User:TheImperios/Fall of Vendaetha



“The Holy City burns! The Holy City burns! The Holy City burns!”

The words echoed through every street and house, repeated by the thousands of terrified voices - burrowing deep into Achash's very soul. Even now, as he ran together with these multitudes, away from the crumbling city walls and towards the Temple of Will, the realisation that Enara itself has fallen had not yet completely sunk in. He heard the news, of course. He read the stories of the upstart kingdom in the Crown, far to the west, claiming world after world - Araveene, Oberion, Vencortium, Narin-Loq. He even read about how its queen stormed Vhar Iremis, seizing the old Throne Room and calling herself Paragon. Yet it all was so distant, so ephemeral, as if it happened in a different reality. Surely, Old Vendaetha would never be taken. This was a holy world. Inviolable.

Not anymore.

A cramp hit Achash's leg. Unaccustomed to such exertion, the young friar screamed in pain and fell to his knee, taking this time to take a few quick breaths and look around. The sky above shimmered orange from the bombs bursting in air, then blue from the flickering of forcefields. The houses around him ignited in flame, then crumbled, disappearing in the fire. Somewhere in the back, he could see shapes of armoured deonari, firing somewhere in the ashen smoke. Far in the distance were the sounds of marching and the roaring of grav-engines, drums and fanfares and chants in a roaring language he could not understand.

The near-eyed friar could not see much that far, but in the smoke and flame, he could distinguish one image, repeated over and over again on the fluttering banners and the cyclopean war machines. Shining from the sea of grey and red and blue was the sigil of a golden dragon, its two heads wide open in a savage grimace.

Before Achash could ponder on the heraldic nature of the image, a thundering noise filled his ears: a tank shell has exploded nearby. All thoughts disappeared, replaced by a new surge of terror: the fear was stronger than the pain, and the friar pressed on once again, running through the streets as fast as his weak body allowed him. His vision narrowed; he could no longer see the fiery buildings or the soldiers, or think of anything other than escape. The only thing that was in his mind was the white walls of the Temple of Wills.

Another shell. Another explosion. The spires of the temple crumbled, the dust filling the air. Some faltered, some ran away. Not him. He would make it. One last rush, and then, safety. Climbing the stairs. Easy, the friar had done so many times before. The silver gates, so close, so close. Beyond lied the Void. The Clericarch. Safety. Peace.

Closed.

“Nar aesadai!” he shouted, together with the dozens of deonari at his side - also shouting, also stamping at the gates, screaming, praying, begging for the temple guards to let them in. What was that injustice?! How could the Clericarch deny them in these times? Had the Void itself abandoned them?

Yet another explosion. More screams. Ringing in the head. Fog in the eyes. Cannot think. Cannot see. Cannot feel his own legs. Feeling light, weightless - has his soul been taken already? - then, heavy again, body slamming against the ground. Then - eventually - sight returning. Achash raised his head. The silver gates are gone, the white walls are rubble - there’s fire and dust and screams and pain but-

“Come with me, brother. You must escape!” the strange deonari called from the dust, offering Achash his hand to pull him from the rubble. The friar turned to him and squinted his eyes, trying to discern the features of his saviour. He was an old man, but noble, with dignified features, clad in the robes of a Theosophian - but whiter and more elaborate- was that-- could it be--

“Your Holiness!” Achash exclaimed. Immediately, he withdrew his hand and instead lowered them on the rubble in a crude approximation of a kowtow. The friar then clenched his hands in prayer, then looked up to the Clericarch, his eyes almost weeping. “H-how?!” he pleaded, his voice both pleading and angered. “How could Vendaetha fall?! Enara fall?! The Temple of Will fall?! H-have we sinned- is this punishment--”

“I-- I do not know, my child, but everything… everything is as the Void wills it.” the voice of the Clericarch was as Achash knew it from the services he attended. It was strangely calm, yet weak, betraying the shock within. Indeed, the figure of the Clericarch, despite his regalia, was weak: the gold in his robes has faded, and the diamond in his mitre no longer glittered in the dust. “Raala begets Dei. Destruction brings creation, renewal comes after chaos. Perhaps this is part of the Design. Perhaps this… all this- will be for good-”

There was a sudden end to the Clericarch’s words. For a moment, Achash did not understand why - until he heard the quiet hum of charged railguns behind him. Turning his head back, he saw three armed reptilian figures, clad in baroque red and gold armour, growling something that he could not understand to His Holiness. Were these the angels of death that came to take his and his Clericarch’s life? Clenching his palms in prayer once again, the friar lowered his head in fear.

As Achash was whispering one last prayer for his soul, the friar pondered for the last time why his god would allow such an atrocity to transpire upon the holy of holies. Was it a punishment? A new beginning? An apocalypse? The friar did not know, and at this point lacked any mental strength for such questions. Slowly, the world around Achash disappeared into nothingness, his mind slowly fading, until the only thing still ringing in his mind was the triumphant chanting of the alien soldiers…

“Domnik vin’tarva! Domnik vin’tarva! Domnik vin’tarva!”