Karl Valten
Dec 24th, 2006, 10:03:51 PM
The weak will always be led by the strong.
Where the strong cry out against fate, the weak bow their heads and succumb.
There are many who are weak and many are their temptations.
Despise the weak for they flock to the call of the adept and the renegade.
Pity them not and scorn their cries of innocence-it is better that one hundred innocents fall before the wrath of the Inquisitoriate than one kneeling before chaos.
There is no such thing as innocence, only degrees of guilt.
-Book of Indoctrinations
“I remember hearing these words for the first time all those years ago. I was there, kneeling on the steps of the Imperial Palace among tens of thousands. Kneeling as the Emperor himself dictated what would become the Doctrine of the Inquisitoriate. And I quivered….I quivered at the responsibility placed before us.
Dozens of bodies, black clad warriors bearing a blood red sigil and others in a motley collection of black market equipment, clashed in the battered streets. The air cooked with the torrents of blaster fire flaying through flesh and armor. Emerald waves of disruptor fire left swaths of ash. A hideous stench of burning ozone and roasting corpses seeped everywhere, piercing through breath filters with horrifying strength. No escaped the smell of death.
Explosions filled the air as grenades left craters of dismember limbs and sobbing victims and arcing missiles blew boulders of marble and granite from crumbling buildings onto the combatants below. Yet despite the detonations, the whine of blasters, and clashing of blades, another sound drowned it out…..Endless screaming rose in a discordant chorus of angels and demons. Screams ringing out from the throats of hundreds, of thousands…cries of pain, cries of despair, and above all…cries of unbridled hatred. Hell in a forgotten city on a forgotten planet.
And in the raging melee, one spot draws to a fulcrum. A company of mismatched soldiers takes cover in the shadow of a central administration building. Nervously crouching behind the scorched wrecks of burning vehicles, setting up fire points among fallen verandas and webs and plasteel girders from collapsing structures. Entrenched repeating blaster and laser cannon emplacements peak from rubble barricades while sharp-shooters carrying high powered rifles position themselves is the remains of the building’s upper floors.
Expanding before them lay the shattered remains of the city center, a no-man’s land of town square occupied by blood drench path ways, monofilament wire traps, and countless bodies. And all around, once glorious spires pouring black smoke up into a red atmosphere.
A crimson sky above the bleeding earth. A hopeless last stand against and fanatic foe. Many sob…for dead friends, for tortured loved-ones, for the knowledge that not one of their pitiful lives would make it through the day.
“We were perhaps the first true soldiers of the Empire, not automations grown in a vat at the edge of the galaxy. A loyal core of warriors chosen to uphold the dominion of order against the threat of rebellion and sorceries of adepts. Where the armies white-shelled clones failed, a chapter of wraiths would turn the enemy to dust….and I, I was gladly took part in the harvest, ever burning with hate for the heretic
At the front of the ragged defenders stands a quartet of valiant figures, their faces a mask of resigned acceptance. A tear rolls down the cheek of one, a breaking heart mourning the memory of a bygone era. With laser fire streaking around, they raise their arms as one….and ignite their lightsabers.
And rushing towards them, a phalanx of Inquisitorial troopers daring the killing fields. In the center of the squads of soldiers advance the terrifying forms of power-armored inquisitors and their hand chosen retinues. Many black clad combatants fall in the charge, but for each one killed the Inquisitorial rage is fueled and fervor of the assault increases.
Somewhere in the horde, a young Karl Valten grips his rifle and joins in the cacophony. He vaults over the hull of a smoking vehicle smashing into a terrified rebel. A spray of crimson splatters across the overturned repulsor-car and a body gurgling body thumps to the ground. His helmeted gaze stares into tearing eyes, mercilessly watching the life blood drain from a young man barely out of his teens. With blood dripping from his gun’s bayonet, young Karl turns to the next victim. Similar scenes play out on the steps of the administration building. Inquisitorial grunts holding off the knats so that the Inquisitors may close with the adepts unscathed.
“Many...friends…I fought with saw the Great Purge as just that; Nothing more than clearing a dangerous enemy from our midst, scouring the threat of corruption from the Empire. But I saw something much more. As the Emperor’s armies spread far into the void reclaiming more and more of the Separatist worlds, the wraith like presence of the Inquisitoriate flourished in the shadows. We committed atrocities not even the Emperor would dare reveal, damning our souls so that the weak-minded citizens of the galaxy would be allowed the comfort of order and the bliss of ignorance.
Hazy smog still filters through the air as the red slowly fades, no longer are there any explosions, no shrieking blaster fire, nor the ringing of metal on metal. Yet the hollow echo of a scream still lingers on, penetrating the city of evanescing flames.
Dark clone-armored forms of Inquisitorial soldiers sift through the rubble and bodies, carrying wounded allies to med-centers while others police the weapons of the fallen. Occasional bursts of gunfire lethargically float through the streets as the remnant enemy is weeded out.
On the steps of the Administration building huddle a group of survivors under the watch of Imperial guns. Karl Valten stands with them, scanning the blood-drenched steps. His eyes fall on the body of an Inquisitor, his or her head cleanly sliced away by the kiss of a lightsaber. Even as the young soldier moves on to the burned and sliced corpses of the Jedi, his teeth grit in rage. Boiling with hatred in the thought that such loyal servants of the Emperor must give their lives for the preservation of order.
“I still cannot fathom why people can chose the notions of chaotic peace and fleeting freedom over the soothing grace of stability and pure light of certainty.”
A faceless soldier turns from the capture rebels, masked lips murmuring an inquiry to a surviving Inquisitor. But one soldier strides forward before an answer can be given.
WHAM A black boot kicks a prisoner onto her back. A muted cry of pain and fear, draws the stares of everyone within ear shot. The same foot presses down on the woman’s throat. Gurgling sobs raise the hairs on even the other soldiers. Her eyes lock on the emotionless eyepieces of a clone trooper helm and she pleads, begs.
Shouts, cries demanding mercy ring from the other capture renegades. Karl merely puts a gun to her head and pulls the trigger.
In the background, the corners of an Inquisitor's lips curve upward.
Where the strong cry out against fate, the weak bow their heads and succumb.
There are many who are weak and many are their temptations.
Despise the weak for they flock to the call of the adept and the renegade.
Pity them not and scorn their cries of innocence-it is better that one hundred innocents fall before the wrath of the Inquisitoriate than one kneeling before chaos.
There is no such thing as innocence, only degrees of guilt.
-Book of Indoctrinations
“I remember hearing these words for the first time all those years ago. I was there, kneeling on the steps of the Imperial Palace among tens of thousands. Kneeling as the Emperor himself dictated what would become the Doctrine of the Inquisitoriate. And I quivered….I quivered at the responsibility placed before us.
Dozens of bodies, black clad warriors bearing a blood red sigil and others in a motley collection of black market equipment, clashed in the battered streets. The air cooked with the torrents of blaster fire flaying through flesh and armor. Emerald waves of disruptor fire left swaths of ash. A hideous stench of burning ozone and roasting corpses seeped everywhere, piercing through breath filters with horrifying strength. No escaped the smell of death.
Explosions filled the air as grenades left craters of dismember limbs and sobbing victims and arcing missiles blew boulders of marble and granite from crumbling buildings onto the combatants below. Yet despite the detonations, the whine of blasters, and clashing of blades, another sound drowned it out…..Endless screaming rose in a discordant chorus of angels and demons. Screams ringing out from the throats of hundreds, of thousands…cries of pain, cries of despair, and above all…cries of unbridled hatred. Hell in a forgotten city on a forgotten planet.
And in the raging melee, one spot draws to a fulcrum. A company of mismatched soldiers takes cover in the shadow of a central administration building. Nervously crouching behind the scorched wrecks of burning vehicles, setting up fire points among fallen verandas and webs and plasteel girders from collapsing structures. Entrenched repeating blaster and laser cannon emplacements peak from rubble barricades while sharp-shooters carrying high powered rifles position themselves is the remains of the building’s upper floors.
Expanding before them lay the shattered remains of the city center, a no-man’s land of town square occupied by blood drench path ways, monofilament wire traps, and countless bodies. And all around, once glorious spires pouring black smoke up into a red atmosphere.
A crimson sky above the bleeding earth. A hopeless last stand against and fanatic foe. Many sob…for dead friends, for tortured loved-ones, for the knowledge that not one of their pitiful lives would make it through the day.
“We were perhaps the first true soldiers of the Empire, not automations grown in a vat at the edge of the galaxy. A loyal core of warriors chosen to uphold the dominion of order against the threat of rebellion and sorceries of adepts. Where the armies white-shelled clones failed, a chapter of wraiths would turn the enemy to dust….and I, I was gladly took part in the harvest, ever burning with hate for the heretic
At the front of the ragged defenders stands a quartet of valiant figures, their faces a mask of resigned acceptance. A tear rolls down the cheek of one, a breaking heart mourning the memory of a bygone era. With laser fire streaking around, they raise their arms as one….and ignite their lightsabers.
And rushing towards them, a phalanx of Inquisitorial troopers daring the killing fields. In the center of the squads of soldiers advance the terrifying forms of power-armored inquisitors and their hand chosen retinues. Many black clad combatants fall in the charge, but for each one killed the Inquisitorial rage is fueled and fervor of the assault increases.
Somewhere in the horde, a young Karl Valten grips his rifle and joins in the cacophony. He vaults over the hull of a smoking vehicle smashing into a terrified rebel. A spray of crimson splatters across the overturned repulsor-car and a body gurgling body thumps to the ground. His helmeted gaze stares into tearing eyes, mercilessly watching the life blood drain from a young man barely out of his teens. With blood dripping from his gun’s bayonet, young Karl turns to the next victim. Similar scenes play out on the steps of the administration building. Inquisitorial grunts holding off the knats so that the Inquisitors may close with the adepts unscathed.
“Many...friends…I fought with saw the Great Purge as just that; Nothing more than clearing a dangerous enemy from our midst, scouring the threat of corruption from the Empire. But I saw something much more. As the Emperor’s armies spread far into the void reclaiming more and more of the Separatist worlds, the wraith like presence of the Inquisitoriate flourished in the shadows. We committed atrocities not even the Emperor would dare reveal, damning our souls so that the weak-minded citizens of the galaxy would be allowed the comfort of order and the bliss of ignorance.
Hazy smog still filters through the air as the red slowly fades, no longer are there any explosions, no shrieking blaster fire, nor the ringing of metal on metal. Yet the hollow echo of a scream still lingers on, penetrating the city of evanescing flames.
Dark clone-armored forms of Inquisitorial soldiers sift through the rubble and bodies, carrying wounded allies to med-centers while others police the weapons of the fallen. Occasional bursts of gunfire lethargically float through the streets as the remnant enemy is weeded out.
On the steps of the Administration building huddle a group of survivors under the watch of Imperial guns. Karl Valten stands with them, scanning the blood-drenched steps. His eyes fall on the body of an Inquisitor, his or her head cleanly sliced away by the kiss of a lightsaber. Even as the young soldier moves on to the burned and sliced corpses of the Jedi, his teeth grit in rage. Boiling with hatred in the thought that such loyal servants of the Emperor must give their lives for the preservation of order.
“I still cannot fathom why people can chose the notions of chaotic peace and fleeting freedom over the soothing grace of stability and pure light of certainty.”
A faceless soldier turns from the capture rebels, masked lips murmuring an inquiry to a surviving Inquisitor. But one soldier strides forward before an answer can be given.
WHAM A black boot kicks a prisoner onto her back. A muted cry of pain and fear, draws the stares of everyone within ear shot. The same foot presses down on the woman’s throat. Gurgling sobs raise the hairs on even the other soldiers. Her eyes lock on the emotionless eyepieces of a clone trooper helm and she pleads, begs.
Shouts, cries demanding mercy ring from the other capture renegades. Karl merely puts a gun to her head and pulls the trigger.
In the background, the corners of an Inquisitor's lips curve upward.