Post by Eurydice on Jul 17, 2008 11:57:29 GMT -5
Tristan’s slow clanking footfalls echoed through the valley, the only sound other than the quiet crackling of countless dying fires. There was no movement other than the flickering flames, the fluttering of leaves blown by a light wind, and the slow, steady progress of Tristan. Before him lay the ruins of a temple, its timbers still glowing with orange-red embers which glowed brighter with every breath of wind. The embers provided the only light in the valley and threatening to restart the fire that ruined the rest of the structure. Behind Tristan lay only corpses and scorched earth. He did not feel how he expected to feel after watching his teachers and his fellow disciples fall prey to a demon. Instead wrapping himself in a thick blanked of mourning, Tristan felt numb. His legs moved of their own accord. He didn’t know where they were carrying him, but he left them to their work. Slowly, a sense of pride seeped through the numbness. He had done what none of the other students or masters had been able to do. He had done on his first try what his father had been unable to do.
“My father watched his city burn and did nothing…I watched my school burn and made a different choice.”
Like his father, Tristan’s first reaction upon realizing that the school was under attack was to freeze; but unlike his father, who then dropped his sword and ran, Tristan grabbed his sword and ran towards the demon. The sight that confronted him would probably remain with him forever. A great horned beast, with one arm hewed a female student in half and with the other, picked up a master and dropped him squarely into a horn. As the circle of combatants around the demon slowly dwindled, Tristan ran towards a tree whose branches reached out towards the demon as if it too wished to join in the fight. Throwing a glance at the demon, who was facing away from Tristan and toying with the final two combatants, Tristan began to climb the tree. Reaching a branch that extended right over the demon’s head, Tristan ran along it, a feat of balance probably would never be able to achieve again. At the end of the branch, Tristan leapt from it, sword pointed straight down, and landed between the horns of the demon. Tristan’s sword, forged and heavily enchanted by his father, achieved what the blades of the entire rest of the school could not do. The demon, busy laughing over the bodies of its final two victims, keeled over mid-laugh and then with a flash of flames, was gone, Tristan’s sword along with him. But that was then, now was the time to bury the dead.
Tristan paused when his legs carried him to the dormitories, glancing around at the blackened remains of the youngest students, either too scared to move from their beds, or too deep sleepers to have realized that anything was wrong. One by one, Tristan carried their bodies out to the place where the demon had fallen, placing their bodies in the center of the ring of fallen combatants. When that was finished, he began to dig, using the sole shovel that had survived the fires. As he dug he glanced at the faces of his classmates and masters but not once did he cry, or even feel the need to cry. He might have been young, but he wasn’t the sort of boy who cried. And it was not as though any of the corpses were his friends. They had been nice enough but Tristan had always been too distant, too quiet, and eventually they had given up and let the strange, quiet kid go his own way.
And now that strange quiet one had proven his duty and devotion. He had succeeded where even his father had failed. He had killed a demon and the best his father had done was to trap one in a mask, at the price of his own soul. Tristan had paid no such price. The pain caused by the death of his masters and classmates quailed in front of the mental barrier that Tristan had long since erected for his own defense. It wasn’t as if he’d had a traumatic childhood before now, he’d merely conditioned himself not to feel the “bad emotions” as he called them, using the good-natured teasing of his sister as practice. The practice had paid off, he realized as he continued to dig, he felt no pain, just a barrier of numbness that protected him.
Tristan only stopped digging only when he realized that the sun was peeking into the valley. He looked around, realizing that he had dug more than he needed to. Pulling himself out of the trench he had dug, Tristan began to lower the bodies respectfully, saying a prayer over each as he lowered them. When he was done, he began to pile the dirt back on.
The sun was high over head when he finished. He reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow, but the sweat stung his hand so badly that he uttered a small cry. Looking at his hands, he realized for the first time that they were coated in blisters, and most of them had already popped open. But he was not finished. Using rocks from the crumbling fireplace in the kitchens, Tristan erected a small marker over the mass grave. It was only then that Tristan allowed himself to collapse, exhausted.
He awoke at sunset and walked to the stream from which they had always gotten their water. Washing his hands and face in the water, Tristan’s brain finally seemed to swing into action properly. For the first time, he began to consider the consequences of the events of last night. He could no longer stay here; the best thing would be to return home to Brosna. His father, Gavin and mother, Kethaniya would be there and they would help him decide what to do from there. He might even see his older sister, Auriana. It would be nice to see them all again. He stood and his feet found the road on their own accord.
As he walked, he thought of his father and mother. His father’s life had been the one most deeply affected by demons. His first encounter with a demon had left him stripped of everything; his power, his honor, and the mysterious and unknown deity that had graced him with powers. But his father had repaid his earlier cowardice with bravery, learning to face his fear. Eventually so many new developments occurred, the entrance of Tymora and Kethaniya into his life being most prominent among them, that his father’s head became full to the breaking point and he felt the need to wander alone in order to reorganize his thoughts and his life. He left his world altogether and arrived in a strange and foreign one. Weeks later, a mysterious summon arrived for his father. A debt was owed and a favor was asked. His father called together his old companions and together they marched into a tower in that strange world. A demon awaited them there; they could not fight the demon, as powerful as they all were, so they tricked the demon, using his father’s soul as the bait. With the help of the mad sorcerer, Aethmyr and the evil wizard, Detoric, the demon was trapped in a mask. Before he was trapped, the demon managed to retain control of his father’s soul, but in the mask, he was unable to exercise any power over it. But the demon had vowed revenge, and the mask could not hold him forever.
An unwelcome thought entered Tristan’s mind when he remembered his father’s tale. Demons always want revenge. Tristan had not killed the demon that had attacked the school; he had merely banished it from this plane for a time. For the first time, an emotion overwhelmed his barriers and a wave of terror washed over him. The demon had his sword, from that he could easily find out who and where Tristan was. But it was not for his own life that he was scared, for he knew that the demon would not be content merely with his death, the demon would demand the blood of his sister, his mother, and his father.
His pace quickened. The family had to be warned and he had to prepare himself. It would be his duty to confront the demon again. He had no choice; Knights of Torm did not shrink away from such battles.
“My father watched his city burn and did nothing…I watched my school burn and made a different choice.”
Like his father, Tristan’s first reaction upon realizing that the school was under attack was to freeze; but unlike his father, who then dropped his sword and ran, Tristan grabbed his sword and ran towards the demon. The sight that confronted him would probably remain with him forever. A great horned beast, with one arm hewed a female student in half and with the other, picked up a master and dropped him squarely into a horn. As the circle of combatants around the demon slowly dwindled, Tristan ran towards a tree whose branches reached out towards the demon as if it too wished to join in the fight. Throwing a glance at the demon, who was facing away from Tristan and toying with the final two combatants, Tristan began to climb the tree. Reaching a branch that extended right over the demon’s head, Tristan ran along it, a feat of balance probably would never be able to achieve again. At the end of the branch, Tristan leapt from it, sword pointed straight down, and landed between the horns of the demon. Tristan’s sword, forged and heavily enchanted by his father, achieved what the blades of the entire rest of the school could not do. The demon, busy laughing over the bodies of its final two victims, keeled over mid-laugh and then with a flash of flames, was gone, Tristan’s sword along with him. But that was then, now was the time to bury the dead.
Tristan paused when his legs carried him to the dormitories, glancing around at the blackened remains of the youngest students, either too scared to move from their beds, or too deep sleepers to have realized that anything was wrong. One by one, Tristan carried their bodies out to the place where the demon had fallen, placing their bodies in the center of the ring of fallen combatants. When that was finished, he began to dig, using the sole shovel that had survived the fires. As he dug he glanced at the faces of his classmates and masters but not once did he cry, or even feel the need to cry. He might have been young, but he wasn’t the sort of boy who cried. And it was not as though any of the corpses were his friends. They had been nice enough but Tristan had always been too distant, too quiet, and eventually they had given up and let the strange, quiet kid go his own way.
And now that strange quiet one had proven his duty and devotion. He had succeeded where even his father had failed. He had killed a demon and the best his father had done was to trap one in a mask, at the price of his own soul. Tristan had paid no such price. The pain caused by the death of his masters and classmates quailed in front of the mental barrier that Tristan had long since erected for his own defense. It wasn’t as if he’d had a traumatic childhood before now, he’d merely conditioned himself not to feel the “bad emotions” as he called them, using the good-natured teasing of his sister as practice. The practice had paid off, he realized as he continued to dig, he felt no pain, just a barrier of numbness that protected him.
Tristan only stopped digging only when he realized that the sun was peeking into the valley. He looked around, realizing that he had dug more than he needed to. Pulling himself out of the trench he had dug, Tristan began to lower the bodies respectfully, saying a prayer over each as he lowered them. When he was done, he began to pile the dirt back on.
The sun was high over head when he finished. He reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow, but the sweat stung his hand so badly that he uttered a small cry. Looking at his hands, he realized for the first time that they were coated in blisters, and most of them had already popped open. But he was not finished. Using rocks from the crumbling fireplace in the kitchens, Tristan erected a small marker over the mass grave. It was only then that Tristan allowed himself to collapse, exhausted.
He awoke at sunset and walked to the stream from which they had always gotten their water. Washing his hands and face in the water, Tristan’s brain finally seemed to swing into action properly. For the first time, he began to consider the consequences of the events of last night. He could no longer stay here; the best thing would be to return home to Brosna. His father, Gavin and mother, Kethaniya would be there and they would help him decide what to do from there. He might even see his older sister, Auriana. It would be nice to see them all again. He stood and his feet found the road on their own accord.
As he walked, he thought of his father and mother. His father’s life had been the one most deeply affected by demons. His first encounter with a demon had left him stripped of everything; his power, his honor, and the mysterious and unknown deity that had graced him with powers. But his father had repaid his earlier cowardice with bravery, learning to face his fear. Eventually so many new developments occurred, the entrance of Tymora and Kethaniya into his life being most prominent among them, that his father’s head became full to the breaking point and he felt the need to wander alone in order to reorganize his thoughts and his life. He left his world altogether and arrived in a strange and foreign one. Weeks later, a mysterious summon arrived for his father. A debt was owed and a favor was asked. His father called together his old companions and together they marched into a tower in that strange world. A demon awaited them there; they could not fight the demon, as powerful as they all were, so they tricked the demon, using his father’s soul as the bait. With the help of the mad sorcerer, Aethmyr and the evil wizard, Detoric, the demon was trapped in a mask. Before he was trapped, the demon managed to retain control of his father’s soul, but in the mask, he was unable to exercise any power over it. But the demon had vowed revenge, and the mask could not hold him forever.
An unwelcome thought entered Tristan’s mind when he remembered his father’s tale. Demons always want revenge. Tristan had not killed the demon that had attacked the school; he had merely banished it from this plane for a time. For the first time, an emotion overwhelmed his barriers and a wave of terror washed over him. The demon had his sword, from that he could easily find out who and where Tristan was. But it was not for his own life that he was scared, for he knew that the demon would not be content merely with his death, the demon would demand the blood of his sister, his mother, and his father.
His pace quickened. The family had to be warned and he had to prepare himself. It would be his duty to confront the demon again. He had no choice; Knights of Torm did not shrink away from such battles.