Bastet
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The spirit momentarily sat at the table deserted by Kitsondra and Marcelline, once again having been disappointed by the vampire. Still, they didn't feel like wasting time. Before any of the tavern's wenches could offer her food, she stood up and walked towards the door. If they couldn't count on Kitsondra's help, they would've just reached their destination by themselves.
Preparation was useless to Symphony; they only could steel themselves mentally to face the Darkwald's darker creatures. They didn't know if anybody had ever managed to see the inner forest and live to tell their tale, but they were determined to go as far as they needed to.
Symphony had left their table at the tavern long, long before Istarelle had even drawn close to the building. Though they knew that something was happening in the forest, they decided not to interfere. The bard had their own path to walk. It was easy to notice that Darkwald easily lived up to its legends after approaching the main path, but it would take much more to scare the spirit away from their quest.
Symphony was surprised that they hadn’t met with any of the extremely dangerous creatures that populated the inner areas of the forest. Yet, whether it was sheer luck or something else, the spirit was glad that they hadn’t found an untimely death.
There was an ominous silence: any fauna around them had long stopped singing their animalistic tunes. The trees loomed over them like menacing figures, their darkened branches resembled ghostly fingers ready to cut and tear through whatever happened to find itself within their grasp.
The road under the spirit’s feet was cracked and unkempt, the stones that it was made of had long since moved out of their place. They required the wanderer to mind their steps, unless they were looking to have their feet injured.
Little of the day’s sunlight filtered through the thicket, ensuring that the woods would remain immersed in darkness even in the middle of the day.
The bard stopped playing their instrument not long after they departed from Blackwater, and had it tied to their back. They didn’t want to risk attracting unwanted attention from the more dangerous denizens of Darkwald.
As the spirit drew closer and closer to what they sensed to be the place the presence originated, it was easier for them to pinpoint its location. At one point, they stopped. Their objective was located off the road, and it wasn’t too much of a surprise. They couldn’t have delayed it any further, as following along the path further wouldn’t have taken them any closer.
The woods were too thick to see through past the first few feet, and the spirit just stared ahead. A chill ran down their spine; a sensation they hadn’t felt in a long while. The musician turned towards a specific points in the woods, and frowned. They were sure that was where the calling was coming from.
Symphony wondered if coming this far having no idea what they would find when they arrived was worth it, but steeled themselves not long after. If something was strong enough to reach them from the heart of the forest itself, it was probably worth their time.
Off the main road, the bard couldn’t see any secondary paths. They would have to find their own through the imposing vegetation, something they weren’t looking forward to with all the powerful creatures that roamed the Darkwald freely.
Symphony sighed and watched an almost out-of-place bird in the sky disappear on the horizon. They didn’t have to wait for long: a ghastly mist evenloped the figures around them. Still, it didn’t trouble them; they wouldn’t have had to rely on sight to reach their objective.
They turned and did what travelers in Darkwald are told to never do: stray off the main path. The spirit still wasn’t entirely sure they weren’t walking right into their death.
As they left the road, they found out they had to navigate through the large roots of the trees that towered above them: they were unnaturally large, and impeded movement. They still didn’t dare to put their guitar to use for fear of exposing themselves, though the crushing silence around them was almost unbearable.
They were thankful they had a clear direction to follow, as every tree looked similar to the next. The doubt they were trapped in some kind of illusionary spell was removed when they suddendly began a sharp descent. The visibility still was no better than before, and they risked injuring themselves fairly often as they followed their senses.
When they finally reached the bottom of the valley they were discending to, they found themselves following a damp river. The smell it gave off was almost revolting, and in the darkness of the woods the water looked as if it was black. This made Symphony rather glad of the fact that they didn’t need to drink to sustain themselves.
The calling was growing stronger and stronger; the bard was fairly sure that their extensive search had finally reached an end. They longed to return to the Inn, as the oppressive atmosphere of the Darkwald made any safe refuge seem like a lost paradise.
To make themselves feel less alone, they began humming along to a tune they remembered playing when they had first considered joining Toren’s quest.
Symphony stopped when they felt their objective to be close to them, and inspected their surroundings. The river they walked along had widened somewhat, but following it wasn’t much harder than before. They could see a faint crimson trail in the air around a small hill not too far away from them, and decided to inspect it.
It turned out not to be a bad decision, as by following the trail’s origin they found the entrance to a fairly large cave carved within the hill. Their senses suggested to the spirit that it was the right direction to follow.
The entrance was perfectly squared out on stone, looking much like the work of expert stonecutters. Symphony wondered how long it had been since a human being walked these parts of the forest. The spirit could see unrecognizable runes engraved on the sides of the cave’s entrance. They glowed in a very faint way, as if the magic that had been placed upon them had faded out over the years.
Inside the cave, the air was very damp. The moisture from the river that had guided Symphony probably had made its way inside the cavern’s walls. The only source of light was coming from the glow of the spirit’s eyes, but that was decidedly not enough.
Symphony finally decided to put their instrument to use and played one of the first sequences they had ever learned. It required very little effort or skill, and produced a very basic result. A radiant glow manifested itself on the tip of the spirit’s guitar, illuminating the area.
On the opposite end of the cave, they could see an altar. As they walked closer to it, a figure materialized.
It spoke with the voice of a confident man, with a hint of sarcasm. He was sitting on said altar, with a bored look on his face.
“Took you long enough, “Symphony.””
The spirit stopped to examine what they determined to be some kind of ghost. It looked like a man in his twenties or thirties, and had a prominent scar on his left eye. His skin was of a golden yellow, and his eyes were dark brown. His hair were of the same colour, and they were of short-to medium-lenght. He also had a ponytail placed high on the back of his head, and it reached down to his shoulders. His image was clad in olive green armor, painted white-grey in some spots. The spirit couldn’t exactly tell what kind of armor it was.
Symphony relaxed, the man didn’t seem to pose a threat to them. That, and they wanted to know why he had drawn them there.
“Getting here wasn’t easy, you know… may I know your name? And why did you call me to this desolate place?”
The ghost stood up, laughed heartily, and walked towards the bard. He stopped in front of them, and bowed in an almost mocking way.
“I was once known as Samjet, son of Solsang the Swordmaster.”
He walked past Symphony, looking towards the cave’s exit.
“I hailed from the Central Plains, and trained in my father’s art of swordfighting: the style of the Murdering Blade. It trained one to not hold back his weapon’s lust for blood, as those who claim to use them as tools of justice can’t bring out their true power. I grew in my parent’s shadow: it wasn’t until his fame as a legendary swordsman had consolidated that I managed to rival him in skill.”
Samjet paused, as if recalling those memories brought him pain. He couldn’t deny Symphony the truth, though: they were his only way out of his prison… and his way to finally find revenge.
“My father was the current wielder of our family sword. It was an exceptionally well-crafted weapon. It was my family’s tradition for the father to pass it down onto his son, and so on. This exchange had been going for centuries.”
He turned towards the bard, with a serious look on his face.
“My village was a peaceful town, but it was plagued by the raids of a demon and his minions. My father honed his skills for years before deciding he was ready to duel with it, and he carefully waited for its next raid.”
Samjet smiled, moving to a less grim memory.
“You should’ve seen that battle. It was an epic struggle that lasted the better part of a day, but my father eventually managed to beat the demon. He decided that such a battle deserved a worthy trophy, and so he trapped his enemy’s soul. He immediately brought it to the best enchanter of the Plains, who hailed him as a hero for getting rid of such a troublesome being. In return, my father asked him to enchant his blade with the power of the demon’s soul: the enchanter agreed, and the result was nothing short of magnificent.
The blade turned to a brilliant red, and every time it was used the air crackled with energy. It could cut through anything, though it gave off strong demonic energies whenever unsheathed. It didn’t matter though, the demon was completely tamed to the wielder’s will.
His face morphed expression once again, this time turning to anger.
“There were those who didn’t agree, though. Once my father returned to our village, they ambushed him while he was being celebrated as the hero he was. There were many, and some were even disguised as normal villagers. He defeated dozens of them before they managed to subdue him and, when they finally did…”
A brief moment of silence, but then a whisper came out of Samjet’s mouth.
“ … they executed him on the spot. It was the day he was supposed to pass his sword onto me, too. I managed to grab it from his dead hands and, with a rage that would put a god of war to shame, I finished my father’s work. I forced the last man who was alive to tell me who it was that dared attack me and my father.”
Symphony was quite interested by the man’s story, and they spoke for the first time since he had begun his monologue.
“And who was it?”
Samjet looked at Symphony straight in the eyes, and the spirit could see a burning ache for vengeance in them.
“I never knew. Probably some kind of magic-hating group; nobody from the Plains could’ve possibly wanted my father dead after all he’d done.”
Samjet paused for a second, and then resumed his speech.
“I spent the next years looking to avenge my father’s unjust death. I made a living also working as a mercenary, not caring for what cause I was fighting for as long as I got paid. When I mastered the use of my family sword, I went on to assault a fortress the murderers had estabilished in my homeland. By myself.
I sliced and diced through the many soldiers that were present, as none of them could rival my mastery of the sword. I even saw the wicked experiments some of them were carrying out on magical creatures, though it only strenghtened my resolve to rid the world of the their presence. When I finally reached the master of the fortress, I was caught in a trap just as my father had been. He mocked me as some mages he called over ripped my soul from my body, and declared that just death wasn’t enough for those who wielded a demon’s power. Little did it matter to him that said power was completely subjugated.
…
He bound me to this hellhole, along with my sword. I’ve been here ever since. The reason I called you here is that you could provide me with a way out.”
Symphony thought that if all that Samjet had told them was true, his revenge was more than deserved. What his murderers had done was unacceptable.
“Why me, though? I don’t practice swordplay. You should’ve chosen one of those who do.”
Samjet smiled again, complacent that the one he had chosen to call hadn’t left immediately.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be able to teach you the style of the Murdering Blade, with time. As for why I chose you, there are two reasons. One is that you were one of the few who were magic-sensitive enough to be able to feel my call, and the second is that I feel connected to you. You suffered through an unjust death, just like me. Oh, and one more thing. You’ve been followed here.”
Symphony turned just as a gorilla-like creature entered the cave from the same entrance they had used. The monster was a hugely imposing figure, rich with claws and teeth. The denizen of the forest snarled as it smelled a possible prey.
Samjet walked past Symphony, assuming a confident stance. The bard noticed he was wielding a ghastly form of the blade he told them of in his story. He had his feet spread apart, and his sword was held above his head, pointed slightly towards the ground.
“I’ll show you that I wasn’t bluffing when I declared my skill.”
He sprinted towards the roaring beast, moving in an astonishingly fast manner. The creature reacted by trying to smash him with an overhead swing of its mace-like hands, but Samjet raised his sword above his head to parry the attack. The beast took a step back, howling in pain: contact with the blade caused a deep cut in its claws. Samjet didn’t give it time to recover; he rushed towards the beast and dragged his sword with him, striking with an upwards slash. He followed through with a number of blisteringly fast horizontal strikes that stunned the creature before finishing it with a slash that decapitated its head perfectly. His style really looked like he wasn’t denying his weapon’s lust to kill.
As the head rolled off, Symphony found that the ghost hadn’t lied at all about his prowess with the sword.
“I’m convinced, Samjet. I’ll help you get out of here. Nobody deserves a fate like yours. So, what’s your plan?”
The ghost’s sword disappeared just as suddendly as it had appeared, and he turned back to face Symphony.
“You’ll host my spirit in your body, at least until I can find a way to recover my own. If it still exists. In return, I’ll teach you all I can about the style of the Murdering Blade… and let you use my gear. First of all, recover my sword from the altar.”
Symphony nodded and walked to the spot that Samjet had pointed them to. A sheathed sword had been abandoned at the highest point of the altar. The hilt was of the same colour as the sheath: a wicked grey that was very close to black. It had a small hook to attach itself to clothes.
To confirm that it was Samjet’s sword, Symphony picked it up and moved it slightly out of the sheath. The blade was indeed crimson. It also looked very much in the style of the swords from the Plains: it was slightly curved, and it had a thin, circular guard.
“Right, here I come.”
Before Symphony had time to reach, Samjet walked into them. Symphony fell down, gasping for air, as Samject joined their consciousness. It wasn’t a complete merge like the one that formed them, but rather the spirit had welcomed the ghost into their mind. They slowly got back up, and resumed control of their body. Symphony found themselves able to speak with Samjet through telepathy.
“Never make me do that again. It felt like my soul was being ripped apart.”
Samject laughed heartily, and spoke in a sarcastically obedient tone.
“Noted. Mind if I take over your body for a moment? I’d like to know how it feels to have a material form again.”
Symphony sighed and allowed the immaterial form of Samjet to take control of their body. While it lasted, they felt like a stranger in their own mind. They also hoped that Samjet would not betray their trust, and up switching roles with the bard.
The first thing that the swordsman did was secure the sword to Symphony’s right hip. He followed it up by quickly drawing the sword, assuming his stance and slashing at the air. He decided to return control not long after.
Symphony, however, was shocked to see how their body had changed when the sword was drawn. Their skin had turned to a charred brown, and their hair to a red that matched the crimson blade. Their eyes’ irises remained the same glowy orange, but the sclera had turned to black. They could also feel they had grown two straight, long horns that pointed behind their head. A strong, demonic energy radiated from their being. Symphony was quite unpleased about this change, and asked the ghost for explanations.
“Oh, sorry. That’s a side effect of the demonic energies contained within the blade. Don’t worry though, other than looking different and emanating that energy there are no other effects.”
As Symphony put the sword back in its sheath, they immediately returned to their original form. Once again, they telepathically spoke to Samjet.
“Ah, it’s too late to look back now. Let’s head back to Blackwater, then we’ll define our objectives.”
< Message edited by Bastet -- 3/22/2015 4:10:45 >
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