Brother v. Jacob: Poetry in Motion

[Brother of My Blade]

Since my forging, I had seen little else but strife. In the monastery, I was proclaimed an abomination by the very priests who trained me. I was told over and over that I had no soul. That I would never join in glorious union with the Silver Flame. I was a tool – a weapon – to be used in the Last War, and then what? When the war was over? I never got the chance to find out.

Ever since my arrival in this strange world called Althanas, I have seen that war and strife are not all that can be. In fact, battle is a sport here, where I have found employment at the Dajas Pagoda. The Ai'Brone monks – the sort of men I can admire in this place – have afforded me my own sanctuary and arena in which to fight. A church of the Silver Flame is all that I asked, and it was like they pulled together all of my memories of such places and constructed it perfectly, right on down to the stained glass depiction of the Lady Tira Miron and the couatl striking down the great demon to become one in the Silver Flame.

I have seen Valeena Lake, and I have walked Brokenthorn. These places were ones of beauty and majesty. But it is in battle that I feel truly alive. Alive as the priests claimed I had no right to be.

So here I stood in the aisle, waiting for the young man who had challenged me to do battle. I gazed upon the oaken doors, my green eyes casting a faint glow with the magic that sustained me. Pews on either side of me – old but sturdy wood encased within filigreed iron – I felt a congregation of one. Preacher and parishioner.

[The Writing Writer]

To fight- to meet an opposing force in a hostile manner and proceed to bludgeon, stab, cut, slice, gouge and tear them to pieces. It was a miserable definition at best, but it suited Jacob just fine. Since his encounter with Lorenor, Jacob had developed a taste for fighting. He engaged in combat much more frequently since that day when compared to his old life of skulking amongst the rats, clinging to the darkness, fleeing the scene at the slightest sign of danger. As a matter of fact, he had been in three note-worthy brawls since that day. One, amongst a multitude of champions. This battle took place in the famed Citadel. Another took place in his former lair, which now lay in ruins as a result. The third battle was fought atop a volcano. He fought at the side of his half-elven comrade, Vigo. As one can tell, he was certainly well on his way to drying the backs of his ears when it came to open-end combat.

Naturally when the grape vine presented Jacob with the knowledge of a public arena re-opening in Scara Brae, he ate of it's fruits succulently, and made his way to the island, to the blood stained grounds of The Dajas Pagoda.

The grape vine also told of some of the conditions for arranging a fight in this newly reopened arena. It seemed that the arena champions stood atop one another in some sort of pyramid, and to reach the top, you first had to step on the lower bricks. This was no problem for Jacob, he had climbed stairs before.

A week before his departure, Jacob sent a short message encased in an ebony envelope. The message was short, but to the point. It displayed Jacob's name, the approximate time of his arrival, and a brief message.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

" Greetings friends! Fellow bathers of blood!
I journey to your gates, and pray you won't judge.
I may appear frail and unfit to fight,
But I can assure you, that is anything but right.

I need not blade, nor bow nor spear,
To fill my enemies eyes with tears.
Only these hands to bring them their end!
Whoever I face, to hell I shall send. "

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Though macabre in nature, the message would, if nothing else, make those who ran the arena aware of Jacob's identity the moment he opened his mouth. As it turned out, that was exactly the case. The Mad Poet had only arrived just moments ago, and already he was being escorted to his arena. Down, down, down they strolled, around spiraling staircases and through several identical oak doors. Nothing in this place seemed all that extraordinary, and Jacob could not help but feel a bit disappointed. The bland, gray stones that lined the walls and covered the floors did not live up to the hype. Where was the grand arena in which countless men lost their lives? Where was the sound of clashing steel and roaring crowd? Jacob had hoped he would know the thrill of fighting in front of a multitude of people, but it seemed that would not be the case.

The official who led Jacob down the long, dimly lit corridors, seemed unnerved by The Writer. His deep chocolate eyes peered back at the Mad Poet with each third tick of the clock. He tried to disguise the staring behind locks of copper-colored hair, but his skills in subterfuge were paultry at best. Perhaps tales of Jacob's madness and his sporadic, unthinkable behavior were spreading roots throughout the land of Althanas. Jacob's teeth began to grind as a twisted smile crept across his face. The very thought of something like that filled him with maniacal joy.

" It's uh- right behind this door sir. Y-Your fight begins as soon as you enter. So uh- be ready. "

The young man was about as articulate as thumb tack, but Jacob supposed that one did not need to be of scholarly intellect to lead people to doors. The Mad Poet thanked him by placing a firm, open-palmed smack on his rear end. A grotesque chuckle pulsated out of Jacob's throat as the poor sap hurried away from the mad man. Toying with the insecure was surely amongst the greatest of joys.

Without a second thought, The Writing Writer pushed open the dark, oak doors and strolled heedlessly into the arena. His fists were clenched, his veins throbbed with adrenaline and visions of the fight ahead ran in and out of his broken mind. He absolutely could not wait.

[Brother of My Blade]

In my "youth," after it had been decided that the Silver Flame would be my master, I had fought without reason. I was released into a room filled with others of my kind - other warforged - and told that if I did not fight, my master would be displeased.

In the Pagoda, however, no one would have been unhappy had I lost a match. No one but myself. And I knew better than to fight for the sake of fighting. I no longer fought for a master - I fought for the Flame. And win or lose, the Flame would not be displeased with me.

Still, I did not intend to lose.

The double doors opened slowly at the end of the aisle, and a young man entered. Thin, pale, and shirtless, he had a confidence about him. He did not simply walk, he swaggered. This was the macabre challenger. "Jacob Zachary Buhrkheardt," I began my speech. "Welcome to the Dajas Pagoda. I am called 'Brother.' Fight for what you will. I fight-" I paused for a moment, indicating the stained-glass icon behind and above me, "-for the glory of the Silver Flame and Tira Miron."

I took my stance. Left foot forward and pointed to my foe for aim, right foot back and pointed to the side for balance. Left arm up before me with the palm facing inward for defense, right arm pulled back in a tight fist.

I felt ready.

I was a fool.

[The Writing Writer]

...Really? Jacob could not help but stand there- mouth agape- his brow arched in disbelief. His so called ' arena ' was at the very least, not at all what he expected. There were no blood-soaked grounds littered with remnants of broken armor and severed limbs. There was no crowd cheering, no trumpets blasting and most importantly, no one to see his fight other than himself, and his opponent. The entire reason he had come to this place was to know what it felt like to fight in the view of the world, but unfortunately, it seemed he would not get his wish.

What Jacob got, instead of a grand arena, appeared to be a monastery, though the dieties depicted in the stained glass window did not appear to be of the Thayne. The layout of the room was like that of any typical house of worship. Pews lined the left and right most portions of the center section. There were thick, stone columns on either side of the center section, parallel to the pews. The left and right sections of the room were half as wide as the center section, but just as long. Jacob noticed nothing of significance within these sections, apart from more windows set above head height.

The floors and walls were all composed of the same, dark grey stone. A few cracks here and there, but for the most part it was decent masonry. The stone surroundings made even the slightest sound echo for an eternity. The most silent of whispers would be heard for years to come.

Coincidentally, as Jacob contemplated these things, a voice rang out, breaking the sound of the oak doors that had closed behind him so long ago. The voice was...strange. It reminded Jacob of the sound of clockwork. The Mad Poet's eyes were drawn to the sound, and in moments it's source was in sight. He had announced himself simply as ' Brother '. It appeared to be a man completely encased in armor, though the armor itself did not match the style of armor from any region Jacob recognized. He assumed that the armored man was either a world traveler, or a foreigner, or perhaps both. Great, green, glowing eyes were concealed behind a metallic mask, furthering The Writers curiosity. Perhaps he was some form of battle mage? Regardless, Jacob understood that this man was a holy man. If the setting alone did not give that away, his announcement of his loyalty to some shiny fire would have done the job. Jacob was not familiar with this ' Silver Flame '. Perhaps it was a newly formed cult, or a faith better known in far away lands? Nevertheless, the holy man had made himself known, and it was only polite that Jacob do the same.

" You know my name. I shan't speak it again.
But my title is something few understand.
I'm a writer of sorts, The Writer, if you prefer.
I am The Mad Poet, Corones own mental scourge. "

Jacob slicked back his greasy, matted hair and took a refined bow- that of a nobleman. Few could imagine that behind those ever-shifting, maniacal eyes, rested the gray matter of a former scholar.

The Mad Poet stood upright once again, and positioned himself for battle. He crouched low, arms hanging limply at his side. His head twisted and his eyes widened as he began to speak once again, that ever so familiar grin painting itself upon his visage.

" The time for introductions has ended.
I pray you have not thought mine long-winded.
But it matters not, for in a moment or two,
There will be but one of us. Just me, no more you. "

With that, The Writer began to tread slowly toward his opponent, letting his arms sway with his footsteps. He dragged his feet, letting the torn, muddy threads of his pants drag across the fine velvet, leaving streaks of black in the brightest of reds. As he grew nearer, his pace quickened. Each step was the slightest bit quicker than the last. Faster he approached, now partially surrounded by seating arrangements. Closer he drew, faster he approached, until finally he was within ten feet. Leaping at his enemy, Jacob extended both legs, heels aimed at the mans armored chest. The Mad Poet hoped to knock the holy man off of his feat, but if nothing else, Jacob would be able to estimate his enemies raw strength.

[Brother of My Blade]

The young man walked towards me with a strange gait, and his lyrical speech taunted me with the promise of my demise. Mockingly, he grinned, even as he leapt at me.

I knew what this man -- this maniac -- had done. His reputation certainly preceded him, and he likely thought to take another victim here. And then more as they came to him in his new position at the Pagoda. The lives he had taken -- would take -- buzzed through my synapses. I knew none of them, and never would. I had no connection to any of the people of Radasanth, where the Mad Poet stole. Stole blood. Stole flesh. Stole joy. Stole things he had no claim to any longer.

I knew none of them, but still he was guilty regardless. My eyes dimmed for a moment, then flared to life and I saw more clearly for a moment. Righteous fire surged out from my chest, down my arm, and into my fist. "I do not judge thee. The Flame will decide your purity, Jacob."

Like a spring coiled and held at its tightest, I reacted with power and speed. My rear foot swept behind me as I turned away from his oncoming heels. The leathery ligaments in my waist creaked as I spun around to bring my clenched steel fist around as quick as I could manage, swinging like a hammer at Jacob the Flesh Poet.

And a spark of silver fire came to life on the glistening plates of my striking hand, ready to render judgment and smite the Scrawler of Skins.

Certainly this human bore a soul, and it was stained by his deeds.

Using Brother's smiting ability.