Okay, now I should have sent this thing to my prereaders later this week,
but..... with the final day of the FFML wrapping up and my desperate Need
for prereaders still predominate, I decided to post both the revised Prelude
and the unfinished prologue, such that hopefully I will get much needed C &
C for both and hopefully garner more prereaders (I have a ranma expert, now
I need someone who knows alot about Sailor moon, but the more opinions the
better, please e-mail me if you can preread)
So without further aideu I will attempt to have both parts in a single
e-mail (the first require a few minor revisions still and the second being
an unfinished quite rough draft)
Revision Version 1.1
Hello friends, sit and watch a while, this shall be an entry of particular
interest, it is being recorded by myself for posterity, after all it is my
entry to the bet. Any comments regarding this story ought be sent to
Dracos12@hotmail.com. Any who want to contact me online should go to the
forum at
www.excesscomics.com, leave a message, I am on there for most of
the afternoon. Any flames ought be left at the door. Any who complain
about canonization will lose their head. Any who give constructive
criticism, compliments, well thought out ideas or arguments will be thanked.
My position ought be now clear.
Disclaimer: There is a bunch of series in here; most I choose to forget whom
originally owned. Just consider that going after a writer who is an avid
follower of these series is not a good way to keep fans. I can at least
make a certainty roll that characters or elements from: Breath of Fire,
Sailor Moon, and Ranma 1/2. More might cross paths with this at a later
point, maybe some will step on it, step over it, or perhaps even get stepped
on by it. Just enjoy the trip into the realm of fantasy and worry not about
such petty details.
Fox the Wanderer is the owner of the Fox's Bet deal, so I will let him
introduce himself here, after all he will also be hosting all of these
stories so ye wonderful souls can read them:
[intro Fox, including website]
Heretic's Bet: Preludes
It was dark, and it was cold^� Eyes were drawn as a particularly strange god
entered the betting area of Fox. His draconian visage showing wisdom that
often belied what one would assume from one such as him. The betting area
shifted, appearing similar to a darker form of the well of Mimir, assuming
the form as the reality is shaped by the will of the new god. Kitsune's
blue ears quivered in the new environment, reacting to the sudden wind
coming from the pool. Nine stones of power appeared, each on a pedestal.
"Hello, Fox", Called the figure, "I, Dracos, God of Heresy, wish to make an
observation into your bet. A test of faith, if you will. As one may note,
true faith is oh so rare these days, so perhaps I shall see if one such as I
am even needed anymore by mortals. Watch this world, a constant struggle
between the forces of light and darkness, beauty fighting monstrosity in a
never-ending struggle. They think they fight for 'love and justice',
perhaps though, they merely fight to show their faith in a future. But how
strong is this faith, how quickly could it be replaced, shattered in an
instant. Shall we see, friendly wanderer?"
Kitusne, watching the newcomer experiences a shiver down her back,
responding back "What do you intend to use your 9 chronostones for?"
"Hmm^� To have a true test of faith requires gods, both true and false,
representing the two desperate ends all seek in their faith, Hope and
Desperation. I shall bring about several changes, one after another, to
test this faith. My first stone will be the most complex." The draconian
visage appeared to smirk, "I wonder if you will even notice in Lanford."
With a quick motion, the draconian figure of Dracos tossed the stone,
bouncing twice, and sinking appearing to accomplish nothing.
Kitsune, "Hmm^� exactly what did that stone do, something must have changed,
and my name's Kitsune in this form, even if I look like Lanford. I see a
few new empty land masses, and little abandoned desert areas, but nothing
really interesting."
Looking at the wanderer, Dracos laughed, "Surely you wouldn't think that
such a complex change would show any such obvious marks of it's importance,
that is the work of a blunt change. I have merely linked two realities
together, forging one as the past of another. Since only a single change
can occur per stone, the world itself in the present does not change to much
since the rules regarding the added landmasses would cause them not to exist
except as rumors and legends and, after all, everyone with the ability to
effect the future in the added past dies according to their original
schedule. And anyway, would one think a being such as I would miss watching
the end of a people who has lost their faith?"
Kitsune, "No, you wouldn't." Shuddering at his ability to derive pleasure
from such sad antiquity. "So what was the purpose of the stone if any
change is negated by the passage of time?"
Laughing once more, "You shall see wanderer, watch carefully now." Dracos
tossed two more stones. "Now we shall provide the false gods, Hope and
Desperation, after all if they never died, they certainly can provide the
first tests of faith for those who fight for a new future. The Second stone
shall provide them a false goddess, an offering a hope, of safety, only
asking for peace. Yet, the cost of this peace would destroy their future.
Ha, look already the future they sought has died, fallen to false dreams^�
but I shall give them the full measure, all the changes shall be made and
then we shall watch. The third shall awaken He Who Sleeps Forever, a dark
god, child of the Hope, living beneath the mountains, trapped there in near
death since his battle with one who understood true faith. After all, both
of these are beings of true power, whom may alter the course of events by
their mere existence in that time. It shall be interesting whether when all
the stones are thrown, if the Warriors of Love and Justice will be able to
distinguish the true faith, or fall prey to false promises, since their
original future will never come about now."
Kitsune, seeing who was awakened experienced a momentary face fault. "Your
insane, bringing Them back. They will certainly destroy the world, with no
one nearly strong enough to defeat them. And have you forgotten the rules,
'everyone dying' or wasting away in eternal agony is definitely a dark-fic."
Her hair was raising now a few inches above her head through her agitation.
Dracos, "Hmm^� it seems you also have little faith and understanding, both in
the way I work and the power of the human spirit, but we shall see. And I
have not broke the rules, after all each stone shall get it's throw. After
all, I never cheat, each stone will have but a single charge behind it, not
two like that Jefferson fellow." Quickly, two more stones are thrown. "Now
we shall bring two gods of truer colors, one false and one true, both
weakened by the passage of time. One by the loss of human faith, the other
by the years of age. Will the Courage and Wisdom of the Ages prevail over
the false gods, yet also this is ascertained, for never shall the warriors
survive without true faith these perils, so two more changes shall I make,
twin charges of destiny."
Kitsune, "And what would that be, something that will change this from it's
gloomy world destruction ending? It is looking more and more like a dark
bet to me."
Dracos, neglected to respond, staring deeply into the faux Mimir's well,
"How to change this so faith is shown, a challenge between faith of true
form and faith of false gods. After all, true faith was what defeated the
two dark gods, harnessing the might of Courage and Wisdom, and bringing
together the strength of his friends."
Kitsune, "So what exactly do you intend to do. Each of your changes has
been overall subtle, but it looks like you've backed yourself into a corner.
Unless something major is added to the mix, this will all end in darkness
and destruction."
Dracos snorted, small flames appearing from his nostrils. Then smiled, a
particularly evil smile which would have caused most to flee. He watched
carefully the movement of the waters of time, then, blurring two stones hit
the same moment, sinking quickly into the water. "That shall do it, there
will be a chance for redemption, evil, good, faith, friendship, and a Quest
for Destiny. With those stones, I shall bring him back, reincarnation, a
simple trick. He shall provide the power, if aided by their faith. Now my
query will be answered, will humans fall for the false faith of gods, true
and false, good and evil, or shall they form a true faith from their trust
in each other. Show them the path, O' Destined Child, and we shall watch
and see if they have strength to climb it. He shall have all the strength
and knowledge he needs, but only their faith will see them through."
Kitsune, "But didn't it take tremendous magical power to unleash the
strength within him the first time?", shaking her head, considering the
mortal in question.
Dracos, "bah, what do you think I am, some amateur? I used two stones; one
to bring a copy of his existence forward to this time, the other is used to
give him everything he shall need from within. The 'hero' shall have all he
needs, but only his friends will be able to climb the path. After all even
if I refuse to view the end, I will always make sure it begins how I intend,
unlike some fools at the last bet."
Kitsune, "So what about your other two chronostones, aren't you going to use
them?"
"Hmm^� how to make the final changes, something that shall require
simplicity, elegance. A change that will provide the last link for true
faith, the simple factor of timing." Dracos then smiled again, flinging a
stone just so. It bounced in a circle around the water before sinking
beneath the waves. "There, a single change, at a late point, bringing
everything together, at the right time."
Kitsune was able to see directly what this one did, and was quite puzzled at
the apparent waste of a stone. "What good does it do to merely move all the
events to finish at the time of Awakening, wouldn't that negate the point of
your entry anyway? And what do you plan with the last one? You are going
to use it, right?"
Dracos, "Alas, one cannot test true faith by burning it, it must be forged,
only the strongest and purest flames can do such, removing the impurities
are essential in such delicate work. And to the last stone, We shall see my
friend, we shall see. After all, if it all does not work out, I merely
remove the single change at the beginning, forcing all the other changes to
miss, reverting the reality back to it's base form. I am not totally
heartless in my experiments."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prelude 1: The darkness in the depths
It was dark, and it was cold. Darker than the darkest night, cold enough
to freeze the human heart, here was where it all began. A place which one
could discern nothing but darkness, where light had never touched. It was
here a being more ancient than the mountains has slept for ages. If one
could see the room, it would appear pleasant enough, though out of place
with its surroundings. A walkway of stone would appear to hover, supported
by something beyond mortal comprehension, from the single opening in the
room, hanging over a dark abyss and ending mysteriously in the middle of the
room. The opening was not an opening at all in fact, but a door, appearing
from this side to be forged of bone, and capped with skulls, a truly hideous
construct. Runes of incredible power had been carved on this door though,
yet one would find they did not glow, except to enhance the darkness around
them. If one was to stand on the walkway and look up, the darkness there
would oppress them, freezing their spirits and draining their hope, for not
a single ray of light was allowed here, the ceiling being merely an aura of
darkness. If one was capable of seeing anything in this hideous darkness
one might notice the impressive crystals, standing every twenty or so paces
on each side on top of the stone sides of the walkway. If one was truly
observant one might notice that it would appear as if a human skull could be
seen in each one, contorting in various forms of suffering, in a state of
eternal agony, as one's angle with the beautiful crystals changed.
A truly mad one might look over the edge, into the dark abyss below.
Perhaps one would see nothing, merely feeling a sense of desperation at the
hopelessness emanating from the chasm. Mayhaps one would see various
paintings, on the sides of the wall, working there way down, getting far
more horrible as they went, depicting some of humanities most shameful
moments in complete relief. One might see anything; perhaps even a painting
of one's own life, and a sense of dread will fill you. The desperation
would grow greater, one would find it suddenly hard to move, and why bother
anyway, you exist but to die. But perhaps you would be one of truly
magnificent strength, your proud will fighting off the eternal hopelessness
and dread emanating, and you would continue looking, perhaps seeking
whatever bottom there was to the darkness, for after all, all pits have a
bottom, a point to which they can go no further, else they cleave the very
earth in two. But to this dark pit one would never see an end, for after
all, one is not watching merely darkness, but something truly of the dark.
One might begin to notice the sense of evil, of wrongdoing that flowed
around the room. Maybe a wise one would have fled by now, but then a wise
one never would have entered. A last glance down to the darkness and one
with super-natural sight might just see something, stirring in the abyss.
Then one's heart would begin to slow, slower and slower, finally stopping as
a darkness even darker then the impenetrable night of the room begins to
become clear, a shadow relief within the darkness. Maybe if one was a near
god, someone of such strength that all but the strongest demons would flee
at your approach, you might hear a whisper^� Such a soft whisper^� filled
with anger^� malevolence^� despair. One would know suddenly, right then that
one would never encounter an evil darker than this^� As eternally, a single
word is whispered in the room, something made all the darker for the hope
contained within, reverberating within one's soul, speaking of the hope of
death that all mortals bear when faced with ultimate evil. A soft,
malevolent voice, whispered for all eternity^� it's hope and it's despair,
the one whom shall set it free^� "Nikanoru".
Yet, now even as one would die, something changes^� life filters ever so
slowly as a single aspect changes, in a place where nothing may live,
nothing may move. It be but a single flicker, no more than force than an
eye raising not even the smallest fraction of an inch. But, what is this,
one change is followed by another, and yet more. The darkness swirls,
almost as if it was in celebration, yet at the same time in agony. The
darkness becomes even more oppressive, the stale air, millennia old would
finally lose its battle, being absorbed by the darkness. A vacuum would
seem to form, yet nothing would really seem to change as the room would
appear as it always has been, a walkway, a door, and the darkness. Slowly
though the changes would accumulate, shifting something, that never was to
move again. The Accursed Sleep would end, but not now, no for even the
power of the darkness was matched and surpassed by such power that placed it
here, below the earth, in a prison. This prison was something nothing
should have survived; yet the darkness thrived here. Hidden from the prying
eyes of the innocent, a relic of days gone by stirred softly in its sleep,
forced slumber from a battle ancient even by those who might have recalled
it. But who would know, whom would believe, something so beyond the ken of
mortal men.
As the years would pass the changes would accumulate further, a slow waking.
For it is true that the smallest ant could crush a mountain, for a
mountain is nothing but a pile of incredibly small pebbles, which in turn
are nothing but a pile of incredibly small particles of dust. Even the
impossible may be achieved in a long enough period of time, after all what
is an impossibility if not something beyond the efforts of those around, yet
if it is a limitless effort, it would never occur, so merely it must be an
effort astounding in its proportions, and that great effort will break down
into little efforts, small acts, and those too shall be seen as even
smaller, such small things as a human tear, could change the course of the
impossible. As a sage once said, "Give me a lever, and a place to stand,
and I shall move the world.^� Perhaps what is necessary is not a tool, but
rather a plane, an eternity of time, for if patience was allowed for,
couldn't the impossible, eventually form from the smallest acts of the
possible. But this is merely a foray into other possibilities. What we
witness here is something that is very similar, but also as dissimilar as a
butterfly from a stone, one flying in the air, aloft upon the wind currents,
one trapped upon the ground, never allowed to take flight by itself. For
even as the butterfly, strong and beautiful in it's small complexity, starts
off bound by the earth, a mere caterpillar, unable to move from it's prison.
What would one whom was never was allowed to fly, be like. Perhaps it
would be bitter, hateful, maybe, hoping beyond hope, it would find happiness
on the ground.
Perhaps this darkness would never awaken, for might it be like the stone,
trapped for all eternity beneath the mountains of the world, a forgotten
monument to hatred, despair, and most importantly death. Flowing again in
the shadows, "Nikanoru", perhaps this phrase is the name of its creator, the
one who designed something so horrible, yet filled with a dark beauty beyond
mere mortal comprehension.
Now something has obviously changed, for as seconds become minutes, minutes
hours, hours days, days years, years millennia, perhaps the smallest change,
a single particle of dust, could shift others, which in turn would shift
those around them, each in turn shifting still more, until the mountain
crumbles under it's own weight. Maybe at first the darkening would merely
stir, never actually awakening, then eventually the stirring would shift
more darkness, change can be a dangerous thing. Perhaps a particle of dust
would enter into the darkness, causing it to stir still more. Alas^� with
time perhaps the darkness would come close to awakening, and knowing its
plight, would seek to remedy it, calling out to those who have aided it in
the past, seducing new followers from the present, and with it's soft voice,
singing the despair^� "Nikanoru".
Perhaps in the darkness a shape would manifest, a shape most fitting for
that, which was occurring. A single eye. Huge in it's majesty, shut for
all eternity. Yet watch closer, even this new phase, this single
manifestation stirs, shaking ever so slightly, one would think it never
moved. A single last effort perhaps, to come back and awaken, or maybe
something more, a darker reckoning foretold by the gray lines which cross
with the blue, forming an awe inspiring pattern upon the dark eyelid. It
stays there, hovering above the platform, for a day, a month, perhaps even
years, for what is time to eternity, nothing more than a measure of what has
passed, or maybe it is the hope of what is to come. Yet the stirring of the
eye, slowly, such that even the sharpest sight could miss this foreboding
darkness, could shift a grain of dust, falling from the upper walls. After
all the darkness exists touching everything, and if the stirring can fell a
single particle, why not two or three. Maybe most of them would simply fall
to the abyss, never having any effect, but then perhaps one or two would
touch the eye, the harsh grains rubbing over the scaly hide of the lid.
Maybe it would be enough to awaken He Who Sleeps, merely for a moment, for
the wards are strong, and the darkness, large and tired, would be slow to
awaken. Perhaps when it opened one would see an eye like any other. Maybe
as it opened, a beauty beyond compare would be revealed, a dark pupil, sharp
and vertical, almost invisible in the orange that surrounds it, filled with
the lightest strands of red. The central part of the eye might be
surrounded by a dark purple lining, almost giving the illusion of a
spherical gem, priceless in comparison to all before it. Then the eye might
open even further, showing that what you believed to be the eye before was
merely a small part, like a pinprick, upon the majesty of the full eye,
gleaming a malevolent green, surrounded by lines of the purest blue of the
sky filtered with the white lines of clouds. Perhaps one would still hear
the whisper, "Nikanoru", and maybe now it would seem like a plea, a cry from
a long forgotten god.
But this notion would pass quickly, as the rage of the dark god filtered
through your soul. A need would be felt, stronger than any desire, as a
voice would pass through your head. Fear would follow, striking you down.
Demons around the world would hear the voice, the call of the dark one, and
rejoice, listening for the words of this most dread lord. Even a spirit
would be paralyzed by the need in its words "^�I have not enough strength^�
Give Yourself to god, Become God's Strength. Pray to God. Praise God. You
must become God's strength." And you would find yourself desiring to serve
this god, this majestic being in front of you. You would rip out your own
heart if it still beat and prostrate yourself in offering before the god.
Yet while it would hear you and accept your strength, it would not yet
awaken again, for with a final, "Nikanoru", it would slumber once more.
Some demons would be confused, for was this not the time of destiny, in
which the dark god would walk the earth in its full glory. Some would nod
knowingly, understanding what was ordered. These would be far older and
more dangerous than those who could not yet understand. And then there
would be the ancients, those who served the god in times pasts, who would
once again be the word, raised from the hideous resting places, they would
tame the world, in order to resurrect their god. And a single one, wiser
than any demon, eldest among the eldest, ancient as the dark god himself,
perhaps more so, would rise up. He would go, knowing what was to come, and
knowing his destiny, seeking to change neither, the nightmare would arise
once more. Perhaps^�. Perhaps "Nikanoru" is not a man, nor a feeling;
perhaps it is a destiny.
And a small child would cry, not understanding what was to come, but
feeling the sadness nonetheless.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prelude 2: The forgotten kingdom of the sands
Deep within the deserts, hidden within the unmarked changes in the world.
Is a city, no not even that now, maybe it was once, maybe it slowly filtered
away, from a city to a town, a town to a village, to the nigh abandoned
stone grave it be today. Maybe if one was quick with one's eyes, one might
catch a quick glimpse of the few remaining villagers, the last remnants of a
once mighty and great people. Perhaps you might even see one or two truly
peculiar villagers, bearing black-scaled wings upon their backs. A truly
observant visitor might notice that this would appear to be a holy shrine,
with the city built around it, yet nothing truly permanent except for the
shrine itself, the walls and a few rouged stone buildings.
A gleam from the sun would catch the eye of one who walked there, bringing
ones to face where the shrine entrance should be, at the top of the
building, yet what is this, merely a stone mirror, nothing to be worth time
or worship. Albeit a closer look would awe the visitor with its
craftsmanship. Carved from the purest stone, even the most knowledgeable
traveler would be at a lost to determine exactly what the stone is made
from, it seeming akin to all other stone, yet somehow something much
greater. Perhaps one shall see a wave pass on the smooth surface of the
mirror, almost as if the stone was water and a single droplet of water had
disturbed the peaceful tranquility. But then it would be gone, forgotten,
relegated to a mere trick of the eyes, for stone cannot shift itself like
water, so your eyes must be the fault. Then one's eyes would be drawn to
the border of this beautiful stone mirror, with twin dragonheads mounting
the top and bottom of the artifact. Perhaps a quick eye would see them
move, ever so slightly, but our friendly visitor would never notice this.
Maybe he would notice the distinct craftsmanship in the dragonheads,
something beyond the abilities of any mortal object. Perhaps one would come
to the conclusion that the shrine is there for the mirror, a holy artifact,
sent down from a god. And one would not be far off, for as one would watch
the mirror, the mirror would also watch you.
Maybe one would notice that the empty well in the center of this town,
directly before the temple, something you would wonder you missed before.
And for a second you would feel absurd about looking at it, for after all,
it is only a well, a place for drinking, it couldn't have a greater purpose
in existing. But then one would be wrong and have missed perhaps some of
the last remaining histories of a once great tribe. But our visitor is
quite observant, seeing how the stone surrounding the outer edges of the
well almost appears as if it was carved. Looking closer it would appear as
if these were steps, and being curious, one might travel down this path of
hewn stones. As one travels, past a few rooms that appear merely to
distract one from seeing anything important, one may come to a long
corridor.
In this corridor would be twin masterpieces, beautiful in the art portrayed.
Each portraying a battle, with a single man, blue-haired, wielding a
mighty blade with a single hand, guiding a small force, each member unique
and different, their very working together a miracle in itself. On one side
would be portrayed a hideous demon, steeped in darkness, cold beyond
imagining, yet clearly falling to the blade of the mysterious hero, wearing
a beautiful jeweled pendant upon his neck. Strangely, this odd jewel would
be similar to the mirror above, yet seeming to shift, changing color before
your bewildered eyes. On the other side would be a younger blue haired man,
not the same, yet so similar they might have been kin, facing off with his
blade, surrounded by his friends, with a creature of unimaginable beauty,
yet horrible beyond imagining. Also this warrior is shown as being
victorious, as if these fell creatures could be stopped by blade alone.
Strangely the eyes of the hero in this fresco seem to be moist, almost as if
the man was about to cry, and one would wonder how odd it would be if the
painting was able to cry. Yet a second later, another image would strike
that thought from your mind. Looking at the beautiful goddess, one would
notice she appeared similar to one standing near the hero, a snake-tailed
monstrosity from the waist down, a beautiful sorceress from the waist up,
looking at the two, one would almost see them as being so similar that they
could be sisters. Maybe you would notice that the snake-sorceress appears
upon the other fresco as well, appearing only slightly older, yet otherwise
unchanged by what clearly must be much passage of time.
One would walk through this corridor, filled with awe, amazed at what one
sees yet when one passes through the door, one would be overcome with
wonder. A square room, not a single wall more than a dozen feet across. A
slight indention in the center, a slightly raised platform on one's left.
In many ways one could see this a sign that the chamber was used for battle,
and indeed the scratches, the flame marks, even the blood stains on the
floor would bear your righteousness in this claim. Yet^�times may change,
and this room appears to no longer be used for any such purpose. Instead it
seems to be filled with sadness, and a small hope. Behind the raised
platform one sees a small statue, an idol, forged in the shape of a dragon.
Maybe it would seem to be the last artifact of a long forgotten cult, yet
behind in, in green paint upon the wall, is the same statue, with, in
slightly lighter green paint, a humanoid dragon appearing to rise from the
statue, wisdom shown in its eyes, experience shown in the very artistic
position of it's twin Chinese-style mustaches and it's small, even lighter,
goatee. Yet this artwork, so beautifully painted as to seem as if it would
come alive at any moment, perhaps even it will, pales in comparison with the
magnificent artwork upon the other three walls.
Beginning on the wall opposite the door, and continuing to cover all but a
single wall, the masterpiece depicts a battle of tremendous proportions.
Starting with what appears to be a gigantic tree, it's roots spread along
the bottom of the first wall, ancient in their portrayal. One would get a
feeling of eternal patience from the tree, as if one was in the presence of
a being more ancient than one could possibly comprehend, a sense of always
being there. Standing before the tree is a small plant, misshapen yet
something that clearly is different than any other plant one could find if
one had a million years, a plant unique among it's kind. Following the
painting along the wall one would come to a group, distinguished by the mere
differences within it, thieves stood with warriors of faith, royalty among
paupers, all following a blue haired boy. Yet as you watch, the image would
seem to shift, be this boy or be it man, for both seem to appear before your
eyes. Opposing this mixed group of warriors appears another boy, much like
the first yet purple is his hair. As one watches one would see the same
double image, as intriguing as the first, yet there be something more, a
darkness around the boy, a sadness only mirrored in the eyes of those with
whom he battles, as if they were long lost kin, brought together to face
each other on the field of battle.
One might see something even beyond that, hidden in the strands of darkness
that surround the single young warrior, a strand leading from him, so
lightly painted as to appear almost invisible to the naked eye, a line of
power, dark power. Leading to a hand of incredible beauty, such that most
mortal men would kneel before such a hand, borne by a winged angel, sent no
doubt from the heavens, blinding in her golden glory. Blond hair cascading
down her back, she floats on the third and final wall, nearly alone. But
another figure is also seen, emitting an aura as hideous as the first was
good, possessing the face of the angel, it was a perversion of nature a
fiend, towering high, surrounded by a swirling aura of darkness and hate.
As much as one felt hope from the view of the angel, filling thy heart with
faith, one feels helplessness before this artistic rendering. Be thankful
it be only art, for few would be able to even kneel before such a horror, a
perversion of the very ideas that embody good, an instant would be all it
takes, and death would claim your soul. Standing back one would notice
another figure, almost hidden behind the gathered warriors, the sorceress
from before, standing weakly, she watches as one who knows that the world
was changing, watching the end of a long forgotten era.
As one turns to leave, a last image catches your eyes, something that amazes
you that you missed before, glowing golden, an artistic feat that must have
taken years to perfect to such a level, it appears as if a third eye exists
in the forehead of the boy, glowing, leading him to his destiny, to the
darkness beyond. As one travels back down the corridor, one may look at the
two frescoes along the way, glancing at the younger boy, and one might
notice how his eyes gleam, shining almost as if they were reflecting light
through tears, as if the man could not allow himself to cry, despite the
sadness he felt. Walking back one would never notice the spirit following
you, guiding your way.
As one leaves the village, hidden in the desert, abandoned by all who live,
one would never notice the single change, a quick image, but a flash really,
of a face of a dragon, elderly and wise, his eyes gleaming golden through
the stone mirror, then, just as quickly, disappearing beneath the stone,
leaving small waves as if he had dove into a placid pond. And even these
too would quickly disappear, returning the stone to it's incredible
smoothness, it's unnatural texture and design, but one would never notice
this simply change as one leaves the village of the dead, a land once known
as the birthplace of hope, home of the dragons^�
And a young boy would feel courage; suddenly knowing he would never be
alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prelude 3:The Tower of Tyr
If a man stood in the midst of the deserts of Antheon, he might be awed by
the sheer power of nature in action, the absolute lack of any living
creature, the simple barren planes which flowed on for miles in all
directions, not a single thing breaking the mold. Of course, upon this most
unholy land, he would miss much with his eyes, after all, he is merely
mortal, and no mortal may view what this desert hides. A small desert, yet
one in which not a single machine will function, nor any living being come
close, except for man, ignorant of the forces represented here. A small
island, somewhere in the middle of the Pacific ocean, one would think that
such an island would have colonists, people, animals, anything but endless
expanses of sand, going off towards the horizon, oh so far beyond ones
perceptions. If a man was to walk across this small island, he would be
amazed at how long it would take, almost as if it was many times it's
apparent size from above, yet of course, how would he know, for none may see
but a spec of it from above.
Yet, if one were to think this island completely barren, uninhabited by any
creatures that mortal man has ever known, one would be wrong, dreadfully
wrong. After all, there is much beyond what mortal eyes can see. Perhaps a
truly powerful mystic might discern a tree, near the western edge of the
island, somehow, invisible to the naked eye, a long forgotten being,
watching the desert, it's wooden bark telling many a tale upon the face of
the earth. Maybe one with tremendous powers of empathy, one whom may sense
the true spirits of plants would feel what this is, a mere extension of a
being so ancient that it has been forgotten by all who lived upon the earth,
carrying the wisdom and knowledge of ages upon it's roughly growing limbs.
Perhaps one wise in the ways of old, knowing the names of greater beings,
might put a name to this forgotten tree, yet he would be wrong, for none has
ever written the true name of this lost god, even now slowly dying from the
abuse heaped upon it by forgotten mortals, it hides it's lasts vestiges of
life from mortal eyes, yet leaves a single tree here, watcher for a land
which was once the birthplace of two beings, beings of incredible power.
One might ask who those beings were, but none would answer your query, for
only the tree would no, and no voice would he speak with.
Perhaps a god might witness this desert, a being with sight so true that
none may deceive it, the divine eyes of heaven. Then something remarkable
would be seen, hidden deeply within the sands, a tower, buried almost
completely in the sands. Maybe if a god was watching, he would be horrified
by what was about to occur, perhaps he would seek to stop it, but he would
fail, and be destroyed, for so is the fate of gods, when met with those of
greater might.
As the tower would rise it would remain hidden from the eyes of mortal men,
surrounded by an ancient city, once called Xhan Khun, it was here that the
tower, dark and terrifying in it's construction, would rise once more.
Higher and higher it would rise, and one might think that surely someone
would be able to see it, but the eyes of mortals may not see this tower. A
storm would commence, thundering, clouding the azure sky with darkness; wind
would blow the desert sands, show harsh that they would rip apart any flesh
they touched. Slowly the tower would rise, a monstrosity which had
witnessed a thousand battles, built from magic and technology, a wonder and
a horror, beyond the ken of mortals, it would stand, the dark tower.
A tower which had been first built as a prison, which grew beyond it's
bounds, once was viewed with terror, next with hope, always dark in its
construct, a hidden fortress, powerful among the skies. Rising higher and
higher, it strikes through the dark clouds, demons screeching cries of glory
as the unholy structure resurfaces upon the mortal plane. The rise of the
dark goddess, and perhaps, mortals would feel a chill, as a being most
ancient upon the world, a goddess, powerful and wise, who has risen again to
reclaim her world. Most though would feel hope, raining from the skies, the
chance of renewal flowing through their souls. A dream both beautiful and
harsh to remember.
Beyond the highest floor, in whence a place that was once called Eden
exists, a land filled of the most beautiful aspects of nature existing as
far larger than the entire floor area of the tower, would stand an angel. A
being whose very existence would fill one with hope, a maternal calling
which tells that all shall be made right, a siren's voice. Few could resist
such a call, and why bother, for is not hope good, would it not be nice not
to have to worry, to know that everything would turn out alright? But not
for all, after all, the angel sees a small world, fragile, and such fragile
creatures that live upon it, she certainly cannot allow all to live, as they
will. For only her path will lead to hope, to eternal safety, and this path
cannot be wrong. Her white wings glowing, she would land upon this realm of
non-existence and pray for her world, and change would occur. After all the
wish of a goddess is a powerful thing.
Demons would awaken, once again to serve the goddess, angels falling to
answer her dread call. And a force more powerful than any ever assembled by
man would arise from their long slumber, the stone guardians of Myria. The
dragon-slayers. They would arise and know but one thing, that there duty
was not complete, almost none would question, none would hesitate, for the
wish of the goddess was clear, none could be allowed to threaten her small
world, those of power must be destroyed.
Hidden in the sands the tree would hear, and stand and watch, forgotten even
by the dark goddess, more elder than the tower and observer for longer than
any other being could have stood. Another would awaken, the lost soul,
awakening deep within the desert, his trusty spear beside him, he would know
what has happened. He was the heretic, the one who lost his way upon the
heavens, whom questioned the goddess; he would search for the ray of hope,
fearing ever for the world, bereft of any faith. And as the sands would
calm the guardians would leave, hidden in cloaks, beings forgotten by the
world, forged by the faith of a long dead clan, they shall seek to end the
order of the world, to return it to it's safe state, under the guidance of
the mighty Myria.
And the winds shall blow, unheeding of the events that hath just occurred.
A single man shall view the tower, as he leaves, cloaked without his heart,
bearing but a single spear, he would seek to change the world, carrying the
tear of a lost tribe. Turning he would leave the desert, knowing it's long
forgotten name, and leaving the tower, which even he would not know. For he
would leave the desert of death, turning his back upon the dark tower of
hope, the tower of Tyr, Goddess of destruction, birthplace of Myria, Goddess
of Hope, and he would travel, seeking what was lost.
And a young man would rise, feeling the burden of destiny upon him, he
would know not his fate, but would stand before it, resolute with the
courage of ages.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prelude 4:The lost sister^�
Hidden beneath a mountain, trapped under the waters, floating on the sands^�
such legends have always been told of the sorceress of legend^� a figure
of mystique, her powers have always risen to a need. Living, dreaming,
sleeping, the story of her might has been told for many eons. Her floating
city among the sands, guarded by the spirits of the wind, three in
particular which guarded her eternal rest, was a legend that no desert man
would ever not be able to tell. Another traveler might talk of the hidden
vortex of sands, yet another tale of the deserts, albeit from a different
continent, which told of the mystical underground lair of the serpent
sorceress.
Death itself had long since given up upon this soul, the tales would run,
albeit few now knew where she lay, sleeping, waiting for the next time she
was needed. The tales would be false of course, as the sorceress has slowly
succumbed to age over the course of millennia, her hair, once darkest blue,
is now streaked with lines of steely gray. Maybe a tale would be told, in
the shadows of an old mountain in Tibet, of a hidden shrine, long since
buried, in which she guided the fate of the world, granting knowledge to
those who sought it. A wall was said to be at the end of the shrine,
covered with archaic runes, which would shine blue when touched by mortal
hand. Some would wonder what these runes were saying, perhaps a story, or
maybe a spell, none truly knew, for the location of the shrine was lost to
memory.
Perhaps a tale would be told of the mists of the rising sun, which would
appear from time to time, during the brightest parts of the day, when the
sun shone as if it meant to burn all shadows from the grounds below. This
tale would be quite interesting, a tale of a city, carried in the mists,
unreachable by human convention. Always appearing off the coast of a proud
nation, the country where the sun rose, high in the east, it would disappear
as hastily as it appeared. Some called it the work of a sea witch, designed
to throw sailors off their course, and maybe it would be true, for few would
be able to navigate in the deep mists. Some would speak of spirits whom
would whisper among the clouds, sometimes blowing a ship onward, even
without a single gust of wind moving the ship. Never would a ship of steel
find this mist, only the older fishermen would ever come across it, speaking
fondly of the mists, for after leaving the mist, fish would always be
plentiful where they found themselves. "Perhaps the mist is a boon, sent by
a sea goddess to reward her faithful", they would say.
But this tale would be close yet far from the truth, as would all these
tales. For the sorceress of legend lived yet, not upon the desert, nor
under the waters, nor hidden deep in the mountains. She would not be bound
by chains, covered in runes, or trapped in a prison of power. She would not
wield her powers at all, neither as a sea goddess nor as a sea witch, for
she was none of these things. She was merely an old woman, powerful in her
arts, powerful in her magic above all, ancient in her reckoning. Guarded by
her last remaining spirits, friends she has kept with her for ages, she
slumbers, dreaming of a better time, a past when she had family, a single
petulant sister, of a future when she saw hope. She slept, upon the city of
the mists, guarded by the three winds of time, caring little for the world
without, a being who had outlived all those around her.
Perhaps once she would travel, assist those younger than herself, share her
ancient knowledge with the world. But no longer did she bother, after all,
the world most cruel had abandoned her, she waited for death, knowing that
there was no more cause to live. She slept, hidden in a single shrine, four
levels deep, in a castle upon the clouds, surrounded by memories of pasts, a
small tree in a corner, towards the front a shrine to a long forgotten god
lay, with one of a few remaining idols standing, watching the waters of it's
beautiful shrine. The destroyed buildings of the past stay besides these
pleasant memoirs, a testament to the battles she had fought, the beings she
had killed, the weight upon her old soul.
She would sleep on a stone plate, a stone coffin with a flat stone lid,
rising a foot above the ground. And here, forever to her mind, she would
dream, until such a time came for her to awaken^�
And a young boy would sleep, perhaps to dream, for knowing the future would
come in its own time, and willing to wait for his own time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Well, what do you thing, Wolfy?", questioned Dracos, smirking again at his
companion who had now taken the form of a large blue wolf, its glistening in
the artificial moonlight that now filtered through a suddenly apparent
window near the top of the room. The room had shifted, with Dracos now
lounging in what appeared to be a throne, though with angels on side and
skulls and demons on the others, topped with a headpiece, which had a young
cherub on it with half the face of a demon, or perhaps it was a demon with
half angelic features. Nevertheless it was an impressive, albeit probably
unnecessary addition to the shifting plane.
Fox shook his canine head, "Okay, So you've brought back a couple of gods
and set them all on an eventual intersect course. Exactly how does this
differ from the past conflicts between these beings? After all, if the
outcome is different, then millions will perish.", lying back down on a
beautiful rug, made of interweaving blues of a thousand shades, forming a
consistency and strength unbelievable in such a flimsy looking rug.
Dracos, "Alas, you see not the beauty of it, the simple complexities that
make up this amazing play. While the principle players have remained the
same, the others are different, it has never been the primary roles that
made the difference in the end anyway, the unknowns, the unappreciated are
those who can sometimes make the biggest differences of all. And even the
principle parts will be played differently this time around, for no act
shall be performed the same twice."
Fox, "Well then, get on with it" ears twitching in anticipation "Introduce
the rest and finish your stage setting, your changes have wrought quite a
combination, it will be interesting to see if it can manage it avoid
becoming a dark fic, with so many evil changes, the nays definitely start in
the lead."
Dracos, "Hmm^� perhaps, but true faith is never easy, and a quest worth
undertaking must be wrought with difficulties of the highest caliber. But,
anew it has reached another point of interest, see my twin changes here, now
watch there effects, as the waves of two other changes collide with these
two, will they cancel themselves out, or merely become a single stronger
wave from it, an interesting question." With a flick of his wrists, a
golden chalice appears in his hand, filled with wine likened only to the
purest shade of red, it's blood kiss an ecstasy beyond mortal imagining.
Sipping a small bit, Dracos toasts, "To faith, may it always run true."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*End Preludes*
And now that turned out so well let me try the half-completed draft of the
prologue.
Version 1.0
Hello friends, sit and watch a while, this shall be an entry of particular
interest, it is being recorded by myself for posterity, after all it is my
entry to the bet. Any comments regarding this story ought be sent to
Dracos12@hotmail.com. Any who want to contact me online should go to the
forum at
www.excesscomics.com, leave a message, I am on there for most of
the afternoon. Any flames ought be left at the door. Any who complain
about canonization will lose their head. Any who give constructive
criticism, compliments, well thought out ideas or arguments will be thanked.
My position ought be now clear.
Disclaimer: There is a bunch of series in here; most I choose to forget whom
originally owned. Just consider that going after a writer who is an avid
follower of these series is not a good way to keep fans. I can at least
make a certainty roll that characters or elements from: Breath of Fire,
Sailor Moon, and Ranma 1/2. More might cross paths with this at a later
point, maybe some will step on it, step over it, or perhaps even get stepped
on by it. Just enjoy the trip into the realm of fantasy and worry not about
such petty details.
^�^�^� Spoken Words
'^�' Thoughts
Heretic's Bet: Prologue
Prologue: Rise of a Hero
The birth of the one would be in a place, rather normal. He would being as
would any other, a youth, with parents, brought into the world in the normal
ways. Nothing truly glorious heralded his coming, but neither did it pass
unmarked. No star of glory shone in the shine, but those who waited for his
coming watched, waiting for his destiny. The ones who borne him knew not
what he represented, knew nothing of the dreams and hopes of those who
watched, the fears of those who scryed his existence with their powers.
They merely saw a child, innocent of any sin, the hope for their own
futures.
It all began in a small hospital. The year was a rather dull one for most,
no wars occurring, no great changes existing, it was a time of peace. Two
parents, one lying in a bed, the other standing nervously beside her,
holding her hand as she screamed. A short doctor, a kindly old man stood
by, monitoring various machines, speaking reassuring phrases to the waiting
couple. The woman's face was covered in sweat, her red hair soaked. Her
husband, a strong man, built like an athlete, a martial artist of
extraordinary abilities, attempted in his own way to comfort his wife
through her birthing pains. Then with one last scream from the woman,
having long since forgotten her desire to stolidly show no pain, the babe is
born. The doctor pulls the child free of the woman, cleaning him quickly
and holding him for the new parents to see.
The child opened his eyes, the deepest blue, clear as the clearest skies
and with his first glance saw those who were his parents, staring proudly at
their newborn son. The child's eyes shone for but a moment, gleaming a soft
goldenly light in his pupils, but as soon as it appeared it was gone, the
child softly crying. Silently a spirit watched, knowing this to be its
final gift, its most potent champion.
Taking the newborn babe, his small fluffs of hair a deep blue, the husband
prepared to name him as was agreed prior with his wife. The spirit saw
this, and prepared to intervene, for its champions have always borne a
single name, one reflective of the spirit within. Awakening inside the mind
of the husband, a commanding voice spoke, declaring through the astonished
man what name the child should bear. ^�My son shall bear the name of Ryu,
for his spirit is clearly as strong as a dragons.^�
Baffled the husband blinked a few times, but foolish mortal that he was,
quickly banished the incident from his mind, figuring he himself had decided
upon the name and commenting on how fitting that his son, who would be the
greatest martial artist of his generation, would bear the name dragon. As
the boy grabbed his finger, he spoke to his wife, ^�Our son, look at him,
such a grip he has. He will certainly be a man among men, Nodaka.^�
Smiling tiredly, the young woman, Nodaka Saotome, agreed with him, looking
proudly upon her newborn son. The spirit smiled, knowing that his champion
has returned, and left to await his coming, for the boy would come, even if
it took a lifetime. And the child slept, unconcerned of these petty
troubles, knowing the sweet bliss of his first nap in the arms of his
contented father, the martial artist known as Genma Saotome.
Four years later^�
Coming in from the rain, Genma carried his young son on his back, smiling
at the happy cries from his son. Entering the Saotome household, he quickly
doffed his shoes, lowering his child to the ground. Feeling a quick tug at
his gi, he sees his son, silently demanding another round. Swiftly acting,
Genma shoos the boy off to see his mother. Then he watches the boy swiftly
dash off with the loud cries of ^�Okaasan^�, finally finding his mother.
Apparently, Nodaka was in the kitchen by the time it took for the boy to
reach her.
Smiling he thought of how skilled the boy was, easily stronger and faster
than most boys his age, the perfect heir for his art. He thought upon his
son's amazing ability to learn, picking up the basic of karate in a matter
of days. Frowning, he knew what he had to do in order to ensure that his
son became the best. He thought upon the small sword work he was beginning
to learn from Nodaka, knowing that the heir of the school could never depend
upon a weapon; he made a decision that would strain the family for years to
come. Wisely showing nothing of his thoughts, he entered the kitchen,
happily embracing his wife as he returned from the days work as a martial
arts sensei at the local gym.
Later, when Genma was alone with Ryu, he began to put his plan into action,
arranging an event which would began the shattering of a family. ^�Son,
how'd you like to finger paint with me?^� carrying a set of papers and some
paints with him. At the smiling nod from the boy, accompanied by a ^�Hai,
Tousan.^�, Genma placed the paints and papers before the boy. Seeing his
father draw a little figure using the paints, the boy sought to follow,
sticking his hand in the paint and pressing it on a couple of blank pages.
Seeing his father place another page in front of him, with a little writing
at the top, the boy, trusting as always, placed his paint-smeared hand on it
once. His father immediately took the paper away, smiling at his son; he
tousled the boy's blue hair, and got up to leave, telling the boy to enjoy
himself.
An hour afterwards, all hell broke loose. ^�What! You CAN'T TAKE MY LITTLE
RYU AWAY!^� screamed Nodaka.
^�But wife, your presence will make him weak. You will coddle him, and
anyway he has already signed this promise, he will become a man among men by
your judgment, or we will both commit Seppuku.^� Whined Genma.
^�But^� He's my little boy, and he is only four, isn't he progressing well
for his age? Why does he need to leave?^� Questioned Nodaka.
^�Yes he is progressing well, and that is why he must leave. With your
coddling he will never develop the fighter's edge he will need if he is to
be the heir of the Anything-Goes School of Martial Arts. I promise I will
write often, perhaps drop by once in a while at first. I must quickly wean
him off the care of us though, he must learn to live by his own strength or
else he will always be dependent on others.^� Genma said, thinking 'And he
will, just be dependent on me. He will make a great match for your daughter
Soun.'
It took many hours of arguing, but in the end, Genma had his way. Nodaka
was ever a woman of honor, and though it grieved her, feeling to the young
mother as if she was slicing off her own limbs, her perceptions of Bushido
made her path clear. She would not dishonor her son nor her husband, but
would wait stoically for their return home. She would be the mountain,
standing for eternity, ignoring the pangs of the wind, her painful love, for
as long as it took.
Stoically she watched as they left, not allowing herself to cry until the
shadows of the night had more than cloaked the very land they walked on
hours ago in darkness. Then she broke, crying softly for the burdens she
bore for honor; no matter how much they pained her.
Ryu at the age of six^�
Watching his father perform a spinning kick, Ryu imitated the move,
slightly off but amazingly well for one of his age. Seeing the frown though
on his dear Tousan's face, the very same frown Tousan bore every time he
caught Ryu practicing his swordsmanship with the bokken that his Okaasan
gave him, he tried again, this time doing the move correctly. This garnered
a small smile out of Genma, pleased so far with his son's progress.
'The boy is progressing incredibly well.' Thought Genma, 'perhaps we have
time for a little rest, maybe find him someone his own age to spar with.'
With that thought in mind, Genma called a halt to today's practice session.
'Perhaps we should make a stop at one of these nearby towns, I can teach him
some of the other basics of Anything-goes and also I can plan on how to
teach him that ultimate technique.'
*Flashback*
^�A few days ago, we find Genma and Ryu walking through a light forest. Just
as the sun is beginning to peak, we see them coming across a Shinto temple,
a rather out of the way one, but nice in its own way. We watch as Genma
stops here for lunch, letting Ryu run around the temple, playing with a
couple of the younger children of the priests. Genma spends the time
talking to the priest.
Leaving the temple, Genma quickly decided to camp out nearby. Later, in
the pitch-blackness of night he returned to the temple, leaving his son
sleeping silently under the stars. He had heard that this temple guarded a
special secret, and the priest had confirmed it. 'Such a well hidden
technique would certainly benefit my son', thought Genma, rationalizing his
planned theft of the temple with the ease that comes from years of study
under a master as immoral as Happosai.
Silently sneaking into the inner sanctum of the Shinto temple, Genma
quickly located what he was looking for. A small booklet, wrinkled and
dirty, hidden in a secret compartment under a safe containing a few coins,
bearing the title 'Ultimate Technique' upon it's cover. Swiftly taking both
the book and the coins, Genma left the temple and returned to his sleeping
son, happy in finding a technique for the boy that none would be able to
beat.
*End Flashback*
We now find the two approaching a small town, a hamlet really. A few small
houses, a run down inn, and a little okonomiyaki yattai near the road is all
that make up the place. The two of them being led by Genma went to the most
important place first, the yattai serving food.
As the two approached the yattai they saw two other figures standing near
it. A tall man with brownish hair, rough and moving with the grace of an
expert in the art stood making okonomiyakis next to the Yattai. A small
young cherub stood near the cart, imitating the older man on a miniature
grill with tiny spatulas. Obviously they were parent and child, sharing in
the practice of their art.
Genma watching them from a distance saw a key opportunity to both garner a
free meal and begin some of his son's training. Pulling the young boy to
the side he spoke quietly, hidden in the shadows of some small trees, ^�Boy,
see that okonomiyaki over there, the one on the little grill?^�
Looking over at the smaller child skillfully handling the mini-grill, his
mouth salivating with hunger at the sight of the okonomiyaki, having not had
a proper meal in days, Ryu nodded. Genma smiled, adding ^�Well do you want
it?^� His eyes not leaving the sight of actual food, Ryu nodded again.
Genma grinned widely; glad at how well this was going so far. ^�Well boy,
go and take it, whatever you can get away with is rightfully yours to keep.^�
Ryu stood uncomprehending for a moment at it, prompting his father to
repeat his suggestion. ^�It's like a game Ryu, if you can take the food and
not get caught you get to eat it.^� Ryu, at the offering of food, quickly
ran off, trusting his Tousan's words.
Running swiftly through the small trees, sneaking closer and closer to the
little chef. Standing behind some brush near the grill Ryu prepared to
strike, watching closely the movements of the little chef, waiting for the
completion of the next okonomiyaki. Sensing his chance the young lad leapt,
grapping the okonomiyaki and running away, hearing the screams of outrage
from the young chef.
The young chef, a girl by the name of Ukyou , was shocked to have her
little okonomiyaki stolen. 'And just when I had gotten it just right too!'
thought the angry young girl, screaming at the thieving boy. Then, just in
the manner her dear Otousan taught her, she pulled a few mini spatulas out
of her sleeve and tossed them at the boy. Being but a child her aim was
pretty good, two of the four she tossed coming quite close to hitting the
boy before he swiftly dodged them.
Ryu was enjoying himself, having plenty of fun at this new game. But he
wondered why the chef wasn't chasing him yet. Only for a moment though as
an unnatural instinct caused him to swiftly dodge hard to the right, barely
missing being hit by small metal things. Smiling at the challenge he
glanced back for a second at the little chef, ^�Ha, you missed.^� Enraging the
girl further.
Seeing the mocking visage of the thief looking at her the chef promptly
lost it, grabbing a rather large metal spatula, dull so she wouldn't hurt
herself, she chased after him, intending to beat him into the ground. With
a mighty battle cry, or rather a scream of childish rage, the young girl
charged at the thief, intending to make him pay for what he stole.
Leading the girl away from the village, Ryu smiled, glad to have a new
playmate. He ran on, keeping just a little in front of the enraged young
shopkeeper, eventually stopping at the end of a small clearing with some
small trees surrounding it. Ryu saw her skill with whatever those strange
metal objects were that she threw at him. Quickly devouring his misbegotten
meal, he turned, happy at the prospect of a fellow martial artist.
Ukyou, slightly winded from the quick run, smiled upon seeing him stop to
devour her okonomiyaki and prepared to make the thief rue the day he stole
from her, heir to Okonomiyaki school of martial arts cooking. Not even
stopping to properly set herself for attacking she charged in a fierce two
handed overhead strike, aimed at her unaware opponent's head. Only to be
completely surprised when he easily dodged the slow strike and the follow up
slash, using the time to increase the distance between them.
^�Not bad, but now it's my turn.^� Taunted Ryu, leaping towards her in a high
kick, hastily blocked by the chef with her spatula. Ducking down the boy
followed through with a quick sweep and knocking her spatula away. Jumping
back as the chef got up, he followed through with a few swift punches,
knocking the young chef back on the ground.
*Unfinished*
Well C&C is requested, Prereaders HIGHLY REQUESTED.
Those who are my prereaders shall be getting a far more complete draft, most
likely tommorow, consisting of the completion of the early ukyou arc. Well
again I beg C&C and Prereaders, Dracos Out.
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