XXVIII: Live With Petty War

Raiten: 

I think I am dead. I certainly feel dead. My body is a mess of blood and tear, wound and wear. My soul is tired and dim. My eyes have certainly lost their luster. Everything goes in and out of darkness. 

When I feel my body break against the ground, there is little pain. Only peace. 

Short-lived peace. 

I awake in a scorched field. A forest of stumps and black roots. A rocky valley spreads out below me, littered with dead souls. Men. Women. And of course, many, many children. 

Ahead, on the bluffs of a green mountain, an army lies in wait. It is a sea of rot and boils — the plagued. They have swept over the land. 

At their head, a feminine figure sits upon a steed. She looks young, dressed in a fine blue and maroon brocade accented by a white scarf. Though, she does wear an oddly dull wooden mask to accompany that outfit. Her steed is what grabs my attention more — for it is the elk I just vanquished, back in its full glory. 

The woman is looking at me — some sixth sense of mine tells me so. Even through the wooden mask, I meet the piercing gaze of her blood red eyes. They are quite beautiful, in fact. 

At her side, she carries a silver sheath. From it, she draws forth a raw, unadorned, unguarded and unhilted blade. She grasps it from the iron stem and points the blade-end at me. It is a long arms blade of Western-make — unfinished, yet sharp as all hells, glinting in the orange light of a rising sun that seems all too close to the world itself. 

"You think you can hunt me?" a voice whispers. It is seductive and menacing all at once — like a lover giving their voice a hard edge. And it is a tingling voice that travels up my spine.

I grimace, but don't turn away from her gaze. 

"Yes," I say. I recognize what this is now. I won't let her intimidate me. 

Laughter carries through the wind. High and mocking, like a noblewoman. 

"Oh please, you're nothing but a slave foolish enough to turn against his masters," she says. Then, she kicks the elk forward, riding it towards me. Not that it matters — in whatever place this is, her voice carries to me all the same. 

When she reaches me, she extends her hand rather than her blade. "I can help you in your journey — I am not so unmerciful as to turn away a fellow struggler." 

I slap away her hand, which is gloved by a delicate white leather. 

The elk gives me a side glare. I return that glare with a smile. 

She shrugs. "So be it." 

Then, slowly, she takes her mask off.

…

I wake up in chains — hands cuffed and hanging by a hook. My body is bloody and grimy, hair matted and dirty. My wounds have not yet healed fully. My jaw and inner mouth have fully regenerated, but I suspect my bodily innards are still stabbed through slightly. Or broken. 

I'm going to be shitting out antlers, I muse. Well, at least it's over. But by the heavens, that was my toughest battle. Ever. Never had I fought a more formidable opponent or been taken to such lengths. In fact, it was almost like a repeat of my first battle with Baroth — both times, the djinn pummeled me through and through, up until the end where I won by… a fluke. No other way to put it really. A tooth of all things, imbued with lightning. Sometimes, I surprise myself. Hells, I didn't even know I could imbue enamel with lightning like that. Thankfully, my quick-thinking and desperation worked. 

At the cost of two amulets. 

So, now I'm down to four. 

Speaking of which… Where is my amulet sack? I don't feel the thing jingling on my side as I raise myself on the hook, trying to escape. Unfortunately, I cause quite a ruckus. 

The door to the small, firelit room I'm kept in is slammed open. 

I stop struggling lamely as some soldiers waltz inside. Four men surround me, each carrying large halberds. They stand at attention at the four corners of the room — sentinels in the firelight. Then, a fifth man walks in the room, commanding some presence. The soldiers snap to attention. 

The fifth man is their commander. He wears fully kitted armor — a morion helm, a breastplate, vambraces, and shin armor. The man takes the morion off and sets it down below me. Sweat rolls from his black, short-cropped hair. Wrinkles crease his forehead. He seems like someone who's perpetually stressed. That's… not good for me. 

"Prisoner," he addresses me simply. "You can call me Captain Riddeck." 

I don't answer him at first. He sighs. "You know, when someone greets you with their name, you should reciprocate in kind." 

I look between him and then shake my chains for a bit of emphasis: "does this look like a formal setting to you?" 

He chuckles. "No, I suppose not. Apologies for that—you gave us all a bit of a scare." 

"What does that mean?" 

"We were scouting out the forests for any signs of the enemy. I was leading my men firsthand. And then," he starts walking around me, behind me. "I see red lightning clash with blue fire. The sky drains of color. And I wonder to myself, 'Ah hells Riddeck, what have you gotten yourself into?'" 

I stay silent. I'd rather let him play this out — I have no idea who these people are, though I have guesses. 

He continues: "Then, I see you falling about one thousand feet from the sky. I thought — surely, he must be dead. But no, you lived. Not only that, your wounds began to heal as well. And I think, surely, I must have stumbled upon some deity. Or," he comes around now, face to face with me. "Some daemon." 

I scoff. "I'm no daemon." 

"I'll be the judge of that." He backs away, reaching for his belt. From it, he produces the amulet sack. I try not to eye it too greedily. "Why were you clutching these so hard?" 

"I don't know," I answer simply. Obviously, he doesn't buy it. He starts tossing the sack up and down. "Careful — don't play with those." 

"At least keep your story straight: first you say 'you don't know' and now, you're telling me—" 

"I'm being serious, stop tossing it up like that," I tell him. You might just break one and kill yourself. 

Something in my voice gives him pause. He catches the sack and opens it, taking a peak inside. Then, with a shrug, he laces it back up and puts it away. 

"Fine," he says, making a dismissive gesture. "That's not really all that important anyways. I have one question for you — answer it properly, and you might just live." 

"What makes you think—" 

"Are you a scion of Sorayvlad?" he cuts me off. The question baffles me. What is it with people thinking I'm from Clan Sorayvlad? 

"You lot can't be this racist to think that every Eastern looking man you see is of Sorayvlad," I mutter. 

"Say that again?" 

"I said, no, I'm not from Clan Sorayvlad." 

He raises an eyebrow. "We've heard rumors of a boy from Sorayvlad wielding lightning like you do. Apparently, he does it by crushing amulets. Amulets like the ones in this sack of yours." 

Interesting. So they have a Thunder Watcher of their own then? Or maybe, some poor fool who just tries using angel dust at the cost of his own health. Regardless… 

"I can assure you, that person is not me. I am from a different clan, though I no longer associate myself with clans. I quite despise them, in all honesty." 

"How am I supposed to believe you? We're at war with Sorayvlad and all of a sudden, a lightning wielding bastard starts causing a ruckus in our territory — it seems a bit suspicious, wouldn't you say?" 

War with Sorayvlad? I file that information away for later. 

"Look," I begin. "I'm from — was from Clan Adachi. Now, I reside in a little village uproad, down South. Takemeadow. Surely you've heard of that?" 

He sneers. "Sure. And I'm from Germanica." He's being sarcastic. 

"I'm telling you the truth!" I hiss, frustrated now. "You lot are all Catolicans, right?" 

If he's surprised at my guess, he doesn't show it. "Yes." 

"I know one of your old princesses — Sorina. The one you married off to Sorayvlad. She's the mayor of Takemeadow." 

His face contorts in confusion. "That doesn't make sense." 

"Why?" 

"Sorina is dead. She has been for sometime — this much is known. Hells lad," Riddeck starts chuckling. "Why else do you think we're at war?"