Post by Bonnie Blue on Jan 4, 2015 9:42:42 GMT -5
January 1, 1515
Paris, France
A man called Francis stares out the window of his third-floor palace suite, overlooking the city of Paris. The sun has not yet risen; torchlight pours over the cobblestone streets, lending an element of the ephemeral to the sweeping view, as if the city exists half in and half out of reality. A light fog rolls in from the Seine. The odors of fish and dampness mingle with the rising scent of baking bread, and cover the miasma of the first chore of the day: dumping the chamber pots.
Behind Francis, a soft footstep and a whispered word alert him to the arrival of his valet. He doesn't acknowledge the other immediately, still wrapped up in his thoughts as he surveys the city, soon to be his. Inwardly, Francis quails at the idea of accepting the crown. God must have chosen him for this, yet he feels inadequate to the task. Only a slight tightening of his jaw betrays the nobleman's feelings.
The first rays of sunlight creep over the horizon, painting the river in hues of rose and gold; moving on to caress the great cathedral, her flying buttresses and towering spire -- the very pinnacle of Gothic architecture. And yet today, she looks like an aging matron, rather than the Virgin Mother to whom she was dedicated.
Francis: The times, they are changing.
Valet: Pardon, Your Majesty?
Francis spins to face the other man -- not much younger than he -- his expression pained.
Francis: Not yet, if you please -- Wait! You're not Henri.
The soon-to-be-King frowns deeply. He had expected his usual valet, a man of good breeding who exists somewhere in his mid-40's, and had for as long as Francis has known him. Instead, he is faced with a much younger fellow who -- although dressed in the green brocade frock coat, white gloves, and shiny buckled shoes of his personal staff -- appears questionable, at best. For one thing, his shaggy blond hair is tied back, rather than hidden beneath a modest powdered wig. His face is stubbled and his accent is quite peculiar. Even his bow is stiff, unpracticed.
Valet: Non, mon liege. Henri has taken ill. I was sent to replace him.
Francis scowls.
Francis: Henri would not miss my coronation, were he alive. You're an impostor! A spy! GUARDS!
The pretend-valet drops the pretense, shaking his head in bemusement. He pulls something from beneath his coat: a shining golden bell bolted to a wooden plaque. With his free hand, he reaches out to grasp the would-be king by the arm. Just as the door bursts open to admit a dozen or so armed soldiers, there is a flash of brilliant white....
When it clears, the pair have vanished completely.
January 1, 303
Rome, Italy
The Great Coliseum is filled nearly to capacity, the cheering crowd gathered in what is likely to be the final sanctioned Gladiatorial combat; officials have begun to bow to the religio-political pressure exerted by a growing population of what had once been an obscure little Hebrew cult. The Christians object to bloodsports on, ostensibly, a moral basis -- but more likely, they've gotten tired of being pitted against lions, leopards, and other big carnivores in the arena.
Today, Rome strives to recapture the essence of Her days of Imperial glory, staging a number of exhibition battles -- all under the direction of Praetor Oblivion. That worthy fellow is observing the festivities from a silk-draped box seat near to the Emperor's balcony. His ceremonial bronze breastplate gleams in the sunlight, counterpoint to the cloak of deepest purple cascading from his shoulders, as he stands up. Saying nothing the Praetor holds up a large goblet full of dense thick bright red liquid. The contents, in the goblet seems more viscous than water. The contents, of the goblet, splashes over the rim, of the goblet. The observer watches the exhibition battle, as IT merely gestures to the floor of the arena. Massive oaken doors require a team of six to pull them open, revealing a dark and seemingly empty passage. The huffing, snorting sound of a large animal echoes out into the coliseum.
Oblivion roars out, encouraging the snarling beast. The Monster chugs down the contents, of the goblet, then snaps IT's fingers. A half dressed woman, comes over and dabs a silk cloth over the wet, dipping mouth of Oblivion. Dabbing until dry, as the young woman was done, right as she was turning to leave, Oblivion grabs her, pulling her towards IT well dressed muscular body. The young woman smiles, only briefly, as The Praetor snarls, spinning her around, facing away from IT. Slamming her against the stone balcony railing. Her painful wails only encourages The Monster, as IT roars out, while slamming down a ceremonial staff, down to the ground, causing dust to fly up. The crowd roars out exactly the same time, Oblivion roars out, pulling back the raven colored hair, of the beautiful servant. As IT's eyes roll back, Oblivion pushes the young woman away. A thunderous roar echoes out, as The Monster holds up the ceremonial staff and points towards the snarling beast.
Oblivion: ALL RISE AND BEHOLD THY UNWORTHY EYES TOWARDS THE SNARLING SIR EATING MONSTER!!! WHO DOEST DARE VISAGE MINE BEAST?! SHOWETH ME THY VISAGE!! WHO IS WILLING TO DIE A HORRIBLE DEATH IN VAIN?!
Across the ring, another door is opened, this one smaller and man-sized. A solitary figure, clad only in a loincloth -- and, to judge by the bruises and welts, already severely beaten -- is ushered out into the arena. The door is hastily shut and bolted behind him. Heavy, thudding footsteps sound from within the dark corridor. The man drops to his knees and searches frantically in the dirt for a discarded weapon. Questing fingers clutch the leather hilt of a broken gladius; it isn't much, but it's something.
From the yawning doorway, at last, emerges the beast. It's big -- and seems to grow larger beneath the sun's rays. The creature is horned and tusked, with long hooked claws on its forelimbs and skin as tough as leather. Rising up onto its back legs, the beast emits a sound that could shatter the cosmos itself; part defiant roar, part bloodcurdling scream. Dropping down again with a mighty whomph that shakes the whole of the city, the monstrous thing focuses a slit-pupiled eye on the quivering figure.
The man holds the sword outward, hands shaking violently. In the blink of an eye, the creature opens its mouth -- revealing two rows of jagged teeth -- and bites the unfortunate victim right in half. A gout of blood spurts upward with enough force to spatter much of the front row bright red. Hunger piqued now, the beast reaches out with a mighty paw and drags two more people from the stands down into the arena. The Praetor Oblivion looks on with a satisfied, evil smirk playing across his lips, the only part of IT's partially disfigured face visible beneath the leather mask that, the people say, hides the face of Pluto Himself.
As an entire phalanx makes its way into the arena to subdue the beast, the Praetor's attention is caught by a flare of white just beyond the field of his peripheral vision.
Oblivion: WHO IS THIS?!
Slowly, Oblivion tears IT's eyes from the spectacle below to see two men approaching, both dressed in early French Renaissance finery; one of the pair is bound with twentieth-century Smith and Wesson handcuffs. The other, Johnny Reb, posing as the would-be king's valet, raises a hand in greeting.
Dark Johnny: Hail, Praetor Oblivion.
He gives a big, sardonic grin. The Roman general rolls his eyes.
Oblivion: Remind me again why we're doing ALL of this...
Dark Johnny: When we united all the temporal nexi, those weak points in timespace, and shed the blood of the Timekeeper's Proxy, we began a process of unmaking this reality. Now... we reshape it. You wanted chaos, mayhem, terror.
Oblivion raises IT's ceremonial staff above IT's head....
Oblivion: CHAOS!!! MAYHEM!! TERROR!! THESE THINGS IT DESIRES!!
Dark Johnny: I'm giving you all of that, and more. First, we unite the waning power of the Roman Empire with the first of the Renaissance Kings; a unique combination of primitive bloodlust with the first bloom of open-minded intellectualism. What you'll wind up with... well, let me show you.
He turns to the French aristocrat, who is too bewildered at this turn of events to even speak.
Dark Johnny: You're not going to miss your coronation, Majesty. You're simply ascending to a different throne. Watch.
Oblivion: Majesty, have you ever wondered what the after-life truly looked like? Hast thou truly danc'd with the Flibbertigibbet in the pale moon lighteth?
The Dark Timekeeper gestures at the Emperor in his balcony seat. As if compelled, the Emperor stands and begins to taunt the beast in the arena. Growling, it turns its attention from the last of the soldiers -- parts of another still dangling from its teeth -- and charges the balcony. It leaps into the air, takes a swipe with its claws, and shears the entire section from the stands. Several concubines, slaves, and other attendants climb from the wreckage moments later, shaken but unhurt. A few of them try to lift the unconscious Emperor, but the ravening beast chases them away. It bends and lifts the Emperor in its teeth, then chomps down with a sickening crunch.
Dark Johnny: Looks like we need a new Emperor. Congratulations, Frank.
Oblivion: ALL HAIL CAESAR FRANCIS!!
Francis: What?
Dark Johnny: Hail, Caesar Francis the First -- the Only, and the Eternal -- of the Franco-Roman Empire!
The Dark Timekeeper brings forth the Bell of Time once more. Seizing a small mallet left behind by some careless workman the previous night, he strikes the Bell once... twice... a third time. The Universe breaks up for the smallest fraction of a nanosecond, and then reforms around this newly-conceived reality. Everyone in existence experiences this as a slight headache at precisely 4:15 in the afternoon.
1 Janvier, 2015
Arrondisement Cinquieme
District du Columbe
Even so, they never complained too much. When the rabble got uneasy, the other would arrive and placate the masses. No one knew how he did it. They simply.. forgot to be angry. All was well. The Caesar loved them and wanted them happy and prosperous. And the surest way to prosper was to submit.
Upon this day, first in the new year, so like the others before, a throng has gathered on the green expanse outside Le Chateau Blanc. The chateau is a grand, sweeping affair patterned off the Palace of Versailles in France. A broad balcony is draped in bunting of the Empire's black, crimson, and gold. The walls behind it bear long banners depicting the Imperial Eagle, sword clutched in one talon, a length of chain in the other. The Caesar steps outside to a deafening cheer. Below, soldiers with semi-automatic weapons stand at attention, gazing over the crowd warily.
Caesar Francis: Friends... Franco-Romans... Countrymen... You see before you all a new year of optimism, of prosperity and contentment. This bounty I give to my people freely, in the sight of Almighty God and all the Saints -- especially the Lord's own Saint of the Darkness, and our much admired High Praetor, Oblivion.
The Franco-Romans: OBLIVION!! OBLIVION!! OBLIVION!! OBLIVION!!
A grand sweep of his arm, and Oblivion appears at the side of the immortal emperor. The God of Insanity shifts uncomfortably under the diffuse sunlight, even as IT looks over the collective with an impassive stare. The cheer rising from the crowd is much less certain.
Caesar Francis: And indeed, without the brilliant tactical mind of the High Praetor, none of this would ever have been possible. Yet there is another, equally responsible for the continued success of the Empire -- that Champion of the People, Johnny Reb!!!
The High Praetor walks forwards, facing the crowd, cannot believe what IT is about to do...
Oblivion: JOHNNY REB!! JOHNNY REB!! JOHNNY REB!!
There is scattered applause from the crowd as Reb steps to the Emperor's other side, smirking. Slowly, he lifts the title belt for all to see, and the audience erupts with unrestrained joy. Three or four people are a little over-exuberant, and end up being treated by EMT's on the scene. The Caesar allows this to go on for a few moments, then gestures for silence. Reb lowers the strap, and the crowd begins to still.
Caesar Francis: You all saw how the Empire was threatened last week, at WCF's One. That malcontent Polar Phantasm and the upstart Frank Patrick Venable, took it upon themselves to challenge the very powers that fuel our ongoing Golden Age. Saw you, too, how our defenders -- our heroes -- stepped up to that challenge, and, after a grueling and hard-fought battle, overcame that which threatened us all. Now... new enemies seek to destroy us and all we have worked for these many centuries.
Reb lifts the title belt again, and this time, the people react to this news with varying degrees of patriotic furor. Some in the crowd cry out for a public execution. The Emperor steps to the very edge of the balcony. Placing one hand on the stone railing, he leans forward, other hand raised as if to stir the throng to greater frenzy. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the audience falls silent again. He smiles a madman's smile.
Caesar Francis: Be assured, citizens, that treason is not dealt with lightly. Proconsul Lerch himself has documented the crimes of these two men; and I deem it fitting that the responsibility to dispatch them falls to the legends standing beside me. By Imperial Edict, shall Marc Mayhem and his partner in crime Justin Cash, meet their doom at the hands of Oblivion and Johnny Reb!
The elated crowd surges forward with a cry of wild abandon. Several of them are shot by security-conscious Imperial Guardsmen. It takes a moment to get them under control again. At a gesture from the Caesar, Johnny Reb steps up to a podium studded with microphones.
Dark Johnny: Ladies and gentlemen, as Your Champion, let me begin by saying that Mayhem and Cash are not the first to fall before the combined might of the Inveterate Confederate and the God of Insanity. They will not be the last. Any who dare oppose us fall. It is inevitable. Proconsul Lerch has kindly arranged that this execution be shown during a live broadcast of WCF Slam this Sunday night. And an execution is precisely what this is, make no mistake. These two miscreants enter the ring unfettered, true, but they lack the fortitude to stand against... gods. I embody the essence of Time -- the very force that orders the Cosmos -- as my partner is the living embodiment of madness itself.
Oblivion: This Sunday, for their crimes against Time, Marc Mayhem and Justin Cash will face their inevitable demise at the hands of their GODS!! We are the Forces of the Cosmos and... WE WILL HAND DOWN THE EXECUTION TO THOSE WHO OPPOSE THE COSMOS!!
Dark Johnny: We meet this Sunday in tag team competition -- a form of combat in which my partner and I both excel; in which we have both had long and eminent title reigns. Not to mention the number of occasions on which either of us have held the World Title... Had I any compassion, gentlemen, I would pity you your fate. I might feel a twinge when Oblivion rips you open and starts using your entrails as party streamers, but otherwise... If it helps, this is nothing personal. You're just in the way.
Oblivion: As my partner takes one of you out, The Monster takes the entrails of the other and use it as celebratory decorations. The ignorance from you two, is glowing brightly. The evidence is strong against you two. Believe or not, like it or not you two are walking into battle blind. With your arms out, with you two trying to gain your equilibrium, even with your eyes wide open... YOU TWO WON'T SEE IT COMING!!
Dark Johnny: Someone should have explained to y'all how things work around here. You get under Lerch's skin, things start to happen. First the "accidents." And if that's too subtle for you, they become less accidental... until one day, you find yourself standing across the squared circle from two men so deranged that they would tangle up an entire reality's timeline simply to make a point.
And that point, because clearly subtlety isn't your strongest area, is this -- whatever else you think you perceive, we are in control. The Dark Timekeeper and the God of Insanity, masters of this universe, and all the ones beyond it, should we so choose. Your fate is already sealed.
Oblivion: STRUGGLE IF YOU MUST!!! SURVIVE IF YOU CAN!! It'S ALREADY BEEN SAID.... YOUR FATE HAS ALREADY BEEN SEALED!!
A slow grin spreads across the Dark Timekeeper's borrowed face, as an evil scowl overcomes the masked face of The God of Insanity. The sinister chuckle, of the Dark Timekeeper echoes in the sound pickup.
Dark Johnny: Deo... vindice...