I only wish you all could wake up in tears as I have after being granted an insight to true sorrow...
I will tell you of a dream where color is dead
In fact the only viewable lighting is the blue and the red
This vision takes place in a feudal dimension
This new story of old is fraught with tension
The only music that plays is Russian Roulette
At the end of this day a life was in debt...
The army looms in strategic menace covering the burned hills to the West.
In the remains of the woods to the East, the barbarians wait in anticipation.
The General paces the front lines rallying the troops, long hair sweeping with each
change in course.
These are the troops of a warring nation, hungry to devour, and they would follow their
seemingly immortal General to the cliffs of the universe.
With one long cry of infernal rage and the sound of many rams horns
the fearsome army charges towards the last stand of their foes.
But these are no ordinary opponents.
These barbarians are also a warring culture, but they are only, a warring culture.
They eat, drink, breathe, and dream bloodshed from their time in the womb and battle tactics
are their masterpieces.
The army slams into the forest, trees falling under the flurry of swinging longswords
and maces, yet, where are the fallen barbarians, or their war cries?
It is quiet, the quiet before a storm.
And now the gale forces of the giant pale men fall with fury.
They seem to swoop in from every angle, falling from the trees an heavens
and rising from the wood and dead leaves.
The battle rages on into the night, as the great army's numbers diminish, the soldiers
being hacked down amidst their surprise.
The remaining soldiers fearlessly defend against the horde of large brutes
casting the faith and eyes on one image alone
The General atop the ridge is merely a silhouette in the moonlight.
But a fearsome shadow is cast against the hills.
The helmet has been removed for ease of movement, the long hair lashing about.
But a lithe figure it is that is seen for The General is a woman, a woman of the
strongest genre.
She invites every enemy closer with a cold glare and the moonlight shines on her
movements, each swing of her sword with purpose and defiance.
Every foe to approach her is swiftly and powerfully cut down in one efficient movement.
The barbarians are confused, it was unknown to them that a woman existed
who possessed such might.
However, even the General cannot put a end to numbers, and upon wiping blood from
her eye, notices that she and two remaining soldiers are now surrounded by
the barbaric archers.
They are quickly overpowered and bound, the two men facing their General.
These barbaric lot were known for their sadism, making mothers to choose between
children, and men to choose between parents.
To them, it would be fun to make this General kill her own two men,
but this conflict goes deeper than even they could perceive.
For the the man to her right was her husband, a sacrificing man who had
given up his career to further his wife's and was now but a lowly foot soldier under her command.
But the man to her left was her lover, and second-in-command.
The product of loneliness and separation from her husband for extended quests through time.
"Choose!" the barbarian captain grunted in a foreign tongue, but she understood the meaning
all too well.
Her eyes began to flood, a sight no soldier had ever dreamed of from their stoic commander.
She began to lift her finger towards the man with whom she had made oath, for he still loved
her, had given his destiny for her, and she loved him for it.
But what if the superiors demanded to know why the lower-ranking officer was chosen?
They mustn't learn of their marriage which was forbidden among soldiers.
And what of her lover? It seemed as though she knew him now better than she
had ever known her husband, and she loved him too. He had been her spoils of war
for the last seven years, her husband still unknowing.
Her hands jerks painfully toward her second-in-command.
Two tears run the course of her expression.
But it paled in comparison to the look of confusion on the face of her husband.
So shocked was he that he had not the time for his countenance to betray a
look of betrayal.
The captain drew his sword, and in one swift and final blow slash downward across her husband's
abdomen. Another grunt and the barbarians carried his body to the hillside, where they
rolled it down the ridge into the valley below...
8 years later.
The former General stands in the stadium, bloodthirsty fans screaming at the top of
their lungs. She casts a glance of disgust but it is short-lived. For years, she has cared
about nothing.
Upon traveling back to their land, the barbarians had sold her and her lover
back to some guards from the same country for which they once served.
After suffering such a great loss at war, the state had decided to focus on internal affairs
and had become a strong trading nation, with a specialty in humans - mainly gladiators.
Realizing that her career in the army was in the past, the only place she knew she would
excel was in those blood-sand arenas where her first love, combat, could be displayed.
Upon joining the league (non-citizens and criminals where sometimes "randomly" selected)
she quickly rose to the rank of Champion. Her skills were already unmatched in the nation
and her military experience sealed the notion.
Today she was to fight a recent challenger. Rumor had it that he had risen from the bottom
and come through the gates of hell specifically for the title. Some said he was a phantom,
others, a foreign weapons-master. No matter, this was to be only another fight to fuel
the only drug that still kept her alive, a mixture of blood and adrenaline.
She looks into the stands to nod respectfully towards the emperor. To his right sat her former
second-in-command who had taken up politics upon the change of national focus.
They no longer spoke, and sometimes she wished it was his body that had been lurched down
a ravine. She wished it more fervently as she saw his new concubine standing behind him.
"Whore," she mutters uncaringly as she slips on her helmet, not sure exactly as to which one of them she was referring.
The announcer begins to introduce her to the crowd, but fades out. This is a sound she has
heard hundreds of times before. Her eyes focus on one image alone. She hears the announcer introduce her foe simply as "The Apparition". No one has ever heard his name.
She sits back on her foot as the gates rise. Her enemy stands menacing in a dark leather armor
with a metal breastplate and helmet.
The Apparition nears walking steadily, sword drawn. Every step with purpose, and defiance. As soon as he is within range he attacks. Broad slashes from his longsword are the most powerful she has ever faced.
Each strike knocks her back several steps. Expert use of his shield keeps her swifter attacks at bay.He begins using his shield as a weapon, nullifying her attempt at offense. A swift thrust of the shield
keeps knocking her backwards, as she ducks the following slice of the giant sword.
They've been fighting for nearly an hour now. Her armor is cracked from the glancing blows
she narrowly avoided. She had forgotten what this felt like. She almost loved it. The acidic taste of adrenaline in her mouth mixed with the blood trickling down her nose from her cracked helmet. It has been years since she truly lived.
THWACK. She uses her grieves to match the forces of his shield.
CLANG! An overhead swing catches her off-guard nearly splitting her in half. She barely throws her
weapon up to block in time.
THUD!!! His foot impacts with her chest. She sails hard into the ground, her helmet flying off.
He raises his sword for the final blow.
A hesitation.
A desperation move on her part. She lunges forward, thrusting her sword clean through his heart.
She stands, something is amiss. He could have easily deflected her charged. She was handed her victory.
Suddenly he grabs onto her hand which still clutches the sword in his chest.
He pulls her in, driving the sword into himself up to the hilt.
The breastplate cracks in two and falls. A familiar diagonal scar displays itself across his chest.
With his free hand he removes his helmet.
The color in her face drains. But it pales in comparison to the look of hatred combined with sorrow with a trace of love, that drapes his expression. Her husband stares her cold in the eyes and grabs the scruff of her collar.
"You forgot to finish the job. You forgot to finish the job..."
The words trail off into a breath as his eyes turn white and he sinks to his knees.
She stands there as the crowd goes wild.
She stands there as they sing her praise.
She stands there as they carry his body off the sand.
She stands there until the night.
She draws her short-sword, slides it underneath her jaw, and yanks back.
She stands there as her life leaks out, for surely, she lived for nothing...
