Kenpachi
11th Squad Captain
This is the prologue to a story I am writing currently... there will be a glossary eventually for all terms and a translations page for the languages I make...
Prologue
The tree had been standing there for many years before it was destroyed on that fateful day. For years, it had seen men come and go, villages, cities and nations rise and fall, and yet the day it was destroyed, was probably the most fateful day, in its long life. The two armies that stood at opposite ends of the valley where the tree stood were arguably the two most powerful armies in Terra’s long and bloody history. The fact that one army numbered only 370 men, hardly enough to be counted an army, let alone a unit, and that the other army outnumbered the first by nearly one hundred to one did not change the fact that, if these two armies actually were to fight, the outcome would not be something even the most foolhardy gambler would bet on with surety. Thus, when the two commanders rode forward, one with only one retainer and the other with exactly one hundred, the watching men in each army shuddered, for no reason other than the fact that the legendary clash prophesized by over thirty prophets since the beginning of Terra may actually be avoided if one of the commanders was able to hold his temper, and tongue, in check.
The man with the one hundred warriors at his back was called Jafrym Parla, the King of the country also named Parla. Riding on proud black stallion over seventeen hands high and garbed in an armour that was thrice warded by the most powerful mages in his army against all of the magical elements, and with his fabled sword ‘Shaycar’ at his side, the man looked like a God. But this God was sweating from more than the heat and weight of the armour he wore. The man he approached was also the king of a nation, albeit a much smaller one and was the reason that he had called this pre-battle meeting as he had no wish to meet this man in battle.
Shisui Yorou looked a lot less impressive than Jafrym, but in no way was he nervous about meeting his fellow monarch. He was less impressive in simple, yet serviceable black and silver-coloured armour, not heavy and thick plate mail like Jafrym, but light and thin Emmail, forged using magic as well as metal, yet equally as strong as Jafrym’s warded armour. He bore no visible weapon, and he had no need, as the tall man striding next to him, close to eight feet tall, was covered with more weapons than you could poke a stick at. Or three sticks for that matter. Six long curved swords hung at his belt, his chest was bare except for two bandoliers hanging across his torso, each bandolier bristling with knives and small throwing axes and there was a bow, its quiver, a spear and a poleax strapped to his back. Completing this image of walking death were long blades strapped to not only his fingers, so he would slice his enemies as he punched or scratched, but also to his teeth, although these blades were very small. His name was Kitubite, which in his native tongue, meant dreadnaught. He certainly looked the part too.
“Shi,” Kitubite rumbled in a worried sounding voice as he and his monarch strode calmly across the one thousand pace space between the two armies, towards the tree which was their designated meeting point with Jafrym Parla, “I think this is a mistake.”
“I am well aware of your thoughts on this matter, Kite.” Shisui strode calmly along, his face showing no emotion at all. For some reason that seemed to worry Kitubite more.
“Do not worry, cousin-mine,” he said, allowing a wry expression to flit across his face as he glanced up at the man next to him, “I do not think Jafrym Parla,” he spat the name, “would allow anything to happen to you or I.”
“That is where I believe you are wrong.” Kitubite said, worry still evident in his voice, although his face remained smooth as they neared the tree, resplendent in orange, red and gold, its autumn foliage.
“ I know.” Shisui said finally as they came within ten paces of the tree and stopped, waiting for Jafrym and his guards to catch up.
“Greetings, King of the West,” Jafrym called as he and his guards neared the tree, “I see you received our message. And sent our messenger back in one piece!” he laughed ruefully, the supposed hilarity not reaching his eyes. “I did not expect that, to be honest, as you butchered our last two messengers, when all they bore were peace proposals.” The hilarity left his face as suddenly as it had arrived, replaced with something akin to hatred, and a slight grudging respect.
“Your idea of peace was not mine.” Shisui said simply and sat down on the ground.
“Come, sit and let us talk of this new proposal you have for me.”
“Of course.” Jafrym said, eyeing Kitubite, “but only once that mountain of a man is gone.”
“He leaves if your men do so as well.” Shisui said simply, eyeing the other King warily. “As you have one hundred men, and I have but one, I think all of them but one should turn and gallop home now, then the two remaining can leave together.”
Kitubite was impressed. His cousin bartered with Jafrym as calmly as if they were old friends and not blood-sworn enemies, even if all the while Jafrym grew more and more annoyed.
“Of course,” he said, barely keeping the irritation from his voice, “give me one moment.”
He rounded on his men, announcing loudly, “Garshion, stay. The rest, get back to the camp. Wait for me to return.” He turned and smiled to Shisui pleasingly then spun back and added in a very small undertone, “Or signal.”
Kitubite was certain that last part was not meant to be heard, but he did, and he nudged his cousin once and nodded, before looking at the man Jafrym had chosen to remain with him.
In spite of everything, Kitubite grudgingly admitted, to himself, the man looked dangerous. Covered in thick red body hair, over six and a half feet tall and wearing only a small lion-skin loin cloth, he was swinging two chains around and around in his hands, grinning at Kitubite wickedly. Although, Kitubite added to himself, looking dangerous did not mean a man -or woman- was dangerous.
“You may go now, cousin.” Shisui said to him, straining his neck from looking up at him from the sitting position he maintained, as Jafrym creaked and groaned in order to adopt the same position. “I will be fine.” He looked like he believed it, and Kitubite sighed once, then turned on his heel and walked away, followed by the still-grinning Garshion.
“Do you think so, Dreadnaught?” he muttered to Kitubite as soon as the two were out of earshot. “My money says that your king,” he chewed the word as if it were foreign to him, “will be dead within the hour. In fact, I would laugh if he lasted another five minutes.”
All of a sudden, Kitubite knew it had been a trap.
The signs had all been there. The soft bird calls in a valley that was lifeless except for the tree. The one hundred guards leaving without a single objection to their king’s safety. The tree swaying even though there was no breeze. And above all, Garshion’s soft laughs as he stepped behind Kitubite and swung his chains back, to catch Kitubite in a death hug.
Kitubite acted without thought.
Spinning around, he caught Garshion in the chest with two of his swords, even as a triumphant call echoed from the tree. Garshion spluttered and fell backwards, carried back by the weight of his own chains as he fell backwards, his arms suddenly weaker than a new-born babe’s.
Leaping over the dead man, Kitubite saw something that made his heart stop. Shisui lay on the ground, riddled with arrows and his head rolling away slowly down the slight hill. Letting out a death cry, Kitubite ran forward, knives flashing out from his bandolier as he threw them, thudding into the tree where Jafrym had been. He ran blindly, clawing at his swords to unsheathe them so he could wreak terrible vengeance. The only thing he could say that was actually coherent reached both armies as he ran towards the tree, chilling one army and rousing the other.
“King Shisui is dead!” he yelled, tears staining his face. “Jien Yen Yakka!”
With that call, the smaller army, the army of Yakka, rose up. Surging forward as one, the men and women of Yakka all cried out “Jien Yen Yakka!”
Kitubite had reached Jafrym now, the smile gone from the enemy king’s face as he had seen the dreadnaught bearing down upon him.
“Kill that fool.” Jafrym announced, and men burst from the trees, bows drawn back with barbed arrows at the ready.
Crying out, Kitubite threw one sword and then followed that up with knives, catching the surprised men in the heads, necks and guts.
“You will die!” he raged, drawing his long spear from his back and hurling it at the retreating king. The spear hit his armour, knocked him to the ground and then bounced off without piercing it, burning as the magic in the armour incinerated the spear.
Spinning, Jafrym Parla snarled and drew his black blade Shaycar.
“Hardly likely,” he said in a voice that was a lot calmer than his face seemed, “as you are un-armoured and my blade is magic wrought!”
“That may be so,” Kitubite said, drawing two swords that crackled with magic and taking up a stance that only blademasters could utilize effectively, “but who is a blademaster here and who is the lowly sneak king who fights from the shadows?”
Jafrym stepped back as if stung, and it was that step that killed him in Kitubite’s eyes. Laughing at the king’s foolishness he drew back his arm and threw one of his swords at Jafrym.
All eyes seemed to watch that magic blade, and one army groaned, and the other cheered as it took Jafrym by the throat and sent him to the ground.
“That was for my cousin.” Kitubite spat and stalked forward to plant his other sword in Jafrym’s head. Smiling bitterly, Kitubite stepped back to admire his handiwork as his army came surging past him, grinning with hatred and revenge-filled glee. When the last man had run past to engage the Parlan army, Kitubite strode past and walked up to the tree, driving an arrow into its bark.
“Sorry friend,” he muttered, as he drove a second arrow in beneath it, “but this is in memorandum.”
“Memorandum of me, perhaps?” Came a familiar, hollow-sounding voice from behind him.
Jafrym stood there, blood dripping slowly onto the ground from the hole in his throat and right eye where Kitubite had stabbed him.
“You’re dead.” He said uncertainty and fear filling him slowly. It was an odd combination, one he hadn’t felt since his dad had caught him kissing a girl in their sitting room. His dad had smiled until the girl left, and then beaten Kitubite black and blue. He had had difficulty sitting down for a week.
“Not dead,” came Jafrym’s voice, bringing Kitubite back to the present, “never dead. You see dreadnaught, I am one of those…hated… members of society who have sworn for a higher master than our weak ruling systems can provide…”
Kitubite shuddered and Jafrym gave a grin that chilled the very air, “yes, that’s right dreadnaught, I swore to follow the Lord Kael S’ha.”
And he raised his hand pointed at Kitubite, black lightning lancing from his fingers and striking the man square in the chest, sending him flying backwards, hitting the tree and sliding slowly to the ground, blood grazing the bark as he slid.
Rising into the air and turning to face the armies clustered at one side of the valley, Jafrym laughed at the looks on all the warriors left alive, shock and horror at the revelation of Jafrym’s true self. Evil, death and terror were promised to each of them in turn as they stared at him. Then, as one, the men and women dropped their weapons and ran in the opposite direction, pushing each other down, causing people to be trampled in their hurry to escape. Jafrym flew after them, raining fireballs and worse down upon the fleeing humans, turning more and more demonic as seconds passed. His flesh flew off of him and his muscles bulged as he changed. Laughing manically, he turned once all the humans were dead or dying and looked north.
“I come, Lord Kael S’ha,” he screamed, “I come Great Lord!” And he flew north, throwing down a Lightning Bolt behind him as he flew, all the way laughing loudly.
Only once he reached the edge of the Northern Wastes did he remember that a glimmer of life had been in the eyes of the dreadnaught when he hit the trees. Stopping his laughing for a moment, he reached out, and sent a bolt of pure death and flame at that small valley, striking the tree and destroying it utterly.
Moments before, under the shade of that beautiful tree, Kitubite had struggled to his feet and looked up at the sun, lower in the sky now than when the two armies had first reached this dread valley.
“Durikan, feshedo ainaka, Shisui.” He said quietly, to the tree, “Ainaka, Shisui.” And he fell backwards, arms spread open to receive anything that would come his way. Anything, would be a sweet relief from the pain he had been through. He closed his eyes, and waited.
When the bolt hit, Kitubite lived for only a moment longer, and what he saw then -as he painstakingly opened his eyes- was his cousin’s face, smiling and beckoning for him to come and join him.
And so Kitubite did, his spirit rising as his body burned.
And as he died, he felt a momentary pang for the beautiful tree that had helped him in its own way. But only for a moment, as the tree would live again, as trees were wont to do. He, however, would not.
Not for a long time yet.
<!-- THE POST -->
----------------------------------------------------------------
((Note: The following are prophecies to be included after the prologue, before the first chapter))
And as the Shadow rose, the Light would die
yet as the Shadow rises again, the Light will die once more
the third rise of the Shadow will mark the end of its reign
And thus the light will rise, as the Shadow dies
Yet, one without the other
means the one gone will be the one in power
Thus, the third time, the Shadow will rise
And the light shall fall.
And all will be lost before the coming
-Naise Emeralditan, Prophet of Jinkai Shan, 437 AS
Wait for her to rise
at the dawn of the setting sun
And watch him fall
as he notices her fly
For she will deliver you
and send you unto the light
If she does not rise
and falls below
He shall be the one
who saves you through his fall
If he does not fall
and she does not rise
Then watch for their coming
and rejoice when they die
-Jai Coralda, Prophet of Nyamura River, 119 BS
As time passes, so do legends, to stories.
As time passes, so do stories, to myth.
As time passes, myth becomes nothing more than a forgotten memory.
As time passes, the world forgets the old, and brings in the new.
However, the new, is never without some form of the old to guide it.
-"Honemon Bane (Dark Stories)", Author Unknown, 275 NY
<!-- THE POST -->
Prologue
The tree had been standing there for many years before it was destroyed on that fateful day. For years, it had seen men come and go, villages, cities and nations rise and fall, and yet the day it was destroyed, was probably the most fateful day, in its long life. The two armies that stood at opposite ends of the valley where the tree stood were arguably the two most powerful armies in Terra’s long and bloody history. The fact that one army numbered only 370 men, hardly enough to be counted an army, let alone a unit, and that the other army outnumbered the first by nearly one hundred to one did not change the fact that, if these two armies actually were to fight, the outcome would not be something even the most foolhardy gambler would bet on with surety. Thus, when the two commanders rode forward, one with only one retainer and the other with exactly one hundred, the watching men in each army shuddered, for no reason other than the fact that the legendary clash prophesized by over thirty prophets since the beginning of Terra may actually be avoided if one of the commanders was able to hold his temper, and tongue, in check.
The man with the one hundred warriors at his back was called Jafrym Parla, the King of the country also named Parla. Riding on proud black stallion over seventeen hands high and garbed in an armour that was thrice warded by the most powerful mages in his army against all of the magical elements, and with his fabled sword ‘Shaycar’ at his side, the man looked like a God. But this God was sweating from more than the heat and weight of the armour he wore. The man he approached was also the king of a nation, albeit a much smaller one and was the reason that he had called this pre-battle meeting as he had no wish to meet this man in battle.
Shisui Yorou looked a lot less impressive than Jafrym, but in no way was he nervous about meeting his fellow monarch. He was less impressive in simple, yet serviceable black and silver-coloured armour, not heavy and thick plate mail like Jafrym, but light and thin Emmail, forged using magic as well as metal, yet equally as strong as Jafrym’s warded armour. He bore no visible weapon, and he had no need, as the tall man striding next to him, close to eight feet tall, was covered with more weapons than you could poke a stick at. Or three sticks for that matter. Six long curved swords hung at his belt, his chest was bare except for two bandoliers hanging across his torso, each bandolier bristling with knives and small throwing axes and there was a bow, its quiver, a spear and a poleax strapped to his back. Completing this image of walking death were long blades strapped to not only his fingers, so he would slice his enemies as he punched or scratched, but also to his teeth, although these blades were very small. His name was Kitubite, which in his native tongue, meant dreadnaught. He certainly looked the part too.
“Shi,” Kitubite rumbled in a worried sounding voice as he and his monarch strode calmly across the one thousand pace space between the two armies, towards the tree which was their designated meeting point with Jafrym Parla, “I think this is a mistake.”
“I am well aware of your thoughts on this matter, Kite.” Shisui strode calmly along, his face showing no emotion at all. For some reason that seemed to worry Kitubite more.
“Do not worry, cousin-mine,” he said, allowing a wry expression to flit across his face as he glanced up at the man next to him, “I do not think Jafrym Parla,” he spat the name, “would allow anything to happen to you or I.”
“That is where I believe you are wrong.” Kitubite said, worry still evident in his voice, although his face remained smooth as they neared the tree, resplendent in orange, red and gold, its autumn foliage.
“ I know.” Shisui said finally as they came within ten paces of the tree and stopped, waiting for Jafrym and his guards to catch up.
“Greetings, King of the West,” Jafrym called as he and his guards neared the tree, “I see you received our message. And sent our messenger back in one piece!” he laughed ruefully, the supposed hilarity not reaching his eyes. “I did not expect that, to be honest, as you butchered our last two messengers, when all they bore were peace proposals.” The hilarity left his face as suddenly as it had arrived, replaced with something akin to hatred, and a slight grudging respect.
“Your idea of peace was not mine.” Shisui said simply and sat down on the ground.
“Come, sit and let us talk of this new proposal you have for me.”
“Of course.” Jafrym said, eyeing Kitubite, “but only once that mountain of a man is gone.”
“He leaves if your men do so as well.” Shisui said simply, eyeing the other King warily. “As you have one hundred men, and I have but one, I think all of them but one should turn and gallop home now, then the two remaining can leave together.”
Kitubite was impressed. His cousin bartered with Jafrym as calmly as if they were old friends and not blood-sworn enemies, even if all the while Jafrym grew more and more annoyed.
“Of course,” he said, barely keeping the irritation from his voice, “give me one moment.”
He rounded on his men, announcing loudly, “Garshion, stay. The rest, get back to the camp. Wait for me to return.” He turned and smiled to Shisui pleasingly then spun back and added in a very small undertone, “Or signal.”
Kitubite was certain that last part was not meant to be heard, but he did, and he nudged his cousin once and nodded, before looking at the man Jafrym had chosen to remain with him.
In spite of everything, Kitubite grudgingly admitted, to himself, the man looked dangerous. Covered in thick red body hair, over six and a half feet tall and wearing only a small lion-skin loin cloth, he was swinging two chains around and around in his hands, grinning at Kitubite wickedly. Although, Kitubite added to himself, looking dangerous did not mean a man -or woman- was dangerous.
“You may go now, cousin.” Shisui said to him, straining his neck from looking up at him from the sitting position he maintained, as Jafrym creaked and groaned in order to adopt the same position. “I will be fine.” He looked like he believed it, and Kitubite sighed once, then turned on his heel and walked away, followed by the still-grinning Garshion.
“Do you think so, Dreadnaught?” he muttered to Kitubite as soon as the two were out of earshot. “My money says that your king,” he chewed the word as if it were foreign to him, “will be dead within the hour. In fact, I would laugh if he lasted another five minutes.”
All of a sudden, Kitubite knew it had been a trap.
The signs had all been there. The soft bird calls in a valley that was lifeless except for the tree. The one hundred guards leaving without a single objection to their king’s safety. The tree swaying even though there was no breeze. And above all, Garshion’s soft laughs as he stepped behind Kitubite and swung his chains back, to catch Kitubite in a death hug.
Kitubite acted without thought.
Spinning around, he caught Garshion in the chest with two of his swords, even as a triumphant call echoed from the tree. Garshion spluttered and fell backwards, carried back by the weight of his own chains as he fell backwards, his arms suddenly weaker than a new-born babe’s.
Leaping over the dead man, Kitubite saw something that made his heart stop. Shisui lay on the ground, riddled with arrows and his head rolling away slowly down the slight hill. Letting out a death cry, Kitubite ran forward, knives flashing out from his bandolier as he threw them, thudding into the tree where Jafrym had been. He ran blindly, clawing at his swords to unsheathe them so he could wreak terrible vengeance. The only thing he could say that was actually coherent reached both armies as he ran towards the tree, chilling one army and rousing the other.
“King Shisui is dead!” he yelled, tears staining his face. “Jien Yen Yakka!”
With that call, the smaller army, the army of Yakka, rose up. Surging forward as one, the men and women of Yakka all cried out “Jien Yen Yakka!”
Kitubite had reached Jafrym now, the smile gone from the enemy king’s face as he had seen the dreadnaught bearing down upon him.
“Kill that fool.” Jafrym announced, and men burst from the trees, bows drawn back with barbed arrows at the ready.
Crying out, Kitubite threw one sword and then followed that up with knives, catching the surprised men in the heads, necks and guts.
“You will die!” he raged, drawing his long spear from his back and hurling it at the retreating king. The spear hit his armour, knocked him to the ground and then bounced off without piercing it, burning as the magic in the armour incinerated the spear.
Spinning, Jafrym Parla snarled and drew his black blade Shaycar.
“Hardly likely,” he said in a voice that was a lot calmer than his face seemed, “as you are un-armoured and my blade is magic wrought!”
“That may be so,” Kitubite said, drawing two swords that crackled with magic and taking up a stance that only blademasters could utilize effectively, “but who is a blademaster here and who is the lowly sneak king who fights from the shadows?”
Jafrym stepped back as if stung, and it was that step that killed him in Kitubite’s eyes. Laughing at the king’s foolishness he drew back his arm and threw one of his swords at Jafrym.
All eyes seemed to watch that magic blade, and one army groaned, and the other cheered as it took Jafrym by the throat and sent him to the ground.
“That was for my cousin.” Kitubite spat and stalked forward to plant his other sword in Jafrym’s head. Smiling bitterly, Kitubite stepped back to admire his handiwork as his army came surging past him, grinning with hatred and revenge-filled glee. When the last man had run past to engage the Parlan army, Kitubite strode past and walked up to the tree, driving an arrow into its bark.
“Sorry friend,” he muttered, as he drove a second arrow in beneath it, “but this is in memorandum.”
“Memorandum of me, perhaps?” Came a familiar, hollow-sounding voice from behind him.
Jafrym stood there, blood dripping slowly onto the ground from the hole in his throat and right eye where Kitubite had stabbed him.
“You’re dead.” He said uncertainty and fear filling him slowly. It was an odd combination, one he hadn’t felt since his dad had caught him kissing a girl in their sitting room. His dad had smiled until the girl left, and then beaten Kitubite black and blue. He had had difficulty sitting down for a week.
“Not dead,” came Jafrym’s voice, bringing Kitubite back to the present, “never dead. You see dreadnaught, I am one of those…hated… members of society who have sworn for a higher master than our weak ruling systems can provide…”
Kitubite shuddered and Jafrym gave a grin that chilled the very air, “yes, that’s right dreadnaught, I swore to follow the Lord Kael S’ha.”
And he raised his hand pointed at Kitubite, black lightning lancing from his fingers and striking the man square in the chest, sending him flying backwards, hitting the tree and sliding slowly to the ground, blood grazing the bark as he slid.
Rising into the air and turning to face the armies clustered at one side of the valley, Jafrym laughed at the looks on all the warriors left alive, shock and horror at the revelation of Jafrym’s true self. Evil, death and terror were promised to each of them in turn as they stared at him. Then, as one, the men and women dropped their weapons and ran in the opposite direction, pushing each other down, causing people to be trampled in their hurry to escape. Jafrym flew after them, raining fireballs and worse down upon the fleeing humans, turning more and more demonic as seconds passed. His flesh flew off of him and his muscles bulged as he changed. Laughing manically, he turned once all the humans were dead or dying and looked north.
“I come, Lord Kael S’ha,” he screamed, “I come Great Lord!” And he flew north, throwing down a Lightning Bolt behind him as he flew, all the way laughing loudly.
Only once he reached the edge of the Northern Wastes did he remember that a glimmer of life had been in the eyes of the dreadnaught when he hit the trees. Stopping his laughing for a moment, he reached out, and sent a bolt of pure death and flame at that small valley, striking the tree and destroying it utterly.
Moments before, under the shade of that beautiful tree, Kitubite had struggled to his feet and looked up at the sun, lower in the sky now than when the two armies had first reached this dread valley.
“Durikan, feshedo ainaka, Shisui.” He said quietly, to the tree, “Ainaka, Shisui.” And he fell backwards, arms spread open to receive anything that would come his way. Anything, would be a sweet relief from the pain he had been through. He closed his eyes, and waited.
When the bolt hit, Kitubite lived for only a moment longer, and what he saw then -as he painstakingly opened his eyes- was his cousin’s face, smiling and beckoning for him to come and join him.
And so Kitubite did, his spirit rising as his body burned.
And as he died, he felt a momentary pang for the beautiful tree that had helped him in its own way. But only for a moment, as the tree would live again, as trees were wont to do. He, however, would not.
Not for a long time yet.
<!-- THE POST -->
----------------------------------------------------------------
((Note: The following are prophecies to be included after the prologue, before the first chapter))
And as the Shadow rose, the Light would die
yet as the Shadow rises again, the Light will die once more
the third rise of the Shadow will mark the end of its reign
And thus the light will rise, as the Shadow dies
Yet, one without the other
means the one gone will be the one in power
Thus, the third time, the Shadow will rise
And the light shall fall.
And all will be lost before the coming
-Naise Emeralditan, Prophet of Jinkai Shan, 437 AS
Wait for her to rise
at the dawn of the setting sun
And watch him fall
as he notices her fly
For she will deliver you
and send you unto the light
If she does not rise
and falls below
He shall be the one
who saves you through his fall
If he does not fall
and she does not rise
Then watch for their coming
and rejoice when they die
-Jai Coralda, Prophet of Nyamura River, 119 BS
As time passes, so do legends, to stories.
As time passes, so do stories, to myth.
As time passes, myth becomes nothing more than a forgotten memory.
As time passes, the world forgets the old, and brings in the new.
However, the new, is never without some form of the old to guide it.
-"Honemon Bane (Dark Stories)", Author Unknown, 275 NY
<!-- THE POST -->