User:Red Blizzard/Story of Red Blizzard
Stories from Antiquity
The Revolt
Seth paused behind the remains of a shop to gather his breath. Outside, the clatter of footsteps told him where his enemy was. Another night, another location, and another battle. This time it was the streets of Akiba. Ayce had sent him there for a recruiting mission for the Revolt, and there he was, fighting for his life after a battalion of Chaos Rippers ambushed him there. What was worse, Fyre had warned him before he left for Akiba that the Order, a former ally turned traitor, was supposed to be active there.
Drawing out a throwing knife, he peeked out from behind the thin brick wall of the shop. Across the street, a Chaos Ripper stared back, grinning insanely, a purple chaos eye latched onto the side of his face. All three eyes blinked at him. Seth wrinkled his nose in disgust and tossed his throwing knife at it. The Ripper ducked away from the incoming knife, sped across the street, and was on top of Seth in a flash. Scrambling to his feet hurriedly, Seth tried to draw his sword from its sheath by his side, but had to dodge away the next instant as the Ripper aimed a wild slash at him with its tainted claws. Seth heard a ripping of cloth and felt a warm trickle stream down his left shoulder. Ignoring the pain, Seth backed up against the opposite wall of the destroyed shop as the Chaos Ripper advanced on him.
Then...darkness. Seth dimly heard a crash, but could see nothing. An icy coldness crept down his back, making his flesh crawl. Then it was over. As the black fog cleared from Seth's eyes, he noticed two things. First, the Chaos Soldier was gone; in its place was a smouldering crater. And standing beside him, emitting a cold aura, was a huge Knight dressed in red and black armor. There was no doubt what it was, from its Guardian armor covered in Doom symbols to the gaping hole in its chest where its heart should have been, to the red eyes glinting from beneath the spiked helmet perched atop its shoulders. It was a Remnant, one of the mighty warriors that once served Sepulchre, but had spurned Gravelyn's rule and now fought in the name of the Underground. Not for the last time, Seth was glad that the Remnants were on his side.
"Ummm...hello..." Seth began uncertainly. The Remnant didn't respond. Not sure if that was a good thing or not, Seth decided to introduce himself. "My name is Ergent Seth."
"I am Cort." The Remnant replied, not bothering to say any more. It didn't have to. Across the street, two more Chaos Rippers were on their way. One of them had the usual set of finely sharpened claws, while the other cradled a chaorrupted crossbow in its arms. Seth groaned and picked up his sword. The pain was still there in his shoulder. He didn't need to look to know where the last Ripper's claws had torn through his thin regulation Stealth Suit. He wished he could have been given the thick armor of a Guardian instead of just a light silk tunic for scouting.
While Seth was still thinking, Cort was on the move. Unsheathing a massive black claymore from his back, he tore through the first Ripper like a pair of scissors running through tissue paper. The second one panicked, fired wildly, missing, its bolt bouncing off the Remnant's Guardian armor harmlessly. Then Cort was upon it. Seth was so busy admiring Cort's swordmanship during that brief encounter that he almost didn't notice the fireball whistle past his head. Whirling around, he was confronted with a White Mage, bearing the symbol of the Order. It conjured another fireball and tossed it at the Remnant. Cort turned, allowing the fireball to sail straight through the hole in his chest and out the other side. Then he charged.
The fury of the Remant was burning cold. It was well known that the Underground despised anything having to do with good. In the months past, they kept an uneasy peace with the Order only because of the deft leadership of Fire, the former head of the Order. However, no that Fire had left the Order for the Revolt, his old clan went underground, using their powers of light to wage war on all clans regardless of affiliation or allegiances. Cort's wrath was terrible to see, as cold, red energy built around the edge of his massive blade. In a few steps it would all be over.
Grinning, the Mage raised his arms above his head, a light orb in his hands. A blinding flash, Cort stumbled backwards, unable to see. The sky was lit up as if it were noon, and Cort hadn't bothered to put on either sunscreen or shades for the night battle. The mage strode forward with a triumphant smile, conjuring a bolt of light, then froze. Its small, robed body was lifted off its feet by the tip of Seth's sword. For a moment, everything was motionless, the mage hanging in midair, Seth still standing with his arm outstretched, sword in hand, panting, glad that he was barely able to reach the mage in time before it could finish off his ally. Cort looked at the whole scene through blurry eyes as he lay on the ground recovering from the flash earlier. Then, a single drop of blood ran down the edge of Seth's sword, splashing onto the ground and staining it crimson. As Seth tossed the lifeless body aside, he shook a shower of blood from his blade, then sheathed it.
The Remnant got back to his feet, still blinking the light out of his glowing red eyes. Not for the last time Cort was glad that he was on Requiem's side. In the distance, the clatter of more footsteps were heard. Seth smiled grimly, remembering where he was. This was war, caused by the fight between Good, Evil, and Chaos. Revolt, being a people's uprising, welcomed warriors, rogues, and mages from all across the world of Lore and was free to choose any side it wishe...and it had chosen to side with the Remnants. And even though they were powerful, the evil Underground could not wipe out good completely. As long as evil existed in the world of Lore, there had to be good in the world as well, and as long as both existed, there would be war.....
Schism
“In your dreams!”
“So you refuse my offer?”
“Damn straight I do! I’d never sign any treaty with a group as shady as yours! You and your kind, thinking you can go around telling everyone how they’re supposed to do stuff, I’m sick of you all! GUARDS!!!” Ayce sighed. Another day, another group. This one didn’t even have its name, or if it did the leader hadn’t bothered to tell anything to him. Ayce had considered looking into the clan after seeing how one of them had managed to clobber three others at the local bar. He dearly hoped that fight had been won by pure luck, now that the same guy was just across the table from him with a ruddy complexion and a drawn sword. Ayce eyed the sword for a moment; it was intricately crafted, with inlaid gold designs spiraling down its length and jewels inlaid into its pommel. But it was still a conventional design, not much different from those of an ordinary town guard. Probably was an ordinary sword from a town guard, only fancier. Well, at least the quality of the blade wasn’t the problem. The thumping of many boots behind him was. Ayce half-rose, drawing a throwing dagger from one of his sleeves. He stopped, the golden blade poised carefully at his throat. Ayce rolled his eyes behind his shades and cocked his head to one side, staring carefully at the leader as guards entered the room and surrounded him.
“Take this scum out of my sight! May he never see the light of day again!!!” Ah well, that left him no choice then. Ayce tapped the golden blade to one side with two fingers, throwing the dagger with his other hand. He missed, and the leader made a powerful lunge forward that would have pinned Blizzard to the wall had the blade still been pointing at his neck. As it was, the sword chewed right through the wall and came out the other side, buried halfway in. Swords. What was with everyone and swords these days? It seemed as if every warrior who wanted to appear fashionable had one of some sort, even though they were flimsy weapons, prone to breaking or being blocked. Not to mention they lacked the ability to smash through walls like hammers or poke people from long distances like spears. Oh well. Ayce skipped over the incoming blades of the guards and drew one of his demon swords.
The table was the first to go, a kick sending it tumbling over to a corner of the room. Two more kicks sent the chairs following. Then, Ayce went straight for the clan leader, pinning him to the wall by the throat while raising the blade to his face. The guards, still piling into the room, froze with what they were doing. “Drop your weapons and take a step back, or he dies.” Ayce hated using death threats, but it was his ticket out of here. Or so he thought.
One of the guards took a deliberate step forward. “Kill him, what do we care? He hasn’t paid us our wages in weeks, and besides, once he’s dead, I’m next in line for clan leader.” The other guards grinned and readied their weapons, anticipating a good fight. Ayce groaned. So much for loyalty. He aimed the demon blade at a frightened man’s face, then stabbed. The dull point went up the man’s nose and jammed halfway. Ayce swore. He had forgotten to give the blade a coating of blood before fighting with it. He wrenched the dull blade out, trailing a line of green phlegm, breaking the man’s nose in the process. A dribble of blood from the broken nose splattered onto the demon blade, and Ayce dove in for the kill, only to stop as he noticed the twenty or so guards surrounding him, swords pointing at his heart. Next to him, the clan leader had succeeded in tugging his sword out of the wall. He leaned over and whispered to Ayce.
“Let me live, and I’ll help you fight your way out of here.”
Ayce whispered back, pretending the guards couldn’t hear him in the dead silent room. “Deal.” The clan leader dove into the swarm of guards from the left, while Ayce unsheathed his other demon sword and swiped at the closest guard with his already-blood-splattered blade. The sword cut clean through the guard’s sword as he tried to parry, and Ayce left two symmetrical halves of guard lying on the richly-decorated floor. The other guards backed up in momentary surprise, giving Ayce time to soak both of his blades in the fallen guard’s blood. When he rose again, his blades had turned a gleaming, lustrous black, red energy flaring from their edges. The blades grew sharper the more blood they drank in. Here, Ayce had enough blood to cut an entire castle in half with one swing. A wild grin spread across his face, revealing a gleaming set of white teeth backed up by an extra-large pair of canines. For a moment, the soldiers had the impression that this guy was going to eat them. Then they had no more impressions.
One clean slice had five guards on the ground, neatly sliced in half. The next slice had an entire half of the room cleared, as Ayce dashed straight through the thicket of enemy swords, his blades shredding thick armor like tissue paper. On the other side of the room, the clan leader was having an equally easy time against his own incompetent guards, knowing all their nuances and weaknesses and exploiting them to great extent. In two heartbeats the room was cleared. Ayce surveyed the massacre with grim satisfaction, taking in the pungent smell of blood. It felt good to be back in action again after being the peacemaker for so long. Ayce turned to the clan leader and found a sword inches from his face.
“Really? After I just saved your life?”
“What are you talking about? I saved your life, and this is how you repay me? By killing off all my men? I will avenge their deaths by killing you! DIE!!!” Ayce groaned and knocked the blade aside, diving in with both demon blades. The clan leader fell in quarters. What was with people these days? They had no honor, sticking at nothing to kill anyone they saw as a threat. Ayce squared his shoulders and looked around. Now that the clan leader was dead, the building no longer served any purpose. He might as well have some fun then.
Ayce walked out of the group's base into the sunlight. He sheathed his demon swords, pulled out a pair of chakrams, gave each one a little dose of blood, and threw them behind him. They sang through the air with a noise halfway between a ring and a buzz. When they returned to his hands, Ayce wiped off splinters of wood and chunks of mortar, then put them away. Behind him, the clan base collapsed, completely sliced in half by the chakrams. The ruins caught fire from a running fireplace within, and the flames leaped into the air with a lusty roar, blackening the sky with smoke. Ayce spared one glance back at the destroyed base. Not bad for half a day’s work.
He got back to the Castle quickly, in part due to his borrowing a local official’s carriage. “Come on Sysquella!” he had laughed at the official, who was in charge of cataloguing all the official clans in the area, Revolt being one of them after having legitimized itself. Sysquella had bit his lip before handing over the carriage, not sure if he could trust the diplomat. When Ayce arrived at the clan base, he sent the carriage back without a driver, trusting the horses to know their own way back. They often did. The Castle was a small fortress that had been built in the last three years as a response to the direct attack on the clan by several enemies, the Chaos Rippers being only one of them. The same old clan quarters existed under the hill, with the entrance a stone door in the rocky face of a waterfall. A large lake had grown, flooding the area and leaving only a thin strip of rock leading towards this doorway. For practicality reasons, the new fortress had an entrance of its own, as it wasn’t easy sending out attacking armies from a door where everyone had to file through on tip-toe to avoid falling into the lake. The lake was sometimes referred to as Asterisk’s Grave, after the fallen Captain who had been buried there. The Grave was often used as a burial for other members of the Revolt as well, who were pushed off into the lake on leaking boats that slowly filled with water and dragged its cargo down to the bottom. On a clear day, skeletons could be seen on the lakebed.
Ayce entered the Castle, finding nobody around. He hadn’t been in-town for Seth’s trial, and had missed Fyre’s return as well. Seth and Fyre had gotten into a huge fight over nothing, and in the fight, Seth had banished Fyre to a different Realm for several weeks. Upon his return, Seth had repented, and Fyre was slowly learning to forgive him. Ayce, being the diplomat, had been caught up in a whirlwind of contracts and legal documents involving other militant groups in the area and had been away for the longest time. So he received an unpleasant surprise when he entered the meeting hall to find their leader, the Priest, sitting at the head of a large congregation, a dark, defiant man standing before him. “Felkaranos. You are charged with treason for betraying clan secrets to the man Ogecrazil, sometimes known as Skete, former member and traitor of the Order. You are further charged with inciting the murder of Fyre, member of this clan, and orchestrating the exile of Seth, Captain of the Revolt. Do you…”
“He’s still captain!?!?!?” A large, burly man stood up in the court, drawing murmurs of unrest from the congregation. “I know of his past deeds and all, but lately he hasn’t been doing anything for the clan at all! He left for a longer time than his exile required, and his fight with Fyre shows that he’s become a liability to the clan, and I don’t see why he should retain his post as Captain!”
“Please Dye, we are here for the trial of Felkaranos, not Seth.” Priest raised his hands, but it was too late. Seth stood up, his white eyes flaring.
“Dye, if you have anything to say about me, say it to my face, instead of talking as if I’m not here.” More murmuring ensued from the crowd. Dye turned.
“Oh, alright, Captain, since you’re here. Ever since the Fyre incident, I’ve been watching you. The only kind of person who would fight another captain is someone unworthy of being a captain themselves. You fought and banished Fire without permission, and you don’t deserve to just waltz back in here like nothing’s ever happened long after your exile was over and your clan needed you!” The trial on Felkaranos had been forgotten completely as members rose all throughout the congregation. A hushed silence fell over the meeting hall.
“Dye, must I remind you that you were the first to lash out at a fellow member of the Revolt, kicking Uzamaki out of the clan? How can you decide who can or can’t be a Captain when you yourself are unfit to lead according to your own standards?” A moment of silence. Then a whoosh and a roar as Dye ignited himself, flames charring the ground where he stood. Dye's magic was well-known, and feared almost as much as his inhuman strength.
“Does anyone here think I’m not worthy of being a Captain!?!?!? Huh!?!?!? ANYONE!?!?!?” A moment’s pause. Then, right next to Dye, a small girl raised her hand. Megan, the Priest's sister. Dye turned on her, feeling his fury boiling over, not caring what happened next, knowing that he would have no regrets. Priest’s eyes went wide as he saw his sister look up at Dye, the faintest trace of fear in her eyes as they turned from purple to black, drying out and coating up with cinders, along with the rest of her body. Megan fell to the floor, lungs seared with flame, skin covered in ash, bones blackened and brittle.
The silence was broken, the entire clan rose in an uproar, frantic over the attack. Dye himself turned and stormed his way out of the meeting hall, leaving a trail of flames as he went. He was angry, he was mad, he was done, it was over. He didn’t care, he had no regrets, what he did was done in the name of his pride. At the doorway he ran into Ayce, who had watched the entire incident without a word. Dye looked into Ayce’s eyes, seeing nothing but the black walls of his shades. No response? Fine, he was leaving anyways. Dye brushed passed Ayce, who quickly put out the fires spreading over his suit. Ayce looked up in time to see a wave of clan members following Dye out the door. Many were loyal to him in different ways, and were willing to follow him and his strong-willed ways to the ends of the world. Nathan, Jacob, Aeon, Oblivion, others, and more. Felkaranos the traitor crept out of the meeting hall unnoticed, following his new god. But Ayce snapped when he saw his own sisters, Dawn and Pixie, following Dye out the door. They had never been on the same side of an argument before.
“Where are you two going!?!?!?”
Dawn looked up insolently. “What? If you can’t control Dye, what makes you think you can control us?”
“I’m not trying to control him, I’m trying to get him to calm down!”
“Well, good luck with that. Let us know when you get that to work.” Pixie laughed derisively as the two filed out the door. Ayce stood stock-still for a moment, drinking in the words. Then he shook his head. What was with people these days?
Dye made it all the way to the entrance of the clan base and outside onto the lakeshore before he encountered any resistance. A lone figure, dressed in black with green trimmings, waited for him. Green eyes glared long and hard into Dye’s dark orange ones, carefully noting the color of Dye’s flames, the hard, brutal anger in them. The determination there.
“Do you really think you can turn your back on us?”
Dye spat. “Yeah, why? You got a problem with that?”
“Actually, I do. Your disloyalty concerns me, after hearing all that you’ve done for the clan. I thought you’d know better.”
“Well, I’m not going to stick around where I’m not wanted. Stay out of my way. If you got a problem with me, go ahead and fight me. I’ll kill you.”
Saint took a step forward, his black stealth suit making not a sound. He was the Revolt's tactician, famous for leading the rebel group to several victories over larger, better-trained enemies over the years. Nobody knew why he was a Saint of anything, the same way they didn't know why Priest earned his name when he advocated fighting, albeit in a controlled manner. Saint's past was a secret, and his habit of wearing dark clothes made him a mystery even among his fellow members. Here, he revealed a more menacing side of his personality, green eyes glowing as he approached Dye. “Was that an invitation to a fight?”
Oblivion darted forward, his thick suit of armor clanking with every twitch. “You won’t be able to touch him. He…”
“Get out of my way. I won’t ask a second time.” Oblivion backed up sheepishly along with everyone else, retreating into the forest and leaving Dye alone to stare at Saint, twenty feet apart, on the shore of the Grave.
Dye unsheathed a massive scimitar from his back, swinging it experimentally once through the air. He had been through a thousand fights with it over the years, yet it still looked as new as the day it had been made. Saint, on the other hand, drew a shortsword crafted from several bladed pieces that fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle. The blades were delicate, and Saint had several swords broken over the years. Yet each new one was an improvement over the last one, with balance, sharpness, and utility increased with each model. Saint left on all the components of the sword, knowing he would need every last piece for the impending fight.
Dye initiated the battle with a lunge, swinging wide with his blade. Dark orange flames sizzled through the air, sucking the air out of Saint’s lungs as he backflipped over Dye. Saint spun around while Dye was still recovering from the momentum of his swing, and aimed a precise strike at the back of Dye’s head. The blade struck true, sending Dye reeling as pain exploded through his skull. The blade didn’t go deep, but the cut was bad enough. Yet the attack had come at great cost. Saint’s hand had been badly burned by the attack as he stretched his arms through Dye’s flaming aura to reach him. He now nursed the burning skin, momentarily dropping his blade. Dye turned around, driven to a frenzy, and drove at Saint with a barrage of slashes. Saint grabbed the shortsword with his other hand and leapt backwards, using pulses of electricity to keep his muscles moving at inhuman speeds. Saint analyzed the situation as he dodged the incoming attacks. The flames around Dye had reached a temperature that could roast an entire boar in seconds. Melee attacks were useless then. Saint leapt off the ground as Dye aimed a particularly vicious slash that slammed into the earth, spraying loose rocks and compacted dirt everywhere. In mid-air, Saint drew twin reverse-curved daggers and hurled them at Dye. The inner-curve of each blade had been sharpened to a razor edge and tempered, able to slice through the thickest armor. Each dagger passed through Dye’s flames with great effort, their handles burning off and their outer edges congealing. But the sharp ends found their marks, one digging into Dye’s left leg while the other sliced its way into his chest and buried itself there.
Dye paused for a moment, as a trickle of pain fought its way through the madness to his brain. With one hand, Dye reached down and yanked out the dagger stuck in his leg. It came out easily and dissolved in his hand. Then, he reached into his chest, yanking out the half-melted blade there and throwing it aside, where it collapsed into a puddle. Dye’s armor resealed itself, bolstered in part by the flames that flared up around the breach in the metal, pooling the broken bits together. The chest wound was serious, but that didn’t matter any more. As long as he could wield a blade, he could fight. Saint watched this with disgust from a safe distance. He faintly heard echoes of another clan member referring to this man. “Dye is a god, occasionally. That is all.” Who had said that? It didn’t matter now. Saint raised a hand and fire a blast of lightning at Dye. It hit him squarely in the chest, paralyzing him as he began to charge once more. God or beast, Saint had no choice but to cut him down. Saint fired another blast of lightning, bringing Dye to his knees. The flames around him flickered, then went out. An opening. Saint saw it, and knew immediately how to exploit it. He raised his blade, aimed carefully, then gave his muscles a jolt of electricity. A green and black blur rushed by Dye, too fast for him to keep up with. A cut appeared along-side his neck, barely missing his vitals. Nevertheless, it left a line of blood that drove the pain in. Dye could feel his strength leaving as the weight of his wounds settled in. Saint turned around, preparing one more strike that would carry Dye’s head into the lake.
Dye roared, an inhuman sound that might have once come from some feral God of Fire of a forgotten age. Saint’s eyes went wide as flames exploded around Dye, wider than ever before. The radius of his fire stretched to the very edge of the lake and to the tips of the forest, setting anything and everything alight. Saint was caught in a whirlwind of flames and spiraled into the air, caught by thermals as the hot air around him began to rise. Dye stood up, a little wobbly on his feet, and aimed a single, downward slash. The blade slammed into Saint and brought him careening into the ground, crushed rather than cut. Only a few feet from Dye, Saint could feel his skin beginning to crack from the sheer heat. Dye planted a foot on Saint’s chest, letting his weight sink in, crushing his rib cage. Then he brought his scimitar down in an ungainly stab, driving right through Saint’s gut and out his back. The sound of Dye wrenching his blade out of Saint made everyone witnessing the battle cringe.
Dye let his flames go out, leaving nothing behind but the fire eating away at Saint’s stealth suit. Dye sheathed his scimitar and turned to leave. Then, as an afterthought, he turned around and gave a mighty kick, sending Saint rolling head-over-heels into the lake, where he was slowly carried down into the depths to join his comrades. If the broken ribcage, the burnt skin, or the stomach wound didn’t kill him, Saint would die by drowning. Dye bowed his head for one short moment, fingering the sapphire star on the black chain around his neck. Then he turned to his followers. Nobody spoke. It was a solemn moment, everyone knowing that they had witnessed the end of an age. A glorious age. Some were sad to see it go. Not Dye.
“Any questions?” Nope.
Moments after Dye left, Ayce was on the scene. He could tell from a patch of blood on the ground that he was too late. He looked around, trying to find out where…there, something black in the lake. Ayce took of his shades and squinted, barely making out the faint outline of a human body. He kicked off his sandals and began to wade into the lake. One last breath, then he dove in, hoping he wouldn’t be dragging a corpse out of the water.
And far away, back at the castle, Priest kneeled over his sister’s body, struggling not to cry. He had ben appointed the task of keeping the Revolt together. The failure weighed down on his shoulders like a giant’s hand. Crushing, unbearable. He gazed down at Megan, remembering how her face used to look before Dye had erased it with fire and hatred. Just because he had nothing better to do, Priest raised one hand over Megan and began chanting words. A single drop of water landed on Megan’s body as Priest began to sob as he chanted, hysteria wracking his body.
“Heal,” he said. “Please heal.”
