No Title
It seemed as though the cold was eternal, as though it had always lay in waiting, biding it's time until the warmth finally ran out. For a time, though, the warmth was self-perpetuating, and the chilling talons of her grip were kept from us. So she taught the first of us, those wretches, how to steal the warmth of another, exalting in the ecstasy of such sin. The Cold One also taught her chosen how to share her "gift" and so the Overclass was born.
They ruled as a swift, fierce unit, each time they stole the warmth from another they grew ever more powerful, and over time none could stand against them, even in numbers. They called those who did not share their "gift" the Underclass, and so formed The Empire.
Those changed, however, soon felt a chill under their skin when ought there be no chill, each feeling the frost in their veins in proportion to their taking of warmth, and they then knew they must continue to steal the warmth of others. At first, as only the eldest Changed ones felt the chill, only a few of the Underclass went missing at a time, but soon the swollen ranks of the Overclass, drawn in by the allure of power and immortality, could feel the ice in their blood, and chaos broke out as the lot of them rushed to sate their lust for the warmth of others.
The Overclass stormed the populous, consuming the warmth of any Underclass they could find. In the resulting chaos new, more powerful leaders emerged as Warlords of the Overclass, having absorbed the warmth of countless Underclass, rending them little more than cattle. The Overclass herded the survivors together, and the hedonists tore their opulent society apart at the seams and reduced their nations to mere warring clans in the ensuing destruction.
Over time, the Underclass despaired and refused to raise any further children to be used as sustenance for the Overclass, drained of their warmth. Enraged, the Overclass employed all manner of depraved and evil methods to force the production of more young, but their evil only hardened the resolve of the Underclass.
When all else failed, the remaining Underclass in captivity were used up and tossed aside like garbage, and in their desperation the Overclass turned on itself, cannibalizing each other to avoid the pain and despair of the chill. Civilization as we had known it had collapsed entirely. Cities and infrastructure lay in ruins, and life stopped for us.
But we did not die...
Over time we simply continued to feel colder, stiffer, the dull ache of becoming ice growing fuller, brighter, more painful with each day. Those who remained wandered alone, always wary of an encounter, though we soon realized the warmth we stole had faded from us. We were left in the state of those who we had stolen from. We knew now that we could not even steal from another, as the warmth was gone forever.
I heard rumors in the earlier times, when there were still a bit of us, of many strange and disheartening attempts by the changed to regain warmth--any warmth. Immolation, boiling water, many just gave up and walked off cliffs. If they didn't die, they were at least never heard from again.
And now there is only me, and the cold in me that is my constant companion. I never wanted to be Changed, but the hedonism of the early days knew no bounds. Now I lay here, curled in a pile of leaves at the end of time. I have lain shivering in these woods, the agony of undeath forever gripping me, the old salvation in these frozen times is the old, fading memory of what the warmth was when it was my own.
Oh what I would do now for my warmth, any warmth. What I would do for another change, to strike against the lot of the Overclass before it were too late.
In the last summer of the Universe I lay curled, shivering in the dawning sun on the edge of a field. Through the frost in my mind a sound of children echoes from afar.
They ruled as a swift, fierce unit, each time they stole the warmth from another they grew ever more powerful, and over time none could stand against them, even in numbers. They called those who did not share their "gift" the Underclass, and so formed The Empire.
Those changed, however, soon felt a chill under their skin when ought there be no chill, each feeling the frost in their veins in proportion to their taking of warmth, and they then knew they must continue to steal the warmth of others. At first, as only the eldest Changed ones felt the chill, only a few of the Underclass went missing at a time, but soon the swollen ranks of the Overclass, drawn in by the allure of power and immortality, could feel the ice in their blood, and chaos broke out as the lot of them rushed to sate their lust for the warmth of others.
The Overclass stormed the populous, consuming the warmth of any Underclass they could find. In the resulting chaos new, more powerful leaders emerged as Warlords of the Overclass, having absorbed the warmth of countless Underclass, rending them little more than cattle. The Overclass herded the survivors together, and the hedonists tore their opulent society apart at the seams and reduced their nations to mere warring clans in the ensuing destruction.
Over time, the Underclass despaired and refused to raise any further children to be used as sustenance for the Overclass, drained of their warmth. Enraged, the Overclass employed all manner of depraved and evil methods to force the production of more young, but their evil only hardened the resolve of the Underclass.
When all else failed, the remaining Underclass in captivity were used up and tossed aside like garbage, and in their desperation the Overclass turned on itself, cannibalizing each other to avoid the pain and despair of the chill. Civilization as we had known it had collapsed entirely. Cities and infrastructure lay in ruins, and life stopped for us.
But we did not die...
Over time we simply continued to feel colder, stiffer, the dull ache of becoming ice growing fuller, brighter, more painful with each day. Those who remained wandered alone, always wary of an encounter, though we soon realized the warmth we stole had faded from us. We were left in the state of those who we had stolen from. We knew now that we could not even steal from another, as the warmth was gone forever.
I heard rumors in the earlier times, when there were still a bit of us, of many strange and disheartening attempts by the changed to regain warmth--any warmth. Immolation, boiling water, many just gave up and walked off cliffs. If they didn't die, they were at least never heard from again.
And now there is only me, and the cold in me that is my constant companion. I never wanted to be Changed, but the hedonism of the early days knew no bounds. Now I lay here, curled in a pile of leaves at the end of time. I have lain shivering in these woods, the agony of undeath forever gripping me, the old salvation in these frozen times is the old, fading memory of what the warmth was when it was my own.
Oh what I would do now for my warmth, any warmth. What I would do for another change, to strike against the lot of the Overclass before it were too late.
In the last summer of the Universe I lay curled, shivering in the dawning sun on the edge of a field. Through the frost in my mind a sound of children echoes from afar.