11-01-2016, 10:34 AM
I huff and heave as I stumble to the ground. The cart I was just towing presses against my back, bumping against me and stopping. Ciamath and the armored individual from earlier are both sitting inside - and, as I look over my shoulder, they look pretty silly, given how small the cart is and how big they both are - given the black knight sort of person looks to be around five foot eleven.
“Gods,” I breathe. “You guys… look ridiculous. Oh man I need a minute-- I think I dropped a lung on the way here,” I whine.
I hear a tinny scoff. “Some Prime you are,” goes the armored one. “Winded before battle even begins. You, the one with the spear - keep an eye out for her. I’ll go deal with what I can and search for survivors on my own. You two can work together on this one.”
As if I needed somebody ordering me around, I think. “You’d be tired if you had to lug some guy in armor about,” I shoot back bitterly. With a few harsh, hot coughs, I stand and rub at one of my temples, surveying the burning landscape. As I do so, I hold out a hand, forming a vaguely cylinder-shaped object out of Omnillium. It should be a water bottle soon enough.
The blaze is by far beyond control - and if it was controllable, the damage would already have been done. Very few buildings remain standing, and those that do are nearly ash, aside from stone foundations and some glass here and there. I huff and puff for air, struggling not only from what I can only imagine has been the most physical exertion I’ve ever felt - but also from inky smoke polluting what would otherwise be lovely summery air.
Whoever did this is about to get a can of whup-ass opened on them.
“...Joline?” A black-gloved hand waves in front of my face. “Jojo…” the world snaps into focus again. Ciamath. The water bottle’s finished in my hand, and without a moment’s hesitation I crack it open and chug it. In my haste I spill a bit on my chest, but I’m really in no mood to care. Nor am I really in any particular mood to care that I’d really prefer something with a distinct flavour.
I discard the water bottle and turn my attention to Ciamath. She’s giving me a funny look, probably because turning my attention away from somebody who was just trying to get it is incredibly strange. I wonder for a moment why I didn’t put that together, chalk it up to me being socially unobservant and shrug it off. “So it seems to be you and me here. That knight ran off,” Ciamath reports. “Where should we head first?”
“I… guess there’s no way to go but in,” I reply, gazing over the flame-licked village. It’s just big enough that it feels like a maze, but small enough for me to wonder, what reason would anybody have to attack a place like this?
I stand and rest a hand nervously on my blade’s hilt. I feel my mind wander as we walk along the cobblestones, two sets of clacking footsteps drowned out by crackling fire all around. Struggling to remain focus, I tighten my left hand around Brug Hild and narrow my eyes. I look to each building and, for a moment, see glimpse of what could have been - that which is now ashes at my feet.
That… which lies dead before me.
A portly-looking man, his eyes wide, lies on his back with burn marks all over him. The rise and fall of his chest clearly stopped long before we arrived. His clothes are torn at here and there as though he had been checked for valuables, all pockets turned inside out and oh Gods he has a hole in his chest.
The sickening smell of burnt flesh reaches my nose. Immediately I feel the urge to vomit, stumbling back and clutching at my water-filled stomach. Suddenly I feel as though the whole world is shaking the faintest bit--
A hand grabs my own. I jump a bit, only to find it… faintly familiar. It’s Ciamath’s. I grip it tightly, desperate for some sort of comfort. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispers soothingly and repeats, “it’s going to be okay. I’m here for you.”
My free hand clenches into a fist. A maelstrom of emotions brews in my chest, mixing unsettlingly with the sickening smell and the horrible smoke.
I let go of Ciamath’s hand and continue to walk. “Someone has to be alive here,” I say. I’m not sure whether I’m trying to convince Ciamath or myself. “I just have to find out where they are--”
“JOLINE!” Ciamath interjects, and I feel the hand once wrapped around mine shove hard against my back. I tumble forward and save myself from a rough landing, rolling on instinct rather clumsily. I stand and whirl around, nearly falling over in the process, where I see a fireball collide with Ciamath’s chest and knock her off her feet. She flies easily ten feet before hitting the ground and colliding with a nearby wall with an unnerving crunch. My stomach sinks, my jaw drops and my eyes widen. I can barely pry my fearful eyes from the only person I know in this world to search for where the fireball came from.
A figure clad in ragged robes, little embers dancing on ashen gloves, emerges from between a few buildings, approaching Ciamath. Instinct kicks in. I have to do something. I barrel forward, blinking between myself and her in what feels like a fraction of a second. I offer only a long, disdainful glare at the individual whose face is hidden by a shadowy hood as I produce my sword and shield in a mere moment.
I notice a mace hang in the figure’s offhand, just faintly glowing with flames much like those burning throughout the village. I take not a moment longer to assess my enemy - if I tried, I would only see red.
I look at this person one last time, knowing I may have to kill him. I don’t know if I’m ready, but I don’t have the luxury of preparing or waiting. The time for talk is over.
With a furious battlecry, pained and desperate, I blur forward, frantically swinging at my opponent. I have the speed advantage, and yet I can’t manage to get past a number of expertly-executed parries. I lunge, putting my full weight on the offensive, raising my blade and bringing it down with everything I have. Brug Hild’s edge connects hard with the grip of the mace, which puts up enough resistance that I have to try and grip my blade with two hands. But even as my arms tremble from the pressure, my legs heave and my boots grip at the cobblestone, trying to knock my opponent off-balance, I know it’s not enough.
In that moment I feel my weapon fly to my side. I lose my footing, knowing for a moment as I struggle to grasp for it what helplessness feels like.
Next comes the sensation of something cracking in my abdomen. Pain flares up in my ribs and the wind leaves my lungs as I feel the head of the mace connect with me from below. It feels hot and itchy in a painful sort of way - it takes me a moment to realize the word I’m looking for is burning. I try to balance myself, only to realize there’s nothing for me to balance on: I’m just off the ground, which would explain why I suddenly feel a bit taller. I grasp with my left hand - nothing’s there. My eyes flick lazily around and catch Brug Hild beside Ciamath, her eyes shut and expression pained.
If I give up here, I think, Ciamath may be as good as dead.
The trembling, sickening feeling boils up again. I can’t let that happen. I can’t…
Everything hurts. I have no weapon. My mostly wooden shield is nearly useless against an opponent that manipulates fire. The odds are stacked against me.
This is my moment. I get to be the hero today.
I stamp my boots down as they hit the ground. I feel so weak. Every fibre of my being is begging me to give up. My right arm gives, letting Beskyttende fall off as it can no longer bear its burden. I feel sick. I can’t breathe. It hurts.
Everything is awful.
I need a weapon.
I take in a long, deep, smoky breath. It’s uncomfortable, even agonizing as my lungs fill, but I need it. My opponent seems to be standing their ground, waiting and watching curiously from the short distance between us. I try to clear my mind. If I’m going to live, I’m going to need a miracle.
Various blades flash in my mind at that word. A colossal vault of different objects, varying from mundane to mythological, blur and focus seemingly at random in my head. There is no rhyme or reason, not enough time to truly process any one thing. And yet, I grasp at one. Two.
Their names call out to me. Blades of yin and yang, black and white. They’re beyond me and I know it. Something I shouldn’t be able to reach, something which doesn’t belong to me. But for this moment they can be mine when I need them most.
Everything is awful.
Kanshou. Bakuya. I let my hands outstretch nearly uncomfortably. Something hot and light and alien rushes through my body, pooling painfully at my fingertips. I grit my teeth.
“Trace…”
Everything is awful, and I’m going to fix that.
“...on!”
The immense power building in my hands floods out into the air, setting it ablaze with teal light, a powerful contrast against the billowing orange fires everywhere. I stare forward and screams of anguish boil up in my throat, a wordless foretelling of the end for the robed figure before me. Something’s forming in my hands, something barely tangible and yet so real. Their names call out to me again. Kanshou. Bakuya.
This is not the world you know.
I blur forward, hacking dozens of cuts into the figure before me in a matter of seconds. There is no more fire. No more parrying, no more struggle to win. Only justice, doled out by the steel in my hands.
“Gods…!” I barely recognize the voice over my shoulder. Ciamath, looking at me in shock, the teal light crackling around me reflecting off her faded crimson eyes.
“Ciamath,” I whisper airily before pain washes over me again. Numbness follows, and my legs give way. The blades I never did get a proper look at vanish from my hands as everything blurs and fades to black.
“Gods,” I breathe. “You guys… look ridiculous. Oh man I need a minute-- I think I dropped a lung on the way here,” I whine.
I hear a tinny scoff. “Some Prime you are,” goes the armored one. “Winded before battle even begins. You, the one with the spear - keep an eye out for her. I’ll go deal with what I can and search for survivors on my own. You two can work together on this one.”
As if I needed somebody ordering me around, I think. “You’d be tired if you had to lug some guy in armor about,” I shoot back bitterly. With a few harsh, hot coughs, I stand and rub at one of my temples, surveying the burning landscape. As I do so, I hold out a hand, forming a vaguely cylinder-shaped object out of Omnillium. It should be a water bottle soon enough.
The blaze is by far beyond control - and if it was controllable, the damage would already have been done. Very few buildings remain standing, and those that do are nearly ash, aside from stone foundations and some glass here and there. I huff and puff for air, struggling not only from what I can only imagine has been the most physical exertion I’ve ever felt - but also from inky smoke polluting what would otherwise be lovely summery air.
Whoever did this is about to get a can of whup-ass opened on them.
“...Joline?” A black-gloved hand waves in front of my face. “Jojo…” the world snaps into focus again. Ciamath. The water bottle’s finished in my hand, and without a moment’s hesitation I crack it open and chug it. In my haste I spill a bit on my chest, but I’m really in no mood to care. Nor am I really in any particular mood to care that I’d really prefer something with a distinct flavour.
I discard the water bottle and turn my attention to Ciamath. She’s giving me a funny look, probably because turning my attention away from somebody who was just trying to get it is incredibly strange. I wonder for a moment why I didn’t put that together, chalk it up to me being socially unobservant and shrug it off. “So it seems to be you and me here. That knight ran off,” Ciamath reports. “Where should we head first?”
“I… guess there’s no way to go but in,” I reply, gazing over the flame-licked village. It’s just big enough that it feels like a maze, but small enough for me to wonder, what reason would anybody have to attack a place like this?
I stand and rest a hand nervously on my blade’s hilt. I feel my mind wander as we walk along the cobblestones, two sets of clacking footsteps drowned out by crackling fire all around. Struggling to remain focus, I tighten my left hand around Brug Hild and narrow my eyes. I look to each building and, for a moment, see glimpse of what could have been - that which is now ashes at my feet.
That… which lies dead before me.
A portly-looking man, his eyes wide, lies on his back with burn marks all over him. The rise and fall of his chest clearly stopped long before we arrived. His clothes are torn at here and there as though he had been checked for valuables, all pockets turned inside out and oh Gods he has a hole in his chest.
The sickening smell of burnt flesh reaches my nose. Immediately I feel the urge to vomit, stumbling back and clutching at my water-filled stomach. Suddenly I feel as though the whole world is shaking the faintest bit--
A hand grabs my own. I jump a bit, only to find it… faintly familiar. It’s Ciamath’s. I grip it tightly, desperate for some sort of comfort. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispers soothingly and repeats, “it’s going to be okay. I’m here for you.”
My free hand clenches into a fist. A maelstrom of emotions brews in my chest, mixing unsettlingly with the sickening smell and the horrible smoke.
I let go of Ciamath’s hand and continue to walk. “Someone has to be alive here,” I say. I’m not sure whether I’m trying to convince Ciamath or myself. “I just have to find out where they are--”
“JOLINE!” Ciamath interjects, and I feel the hand once wrapped around mine shove hard against my back. I tumble forward and save myself from a rough landing, rolling on instinct rather clumsily. I stand and whirl around, nearly falling over in the process, where I see a fireball collide with Ciamath’s chest and knock her off her feet. She flies easily ten feet before hitting the ground and colliding with a nearby wall with an unnerving crunch. My stomach sinks, my jaw drops and my eyes widen. I can barely pry my fearful eyes from the only person I know in this world to search for where the fireball came from.
A figure clad in ragged robes, little embers dancing on ashen gloves, emerges from between a few buildings, approaching Ciamath. Instinct kicks in. I have to do something. I barrel forward, blinking between myself and her in what feels like a fraction of a second. I offer only a long, disdainful glare at the individual whose face is hidden by a shadowy hood as I produce my sword and shield in a mere moment.
I notice a mace hang in the figure’s offhand, just faintly glowing with flames much like those burning throughout the village. I take not a moment longer to assess my enemy - if I tried, I would only see red.
I look at this person one last time, knowing I may have to kill him. I don’t know if I’m ready, but I don’t have the luxury of preparing or waiting. The time for talk is over.
With a furious battlecry, pained and desperate, I blur forward, frantically swinging at my opponent. I have the speed advantage, and yet I can’t manage to get past a number of expertly-executed parries. I lunge, putting my full weight on the offensive, raising my blade and bringing it down with everything I have. Brug Hild’s edge connects hard with the grip of the mace, which puts up enough resistance that I have to try and grip my blade with two hands. But even as my arms tremble from the pressure, my legs heave and my boots grip at the cobblestone, trying to knock my opponent off-balance, I know it’s not enough.
In that moment I feel my weapon fly to my side. I lose my footing, knowing for a moment as I struggle to grasp for it what helplessness feels like.
Next comes the sensation of something cracking in my abdomen. Pain flares up in my ribs and the wind leaves my lungs as I feel the head of the mace connect with me from below. It feels hot and itchy in a painful sort of way - it takes me a moment to realize the word I’m looking for is burning. I try to balance myself, only to realize there’s nothing for me to balance on: I’m just off the ground, which would explain why I suddenly feel a bit taller. I grasp with my left hand - nothing’s there. My eyes flick lazily around and catch Brug Hild beside Ciamath, her eyes shut and expression pained.
If I give up here, I think, Ciamath may be as good as dead.
The trembling, sickening feeling boils up again. I can’t let that happen. I can’t…
Everything hurts. I have no weapon. My mostly wooden shield is nearly useless against an opponent that manipulates fire. The odds are stacked against me.
This is my moment. I get to be the hero today.
I stamp my boots down as they hit the ground. I feel so weak. Every fibre of my being is begging me to give up. My right arm gives, letting Beskyttende fall off as it can no longer bear its burden. I feel sick. I can’t breathe. It hurts.
Everything is awful.
I need a weapon.
I take in a long, deep, smoky breath. It’s uncomfortable, even agonizing as my lungs fill, but I need it. My opponent seems to be standing their ground, waiting and watching curiously from the short distance between us. I try to clear my mind. If I’m going to live, I’m going to need a miracle.
Various blades flash in my mind at that word. A colossal vault of different objects, varying from mundane to mythological, blur and focus seemingly at random in my head. There is no rhyme or reason, not enough time to truly process any one thing. And yet, I grasp at one. Two.
Their names call out to me. Blades of yin and yang, black and white. They’re beyond me and I know it. Something I shouldn’t be able to reach, something which doesn’t belong to me. But for this moment they can be mine when I need them most.
Everything is awful.
Kanshou. Bakuya. I let my hands outstretch nearly uncomfortably. Something hot and light and alien rushes through my body, pooling painfully at my fingertips. I grit my teeth.
“Trace…”
Everything is awful, and I’m going to fix that.
“...on!”
The immense power building in my hands floods out into the air, setting it ablaze with teal light, a powerful contrast against the billowing orange fires everywhere. I stare forward and screams of anguish boil up in my throat, a wordless foretelling of the end for the robed figure before me. Something’s forming in my hands, something barely tangible and yet so real. Their names call out to me again. Kanshou. Bakuya.
This is not the world you know.
I blur forward, hacking dozens of cuts into the figure before me in a matter of seconds. There is no more fire. No more parrying, no more struggle to win. Only justice, doled out by the steel in my hands.
“Gods…!” I barely recognize the voice over my shoulder. Ciamath, looking at me in shock, the teal light crackling around me reflecting off her faded crimson eyes.
“Ciamath,” I whisper airily before pain washes over me again. Numbness follows, and my legs give way. The blades I never did get a proper look at vanish from my hands as everything blurs and fades to black.