Dance with the Judging flames

[Eters]

Chapter 1: The Pilgrimage

The soothing sound of fluttering sails and the crackling of wood against the torrents of the sea. Such was the song the boy listened to as he took fate’s hand and let her guide his steps towards growth. By his side stood his uncle, symbol of both respect and wisdom in the boy’s eyes, he also stands to be his leash should his senses get the best of him. His gruff voice spoke lyrics to the boy, questioning his decision, testing his spirit and sharpening his resolve for what’s to come. After all, the boy challenged the one who gave him life, and raised him throughout the years to be what he is now.

With land coming closer, no gratitude fills the boy’s eyes, not a shred of compassion towards the figure who grew him to be the warrior he is. Empty and void of any glimmer, his eyes sank in the darkness of his own hatred.


Dry land, dry like the life the boy lead. Denied parental love and subjected to the harsh gaze of expectations, the heavy weight of duty, and the binds of blood which tie him down to this very moment. With each step, vivid imagery of the past filled his mind, from the ruthless hours of training, to the long lectures about the talent he never awakened, it all came rushing down like pouring rain. Crushing him like a boulder, the weight was so heavy it almost made him halt and fall to the ground, cower and step away. A hand rests on his shoulder, then moves to slap him once, the sting brings him back to reality.

“Swallow your fear, boy. You are the sword of the Rivorndir; you are steel and death. You do not feel fear.”

The streets are as loud as he recalls them to be, the voices of the merchants in the distance resonate a nostalgic symphony. For he was once a black sheep, an exile in his own home, a stranger in his own family and a stain in the pristine red and gold history of the house he was born into, thus he spent most of his youth walking these very streets. His legs, used to these roads, take him and his uncle without much thought, piercing through the city’s most dense parts with ease, leading them into the nearby forests. The merchant’s echoes now distant, soon only silence filled the air. A heavy silence, one which brought around the boy a cold he was familiar with: Loneliness.

Its arms cradled him in their draining embrace, numbing his senses and sinking him further from light. He wonders, why he is here again? After many years of escape, what is it that brought him the false courage to undertake this trial? No one would’ve minded, his stay in the isle of madness his family settled in now. No adventurer knew his past, no traveler knew his plight, and no stranger heard the whispers of his failures.

“It is inevitable that men die. But our blood, our honor, and our deeds surpass us. Ask yourself; how will men speak of your deeds?"

[Eters]

Chapter 2: Fated Encounter

The night fell as the two walked further into the forest, the only melody was that of their footsteps against the hard, dry soil. The leaves didn’t rustle, nor did the wind blow in any direction. As Selune’s light shined brighter, the path revealed that the nearby trees were singed, lifeless husks of their past selves, the grass was gone and the earth was scorched and cracked from being depraved of water for too long. Yet a prominent air of spirituality filled this part of the woods, a sanctity only present in places of worship.

In the middle of the clearing stood a large altar with an equally large brazier atop of it. Appearing to be abandoned at first, it breathed with life as soon as the boy took his first step into the sacred grounds. A flaring inferno lit up from the brazier, shining light in the vicinity and revealing just by the foot of the altar, an armored figure.

The boy tensed up as a familiar pressure washed over him, the figure was tall and strong, with a tower shield planted on the ground and a war hammer on his belt, he wore what appeared to be a battered ceremonial armor with heavy accents of red and elegant strips of gold. Their gazes met and the boy stepped back, fear began to wash over him as he realized that the time had come, lips quivering in attempts to utter a sentence. The figure put a helmet on, and fire flared from the war hammer as he heaved his shield. As the gravelly voice began to incant a prayer, the boy’s mind was still racing.

It was too early for this. Certainly, fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to pin the boy against his father without a spoken word? Certainly, he would be allowed to regain his composure? Certainly, his father would listen to him now? A blink, and a sudden flash of light fills the boy’s eyes. Before he knew it, he was struck with a flame strike!

[Eters]

Chapter 3: The Tragedy Called War

The night was quiet, animated only by the sound of steel against steel. With his shield raised in a defensive position the boy was taking the blunt of the force from his father’s war hammer which came relentlessly at him. Each blow was heavy, and the sound from the adamantine reinforced tip against his shield made a terrible noise, yet each blow slowly but surely awakened the boy from his daze.

This was what he came here to do. He knew that words were futile, for if they held any weight, he wouldn’t put his life on the line. He knew, that his father wouldn’t stop to listen to his reasoning, after all, he never did. He knew more than anyone that his zealously driven father could only be convinced by raw displays of strength, he knows all this, so why hesitate? Images of his past came rushing at him, the screaming, the shouting, the beating, the sneering, the abandoning, the belittling.

Fear lit up to embers of anger, then roared an inferno of hatred in the boy’s heart. A scream charged with both pain, acceptance, and utter rage echoed in the forest before he finally drew his scimitar. His father stepped back and his eyes widened, feeling for the first time, the unbridled spirit of his wayward son. The boy’s ki was so fierce in that instant, that it became physically palpable, like a red mist gouging from every part of his body, it shouted his intent loud and clear. Lately acquired strength and courage drove the boy to attack head on with bloodthirsty blade in hand, pointed towards his father.


Hours have passed since the two began their battle. The peaceful air of the sacred grounds was now charged with a myriad of feelings and emotions. Magic and Ki crackled vividly with each exchange of blows, with each call of a prayer, each rod used, and each potion drank, the sanctified air faded away, leaving behind nothing but the heavy tension of murderous intent. The ground was further damaged by fiery spells, yet all the same nourished by the blood shed by the two.

Not a word spoken, for the two were so entranced by the morbid song of their battle that they didn’t see the need to speak words, their desire to end one another’s life and their relentless exchanges were the most honest they’ve been to one another. In this waltz of death, a father and son share their first conversation...