Song of the Rising Dragon
Nov. 19th, 2018 03:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
coldforgedLife in the desert has always been hard. It's the first thing he learned. Everyone struggles to survive and carve out a little community in hopes it will thrive. They're a hardy people. Fear must be stamped out quickly lest it spread and crush hope in its claws. He used to love the sun-baked dunes and crystal clear skies. His mother so beautiful in her fierce strength sang to the stars and taught him to dance with the turn of the earth. He had loved her more than birds loved the sky. He had done all he could to make her happy.
It wasn't hard. She loved him and wanted him to be happy too. Together they danced under the stars at night. She taught him how to track the beasts and to make arrows fly true in the daylight. He made his first kill when he was seven and rushed back to the village.
It was oddly quiet that day as he came back like the desert was holding its breath. As he crossed through the gate he saw people gathered at the village center. The hunters had their spears trained on a small cluster of their own his mother in the middle. His heart had frozen and his feet had made him fly over the ground as he surged through the hunters. He had seized her hands to ask why when she sang in a hauntingly blissful tone. "Take us bacccckkk, to his blessed fire, to our Lord of the Inferno! Oh mighty Ifrit!"
Hunters grabbed him and yanked him back. He struggled against their hold and cried out to his mother. Then he heard the whispers all around him. 'Kill him too. Or he will fall just as his mother did! Don't bring that spawn of a tainted here!'
He learned that day that nothing good ever lasts.
He hates the desert. The people are distrustful and stare at him as he passes. Clans are supposedly tightly knit communities that work together to survive. They don't tell you about those who survive their loved ones being tempered. Those who suffer as they struggle to get through each day while all around them those they knew as friends...wait for them to fall like their sires and siblings. It's enough to almost make him laugh but if he started he'd never stop.
His mother ways instilled in him before he was able to stand keep him safe. He grows strong and vows to rise above it all. When he's at the top guarding them all despite their scorn...they'd see his mother's true legacy and stop pretending she never existed. He roars to the sky. There are no more songs. To sing is to love and to forgive. He will never forgive.
He'd failed.
Failure tastes like copper and stings his tongue. His blood sluggishly runs down the cuts in his face and seeps into his clothes. The beasts of the desert will find him at this rate. He can't find it in him to care. He'd take them down before he falls. He'd cast himself into exile, walking away from all he'd dreamed of. His spear feels heavy in his hand but he can't let go of it. He'll release it when he's dead. He's a man, proud and fierce as the flames in his chest and the fire of the hair just like his mother's.
He feels nothing as he trudges on through the desert. He should lay down and let himself pass into the dark. His instincts refuse to let them do it. Live. He must live. And do what? He doesn't know. All he can do is keep walking.
The sands eventually give way to green plants and cool winds that carry the voices of unfamiliar birds and creatures. His ears swivel and twitch trying to track all the noises of the wood. He follows a few promising sets of tracks and makes his first kill in this new world just before dawn. He cleans himself then his kill and finally lets himself think.
What does he do now? He's far too attached to life to take his own. He prepares his kill and leaves it cooking on a spit while the flames leap and dance. The night wind carries with it the scent of prey and growing things. It's so alien he can't find it in himself to hate it. What does he do? He tips his head up to the sky and the tops of the trees almost hide the sky littered with stars. "Mother," He whispers to her for the first time since her lifeblood spilled on the sand. "Mother, what do I do?" He learns the dead never answer.
Living in the forest is different from the desert. The day and nights are alive with the voice of the wind through the trees. Water burbles in rivers and creeks full of fish that dart quick as arrows out of reach. He learns a different kind of stillness and patience as the green leaves turn orange and then die. He becomes a hunter of more than prey. He strikes like a viper at bandits that seek to others harm. It's a purpose again and the rage in his heart is satisfied with that. He will devote his wretched life to shielding others with his spear. It's all he has left. He learns to be silent and say nothing at all.
When his rage grows so strong it threatens to consume him a man appears calling himself the head of the Lancer Guild. He holds his hand out and he almost spurns it. His new purpose doesn't let him. He takes the offered hand and walks with him out of the shadows and back into civilization unaware he had just been saved from himself.
The Guild Master banks the fires of his fury. He talks about bravery to a man who had never known how to quit or stop charging to the defense of others. He listens to the Master because the words sound so much like his mother. A dark elf tries to fuel the flames but it only makes them ease in horror at what he almost became. Halfway into his training, his world changes forever. Long ago in the desert, he'd met a fierce girl with a fire in her eyes. She became his friend in a world that only waited for him to fall.
Now she's a woman tall and strong with a fierce light in her eyes. He's not who he used to be. Gone is the easily irritated little boy with short ears who did nothing but frown. He wouldn't care if she ate his lunch these days. He might even offer it first. His gold eyes see for the first time since he lost the light in his life. His hair is still slicked back out of his eyes. Some habits are hard to break. When she holds her hand out to him asking for him to come with her adventuring a traitorous little voice that sounds like himself as a child whispers his mother was strong too. The strong ones don't last. They burn.
He takes her hand. Maybe if he's there at her side she wouldn't be seared. He could be her shield and if she were to fall. She wouldn't fall alone.
They make their mark on the world with spear and fist. She leads, he follows. She laughs so easily he finds himself smiling and one night he laughs like he used to. Sometimes she tries to teach him the fist and he shows her the ways of the desert spear. They dance a different dance than the days of his youth. Castor lives in the moment. For the first time, he does too. But he never sings.
Heat.
Not the baking heat of a desert or the warmth of a campfire. The true flames that come from the most hated source. Flames that sear everything to ashes. Ifrit. People are huddled all around them. Their begging and sobs fill his ears and will haunt his dreams for years. He steps closer to Castor ready to grab her and spin so only he will be taken. He won't let another he cares for a friend or just an ally suffer like his mother and all those in the desert have.
Ifrit doesn't give him a chance to even desperately lunge at its face. Blue flames rip out and wash over him. Yet they pass harmlessly on by. He stares with wide eyes at his hands. His mind is still his. He jerks his head up to look at his best friend and finds her confusion and relief a mirror of his own. Bless. She's safe. His heart that had frozen over begins to beat again. The Lord of Flame shouts, calling for their deaths.
No.
Never again. He draws his spear and laughs. He finally gets it. The clan and all those in the desert are ruled by the fear of ending up like this. You can't love someone who reminds you of that pain and that fear. His heart sings in his chest as he draws his spear and goes into a low stance. Castor shifts as light on her feet as ever. His lips twitch then press into a thin line.
The Son of W'Shalla will end this lord. He'll spit in his face and dive his spear into him again and again until no one else will sob over the dead body of one dearly loved. The horror of a tempering will never again darken the hearts and leave anyone related to the victims alone in this world. Finally, that little voice in his heart that can't trust and is terrified of losing it all again will be silent. Ifrit roars. He roars back, the shadow of the dragon he will become in his gold eyes lit by the flames.
It wasn't hard. She loved him and wanted him to be happy too. Together they danced under the stars at night. She taught him how to track the beasts and to make arrows fly true in the daylight. He made his first kill when he was seven and rushed back to the village.
It was oddly quiet that day as he came back like the desert was holding its breath. As he crossed through the gate he saw people gathered at the village center. The hunters had their spears trained on a small cluster of their own his mother in the middle. His heart had frozen and his feet had made him fly over the ground as he surged through the hunters. He had seized her hands to ask why when she sang in a hauntingly blissful tone. "Take us bacccckkk, to his blessed fire, to our Lord of the Inferno! Oh mighty Ifrit!"
Hunters grabbed him and yanked him back. He struggled against their hold and cried out to his mother. Then he heard the whispers all around him. 'Kill him too. Or he will fall just as his mother did! Don't bring that spawn of a tainted here!'
He learned that day that nothing good ever lasts.
He hates the desert. The people are distrustful and stare at him as he passes. Clans are supposedly tightly knit communities that work together to survive. They don't tell you about those who survive their loved ones being tempered. Those who suffer as they struggle to get through each day while all around them those they knew as friends...wait for them to fall like their sires and siblings. It's enough to almost make him laugh but if he started he'd never stop.
His mother ways instilled in him before he was able to stand keep him safe. He grows strong and vows to rise above it all. When he's at the top guarding them all despite their scorn...they'd see his mother's true legacy and stop pretending she never existed. He roars to the sky. There are no more songs. To sing is to love and to forgive. He will never forgive.
He'd failed.
Failure tastes like copper and stings his tongue. His blood sluggishly runs down the cuts in his face and seeps into his clothes. The beasts of the desert will find him at this rate. He can't find it in him to care. He'd take them down before he falls. He'd cast himself into exile, walking away from all he'd dreamed of. His spear feels heavy in his hand but he can't let go of it. He'll release it when he's dead. He's a man, proud and fierce as the flames in his chest and the fire of the hair just like his mother's.
He feels nothing as he trudges on through the desert. He should lay down and let himself pass into the dark. His instincts refuse to let them do it. Live. He must live. And do what? He doesn't know. All he can do is keep walking.
The sands eventually give way to green plants and cool winds that carry the voices of unfamiliar birds and creatures. His ears swivel and twitch trying to track all the noises of the wood. He follows a few promising sets of tracks and makes his first kill in this new world just before dawn. He cleans himself then his kill and finally lets himself think.
What does he do now? He's far too attached to life to take his own. He prepares his kill and leaves it cooking on a spit while the flames leap and dance. The night wind carries with it the scent of prey and growing things. It's so alien he can't find it in himself to hate it. What does he do? He tips his head up to the sky and the tops of the trees almost hide the sky littered with stars. "Mother," He whispers to her for the first time since her lifeblood spilled on the sand. "Mother, what do I do?" He learns the dead never answer.
Living in the forest is different from the desert. The day and nights are alive with the voice of the wind through the trees. Water burbles in rivers and creeks full of fish that dart quick as arrows out of reach. He learns a different kind of stillness and patience as the green leaves turn orange and then die. He becomes a hunter of more than prey. He strikes like a viper at bandits that seek to others harm. It's a purpose again and the rage in his heart is satisfied with that. He will devote his wretched life to shielding others with his spear. It's all he has left. He learns to be silent and say nothing at all.
When his rage grows so strong it threatens to consume him a man appears calling himself the head of the Lancer Guild. He holds his hand out and he almost spurns it. His new purpose doesn't let him. He takes the offered hand and walks with him out of the shadows and back into civilization unaware he had just been saved from himself.
The Guild Master banks the fires of his fury. He talks about bravery to a man who had never known how to quit or stop charging to the defense of others. He listens to the Master because the words sound so much like his mother. A dark elf tries to fuel the flames but it only makes them ease in horror at what he almost became. Halfway into his training, his world changes forever. Long ago in the desert, he'd met a fierce girl with a fire in her eyes. She became his friend in a world that only waited for him to fall.
Now she's a woman tall and strong with a fierce light in her eyes. He's not who he used to be. Gone is the easily irritated little boy with short ears who did nothing but frown. He wouldn't care if she ate his lunch these days. He might even offer it first. His gold eyes see for the first time since he lost the light in his life. His hair is still slicked back out of his eyes. Some habits are hard to break. When she holds her hand out to him asking for him to come with her adventuring a traitorous little voice that sounds like himself as a child whispers his mother was strong too. The strong ones don't last. They burn.
He takes her hand. Maybe if he's there at her side she wouldn't be seared. He could be her shield and if she were to fall. She wouldn't fall alone.
They make their mark on the world with spear and fist. She leads, he follows. She laughs so easily he finds himself smiling and one night he laughs like he used to. Sometimes she tries to teach him the fist and he shows her the ways of the desert spear. They dance a different dance than the days of his youth. Castor lives in the moment. For the first time, he does too. But he never sings.
Heat.
Not the baking heat of a desert or the warmth of a campfire. The true flames that come from the most hated source. Flames that sear everything to ashes. Ifrit. People are huddled all around them. Their begging and sobs fill his ears and will haunt his dreams for years. He steps closer to Castor ready to grab her and spin so only he will be taken. He won't let another he cares for a friend or just an ally suffer like his mother and all those in the desert have.
Ifrit doesn't give him a chance to even desperately lunge at its face. Blue flames rip out and wash over him. Yet they pass harmlessly on by. He stares with wide eyes at his hands. His mind is still his. He jerks his head up to look at his best friend and finds her confusion and relief a mirror of his own. Bless. She's safe. His heart that had frozen over begins to beat again. The Lord of Flame shouts, calling for their deaths.
No.
Never again. He draws his spear and laughs. He finally gets it. The clan and all those in the desert are ruled by the fear of ending up like this. You can't love someone who reminds you of that pain and that fear. His heart sings in his chest as he draws his spear and goes into a low stance. Castor shifts as light on her feet as ever. His lips twitch then press into a thin line.
The Son of W'Shalla will end this lord. He'll spit in his face and dive his spear into him again and again until no one else will sob over the dead body of one dearly loved. The horror of a tempering will never again darken the hearts and leave anyone related to the victims alone in this world. Finally, that little voice in his heart that can't trust and is terrified of losing it all again will be silent. Ifrit roars. He roars back, the shadow of the dragon he will become in his gold eyes lit by the flames.
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Date: 2019-09-13 01:49 pm (UTC)He wonders and wonders as his feet take him out into the falling snow. He had been a dragoon once before he set it aside for a shield. A shield he feels he no longer is worthy of.
The desperate voice of a child whispers that people always fall. No one lasts forever. No one is strong in the end. No matter how far he runs. No matter how hard he fights it will never change the facts.
W’shian is known as Vans Dawntread, these days. The Lancer leader had suggested a new name. He feels like it doesn’t fit anymore. Hammers and files break the quiet and he looks up to see the artisans of Dragonhead going about their work.
He needs clarity. Only then can he pull his best friend out of her darkness and maybe find a way out himself. He walks towards them, asking to be put to work.
His back aches as he straightens up and presses his hands against the small of his back. He bends back until his back gives a crack. The goldsmith next to him laughs and suggests he calls it a night. He smiles back at them and an odd sound in the distance makes him pause. It feels like a pressure on the air, claws on stone.
A predator on the prowl. The smile falls away as he reaches for his spear and tells the goldsmith to bar the door behind him. He pulls on his armor in his rush to get outside.
Beyond him in the courtyard red light swirls around a tall figure. They straighten and turn to face him and something inside his heart breaks. Castor’s eyes shine with a baleful red light. Her massive axe she uses from time to time rises into a guard position.
No. No no no no. She moves towards him step by step. His chest feels tight. He can’t breathe. His eyes sting. No. No no no. His body moves automatically, his vision narrowing to her and their surroundings. The world turns crystal clear. He has fought so many. Taken so many lives to keep others safe.
Castor opens her mouth and roars. He stays mute. If he opens his mouth he’ll start screaming. She charges across the snow, unstoppable. She is a force not s woman. He brings up his spear to guard and she hits him dead on and sends him flying.
If he doesn’t stop her here she could cause untold damage. He lands on the parapets with enough breath left to say. “You have to stop.”
She charges him again, beautiful and powerful like so many predators he has fought in his time. Strong like his mother had been. His first friend is an incredible person.
Tears slide down his face and his voice comes out in a desperate roar. “Castor! You have to stop!” She doesn’t even slow down. He pours his energy into his spear and launches himself at her. He is coming down in a spine shattering dive when he realizes she has turns and begin to spin. Too late to stop.
She brings her axe up and around just as he falls far enough to be in reach. The force of the whirlwind translated into the axe sends him flying again. Something in his back crunches and pain rips through him. Blood. She had barely missed his spine.
Her roar washes over him as he smashes into the ground and slides with the thick tangy taste of copper on his lips. He can’t get up. His spear falls from numb fingers and he tries to rise. His body refuses to obey him. Vans spits blood out onto the snow, turning it red. Yet his eyes never leave Castor’s still burning with that terrible light.
His vision is darkening at the edges. He is going to lose consciousness and she’ll run free to hurt others in ways she never wanted to. Memories dance across his mind’s eye as he paws for his spear. His hand finds the burning shadow stone that he had found in the snow during his time in the highlands.
The world turns indistinct and empty. No Castor. Just an armored figure kneeling before him. ’Are you going to leave it like this?’
His body is too hurt to fight. There’s nothing left.
’There is always more. Or are you set on running away from reality again? There are no places to exile yourself to now.’
The faintest flickers of anger spike in his chest reaching past the anxiety and panic like arrows streaking to their target. Enough to force words despite how much he wants to close his eyes. “Shut up.”
’Didn’t you promise to protect her? Didn’t you resolve to never lose anyone again?’
He coughs up blood again and forces his lips to move again. “You don’t understand.”
The figure’s eyes in the helmet flare. ’Your promises mean nothing. You lay here too scared to try. Coward. Betrayer. Fool!’
His rage explodes and darkness pours out of him as his voice turns terrible. “I would never betray my family!” The world resolves back into the falling snow and the great sword in his grip feels light as his rage sings in his chest. Dark shadows curl around his body. The pain is still there but it feels so far away.
He spits blood. He is no coward. No betrayer. Castor is family. He meets her eyes with his own, burning from within with a fire that won’t quit. She wouldn’t want him to quit. He will tear that jobstone from her hands himself.
That has to be the way to get her back. The plan settles in his head as he charges across the snow with a roar that shakes the air.
The ceiling of the clinic in Dragonhead is battered but well worn. Countless dragoons and knights have passed through it. The healer at his bedside sighs down at him. “You nearly died.” For some reason that’s hilarious and he grins. “But I didn’t.” The man sighs again, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Thanks only to our Magics.”
And stubborn will. He flicks one ear. “Castor?” The healer glances across the room and back at him. “Unconscious but alive. She will be fine. Barely a scratch on her.” His smile turns real. “Good.” And he passes out.