NationStates Jolt Archive

I am Uri Krys-Vydanesh, First Rider of Windhaven, leader of my line. It is ours, mine, to be the watchers, the scouts. It is ours to know what will happen before it does happen. This is what brings me to the top of this god-forsaken rock, my cape settled over my body, my blue-steel eyes staring off into the distance.

I see everything. Here, at this spot, there is nothing on this world that escapes my notice. and precious little enough beyond its bounds that I miss. I see my brothers going about their daily lives, their practiced skill enabling them to effortlessly hide amongst those whom they guard. I see my poor twin, so far away, oblivious to who he is, slowly losing control. I see my eldest brother upon his throne of steel, his iron-gray eyes frightening yet another pair of peasants who have come to seek his justice.

I see the white-furred invaders, and I see my nephews of Rys-Mak’anrae and Usreth-Kordani in white snow camouflage, white-steel blades slicing deep into the invader’s flesh and painting the snow red with blood. I smile.

I see my own children in their mountain-top citadel, training in the art of the scout. I see them learning to move unseen, training their senses to pick out the faintest detail. I smile.

I see, again, my distant twin-brother. I watch him struggle, watch him blindly flee from who and what he is, and I wonder how long it will before he cracks and reveals himself. I do not smile. He was one of the greatest of us, so bright, like a star. I know that he will not fall, for I have seen this, but I fear that he will not come through his trials unblemished, and we will be the worse for this.

I complete my survey and spring down from my perch, free-falling through the air towards the ground, three hundred meters below. I see the black shape of Stabby, my Greater Tarn, Unseen-Stabbing-Death, plummeting towards me, but I whistle shrilly and wave her off. She banks wide, coming close enough to look at me. I can see the concern in her eyes.

I see the ground below me, coming ever closer. I do not fear. I am about to become a smear upon the ground, but my black-clothed body bursts into silver-white flames and I stop, maybe a foot from the ground. I rise to my feet and step down onto the ground, then walk a few meters. Stabby lands next to me, remarkably silently and without much in the way of a gust. I smile and walk to her, climbing the five-rung mounting ladder to the saddle, then securing myself into place with the riding straps.

I lay my hand on the back of her powerful neck and will her to take flight, which she does, her great wings flapping swiftly as she launches herself skyward. I lean in, so as to provide the least amount of air resistance, and sooner than one would believe, we were circling in to a landing at Windhaven.

I dismount with a flashy flip and let one of the slaves lead Stabby away to the Heights, where she would be taken care of. Or the slaves tending her would die. Such was our way. There were many slaves and few Greater Tarns.

I recoil as Eryn flings herself at me. My arms fly up, faster than should be possible – I have always been one of the fastest of my brothers, even without resorting to battle-time, or ‘dropshift’ as our children call it – and I catch her, smiling. She nuzzles at my neck and tells me that she missed me. I laugh.

“I missed you too, doll.”

I walk along Windhaven’s central street, returning greetings and smiled, unburdened, even with over a hundred pounds of happy-girl in my arms. I arrive at my own humble home and toe the door open. Nobody in Windhaven would even contemplate stealing from the First Rider – there have been crimes in the other Strongholds, but not amongst the Scouts. We are too good at finding things. To steal from us would be suicide.

I set Eryn down at the foot of my couch and she arranges herself in a proper kneel, legs slightly spread, back straight, head high. I admire her for a few moments, then head to the kitchen to fix myself something to eat. I walk in on Raena, who has been cleaning the rangetop. She turns to see who it was who entered, and, seeing me, smiles hugely.

“Master!”

I wave hello. “Heya, babe. How’ve ya been?”

She shrugs lightly, her long, golden hair moving in almost as magnificent a manner as her rather large…ah…bust. “I’ve been alright, but I missed you! I hope Eryn met you at the landing platform like I instructed her to.”

I move up beside her and open one of the cabinets, taking out a jar of sardines and some crackers. “She did.”

She smiles, waiting for me to wave her back to her cleaning before resuming that activity. I watch her work as I eat, and we talk. She initiates conversation. I allow my girls – it is fairly uncommon for any of my brothers or our children to refer to our girls as what they are – slaves, but, anyways. I allow my girls a large amount of initiative, especially Raena, my First Girl. I also hate custom of forcing them to refer to themselves in the third person, so common amongst the lower men.

“Eryn…worries me, Master…”

I raise an eyebrow, “Oh?”

“Yes. I fear she is only playing at being good. I don’t know that she completely believes that this is her life, now.”

I snort, “Did I ever tell you where I found Eryn, babe?”

She shakes her head, “No, Master.”

I smile, “She lived on the docks of Hrot-ka, her mother was one of the girls who serviced the sailors who came in to port. She was going to have to start working herself, soon, and I didn’t want to see her broken and spiritless, the way her mother was. So I brought her here.”

Raena laughed, “Still. I worry about her.”

I shrug, “If she troubles you and you feel that you can’t deal with it, you know what to do.”

She turns her head to look at me, “Come to you?”

I nod, “Come to me.”

I finish off my sardines and crackers and leave the kitchen, heading to my bedroom. I strip out of my clothing and shower quickly, changing into a fresh set of blacks. I sling my sword over my shoulder and fasten the cape into place. It is not our style to drape the cape over one shoulder or the other – I am actually ambidextrous, and thus find it annoying to foul either of my hands, and my children follow suit.

I take hold of my fighting glaive and walk out into the central street, the few short steps to the forum, where a simple black chair serve as my throne. I settle down into the chair and smile as the first of my children comes for to air their grievances, and I listen carefully, but distractedly. The ‘lawman’ portion of my job is purely automatic, there is very rarely anything but full disengagement on my part. Such is life.

My name is not Jaime Kir, but that is the name that you will know me by. That is the name that I have used for half a millennium, and it has become so integral to this planet’s identity as to have become an entity separate from myself, though I still play the part.

I am, at first glance, quite unremarkable, or so I am told. That is, until you get to my eyes. They are gray, gray like iron. Hard, unyielding, unchanging. Which is, of course, the point. That’s why I chose the color, ever so very long ago, when I first crafted this form.

Unlike my brothers, I choose not to hide what I am, at least in this particular recollection. I am a Guardian. We are not quite gods, but the difference is primarily that we neither gain nor lose power from degrees of worship. We aren’t spirits of the land, for we are not native to this planet…we simply are. There are eight of us, I am the eldest. The twins come next, then the rest. I cannot remember the definite order without looking it up.

Our only real identifying characteristic is our eyes: they are a metallic color, something that we all chose to conceal partially in our choice of human forms, though Uri’s twin is cracking. I will not use either of their true names here, that is for them to divulge. My name…my true name…

Kirael. I am called ‘The Commander.’ The Hand of Justice, the Lord of War. The Guardian-General. It is purely unfortunate that my name shares a convention with the Judeo-Christian Angels, for I am not one of them, none of my brothers are. Perhaps we inspired their creation, though likely it is mere coincidence. Most ‘things of significance’ are.

We predate the conceptualization of such creatures by a considerable time, anyways. I am literally without age – I have simply always been. Similarly, I will always be, for if I were not, the concepts I embody – Justice, War, Order…would cease to be. That will mark the end of the universe. Not even ‘as we know it.’ Simply ‘The End.’

I exhale lightly and begin the exercise run. I am carrying my usual kit – white-bladed sword, heavy machine pistol, grenade bandoleer. I begin the run and the targets begin to pop up. I knock them back down with two-round bursts from my machine pistol, constantly moving. My actions are perfectly automatic, for I am contemplating further things.

I kick down a door and let fly with a tracer grenade, the disk shaped grenade whirling into the ‘room’ and exploding in a shower of ‘shrapnel’ that bowls over the targets within the ‘room.’ I enter, spinning to double-tap a pop-up target in the head. My face is perfectly still.

I set my shoulder and charge through another door, letting fly with two more tracer grenades in rapid succession and shredding another two sets of targets. My machine pistol fires, putting a tight burst into the face and neck of two more targets. Then I’m through that area and spinning, letting the machine pistol drop onto its retention lanyard and shaking my sword free. I cut through the three-dimensional targets, now sword-practice dummies instead of pop-up targets, and clear another room through simply tossing a tracer-grenade inside. I invented the damn things, at least, as far as this place is concerned, I did, and I love them. Truly one of more inspired works of genius.

I finish the run in barely a minute, having expended two clips of machine pistol ammo and six tracer grenades. I shake my blade, unconsciously, then sheath it precisely. My name is not Jaime Kir, but I am Jaime Kir.

That makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? It should.

Uri Krys-Vydanesh surveyed the enemy column, concealed from prying eyes by the white camouflage cloak he wore -- it blended perfectly into the snow-covered land about him. He made note of the number, call it a hundred, and one, unmistakably the leader.

He raised a hand and waved his men forward, two hundred white-cloaked wraiths crawling forward amongst the snow. Uri takes his white-cloth wrapped carbine off of the mounting point on his kitback and braces it against his shoulder, peering through the scope, sighting...and two hundred of his children do the same.

They fire almost as one, expertly double-tapping their targets from a remarkably close distance, before switching to auto-fire and rising up, firing controlled bursts into picked targets.

The two formations closed to sword-range, and Uri dropped his carbine onto its sling and pulled his sword free from its sheath, then moved to face off against the enemy commander. it was a tall, white-furred creature...only in the black eyes was its true nature revealed. This was a creature of the shadows.

Uri smiled. "I am Uriel, The Watcher...and as my esteemed brother would say...that which dwells in darkness...CANNOT ABIDE THE LIGHT!"

He moved forward in battle-time, everything moving so ungodly slowly...except for him. He slammed his blade through the white-furred shadowbeast's chest, red blood splurting out onto the snow. The beast fell down, and he put one boot on the creature's chest and pushed, twisting his blade as he pulled it free of the creature.

"My name is Uriel. This is my home. Your kind are not welcome here. You would do well to remember that."

Moments later, the last of the shadowcreatures died, and Uriel and his children departed as quickly as they came, vanishing into the snow.

Kircourt, the City of Gold. It was the capital of Counter-Earth and the home of the Lord Protector, Jaime Kir, the man who’s name it bore. It was a gaudy monument, built by the people to honor the man who had saved their civilization. To the people of Counter-Earth, the largely barbaric masses, it was a symbol of the greatness of their civilization.

To the man who lived their, it was a disgusting excess and a constant reminder of his own weakness. He had not been able to undo all of the damage done by the Priest-Kings, and in his moments of deep self-reflection, he was stricken with guilt at the idea that he may have not tried as hard as he could have. To be truthful, to a warrior such as himself, the culture that the Priest-Kings had established was paradise.

He had taken a policy of detachment, enforcing only a very basic Code that did little more than forbid genocide, ban ‘atrocities,’ a word left undefined, and make the Sentinel-Knights into a ‘superior’ class. The culture of much of Counter-Earth had proved very stable, with the Sentinel-Knights intervening to prevent ‘atrocities’ as they saw fit. It worked well enough, the culture changed little, and with the Sentinel-Knights ruthlessly weeding out those too bright for the ‘base’ culture to join the ranks of their New Lines, there was very little advancement.

So far, the Sentinel-Knights had managed to keep Counter-Earth largely free of the Shadows, though they were having to work much harder with Uriel’s brother out of the picture. That was why seven individuals were gathered in the innermost sanctum of Kircourt, only there, deep within the mammoth walls of the Lord Protector’s Palace, protected by Jaime Kir’s Golden Guard, could the seven remaining Guardians meet as Guardians, rather than as the heads of their various lines, yet even now, they chose to not lower their guises, stayed in character.

There was an empty chair at the circular table, and that empty chair was the current topic of discussion.

“I don’t like it, Damnit. We’ve all glanced over at what’s happening to him down there, and we can all see that he’s not taking it well. He’s going to crack, and what then? Then we’re screwed. We need to hit that place hard, kill them all, and chain him up until he gets strong again. He’s a danger to us all.”

Shen Karimaru, Shemriel, The Fury, was the youngest of the Guardians. His element was strength, and it showed. He was a hugely muscled man of ‘Asian’ heritage. He was blunt, to the point, and very prone to passionate reactions. In his way, he was the weakest of the Eight Guardians, though he was far and away the most physically powerful. He was dressed in a loose tunic and pants belted at the waist, looking quite similar to a martial arts gi.

Uriel rose to his feet. He alone did not bother to hide his true name or nature from his children, due to the simple fact that they derived their talents from him – they were the scouts, the watchers, the seekers, it was theirs to reveal and to find. Nothing escaped the eyes and ears of the Watcher and his Line. Uriel’s Line alone knew the truth about the Jaime Kir and the Seven…and they weren’t telling. They were also notoriously secretive, for it was their belief that information lost much of its power once it was revealed.

He splayed his hands out on the rim of the table and glared at Shen, his eyes flaring silver. His voice was like ice, with just a hint of the anger he felt at Shen’s words.

“It would be wise to not show such disrespect towards my brother, Shen. He is not one to allow anything to get the best of him. It is truth that he is suffering as we speak, that he is in great pain. I feel it in my bones. But I also feel that he is still strong, and growing stronger. He is not cracking, Shen. He is breaking free. The Shadow did something to him, he forgot who he was, what he was…and you, his brothers, you accepted that and forbade me from trying to save my own Brother’s soul, and for that…for that I will never forgive you.”

Uriel spoke through gritted teeth, barely restraining his anger.

“Now, now you say that he is cracking? That he is going to reveal us? That he should be stopped? You are a fool. He is not cracking, he is remembering who he is. As for revealing our identities…maybe we have hid long enough. I feel that the proper time to reveal ourselves is fast approaching, but I do not know why. Nonetheless, I will not stand here and allow you to insult by brother, Shen. Not you. Not anyone.”

Karimaru sat back in his chair with a thump, and Uriel smiled, then sat down himself. Even though Shen was many times bigger than Uriel, the Fury could not defeat the Watcher. No-one could. Uriel was, in his own way, the greatest of them, primarily because he knew their weaknesses. Because he saw everything.

Kirael, Jaime Kir himself, spoke next.

“Shen may have been out of line, Uriel, but his point is valid. We have to consider your brother’s predicament carefully. I am unsure why Jon’s protégé thought that it was such a brilliant idea to send him…there. But it is not mine to question the First Sentinel-Knight, now is it?”

There was a chorus of laughs. Of course it was – The Lord Protector was Lord of the Sentinel-Knights, just as he was Lord of the entirety of Counter-Earth. It was felt that Tannin Voth had simply let things slip away from him, and that was perfectly understandable. First Sentinel-Knight was a hellish job.

Jaime rapped his fingers upon the edge of the table, his eyes going unfocused for a split instant, then he shrugged.

“I don’t think that any clear course presents itself. Uriel, you are ever our watchdog, continue doing so. I understand that he’s your brother, but you know your duty. Still, I think that you are right, old friend. He won’t crack. Instead, I think he’s soon going to be returned to us, and that idea…makes me very happy, indeed. I have missed him. It will be good to shed a little light onto this dark world, good to have The Radiant One back.”

There was a distinct smile on Jaime’s lips, as if he truly did savor the prospect of Uriel’s Brother’s return. Possibly because, in fact, he did. It surprised him more than a little, but he truly, truly did. It would be very good to have his greatest champion back, truly good to have the only Guardian who’s skill at leading troops in battle exceeded his own, though The Radiant One lacked Jaime’s own superior strategic planning capability.

That smile lasted all the way out of the council chamber, then continued, for an entirely different reason, as Allayah and Jessina found him. An entirely different reason altogether.

I am not like you.

That scares you, doesn't it? I scare you, don't I? I tend to have that effect.

I alone of my brothers am not perfect -- I alone am disfigured. I can see your eyes locked on my left hand...my curse...my humiliation. You cannot take your eyes away from it, though you try.

I scare you, don't I?

My left hand is a claw. The fingers have but two knuckles, and after the second, there is about five inches of hard talon. The hard unguis constantly ablates and regenerates at a similar rate, meaning that the talons are extremely sharp, both at the point and along the tearing edge. The hand, though, it is the hand that draws your attention.

Translucent flesh over what appears to be silver metal. Yeah, you're freaked out, because you can tell that isn't a prosthetic. Synthetics don't have blood vessels pumping through them...do they? I grin and raise the claw, so that you can get a better look.

I walk slowly towards you -- tall and fit, muscles rippling beneath my pale, pale skin. I do not tan, nor do I burn -- my skin is a perfect, uniform milky white, with the exception of my left hand. My eyes are silver, glowing with an inner light, and my hair is the black of space. I am beautiful, in my own exotic manner...

My face is not as blatantly masculine as that of my brothers -- I appear fine-boned and delicate, but there is something about me, and it isn't just the claw, that invokes some sort of primal fear response. Nobody has ever been able to identify exactly what it is...but it is impossible to deny that it is there, as definite and certain as the storm itself.

You ask me my name, enchanted, perhaps, by that aura of desire that comes when one courts the truly deadly. I smile, and answer

Avrael, I say. Avrael. The Hunter. The Prince of Night, The Sword of Silence, the Godslayer.

I am a Guardian, and thus, I am Death...but a certain aspect of Death. I am Death as a tool, Death focused, Death as a weapon. I am Fear, the fear of Death...but I am more than that. I am what Death itself fears, for I am beyond Death.

It is difficult to explain, and you do not wish to comprehend, for you are of that certain type of person that is focused on the present. I step towards you, and embrace you. You do not flinch away, for I hold you with only my right arm. I kiss your mouth, and I taste your thoughts.

Nothing can hide from my kiss -- as I kiss you, your deepest thoughts, deepest sins, are spread out before me...and my eyes widen. I have been a fool. Thought you pure enough to be beyond that foolish human dream, to harness Me as Your Weapon. But I was wrong...

My eyes reflect my sorrow at my own stupidity, for I have condemned you to death through my lack of insight. I apologize to your confused face for what I must do, then my left arm cocks back...

I drive my index talon through your jugular vein, spearing into your carotid artery, then pull free. You fall from my grasp as I release you. Tears stream freely down my face.

I have failed, just as, I suppose, I am always doomed to fail. I am not a weapon to be used by those such as who you used to be....

I walk away from your body, blood dripping from my claw, just as tears fall down my cheeks. You are just another kill amongst thousands, but...but each one hurts as much as the last. The act is never hard...it is what comes later that is pure torment.

But that is my destiny, I suppose...and I have little choice but to live it.