Red Horizons

By: Kresslack Posted on: June 30, 2013

Rain fell in sheets, the countless drops of heavy water continuing their relentless assault upon the rooftops, cobblestones and anyone unfortunate enough to be caught venturing from the protection of shelter this night. The storm had arrived swiftly, as if it had been waiting in anticipation to sweep in on the city and lay siege to what was moments ago an evening of bustling activity and festive debauchery.

And yet he stood there, on the harbour looking out over the bay lost in thought, as he was often seen doing, seemingly oblivious to the thick rain that sought to pummel him. Yet he was not oblivious to it, even though his cigar had long been extinguished and he still chewed on it. Rain had a habit of re-awaking pains and aches long grown accustomed to, and it was claiming one victim tonight as he thought back to how those scars were earned, both physically and psychologically.

A lifetime of soldiering and sailing was starting to take its toll, leaving him feeling like a shadow of himself, a mere remnant of the spirited and ambitious youth he once was. Though a youth no more, he was ambitious still, far more than he ever let on.

As rain beat against the brim of his hat like the drums of an impending conflict, he reached up to withdraw the blackened medallion from under his tunic. Tracing the familiar patterns upon upon the metal as he looked out over the rough waters, he found himself muttering incoherently. Half pronounced words and misconstrued phrases passed from his lips as he stood there, until two words finally took form and issued forth to hang in the air, defying to be swept away by the prevailing winds and rain.

"Equites Sartai", he whispered,

A sharp pain behind his temple forced his eyes shut, his hand darting up to to discover forehead burning, as if fevered. In a moment the pain was gone, as if never having existed, and he opened his to squint with blurred vision at the scene in front of him. As he blinked and slowly shook his head, his eyes regained focus and he found himself standing in a completely different location, a look of bewilderment flitting briefly across a usually expressionless face.

"Thoth's shadow, where the hell am I", he asked himself under his breath. He stood on a plain under a soon to be setting sun, facing a large encampment which had been set up next to a train of merchant wagons. How did he get here? Where Was here? Countless questions flitted through his mind as he started walking towards the encampment, sights set on the group of people preparing a large fire pit for the approaching evening.

As he approached the encampment, something in his peripheral caught his attention to the left, at the edge of the lines of tents and wagons. Two figures stood off to the side, one darting around fluidly whilst the other stumbled and swung his sword clumsily, the strange dance accompanied by the clacking of wooden practice swords. Changing direction and moving closer, he couldn't help but find it odd that neither noticed the large, dark-clad man who now lumbered towards them.

Nearing the duo, he realized one was older with the look of a seasoned veteran about him, and the other was a young lad who already slightly towered over the sparring partner across from him. Stopping just to one side of them, he watched as the boy haphazardly jabbed and slashed at his opponent who deftly countered, rewarding foolish advancement and undisciplined defense with strike after solid strike. With every welt that quickly formed, the boy winced and press further, refusing to yield.

He continued to watch the two spar, consciously noticing the older man shift subtly and expertly into a new stance. There was something oddly familiar about the way the man moved, about the deadly yet restrained grace with which he dodged and danced. As if to signal the session was to end, the man danced nimbly to one side as the boy overextended a thrust, leaving himself unbalanced. Although he knew what happened next was absurdly quick, the figures before him slowed as if the Sands of Time themselves had been slowed.

The man had danced to one side and now moved past the boy, swinging his sword back and low to hook behind the boy's legs and send him sprawling backwards. In the brief moment that the boy's feet left the ground and he pitched backwards, the man quickly spun back around to bring the flat of his sword to the boy's exposed abdomen, striking a solid blow. As he blinked he witnessed the moment as it really happened: in the blink of an eye.

The boy, sprawled out on the ground with sword lying a few feet away, clutched his stomach and groaned. He watched as the man approached the boy and reached down to offer him a hand up, which the boy accepted and slowly rose, scowling slightly in response to the man's wry smile.

"When you let anger invade your thoughts, it quickly flows into your actions, leaving you unbalanced and unconscious of risk. A swordsman must ever keep his mind clear of emotion while engaged, lest he lose focus, with defeat quickly to follow", the man said patiently.

As the boy pondered these words, he nodded slowly, turning to walk back towards the camp with the older man. The boy halted as the man raised a hand, gesturing back to where they were.

"Retrieve your sword, Kresslack, you will need it again for our session tomorrow", the man instructed.

"Yes, Promesas. I look forward to it", replied the boy, turning and jogging over to recollect his sword.

'Kresslack? Promesas? What...what is this?'

He watched the boy catch up to the older man and walk alongside him. Sudden realization flooded his mind as he recalled this moment, the first instruction he'd ever received on how to wield a sword.

'But that must mean....'

Another blinding flash of hot pain behind his eyes caused him to stagger, gritting his teeth as he sought to endure it. Like before, it was over in a moment, and when his eyes cleared he saw again a younger version of himself, slightly older and now wielding two swords instead of one. He stood in a courtyard sparring with another, the movements more precise and disciplined now. Another flash and blurring of details, stopping to reveal now a young man, the semblance of a beard formed, talking to an imposing man in a crimson cloak. Off to one side, a group of young swordsmen casts nervous glances in their direction.

The scene blurs again, shifting to show the young man struggling along a mountain path enshrouded in strange, red fog before shifting again, showing him in a crimson cloak of his own. Shifting and changing yet again behind a wave of pain which unclouded to reveal him donning the blackened medallion, a testament to his service. The scene blurred and spun as he clutched his head, grimacing under the oppressive weight of the pain behind his eyes which finally forced him to his knees. Cleaving through the wall of pain like a hot knife came a booming voice, threatening to split his head open with its intensity.

"You were always fated for this life, even though you fight with all your feeble will to refuse it. You can run from the truth and die tired, broken, pathetic, or you can accept it, embrace it, and harness your true potential."

Scenes of violence flashed into his head, a young warrior rushing into battle with his fellow combatants, cutting a bloody swath across a field littered with scattered and routing enemy soldiers. A fully armoured soldier standing over the huddled figure of a weeping mother, clutching her son tight to her chest as he removed a gauntlet, reaching down to caress her cheek and watch as her skin withered and decayed away, the boy being taken away as she fell dead. A fully grown man now, bearing the heavy armour that encases his hulking frame easily as he rides with companions, an entire village ablaze with screams of pain riding the winds behind them.

The pain slightly abated as different scenes flooded into his head. A family slaughtered, their son taken away, now trained in the ways of a blade and sent forth to resume the cycle. A village once burnt down, now built anew with stone walls and a full garrison stationed. As the scenes faded into obscurity, the voice returned, a presence both overwhelming and imposing, but less painful.

"See now the purpose of it all, how we shape the world around us. We sow death and lay waste to the illusions people fashion around themselves, making claims of strength and worth. We show them how weak and worthless they truly are, and they hate us for it. Yet often they are united in their hate, which motivates them to improve and seek vengeance. They hate us, when they should thank us."

Silence replaced the echoing in his head and darkness replaced the visions behind his eyes. A silence soon shattered as a clap of thunder shook the sky and the sound of heavy rain once more commanded the world around him. As he slowly opened his eyes he found himself kneeling on the harbour, one hand gripping a dock pylon. Reaching up to wipe his mouth, he noticed a streak of crimson on his hand as he pulled it away, quickly claimed by the rain.

A hand falling on his shoulder caused him to lurch swiftly to his feet, turning with surprised eyes to find himself facing one of his aides, their cloak pulled tightly around them.

"Admiral....you've been out here for a while. Is everything all right?", they inquired, squinting through the thick sheets of rain.

"I....yes, I'm fine. I have to go", he growled as he pushed past towards the empty streets.

Leaving the young man standing there alone in the rain, he continued walking through the city, the gates looming in the distance.