The Warrior
The Yovein Warrior stood at the precipice. Steadly breathing, never blinking. His eyes burning, vision cloudy, blurred in buzzing pink mist.
He cursed.
Above him, the broken, yet stern gaze of Oumjanaal. The Listener of Sands, with his disciples. All covered in dirt and soot. Waiting. The moon shone lazily upon them all. Before him, the ashes of his loved ones and the lonely depths of Hcarian Krag. His breathing grew more frequent. But still, his eyes do not falter. Finally understanding the question, he turns and says: "We are everywhere, all around us, the sand, the wind and the air. We cannot rest until we eventually become it and even then, we are restless" The old man nods, a disciple on his left stands up, writes something on the ground with a stick stuck on his arm-stump. Finally finishing it. He puts his other hand into his belt pouch. From it, he takes a handful of yellowish powder, spreads it over the symbol, then spits into it. It then begins so sizzle and spout filthy, warped fire, that the Warrior could smell from he was standing. He then uncovers a small knife and jumps down from his stand, attacking the Warrior. Flesh meets flesh, steel meets steel. And soon the half-handed man was down, bloodied and broken. The old man then raises his hand and yells; "Become the weapon, become human no more!" A sudden jolt of pain runs through the Warrior. Every wound reopening, every orifice spilling it's foulness. The pink mist becoming overwhelming, he could taste it through his own blood. Above him, the zealots had began a chant. Rough, yet melodic. Warrior understood only some of it, none of it pleasant. "Not like this" the warrior thought. He had wanted revenge, retribution, power. But not like this. The pain overcame his body and he fell to the ground. Twitching, contorting in agony. The awful chanting continued. "Damn witches!" Was the last thing in his mind before he died. Then he awoke, screaming. He stood up. It was still dark, but the Krag was no where to be seen. "I have been moved" he thought. Thoughts, they came so easily now. His mind has not been this clear in ages. His eyes and ears too, he felt reinvigorated, like a man in his prime. Yet something was missing. He took a deep breath, but it didn't satisfy him. He felt nothing. As if his is emotions had been dulled. He took another breath, nothing. As if didn't even need to breath. Was he truly dead? Unable to fully process this, he turned and gave a scream of anger. Only it didn't come out as such, he didn't feel anger. Only lingering frustration. "So this was the cost?" He thought and began to look around. He was surrounded by tall, black spiky rocks, twisted and poignant. Like broken fingers reaching for salvation. "The Broken Jallangrans" he recognized it. The stone-maze havens scattered across the Qarchumi Deserts, south-east of Karanassos. They say that anyone who enters there, dies. Ironically, It seems that they were right. He sat there for a while, looking up to the sky. It had hues of deep purple today. Clear sign of upcoming winter months around here. Only here it never gets as cold as it does at home. Then he noticed a procession of sort, slowly walking towards him. Tribesmen, he recognized. At front; two large, ash covered men were carrying a palanquin, seemingly made of animal and human bones. On top it sat an ancient looking woman. Her purple eyes watched the warrior with pity. Even though it seem that all of her limbs were missing. "As you can see, it worked." She began with a shriveled and highly accented voice. "You are now ready, yes?" Her voice suddenly turning dark, and with a rasp she barked- "Now keep your part of the deal." "End the Bitch-Queen, bring her pain and agony, don't kill her until she begs for it. Bring us, for you- retribution so bitter." And the The Yovein Warrior nodded. He stood up and started walking south. He would need help from Cinder for this one. Yes, he could use her help. This is not going to be easy.
Above him, the broken, yet stern gaze of Oumjanaal. The Listener of Sands, with his disciples. All covered in dirt and soot. Waiting. The moon shone lazily upon them all. Before him, the ashes of his loved ones and the lonely depths of Hcarian Krag. His breathing grew more frequent. But still, his eyes do not falter. Finally understanding the question, he turns and says: "We are everywhere, all around us, the sand, the wind and the air. We cannot rest until we eventually become it and even then, we are restless" The old man nods, a disciple on his left stands up, writes something on the ground with a stick stuck on his arm-stump. Finally finishing it. He puts his other hand into his belt pouch. From it, he takes a handful of yellowish powder, spreads it over the symbol, then spits into it. It then begins so sizzle and spout filthy, warped fire, that the Warrior could smell from he was standing. He then uncovers a small knife and jumps down from his stand, attacking the Warrior. Flesh meets flesh, steel meets steel. And soon the half-handed man was down, bloodied and broken. The old man then raises his hand and yells; "Become the weapon, become human no more!" A sudden jolt of pain runs through the Warrior. Every wound reopening, every orifice spilling it's foulness. The pink mist becoming overwhelming, he could taste it through his own blood. Above him, the zealots had began a chant. Rough, yet melodic. Warrior understood only some of it, none of it pleasant. "Not like this" the warrior thought. He had wanted revenge, retribution, power. But not like this. The pain overcame his body and he fell to the ground. Twitching, contorting in agony. The awful chanting continued. "Damn witches!" Was the last thing in his mind before he died. Then he awoke, screaming. He stood up. It was still dark, but the Krag was no where to be seen. "I have been moved" he thought. Thoughts, they came so easily now. His mind has not been this clear in ages. His eyes and ears too, he felt reinvigorated, like a man in his prime. Yet something was missing. He took a deep breath, but it didn't satisfy him. He felt nothing. As if his is emotions had been dulled. He took another breath, nothing. As if didn't even need to breath. Was he truly dead? Unable to fully process this, he turned and gave a scream of anger. Only it didn't come out as such, he didn't feel anger. Only lingering frustration. "So this was the cost?" He thought and began to look around. He was surrounded by tall, black spiky rocks, twisted and poignant. Like broken fingers reaching for salvation. "The Broken Jallangrans" he recognized it. The stone-maze havens scattered across the Qarchumi Deserts, south-east of Karanassos. They say that anyone who enters there, dies. Ironically, It seems that they were right. He sat there for a while, looking up to the sky. It had hues of deep purple today. Clear sign of upcoming winter months around here. Only here it never gets as cold as it does at home. Then he noticed a procession of sort, slowly walking towards him. Tribesmen, he recognized. At front; two large, ash covered men were carrying a palanquin, seemingly made of animal and human bones. On top it sat an ancient looking woman. Her purple eyes watched the warrior with pity. Even though it seem that all of her limbs were missing. "As you can see, it worked." She began with a shriveled and highly accented voice. "You are now ready, yes?" Her voice suddenly turning dark, and with a rasp she barked- "Now keep your part of the deal." "End the Bitch-Queen, bring her pain and agony, don't kill her until she begs for it. Bring us, for you- retribution so bitter." And the The Yovein Warrior nodded. He stood up and started walking south. He would need help from Cinder for this one. Yes, he could use her help. This is not going to be easy.
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