Soul Storm - The Connecting Flame

~His rage drove him to kill...until he met the youth who would kill his rage~

By Myristica (C) 2007 

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Blessed be!

~M~ 

His height and build were not unusual: six-feet of long, lean, yet robust stature.  The sinewy muscles of his arms were covered in bronzed skin.  His strong and toned legs were clothed in skin-tight black leggings, knee-high black leather boots and revealed a man not unacquainted with hard travels or work.

He wore simple leather adornments on his arms and wrists, depicting an association with mountain tribes possibly of the Swarrin or Meglantha regions.  His leather headband was a simple braided length, the knot well concealed in the back beneath his lengthy, black hair, which hung over his face in a vain attempt to keep unwanted scrutiny at bay.

A tattered, gray cloak adorned his shoulders and swept at the ground as he walked.  It hung languidly over his weary form like a burial shroud.  On first glance he was no different than any of the other warrior-travelers who broke their weary journeys long enough to take a meal and bed in this secluded village.

So it was not his physical appearance that made the patrons of the tavern take notice of him.  It was his predatory grace, his subdued attempts to not be noticed that sparked their curiosity.  And with their curiosity, they noticed the skull carvings on the hilt of his sword, which hung in a scabbard on his side.  It was that sword which clearly identified him.

Many throughout the continent of Murgatara had heard the stories of the Marked One.  Many believed them to be myths grown into legends, portraying him as some kind of monster spawned by the darkest of magick, or a demigod full of vengeful wrath. 

The patrons whispered their disbelief, thinking the stranger at the bar could not hear them.  Their words wafted over the air, ghost-like, though no less subtle than a black snake slithering across white sand…

"It's him, isn't it?" one man asked in a hushed whisper.

"So it seems,” replied another.  “The skulls on that hilt show Verma craftsmanship.  Yet he is not Verma.  The stories tell…"

"Stories?" one old man snickered.  "I've actually seen the results of his madness.  He leaves dead bodies behind, everywhere he goes.  Warlords don't even want him around.  They say he's bad for their business."

"More bad for their egos," said another man, this one younger, but obviously not lacking in the ways of observation.  "They say no one can kill him."

"I've heard he's possessed by some demon," said another man.

"Possessed?" the old man snickered again.  He was possibly the village cynic, the type who would never let the opportunity go by to set people straight on the do's and don'ts of speculation.  "More like he's the demon."

A woman piped in, "Didn't he slay an entire warlord's army in one day?  I say he should be hired on as protector.  If he stayed around, we might not have to worry about those punk warlord kids trying to earn their marks…"

"Ah, shut up, woman," the man next to her commanded, obviously her husband.  "What do you think would happen then?  Those same punk warlord kids would keep coming here to challenge him all the time."

They spoke without realizing that the head of a nearby gang was, in fact, listening to every word.  The warrior had seen him when coming into the tavern, with his black leather and heavily gold and silver studded gauntlets on the forearms.  His swarthy complexion was pitted with scars of past puss-filled boils, which belied his age, giving him an almost seasoned appearance.

The likes of him meant trouble if not handled correctly.  The warrior had ignored the youth, not interested in any sort of confrontation, but it seemed the patrons would not let the ignoring go on for long. 

The warlord’s two leather-clad friends, both the same age he was, but with more arrogant and obnoxious demeanors, hissed with amused laughter as their so-called leader grabbed his cod-piece and clutched it, mocking the couple in front of them. 

The warrior felt the warlord’s gaze upon him.  He kept his back to the youth and hoped his lack of interest would deter any challenge.  The youth really was too young to die a fool’s death.  Then again, foolishness was no respecter of age.

The murmurs continued.  "His rage could ignite a smoldering volcano, they say," one youth ventured.

"I was told it did, once," said another.

The speculations and observations roamed through the tavern from one side to the other, and then back again like choppy waves. 

The warrior quietly sighed.  No, not so subtle at all.

Due to his Rantha heritage, the man known as the Marked One could hear every word.  The hearing of a Rantha had proven to be more sensitive than a dog’s.  It also proved to be a detriment, or a blessing, when listening to such bold gossips as he came across in his journeys.  

The analytical supposition continued, but he forced himself to ignore it, not even lifting his gaze their direction.  He considered covering the sword’s hilt with his cloak but shrugged off the urge.  They already suspected he was the infamous cursed warrior, no sense hiding the fact now.   He knew his nefarious reputation, but truth was truth no matter how ugly it looked.  And if there was anything in this world that mattered to him, it was truth.

Terahn had taught him that.

For a moment his mind went back to the thoughts of his past when life was given him anew, and his darkened corridors of madness had collapsed in the heavy weight of shelter's embrace.  Terahn's embrace. 

A warrior like no other, Terahn had taken his time with the Rantha, wooing the rebellious spirit that refused to see there was more to life than that of vengeance.

So lost was the he in memories of a love lost in bloodshed's fury, that he barely noticed the barkeep placing the wooden tankard of ale in front of him. Were it not for his instincts always placed on alert, he would have let the barkeep’s actions go unnoticed completely.  But he was cursed, and because of that curse, he could never truly escape the goings on around him.

The smell of the ale brought him out of his desire to run away within his mind.  He stared deeply into the golden liquid, like a seer searching for anything to help him understand.  But there were no visions or signs reflected in the ale.  Like all other times before, epiphanies evaded him.  With all the lessons he had learned over the last eight years, all the fighting skills and skills of the mind, long since buried with Terahn, the Marked One had never truly discovered how to see beneath the surface of simple pleasures.

Terahn had come close to teaching him, but even back then his love had not eclipsed a rage, yet untapped, enough to allow simplicity to be guide.

Why he continued the inward analysis was beyond him, except that maybe it was habit now.  Always trying to make sense of a world gone mad, of rulers and leaders, warriors and soldiers, seeking death and conquest over peace and co-existence in harmony.

Were it not for Terahn and…

…And a harp song played by a child prince that, even now, toyed with his heart and mind, he would have given up trying to find any answers at all.  But for those two memories, he would have stopped trying to put sense to reality a very long time ago.

The whispers behind him continued.

With a callused finger, made hard by the constant use of his cursed sword, he traced a crack on top of the wooden counter he leaned against.  This was all familiar to him—the stares, the whispers and the scrutiny of those who wondered if they could take him in a fight.  He had trained himself to ignore it all without losing discernment.  Even in the midst of complete and utter reminiscing, he could still maintain an unexplained awareness.  It was a side effect of the curse.

There he would be, lost in the past, or lost in thought, and the fools would sneak up on him, carelessly thinking they were being smooth and strategic.  The body count was now up to two thousand fifty-four, not counting the kills on the battlefield.  He always tallied the bodies, not out of pride, but out of his need to plant himself in reality.  Not that he needed the constant reminder of why he was the way he was.  Every time he looked down at his chest and saw the mark, he remembered.  No, the body count served as his focus, his penance.  He never saw their faces when he killed them.  The Blood-Rage would not allow him that.

It was after the slayings, when he saw the blood and carnage wrought by his hand, that he gazed upon those he had killed.  He made it his penance to study them, to never forget them.  Some were arrogant fools, but most were warlords or slave owners, or people that reveled in the pain of others.  No one would miss them, certainly, but he was no better than they were, and he still had not found the one who could kill him, who could stop his maddened existence.

He considered it dumb luck that innocent people had not yet been victimized by his mysterious curse and sword.  Perhaps they knew enough to flee the moment he unsheathed the red steel, for he never fell into the Blood-Rage unless there was a need to fight.

The blood would begin to boil and his breathing would increase.  Sweat would flow down his face, and his normally green-tinged amber eyes would flare red like that of molten rock.  The mark would begin to glow and pulsate with each beat of his caged heart.  The vibration of the sword would start as the glow intensified, harmonizing its balance with the rage of the one that wielded it.

There was a chance that someday an innocent would feel the edge of his blade.  The possibility was always in the back of his mind, sometimes seeping into his dreams at night, tormenting him.  After all, killing an unarmed youth was the reason for the curse.  What was to truly stop him from killing another when the rage ignited?

The whispers continued and the eyes still studied him.

He let out another bone-weary sigh…and felt the tingling in his blood.  He quickly looked out the tavern windows.  Outside the sky had taken on the hint of red as the sun began its decent into early evening.  He shut his eyes.  It would still be a few hours away, but the call of the yearly craving would take him soon.  The more he went through it, now, the more aware he was of the changes that attacked his body during this time.  He had grown used to it.  The sudden tingling was a mere signal that he would have to leave this village.  He lowered his head in acceptance of his fate.  A bed would have been nice, but it looked as though that simple pleasure would have to keep until the next village, or the one after that…or the one after that.  Even if it weren’t for the onset of the craving, he would still have to leave.  The villagers would certainly not let him rest in peace if he stayed.  It seemed no matter where he went his reputation never let him go without notice.  He had hoped, though, that it had not traveled this far into Murgatara.  He should have known better.

He surrendered to the call of unyielding misfortune once again.  If it were not for the dreams, those torturous plagues that infected his sanity and reason, he would have bypassed this continent all together, to head north into the ice-lands of Olkon.  The land of driving winds and snow would have been more fitting company for his disposition.

But this time his path was not his own.

This time his dreams told him where to walk.

Perhaps the dreams were calling him to what he yearned for.  Perhaps the killers of his parents and older brother awaited his arrival, and in the process of killing them, perhaps they, in turn, would kill him.  Perhaps one of them was the one he searched for to end his life.

He gripped the tankard of ale and lifted it to his lips.  He drank with all the casualness of one who didn't seem to matter, or just didn't care.

He felt the eyes of the barkeep on him and slowly lifted his gaze to meet the scrutiny.  "Something on your mind?" he spoke in a voice both low and calm, but his eyes…

The barkeep hitched a breath at those eyes—green-tinged amber depths, hard as a sandstorm and just as harrowing.

The barkeep cleared his throat.  "We don't want any trouble here."

The infamous warrior took a long swallow of his ale; then set the empty tankard on the counter without a sound.  He flipped a coin into the barkeep’s hand.  "Then don't make any," he responded, his voice seemingly at ease, undisturbed. 

As he turned to leave, a sword blocked his path. He glanced down at the blade of steel that nestled close enough to kiss throat, then slid his gaze to the hand of the young man who was stupid enough to seek challenge.

The cursed warrior wondered if he should just kill the idiot for that reason alone.

<<<<<>>>>>

The sixteen other people in the tavern stilled as abruptly as if they had stumbled upon a long forgotten tomb.

The stillness filled the air, lessened only by heavy breathing, normally unheard within the bawdy yelling and carousing of the tavern's regular patrons.

The lone warrior, however, paid no attention to the stares and gaping mouths of the people.  His only focus was the challenger before him, the pockmarked face of a youth who only wanted to show off in front of the other two snickering young men who sat at a nearby table.

The warrior ignored them as well.  Only if they made any moves to help their friend would he turn his attention their way.

"Will your eyes flare red this night, Marked One?" the young challenger spoke with a hint of humor to his voice.  He thought this was a joke.  The punch line, however, would not be funny.

Challenge after challenge it was always the same.  Asinine questions that stemmed from asinine arrogance.

The warrior did not immediately reply.  Though he did not yet feel the burn of his rage, his eyes filled with steaming contempt at yet another fool who sought to call him out.

"Leave, boy.  Now."  His voice was calm, in spite of the drunken laughter his self-declared assassin spewed forth. 

"Or you'll do what?"

"Hey, we don't want any trouble here," the tavern owner said.  "Take it outside if you want to fight."

The youth laughed heartily, and it was the arrogant laughter of one who believed he could not die.

"The act of taking my life does not belong to you," the warrior spoke out, quietly.  The curse on his soul had been specific, even though shrouded in symbolism…

A storm of red tides form

As each man seeks to kill.

But only one will slay your heart,

In the midst of Passion's chill.

He doubted this arrogant whelp was the one destined to take his life, for he felt his blood begin to boil.

Ripples of heat filled his limbs like a passionate craving.  First the rage simmered beneath the surface of his blood; then it would bubble.  Soon, he would begin to see red, literally, as every image his eyes beheld became distorted in a fire's waving heat.  After that, the images of those who threatened would take on demonic form, and the intense need for survival would consume him.  He would see the souls of those he attacked; see them as one would look upon the face of evil itself.  He would feel their desire to shed blood, to rape and maim.  He would taste their blood-lust on his lips and that always served to intensify his own.

And now it was happening again.

And as always during this transition, a memory sought to invade his thoughts; that of an innocent child, pure of soul.  The harp music would try to break through the inner turmoil, but he would push it back, and lock it away in the darkest halls of his mind. 

(Stephen, Stephen, Stephen.) 

The name filtered in, trying to rip at the fabric of his threatening madness, but he pushed it back even farther.

"Not here," he hissed, not realizing he had spoken out loud.

"Here or outside, makes no difference.  You will fight me this day."

The youth's mocking voice echoed somewhere in his awareness, but it was Stephen's music he heard.

It was harp song from his distant past—a connection of beautiful melodies that never left his mind.  Many times he had tried to forget the one constant that sought to keep his sanity in check, for Stephen’s purity of heart was not welcome in the presence of a tainted soul.

And every time he failed.

The dreams, the dreams, the dreams.  Why had the dreams called him back to this place?

Stephen had died a long time ago.  A lung ailment such as he had suffered—there was simply no way he could have survived all these years.

And then came another memory; this one of a white-haired man with a silver and gold pipe, playing discordant melodies that could be heard in the winding halls of past and present.  And between fluctuating and non-uniform patterns, the sultry voice of the man known as “The Piper” lingered in his mind…

"Care to make a wager, friend?  Your heart's life will come to a timely end."

He winced.  He remembered the ragged hands on his body, the invasion, the ripping of violent intrusion, and the music of that pipe played on and on as his captors had taken him again and again.

Terahn.

He saw Terahn's head rolling to a stop at his feet.

And now, upon lifting his gaze, a searing red took shape in front of him.  The music stopped, and all he saw was the face of a Verma warrior smiling madly at him.  The face was covered in the paint of the Verma, black and blue and white.  The mouth twisted upward, revealing blackened teeth sculpted by chisel to form fangs that ripped and shredded.

The heat of his rage viciously grabbed him with burning talons.  His hand went to his sword's hilt, and the face before him stopped laughing.  The sword slid out of its scabbard, and those within the tavern saw for the first time the curved, reddened steel that made up the cursed blade.

The youth stared deeply into the fiery eyes that flared like a pair of blazing embers, and by the expression on his face, it was clear he knew in that moment that damnation had taken on physical form.