the window, and smirked.
“Gentlemen. We know the enemy.” He paused, “and the enemy knows us.”
He sighed, and rubbed his eyes with the one hand he still had.
“I have no doubt that they will soon attack. We must make ready.”
A man stood up. He was dressed in white, and spoke with authority.
“Riveting speech, general; but, tell me.. who is the enemy?” His face held a accusing look.
Tylo started his reply by eyeing the man, who he recognised, and then spoke.
“The enemy? Mayor?” He laughed.
“General, answer the question.”
“Of course.”
Tylo gestured the window.
The crowd moved over to the window, where they witnessed an army of men and machines, some already descending on the city.
The white clothed man gasped in shock, and ran over to the General, grabbing his suit.
“Tylo! What do we do?!”
The General smiled, and took the man's hand off him.
“Well first, you demoralise.” His smile curled at the crowd, citing the obvious fear.
“Then, you devastate.”
Outside, artillery fire obliterated the military district of the city; the explosion ruptured through the streets, deafening anyone too close. The flash of the explosions lit the room with an orange tint, flaring up the general's shadow, and increasing the look of pure malice drawn on his face.
“And then of course..”
The man turned pure white, as he saw the general's metal hand transform into a blade.
“You decapitate.”
Tylo sliced the man's neck, separating it from his body. His other hand grabbed for his steam pistol on his belt, mercilessly gunning down the group before him.
Some men attempted the flee the scene, some begged for mercy. They found the doors locked, and the room sealed. As their bodies slummed to the floor, the last of the men looked at the general.
“Please, Tylo.. my wife..” His voice feeble and weak, the general walked over, and spoke with condolence, and smiled.
“I know the feeling.” He pushed his bladed hand into the man's stomach, sinking it into the flesh.
The deed finished, the general sat down behind his desk. He wiped his bladed hand, and flicked a button to turn it back into a hand. The steam still coming out of his changing fist, he took out a glass, some aged brandy. He poured the brandy, swirling it about in the glass, whilst turning to the window. His telescopic monocle gave him the perfect view. The orange glow, from both the gentle sunset, and the deafening explosions, bathed the room, glinting off the contrasting blood. All the while the general drank the brandy, swirling it.
The invasion force sliced through the defences of the city. What was left of them. The artillery bombarded the main district, forbidding any organised resistance. The few citizens brave enough to fight back soon found a musket ball in their body, as they slumped to the floor. Masses of men with gas masks attached to their faces stormed the city, quelling any and all resistance. Within meagre hours, what was an invasion force, quickly became an occupying force.
“Mum!” A young voice ended the silence. “Mum! Where are you?”
A small child entered the scene: a destroyed house, which could only be described as rubble. The small child searched through the wreck. “Mum!” Pulling up small pieces of brick, stone and metal, with splinters of wood, he searched. A small plumbing pipe in the corner smashed open, filling up the rubble with water. “Mum!” Tears began welling in his eyes. “Mum! Please mum.. Please!” Sitting down, the small boy dragged his legs close to his body, and sat there crying. “Mum..”
“Ceric?” A weak voice, barely audible through the crying, perked the boy's head from his arms.
“Mum! Where are you?” He stood up, and looked around frantically.
“Over here..”
Ceric followed the sound of his mother's voice, finding her under a pile of metal and wood; only her arm told him she was there.
“Ceric.. listen..”
“Mum! Are you alright?” His voice full of innocence, he grabbed her arm, and pulled it close.
“Ceric, listen to me..” She tightened her hand around the boy.
“Yes mummy?”
Water was reaching her face, any and all hope escaped from her body.
“Hide Ceric, stay alive.”
“What do you mean mummy?”
The water was rising to her mouth.
“Ceric, I love yo-” The water engulfed the figure of the mother, drowning her last word.
“Mummy?” He grabbed hold of her hand, it still holding on to him.
“Mummy!” He cried on her hand, feeling the last moments as it went limp, falling from the boy.
Ceric sat there, crying loudly, not knowing what to do. He screamed for his mother, not understanding what had happened.
He lied in the corner of the house, sobbing.
Nearby, metal-clad Soldiers heard the screams of the boy. They readied their muskets, as they made their way towards the eruption of sound.
As they made their way, a lone man rushed towards the noise, dodging the invading rubble and wreckage, evading the intruding offenders wielding weapons, dashing towards his son; intent on protecting him for the massacre. The metal-clad men soon found the boy, whose screams turned an octave higher upon sight of the iron monsters. The leftmost soldier readied his musket, aiming for the boy's head to ensure a quick demise, but the father figure dived on the pair, his bravery foolish in the face of danger. The musket shot, ringing the ears of the man, whilst the boy lay unconscious from the musket ball, which had nestled a new home in the boy's chest. The metal soldier shoved the defiant offender of his person, and readied his musket. A stroke of luck, however, befell this lost family, as a nearby soldier of the city shot his musket at the soldier, propelling the musket ball into the metal soldier's brain. Swiftly, with a trained technique, the second soldier immediately turned and shot the defender, whilst the father picked up the dead soldier's discarded knife and with a trained hand, quickly and precisely cut both the soldier's vertebral artery along with the brachiocephalic artery, quickly sending the soldier into shock and panic. As he fell, slowly; blood shooting out of his mutilated neck.
The father, now caked in blood, quickly picked up the boy, intending to fix the damage. In his desperate love he was careless and quick, as he slid on the wet rubble, smashing the back of his skull. The boy lied unconscious still, on his father's immobile figure, as it bleed red and grey, the brain mass slowly extruding from his cracked skull. The offending metal spike, dug into the father's head, slowed the bleeding, and the exudation of mass. Though he lay still, and dead. The boy bleed, his face turning pale, as an old man made he was towards the disturbance of noise, he saw the pair. He noted the damage, deciding to take the boy, hoping his home experiments might come to fruition finally.
Place upon on the surgical table, the boy witnessed dark. Humans find comfort in categorising, in assigning night and day a name, deciding which one they feel comfort in, and which one they do not. Which one they find salvation, and which one they do not. The boy was playfully wisting through the boundaries, as the steady, precise hand of the old man worked fast and quickly, taking out and putting in, replacing what did not need to be replaced. Immense pain kept the barrier the boy touched lightly distinct, while it also drew closer, the pinnacle of light enclosing the boy, giving him comfort from the dark, and the cold. Suddenly the frail figure of the old man slipped, sending the boy smashing through the barrier, as he saw himself on the table. Still, and dead.
He saw the frenzy of the old man cursing and frantically moving about, trying desperately to revive the small boy, whose figure was drastically changed with metal, and cogs, and clockwork pieces. He saw the sudden intake of breath upon himself, as he suddenly rushed into consciousness, feeling the pain. He felt the alien metal in his body. The man kept trying to calm the boy, as he tried to explain the reason that required parts of the boy's body to go.
“A f-fract- the musket ball, it sent shrapne-”
Suddenly the door to the workshop smashed open, as soldiers stormed and murdered the old man, clearing the workshop, ignoring the poor boy on the table top, crying, fearing his death. The shadow of a large men bloomed over the workshop, his faced curling into a smile.
Tylo laughed.
“So this is the boy who thinks he can cheat death?” He raised his hand to his chin, as he stared the crying boy in the eyes, and smiled. “We may have use for you.”
Edited by Brad, 06 September 2010 - 17:00.
