01-08-2017, 04:59 PM
After I pick myself up, I consider destroying the rest of these obstinate megaliths, but the sheer effort and time it would involve makes the prospect depressing.
I shouldn't have to work this hard to break a bunch of stupid rocks! And a mere falling stone shouldn't pose enough of a threat to set my heart pounding like this!
I'll have to come back here when I'm stronger (A word I dearly love. Stronger! It growls!).
Yes, I've wasted enough effort and time on these lifeless blocks of granite - there are living things here. People, and more importantly, Omnilium - the power I need in order to return to my former glory.
I leave the drifting dust, and the smells of powdered stone, burnt air and scorched earth behind. Wisps of smoke and pulverized debris waft off my brilliant, stainless golden body as I stride from the stone circle and down the side of the hill.
There's a path, leading in short order to a road, which is a concept I'm familiar with, despite only ever having previously seen them as tiny lines on the ground (It's only a small mental leap from roads to space-lanes, after all). It's made of bare dirt, with the occasional stone marker. I'm tempted not to follow it, but roads lead to towns, and towns have people, and people have Omnilium.
...though, come to think of it, I don't really know how to get it from them. Do they keep it inside, like I do?
Since I've already conceded once to the necessity of interrogating the locals, and since I've hit upon the revolutionary idea of learning more about the individual people I destroy in order to better savor the bouquet of their loss, I suppose that I don't sacrifice anything by asking someone about this. The next person I see is going to have a lot to tell me.
I've only been walking for a couple of minutes, through grassland and low bushes, before I come to a fork in the road. There's a wooden signpost (which is a useful concept, elegant even). It's made from a small tree-trunk, stripped of branches, with planks nailed to the side. The planks have writing on them, and I'm surprised to discover that I can read it.
Evidently my newfound grasp of language and the associated concepts is more complete than I'd dared to imagine.
According to the sign, if I continue towards the mountains in the distance, I'll reach 'Minas Tirith', as well as several other places that are written in smaller letters, and so presumably aren't as important. If I follow the other path, into the forest, I'll apparently be heading for someplace called Holmwood.
The first thing I do is break the sign. I tear it out of the ground, digging my clawed fingers into the wood, and smash it in half across my knee. I leave the pieces lying in the road. The reduction of useful elegance to functionless chaos fills me with a dark cloud of warm, pleasant ecstasy, temporarily chasing away the frustrations of the day.
Feeling much better, I consider my options.
I shouldn't have to work this hard to break a bunch of stupid rocks! And a mere falling stone shouldn't pose enough of a threat to set my heart pounding like this!
I'll have to come back here when I'm stronger (A word I dearly love. Stronger! It growls!).
Yes, I've wasted enough effort and time on these lifeless blocks of granite - there are living things here. People, and more importantly, Omnilium - the power I need in order to return to my former glory.
I leave the drifting dust, and the smells of powdered stone, burnt air and scorched earth behind. Wisps of smoke and pulverized debris waft off my brilliant, stainless golden body as I stride from the stone circle and down the side of the hill.
There's a path, leading in short order to a road, which is a concept I'm familiar with, despite only ever having previously seen them as tiny lines on the ground (It's only a small mental leap from roads to space-lanes, after all). It's made of bare dirt, with the occasional stone marker. I'm tempted not to follow it, but roads lead to towns, and towns have people, and people have Omnilium.
...though, come to think of it, I don't really know how to get it from them. Do they keep it inside, like I do?
Since I've already conceded once to the necessity of interrogating the locals, and since I've hit upon the revolutionary idea of learning more about the individual people I destroy in order to better savor the bouquet of their loss, I suppose that I don't sacrifice anything by asking someone about this. The next person I see is going to have a lot to tell me.
I've only been walking for a couple of minutes, through grassland and low bushes, before I come to a fork in the road. There's a wooden signpost (which is a useful concept, elegant even). It's made from a small tree-trunk, stripped of branches, with planks nailed to the side. The planks have writing on them, and I'm surprised to discover that I can read it.
Evidently my newfound grasp of language and the associated concepts is more complete than I'd dared to imagine.
According to the sign, if I continue towards the mountains in the distance, I'll reach 'Minas Tirith', as well as several other places that are written in smaller letters, and so presumably aren't as important. If I follow the other path, into the forest, I'll apparently be heading for someplace called Holmwood.
The first thing I do is break the sign. I tear it out of the ground, digging my clawed fingers into the wood, and smash it in half across my knee. I leave the pieces lying in the road. The reduction of useful elegance to functionless chaos fills me with a dark cloud of warm, pleasant ecstasy, temporarily chasing away the frustrations of the day.
Feeling much better, I consider my options.