Nurgle Predator Driver with an Infestation
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Edited to be more spaced out and part II added. You like it so far?
THE VILLA MERALCES, named after Meralces the Martyr stood no less proud nor beautiful than she did. Through no minuscule feat, this city's architecture as designed as a throwback to ancient Terrain building design from a period referred to as the rebirth. Each building sports gentle curves and welcoming arches, not so much competing to be seen as most Shrineworld cities would have their buildings oriented, but somehow in harmony with each other, complementing and standing in unison. Shades ranged from peach to tan creating quite a contrast to the greens of lush flora both gathered outside the Villa Meralces and distributed throughout the city proper; mostly thick leafy trees covered in meaty star-shaped leaves which drank deeply from our gracious sun, who's warmth could only remind me of He that sits upon the Golden Throne.
Imagine trying to capture this scene of romance and prosperity on canvas; from the humble cobblestone roads, wide enough only to accommodate horse-drawn grav-carriages, to the majestic skyline, its few clouds gracefully dancing upon their ballroom above us.
I have been amongst the stars as soon as was able to embrace them, and I will proudly say that on my winding road of life, every path that I have taken has led me here. My name is Malvolio de T'ryat and I have taken it upon myself to share with His blessed kingdom the majesty that the Villa Meralces can offer only so few. As a man of admiration in beauty, it shames me to profit from my watercolors of this land. But as a man of admiration in the beauty of women, I can admit that not every result of my exploitation of this city beckons me to feel atrocious.
I sit upon my balcony, palette of paint colors in one hand, and a finely tooled brush in the other. Although my studio is only a few stories above ground, I am afforded a breath-taking view of the Villa Meralces. This unobscured view is due to the fact that as the city sprawls before me, it begins to encompass a hillside, which allows the city to slope up as it ascends. At the hill's highest point rests our good city hall, a building spartan in appearance. Just a stone throw away lays the Cathedral, easily the tallest and most elegantly decorated of all structures. Aquila and depictions of our God Emperor grace stained glass windows serving in no small part as a source of both faith and inspiration. The Cathedral, in its dark tones of blue and grey remind us that although we walk the streets in merriment and plenty, it is because of our God and his love for us, and his understanding that were are his subjects to rule.
Water color is a bit of a novelty during this day in age. A very forgotten art if you ask me. Although there are many pict capturing devices available, I find that a view looses its heart, its spirit, and in this case its glory when displayed upon a screen or hologlobe. My canvas is the purest recreation of any sight. One cannot notice what extravagant difference it is until they see it before their very eyes.
When amongst wives or sophisticated (I use this word with no small helping of sarcasm) potential customers can be made to become actual customers or run the risk of me conveying the notion that they are lacking sufficient funds to those amongst them. In the Villa Meralces, being poor was a sin just less cardinal than besmirching His good name. It is no slight slight (do excuse my rather humorous play on words) for our fair aristocracy to be likened to the poor.
Those vile paupers and street urchins are swept out of public view any time the local law enforcement encounters them. They are the one and truly most vile aspect of my tantalizing city so it is with great relief that I do not have my view sullied by their filth. The Fathers at the cathedral speak the Word of the Emperor with a minute twist to everywhere else in the galaxy that I have graced. This local creed is not too kind in its words to the poor. They are dehumanized to the point of disgust usually attributed to that of the foul xenos. At first this twist had confused and disturbed me, but it was only time before I accepted the truth that He who sits upon The Golden Throne creates his subjects for reasons only he can understand and that we should l accept our place. A favorite saying in my relation to the God Emperor and this specific tabu is "He works in mysterious way. Who am I to question my station or any man's station in His plan? It is my solemn duty to accept where I lay in that plan,"(And where I lay is very possibly comfier and more densely populated with those in possession of a certain set of gender specific organs than most.)
But enough nasty thoughts. The poor belong away from public sight, and although my thoughts meet that particular criteria, I am afraid that I have not hospitality to offer in that regard. Just thinking about their disheveled trousers and sodden shirts makes me dry heave slightly. They have no sense for fashion. I take this moment to look upon my own clothing; my brightly colored tunic does little to hide the girth that has just recently decided to emerge in face of my good fortune (I would like to point out that my good fortune makes my slight portliness irrelevant to the afore mentioned possessors of a certain set of organs). My skin tight trousers emerge from the underside of the tunic (this particular garment took a good degree of getting used to, but I assure you that I had achieved the height of fashion). It alarmed me so much to the point of setting my painting utensils upon the ground to discover that I had ruffled my tunic (I most likely committed this travesty upon my garb when I was cringing in disgust towards the lower class).
I hurriedly rectify this preposterous insult to good fashion. 'Now then, where was I before I began this most distracting day dream? Ah yes, the cathedral's main spire.'
I pick up brush and pallet and begin a ballet of gentle strokes. 'The cathedral has a name but the locals have butchered the Emperor's Gothic to an extent which the likes I cannot find myself pronouncing when they schemed up that name. It is rather comical to entertain their notion that it is I who speaks with an accent and not they.'
Caught again with internal dialogue, I do must best to capture the center piece of my painting: the cathedral's highest spire. It is here that most detail must be attributed, for all know the sight of that spire well enough to point out any inconsistency between my painting and the actual thing. Every one of my strokes is laborious and controlled by the most precise of motions. I can almost recall its every shape and detail from the memories of creating similar works, but it never hurts to be too sure. The opera that my voxplayer has been sounding has just reached its climax, the soprano brings his voice to the highest of crescendos, holding a note which stirs ambition in my heart. Passion stirs through the very fibers of my being.
'This is who I am! This life and all its glory are mine to enjoy! No man save the God Emperor may deny me that right! Damn the poor! Damn the sick! It is only the elite who have earned the right to walk these streets! I was guided here by His very hand!'
I look back and forth between canvas and actual view repeatedly, only stopping to add a fine line at time. By this point there was very little white left on canvas. I am so caught up and focused that I loose all awareness of anything other than the purity of the soprano's voice, my painting and my subject. This sense of extreme focus denied me any ability to keep track of time and I carry on with my work for a length of time unknown to me.
I finish my masterpiece out of breath and rather in need of a good night's rest. The sky's sudden transition to a far darker blue seemed to beckon me further towards sleep, but first I must admire my work a bit before retiring.
I pull my pocket chrono by its chain, 'strange, its not the time of day that would warrant such darkness so soon. Perhaps after ogling my work, I shall turn in.'
The same instant that I look upon the spire for what I decided was the last time, my lust turns to anguish and my weariness turns to dread; a sonic boom crescendos throughout the now cloud choked sky and an object hurtles from the clouds to come crashing down through the spire I so adored. The spherical object lands in the town square and buffets the area in dust. My heart sinks. And below me! The crowds and the masses gather in the streets. And they're are all poor! A multitude of different garments cover their sooty flesh. Though, through inconceivable means they had enough coordination to all dress in shades of red. The spill in from every direction, erupting from alley ways and in some cases emerging from sewer manholes. I do not know which to dread more, the filth swallowing my streets or the loss of my greatest subject.
They begin crying "Ascendence is near. Union is upon us!". Many sport picket signs sporting crude stretching of a hunched six limbed figure. They advance towards the town hall. Now they commit the unthinkable! My good neighbor (who is kind enough to supply me with quite a dazzling choice of wine on the occasion that I decide to grace him with my company, but lacking the financial standing to have me remember his name) is yanked into the street by a mob of murderous paupers. To my very horror I watch as his captors nail an extra set of wooden limbs to his ribcage and propel him above their heads. If the pauper's garments were not red before this brutal act, they soon were as a blood cascaded upon the crowd. My wine-endowing acquaintance was soon lost to sigh as the crowd carried him to the square.
All around me, they enter the lofts of my neighbors and commit the same barbaric act enacted upon boring, yet wine-providing Rupert 'Was that his name was? No use pondering it now. It is doubtful that I will find the occasion to use it'.
Screams and chanting resound through the streets. Chaos reduces my world to nothing. I loose hope.
Then a break in the noxious clouds allows a single ray of light to penetrate the streets. The freaks recoil in pain, as if their eyes were not accustomed to direct exposure to the sun. Many hiss through yellowed teeth and raise a sickly arm to block their vision. Pustules on their skin and tongues glint with sunlight and I see that these paupers are even more foul than any I had the displeasure of looking upon. But in a miraculous coincidence, I see that law enforcement has finally arrived on the scene ready to quell this heresy 'Perhaps not coincidence at all.
Perhaps divine intervention,' I think as hope surges through my veins. The provosts, roughly two dozen in number, stand resolute and in utter contrast to the motley horde before them; each wore a ruggedized set of leather armor, strapped with an array of implements designed to uphold the Emperor's justice. They each hold a transparent riot shield before themselves interlocked into a defensive phalanx. The narrow street allowed only nine provosts to stand abreast with just several ranks deep. Those not in the front rank readied shotguns in case things decided to take a turn for the worst. The mob halts its advance and becomes eerily mute. I lean over the ornately trimmed balcony, the railing pushing into my gut so deep that I would find discomfort had I not been so occupied by the seen unfolding before me.
PART II
THE PROVOST MARSHALL steps through the ranks of men as they part before him and stands in the void between the two forces. He radiates with authority. If only I had the fleet of hand to capture the scene enfolding before me, this lone man who calms a storm no more volatile than the warp itself. His clarity shines through the maelstrom just as pure and resolute as the Emperor's Astronomicon.
And then he speaks "Cease! Cease this unrest at once. Every man among you must lay down arms. May the instigators of this blight step forth, that the rest of you mutinous curs may return to your rightful place and carry on with the Emperor's good toil," his voice raises only once, and then projects with the clarity of a lighthouse's beam.
A few of the crowd quiver in the face of such might. "Come forth ye who flirts with treachery. Have you no spine? Who amongst you is responsible?" His accent was barely noticeable, just waiting around the corners of his syllables like prowling guardians.
More and more of the rabble started quivering 'yes, you stinking traitors. Submit to rightful authority!'.
The vibrations grew more irregular and strenuous as their bodies rocked into contorted agony. Curiously it seemed that only the degenerates who severed the vanguard of the mob were undergoing this phenomena. Riot shields swung and interlocked with a methodical "thunk". Shotguns were cocked dispensing blue shells at spiked steel toed boots. One bead of sweat trickled down the Marshall's brow. He slowly took a step back and his hand crept toward his sidearm. Any fool could see that his gambit was not going to work out as he had hoped.
The spastic peasants revealed the reason behind their ungodly body movements; bellies, skulls, and ribcages detonate in a spray of bile and bone. The Marshall had been no more than 5 meters from the crowd as he was engulfed in a tide of miasma and gore. The armor that he had worn had melted away or fused to his body. His flesh clung to his limbs before dripping away into grotesque pools. Lungs seeped between ribs. Sickeningly enough, it seemed that the good Marshall was alive through all his agony until his head clumsily detached from the neck. Lips formed soundless words until the Marshall's cranium hit the ground with a splash.
The skeletal frame stands for scant moments in defiance to the mob before crumbling away. My mouth opens aghast, for I have never witnessed such an atrocity. Those amongst the mob who had projected the vile fluid were reduced to fleshy wet bags. Bizarrely, their comrades lifted the remains above their heads and charged the line of provosts. Rubber suppression slugs pummeled rioters with precision, but to no avail as most were unfazed. Those that were hit in the face dropped in a brain-failure induced tumble but were further propelled forth by the press of the mob. Comatose rioters were flung over the shield wall. Shock prods sent limbs limp and dangling. Filth-etched nails fractured against plexiglass.
The melee was tremendous, but my attention is ripped away just as the door hinges to my loft did likewise. A mob of degenerates spills into my common room and the are just a hallway away from entering my most astute bedroom. I cringe as I hear vases being smashed from their podiums.
'Good God Emperor, deliver me from these mongrels!' I think quickly and it comes to me as if He had delivered me the answer personally 'we must all make a sacrifice to the greater good of humanity!'
I grab my painting supplies and cascade all of my red paint over my garments.
'I will have to work the chambermaid to the bone to undo this blasphemy to fashion!'
They are only a few steps away from entering my bedroom as I run to Meira's prone form on the bed. She is still under from the persuasion meds that I "gifted" her last night. I grimace breaks across my face as I handle her well-appointed form and haul her upright.
She looks at me through half open eyelids "Wouz hann'n?"
I lay a finger across her lips "Shhhhh. You have served me well Meira, but I have one final thing that I would ask of you"
"Hmmm love?"
The crowd storms through my doorway and takes a moment to stammer as they notice me. I toss Meira to grasping hands, her form (utterly devoid of clothing I might add) was effortlessly snatched up.
"Nhhhh. Not anova go'round wiv yehh friends." Her mind was still reeling through half-consciousness, for I do not believe she knew what a tremendous sacrifice she was making for mankind.
Trying to seize the moment I yell, "Unity, Ascendence, huzzah!",attempting to muster as much charisma and charm as possible raising my manicured fist and swinging it about in the air.
The largest of the group, a big bald brute with a massive overbite steps forth. He wore a set of used coveralls and had a curiously molded shoulder guard which extended all the way down to his wrist and ended in a crablike claw....
'Sweet Emperor, that is actually his skin; that's no armor, its chiton!'.
Sweat is rampaging down my face. I can feel my trousers get a lot warmer.
Then he opens a maw most foul, rows of jagged teeth arrayed before me, with a guttural rasp he bellows "Uzzzah! Unity fer all brodda!"
His followers repeat this nonsense and rush forward. My hope of guile is short lived as I am hauled to the air by dozens of horrible claws.
Meira suddenly comes to her senses as the bedposts that the mob had crudely acquired her inserted into her delicious form 'I'm afraid that I won't be having future relations with her. Oh well, every girl leaves her drink unprotected sooner or later'.
My internal conundrum takes my mind off of my worldly conundrum and I'm shocked to see several mongrels approach me with parts of my painting isle.
"Now now gentlemen, let's not be too hasty. I don't reckon you know what a caricature is but instead of adding me to your scarecrow collection, maybe we can work on a group special?" I follow this futile attempt up with a nervous laugh and the most genuine smile that I could conjure (I do not think it was the same smile I wear when I am about to close a deal at the forums, despite my efforts).
The hooligans approach me ever closer with jagged wooden stakes poised for plunging (I wish my life would flash before my eyes like in the holodramas; it would have been quite the sensual distraction).
Just as I am about to plead mercy, Big Baldy says "Oii, hold it lads. Lokkit dis. It's a masterpiece I tell ya! Ee must be keen to da great vision!"
He holds up my canvas, only it displays a sick perversion of my great view of the Villa. It appears as though when I created my disguise, paint splashed upon the canvas in a way that left a large red stain emerging from town square. I'll be damned, but one could even mistaken the stain to be a rendition of the same crude six-limbed fiend sketched across the mob's signs and clothes. To reach this connection, one must have an extremely vivid imagination or been severely mentally impaired; I'll let you guess which category I find that my guests fall under.
"Brood fafer don't wants us to be preparing des psychies for the great offerink. Dis one's obiousley a psychie. How's else he had a vision. Ee's not one ov us o course, much as ee tries, hurr hurr. Wot ye got ter say?" He thrust a grimy scaled finger at me.
"Oh yes,I dream of the great vision quite regularly. The old Brood Father and I spoke about it just the other day over tobac sticks and caff. He's a real stand up fellow, you know," I figure that I can't condemn myself any further.
"Hurr hurr hurr. You's funny brodda. Brood fafer gunna cut your stinking yazik off If ye wave it round at im like dat. Don worry, t'won't go ter waste, hurr hurr." His snorting led to him blowing a grotesque wad of phlegm out of his maw. "Ta town square broddas, les bag em. Unity awaits dis miser'ble sump." And with that they hauled my now less than lovely acquaintance and I out of my thrashed loft.
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