The Legend of the first living Sword
In a time long before the Templewars, a time even before the great swarming, a time when the people of Atys did not struggle for survival and although animosities existed, they had not yet led to the slaughter later to come, there lived a pair of Homins whose fates were inevitably entvined and would spell doom for both of them through their undying love.
In the sunburned Dunes of the Fyros Empire of old there lived Maidakka Binx, hers was the honor of being one of her peoples foremost Warriors. She loved her people, revered the Kami and served both without fail and with compassion from her deepest heart. In many battles she had honorably and gloriously served her Empire and was well known even to the Emperor himself. Many prices had she won and brave Warriors from all over the empire spoke of her fiery passion in battle as the ultimate price to win and take it to the wedding bed.
And that was the one thing troubling her sleepless nights.
She could not find a suitable man for herself.
Many warroirs of her Race vied for her attention and the privilege to be her mate, but none could raise any kind of passion in Maidakkas heart. They had brought her treasures and saccrifices, made great claims of battles and dedicated them to her beauty, just to attract her favor. But all this posturing was nothing to her. None of these men even in the slightest had what she desired. All of them surely were great warriors, but none of them had what she craved the most.
Even if she was one of the gratest warriors of her kind, she hated to brag and posture on behalv of her accomblishments, as it was tradition amongst the warroirs of her Race. She despised the way all these Men strudd around like glistening Yakva Birds, basking in glory and esteem. And by each telling their battles became greater, the enemies stronger, the battle even more dire and them even twice the hero they had been last time they had told their story. She hated lies, and none of her comrades was honest and prudent as tradition truly demanded.
One desperate day she came to visit an old crone, who was said to be a great sage of her distant grandmothers tribe, out in the deep deseret and asked her for advice.
“Cild of War,” the small, ancient woman replied to her request, her voice raspy and deep from incense, “You will find a suitable mate in time, like everyone does. I will tell you of him.”
And after downing a vile concotion made from herbs, roots and strange powders the old crone sank down on a pile of matresses and pillows, her eyes focused on the world beyond and her eyelashes fluttering like the wings of an agitated Igara, she begann to speak in a husky and dark tone:
“A white Aritst will emerge from blue shadow and win your heart in deadly, red battle. – But be carefull child of Fire. For when you truly give your heart, it will cost you dearly and it will be forever. – You will have to choose your own eternity.”
“A price for love?” Maidakka confusedly replyed, “What kind of cost would that be? And what Artist could be able to beat a warrior such as me in battle? Blue Shadows? Tell me Seeress, what does all that mean?” But the old Sage had allready slipped into deep magical slumber and would not be roused again.
As the young Fyra left the hut her thoughts were in turmoil. She was more then confused and even a little angered. As her gaze went over the blazing, golden dunes she noticed the only shadows she could see were sparse, far between and of a deep dark brown. None was blue or even deep enough to hide even a small child inside. She resolved from now on to only practice and fight by day, as to not invite the shadows of night to play tricks upon her and to not make it alltoo easy for fate to catch her unawares.
-----
Amidst deep, green shadows and giant trees as deep and old as the world itself and as elaborately grown as to rival perfection, there lived at this time a great warrior of the Matis people.
His Name was Varro Sadinno and he was as honorful and regal as no other Knight of the Tree-Kingdom. His skill with a variety of wapons was unmatched and his passion for the fine arts of Combat on both the battlefield and high counsil was legend amongst the courts of the forest. His grace was the envy of many a noble and his looks were the heartache of many a virgin and married woman alike. But his greatest passion was not with women nor battle.
Like all of his race he carried within a thirst for knowledge and perfection and a talent to create things from the living matter of plants and other Materials found on the lush world of Atys. And unlike many of the nobles of his people his skill in building wapons was that of a true master. His swords were priced objects for noble and warrior alike to have, though only few of the lower knights could afford one of his excellent creations. So emersed was he in his work, that neither the joys of courtly live nor love held any interest for him, much to the dissapintment of said virgins and older “Girls” alike, who fluttered around him like a swarm of brightly colored butterflys, every time he made an appearance at court. And despite all splendor and beauty surrounding him something distracted his gaze inward from the elborate dances and politics of privileged live.
He was not able to create true perfection. It eluded him like a whisp of light rising from the ground and vanishing before the hand could touch its silky veil.
Everyone regarded his works with admiration and sometimes even greed and envy and whole treasures were paid to posses one of his masterpieces. But even these, as beautiful and deadly as they were, lacked that last spark of perfection he struggled to embed into them – the spark of life.
He dreamed of creating a living wapon, thing of beauty, coupled with an instinct that would make this wapon actually further the skill of its wielder in Battle. A wapon as light, warm, smooth to the touch and deadly as a snake. Fitting itself to the hand of its Master and striking with deadly precission almost on its own accord.
But all Varro could create was dead waponry. All his brilliant works, he himself found lacking.
So time flew by, Maidakka fought many men and none was able to conquer her and win her heart. Varro learned all he could, more and more about the materials of Atys and the spirit of Plantlife, but never did he reach perfection.
-----
Then one fateful day something new was discovered, deep in the dark recesses of the Prime Roots. New kinds of Wood and fiber, new Shells and Ambers wich never a homin had lain his hands on before. A small band of Tryker Prospectors had braved the dangers underground and had returned to tell the tale of wondrous materials down there.
At once the Emperor of old Fyros and the King of old Matia ordered expeditions to be formed, to claim these new ressources for the people. The Fyros were to be protected from the Monsters down there by the finest warriors of the Empire.
Maidakka was amongst them.
And amongst those Matis who would examine these new treasures, was Varro, who had drawn in every favor he had to go with this expedition.
-----
Two huge and terrifying Vorax had attacked from the cover of the Jubla-Trees and many Members of the Fyran Expedition were frozen in fear as the two beasts came roaring over their small team of Prospectors. But the Fyran Warriors were not that easily scared and dispatched the Monsters in a firece battle. Two of thier comrades died, but their diminutive Scout urged them on, for as he and his fellow Tryker had learned the new materials were only to find under certain circumstances.
Angered to leave her friends behind but still exhilarated by the fight Maidakka ran on into the green-blue twilight of the deep caverns. Her eyes moved constatly from shadow to shadow, ever vigilant for more wild animals to attack them. A strange sensation slowly got hold of her though, as if some small invisible demon was stradling her neck and slowly throtling the breath from her lungs.
“Stop! – Look, there´s someone allready at the site we found the Shells.” The scout annouced quietly.
And yes, there were pale, slender figures kneeling on the ground and walking around on the soft moss amidst the glowing ferns.
“Matis?!” one of the prospectors breathed heavily,eyeing the nervous Tryker.” How do they know about this?
“How do I know? Maybe one of my assoisates...
“Shut up you! I´ll be damned if we let palenoses steal our Treasures.” A Warroir announced and before Maidakka could stop him he and another one charged the unsuspecting Matis, swords held high and fierce battlecries on their lips.
Suddenly the once quiet cavern was filled with the clammor of battle.The surprised Matis doing their best to fend of the attacking Fyros and two very nervous Trykers silnking away into the darkness of sidepassages.
In one of these sidepassages Varro had taken shelter earlier to examine and experiment with his newly found materials. The small grotto was aglow with a bluish light comming from some strange lichen on the walls, but it calmed Varros anxious thoughts and he set out his Tools and begann to work on a new blade.
Just as he was applying the finishing touches to his work he heard the shouts of alarm of his fellow travelers and the holler of fyros voices.Grabbing his new sword he stepped from his small recluse.
Maidakka jumped and twisted, avoiding blows and shots from anraged Matis, granting a swift death to the first one she saw aiming his sword for her.
“What senseless slaughter is this?”, she thought disgusted, ” And again caused by the pride and ruthlessnes of men.”
Behind her. Steps!
The young Fyra whirled around and spotted the entrance to a small cavity in the dark bark. Deep blue mists swirled there and a figure moved, aglow with some strange light. Stepping foreward, she realized that this Man wore fine, white Matis cloth, a slender sword in both hands and a proud, calm face turning toward her.
Maidakka froze in midmovement.
The words of the old Shamane came back to her now.
But then he was upon her.
The two warroirs traded blow after blow. Varro elegantly and precisely twisting his blade at the vital spots of his foe and swiftly stepping aside of thrusts. Maidakka parrying feints and slashes and forcefully thrusting her blade at the enemy. A deadly dance ensued, both combatants giving no inch nor quater, locked into a ballet of fateful outcome.
“She´s fighting like an Ocyx.” Varro thought,” wild and untamed, determined to kill.- Her eyes are flashing like Amber in the Sun. -What a sight to behold!”
“He´s dancing like the wind over the desert.- His grace is increddible.” Maikakkas thoughts were muddeld by fear of fate, but still she was able to hold the Matis of.
Then suddely, after a final clashing of wapons, the warroirs parted. Breathing heaviely both stared at each other for long moments. Both barely able to stand, they looked around.
And found they were alone.
Surrounding them lay the dead bodys of their comrades.
Their wapons held high, still unable to catch their own thoughts and hearts both just stood there.
Pain wreaking their hearts. But a strange kind of pain.
Hot and searing, but at once pleasureable and sweet.
Slowly they moved towards each other. His green gaze locked into her firery stare, barely a breath distanced them now and slowly their wapons sank to the ground.
This was a man of nobility and grace, someone who valued other things besides war and battle, someone who knew beauty when he saw it.
This was a woman who seemed to love the Art of battle just like him, who found the same exhilaration in combat as himself.
And as their hearts and hands reached out to one another fate went it´s dreadful course.
A terribly wounded Matis lifted his head from the ground one last time and saw the back of a Fyros warrior turned to him. With his last breath he lifted his gun and shot.
Maidakka dropped into Varros arms. Blood spilling from her chest and coloring his white Armor a deep crimson and finally staining the blade of the newly created sword.
-----
“It is time my childe. – Come Maidakka.”
A soft, deep voice surrounding her, sounding from everywhere and nowhere at once, inside her.
“No! It can not be. Not yet. Not now! – I´ve just ... I feel... for the first time.. I feel love.”
“Maidakka my childe, everything dies. Now is your time. – Your seedling is destroyed. Now, come to me.”
“No, please, no. Great Ma´Duk have mercy. I beg you to return me to my newly found love. Do not let me die facing the loss of something I´ve never known in my life. You teach love for all things, but this man I do love more than battle, more than all Honor, more then my people.”
“Beware of your words childe of the Desert! You will come to me now, as it shall be.”
“NO! I denounce you! – I denounce my pledge to the Kami and their cruel master, who takes from me what I never had!” burning fury consumed Maidakkas soul.
“HOW DARE YOU?! – Your love for a mortal folower of the false godess is greater than even the love for your people!? To denounce me now is to damn your soul to oblivion!” the disembodied voice thundered around her, shaking her and alomst destroying her with its force.
“Still I defiy you, cruel God who knows not to love! Let me return to him!!”
“So be it! – You shall be with your love again! But never shall your soul find peace. Forever you will slay those whom you once loved and forever shall their Blood be your only sustenance.”
-----
Cradling Maidakkas head in his lap Varro sat and cried. His anguished voice echoing from the walls of the cavern. His companinons lying in their own blood around him, Fyros warroirs amomgst them unified in death with their enemies. And the slowly cooling body of his beloved in his arms. He cried until he had no more tears and even the beasts of the deep were silent, as if commanded by a god.
Hours later he finally found the strength to stand up and let her slip to the ground. He did not even know her name...
Slowly, but determinedly he set himself to the task of cleaning and later burying her. As he moved her limp body from the place it had fallen he noticed his newly crafted balde.
A strange bubbling sound emited from where it lay in a puddle of her heartsblood.
As he picked it up he saw the blood vanishing inside the blade and green sap emmiting from it in it´s place.
The hilt of the wapon seemd to move in his hand, to fit his grasp and to softly carress his skin.
He had made it. The sword was alive.
But no joy came over him from this thought. Only bitterness and deep sadness for the price it took to accomblish his goal.
Anger suddenly reared in his heart and he thrust the newly blooded sword into the ground, where it stuck quivering. A soft green glow flew over its blade and a sound like a sigh filled the air.
As he turned from the blade to bury his lost love, green sap still seeped from the wapon, falling to the floor with the soft sound of doleful tears.
Recorded by Lylanea Vicciona,
Priestes of Jena and Bard of Matia.
