The
moon lit the path languidly, piercing through the darkness with apathetic
impulse. The breeze whispered by, calling names nobody heard.
His heavy footsteps swept up clouds
of dust around him; a metronome beat in the night. His thoughts hung
burdensomely on his mind, intensifying the already vehement fear that he was
too late. He tried to push such ideas away into some fathomless reach of his
being, yet he had always been one to brood; a fault in himself he knew all too
well.
He paused, finding a tree beside
him. Yes, he was perhaps late, though he was only a man and one who had been
walking for days at that – he needed rest. Yet, just as he moved to sit beneath
the ancient, dying tree, something caused him to halt. In the corner of his eye
he saw but a wisp of vermillion, though it was enough to garner his attention
and distract him from even his most tempestuous thoughts.
He turned to where he had seen the
curious effigy and looked further up the path. Of course, he was correct in
what he thought he had seen; his were not the kind of eyes the light plays
tricks upon. Indeed, the light venerated him, spurned him, would cast him away
at each opportunity it was given to do so; he had known this for some time.
He inspected the apparition, far
away though it was. It stood like a man, with a shape that vaguely matched,
though the colossal horns atop its head caused some confusion. Yet, upon
noticing the substantial spear in the right hand, it all fit together. The
horns were a feature of an arrogant helmet, worn by a man in vermillion
lacquered armour. He stepped forwards, tearing himself from the shade into the
light of the moon and revealing an iron mask, contorted into an expression of
profound, anguished fury. The mouth; slung open into a violent roar. The eyes;
bulging and wide, threatening disaster to all who believed themselves to hold
the fortitude to gaze into them directly.
The man in the vermillion armour
seemed to regard the weary traveller. He tilted his head slightly, the angle gifting
the expression on the mask an even more potent ferocity. Upon completing his
examination, he took a step back as if to steady himself.
“Who goes there?” he called, his
gravelly voice echoing off the mask giving it a metallic tone. “Who goes there
in such malevolent apparel?”
The traveller took a moment to
consider himself. He supposed that his black clothing was somewhat mysterious
and his tattered, faded, crimson cape even more so. Yet, neither could match
the suspicions that the gargantuan sword strapped upon his back wrought.
The breeze swam by, catching his
matted black hair, blinding him for a moment. When it ceased, his hair fell
back into place, shrouding the left half of his pallid face and trailing over
his shoulders.
“A mere traveller,” he said. His
voice was no more than an effortless whisper, yet it inexplicably reached the
armoured man – distant though he was. He watched with his glowing amber irises
as the armoured man regarded him with the same tilt of his head.
“Of course,” he said in that
metallic voice. “Pale skin, dark hair, amber eyes; you’re a shadus!”
The shadus said nothing.
“No doubt you’ve heard of me,
shadus,” the man in the vermillion armour said. “I am none other than the
infamous Vaiske Parlet.”
The shadus ran his eyes over Vaiske
Parlet.
“I do not know the name,” he said.
“I assure you,” Vaiske said in an
angered tone that struggled past his mask, “it is a name that holds some
weight.”
The shadus said nothing.
“Tell me, shadus: what is your name?”
The shadus slowly raised his right
arm and ran his hand through his thick hair, though his eyes never left Vaiske
Parlet. He only answered once his arm had fallen back down to his side.
“My name is Lament Strife,” he said.
“Lament Strife,” Vaiske said, as if
he was tasting the name. “Then tell me, Lament Strife, what brings a shadus to
the Northern Continent?”
“Personal business,” came the reply.
“And business I must be getting back to at that. Excuse me.”
He walked towards Vaiske with slow,
dragging steps, his heavy black boots whipping up flocks of dust with each pace
he made. His cape swam lazily behind him, beneath which the wooden hilt of his
gargantuan sword poked out. As he passed Vaiske, the spear shot before him,
blocking the path. Lament suspiciously rolled his eyes towards the warrior.
“I’m afraid that answer doesn’t
suffice,” Vaiske said, leisurely slanting the horrific mask in the direction of
the shadus.
“It is as much of an answer as I
have,” Lament replied.
He was now close enough to notice
Vaiske’s mouth curl into a sly smile, though the warrior’s eyes still eluded
him behind the iron mask. Lament peered into the apocalyptic face; what was
disaster to him?
Vaiske perpetually met his look,
causing Lament to frown slightly. Gradually, the warrior’s smile faded.
“Well then,” he said, “I’m afraid
you go no further!”
With this roar, Vaiske drove his
spear at Lament, the shadus only avoiding the strike as he turned his back on
the warrior, causing the tip of the spear to meet the gargantuan blade on his
back. Lament drew the sword, pushing Vaiske away, only for the warrior to drive
the tip at the shadus once more. Lament easily parried the strike, wielding the
cumbersome sword as if it was a slight dagger.
The wooden hilt should not have
supported the blade as easily as it did, thin as the cylinder of wood was. The
guard was a mere rectangular slither of oak attached to the top of the hilt,
more for some kind of angular decoration than any practical purpose. The blade
was sharp on only one side like a katana, though it held not even a hint of a
curve. All in all, the sword matched the height of the shadus comfortably (the
hilt alone was the length of his forearm) and, when on his back, the blade was
almost as wide as him. But, despite all of this; despite the size, the weight,
the impracticality of the sword; he swung it in one arm with ease.
As the duel raged on and each strike
was parried, blocked or dodged, the men became more desperate; the moon
glinting off their weapons and singing death to the night. It was then, when
his mortality seemed most upon him, that Vaiske drove his spear at Lament only
to catch his cape, though the warrior struck with enough force to pin the
shadus to the tree.
Vaiske leapt backwards as Lament
tried a wild swipe with his sword only to find the trap too constricting for
such an attack. Vaiske laughed mechanically and knelt, taunting the shadus.
Lament tore himself from the tree,
ripping his cape in the process and found a haze in his eyes as Vaiske released
dust from his hand. Blinded, Lament clawed frantically at his eyes, audaciously
trying to regain his sight.
He turned, his eyes correcting
themselves, and saw Vaiske kneeling upon the shadus’s moonlit shadow. The
warrior drew a platinum dagger from his belt and plunged it into the ground on
which his shadow was cast.
Lament fell, agony ravaging his entire
body, trying to make sense of the sensation but finding nothing. Moments later,
Vaiske was stood above him, the dagger in his hand; now obsidian black.
“Forgive me, shadus,” Vaiske said. “No
doubt, although a stranger in these lands, you are a good man. More important
still, you were a worthy opponent; I only overcame you through the use of my
less reputable tactics, but please know this was nothing less than necessary.
“I know you can feel the life draining
from you, so I shall be as brief as I can. Know that your death was not in
vain. Indeed, here today, you have been a part of history, for this is the
moment that that future generations shall look to as heralding the age of
peace. Your death shall save many lives.”
Lament watched,
amber irises still glowing in the world of black, as Vaiske Parlet, silhouetted
by the crying moon, thrust the dagger into his own chest.
Darkness.
*
He
left Farras, the town of his birth and childhood, as his mission dictated;
under cover of night. There were moments that he feared the moon would
exonerate him and whisper to his kin of his leaving. But the moon, and all
light with it, was soon hidden behind a thick blanket of cloud. On he walked,
passing the outskirts of his beloved hometown and into unknown fields.
Spring was slow in coming. The late
winter air froze his lungs and restricted his blood as each breath drew yet
more sharpness into him. His black robe did little to warm him, though he was
thankful for the camouflage in the night.
But, as easily distracted as he could
have been by the cold, only one thing was on his mind: where was Master Snow?
His teacher had promised to return by the first sign of winter and yet now,
with winter waning, he gave no indication of re-appearing.
Thusly, Arvan Deit, young apprentice to
the greatest swordsman in the world, ventured into the impenetrable darkness of
that night on his first adventure.
*
Rain,
so complete to fall almost as a sheet, crashed down upon him as he watched the
immense frame wander gracelessly away. The Behemoth, malevolent monster to
most, harbinger of death to others, ignored the rain as only something of its
size could. It towered above all, only mountains competing to succeed it in
height. Fitting, for its skin was as hard as rock, save for the few places that
its tangled fur grew from.
He chased after it, though he never
managed to convince himself that he had even a shade of a hope of not losing
it. One stride for the creature was one hundred paces for him and the lumbering
beast was deceptively fast. Even if he’d had a horse he could never have kept
up with it. How many times had he lost it now only to mistakenly happen upon it
a few days later? Enough for him to have lost count some time ago, yet that was
all he knew. He often considered submitting, but told himself that it was not
an option; his research was far from complete.
It was then that he witnessed the most
peculiar behaviour the Behemoth had exhibited yet. It stopped and turned, as if
aware of his minute presence, fixing its listless white eyes upon him. They
seemed not to comprehend him, but to encase him.
He should have been excited – such
behaviour was unknown to him, even after the time he had studied the beast and
there was nothing in the millennium worth of research he had read that
suggested similar conduct. No, this was a new discovery. Though all he could
think of was the oblivion that surely awaited him. The oblivion that awaited
all who garnered the attention of the Behemoth.
The creature ruptured its mouth open and
screamed viscerally.
His hand wrapped uselessly around the
hilt of his katana. His usually calm heart sped to a beat he had never known
before. Remembering every duel he had ever fought, he tried to ease himself in
some meaningless effort of control, and inhaled slowly.
The listless white eyes left him and the
creature turned away.
His heart fluttered as he realised he
was still alive and supposed that, after the way of life he had been engaged in
so far, he should have grown used to the threat of death. He sighed in a
thankful breath as the breeze whispered past. He would not be joining it that
night.
He held his white robe closer to him
against the cold and continued to track the Behemoth. Though he smiled subtly,
knowing he would lose it once more, soon enough.
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