A heavy cloth bag weighed heavily on the traveller. The rough dirt road, beaten into the ground by shepherd’s herds, travelling armies, and caravans alike, dug each pebble and every speck into the traveller’s worn feet. He’d been walking from dawn to dusk for weeks, a harsh journey far different from the years he spent toiling over burning forges.
Within an arm’s reach rose a massive cliff face, rising sharply upwards, and covered in moss, ivy, brambles and flowers that had, since centuries ago, taken it as their home. Just below him, an immediate drop falling into a roaring river, covered in just as much growth as it’s brother-wall above it. The river tore through dirt, stone, and foliage alike over it’s countless passages throughout the year. Harsh, but serene, sharp water roaring in harmonious melodies alongside the singing of birds and stamping of woodland hooves. Across the river rose the other side of the valley, a steep incline, but certainly more gentle than the cliffs across it. Ancient trees and older stones weaved together in nature’s tapestry.
Yet, the traveller had little time to roam through the brush, though his darting eyes wandered, rapidly taking in all his mind could contain.
Rest, and then the steady journey onward were all his body would know this evening.
Just as his feet had become dry, scarred, and bruised, so had his hands been kept in similar condition. Unable to practice his art, the travelling blacksmith had hardened his skills through the constant sharpening, cleaning, and maintaining of his weapons.
The first, a thin knife with a triangular styling, adorned with elegant lines and gentle curves shaped into the blade, each one passing through as a river’s flow. It’s handle was simple, carved from a rich, deep mahogany, it’s wood smooth and light, like holding a clump of soft feathers. It resembled a kitchen knife, and loosed a swift breeze each time it cut through the air, such was it’s sharpness. Though never named, the traveller had sworn that the wind has whispered to him the title of, “Ko’Tarii’Utsi,” Wanderer of Breeze and Sky.
The second he carried was strapped along a thin chain that glittered like silver in starlight, and sung like wind chimes when it was released. The blade itself danced almost of it’s own will when it dangled from the chain, it’s crescent knife shimmering brightly as it twisted and spun through the air. It’s silvered metal gave it the bearing more of decoration than of battle, but it’s creator had assured that other lands had been warring with chained blades for centuries. In the stars above, the traveller spelled out symbols that would grant the chained blade it’s name, “Manto’Zan’Nanti’Ori,” or, Man’Ti’Oi for short, Night Falling Day Hidden, or Dark Dive Dagger, sometimes called playfully, “D D."
Lastly, the finest blade the traveller’s smithy had ever produced. A sloping curve, a single-edged blade, a guard carved in an eleven-pointed star, and a grip tightly bound in a dark violet, and a rich gold ribbon. It’s craftsmanship had taken a year, and the love of two hearts to come into this world, truly the traveller and his wife’s pinnacle work. It’s slender black blade seemed endless, staring into it nearly revealed an endless void. The blade was darkness born from a merging of iron and meteorite, which the couple had discovered on their wedding night. It’s name remained unspoken, but the traveller heard it whisper inaudibly each time it was drawn from it’s sheath.
Yet, the last blade never harboured emptiness, rather potential. The traveller, Aru Taizan set himself to travel the world to realize that potential, for his own sake, and for his wife’s as well.
Aru finished packing up his whetstone and grinding kit, and hauled it into the large blanket he kept tied around his shoulders and waist, a makeshift pack.
Steadily, he pressed forward, the dusk falling, and the night’s calm welcoming him, blessing him with the brilliant moonlight, and the meditative music of owls, scurrying rodents, and fierce river alike.
At first, his journey greeted him with bustling town and simultaneously incinerating and freezing deserts, never had he even seen a river in his journey, nor would he let this be the last one to visit.
Aru spoke aloud to the birds, the trees, and the flowers, observing them with eye, hand, nose, and tongue alike, though he quickly learned that the latter should be used sparingly, and always following intense usage of the former three. He pressed each discovery against his unnamed violet-bound blade, gently caressing it with flowers, and unsheathing it to listen to the songs of the night critters.
Weeks away from his homeland, his journey left the comfort of sand and sparse trees, the world he knew rapidly transforming into the impossible heights of mountain peaks, and the incredible sweeps of valley and creeks.
Though, up until now his journey could be recognized as little more than a glorified stroll, albeit one filled with wonder and discovery. Yet no experience he had shared with his sword would leave his mouth gaping, his palms sweating, his eyes widening, and his chest bobbing with sudden and spontaneous chuckles.
That moment occurred once his eyes rounded the end of the twisting river pass.
From seldom touched dusty dirt at the end of his straw-weaved shoes, leading along a path more familiar to animals and bandits than any merchant or traveller. The grass of a hundred hues clutched on to the side of the path. Rocks of a thousand shapes rolled in the wind, pattering across every step of the trail. Tiny ponds peaked out from the tall grass of the plain before him, each one reflecting the identical shades of the sky above. A farmland of countless vegetables, a cornucopia of bountiful food, capable of feeding more people than Aru had ever seen in his life. Behind the boundless fields stood a wall, six men tall, and two men wide, upon which men and women, adorned in maroon and bronze uniforms stood, with eyes of impenetrable vigilance, and smiles of indomitable joy. They laughed as they struck each other with clenched fists, while wearing the same expressions Aru shared with the villagers during the rapturous festivals of his homeland.
The seemingly innumerable harvests before him, the wall, thousands of times larger than the herding fences he had known before, the land where the people on the wall alone surpassed every acquaintance he had ever made, all of this swelled his chest, pressing out an almost silent giggle, pressuring and bursting to an ecstatic chortle.
Yet, still more lay beyond, behind the wall, houses of stone, of wood, of clay, hundreds of homes standing proudly, strong against the winds and rains that had challenged them for decades. Beyond the homes a winding river racing down the mountain, and dancing in between the homes, children in rafts riding recklessly to one another’s homes, workers carefully leading supplies down the mountain, and soldiers napping on calm gondolas ready to spend their shift upon the wall.
Slowly, absorbing each sight, Aru’s eyes peered upwards steadily, and began to tear up.
Atop the mountain of the village, an unwavering, endless geyser spouted forth, dancing amongst the clouds, and caressing the town with a persistent, delicate drizzle. Dancing across the geyser, a cascade of stacked rainbows crested the village, a watcher, and a welcome.
Below the rainbows sat a temple, adorned in banners, pillars, and decorations of the same maroon and bronze the soldiers below wore. At it’s entrance, stood an incredible and ornate door, wider than a dozen soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder, and taller than four of them standing on each other’s heads. In the centre, a massive bronze circle with carvings Aru could not make out from this distance.
Aru’s first encounter with civilization lay before him. He grasped just below the eleven-pointed guard of his favoured blade, unsheathing it to share the world that stood to greet them. The last leg of his first journey began, each step a new sight for him, and a new facet of the new reality to reveal to his blade.
Finally, Aru was ready to declare his strolling journey, a true adventure.
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Nothing was an adventure to the broad, blood-soaked build of the peerless warriors. Though the broad, blood-soaked warrior sought only a peer. Perhaps the wood stakes sloppily slammed into the ground, implied to fill the position of wall, at least that’s what he suspected, could provide him with a warmup.
The hopes of the massive, maul-wielding warrior were promptly dashed, as his lazy test-swing brought the wall crumbling down, a quartet of four bandits’ necks snapping upon the sudden impact. Their killer groaned, staring at the bodies he could have swept down himself. Fifteen feet was hardly a hop, and the bandit quartet had embarrassingly demonstrated the expectations for what disappointment was to come.
A name similar to the hellish bludgeon he hauled, led his foes towards exactly what was coming towards them, Mal.
He was Malcolm by birth, but his full-name was much less impactful, impactful being exactly what Mal strived to be in his roaming.
Impact summarized what the once happily pillaging populace of this fort felt upon Mal’s entrance. Wood and the rare nail flew towards the bandits, skewering their poorly-guarded flesh, and causing no small amount of horror to those lucky enough to be standing slightly further to the side. Lucky was a matter of perspective, and their perspective was soon twisted and distorted, partly due to the blending pain in their stomach upon witnessing the deafening pops of their comrades’ necks, but mostly because their own necks were wretched right around by the pummelling of Mal’s maul that felt much like the pummelling of Mal’s maul feels.
A few massive strides forward and Mal had all but made the fort his own. The rickety home of the bandits was fairly wide, enough to fit a dozen tents, a stable, and a pair of wooden huts, alongside their campfires and some scattered tables. A big pile of weapons sat in a corner, the bandits’ dire lack of any craftsman or even a way to sharpen their swords was overcome by the sheer amount of stabbing sticks they stole from merchants and the family heirlooms of the villages they raided.
Mal was content with his one weapon, though many of the bandits shivering eyes would gaze at it’s size as if they were staring at an entire armoury. The thing Mal’s massive maul lacked however, was a way to strike opponents at a distance. Swatting them quite a distance was of no challenge, but were they at a distance to begin with, then Mal would find himself at a loss.
Luckily for Mal, the generous pile of stabbers and slashers would lend their aid. With a step some men would call a leap, Mal readied himself beside the weapon pile, his enormous basher held tightly in his clenched fists.
The wall-crumbling warrior leered at the doors of the huts, and the flaps of the tents, his bright blue eyes bearing down upon them like the last glint of open sky before a thunderstorm. Below his sky blue eyes, a massive grin formed, surrounded by the self-inflicted scars that spread across his face and body. Each cut was an accidental wound struck by a much clumsier Mal of the past, and every slash decorating his crimson skin a reminder of time’s he could not recall. Beneath each scar, and ready to shatter bone and flesh alike, Mal’s tense muscles bulged. His muscular stature doubled the size of the bandits before him, standing a couple feet above most, and undoubtably broader than all.
As the first bandit peaked out of his tent to see if the deadly demon outside was real, Mal’s maul struck the weapon pile. From the bandit’s tent peaked out a pair of green eyes, rich as the evergreens around them, filled with amazement and fear, and soon torn out, strewn over the cozy tent he had called home. Under a volley of axes, swords, knives, and spoons, the tent was completely uprooted and sent hurling viciously into the tents behind it. A return volley of screams and begs for mercy hurled towards Mal, who was completely unaffected, and completely entertained.
Kermode bear fur boots, dug deep into the dirt, as Mal took swing after swing at the horde of pain utensils. The hair of his gray wolf hide gauntlets blew in the wind, following every stroke. The loose cloth pants that swayed with the force of every strike were much humbler than the animal trophies that adorned the rest of his body, resembling less of a barbarian, and more of a simple monk. The chest sitting above them, that had hardly broken a sweat over the disappointments Mal was tossing cutlery into, was bare, a blue-inked tattoo resting upon his breast, a symbol that read, “tea.”
One of the bandits caught a face full of maul, and quickly turned himself into a mushy, mangled puddle of blood and twisted bones, death being his only defense against the monstrosity that plagued them. Another left the mortal plane, and the fort altogether as his body was hurled above the walls, and his unconscious ragdoll of a body battered against trees on the way upwards and during his violent descent. Slash was slashed, Beater was beaten, and the aptly named Child-Hurler was hurled like a child in a catapult. Cook was stirred, Chase had no escape, and One-Armed "Terror" Terry soon found himself another arm as the only one he still had was pushed through his chest and out the other side, quarter of an arm on either side, and half in between.
After an entertaining length of frolicking around the bandit’s playpen, their leader finally crawled out.
"Yer mam finally give you permission then, Bloodguzzler?" Mal joyously shouted as if to an old friend.
"Me mam’s right there you big red pig," Bloodguzzler motioned to Child-hurler, her torso having broken the record for furthest leg to torso separation in a single split.
Bloodguzzler guzzled quite the wine skin of, well, certainly not wine. Accepting it as a challenge, as he did perhaps to many things, Mal slung out an even larger wine skin filled with still boiling hot tea, and scorched his throat in intimidation. Surprisingly, Bloodguzzler, regardless of the volume of rancid blood he had consumed, could not hold back his flinching and the groping of his throat as he imagined the scalding and boiling of his inner flesh.
"Maybe we jus’ fight this out then, yeh?" Bloodguzzler nervously stuttered, knees knocking, saliva dripping, a very red saliva albeit.
Their eyes met. Then they were separated. It’s awfully hard to meet eye to eye when there’s two less eyes than two eyes remaining in your skull, assuming their is a skull remaining, which there was not.
Mal’s massive malicious maul meteored mightily mid-air, mercilessly mashing more man, meeting mouth.
His hammer crushed the fucker. Crushed him right in the mouth.
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Within tangled wood,
Empty in heart and in mind,
Teach me how to feel
Three walk in the web,
The anchors are too far yet,
Two Pilgrims One Road