pitches, pitches, pitches

Hey all,

another quicky, here's an excerpt from another one of my pitches which I have decided to call [EXPONENTIALLY DELETED]. Enjoy!

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Sweat beaded on the sorcerer’s brow as he concentrated on the on the archaic language of power he spoke along with his nine brother sorcerers standing in a perfect circle with him. Within the circle lay a complex map of ancient and powerful images and runes, each glowing brighter and brighter still with each word he and his brothers uttered. Few others within the galaxy would know the language they spoke now, fewer still would understand it. It is a forgotten tongue, a forbidden tongue. Once, he would have been repulsed by hearing or knowing the language, let alone speaking it. It’s sometimes amusing how things can change in ten thousand years.

But he wouldn’t focus on that now, he couldn’t. They were at the height at their ritual now, the most pivotal part. Now these few moments could equal triumph or disaster. One wavering tone, one slight mispronunciation on any word, even one so minuet and insignificant word could tear their bodies apart and fling their souls into the ever hungry and waiting warp. Or worse. For nearly an hour they had been standing there, on blood soaked earth of the battlefield chanting, uttering, praying and dealing. With each word the runes burned brighter, each syllable was one step closer to completion, each moment closer to their arrival.

His body trembled with the effort of keeping immobile while he forced the words from his lips. Even after nearly a hundred centuries and hundred more times repeating this ritual, the words still felt wrong, felt unnatural. Indeed, they felt alive. Each time he had to make himself repeat the words taught to him many years ago by his lord he felt numb, he felt cold, he felt his soul growing closer and closer to the eternal damnation of the warp that awaited them all. Once he was taught to close his mind to the warp, even believed that they themselves could master it. Their arrogance, it seemed, had blinded them to the truth. The beasts of man had taught them error. An error they would never repeat by spilling the blood of the empire where they once made their claim.

Slowly, he and his brother’s voice grew louder and louder, calling out to the heavens and hells of the galaxy, to the deepest and most violent of the warp, calling the beasts to the slaughter they were to unleash upon the fools. The tyrant had wanted something so terrible and mortifying that the fools would drop to their knees as their sanity shattered along with their bodies. They would just that, so long as the tyrant held his part of the bargain.

The skies above them darkened to a horrifying shape of crimson, pulsing and convulsing bright fire and lightening, energy that swirled and changed color within a blink of an eye. The very ground at their feet cracked and twisted, nature itself was rejecting the words of power they spoke but was helpless to stop them. The blood soaked for so long within the earth rose up now and boiled at their feet, hissing and spitting at them, knowing what’s coming and rejoicing.

The sorcerer had never liked these beings, too barbaric, too simplistic, too damn pathetic. But the tyrant wanted them, or at least some version of them. If he really wanted to make a deal with them he should have been move specific, his loss. Wind whipped around them now, cruel and malevolent as the rest of the world around them now, changed like the sky and earth around them into a being of malice. The sorcerer shed no tear for they had done to this world, after all they brought it on themselves the fools.

The wind shrieking around them in a such a pitch a banshee would be deafened, the sorcerer and his brothers raised their hands and heads high, shouting even above the wind, the language of power’s volume surpassing even this minor annoyance as finally their ritual reach its crescendo. The runes burned a blinding red and golden light streaking above them and blasting through the blood red sky, a beacon of pure hate and rage, guiding their guests to their place of honor on the world. The sorcerer opened his eyes in unison with his brothers and roared one final phrase.

‘Tarreacky she’takcae!’

The beacon of light before them burst, cascading light over them. Winds whipped by them as the light exploded around them, sending their robes flying across their chests, but they stood firm. The sorcerer knew everything had gone perfectly, and that should have brought some feeling of satisfaction, but nothing came. He had long stopped feeling joy or pride at completing this ritual. No, it was too easy, nothing to be learned and nothing to be gained anymore from this. After ten thousand years this was no more an experience, it was a chore.

As quickly as the light came, it vanished along with the wind. Where there was an intricate circle of runes and symbols lay a scorched creator, still smoking from the completed ritual. The sorcerer lowered his arms, scowling. He had grown tired of this, for the last two centuries he had done nothing but this ritual over and over with his brothers. There was no challenge anymore, no real foe, just a chore. Their lord, however, had promised that soon they would face a good enemy, challenging one, an old one. Whether or not the sorcerer believed that he did not know, but it was convincing.