Universe 44
A/N - With fervent apologies to the shade of H G Wells.
No one would have believed in the first years of the twenty first century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. Yet across the gulf of space, a mind that is to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, an intellect vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with incredulous eyes, and slowly and surely drew his plans against us....
"Penelope." Sheldor the Conqueror strides into the courtyard of the Dark Keep, black cloak flared behind him, and his boots striking sparks from the stone. "I believe that I have found another one.”
“Another what, sweetie?” Queen Penelope's voice is distracted, she is overseeing archery practice with the Horde. “For goodness sake, stop whimpering, Dranel, I let you wear padding.”
“Another of those worlds.”
"Oh, shoot." (There's a series of twangs, and a muffled scream.) "Oops, sorry, that wasn't an order, guys." (The orcs shuffle, embarrassed.) “Is there any hope for this one?”
"I think not." He shudders. “I would rather not discuss it.”
"That bad? Eww." Penelope shudders, too, turns back to the Horde. "Okay, then, we've got a raid. Go see Gogmoth if you need anything sharpened. And can somebody revive the halfling?”
Sheldor sighs. He's getting tired of killing idiots with his face. Penelope, on the other hand, takes a disturbing delight in berating her hapless doppelgangers, managing to deliver a scathing diatribe about lost ambition and a lack of self-respect alongside the axe-blows.
He could just blow up the sun, of course, but sometimes, these things need the personal touch.
No one would have believed in the first years of the twenty first century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. Yet across the gulf of space, a mind that is to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, an intellect vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with incredulous eyes, and slowly and surely drew his plans against us....
"Penelope." Sheldor the Conqueror strides into the courtyard of the Dark Keep, black cloak flared behind him, and his boots striking sparks from the stone. "I believe that I have found another one.”
“Another what, sweetie?” Queen Penelope's voice is distracted, she is overseeing archery practice with the Horde. “For goodness sake, stop whimpering, Dranel, I let you wear padding.”
“Another of those worlds.”
"Oh, shoot." (There's a series of twangs, and a muffled scream.) "Oops, sorry, that wasn't an order, guys." (The orcs shuffle, embarrassed.) “Is there any hope for this one?”
"I think not." He shudders. “I would rather not discuss it.”
"That bad? Eww." Penelope shudders, too, turns back to the Horde. "Okay, then, we've got a raid. Go see Gogmoth if you need anything sharpened. And can somebody revive the halfling?”
Sheldor sighs. He's getting tired of killing idiots with his face. Penelope, on the other hand, takes a disturbing delight in berating her hapless doppelgangers, managing to deliver a scathing diatribe about lost ambition and a lack of self-respect alongside the axe-blows.
He could just blow up the sun, of course, but sometimes, these things need the personal touch.