amateurwritingandrambling

[amateurwritingandrambling]

Asami Oda the fallen Samurai pt1

The lands of the Far East were always strict with structure and filled with honor, this was the life Asami was born into twenty seven years prior. Kozakura has always been a beautiful sight to behold to foreign travelers, though Asami was never get a chance to stop and see the beauty. Had she been born to a family of farmers, or artists, she may have been able to see the world differently. This, however, was not the case being born as the only child of a samurai. Her early years were filled with society and etiquette training in order to prevent her actions of bringing shame and dishonor upon her father, Hitoshi.

           Hitoshi Oda was a great soldier and was known for his quick and calm thinking in the thick of battle. From the moment Asami began speaking, her father began to mold her into the perfect heir to his legacy. With her as his only child, Hitoshi would not allow her to be anything less than deserving for his name. Hiroko Oda, gave her life in order to bring Asami her life, and so with no female role model Asami grew up in the shadow of her father. She tended to her studies and as the years past she began her martial art training.

           Hitoshi was not a bad teacher, but his methods were not conventional. When she turned ten her father brought her to the courtyard of his estate, and handed her a long box made form bamboo. Asami opened the gift bathing in the random act of kindness of her father, what she found was a katana. She was not surprised, as her father had raised her as a warrior above all else. It was on this day she felt what true pain was.

           “Draw your blade Asami.” Her father’s deep voice rang out through the estate. She obeyed drawing the elegant blade. Had she known anything about craftsmanship at the time, she would see that the blade was well made, yet lacked the adornments her fathers carried. It carried the song of war as the blade gleamed in the midday sun.  “Now we start the real training.” Was all she heard before her father drew his own katana.

           She wasn’t a terrible swordsman, but the new blade was larger and heavier than she was used to or probably ready for. Hitoshi brought his sword down in an arc, Asami raised her blade to her head bracing the flat end for the impact. The metal chorus rang out as the blades collided. Her father’s strength was obviously far superior to her own and her arms struggled to keep the blade from biting into collar bone.

           Asami attempted to tilt her blade which would cause her father’s blade to ride harmlessly down to her side, but she was too slow and not as skilled. Hitoshi released the pressure keeping his sword steady as he saw the shift in her movement. Keeping her sword pressed against his she attempted to move to his unguarded right side. Hitoshi was prepared, bringing the elegantly wrapped handle down his blade sang like a bow against a violin string as the metal rang yet again. He followed her movement not allowing her to gain any ground, he pushed her away and gripped his katana with both hands performing a large horizontal slash aimed for Asami’s chest. His speed was blinding and all she could do was back step in order to narrowly be missed by the blade.

           Her eyes could track his movement but her body was not as fast or strong enough to trade blows she was sure he was accustomed to. So she took a quick breath and dashed forward as her father’s sword swung and missed. Her timing was okay, but she felt this was the only chance she may get. Gripping her sword with two hands she drove the point forward toward his gut. It all looked like it was going to work, but she felt a terrible thought. Her father was the only thing she had left if she struck true how would she survive? Asami’s momentum stopped in that moment, then her vision went white as her father brought the hilt of his katana across her temple.

           Now dazed she focused completely on holding onto her sword. There was a thud as her father’s foot collided with her shoulder, spinning her around and throwing her balance off. Asami rested on her knee breathing hard trying to clear her vision. Half a second passed and it was quiet, except for the gentle breeze blowing through the sakura trees making some petals fall and dance to the ground. She remembers how oddly peaceful it was to watch them drift. Suddenly, the silence was broken as the metal swished through the air and her scream carried out of her throat.

           Hitoshi struck her on the right side between her shoulder and neck. Had he wanted to, he would have killed her, but this was nothing more than another lesson from him. “This is what pain is. The pain of defeat, is just as bad as the pain you are feeling right now. The difference is that this physical pain will soften and leave you. This defeat will stay with you until you truly die.”

           Her eyes watered as she brought a hand to the gash, shakily she touched the wound and yelped in pain yet again. It was a couple inches deep, and her blood was pooling quickly. She attempted to stand and face her father, but her vision went black as she collapsed to the ground.

           Asami’s recovery took about a month. Her father, being the exceptional swordsman that he was, managed to not hit anything vital, or detrimental to her movement. Her studies remained for this month but her training was put on hold.

           Her life progressed as usual, for the next eight years, she studied military tactics, swordsmanship, and etiquette. Her training kept getting tougher, and more strenuous as her father never seemed to tire or falter in their sessions. She never let him wound her so gravely again, and at times even managed to give him a few thin white scars he congratulated her for.

           Coming of age for some meant becoming an adult and moving on to carry their family legacies into the world. For Asami, it was finding out that her father’s shadow was much larger than ever estimated. The celebration of her eighteenth birthday was held at a shogun’s estate who Hitoshi had served under and saved a few times in the past. It was here that Hitoshi brought up her training and skills. The Shogun listened intently as they ate, Asami remained quiet and still listening to the expertly crafted sales pitch her father was entertaining the shogun with.

           That night came to a close and all respects were paid before the Oda family left the prestigious estate. The steady walk home was quiet and uneventful. Her father didn’t say one thing to her as the retired for the evening. Asami made her way to her dreams with a heavy weight resting on her mind, but this is what her father had raised her for, raised her to be.

           She was awoken the next morning at the sound of the bell to the gate of the estate. She dressed in her morning kimono and made the short walk to the family dining area. When she arrived her father was sharing tea with a messenger dressed in armor that bore the crest of the shogun they visited the night before. “Musume, this is Sato san. He brings me word from the shogun.”

[amateurwritingandrambling]

Yoaral the Unexpected Paladin

          Yoaral wasn’t always called this, the first name his tribe called him is long forgotten to him. Growing up in the Vast Swamp resting at the south of the Thunder Peaks are his fondest memories. The tribe started to teach him how to survive from the moment he hatched. You see Lizardfolk differ from other races in that they celebrate the strong, and leave the weak behind, very little emotion rests within their minds and hearts. Yoaral was very strong and was an excellent fighter from a young age. The closest thing he experienced to what you and I call parental love was the fact that his father had yet to disown him.

            This was however going to change. One day in his sixteenth year of life, well into adulthood, a loud roar penetrated the Vast Swamp. The entirety tribe began to prepare to defend, or flee, Yoaral looked to the sky. What he saw was a magnificent Lizard with wings circling above that expelled plumes of elements from its maw. The rest of the tribe tensed ready to take cover and hide in a moment’s notice. Yoaral flexed his legs and began sprinting, bone clubs and daggers his only armament. His stride carried him far but the great lizard’s wings kept putting greater and greater distance between them until it was a speck on the western horizon.

            Unsure what the magnificent lizard was, Yoaral decided to ask the tribe shamans. It was at this time he heard the word “Darastrix”, dragon, for the first time. From this moment on he knew what his one goal in life would be. To find a way to shed his small skin and become a strong and fearsome winged dragon that his people would revere. You see, Lizardfolk worship the great beasts, but also realize that dragons are fearsome predators and they would not want to become food for the beasts.

            The unfortunate part of his plan was that to his knowledge it was impossible. Lizardfolk do not have libraries filled with tomes and scrolls, rather their shaman’s pass history and knowledge forward through the generations. He spent a few years in secret attempting to gain the information he sought by making small trips to the nearby villages that lay outside the swamp. This of course was always met by odd stares and whispers, but this mattered not to him as the soft skins were weak and would benefit from his transformations.

            Most common folk looked at him with pity, as if he was just a deranged person who was babbling nonsense. Become a dragon? No one thought it possible. Realizing that it was a risk he arranged a meeting with the shaman’s on the eve of his eighteenth year anniversary. It was here he laid the truth of his ambition and actions over the past four years and asked for their help in his pursuit of knowledge. The reaction he got was not what he expected.

            He had grown up with some of the younger shaman, but the look in their eyes were just as fierce and unforgiving as the elders. They told him what he spoke of achieving was impossible, and that attempting to become a darastrix, was equal to that of impersonating a god. Yoaral had always been in high standing of his tribe due to his combat abilities, he was the epitome of strength and ferocity in a fight. Yet he had always known when a fight would be lost and preserved his life accordingly. That reputation faded quickly.

            Yoaral and the shamans argued through the night till the sun was high in the sky the next morning. By then it had gained the attention of most of the rest of his tribe. The tribal head approached with Yoaral’s father who looked at him with the usual cold indifference most other civilized humanoids see in a Lizardfolks eyes. It was the first time he had experienced such a feeling. Shame? Sadness? Scared? These were all foreign concepts to him but he had heard these words from the people of the villages. It was here, on his eighteenth birthday that he was given his name. His father raised one long claw in a point, pressed the tip of it through the scales of his chest and tore a long jagged wound from his left side down to his right hip as he spoke one word. “Yoaral.”

            His eyes widened as almost immediately the rest of the tribe immediately turned his back to him and walked away. He was shocked, the word ringing in his ears. “Yoaral”, outcast. Glancing down to the blood freely trickling from his tough scaled body that was now traveling down to the ground and mixing in with the soft moist earth under his feet, he knew he was dead to the tribe. He could never return, he was weak and an unmentionable. The jagged wound would heal to a scar that all of his kind would recognize. Yoaral would not be welcome in any tribe.

            Unable to grab any of his usual hunting gear, as it was tribe property, he slowly stumbled out of the swamp. His direction was east, hoping to reach a new area with someone willing to help him. With every step his would sent jolts of pain through him. His father had cut deep, it wouldn’t kill him if he did anything to stem the bleeding and rested. Yoaral however was still shocked, unable to think straight. His vision blurred, not sure if it was from blood loss or if he managed to shed what is called a tear in the common tongue. Yoaral just knew that after a few hours of walking everything went black.

            His dreams were plagued by that cold look from his father, watching his tribesmen turn their back and leave him to die in the wilderness, a fierce gaping maw that threatened to swallow him, but then there was that of flying. Over the treetops, a roar escaping his throat and fire bellowing from his belly. Yoaral awoke in the back of a covered wagon sun shining in and reflecting off of something metal at the edge. Squinting lightly attempting to sit up but a shooting pain had him gasping and yelping.

            This was the first time he heard words spoken with such kindness that Yoaral remembers feeling all pain ease away entirely, “Do not move, your wound has not completely closed.” The lizardfolk looked about wearily looking for the source. Upon seeing it he was confused. It was a human, in large plate armor that had a platinum scaled beast with its wings spread almost looking like a cross that was circled by 7 golden suns. She spoke again, “Can you tell me your name?”

            Yoaral began to speak but something caught in his throat causing him to cough violently, he felt part of his wound split and yelled out in pain. The woman knelt down placing a water flask to his mouth and he drank quickly. He felt the pain subside as she placed her other hand over the wound. “I have never had to heal one of your kind before so I am finding it difficult to mend you perfectly. If your kind can scar, I suspect this wound will.”

            Yoaral cocked his head from his prone position to see that his lower half was covered by a blanket and the wound was covered in cotton bandages that were slightly stained crimson. “Who are you?” he managed to croak. The woman kindly gave him a drink making a great effort to keep him from drinking too quickly.

            “My name is Janet Redici. I am a paladin who took an oath to help those in dire need on this plane.” She paused for a second, “Now let’s try your name again.”

            His orange eyes met her green ones, he had never met a human that spoke draconic, it is why the tribe taught all the hatchlings common. With a heavy breath he spoke the name that he would soon make his motivation for everything, “Yoaral.” It was only for a second but he swore he saw a second of that odd emotion sadness cross her face.

            “Well Yoaral we are almost to my city, do you have any place to stay when we get there?” He found it odd she was not questioning why he was in the state he was in.

            “Where is your city?” Yoaral asked weakly having not consistently spoken in who knows how long.

            “Waterdeep on the sword coast.” She spoke lightly. He had no idea where that was, but her healing touch had him drifting to sleep before he could reply.

            He awoke a day later, no idea where he was. Shooting up straight he searched the strangely built room, eyes scanning for hostiles. Yoaral then remembered all the events of the past few days. His clawed hand ran down the length of the jagged scar on his torso. He then remembered the small faced human woman who saved him. Slowly getting out of bed he opened the strange wooden door on metal hinges and walked through the threshold to where the smell of ham and eggs cooking permeated the air.

            Round a corner he saw her, but she wasn’t wearing her armor. Instead she wore the leather padding that the plates buckled to. Looking up she smiled at him and asked, “Hungry?” Yoaral simply nodded, his mouth watering at the sight of the meat cracking. She motioned to a strange wooden piece that had two other wooden things on either side. “Sit.” Her light voice said as she finished the ham.

            Bringing the plates over she sat across from him as he struggled to fit his tail on the seat of the chair and the solid back. “Now eat up. No one here seems to know you. So I am assuming you know no one here. Your training starts today.”

            Yoaral straightened up a string of ham hanging from his lower jaw, “Training?” He managed to ask confused.

            “In your fever you spoke of a dragon you saw and how it was inspiring to you.” She pointed to the sigil on her plate armor that was hanging on the dummy by the door. “I am a paladin of Bahamut, the platinum dragon god. Defender of justice and the enemy of evil, and now I am your master and you are my pupil.”

            Yoaral looked confused, how could this soft skin truly believe that she was superior to him. For the next year and a half he learned why she believed it. Even though she wore large bulky metal plates she was fast and quick with her weapons and her feet were so sure she danced around his own blows. She taught him the ins and outs of being Bahamut’s paladin. What was required of him, how he should look to gain the dragon god’s favor. As well as training the Lizardfolk how to fight rather than how to hunt.

            So for eighteen months Yoaral was beaten and broken, physically and mentally until he finally was able to stand his ground to Janet, not as an equal but as a comrade. She gave him a gift on the day before he would set out on his own. She had a special waraxe forged. The tail of a dragon wrapped around the pole as the dragon clung to it, its wings spread out on either side forming the razor sharp edges of the weapon. It was the best gift he had ever received, and it was in this moment he became thankful for his name.

[amateurwritingandrambling]

Jason V. Draka

           The sky was a painted canvas of red with black and grey clouds that were moving slowly away from a calamity. His vision blurred as a gust of wind kicked up blood drenched sand into his eyes. All he could do was slightly crack them to attempt to defend against the onslaught as the rest of his body would not move no matter how hard he willed it. The coming blast wave could be seen visibly and he knew it would be over for him soon. The origin of the blast was a person-like figure standing in a slight crater releasing a soul wrenching scream from his lips.

           It would only be a matter of seconds now before the wave hit him, his plate armor would do very little to help him against the coming assault. His life would be extinguished just as if someone had blew out a candle. Feeling despair, he allowed his eyes to close completely, shutting out the sight of his fallen soldiers that lay around him and embracing the darkness as death swiftly rushed towards him. His body was crippled, he had lost a lot of his life sustaining blood, and this would be much quicker than the slow death he had thought he would receive.

           Just as the roar of the blast wave grew to an almost unbearable volume, and the strength of the wind was pushing him up and away there was a loud crack that drowned out the roar and a brilliant white light burned through his closed eyelids. Eyes snapping open in pure shock he saw a cloaked warrior that seemed to be engulfed in the white fire like aura. There was no time to say anything as the blast had finally reached them. He willed his body to move, to protect the cloaked figure to shield him with his own crippled body, but his attempts were fruitless. What he witnessed next, seemed to be the impossible.

           With a swift motion the cloaked figure drew a bastard sword from its sheath, and with the speed of lightning, drove the point into the ground. The wind tore the hood of the cloak from the person’s head revealing a youthful man who could not have been older than twenty in age. He heard something escape the young man’s lips and his sword shined with that brilliant white light again, he had to close his eyes for fear of losing his vision.

           The blast was on top of them and the young man withdrew the sword and immediately took a stance as if to block the assault. As the wave hit the sword a large boom was heard and the white light spread to encompass the area directly in front of the young man and himself. The wave split as it was diverted around them before collapsing in on itself behind the two men. The light pulsed as if it had its own heartbeat and not once did it falter.

           The blast subsided and a voice filled his ears, the voice of a man who has lived for centuries, “Do not fret yourself. I will ensure your safety and your life so that you may see your family tomorrow.” His eyes finally opened and he saw the young man gently smiling at him as if they were not on a carnage stricken battlefield where the blood of the fallen seeped into your boots. Maybe it was the fact he was alive or the tone of the young man, but his spirits seemed to lift as if the promise was ensured by the heavens.

           With the weight of death and fear being lifted off of him he felt surprisingly mobile. His legs twitched as he gave them an experimental command. Soon he was shakily standing as his fatigued muscles ached terribly screaming against the weight of his plate armor. “I am glad to see you move, even if it isn’t terribly fast.” The cloaked man reached out and clasped the man on the hand. He felt a burning energy surge throughout his body and the aches dissipated. “There that should get you out of here, I will handle the rest of this.”

           Shocked at the change of his fate all he could do was nod and respond with a raspy dry, “Thank you.” He turned completely around and moved as fast as his injuries would allow, which he noticed that his wounds had completely stopped bleeding now.

                                 •                     •                    •

          Jason watched the armored man make his way as fast as he could and sent him with a silent prayer of protection. Just a minute before this man had been at death’s door and was willingly knocking upon the wood, and now he was on his way back to his life, carried by his own will power. Jason shifted his attention back to the origin point of the blast, or rather the person at its core. His grip adjusted on the pommel of his hand and a half sword as he faced his target.

          His dark brown cloak now lightly billowed behind him as the wind tugged at the leather. His deep blue tunic glittered with white ornate designs that had a brilliant shine as if they were made of light and silver. The person Jason was watching seemed to notice his presence and slowly turned with a strange jerking motion. So, the transformation is progressing quicker than I had expected. Hopefully I can still reverse this.

          Taking a deep breath he took a step forward, then another. His footsteps light, and with his incredible dexterity he made sure to not disturb the dead that littered his path between him and the being he was after. Whispering a silent prayer for the fallen his pace quickened. Within a few paces his steps had become long strides that carried his light form swiftly across the battlefield. The distance was closing between them, but the dark figure seemed to make no attempt to charge back or even contemplate an attack.

           Jason came to a skidding stop and he took in the site that used to be someone he knew well. The longer silvery hair shading crimson eyes filled with an insatiable bloodlust. The heat radiating from him was causing patches of skin to char and flake away revealing a scaly almost reptilian patch of flesh underneath. Jason recognized it as his demon taking over, he had to act quickly. If he could not win this battle with his words he knew that the ensuing fight would test his mettle beyond any trial he has faced in the past.

           “Draka,” Jason attempted to speak soothingly. “You can regain control, you can win this fight. Do not lose yourself.”

           The man’s bare chest rose and fell harshly with anger, each breath seemed to be a hundred times hotter than a normal being should be able to handle. “No, everyone must pay. All must perish. If you stand in my way, I will tear your soul from your body and devour it just like everyone else.”

           The typical nonchalant tone that Draka usually carried was nowhere to be found. Instead it carried malice that dripped from every syllable that tried to pierce everything Jason was to his core. “Draka, please. No one needs to die. I can help you, just come with me. Please it is for the best.”

           An evil crooked smile cracked across Draka’s face, pointed teeth were revealed as he spoke, “Jason, the white knight. You always try to play the savior and keep the world intact. It is a shame that this plane has run its course and now I must bring it to an end. I will start by destroying you and then drop your corpse at the feet of your beloved queen before I become the harbinger of the Armageddon!”

           The evil stabbed at Jason’s consciousness. There was little time to think about a rebuttal, action was all that could stop Draka at this point. As the daemon’s declaration concluded Jason lunged forward his sword arcing up towards the sky with a white radiance trailing behind it. The blow would be a deep enough wound to hopefully slow him down in the next few moments of the battle.

            However Draka’s senses were heightened and even in his ‘out of control’ state he still retained his battle instincts. His movements were so fast Jason just saw a blur. Draka took a step back easily avoiding any part of the blade. The daemon’s extreme speed and dexterity allowed him to immediately duck down and charge, a clawed hand ready to strike. Jason’s breath caught in his throat as he tried to bring the pommel of his sword down to strike at the back of Draka’s neck before the blow landed fair upon his gut. There was sudden pressure upon his torso and Jason was sure he was done.

            He would have been if it hadn’t been for the blessing he had forgotten upon his clothes. Where Draka had hit there was sizzling as the angelic aura seared at the evil that plagued the daemon’s flesh. The shock of the sudden defense had rendered Draka motionless for a brief second, luckily Jason’s tenacity was about to pay off. The pommel of the sword struck true against the nape of Draka’s neck.

           He released an angered growl that sounded as if hell itself was emanating from his chest. Withdrawing flinging his burning hand back he glared at the knight. The blood that remained upon the pommel of the bastard sword sizzled as the aura destroyed the evil impurities that resided within the liquid.

           “Your divine light will not be able to protect you once I send you to hell Jason.” Draka hissed before chanting something in a very demonic language. Jason knew these words, and had to act accordingly. If any seconds were lost Draka’s powerful moon based magic would come crashing down on him and he hadn’t equipped his wards. The only stroke of luck is that the moon hadn’t risen yet so the magic would be weaker, and so would Draka for the time being.

            Jason struck out with a one handed thrust intent on disrupting the chant by putting him on the defensive. Draka did side step in order to dodge but the chant didn’t stop. Jason would have to step up his game. As the thrust concluded his blade begin to increase its luster, he brought it back towards Draka in a horizontal swing. The swift daemon stepped back again yet again dodging the blade a smirk on his lips as the chant continued. He was not ready for what followed. The blade missed its mark, but the white light separated and arced towards Draka. With little space between it and him Draka had nowhere to go on such a short notice.

             The light bit into the skin, that sickening sound of flesh cooking filled the air. The light then wrapped itself around Draka’s torso trapping his arm and the daemon screamed in pain as the chant abruptly ended. Flexing hard he attempted to break out, but as he moved Jason willed the light to change shape and it became barbs that dug in as it responded with constricting tighter.

             Draka shouted profanities in many different demonic tongues. “Just give up Draka, this is not who you are. You did not break free of your shackles just to put the world in yours or destroy it. Where is the fun in that for you? The thing that gives you your strength, your power is corrupting your mind. You are becoming a slave yet again. Do not allow that this to be your downfall!” Jason pleaded over the curses that Draka slung at him.

             Draka’s crimson eyes flared with rage and he flexed again, the sizzling increased as blood poured out his body. With a quick demonic phrase the blood turned pitch black and the white light struggled to hold him. The darkness stretched the light as Draka moved quickly, ducking out he charged Jason again. The darkness and the light collapsed in on each other, as Jason readied himself.

            The strike was swift but not as swift as before, a kick aimed for his head. Jason raised the flat side of his sword, white aura flowing from the blade. The heel of his boot landed in the fuller of the blade. Jason pushed back and Draka pushed away spinning aiming an open hand for Jason’s bare neck. The knight was ready as well. Side stepping to Draka’s exposed flank sword flashing down aimed to remove the attacking arm from Draka. The daemon was intent on not losing his arm, his opposite hand shot up and grabbed the blade. Searing flesh and steam exploded into the air as Draka used his strength to try and throw the blade aside.

           The power pulled Jason of his stance and he stumbled a step as the blade landed in the dirt. He yanked it up to ready for his next move but was too slow. Draka plowed into him knocking them both to the ground. Draka started trying to tear at any exposed skin as fast as he could. Jason felt a few claws grab some flesh from his face and he winced. Draka felt the purchase his hands had made and it only renewed his vigorous attempts.

          Jason began to block what he could but his speed was nothing compared to Draka’s demonic swiftness and speed. He knew only one thing would gain him a mild break in the onslaught. Closing his eyes he cleared his mind and sent a silent prayer to the heavens. The white light filled his mind and when he opened his eyes they were gold. The power flooded his limb as his body shone as if the light was coming from within him. The divinity washed over Draka which pushed him off of Jason.

          The light engulfed his body as a cocoon would a caterpillar. It carried him up and exploded out to reveal his angelic knight form. His blue and silver ornate armor flowed beautifully over his torso and limbs. A stout shield attached itself to his left forearm leaving his hand free to grasp at his sword whose standard guard had shifted to the form of silver wings. The most impressive bit was the two large white feathery wings that now showed themselves. Protruding from his back they flapped gently keeping his feet a few inches from the ground. A warrior angel, a knight of the divine light.

           Draka looked upon his prey with a twinge of fear. He had seen this form only a few times, his demonic strength could only do so much against the strength of the heavens, and now Jason no longer had any exposed flesh to grasp at. A glimmer of gold escaped the hollows of the visor where Draka knew the knight’s eyes were. An idea gripped his dark mind.

           Jason landed lightly, and then with speed much more than any mortal could muster, charged. His sword drew back, right hand on the shaft of the pommel and his left palming the end of the sword. The speed and force of the movement caused a surge of air to plow into Draka, Jason flapped his wings with a solid thump and he thrust the sword aiming for Draka’s chest.

           The daemon leapt up attempting to dodge the thrust, and in fact it missed his torso but the blade found a new home in his thigh. Draka yowled as the light surged through his body, he felt the demon’s corruption loosen on his mind. The anger spurred him forward and in a reflex his hand retrieved one of his two daggers from a boot. The blow was fast and Jason was not expecting such retaliation.

          The dagger slide through the hollow of his visor and pierced his eye. Jason reared yanking the sword from the daemon’s thigh as he screamed in agony. The feeling of the white light did not leave with the sword. Another thump of wings and Jason was 20 feet away from him dagger still in visor. Draka smirked before he felt suddenly weak.

          “You may have struck hard but I was smarter this time Draka.” Jason said breathless through his pain. “The divine light that I flooded your body with is slowly purifying what it can. In a few seconds you will be the most mortal you have been in centuries.” Draka felt the demon withdrawing to its original placement within his human spirit. The corruption released his mind completely.

           Draka fell to a knee, partially with fatigue, but mainly from regret. He had killed many people as an assassin, in wars fought for his old master, and sometimes because someone wronged his friend. Yet this was different. His mind recounted the battle leading up to this fight and how many good men he had slayed in his rage. He collapsed to the ground his face wet from the sweat and he spoke hoarsely in a labored whisper, “My apologies.” He whispered a small chant before losing consciousness. Energy surged throughout the battlefield, but no malice came with it.

           The souls of all the dead slain around him shimmered as they were slowly lifted in to the air. Jason shifted so he could watch as the departed flew into the clouds that were returning to their white color and the sky its rich blue. Despite the pain that he incurred from the smile that was now stretching across his lips. Returning his gaze to Draka now lying quietly face down in the dirt, he walked forward.

          With all the will he could muster Jason gently removed the blade from his eye and let out a series of yells and whines. He placed the blade back into the sheath in Draka’s boot before he let the angelic armor fade away. His one good blue eye gazed down upon the daemon. Kneeling down he picked the man up and threw him over his shoulder. “Don’t worry friend, I will get you patched up.” Jason knew just the person to bring him to, and she needed to feel the fury he now carried for what had happened.

[amateurwritingandrambling]

The Origin Chapter I

It was supposed to be a night like any other, his mother laying him down in his bed as his father stoked the fire. Their stone hut the only thing that stood between them and the cold night outside, the howling wind battering the thatched roof with all its might. His father snuffed some candles out near the bed as his mother laid a kiss to rest on his forehead, she smiled as she spoke so very gently, “Goodnight lil’ one. I shall see you when the sun brings us the joy of a new day.” Her voice so filled with love and care for him. His father came by and gave him a tired smile, the day had been hard on him again.

           They pulled closed the curtain that separated him from the rest of the house, and as they did his eyes grew heavy as he listened to the familiar crack of the fire and the soft voices of his parents shuffling around in the rest of the house. The familiar caress of sleep tugged at his weary mind and soon the comforting dark rest was upon his mind. The howl of the wind was his lullaby as his mind went to places he could only visit in his dreams. All of this was to come to an end, and that end would bring the beginning of something dark even when sun would rise. That end started tonight.

           He was first stirred by the hushed yet worried voices of his parents. He didn’t move at first, keeping his eyes closed he focused on just listening. “They are coming tonight?” He heard his mother say in a hushed and worried tone.

               “I could not prolong this any longer. You know how persistent that man can be!” He heard his father hurriedly say. “Now please fetch me my winter tunic.” There were no words as response to his father’s words rather hurried footsteps going somewhere only to return with what he assumed was the tunic. The calming sound of the wind intensified into a roar when the front door was pushed open, it was only for a few seconds but when it shut again it was as if his ears were numb due to the roar. It was at that moment he heard something different, the sound of beating, like something was pummeling the earth and that sound was close by.

           Silently he slipped out of bed and peered passed the veil that separated him from the house, his mother sat silently by the fire, shivering despite the heat. For a moment he was confused, who was coming? What was their purpose at their little farm hut? Why did his mom seem so upset by it all? Frozen in his confusion he heard a ruckus over the wind outside, men shouting, and his father.

           Before he could move to try and investigate further the door flung open and the roar filled the house again. As that happened he something fall into the house with a mighty thud. He couldn’t quite tell what it was from his position behind the curtain, but his mother let out a pained whimper and ran to the lump on the floor. For a few seconds the reality crashed into his mind like a runaway carriage, it had to be his father lying crumpled there in the roar of the wind.

           Now frozen in disbelief and fear he watched as he man clad in a black cloak and riding boots announcing his arrival to the wood floor. “It is a shame that this had to happen, but your husband lied to me.” The man’s voice was calm and heartless if not a bit amused at the situation. “Now, please don’t make the same mistake.” He spoke as if he had a smile plastered across his face, “Where is the boy?”

           His mother looked up her figure silhouetted by the light of the figure through the curtain, “Please, do you not have a family of your own? Why must you tear ours apart?” Her voice so full of grief she could barely articulate her words.

           “Spare me your pitiful squabbles, you both knew the price when you made the deal. Our end has been held up to the fullest now it is time for you to pay the price you offered.” This man’s voice had changed. It was expressionless, toneless, as if he was just a puppet under a spell of something that didn’t belong in the living world. His mother shook her head sobbing as she bent down to bury her face in her husband’s shoulder. “You people disgust me.”

           He didn’t know what happened first, the flash of silver from the man’s cloak or the fact that he had run full on charge into the man’s knee. He knew he had to have the man by surprise, but the stranger stepped back enough for him to miss his charge. Running into the table on the opposite side of the man he came to a sudden stop. Slowly turning himself around to meet the man’s eyes he stood tall like his father had told him, even though tears blurred his vision.

           “You are brave boy.” The cold man spoke to him. “However your blindness to your fear is what will make you weak.” The silver he had seen before flashed from within his cloak somewhere and his mother let out a gurgled cry. “Bravery was the root cause of your parent’s death, and you will suffer the same fate if you are that stupid to follow in their footsteps boy.”

           Standing there with his mother losing the last precious drops of her life from the expertly carved flesh on her neck, he watched in complete horror as the man’s words descended upon his mind like a cold shadow in a snowstorm. He wanted to lash out, steal the man’s weapon and return the deed, avenge his mother, spill his blood across the floor. Like a dagger through flesh the man’s words sank into his mind, “That fire you feel in your belly boy, that will to do me harm, that rage wanting to be uncaged. Open that door and do what you think you can handle.”

           There was a brief pause, as if the world came to complete stand still in his mind. He could no longer hear the wind as he took a slight step forward. Then as he released that anger into his mind everything jumped into clarity and time picked back up but a little slower than he remembered. His charge this time had a purpose, the arm with the weapon. He would tackle that arm to immobilize it and give him a chance at taking the blade. His determination carried him and his rage brought new strength to his small frame.

           The man smirked as he saw the plan unfold, the arm was pinned between the two. He had the man now he just had to get the weapon, but as quick as he reached for it felt a thud on the back of his head causing stars to shoot across his vision. Reeling back in the pain he reached back, tears streaking his face not for his physical pain as his bare feet pattered through his mother’s blood. His eyes widened as a booted foot connected with his jaw and was out cold before he hit the ground, the macabre scene of his mother crumpled over his father filling his last seconds of consciousness

[amateurwritingandrambling]

Assault of a King

The night was serene, nothing seemed out of place and a light breeze kissed lightly at the colored flags of the castle walls. Several torches were lit along certain points about the wall; however the full moon was bright enough in the clear sky for the pale light to cast long shadows among the ground in front of the wall. The King’s palace lay behind the wall, a towering structure of marble, stone and mortar. The breeze moved from east to west according to which direction the flags were now gently dancing in. The King’s Royal Guard stalked the pathways of the inner royal courtyard and the wall surrounding the gigantic building. Everything seemed to be correct, nothing moved but the guards and the wind was gentle and only carried a slight winter’s chill signaling that December was nearly upon the city of Aberand.

Not a single soldier was prepared for what would happen that night. A stranger had arrived only several days before watching the workings of the guards, their rotations, and their numbers. Each night he sat perched high atop a church roof but behind the religious emblem that cast a dark shadow that when the stranger applied his black cloak he could not be seen. His dark eyes flashed slightly with excitement, the guard looking his direction didn’t notice. Yes all was perfect and his quest would be half completed this night.

He had been contracted to make this look like an assassination from a rival country to the west, a political killing that required a little more finesse. The man liked to compare his contracts to the many different ways of the blade. This one was like fencing, done with a consistent motive; making the opponent believe you will strike for a vital but in turn when he falls for your façade you strike for your opponent in the opening you have made him give to you. In this context the rival nation was the winning opponent, they had declared war and made it obvious that they were moving an army in to take the city. Thus the King had sent out a small army to try and negotiate and fight if needed. This was the feint that was needed, and since the King had already fallen for it this man was the true strike. The mastermind was the duke of the western province and this stranger was his rapier cold, keen, and tricky.

Smiling at the plight that would soon engulf this town he prepared for his silent assault. Fastening his cloak together tightly he made sure the hood obscured his silver hair and made a quick yet shadowy descent from the roof of the church to the cobbled streets below. He took a few ghostly steps and danced between the shadows as he made his way closer to the wall. Would he been restricted by the boundaries of a mortal man he would have tried scaling a shorter part of the wall, or maybe even trying infiltrating the structure via the front gate but he wasn’t and so he smiled as he approached the shadow of the wall.

With a deft jump he propelled himself upwards with just enough force for his fingers to grip the edge of the stone. His arms flexed and pulled his slim cloaked frame up and he peeked over the edge. He saw nothing and heard no one. His eyes were no longer their original dark color; they shined in the pale light a vibrant crimson. In the shadow of the tower near his location they were sure to gleam like a blood red ruby.  The stranger peered about and sure enough there were no guards yet at this post. Completely lifting his frame the rest of the way up he stood tall on the edge of the wall looking to the courtyard watching as the shift changes started to occur.

The plate armored guards exchanged brief words with one another as the departing men began to make their way to the barracks for the rest of the night. The cloaked stranger didn’t wait around too much longer before his boots hit the cold stone in a silent run. He knew he had a minimum of a minute before the younger more eager to please guards showed up on a routine patrol of the wall, he needed to remain undetected until he murdered the king. Coming to an inhumanly quiet stop he pressed himself against a guard shack. At this angle the moon had him completely shrouded in shadow, he lowered his head to hide the pale skin behind the raven hood of his cloak just in time for a guard to walk out. The heavy armor scraped and clinked together with such a ruckus compared to the moves of the stranger. Soon the guard was more than an arm’s length away and the stranger took off quickly reaching the stairs in the shack that led down to the courtyard.

He took the stairs two at a time as he descended so quiet that a mouse didn’t even realize he was present until his boot landed next to him. The commute took little time and was rather uneventful but now the courtyard stood between him and victory. This was the toughest part, the torchlight left only trace amounts of shadows but not enough to conceal his movements. He smirked lightly, counting in his head. As he reached thirty in his count a guard that was pushing a large covered cart stopped just in front of the stone archway where the stranger was. The guard reached in and grabbed a plate of cold rations for some guards tending to the courtyard stables nearby. The cloaked man took his chance and slipped into the cart.

Within a few more seconds the guard returned to pushing the cart, he didn’t seem to notice the extra weight and pushed it straight towards the kitchen. His infiltration was complete, now it was time for blood to be drawn. It only took a few minutes before the clatter of plates and cook ware could be heard echoing all around him. The cart shuffled to a stop, and the stranger stole a quick peak from under the cover. He had his plan in seconds and executed immediately. He slipped out behind a large stone oven, the heat seeming not to affect him in the slightest. From where he was he could see a large wooden door that would take him out but he had to wait.

He stood in silence behind the oven for what seemed like an eternity, but in reality it was only a few minutes. The clatter of kitchen slowly came to halt as the cooks finished up for the night. One at a time they retired to their quarters for a nights rest. Before the last one could leave the stranger snuck up behind the man grabbing a knife out of a block on a counter. He spun the cook around and the tip of the knife was flush with his temple drawing a small drop of blood that trailed down the left side of his face. “You will not talk unless spoken to, you will not move unless asked to. You follow these rules and you will live to see your life tomorrow.” The cloaked stranger spoke with an even emotionless tone.

The cook whimpered slightly, beads of sweat forming on his skin as he nodded in agreement. “Good, now you know the ins and outs of this castle perhaps the whereabouts of those who work or reside here yes?” Again the cook whimpered with a nod. “Then why don’t you tell me where your beloved king is?”

The cooks eyes got wide and he stuttered, “Y-you wish to h-h-harm the king? I-I-I can’t let you do that.” No sooner had he muttered the last syllable did he regret it. The cloaked man pressed the knife firmly but with extreme precision and control that the tip penetrated deeper but it did not cause the cooks death. The skinny man shivered and cried out slightly covering his own mouth trying to stifle the sound.

“That isn’t what I asked you, now you can answer me or the next time this blade moves it will be the last thing you feel, and it will be slow.” The stranger’s eyes were a brilliant crimson, shining out from the shadow of his cloak.

The cook, now covered in his own filth, spoke, “The king had his last meal in the war room on the second floor on the east wing. He was in there with his advisor and war generals.” The cook blurted out silently and with a look of panic mixed with his own shame.

“Do not worry, no one will know you betrayed your king.” Quickly he pulled the knife out and spun it around in his palm, bringing it back down with the blunt handle on the man’s jaw just forward of the ear. The cook dropped out cold the second he made contact. The stranger dropped the knife next to him before running out the door. The hallways seemed to be a maze in themselves but the stranger made it a point to follow those who he overheard were heading towards a main staircase or to the second floor in general. It only took him five minutes to maneuver through the cold halls to the second floor.

He quickly had to hide in a nearby room as he heard the shuffling of hurried footsteps. At first he thought someone had found the cook already. Peeking through the door he saw a small boy, a page by the looks of him, sprinting down a hallway. The cloaked man sprinted after him staying ten paces behind him and being utterly quiet. The page rounded the corner and the stranger heard voices and the shuffle of armor so he pasted himself to the wall right next to the corner. Soon the sound of a door opening and closing could be heard with a faint echo. He knew he had to have the right place, guarded room, panicked page, he must have been bringing the king and the generals news from the frontlines.

He peeked around the corner slightly and saw two guards, both looked fatigues as if they had been at their post all day. Easy pickings. The cloaked man rounded the corner staying low and close to the wall, they were twenty paces away. The guard closest to him didn’t notice him until he was within striking distance, by then it was too late. He kicked the guard in the back of the knee which made it buckle and fall. As soon as the guard’s knee touched the stone a second blow hit him in the gap between his helm and cuirass on the back of the neck.

The second guard didn’t know what was happening and was unable to react as he watched his comrade fall face first unconscious on the floor. The stranger wasted no time, he couldn’t waste the element of surprise now. He used the unconscious guard as a vault and brought his knee forward to connect with the second guard’s nose. A slight crack was heard as the guards face went slack with the temporary sleep that had just been granted.

The cloak fell around him perfectly as he landed obscuring himself completely. Standing up right he gently opened the door and walked in not caring who saw him anymore. He took in the layout of the room within seconds and he stopped at the end of the large table as everyone whispered to one another and stared at him. One elderly man spoke, “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

The stranger remained silent. Another man dressed in the armor of the guard spoke next, “You do not belong here and if you do not leave immediately you will be killed.” His voice was gruff and angry.

This time the stranger spoke in the same cool tone as he had with the cook, “I am not here to fight.” He raised his hands revealing the black leather tunic and pants he wore. His hands were empty and held them up showing he was unarmed. “I simply have a message to deliver. I am just a messenger on a mission.”

At the other end of table a man stood wearing a fur cape and a jeweled crown, “What is this message than stranger?” The stranger pulled his hood back revealing the crimson eyes and silver hair, he could hear whispers about his unique appearance.

“The negotiation with the duke’s forces are meaningless and they plan to attack regardless of the terms you are willing to press upon them.” His emotionless voice was only matched by his expressionless features.

“Oh? How do you know such information? Does not sound like something you could pick up on the streets.” The king spoke again, his age and wisdom could be heard in his voice.

The stranger shrugged his hands still in the air. “I know because I am a spy working for the duke. I was tasked to infiltrate and gather information for him and his own generals. I however don’t believe in an unfair fight even in espionage, so I gave you information as valuable as what I have learned here.” He replied tactically.

“What do you know?” The king questioned.

“Enough to make this war even matched between the factions.” The stranger again responded.

“Come here my boy and let us talk a price for you to not deliver said information.” The king gestured. Keeping his hands raised he approached silently only stopping to be searched by several generals each one coming up with nothing. The last one escorted him to the king’s right side and forced him to kneel. The stranger complied easily enough and kept his gaze at the king’s feet. “Now how much do I need to pay you to keep your secrets to yourself?”

The king had made his last mistake and his generals would be an audience. Everyone here had to live so that they could spread word that an assassin had murdered the king in cold blood in the name of the duke. The man said something barely audible and a slight shimmer occurred in his hand, his body and cloak obscured it from anyone’s view that he now held an ornate dagger with a sapphire in the hilt. “What was that boy? I didn’t hear your response.”

The cloaked man looked up at the king with a sinister smile and shouted, “Your life is my price!” Before anyone could react, the cloaked man said something in a demonic tongue and drove the blade up, in a rising strike, it entered under the king’s chin and broke through the pallet where it stopped in the middle of his skull. Everyone in the rooms was taken aback by the sudden turn of events and stood in complete shock. “FOR THE DUKE!” The stranger shouted before pulling the blade from the royal corpse with a sickening wet sound.

Immediately he lunged and rolled onto the table and ran for the door. He had to dodge a couple of impromptu sword swings from the still dazed inhabitants of the room. As soon as he hit the door he shut it and jammed one of the dropped swords from the unconscious guards through the handles to bar the doors shut. A second later beating and shouting could be heard on the other side. He didn’t stay to find out what they would do, pulling his hood up he retraced his steps to the main staircase and sprinted down with incredible speed with no sign of a failing stamina to hinder him.

He was several paces from a guard by the main entrance, who was confused at the sight of him. Then a horn blew off in the distance, the guards face panicked and he went for the sword but was too slow. The cloaked man dropped into a slide and kicked the guard’s forward knee hard causing it to hyper extend. He went down hard and the stranger jumped up and kept sprinting. The heavier gate was already being raised, but he was going right back where he came from. Staying in a crouched run, he sprinted as arrows whistled through the air at him.

One tore through his cloak but did not hit him, he came to the staircase from earlier and began climbing. One guard stood poised for a strike at the top of the stairs, the blow came and was deflected by a quick parry with his knife, “Put that away or I will kill you.” The guard side stepped sending another sweeping blow at his side. The cloaked man ducked under the attack and jammed his knife through the guard’s forearm. The sword skittered across the floor and the guard screamed in agony. The stranger ripped the dagger free, “The alternative was death, be thankful that I spared you.”

Sprinting away from the angry and yelling guard, he saw several more charging him. Luckily for them he was not going that way. He adjusted his momentum and jumped up onto the stones lining the outer edge of the wall. Then with a powerful leap he landed on the stone building an easy twenty feet away. Shouts of disbelief could be heard followed by a slew of arrows chased him. He didn’t stay however but quickly dropped to a street and ran back to the church where he made his way to his perch and sat down with a sigh smiling at the chaos he had just wrought upon the city. Tomorrow the tale would begin to spread that the duke has a ghost of an assassin who killed only the king and was untouched upon his escape. The stranger sheathed his dagger in the scabbard in his boot and headed out to report back to the duke.