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| Xeogaming Forums - Story Realm - ChaoticDeath: Final Encounters |
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BBQMissile ChaoticDeath          Since: 08-16-04 From: New York Since last post: 4937 days Last activity: 925 days |
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| Chapter 1- “What does Death mean to you?”
“Tell me. What is…this thing you call darkness? This…terror. This feeling that envelopes all that is around it? What gives it such strength? What gives it such power? Well? What is your answer?” “I do not know.” “Why not?” “Because I know not of darkness. I know not of terror.” “Well then. What is it that you know of?” “I know of…” “Well?” “Death.” “What is death then? What does it mean to you?” “It means…” “Yes?” “It means that I’m still alive…” ~~~~~~~~~~ “Sparda!” “Mira! Hold on!!”, he cried. Small beads of sweat appeared all over his face as he strained all the muscles in his body. His leather cloak and trousers were torn in various places, stained by the blood of many including his own. He struggled to hold on. The beads of sweat slowly slid down his forehead, replaced by more and more sweat. He could slowly feel her hand slipping from his own. He tried to reach out his other hand, but no longer could he feel it. All was dark like the ever- expanding starless skies. “I’m sorry Sparda…” “NO! I will not let go!”, he cried. He tried to tighten his grip on her soft hands but the large wound on his back had grown more painful than ever. Blood trickled down his back as freely as the rain that fell upon them now. Tears began to swell up in his eyes as he realized that all hope was fading away. “I WON’T LET GO!” “I’m sorry…this was all my fault…” “DON’T SAY THAT! We still have a chance!”, he cried desperately. But he himself knew that there was no hope to be found, like a small coin lost in a well. For an instant, he could feel her warmth. Her soft smooth skin. Her hands. How great it was to hold her hands, not so long ago. A thunderbolt shot out from the heavens. He could feel her hand no more. The rain poured down with great force. The sound of the rain took her scream and broke it into a thousand pieces till it was too faint to be heard, even as it echoed against the canyon walls. It was like something snatched away a piece of his heart, but wouldn’t allow him to die. His hazel eyes filled up with tears as he tried to get up. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to jump after her. But he couldn’t. He was too weak. He couldn’t even find the energy to get up. Slowly, the world he knew filled with darkness as he slowly closed his eyes. He remembered her last words. “I’m sorry.” ~~~~~~~~~~ “Hurry up! Take the sword before he comes back!”, the man cried. He was a large man in his mid thirties with a dirty gray beard and tired looking eyes. He wore a hood over his head and a cloak over his body. A common thief. He was talking to the man next to him who also wore the same attire as the old man, except he was younger and had no beard. They stood, several miles away from the nearest village, behind the small body of water known as the Pond of Mysteries. They stood around a large sword of magnificent structure. It was detailed with the most unusual designs. It was thrusted into the grassy soil, without its master. One of the thieves slowly reached for the large sword’s handle. “What the…this thing weighs more than two silver shields…”, the younger thief said as he tried to pull the enormous sword from it’s resting place. He grasped the handle with both dirty hands and pulled, baring his teeth, straining his muscles. But he could not pull it free. The older thief also grasped the handle and attempted to help his comrade. However, their efforts were in vain for the sword would simply not move from where it stood. They stepped back, gasping for air, perspiration appearing on their face. “How does he even manage to swing this sword…”, the old thief managed to murmur in between loud gasps for air. His friend made no reply as he too was also exhausted just from trying to free the sword. Their breathing was so loud, someone could have easily slipped behind them without notice, which was exactly what happened. A tall figure with a black dirty cloak covering his head and body appeared behind them. He stood their, silently as if observing the two thieves. “Would you like to know why that sword is so heavy when you pull on it?”, the man said in a low dark voice. The thieves jumped up in shock and surprise and took a step back from the man. They could not see his face for it was covered by the black cloak he wore. But they took no chances as they quickly took out their rusted daggers. “It is because it was not I who was pulling on the handle.”, the man said, answering his own question. And with that, he reached out his right hand and grasped the handle of the sword. With a slight tug, the enormous sword was free of the ground and in his hand. The thieves grew somewhat pale at his effortless attempt to free the sword. The sword was truly a magnificent piece. Its blade shone brilliantly, even under the shade of the tree they stood under. Its designs were most likely from some foreign nation for never had they been seen in Ulgath. The sword was quite big, almost larger than the man that now wielded it. For a moment, the thieves gasped at the magnificence of the sword. But then, they remembered why they were truly here. The man took a step forward with the sword in hand. There was an uneasy presence about him, as if he was cloaked, not only in that black cloak of his but also in some dark form of magic. The thieves suddenly grew too afraid to do anything. They stared as the man took another step forward. The last thing they saw was the man raising the sword and swinging it. Then they saw nothing more. Darkness covered their world forever. The man took one more glimpse at their corpses before sighing and slowly walking away, with no remorse or hesitation. “Halt!”, a voice from behind suddenly cried out before the man could take his tenth step. He stopped as if acknowledging the voice but did not turn around to see who it was. “Turn around and face me at once, vermin!”, the voice cried again, this time with greater ferocity. The man said nothing but did as he was told and looked at the man who was calling to him. It was a very large man clad in silver armor and a silver helmet. In his right hand was a heavy broad sword and a shield in his left hand, bearing the coat of arms of the Ulgath Kingdom. Behind him stood four other soldiers, dressed in the same attire. One of the soldiers armed himself with a bow and a quiver of strong wooden arrows rather than a sword. They all stared at the man, their faces refusing to show an ounce of fear. “In the name of the Great King!, Sir Sparda of the Sword is to be executed. Manner of execution lies in the hand of the High Knights!”, the leader cried as he gripped the handle of his sword tighter. A low chuckle could be heard from the man called Sparda as he observed the five High Knights that stood before him with amusement, within the shadows of his hood. The leader of the High Knights seemed a bit surprised to see the man laugh when he was in such a difficult predicament. He scowled and took a step forward, raising his shield like a signal. The archer in the back immediately held up his bow and placed an arrow against the tight sinew string. He pulled the tail of the arrow back and slowly aimed it at the man’s head, the sinew stretching back creating a soft noise. Suddenly, his fingers released the arrow and it shot forward, creating the sound of wind as it flew at Sparda’s head. However, he did nothing to stop it as it came closer and closer to a fatal blow. When it seemed that the arrow was just about to make contact with its intended target, he suddenly held up his enormous sword, the arrow crashing and breaking against the cold hard blade. Then, with a single swift motion, Sparda dashed forward with a speed that seemed impossible to manage, especially with such an enormous sword in his hand. The archer shook with fear as he attempted to fit another arrow onto the bow. But he was too slow for the enormous blade shot forward and easily pierced the tough silver armor he wore over his torso, putting an enormous hole right into the center of his pulsating heart. He screamed in agony and pain as blood shot out of the wound the sword had created but was soon silent from the incredible lose of blood. The other four soldiers stood there, shocked at their opponent’s amazing stamina and vitality. They quickly gritted their teeth and lunged forward, swinging their heavy swords like madmen. Though they were strong, they swung their swords blindly, each swing missing its intended target terribly. The cloaked man used this to his advantage as he gracefully danced around their swords and made his way behind one of the High Knights. With his right arm and hand, he grabbed the back of the soldier’s head and twisted it into a sick and disgusting position. The man could not cry out for his throat was completely torn apart as was his vertebrae. He collapsed silently onto the ground. The leader of the High Knights was shocked at how swiftly and how quickly the man disposed of two of his greatest soldiers. In a fit of rage, he charged forward with his sword pointing forward, attempting to impale him with its tip. However, his armor slowed him down greatly for the man easily rolled to the side just as the leader lunged forward so that he now stood vulnerable and in front of his opponent. A dreadful and painful mistake for the man took his sword and with a mighty swing, he sliced off the knight’s legs as if they were already detached to begin with. He screamed as loudly as he could as he felt for his legs but found that they were no longer a part of him. Blood poured out from where his legs were as he began shaking all over, the shock overcoming him. Only two terrified knights remained, staring at what had just come to pass. Not five minutes have passed and almost the entire squad had been disposed of like flies. They shook violently as they dropped their swords and ran away, horrified at the man they were sent to execute. He remained silent as he suddenly dashed forward once again, instantly catching up with the two frightened soldiers. Using the end of the sword’s handle, he bashed one of the soldier’s helmet. The force was so great, the helmet instantly dented and the soldier’s skull shattered. He fell, silent, dead before he touched the ground. He then swung his sword once again in an unusual diagonal direction at the final soldier. His precision and accuracy were indeed terrifying for the tip of his sword skillfully but easily cut through the frightened knight’s helmet and sliced through his skull and brain. He instantly collapsed, the top section of his head detaching from the rest of his body. The leader of the High Knights, who was not yet passed, had enough energy to watch what had become of his knights. With his remaining strength, he managed to utter, “M-m-m-monster…” as his body continue to tremble dangerously and violently. Sparda slowly turned around and walked up to the dying leader and stared into his eyes as if he was reading him like a book. “No. Not monster. Terror”, he muttered under his breath as he held high his sword, its tip pointing down. The leader tried to cry but could not as the cold steel of the warrior’s sword impaled the knight’s heart. He tried to gasp for more air but could not as he grew forever silent. |
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