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coronaviridaeLe Jardin des Cadavres
Introduction:
He had gotten the idea when he was a callow youth--eighteen, and in full possession of every scrap of arrogance he'd evince later in life, though not all the experience. There was a fungus he'd heard of, in his peregrinations around the universe, that grew on the bodies of the still-living--a delightful little parasite, that caused pain and terrifying hallucinations in its victims as they slowly died. He was still learning his own capacity for feeling pain, and sharing the pain of others, taking it as sustenance more than food. The thought of something that kept its victims in agony until the bitter end was irresistable.
He made a point of it to acquire a bagful of spores when he got the chance. Then, he waited for the proper opportunity. It did not take long until an unfortunate human prisoner was due up for execution. He charmed the woman out of his commander's hands, and dragged her back to his ship. There, he staked her in an unused room, and cut her belly open. A generous handful of the spores was all that was required to start the fungus's deadly work.
It was an impressive little thing. It almost immediately stopped the bleeding from his victim's belly, bursting into a hundred million threads of mycelium. These it plunged into her body even as he watched, trembling at the sweetness of her screams, the agony she suffered. He had to leave after nearly six hours, to attend to other business. But he always came back, to drink in her pain, and the madness as the fungus tightened its hold on her.
It took her three weeks to die. Near the end, he kept a constant watch over her, forcing food and water down her throat through the oppressive net of fungus. When she breathed her last, it was wrapped in his arms--the hallucinations were so severe she believed him her lover, her mind crying out his name as she perished.
The fungus lived for another week on the corpse of its victim, converting it to a fine, powdery dirt before dying at last. He sifted it through his hands, disappointed to see the beautiful little murderer die so easily. The soil itself was of good quality--containing all the nutrients of a living human, bound up in a loose loam that wanted only for a little water. It gave him an idea.
Six months later, he had piled enough fungus food into the room to coat the floor with a thick layer of dirt. He began stealing plants and seeds when he could, planting each alongside a corpse. The room soon became a lush garden, grown from the bodies of the dead. A little haven of life, in his otherwise barren spaceship. It took constant work to keep it alive and keep the monsters out; more than once, he had to attack water miners to liberate their cargo for his garden.
But ultimately, it was worth it. And it has been growing since that day--eight is a respectable age, enough that some of the dwarf trees have even begun to grow fruit. The few people who manage to stumble on Le Jardin des Cadavres have been momentarily stunned by its aching beauty--before they notice the bones that litter the ground, the rotting hulks of humans left there to provide fertilizer for the flowers.
All but one person who has seen the Jardin has been interred in that same rich soil. After all, the plants need food, and life can only come from new death.
Description:
Le Jardin des Cadavres--literally, the Garden of Corpses--is one of the more unusual locations on the Song of Nephilim. Nobody who has seen it, with the exception of Albedo, the Kirschwassers, and an undisclosed U-TIC officer, has lived to relate of its aching beauty. It is, like everything on the Song--and Albedo himself--a very beautiful thing indeed, but twisted and inherently evil at its core.
It is, indeed, a garden. The rich soil--composted from the bodies of human, Realian, and Gnosis victims--plays host to innumerable rare and tropical plants, anything that Albedo could get to flourish. He has tried to get at least one plant from every world he's visited; some are completely incompatible and fail to thrive, but many are not, and so form the base of the Garden.
There is no rhyme or reason to the Garden's layout. Albedo has seen no reason to tame it or add any accoutrements to make it more comfortable for another human being. He is the only person who derives any pleasure from it, which is as it should be. Plants grow haphazardly wherever they will, in a riot of colors, shapes, and scents that often clash. The only plant that indicates any forethought in its planting is the dwarf peach tree at the center of the garden. It is six years old, and grows from the ribcage of a sacrficed Kirschwasser. Every few weeks, Albedo is careful to pull back the plants that would encroach on the pitiful little skeleton, making sure the bones remain spread-eagle, exactly as he killed her.
As its name implies, the Garden is filled with the corpses of Albedo's victims. Most are present only in the soil, or in the form of scattered bones here and there. There is always at least one full, rotting body, however; the riot of flowers usually masks the stench. Though he sometimes still uses the psychoactive, predatory fungus he used to get the Garden started, Albedo is more than content to let the corpses rot at their own pace.
Water is precious in space. Most of the water from the Garden comes from the supplies of destroyed ships and space stations, with the occasional captured ice asteroid when the going gets tough. However, such is Albedo's fondness for the Garden that he will go to any lengths to ensure that it remain healthy and watered. He is quick to kill any byproducts or Gnosis that stumble into it; they might have a detrimental effect on the plants.
Statistics:
The Garden is a thirty foot by thirty foot square room on the Song of Nephilim. It was originally a storage room in the second tower that Albedo cleared out. The door is usually locked.
It is always lit with artificial sunlight, and usually extremely humid. There are no wandering monsters in the Garden; in fact, it is actually quite peaceful, compared to other areas of the Song. The stench of death competes with the sweeter scent of flowers.
Symbolism:
This is one of Albedo's more blantantly obvious symbolic gestures. Life proceeds from death. The Garden is grown on the corpses of innumerable dead, sentient lives. More than that, it is a "waste", in the sense that Albedo is the only one who reaps any selfish benefit from his Garden.
muse
Introduction:
He had gotten the idea when he was a callow youth--eighteen, and in full possession of every scrap of arrogance he'd evince later in life, though not all the experience. There was a fungus he'd heard of, in his peregrinations around the universe, that grew on the bodies of the still-living--a delightful little parasite, that caused pain and terrifying hallucinations in its victims as they slowly died. He was still learning his own capacity for feeling pain, and sharing the pain of others, taking it as sustenance more than food. The thought of something that kept its victims in agony until the bitter end was irresistable.
He made a point of it to acquire a bagful of spores when he got the chance. Then, he waited for the proper opportunity. It did not take long until an unfortunate human prisoner was due up for execution. He charmed the woman out of his commander's hands, and dragged her back to his ship. There, he staked her in an unused room, and cut her belly open. A generous handful of the spores was all that was required to start the fungus's deadly work.
It was an impressive little thing. It almost immediately stopped the bleeding from his victim's belly, bursting into a hundred million threads of mycelium. These it plunged into her body even as he watched, trembling at the sweetness of her screams, the agony she suffered. He had to leave after nearly six hours, to attend to other business. But he always came back, to drink in her pain, and the madness as the fungus tightened its hold on her.
It took her three weeks to die. Near the end, he kept a constant watch over her, forcing food and water down her throat through the oppressive net of fungus. When she breathed her last, it was wrapped in his arms--the hallucinations were so severe she believed him her lover, her mind crying out his name as she perished.
The fungus lived for another week on the corpse of its victim, converting it to a fine, powdery dirt before dying at last. He sifted it through his hands, disappointed to see the beautiful little murderer die so easily. The soil itself was of good quality--containing all the nutrients of a living human, bound up in a loose loam that wanted only for a little water. It gave him an idea.
Six months later, he had piled enough fungus food into the room to coat the floor with a thick layer of dirt. He began stealing plants and seeds when he could, planting each alongside a corpse. The room soon became a lush garden, grown from the bodies of the dead. A little haven of life, in his otherwise barren spaceship. It took constant work to keep it alive and keep the monsters out; more than once, he had to attack water miners to liberate their cargo for his garden.
But ultimately, it was worth it. And it has been growing since that day--eight is a respectable age, enough that some of the dwarf trees have even begun to grow fruit. The few people who manage to stumble on Le Jardin des Cadavres have been momentarily stunned by its aching beauty--before they notice the bones that litter the ground, the rotting hulks of humans left there to provide fertilizer for the flowers.
All but one person who has seen the Jardin has been interred in that same rich soil. After all, the plants need food, and life can only come from new death.
Description:
Le Jardin des Cadavres--literally, the Garden of Corpses--is one of the more unusual locations on the Song of Nephilim. Nobody who has seen it, with the exception of Albedo, the Kirschwassers, and an undisclosed U-TIC officer, has lived to relate of its aching beauty. It is, like everything on the Song--and Albedo himself--a very beautiful thing indeed, but twisted and inherently evil at its core.
It is, indeed, a garden. The rich soil--composted from the bodies of human, Realian, and Gnosis victims--plays host to innumerable rare and tropical plants, anything that Albedo could get to flourish. He has tried to get at least one plant from every world he's visited; some are completely incompatible and fail to thrive, but many are not, and so form the base of the Garden.
There is no rhyme or reason to the Garden's layout. Albedo has seen no reason to tame it or add any accoutrements to make it more comfortable for another human being. He is the only person who derives any pleasure from it, which is as it should be. Plants grow haphazardly wherever they will, in a riot of colors, shapes, and scents that often clash. The only plant that indicates any forethought in its planting is the dwarf peach tree at the center of the garden. It is six years old, and grows from the ribcage of a sacrficed Kirschwasser. Every few weeks, Albedo is careful to pull back the plants that would encroach on the pitiful little skeleton, making sure the bones remain spread-eagle, exactly as he killed her.
As its name implies, the Garden is filled with the corpses of Albedo's victims. Most are present only in the soil, or in the form of scattered bones here and there. There is always at least one full, rotting body, however; the riot of flowers usually masks the stench. Though he sometimes still uses the psychoactive, predatory fungus he used to get the Garden started, Albedo is more than content to let the corpses rot at their own pace.
Water is precious in space. Most of the water from the Garden comes from the supplies of destroyed ships and space stations, with the occasional captured ice asteroid when the going gets tough. However, such is Albedo's fondness for the Garden that he will go to any lengths to ensure that it remain healthy and watered. He is quick to kill any byproducts or Gnosis that stumble into it; they might have a detrimental effect on the plants.
Statistics:
The Garden is a thirty foot by thirty foot square room on the Song of Nephilim. It was originally a storage room in the second tower that Albedo cleared out. The door is usually locked.
It is always lit with artificial sunlight, and usually extremely humid. There are no wandering monsters in the Garden; in fact, it is actually quite peaceful, compared to other areas of the Song. The stench of death competes with the sweeter scent of flowers.
Symbolism:
This is one of Albedo's more blantantly obvious symbolic gestures. Life proceeds from death. The Garden is grown on the corpses of innumerable dead, sentient lives. More than that, it is a "waste", in the sense that Albedo is the only one who reaps any selfish benefit from his Garden.
muse
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(no subject)
Date: 2004-03-26 01:06 am (UTC)That aside, this was a beautiful piece of awesome, Murky. n.n I loved the description of the fungus. X) How much of this is canon, and how much of it is conjecture, by the way?
(no subject)
Date: 2004-03-26 10:28 am (UTC)--Murky
(no subject)
Date: 2004-03-26 01:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-03-26 11:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-03-26 03:22 pm (UTC)Rock on. *double thumbs up* I appreciate (which is a code word for 'ph33r') Albedo more every day! o_o;
CEM