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Inferno - "A Blaze of Glory" Part 18; Fire cleanses for a rat in the union...
Topic Started: 12th May 2005 - 09:22 PM (359 Views)
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News Elf of the Twilight Host
Hey all,
This is part 18 of A Blaze of Glory; there are some specific refrences to death which some viewers may find upsetting.
I hope you all enjoy this piece, we love reading replies as it makes it all worthwhile - lol
We are currently working on a character episode guide for those getting confused by the number of characters in Blaze of Glory -> watch this space.

Previously on Blaze of Glory:Blaze of Glory - Complete Works

Inferno: "A Blaze of Glory" Part 18
Pawed by: Giantrat, Thrask Vilepaw
Plot Help: Blood Vixen (formally DSS)
Theme: Destiny by Giantrat

The explosion tore the Bitterbridge asunder. Burning brands clouded the sky like a swarm of arrows soreing towards their designated targets. Smoke rose like a tidal wave about to break on an unsuspecting beach. Worst; worst of all was the screams of the dying and trapped. Their chorus rose and fell like the moon as the flaming scythe of death and his suffocating cloak of smoke consumed them.
Silver had been blissfully unaware of the events that were unfolding. He had been enthralled by the bliss of ecstasy, the ecstasy of coin. Now the heat was searing through the rocky perimeter of the token’s prison; sweat beads ran from his brow, arm pits and every other secreting gland on his aged body. The noise of the explosion had barely penetrated the soundproof walls of the domain; yet he could hear each rat cry as death took it; a salvation of sorts.
Silver knew he would have to conduct the salvage operation but he was infatuated by the scent, the sight and the feel of the hundreds of tokens arranged before him. They had a hypnotic quality to the Grey Seer; one which he couldn’t escape.
The python of smoke crawled around the Grey Seer; carefully constricting his airway. Silver choked. He realised the danger he was in; the Grey Seer retreated out of the treasury, the tokens casting their aura upon him.

Jitter-kill felt the acidic fumes of the explosion fill his lungs; somehow it excited and enthralled him. The bitterbridge danced in the pyrotechnics of the engineer’s work. Jitterkill felt years taken from his shoulders; perhaps those dark memories, the daemons of his past would leave him now?
Jitter-Kill forced himself to his feet; his makeshift warren was within some abandoned crevice; its original occupant still decorated the floor like an elaborate throw-rug. He would go and investigate the damage. The assassin danced through the rockface and into the black tar of polluted air circulating in the poorly ventilated areas of the city. The tar reminded Jitter-Kill of congealing blood and he felt as though he would have to swim through the murk to see the damage for himself. However the shadows were his friends why wouldn’t this overcast be?
The association with blood reminded Jitter-Kill of his latest victims. The adept in the art of death remembered their unwitting screams as the bombs blew beneath their feet. Lazy-Lazy Jitter had thought as his twin blades had decapitated the Stormvermin.
The assassin felt the chain suspended from his neck; he felt the rough parchment like skin of organs he had taken years ago on the left but as he moved to the right the adept felt the softer, springier and tenuous skin of ears freshly removed from their component bodies. The hired knife laughed to himself.
The damage was complete; the fires still burned, grim reminders of what had previously been there. Jitter-kill could still remember all their faces; each arrayed before him and the look of fear in their eyes. The adept shrugged that hellish nightmare away and turned once more to see the faces in the flames.
He could hear them scream their chorus of death; thousands of rats each adding his or her own voice to the melancholy song. Jitter-kill could hear a voice in the gloom; a voice he recognised vaguely, filled with a distinct majesty and arcane triumph.
“My-my guards were murdered,” the voice snapped, “and half of-of the greatest market in the Underempire has been destroyed and you-you ask me-me why I-I am angry?” the voice rose in a shatter crescendo of rage and hatred. Jitter-Kill only heard the obvious crunch as a rat’s windpipe was crushed, the cartilage squeaking as it rubbed together. Then the thump as the body was discarded.
The assassin had seen enough; for now, then he heard a voice so familiar in its commanding ideal. He couldn’t tell if the daemons of his dreams were haunting him now in his conscious state or whether the voice was real. He remembered that face, as skin was lifted from it to reveal sinew from beneath, sinew wrought was flames.
Jitter gasped as his mind was overcome by an animalistic tendency. He collapsed; his knees burnt by the scorched wood. He crawled like a cur from the scene, one hand clutching his temple. A curse that had been long forgotten had come back to haunt him…

Silver emerged from the coffers to find a scene of utter devastation. Pawprints; crimson omens of death, covered the small courtyard before Stopfen’s personal accounts. The Grey Seer knew what had happened, but the state of the bodies was revolting.
Their heads; eyes closed like some affinity with peace, stood at the height of Silver’s own amber eyes. Their head’s had been removed at the neck each by a serrated blade; the flesh was ragged and still dripped with jellied blood and organs. The stakes they were mounted on were obviously their halberd staffs; the black wood unmistakable in the colours of Klaww’s own clan, Clan Thirskit.
Their bodies; mutilated and bisected lay bloodless on the wooden floor, the armour was dilated, bloodstained and rusty. The stench was already overpowering as the armour that encased them had roasted them in the hell of the explosion.
Blood flaked like ancient paint masked the wall. Silver squinted at the hidden message concealed by blood. He couldn’t make out the words in the intense heat; his mind began to throb. He could feel the pressure in his temples building.

Sandklaw wiped his sodden paws on the tunic he wore ceremoniously. The assassin left a trail of scarlet on the orange robes; a meteor blazing across the sunset. The desert rat hadn’t killed, he had only taken advantage. The acidic fumes of the explosion had caused blisters to form on his nostrils preventing him from breathing. The rat could still remember his message clearly:
Fear the past that cant be know
Fear the future and things you own
The staff was yours challenged by the asp
From the kings who’s bodies rasp
The secrets of unknown arts shall
Follow you until you fall…

Sandklaw would hold the secrets of Khemri until he died. He would make sure that no other would reveal what should be hidden. Sandklaw had killed for those secrets before. The desert rat remembered the look in Ashkui’s eyes as he had fallen from the Pool. The waters had engulfed him and with it secrets that shouldn’t and would never again be heard from the grave.
Sandklaw didn’t know whether the secrets he kept had been released, but any living rat who knew would feel his blade even if it meant genocide; the secrets of the dead aren’t for the living’s ears…

The red rodent watched as Skritish stalked away down the corridor; he hadn’t heeded her words. The red rodent could feel the rage building in her breast, he had never listened to her; he was to smart, too much of a warlord, not a diplomat – he never had been and never would be.
“My-my lady,” a messenger panted. The brown furred rat was sweating; obviously an urgent message, “sum-summons from-from the Grey Seer Stopfen, war-war,” the rat; an employee of the RFPS (rebellion of flames, postal service) was breathless.
The red rodent nodded silently and watched as the brown furred creature melted like a lump of chocolate in a melt. She cleared her throat to call for Skritish once more. To her surprise the warlord clad in his armour was marching towards her. The fire in his eyes seemed to have ebbed only to be replaced by an icy unnerving calm.
“A-a meeting?” Skritish asked crudely. The glint in those almond eyes warned the Red Rodent, she knew not to trust a rat who wanted revenge; she had done that once too many times in her life.
“Skritish; Niqu is dead-dead forget her, I know it-it is hard,” the red rodent paused gauging the sanity in Skritish’s eyes before continuing, “it-it is a hard time for all of us.”
“What-what would you-you know of her?” Skritish fumed; he rasped his claws against the ancient tightly pack molecules of earth that made up the tunnels beneath the Dung Hive, “you-you never met her, she was an-an angel in hell!” Skritish exclaimed, “the-the hell between Darkslayer and Stopfen!”
“I know more than you give me-me credit for, the Grey Seer was not responsible for the Breeders disappearance was she Skritish?” the red rodent manipulated him.
“You dare accuse me, you usurping bitch!” Skritish snapped raw fire gouting from his mouth, “this-is is Niqu’s empire she-she built it and you-you come now she is dead to-to take it from her memory,” Skritish smashed his paw into the female rat’s face; blood leaked from beneath the crimson mask, he heard teeth chatter from the impact and her red lips were red raw.
From the dusty ground the Red Rodent saw the vantage point that had always escaped her; Skritish was an obsessed monster, who needed sorted, “and you-you as soon as you turn up Niqu’s empire crumbles, you are a bad omen or perhaps you are more sinister; the scout before the army?”
Skritish collapsed into a wounded heap beside the red rodent; tears broke through the dam of his eye lids, “it-it was me-me,” she recognised through the sobs.
“What was you Skritish?” the Red Rodent asked blindly.
“I-I did it-it I helped the bastard Darkslayer to-to find her,” Skritish wept his crocodile tears marring the ground were he sat.
“Why Skritish?” the woman asked with a steely tone.
“Because he-he is her father and-and she needs him!” Skritish shouted his voice echoing around the cavern, “just like-like her children need their father!”
“You will be-be no father to-to them; it-it is your fault their mother is dead!”
“No-no… not my fault… I didn’t know… I didn’t!” Skritish sobbed.
“Yes you did and you know it,” the red rodent flared, “leave now and never return!”
“Who are you to… to tell me?” Skritish moved like a devil unleashed from the gates of hell; he grappled his hands around the apparition’s neck. He cut the oxygen from the rodents windpipe and watched as her lips transformed from pink to mauve.
“I think you-you had better do as-as the lady asks,” a familiar silky voice spat. Skritish looked to the massive form of Grey Seer Stopfen flanked by a battalion of Stormvermin, “goodbye Skritish,” he smiled.
Skritish hissed angrily and dropped the red rodent, the rat turned on the grey seer, “Fat-fool you know nothing of loyalty, I leave-leave now in hatred of you, and know this Seer,” he spat the word, “One day I will return and find you…and then I am having another barbecue….’
Skritish stormed away, sending out the word as he went, his army was leaving and without its defence the hive was doomed. All who would join him from the hive would be a welcome addition to the clan and would be allowed all the privileges of a clan member once they had sworn loyalty to him and him alone. He was seething with rage, these fools had the audacity to banish their saviour and now they would pay the penalty for their sins. The image of that Stopfen’s fat jeering face laughing at him and he screamed with rage. That ‘Seer’ would pay for what he had done here, Skritish would make sure of it. Minutes later he was at the gates, army behind him. Rage still flowing strong in his veins, as he marched out of the dung hive he turned to have one last look at it. And as the gates closed behind his army the last thing he saw was the figure of the red rodent standing in the gates, watching them leave. So left Skritish from the dung hive, in anger had he left and in rage had he sinned, Yet sadness also went with him as his child, the babe carried by his closest stormvermin attendant would never truly no a mother, vengeance boiled from within him, and for this Stopfen would pay. Skritish turned back towards the tunnel; yes he would carry out one more action before he went, and that action would fulfil his lust for revenge, the Horned Rat help Stopfen now…

Warlord Klaww smiled; he closed the tome, dust from the years it had spent dormant circulating the crammed chamber. The golden cover glowed maliciously the hieroglyphs danced in the warpstone induced glow. He had broken his fast on the entrails of his latest messenger. The bones still covered the floor as though the room had its own skeleton; the door pushed open throwing the room into light.
Klaww’s insanity was finally unmasked. The bones of hundreds; if not thousands of rats lay desecrated across the room as though they were nothing more than sticks in a forest.
“Bring me-me a messenger, this time I-I have an errand for them to run-run,” Klaww hollered at the shadow darkening the graveyard within.
The shadow disappeared momentarily and returned with a frightened rat; the musk in this one was strong; yes Klaww would enjoy playing his little games with this one.
“Bow to-to the Flamelord,” Klaww began and the messenger cowered weakly, “I-I have an errand for you-you to run, well more than one,” Klaww paused, “First I-I want you to tell my generals that a rebellion to the west needs quashed, but before they arrive I want you to deliver a little message,” Klaww handed a piece of parchment to the messenger, “to Lord Skritish master of the Dung Hive in the Blood Vixen’s stead. Ask him how much Darkslayer bought him for and whether it will be worth it,” Klaww smiled as the messenger disappeared. Klaww hoped to see the messenger again; well some of him for with dark words come dark consequences…

Yes in the Underempire each of us follows our chosen destiny;
For some it is to keep secrets hidden from the eyes of the living,
For others its to preserve the living by keeping secrets dead,
For some it is to repent for past sins,
And for others it is to know when to find pastures new,
Yes in the Underempire destiny is a fickle thing for behind every designated path there are a hundred knives in the dark, be they secrets, nightmares or the flames of retribution; a new start…

Wise Words of the Rebellion:
"When you run the gauntlet of the Rebellion of Flames, you must expect the unexpected" Warlord Morrik Ashenfur.
"Why is it, that as a culture we are more inclined to death than songs?" Warlord Brackenfurr.
I don't know, but I have the impression of chatting with a cat when I talk to you!
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Thrask Vilepaw
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The Grim Squeaker

Damn nice as always :P and im just glad i can help ^_^ i wish i had your inspiration gene though, mine has fallen out again recently <_<
Official master of parades by Rattsu
Thrask, for being such a nice squiggly thing!
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.

8th member of the day
24 hour painting challenge : 30 clanrats in 10.5 hours SUCCESS
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