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31_days2012-02-24 10:59 am
metallikirk.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2012-02-24 10:59 am
February 24th (The Chronicles of Riddick) Nomads of the Universe
Title: Nomads of the Universe
Day/Theme: February 24th - Cruel as winter and cold as the snow
Series: The Chronicles of Riddick
Character/Pairing: Lord Vaako, unnamed OFC
Rating: PG-13
Notes: This was inspired directly by a recent dream that I had, which followed the same course as this fic.
I was at a lecture when it happened, firmly ensconced in a classroom with no windows, a circular space to fit a circular University building. White marble decorated everything, floors, walls, pillars; all so deceptively pure when held up against the day it would become. None of us saw them arrive, none of us saw how dark the day had become, nor the ships that delivered the Necromongers amongst us. Of course, none of us knew quite what the Necromongers were, at first; or at least we didn’t by name. At first, to us, they were the invaders. Their name and true nature came much later.
By the time that any of us were aware of the invasion itself, it was already too late. Booted feet tramped down the corridor, jarringly loud as the noise twisted around the circular hallways, confusingly hard to locate and pinpoint. The door into the classroom slammed open, adding more noise to the sudden confusion, admitting large bodies covered entirely in armour and heavy boots. White faces marred by darkness beneath the eyes stared malevolently around at us all, completely devoid of expression.
Shock reigned over all at first, silence holding us in its thrall. Then came panic as the invaders strode amongst us, glove clad hands yanking at hair and dark eyes scanning faces searchingly. Panic ensued, as people stampeded, trying to get away from the people wading through us like we were nothing. Perhaps we weren’t; to the Necromongers, our world was nothing more than somewhere else to conquer. Anything less than total capitulation was inconceivable, unheard of, to them.
The largest one of them all, who I assumed to be the leader, took the stage, dark brows lowered over expressionless eyes as he scowled round at us all. He held his hand up for silence, and silence he received. It was as though no one dared to move. The stranger certainly seemed to command complete and utter obedience and that was without previously saying a word. Once he was certain he had everyone’s attention, he nodded, hair a dark counterpoint to his deathly white face. He blinked slowly, before opening his mouth to speak.
“I am Lord Vaako. I speak for Lord Marshall Zhylaw of the Necromongers. We have taken over your planet. There is no hope for you now; either you convert to our Faith or you will die,” he said.
Silence met his words, until one hand raised slowly. Someone wanted to ask a question. The stranger, Lord Vaako, impaled the hesitant hand-waver as though they were nothing more than a bug for him to crush beneath his boot heel. He remained silent, obviously waiting for the person to speak.
“What do you mean, convert?” the questioner quavered.
“I am not here to discuss the specifics of conversion. Either you convert, or we will kill every single last one of you,” he said, turning away as though bored.
Silence reigned then; no one came forward, nor did anyone speak. Lord Vaako’s mouth thinned and he nodded to one of the other Necromongers.
“Kill them all,” he said, words a total finality against the silent hall.
“Wait,” I said, without even thinking.
Perhaps the thought of death had motivated me, or perhaps my impetuousness and boldness had instead moved me to speech. People had always said I spoke before I thought in the past, yet this time, I had thought. I did not want to die. Whatever this mysterious conversion meant, it surely had to be better than dying outright. Lord Vaako turned his gaze upon me, dark eyes shifting against the whiteness of his face. He remained silent, however, yet the implication to continue was clear.
“I will convert,” I said, without further hesitation.
Lord Vaako dipped his head in acceptance, before he waved me forward.
“Very well. You shall be the first,” he said, allowing a small smile to tip my way.
I felt strong hands clasp my arms, lifting me to my feet and half-carrying, half-dragging me from the room. I cast one glance behind me, and I saw that Lord Vaako was watching my progress. I heard yet others offering themselves up for conversion, while still others remained woefully silent. I was gone before I had any inclination to know how many lived or how many died that day. All I knew that out of 30 students, only a small portion made it out alive.
The conversion process, although painful at first, cancelled out almost all of what I had been, making it near on impossible to remember much of my former life. I barely recognised myself, let alone those who had been my former classmates. All of us were given the Mark of the Necromonger, scars that were a pride of place upon all Necromongers. That scar was the only reminder of the conversion progress, where the pain receptors were cut to the brain, coupled with the edict to replace one pain with another.
All any of us knew after the conversion process was the coldness of being that much closer to death, of feeling no pain, no fear; each and every one of us as cruel as winter and cold as the snow. Nothing could hurt us and we all were faithful followers to Lord Marshall Zhylaw, few amongst many nomads of the universe.
Day/Theme: February 24th - Cruel as winter and cold as the snow
Series: The Chronicles of Riddick
Character/Pairing: Lord Vaako, unnamed OFC
Rating: PG-13
Notes: This was inspired directly by a recent dream that I had, which followed the same course as this fic.
I was at a lecture when it happened, firmly ensconced in a classroom with no windows, a circular space to fit a circular University building. White marble decorated everything, floors, walls, pillars; all so deceptively pure when held up against the day it would become. None of us saw them arrive, none of us saw how dark the day had become, nor the ships that delivered the Necromongers amongst us. Of course, none of us knew quite what the Necromongers were, at first; or at least we didn’t by name. At first, to us, they were the invaders. Their name and true nature came much later.
By the time that any of us were aware of the invasion itself, it was already too late. Booted feet tramped down the corridor, jarringly loud as the noise twisted around the circular hallways, confusingly hard to locate and pinpoint. The door into the classroom slammed open, adding more noise to the sudden confusion, admitting large bodies covered entirely in armour and heavy boots. White faces marred by darkness beneath the eyes stared malevolently around at us all, completely devoid of expression.
Shock reigned over all at first, silence holding us in its thrall. Then came panic as the invaders strode amongst us, glove clad hands yanking at hair and dark eyes scanning faces searchingly. Panic ensued, as people stampeded, trying to get away from the people wading through us like we were nothing. Perhaps we weren’t; to the Necromongers, our world was nothing more than somewhere else to conquer. Anything less than total capitulation was inconceivable, unheard of, to them.
The largest one of them all, who I assumed to be the leader, took the stage, dark brows lowered over expressionless eyes as he scowled round at us all. He held his hand up for silence, and silence he received. It was as though no one dared to move. The stranger certainly seemed to command complete and utter obedience and that was without previously saying a word. Once he was certain he had everyone’s attention, he nodded, hair a dark counterpoint to his deathly white face. He blinked slowly, before opening his mouth to speak.
“I am Lord Vaako. I speak for Lord Marshall Zhylaw of the Necromongers. We have taken over your planet. There is no hope for you now; either you convert to our Faith or you will die,” he said.
Silence met his words, until one hand raised slowly. Someone wanted to ask a question. The stranger, Lord Vaako, impaled the hesitant hand-waver as though they were nothing more than a bug for him to crush beneath his boot heel. He remained silent, obviously waiting for the person to speak.
“What do you mean, convert?” the questioner quavered.
“I am not here to discuss the specifics of conversion. Either you convert, or we will kill every single last one of you,” he said, turning away as though bored.
Silence reigned then; no one came forward, nor did anyone speak. Lord Vaako’s mouth thinned and he nodded to one of the other Necromongers.
“Kill them all,” he said, words a total finality against the silent hall.
“Wait,” I said, without even thinking.
Perhaps the thought of death had motivated me, or perhaps my impetuousness and boldness had instead moved me to speech. People had always said I spoke before I thought in the past, yet this time, I had thought. I did not want to die. Whatever this mysterious conversion meant, it surely had to be better than dying outright. Lord Vaako turned his gaze upon me, dark eyes shifting against the whiteness of his face. He remained silent, however, yet the implication to continue was clear.
“I will convert,” I said, without further hesitation.
Lord Vaako dipped his head in acceptance, before he waved me forward.
“Very well. You shall be the first,” he said, allowing a small smile to tip my way.
I felt strong hands clasp my arms, lifting me to my feet and half-carrying, half-dragging me from the room. I cast one glance behind me, and I saw that Lord Vaako was watching my progress. I heard yet others offering themselves up for conversion, while still others remained woefully silent. I was gone before I had any inclination to know how many lived or how many died that day. All I knew that out of 30 students, only a small portion made it out alive.
The conversion process, although painful at first, cancelled out almost all of what I had been, making it near on impossible to remember much of my former life. I barely recognised myself, let alone those who had been my former classmates. All of us were given the Mark of the Necromonger, scars that were a pride of place upon all Necromongers. That scar was the only reminder of the conversion progress, where the pain receptors were cut to the brain, coupled with the edict to replace one pain with another.
All any of us knew after the conversion process was the coldness of being that much closer to death, of feeling no pain, no fear; each and every one of us as cruel as winter and cold as the snow. Nothing could hurt us and we all were faithful followers to Lord Marshall Zhylaw, few amongst many nomads of the universe.