Herald of the Storm
04-02-12, 05:45 AM
The nomads of Fallien knew the land a Suravani, the great goddess and provider, while high above her sailed her brother Mitra, the gleaming sun. Today, Mitra relentlessly scoured the endless waves of dunes and hard packed clay of the island nation. None dared brave Mitra’s wrath in the azure sky, no sheltering clouds or cooling breeze allied themselves against the blazing orb as it methodically moved along the same path over which it had transversed since time immemorial. Today was a day which the softer, more sheltered peoples of Althanas would call pyric, but to the peoples of Fallien, tough and hardy, it was just another day.
From some distant point came the echo of a glider drake's shrill cry as it soared upon the open expanse of the cloudless sky, shifting and contorting in the hot midday air until it sounded nothing so much as a scream to the seven figures who stood out in the wasteland. Such sounds were commonplace amongst the rolling dunes of Fallien’s interior though, and the men made no notice of it. What they did take notice of was the bright gleam of sharpened steel and the supple glisten of oiled leather. Six of the men wore the traditional dress of the Fallien warrior, lacquered mail over oiled leather. Even that tough garb would have to be ruthlessly scoured by the end of the day lest the grit of the desert grind weakness in it, a sure sign of a youthful novice’s folly. These men were neither youthful, not novices, and their well-kept armor echoed that.
The seventh man was different. He wore no armor to keep him safe from claw and blade, and no oiled leather to protect his pale frame from the ravages of the shifting sands and Mitra’s burning gaze. Instead he chose to wear nothing but a loose pair of drawstring pants and supple calfskin sandals. To his credit, the man showed no discomfort in wearing such revealing and ill-suited garb in the middle of the desert, and in fact seemed to draw strength and enjoyment from the glowing light of the bright mid-day which surrounded him. Though his bright red ponytail and milky white skin marked him as an outsider amongst Fallien’s natives, the man seemed to be nothing but at home.
"What are you waiting for you sons of a harecat," he called out to the warriors surrounding him. A quick slap of his sandals on the earthen floor signaled his readiness as he assumed a basic defensive stance. Posing in a semi-circle around him, the six Fallien warriors shifted uncomfortably, despite their greater weapons, armor, and superior numbers. Time slowed to a crawl, the seconds dragging into minutes as the desert warriors shifted their eyes from the red headed man to each other and back again.
The men were a practiced team, each able to understand a volume of the other’s intentions from a single glance and a shift of movement. Even so, the world around them spun slowly to a finite point of utter stillness with no warrior stepping forward to make the first move. Tired of their hesitance, the red head shifted positions again into a combat stance. "Well? Are you going to start this party or should I? I haven't got all day you know."
His words broke the spell which held the desert warriors at bay. The first of the warriors charged, loosing a hoarse cry that spurred his comrades to action. Hard soled boots crunched the desert grit angrily as he burst forward, beating a rapid staccato across the sandy arena while the delicate curve of his glimmering blade swung a vicious arc at his opponent’s bare chest. His actions were firm, controlled, precise, but even with his skill, being the first to move meant that he was only the first to fall.
Moving with a fluid grace which almost defied belief, the red head bowed forward under his attacker’s blade. He grabbed at the sand as he did so, giving him enough purchase to bring a single sandaled heel in an overhead attach that struck the charging warrior smack in the center of his forehead. Despite the heavy helmet that he wore, the warrior found his course suddenly reversed as he staggered backwards, his weapon slipping loosely from numbed fingers.
The remaining warriors charged, hoping to use their comrade’s sacrifice to buy them the advantage they needed. With the red head standing on his hands they believed they had gained just such a thing and rushed to exploit it. They were no untrained rabble, throwing themselves against an enemy in an uncoordinated gaggle. They moved as one and when their weapons leapt into the fray it was as if the five of them were making a single precise attack.
Without even bothering to regain his footing, their opponent pivoted his hands in the dirt, using them as a piston to swing his body around in a hypnotic swirl. Spinning like a child’s toy, the red head contorted his body and kicked his legs out at just the right angles to avoid or deflect all of the warriors’ blades. Laughing with joy at the experience of knocking back five men at once, the red head catapulted himself high into the air using nothing but his upper body strength, sailing gracefully over his stunned opponents.
The man landed lightly and began his counterattack. To the desert warriors credit they recovered from the shock of their initial defeat almost instantly and renewed their own assault. But for all their effort, they couldn’t seem to land a single blow on the bobbing red head. Fists, feet, elbows, and knees worked a rhythm that alternately defended and attacked at the same time. A reverse heel kick sent another warrior sprawling into the dust, and a hook arm takedown dropped the sword from the next before planting him firmly on his back. A desperate lunge left the third man open, and a three punch combo to the midsection rewarded his efforts by collapsing him with him companions.
The remaining two warriors disengaged, circling warily around their opponent with their blades held defensively at the ready. They maintained a blade’s thrust difference between themselves and the red head, while working their feet in opposite directions as their training had dictated. Having split themselves so that their enemy could only focus on one of them at a time, the warriors charged back in, blades singing as they cut through the hot Fallien air. The attack should have been the end of the red head, but the man seemed to defy all reason as he leapt forward, rolling in mid-air to pass his muscular body over the first blade and letting gravity carry him under the second.
The remaining warriors could only stare in awed disbelief as the man came to the ground and lashed out with a hook kick that caught the back of the fourth warrior’s knees, pitching him face first into the other with the momentum of his charge.
"Well then, what have we learned,” the red head said, rising back to his feet and casually dusting himself off.
Despite the rough manner in which they were handled, the six warriors showed no signs of any lasting damage. They picked themselves up and, like the red head, worked dutifully at casting the dust from their clothes.
“We need more training, Captain Kyonin, that’s what we learned,” the first warrior to charge, apparently the leader of the group, replied.
Kyonin, the red haired man, smiled back and waved the comment off. “No Jeord, your men are well enough trained to pass as any native Fallien nomad. Your training faltered only in that you faced a light mystic at noon on a cloudless day.”
Jeord harrumphed at this, not content with that answer. “Then what should we have learned Captain Kyonin, since none of us poor mystics were afforded the opportunity to train at the Light Temple before being sent here as emissaries from our race to the nomads?”
The bitterness in Jeord’s words seemed to make no impact on Kyonin’s good humor. “What you should have learned, was to not face a light mystic at noon on a cloudless day.”
Jeord scowled at Kyonin for a full minute before his façade broke and he, along with the other mystic warriors, broke into roaring laughter. The two old friends embraced one another warmly and a chorus of pats on the back went around the circle.
“You’ve honestly gotten better,” Kyonin said, assisting the men retrieve and store their gear. “I wasn’t lying when I said that any one of you could pass as a nomad.”
“High praise coming from the Captain of the Guard for the sole mystic camp in Fallien.”
“Just because the praise is high doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“Yeah, but it does mean that the gull’s shit hits you in the head instead of just getting on your boots,” Jeord said wryly.
Kyonin laughed.
“Seriously though Kyonin,” Jeord said, all humor dropping from his countenance, “We’ve been training like this day in and day out for over a month. You’ve never been on such a rigorous schedule before, so why now?”
Kyonin’s smile fell, replaced by a sternness that made Jeord’s seem almost happy by comparison. “I had a dream Jeord.”
“A dream?” Kyonin nodded. “What sort of dream would drive you so? I’ve known you for almost twenty years and if there’s one honest thing I can say about you it’s that you’re not the type to be easily spooked.”
“I dreamed there were storm clouds on the horizon,” Kyonin said simply.
“Storm clouds?”
“Aye, and they’re coming to wash us away.” He paused, staring directly at the burning symbol of Mitra hanging lazily in the sky.
“We need to be prepared for the coming storm.”
From some distant point came the echo of a glider drake's shrill cry as it soared upon the open expanse of the cloudless sky, shifting and contorting in the hot midday air until it sounded nothing so much as a scream to the seven figures who stood out in the wasteland. Such sounds were commonplace amongst the rolling dunes of Fallien’s interior though, and the men made no notice of it. What they did take notice of was the bright gleam of sharpened steel and the supple glisten of oiled leather. Six of the men wore the traditional dress of the Fallien warrior, lacquered mail over oiled leather. Even that tough garb would have to be ruthlessly scoured by the end of the day lest the grit of the desert grind weakness in it, a sure sign of a youthful novice’s folly. These men were neither youthful, not novices, and their well-kept armor echoed that.
The seventh man was different. He wore no armor to keep him safe from claw and blade, and no oiled leather to protect his pale frame from the ravages of the shifting sands and Mitra’s burning gaze. Instead he chose to wear nothing but a loose pair of drawstring pants and supple calfskin sandals. To his credit, the man showed no discomfort in wearing such revealing and ill-suited garb in the middle of the desert, and in fact seemed to draw strength and enjoyment from the glowing light of the bright mid-day which surrounded him. Though his bright red ponytail and milky white skin marked him as an outsider amongst Fallien’s natives, the man seemed to be nothing but at home.
"What are you waiting for you sons of a harecat," he called out to the warriors surrounding him. A quick slap of his sandals on the earthen floor signaled his readiness as he assumed a basic defensive stance. Posing in a semi-circle around him, the six Fallien warriors shifted uncomfortably, despite their greater weapons, armor, and superior numbers. Time slowed to a crawl, the seconds dragging into minutes as the desert warriors shifted their eyes from the red headed man to each other and back again.
The men were a practiced team, each able to understand a volume of the other’s intentions from a single glance and a shift of movement. Even so, the world around them spun slowly to a finite point of utter stillness with no warrior stepping forward to make the first move. Tired of their hesitance, the red head shifted positions again into a combat stance. "Well? Are you going to start this party or should I? I haven't got all day you know."
His words broke the spell which held the desert warriors at bay. The first of the warriors charged, loosing a hoarse cry that spurred his comrades to action. Hard soled boots crunched the desert grit angrily as he burst forward, beating a rapid staccato across the sandy arena while the delicate curve of his glimmering blade swung a vicious arc at his opponent’s bare chest. His actions were firm, controlled, precise, but even with his skill, being the first to move meant that he was only the first to fall.
Moving with a fluid grace which almost defied belief, the red head bowed forward under his attacker’s blade. He grabbed at the sand as he did so, giving him enough purchase to bring a single sandaled heel in an overhead attach that struck the charging warrior smack in the center of his forehead. Despite the heavy helmet that he wore, the warrior found his course suddenly reversed as he staggered backwards, his weapon slipping loosely from numbed fingers.
The remaining warriors charged, hoping to use their comrade’s sacrifice to buy them the advantage they needed. With the red head standing on his hands they believed they had gained just such a thing and rushed to exploit it. They were no untrained rabble, throwing themselves against an enemy in an uncoordinated gaggle. They moved as one and when their weapons leapt into the fray it was as if the five of them were making a single precise attack.
Without even bothering to regain his footing, their opponent pivoted his hands in the dirt, using them as a piston to swing his body around in a hypnotic swirl. Spinning like a child’s toy, the red head contorted his body and kicked his legs out at just the right angles to avoid or deflect all of the warriors’ blades. Laughing with joy at the experience of knocking back five men at once, the red head catapulted himself high into the air using nothing but his upper body strength, sailing gracefully over his stunned opponents.
The man landed lightly and began his counterattack. To the desert warriors credit they recovered from the shock of their initial defeat almost instantly and renewed their own assault. But for all their effort, they couldn’t seem to land a single blow on the bobbing red head. Fists, feet, elbows, and knees worked a rhythm that alternately defended and attacked at the same time. A reverse heel kick sent another warrior sprawling into the dust, and a hook arm takedown dropped the sword from the next before planting him firmly on his back. A desperate lunge left the third man open, and a three punch combo to the midsection rewarded his efforts by collapsing him with him companions.
The remaining two warriors disengaged, circling warily around their opponent with their blades held defensively at the ready. They maintained a blade’s thrust difference between themselves and the red head, while working their feet in opposite directions as their training had dictated. Having split themselves so that their enemy could only focus on one of them at a time, the warriors charged back in, blades singing as they cut through the hot Fallien air. The attack should have been the end of the red head, but the man seemed to defy all reason as he leapt forward, rolling in mid-air to pass his muscular body over the first blade and letting gravity carry him under the second.
The remaining warriors could only stare in awed disbelief as the man came to the ground and lashed out with a hook kick that caught the back of the fourth warrior’s knees, pitching him face first into the other with the momentum of his charge.
"Well then, what have we learned,” the red head said, rising back to his feet and casually dusting himself off.
Despite the rough manner in which they were handled, the six warriors showed no signs of any lasting damage. They picked themselves up and, like the red head, worked dutifully at casting the dust from their clothes.
“We need more training, Captain Kyonin, that’s what we learned,” the first warrior to charge, apparently the leader of the group, replied.
Kyonin, the red haired man, smiled back and waved the comment off. “No Jeord, your men are well enough trained to pass as any native Fallien nomad. Your training faltered only in that you faced a light mystic at noon on a cloudless day.”
Jeord harrumphed at this, not content with that answer. “Then what should we have learned Captain Kyonin, since none of us poor mystics were afforded the opportunity to train at the Light Temple before being sent here as emissaries from our race to the nomads?”
The bitterness in Jeord’s words seemed to make no impact on Kyonin’s good humor. “What you should have learned, was to not face a light mystic at noon on a cloudless day.”
Jeord scowled at Kyonin for a full minute before his façade broke and he, along with the other mystic warriors, broke into roaring laughter. The two old friends embraced one another warmly and a chorus of pats on the back went around the circle.
“You’ve honestly gotten better,” Kyonin said, assisting the men retrieve and store their gear. “I wasn’t lying when I said that any one of you could pass as a nomad.”
“High praise coming from the Captain of the Guard for the sole mystic camp in Fallien.”
“Just because the praise is high doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“Yeah, but it does mean that the gull’s shit hits you in the head instead of just getting on your boots,” Jeord said wryly.
Kyonin laughed.
“Seriously though Kyonin,” Jeord said, all humor dropping from his countenance, “We’ve been training like this day in and day out for over a month. You’ve never been on such a rigorous schedule before, so why now?”
Kyonin’s smile fell, replaced by a sternness that made Jeord’s seem almost happy by comparison. “I had a dream Jeord.”
“A dream?” Kyonin nodded. “What sort of dream would drive you so? I’ve known you for almost twenty years and if there’s one honest thing I can say about you it’s that you’re not the type to be easily spooked.”
“I dreamed there were storm clouds on the horizon,” Kyonin said simply.
“Storm clouds?”
“Aye, and they’re coming to wash us away.” He paused, staring directly at the burning symbol of Mitra hanging lazily in the sky.
“We need to be prepared for the coming storm.”