Re: RP PUBLIC/SOCIAL V10T: The Ill-Omened Duel
"Death-camps? What in Odin's name are you talking about, woman?"
To Wyrn's credit, his eyes did not widen, his voice did not stutter, he did not feign surprise in any way. But Max felt the lie, knew the lie, saw the lie as plain as day.
Max saw the bombs rock the death-valley, saw the barbed wire twist and disintegrate, saw the calculation-zombies, automatic rifles in hand, collapse under the weight of gunfire. He saw the masked dissidents strike the camps in secret, though their methods were all but that - he saw the soldiers that had only been following orders beaten to death or consumed in fire, saw machine fire and the destruction of artillery in holy flame, saw those held prisoner set free, to flee or to help the attack - and those that the terrorists had been too late to save shot humanely.
The Low Lords involved were beaten horribly, beyond recognition, and finally beheaded. Worse was reserved for the High Lords. The Valley was overrun, though Wyrn and his eight-legged cco-onspirator, face obscured by shadows and yet immediately recognizable, gave up a good enough fight. They were captured alive. They would be trialled for their crimes. EQUILIBRIUM, too, was captured, but would not be handed in. No, they'd keep Equilibrium caught in the power of the Crimson Logos, until they could figure out how to force the Councilmachine into giving them the secret to reversing the process.
The air was heavy with black some. Cheers filled the air, as did the roaring flames of sweet, victorious anarchy. True heroes were killed that day - and a Conclave was redeemed, not fully, but redeemed just enough to make it something worth fighting for once again.
The God of Order, trapped in shining silver and gold, shimmering blade in his hand - also recognizable - threw himself at the chief of the insurgents, silver blade against the primordial deadliness of the read saber that had carved it's way through criminals and worse. The God of Order's hands were red with the blood of Ruse, and then his own blood, and then it was done.
The red blade was dropped.
The Crimson Logos lay in this dreamscape, which Max knew not to be the past - but yet a possible future. An offer, of sorts. Just as the Golden Hand, the Emperor, and much of the Conclave was the physical incarnation of the Logos of Low, the Logos of Anarchy manifested through the Red Sword, through bombs and laughter and wild music and, perhaps, the future Conclave. Perhaps.
A voice was speaking to Max, now. It was a familiar voice, and yet Max could not place it. He could not understand the words, and could not understand the offer..
"Ahah," said Wyrn. "Ahah. Ahah!"