Deuterocanonical: Our Ancient Past…, a star fox fanfic

Summary: While undergoing his Rite of Passage, a warrior is set on a mysterious quest to stop—or, at the very least, comprehend—an even stranger evil that is yet to come. This is his story. (Novelette:—Submission for SS One-Shot contest)

A/N: Howdy folks. I do believe I may have set a record for this contest. Throughout the long month of August I did nothing but procrastinate, not even setting down my ideas on the 'Net (my original ideas with Andross were too complicated to do with such a small word-limit, and I figured you'd be bored with legal proceedings). Then in the wee hours of Friday, August 28th, this story here came to me fully formed, plot and all, and I had to write it out. A third I completed that day, most of it Saturday, and the last half today. So I hope y'all enjoy it.

One last thing: The song below (yes, 'tis an actual song) kept me fueled as I wrote, but while it is excellent as all of their songs are I felt that they could have put the chorus in one last time before it ended, so, I recommend the "EXTENDED remix by Kiko10061980reloaded" version. One of the fight scenes depicted in that mashup (SMITE Cinematic trailer) I used in this.

Enjoy.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Our Ancient Past…

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Star Sky [extended remix recommended*]—Two Steps From Hell—(YouTube, Spotify, Amazon, iTunes, Google Play, CdBaby)

"Human beings judge one another by their external actions. God judges them by their moral choices."

Sukēru crept through the tangled undergrowth of a great tree, old and ancient, quietly tracking his prey.

For twenty sunrises and sunsets he hunted the beast, never stopping for rest or food, always on the move endlessly—such was the way of the SharpClaw peoples. This was his Rite into warriorhood, his entrance to be a full member of his people at last. Born to be warriors, defenders and protectors of Meed Meidkaud, they prided themselves in being the strongest of all the Dinosaur peoples of Juihau, or Sauria as the SkyPeople called it.

To achieve this birthright of theirs every SharpClaw male went through Three Trials. The first was after their hatching, the survival amongst the harsh lands of their home through their formative years. The second was now—the hunting of the White One of the Elders, a massive, tiger-like creature that was thrice that animal's size and weight, white as the morning sun and dangerous as the SharpClaw themselves. The third would come after he had slain the beast.

In preparation Sukēru—who in later years would be called General "Scales" Sukēru—had fasted for forty sunrises and sunsets, slowly starving out his enormous childhood weight, becoming lean yet physically weakened. He had touched no sustenance during this period save water. To eat would admit weakness, which meant being cast out of the SharpClaw tribes. To further weaken himself he had undergone "tests" of strength and fortitude, tests that would cripple a SkyPerson in a matter of moments, to better prepare for the coming hunt.

Then he had set out for the White One, taking only an oversized, recurved bow of malachite and bronze for his weapon and basic tools for equipment. No arrows.

And now, as he sidled up to the base of another tree, his efforts had paid off. There across the river of glowing green lurked the beast, its back to him as it devoured some unfortunate animal it had brought down. His red eyes gleamed as he unlimbered his bow and took sight of the prey. A shimmering silvery line of twine ghosted into existence as he "pulled back" from the bowshaft; an arrow of fire and ice shaped into being together. A single shot would end the unsuspecting White One's life. So simple, so easy… and so cowardly.

Sukēru took aim, the ghostly twine quivering as he pulled back to its fullest extent, and released.

The White One suddenly looked back and flipped around with unnatural speed—the spirit arrow buried itself inside the beast's meal as it landed upon all fours, now facing him. Its muzzle was drawn back in a snarl, frothing magma drooling from its lips. Its own eyes were coals of living fire, and even as Sukēru watched zigzag lines of orange and crimson started to course throughout its white body, stretching all the way from the twin "wings" flaring into flaming existence and ending into its bared, javelin-like tail.

"Got you," Sukēru whispered, his own lips in a grin easily matching that of the beast.

The White One roared, its mouth opening wider than could be thought possible, frightening countless swarms of birds and flying things out of their roosts: and charged, leaping across the river as if it were but a log.

The SharpClaw darted sideways, going in a roll to his right as the beast slammed into the tree. Quickly drawing back upon the ethereal string Sukēru released three spirit arrows in quick succession before going in a backflip, avoiding the barbed tail. Another roar sounded—the arrows riddled the side of the beast but it was hardly fazed. Even as the SharpClaw watched the jagged veins of living fire absorbed them as easily as a bloodsucker did blood. The White One turned, freeing itself from the ruins of the tree, which slowly crashed across the river with a resounding crash like that of giants falling, flaming eyes fastened on Sukēru as he recovered; he had landed, feline-like, with one leg outstretched behind and the other bent, his bow-arm pointed out to his side.

The beast opened its impossibly wide mouth again—Sukēru whipped his weapon in front as an eruption of angry flame poured upon him. The river sizzled menacingly as the waters retreated from the inferno, great sheets of fire igniting the trees and vegetation behind and all around for a long way, even across the river. Then it stopped in a haze of thick, choking smoke of darkness.

Six points of blue and red appeared in the smoke, arranged in a row ending in a bending cord of blue-white light—then, two by two, they were loosed and flew like gleaming meteors. Then Sukēru himself appeared, running with the incredible speed such that only warriors knew, his bow at his side like a shield, its ends glistening from the residue flame.

The White One's wings beat downward, launching it upwards in a single stroke. The arrows sailed underneath as the beast, propelled forward by its muscled hind limbs, prepared to slice and dice the SharpClaw in twain when it came down. Sukēru's eyes flashed a brighter shade of crimson in response and he leapt upwards, twisting in a circle, and over the beast as it barreled right where he had stood.

He landed and bounced up again, but did not touch his bow; the White One turned, its claws tearing up charred earth and smoking vegetation in its passage, and prepared to charge again. Sukēru grinned again, his eyes glowing more fiercely than ever, and touched the ground—in the same instant, the creature leapt upon him.

*BOOM*

An immense shock-wave exploded outward from the gathered power at his fingertips; drawn from within his own body, a sphere of flame inscribed with runes and symbols of arcane power upon its surface radiated in all directions, and threw the beast into the air like a spitted lizard. It crashed through many ancient trees, breaking the trunks like kindling, and landed with a whumph on the ground.

Sukēru stood and took sight again. A roar echoed throughout the jungle again as the beast regained its footing; and the echoing thumps told of its swift return. Using the rapidly incinerating trees as his guide—and he had to be fast—Sukēru adjusted his sight, moving ever so slightly as the beast drew near. Such was the White One's fury that the trees were ash before they touched the ground. Sukēru grinned again.

Then, just as the White One burst into sight, trumpeting its triumph and rage the SharpClaw warrior released his trio of spirit arrows, fingers letting go of each ethereal cord (so thin yet so strong) one by one, and they sped home. Eyes widening the beast realized it had been outsmarted just as they penetrated through its neck and into the spine.

Sukēru rolled quickly to his left as the falling carcass thundered right where he stood, sliding to a halt at the base of the burned trunk from where he had watched the White One of the Elders not so long ago. Silence fell just as suddenly across the wooded land. But the hunter waited, not stirring from where he stood. For a long time he stayed, not moving toward the dead beast.

Then at last the SharpClaw began to approach, reverently, as one would a foe which had fought honorably and now lies defeated. The White Ones were a gift from the Honored Ancestors to the SharpClaw, as a means of testing their mettle and their courage, and as a way to hone their abilities for later life: patience and endurance. The SkyPeople, however, had no such gift, being baseborn spawn. They would immediately go straight toward the fallen and, much to the SharpClaw's amusement, would suffer the indignity of being caught off guard by something as simple as a muscle spasm. Usually this meant instant death, a barbed fang or clawed limb stabbing through. It was oh so amusing to see the lesser creatures stumble and ultimately fail in something as simple as the hunt.

But for one that has fought well and courageously, even if that one were a rabid beast, and was defeated, such beings were to be respected. Even thy enemy. Sukēru stowed his bow away and took hold of the White One's tail. It would do no good to dispose of the fallen here in such a blasted place. Heaving mightily, for he could not break his fast until his Final Test had begun, Sukēru started pulling the fallen creature away from the carnage of battle.

Reaching the sloping incline of a nearby hill, he arranged the beast so that its head was on the incline's rise; then, kneeling down, he took out his knife and began to prepare for the Final Trial. Removing the genitals he made an incision at the tail's base, so fine and precise as to cut through the skin but not to damage any of the internal organs within, and drew a line upward to the neck. This done he started to peel its skin away from the body as smoothly as he could. From the countless times he had seen the elders of his tribe do the same it was an easy thing to do, though one that had to be done with caution.

Once the skin had been peeled away so that the carcass was sitting on the hide, Sukēru split the sternum and pulled the ribcage apart, then began removing the viscera. These he placed in a special hollow he dug out with another knife. The heart he saved for later. Then he stood and constructed a rack by which to hold the beast for afterwards; then, heaving again, he managed to tie it up by its hind legs on there.

Now came the crucial moment: the preparation for the Third Trial.

Pulling off his gloves—for Sukēru did not want to foul his herbs—he reached into a pouch (which had miraculously survived the fight) and began removing various plants he had harvested during his tracking the beast. Scattering these among the collected offal he then conjured a flame on his palm and, with a gesture, set the pile ablaze. Immediately he grabbed the heart kept for this part, cut it in twain, and dropped one half within the smoking fire.

The other he consumed just as quickly as the fire did.

His mind started to swirl in a hallucinogenic haze, the fumes from the fire acting acting upon it swiftly, his mental equilibrium losing its stability. He choked, the contents of his stomach objecting to the "food" he had just eaten. This was the most critical part of the preparation: if he vomited or in any way disgorged the digesting heart, then (Quan Ata Lachu forbid!) he would be forced to undertake the Trial again. Many SharpClaw warriors failed at this point, their minds and body overwhelmed by the grueling aftermath of combat and fasting, and would continue to hunt the White One of the Elders again until they either dropped dead from starvation or were consumed in the combat. Most seldom survived their second hunt, those few who did and yet failed again became OutCaste.

Sukēru gritted his teeth, willing to keep his bile down, and forced himself to endure. He would not live the life of an OutCaste. He was SharpClaw, and he would endure! By Quan Ata Lachu's grace, he will, and shall take his place alongside his father and the elders of his tribe… at last… Nonetheless, try as he might, his head started to droop, fatigue overcoming his strength—but he still kept the bile down, forcing himself to ingest his hunt completely. He shook his head, chasing away sleep; oh, how would he love to to rest.

No, he won't—

"Sukēru, my son, thou hast proven thyself worthy. Rise, and receive thy Final Instruction."

The SharpClaw's head shot up, all vestige of sleep chased away, and he jumped back to his feet. "Who's there!" he growled, unlimbering his bow and fitting four spirit arrows to the shaft. "Show yourself!"

Hallucination or not he was no fool.

"My son, I have come unto thee, thy father's father's father. Stand down thine wrath and hearken unto my words."

His eyes widened slightly. No one ever used that ancient form of address, that thrice naming of one's progenitors. Turning around, swinging his bow and squinting in the sudden gloom that met his eyes (how long had he stayed here? the sun was long gone), Sukēru caught sight of a strange… apparition? approaching him as silent as mist. Or was it mist?

The figure was dressed in the robes that the elders of the SharpClaw tribes wore at the most high and most holy of festivals, with all manner of symbols and glyphs inscribed upon it in gold embroidery. A single gold pendant hung from its neck, in the shape of a a five-pointed star and set with gems of all sorts. The figure's hood was drawn back, allowing Sukēru to see a blunted face with flattened nostrils and offset eyes: a pointed, angular chin defined the apparition's grim mouth, a smooth, natural armor covering its forehead. Due to the light emanating from the figure, Sukēru could not see the color of its skin.

As he stared at it, slowly lowering his bow in shock, the figure raised its hands in a benediction. Four fingers could be seen in each hand. "Thou hast called me to give unto thee thy Final Trial, as ordained by thy father's father's father in ages long past when our Lords ceased to walk among us, my son," the apparition continued, "But this is not to be."

Halfway through the Honored Ancestor's speech Sukēru had sunk in a bow, his weapon stuck into the ground like a spear, his head bent in reverence. When the Ancestor had finished, he dared to look up. "Not to be, Honored Ancestor? What do you mean?"

The ancient SharpClaw moved toward him and placed a hand upon his head. "Not to be," it answered solemnly. "For there are troubling tidings upon the winds of Time."

Sukēru nodded, waiting to hear what his task was to be. But he was curious all the same by this figure's cryptic words. "What tidings, my father?"

The Honored Ancestor moved past him, leaving no sign of its passage, to his impromptu camp and beyond to an opening in the thick tree canopy, to where the starry band stood arrayed in their multi-layered hosts. Sukēru stood after a short internal debate, and followed.

"The Storm of Darkness is coming to our homeland," the figure continued, a note of sadness in its voice. "For all these long years, ever since our Lords didst came unto these lands to bring light and life unto our ancestors, it hast grown and brooded ever darkly. Only once didst the Storm ever stir to approach us. By Quan Ata Lachu's grace were we spared its wrath. But not this time."

"But not this time, my father?"

The SharpClaw of mist turned, a smile spreading across its reptilian features. "Dost thou have anything else to say other than that, my son?"

Sukēru caught himself at these words, and with a sheepish grin shook himself into alertness. "Forgive me, father," he said, bowing his head; he stood over the ancient one by half a meter. "But what do you mean by these words? Is this to be my task?"

"No, my son. Thou canst not stand against the Storm, thou can only endure it. But in this lies thy task, thy Third Trial."

Sukēru's ears perked up at this. "What must I do, father?" he asked eagerly. The Honored Ancestor smiled sadly at him.

"Ah, youth. How I wishest I could have it once more. In this it shall strengthen you for the dangers that lie ahead." It turned and pointed out to beyond the forest, over the place where Sukēru had battled the White One to receive this vision. "Through those trees, beyond the forest, lies our most sacred temple: the Palace of the Gods."

The younger SharpClaw nodded, not knowing what it meant by this.

"Within thou shalt find the means to hold back the Storm of Darkness. Go to the Palace of the Gods, enter through the Deepest Gate at the Mouth of Hell and go to the Chamber of Judgement. Therein thou shalt find the Thrones of Judgement. Proceed to the central one and, with thy bow, destroy it utterly. Therein thou shalt find a passageway to the Underworld, and thy goal: the Staff of the Krazoan Lords. Beyond this I cannot say any more."

Sukēru's eye had grown wide at this. "No—No," he muttered, shaking his head. "I—I cannot. Please, father, this—this is blasphemy—!"

"Dost thou have the gift of foresight? Dost thou presume to question what has been seen by the Elders of thy father's father's father?" the other asked him. "My son, I too wish it wert otherwise, but the Fates have spoken. The Storm is coming and all of life is threatened, and our Lords are no longer here to protect us. Dost thou accept this thy task?"

"But—But surely there is another way, is there not?" Even as he said this Sukēru knew it was futile. No one questioned the Honored Ancestors' gift of foresight. If this was to be his task, then what other could he do to earn a place in his tribe? And if this was indeed true, then… "But, wait, father," he spluttered. "What does this Darkness threaten? Does it threaten only the SharpClaw tribes?"

"No, my son," came the answer, and his heart sank. "All living things are in danger. SharpClaw, EarthWalker, HighTop, SnowHorn, SkyPeople—all of them." The Honored Ancestor turned and pointed to the starry sky. "Even the sun herself shall forebear to give light, and the very stars will be extinguished."

"But—But…" His excuses were running out. He tried again. "But, father, what could I do?"

"Go to the Palace of the Gods for thy Final Trial and thou shalt find what hast been tasked to find." The Honored Ancestor's old face crinkled in a fatherly smile, and placed a misty arm (strangely, it had substance and weight) around his shoulder. "Dost thou doubt thyself?"

Did he? Or was he? Once upon a time Sukēru would have proudly affirmed that he was confident in all that he could do, and probably would have punched the one who dared question him (save his father or any of the warriors of the tribe) furthermore. Now, in the face of an impossible revelation, he wasn't so sure. But he was SharpClaw and they did not waver long. Was it for no reason the Lords of old had appointed the SharpClaw tribes as their armies?

Sukēru felt a sudden strength filling him. Whatever his doubts about the somewhat dubious task set before him were, the last thing he would ever do was doubt himself.

"My father, I accept my task."

The Honored Ancestor's smile deepened. "Then go, my son, and face the dangers thou wilt find as a true son of the SharpClaw. In the name of Quan Ata Lachu, go with my blessing."

The younger SharpClaw knelt before him. The spirit placed a hand of mist and vapor upon him, intoned a blessing in the Old Tongue known only to the most ancient of the elders, then left him. Sukēru looked up to see it disappear slowly into the misty woods, receding into nothing…

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

A roar echoed through the trees.

Sukēru's eyes flew open and he shot up in alarm. How long was I asleep? he wondered frantically, his eyes flying from one side to another.

Looking around all he saw were the smoldering remains of his conjured fire, the white hide of the slain beast and the same hanging from its rack. Before him the carnage of yesterrise's battle was beginning to heal—whatever magical fire was it mimicked actual flames in every respect, save that it burned hotter and more ferociously, and could be controlled by living things. The burned vegetation and the scorched earth—yea, even the trees themselves—were growing back, changing into their former state as before.

Such was the nature of the CawxkVeek jungle. Within a fortyrise this locale would be as pristine as before.

The SharpClaw clutched at his head, struggling to remember what had happened yesterset—and, immediately, the whole conversation came back. After a time of digesting the details (ignoring his suddenly growling stomach) Sukēru nodded to himself. This was his appointed task and by Quan Ata Lachu he shall perform it with all his strength.

Standing up Sukēru began to pack for the journey ahead. The White One's meat was as fresh as if it had been newly slain, such was its innate magicks, and upon this he broke his fast. The skin of the animal he swung around his shoulders as his proof he had slain it. His pouch he replenished with whatever herbs he could find, and his bow he fastened to his back. Now all that remained were the bones.

Most were useless save for the thigh-bones and the skull. Some of the smaller ones he took, as a present for his egg-mother, the rest to secure the white hide upon his armor. The thigh-bones he fused together as a stave, with the skull upon one end and (in a stroke of inspiration) the barbed stinger at the other end. Deprived of its poison-sacs it was still sharp enough to cut through SharpClaw hide. Now that his second Trial was over he could use any weapon he chose—the Final Trial was always the hardest of the lot.

Thus completed, Sukēru set off in the direction his Honored Ancestor had indicated, jumping the river and (as an afterthought) burned the stinking remnants of the poor unfortunate creature his prey had so recently fed upon.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Passing through the XawxKef Feadk, KxehdKuac Xeccen and Sufo Scun locales—he avoided the inhabitants easily enough—Sukēru reached the ocean at last, where the Palace and the Holy City were said to reside. In ages long past this entire area was full of life, the bustling industries of a thousand creatures and the gardens of a thousand worlds everywhere. Now it was only a ruin. Most of the Holy City rested under the water, home to the aquatic beings that inhabited the deep; what few ruins that were above were lonely and isolated.

But as much as he would have been compelled to bend the knee upon arrival (and as much as he wanted to, such a holy place it was), Sukēru had a task and a Trial to complete. Before him, towering above the surrounding jungle like a gigantic monolith of domes and spires, rose the Palace of the Gods, derelict and a ruin. It resembled nothing so much as a mountain of greenery and grey rock. But the few evidences that he could see of its former grandeur convinced him that it was to be respected.

It was the tomb of the Krazoan Lords, after all.

After craning his neck further and further back (til he got a crick in his spine) to try and see all of it, and failing, for the top of the mountain was enclosed in a cloud cover, Sukēru threw back his shoulders and set off for the base of the massive edifice. He knew that on its other side—upon its northernmost extension—was the blasphemous city of the EarthWalker tribes, their so-called "Walled City", one that hoped to mimic the former glory of the Palace. One day soon, he vowed, he would lead an army to cleanse this holy place from all defilement.

Shadow covered his passage as the mountain blocked the sun. He shivered, remembering the Honored Ancestor's words of the "Storm of Darkness". Once again he asked himself if such a thing were possible. Could there really be a force that could block out the sun and cause the stars to forebear their light? Surrounded by the necropolis of the gods themselves, the possibilities were frightening. What was it that had thrown down their Lords again, if not the rebellious "Lylat" beyond Juihau? Such a thing could be possible…

No matter. He had a task set upon him, and by Quan Ata Lachu he would see it through.

Reaching the base of the mountain Sukēru halted suddenly. There before him lay a massive canyon, its bottom filled with water. Off to his left was a passageway down to the canyon floor, rocks and rubble that had crumbled over the lengthening years. Down there, according to SharpClaw legend, was the Deepest Gate, the Mouth of Hell. It was said that a condemned man had been dragged out of there, cursing the Lords with his last breath before being cast out of the Holy City. His curse had come true in a way, if the necropolis all around him were any evidence. But that had been ages ago, if at all true.

You are SharpClaw, are you not? a voice asked him. Why are you standing here reliving the old legends? You have a task set before you.

Shaking his head Sukēru set off down the passageway, using his stave to test his way down. The path held. Eventually he reached the bottom where the softly frothing water roiled and splashed all about him. It was strange how the water depth here did not match that of the ocean above. He must be, what, some two hundred SharpClaw measurements down here?

Shaking his head at the questions that rose within his mind he crossed the bridge there, the only thing apart from the Deepest Gate that was intact, and reached the entrance; and here ran into his first problem.

The Gate, a circular doorway carven with all manner or decoration (the seniormost among them all was the five-pointed star), was sealed shut by an unknown mechanism. And he had no way to open it. Sukēru looked down at his stave, then at the door, wondering. No, he shook his head, it cannot breach it. To try anyway—half-heartedly—he struck the star with the stave hard.

Nothing. Nothing but a hollow gong-like sound.

How was he supposed to get in here? And yet the Honored Ancestor had told him specifically that this is where he—

Sukēru whirled around, dropping his stave and unlimbering his bow in the same instant, and pointed six spirit arrows back the way he came. He heard footsteps, echoing ghostly among the tall walls, coming for him. Nothing presented itself unto his gaze. "Who's there?" he asked, very much in the same manner as in the vision.

Six figures, wearing arcane armor and bearing alien weapons, came striding toward him in answer—and they took no notice of him. Rather, as Sukēru slowly moved out of their way, not daring to lower his bow, they approached the Gate with a purpose. And it was here he saw something very odd. One of the figures' feet passed through his fallen stave as if it were not there: upon closer inspection they were glowing a faint ghostly blue, transparent yet seemingly solid together.

His ridged eyebrows lifted in surprise. He had heard of such spectral beings before. It was said that in ancient places such as this that the impressions left behind by its inhabitants of ages gone would come and go, often in times of need, to the bewilderment and superstitious dread of the one who saw them. Not the SharpClaw. For all of their reverence of the Krazoan Lords they were not a superstitious lot. Religious they may be (overly-religious, to the SkyPeople's insignificant contempt), they also knew to question what they saw. Such as his vision.

The figures were speaking, and by some sorcery he could understand their speech, as alien as it sounded:

"Are you sure this will work, Tahu?"

"Gali, by the Great Spirit, we have braved many dangers and enemies to collect these and you still doubt Takanuva? You heard what he said."

"No… but, I wonder if he has… changed somehow…"

"Less talking, more action. Tahu, the Makuta will be upon us any second."

"Right, Kopaka."

The central figure, the one who had reproved the questioner and seemed to obviously be the leader of the group, held out a hand, palm up. Hovering upon it was a glittering stone (glittering even through its spiritual substance). The others also did the same, and the stones they held drifted to the central one: and, all six pieces, combined together to form a five-pointed figure, the top point smaller than the rest.

Without further preamble the leader waved his hand, pushing the hovering figure into a smaller, likewise shaped slot. The moment he did so, everything dissolved into mist.

Sukēru exhaled the breath he had unknowingly held back. It was a sign from Quan Ata Lachu, guiding him. Stowing his bow away, the spirit arrows fading into nothingness, he dropped to his knees and began searching the area. There were lots of stones lying all around, undoubtedly from when the fall of the Krazoan empire had occurred, but none matched what he had seen. All he could find were jagged, irregularly shaped rocks of various colors and sizes. Then it hit him—literally, as he collided with a stalagmite jutting from the water.

The SharpClaw dropped to his stomach, ignoring his aching head, and began searching the water—he had seen something glittering below. Sure enough, it was shallow, and within a few moments he found three of the six glowing stones. One was angular and large as two of his thumbs placed together, obviously the central piece, the others as long as his third finger. Sukēru roved around, looking for more, and soon found two more on the opposite side, one being the top-piece and the other somewhat shorter than the other longer ones. Now where could the other be?

After some more searching, in which it could not be found, he gave up and stood, water dripping from his hands and arms (that littler stone had been in a hard-to-reach place). Inspecting the stones he saw that the large one had slots; a closer look revealed the others were of a size to fit. Smiling at his good fortune (Quan Ata Lachu be praised!) Sukēru fit them together, though not as smoothly as did the spectral figures. Only one "arm-piece" missing: the thing looked like a little man with its arm and legs in a star-like pattern.

Perhaps the Gate would reveal the answer…

The SharpClaw approached it and inspected its jeweled surface carefully. Aha, as he suspected: inside the star-shaped slot was the sixth piece. Inserting a finger he prized it out. There was a rattling sound, then silence. The mechanism that opened the door, apparently, retreating as one of the "keys" was taken. Grinning all the more broadly Sukēru fitted the final piece in, then placed the completed key into its slot.

With a grinding sound of protest, as ancient gears long since dormant from who knows when they last opened began to turn, the Gate slowly rose into the wall above. Revealed therein was a long, black tunnel, musty smells pouring out as fresh sea-air rushed in. Sukēru coughed, the smell getting into his nose, and picked up his stave. At last—he would go where none had dared to trod. Plucking up his courage the SharpClaw entered the Mouth of Hell.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

For a time, another time, and half a time later Sukēru walked through the seemingly endless tunnel. Lights arranged in circles, blue-white in color, lit his way, leading all the way to an unseen entrance: one that grew wider as he neared. There was no sound save the click of his claws and the faint hum of his spirit arrows. Eventually he reached his goal; and stopped, overawed in wonder and amazement.

A gigantic chamber presented itself to his vision, seemingly spherical in shape if the dimmed lights dotted all over its walls were any guide. Shadow covered the greater part of the chamber in gloom, broken only by the diffused lighting, but in the center there rose six massive stones, finely carved and decorated, and all glowing with a bluish-white light. They illuminated much of the immediate floor surrounding, revealing strange machinery and vehicular instruments: but what caught his eye was the presence of an open entrance to further in. According to the Honored Ancestor he would soon find the Chamber of Judgement—this place could not be it, a mere antechamber only.

Looking down he saw a stairwell descending to the six stones. It was softly lit from underneath by more bluish-white lights; beyond their sides he could see nothing. It was no matter—he would stay here no longer than was necessary to retrieve this Staff. Still holding his bow at the ready he went down to the stones, his eyes fastened upon the entrance eagerly. Even so he kept his hearing alert—there lurked strange things beyond the comprehension of any living creature.

It was thus he went on, moving cautiously lest he disturbed anything. The silence was somewhat overwhelming, lacking the sounds of the jungle or even the sea of outside. But at last, after passing through a long hall with several massive, bronze-gold colored doors inscribed with the five-pointed star, he reached a junction of more halls. Here he encountered the first signs of ruin—the hall directly before him had collapsed, broken masonry and shattered metal littered the floor with fallen stone and scattered earth. The hall to his right was blocked by several broken pillars. This left the one to his left.

As Sukēru turned to go down he halted suddenly. There came the sound of more walking footsteps. He turned again, pointing his bow: the spirit arrows hummed more loudly in anticipation of their release. Nothing presented itself, save that the footsteps grew louder. Sukēru did not call out this time, knowing that was both suicidal and blasphemous: the former, who knew what lived down here, squatting among the remains of fallen empire without a thought or a care for what this place used to be; the latter, this was the most holy of holies, a tomb-city of the gods. But what was coming?

Just as he thought to retreat down the hall he came there suddenly appeared more spectral figures, walking swiftly from the blocked hall to his right—four black-robed beings escorting a fifth, the rear brought up by twenty oversized SharpClaw: ancient SharpClaw, he realized, recognizing their features and build to be the same as the Honored Ancestor. Then this meant… by Quan Ata Lachu!

He was obviously seeing the spectral impressions of the Krazoan Lords, that was who those black-robes were! The SharpClaw warriors their escorts. The fifth—Sukēru growled, he knew what that being was: their prisoner. It looked every bit the criminal, why, if he were there he would not hesitate but instead strike it down with extreme prejudice! Such things were scum and did not deserve to live.

The small party, as did the six ghosts at the Gate before, took no notice of him but continued down the hall. Before they vanished he saw one of the black-robes gesture as the prisoner made a growl—a SharpClaw sped his pace and attempted to thwack the prisoner's head; attempted, because, just before they vanished in mist, the unfortunate one ducked.

Sukēru grinned in triumph. He had been given another sign. Setting off at a rapid pace down the hall, he would have passed the party if they still existed, and, following the hallway—for every door that he saw was either caved in or locked tightly; and any other entrance way blocked off—he eventually reached its end. There, beyond a pair of doubledoors that had buckled under the blow of some enormous battlemachine (there lay its ruin), he saw an open entrance a short ways off—he quickened his pace all the more and entered.

It was the Chamber of Judgement.

The room, strangely enough, was lit softly by a hovering light of the same bluish-white light as in the antechamber. It measured some two hundred paces in diameter, with five smooth pillars arching high into the shadowed vault wherein hovered the light. The cracked tiled floor was a dirty-white save where a massive golden star—designed like all the others—lay imprinted, its ends touching each pillar. But none of this interested him, as tempting it was: no, his gaze was fastened upon the Seven Thrones. The center one in fact, the most crumbled of them all. The others were all in various states of disrepair, the toll of ages having exacted much from them.

Drawing his bow, the spirit arrows humming their loudest yet, Sukēru strode to the star to get a better angle at his shot—and jumped in shock.

An echoing scream suddenly reverberated all around the chamber, growing louder and higher in intensity. It bespoke of supreme loss and agony, tearing at his ears and very soul—it summoned deep within him the fears which had lain dormant, the fear that he would fail and be OutCaste. Sukēru's fingers let loose their hold upon the bow, and it clattered to the floor as he dropped to his knees, eyes clenched tightly. He grabbed at his head and willed the screaming to stop, to end completely—

—just as suddenly as it began silence fell like an anvil upon the ruins of grandeur, leaving one lone SharpClaw shaking in involuntary sympathy to whomever had suffered that much.

Who knew how much time had passed, but Sukēru did not move for a time, trying to drown out the ghostly screams. It told, to him, of weakness. He would not be held enthralled by their spell. He was SharpClaw.

Finally he stood and collected his bow. Shaking his head in bewilderment and confusion he walked to the center of the room, right where the impressions of chains had once stood in the star, and drew his bow again. Three arrows hummed as Sukēru took aim—and, with a sizzling hiss, snapped free. The crumbled Throne disappeared in an explosion of rubble and dust as they struck home, and was obliterated.

Silence fell once the echoing bangs and rumbles faded from the halls. The SharpClaw did not move, but instead turned watchfully, ready for whatever had been disturbed. He was getting suspicious that nothing had shown up yet. This was most odd, and troubling. The last thing he wanted was for the hunter to be hunted; and he hated fear—that was weakness.

Still, once he had revolved five times (from the open doors to the sudden entrance revealed by the Throne's destruction), he decided it was no use waiting. Whatever would come would come. Whispering a prayer to Quan Ata Lachu for his blasphemy he set off for the hole he had created. It was just then another vision came: a harsh voice, mad and insane, rang out with a hard clarity—

"This is why the Father has cursed us, you monsters! You will never see the realms of eternal light ever again, cursed to the outer darkness forever if you continue like this! You hear me, cursed! every last one of you…"

In answer, there replied a supremely awful voice, a choir of voices, of finality—"We have no intention of doing so, cursed one. This is all that matters."

Sukēru paused, pondering this. He could make no sense of it. Why had he heard it? Was it connected to the screams of before? If so, what was it? Casting his eyes behind him Sukēru scanned the empty room. Nothing presented itself, neither vision nor flesh-and-blood being. After a few moments he turned and entered the hole created by his shot.

It was a moderately-large tunnel, large enough for someone twice his height and wide enough for three to walk abreast. Obviously some sort of escape tunnel, for why else would it be covered by an old chair? (Quan Ata Lachu forgive me.) It twisted and turned though not unexpectedly; at each turning there was a glowing pod of the same light as all the others to mark it. What lay at the end, he wondered. Treasure of a sort?

However, he was here for one thing only: he would touch nothing of the sacred Krazoan Lords. Nothing but what the Honored Ancestor had tasked him to find.

He disappeared down the tunnel…

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Back in the Chamber of Judgement where silence reigned like a king incarnate, there came a strange "clicking" noise. Faint, but persistent—and drawing near. A swift shape passed over the fallen rubble of the halls, followed by another one: the color that could be seen before they passed was a dull gold-bronze broken by a pattern of black. The clickety-click-clicking grew all the more louder, and numerous, as if whatever they were had a thousand legs. Soon, all too soon, they reached the Chamber and scattered, searching all round before making a beeline to the newly created entrance…

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Sukēru had long since reached the tunnel's end, and now was ascending a long flight of ornately carved stairs. They were broken and worn in places, in some areas had been destroyed completely; near to the wall there poured out a river from the ocean. Tall pillars, carved in the shape of ancient warriors holding naked swords point-down, lined the ascending stairway. There were moss and creeping vines growing all about; glowing mushrooms too. The chamber was filled with a bluish light, misty and drifting.

His eyes were fastened upon what lay at the top: a stronger light that grew the more bright as he neared. His hands trembled in excitement, the bow quivering. His task was near completion.

The SharpClaw reached a landing, and there it was—at the top of a shorter flight of stairs, some distance away on the landing, hovered the Staff. It seemed almost a disappointment in appearance: a long, purple, blue and gold scepter-lance topped by a wide spear-like head of gold, lit from within by its internal light, and ending in a blunted arrow-point. Arcane symbols covered its surface, indicating that it was an object of immense power—he recognized those symbols from similar objects used by the elders of the tribe in holy rites. Was this a sign?

Just before he started to climb the stairs, two things happened in quick succession:

A vast rattling noise, as of many insects, made itself known—he whirled, bow drawn: two gold-colored, four-legged "centipedes" had emerged from the tunnel, each one four times his size. Furthermore, as one reared up and its topmost section changed into a mobile cannon, several golden spheres detached from both and transformed into tall warriors. Centurions!

"Yyvondá, look out!" shouted a hitherto-unknown voice. Tearing his eyes from the transforming Centurions (the other centipede detaching into two giants) Sukēru looked back at the call. His eyes widened, and without hesitation, whipped his bow up and let loose all, roaring in righteous rage.

The feline-looking SkyPerson (which had suddenly appeared out of nowhere) had been about to touch the Staff, and was tackled by another SkyPerson before she could do so, and the spirit arrows soared into oblivion. They rolled away from the platform—Sukēru tracked them with his bow swiftly—and vanished into nothingness. Before he could comprehend what had just happened, a even louder rattling alerted him—and he jumped.

A warhammer slammed into the stone, leaving behind a large crater, the floor cracked all around. The SharpClaw recovered, backflipping into a crouching position, and let loose another volley of arrows. They shattered into shards of ice and elemental fire upon contact, and dissipated. The metal giant turned, swinging its weapon—the SharpClaw's mouth opened in a soundless scream as it caught him and sent him flying.

He landed with a loud splash, surrounded by four angry-looking Centurion Spheres, the transformed metal-balls into man-figures. They immediately attacked, thrusting with their swords together—he rolled out of the way, bowling one over, and got onto his feet and jumped: just in time, a vast fireball erupted behind him. Sukēru landed, turning in the same instant to fire three spirit arrows (lining up with the Centurion Cannon), before suddenly shifting into a block. A resounding clang, one that would stay with him for a long while after, echoed as the Centurion Sphere struck the bow hard. Sukēru pushed back hard, and whirled around to block another swift slash.

He maneuvered the bow up and over (to his left), overbalancing the Sphere's sword-arm, and kicked out. His foot collided with its metal framework that supported the upper-torso, crumpling it. Before it could recover Sukēru had jumped up, and with a single stab, destroyed it with the bow's spear-like ends. He whipped it out and pulled into another block.

*BOOM*

The explosion from the Cannon rocked him backwards, nearly throwing him into the water, and he went into a run, flipping over three burned-looking Spheres attempting to converge on him. The Cannon took aim to fire again. Sukēru kept running, moving up the stairs rapidly to avoid it—and came to a stumbling halt, lifting his bow automatically.

A spirit warrior stood before him. It was clothed in an armored body-glove emblazoned with a hand, carried a triangular black shield with symmetrical cuts halfway, and looked murderous. In its free hand there was a four-bladed mace of what looked like malachite. "So, this is the guardian sent to stop us?" it sneered, voice dripping in sarcasm. "I've killed worse than you."

Sukēru could only grin in answer—he stood head, shoulders and torso over this spirit. "Clearly," he replied, "you have never faced a SharpClaw." With that he fired instantaneously.

The warrior blocked and charged together, swinging its mace. The SharpClaw ducked and weaved, avoiding all thrusts. The giant of before attempted to smash them both with its warhammer, but the ghostly fighter passed through the weapon without a glance—he hardly seemed to notice. And on top of that neither did the giant. It turned and pointed its other arm, fastened upon which was a massive longbow, and let loose.

It was fortunate that Sukēru had blocked the ghostly mace with his bow just then: another resounding boom and crash ripped through the hall, leaving a kind of permanent ringing in his ears. He pulled out of the block and dodged another blow, getting behind the warrior—lashing out, his foot collided with solid flesh and sent the spirit flying into nothingness.

Grinning in triumph for only a moment he turned and somersaulted onto another ringing smash of the warhammer. Putting his bow upon his back, he swung on the giant's arm, making his way up. It tried to throw him off and succeeded only in bashing the other giant which had hitherto remained motionless, waiting for the right moment to strike. During that wild swing Sukēru outmaneuvered behind the metal thing's head, and, grabbing his White One constructed stave, penetrated the metallic skin point-first.

With a groaning rumble the giant collapsed, falling forwards down the first stair-flight. Sukēru used its momentum to leap towards the other, landing on its face. Below the Cannon angled for another shot, the Spheres beginning to congregate at the giant's feet for when he fell. Lifting his stave Sukēru prepared to stab through when a hatch for a mouth opened—and a blast of superheated steam erupted, throwing him off. Yelling in agony the SharpClaw landed heavily upon the cracked landing, his stave flying out of his hand. He got back on his feet, though much more slowly now that his entire body was protesting in supreme pain, and prepared to shoot his bow—thwack! and it flew to the water below.

Turning, startled, he ducked the spirit warrior's swing as it shouted, "Lucien Lachance, to me!" It attempted to strike him on the backswing, but he ducked and threw himself over to where his stave lay. Grasping it as the spirit warrior turned, he stood to reengage: only to block with both hands as a wickedly long dagger of jagged design tried to bisect him through the chest.

"I weep for you, mortal," another spectral figure whispered, clothed in the same armor as the other, only of an older make. It pulled back and attempted to thrust him through; Sukēru parried, and with the parry, thwacked it in the head. "Aha-hahahaha! I've suffered worse!" Shaking it off the spirit struck again.

Screaming a battlecry the other spectral figure charged him, followed closely behind by the titan and the Spheres. Ducking the second spirit's thrust, he bashed the first one's shield horribly, sending it off-balance, and (with a sudden flash of insight) leapt upon it. Both were carried off the platform and landed painfully in the water below. Standing up he stabbed it through the chest—only to discover, to his shock, that the spirit had disappeared. His momentary indecision cost him: an arrow, fired by one of the Spheres, thudded into his side.

Roaring, he turned and threw his stave like a spear—it went through the Sphere's chest, exploding it in a violent burst of flame. The White One's magic still held true. The SharpClaw took off at a run, twin balls of fire forming in his hands, and threw them at the other Spheres. One went down, the other retreated into is ball-form and avoided damage.

Leaping, he somehow managed to avoid yet another cannon-blast from the roving Centurion turret while in the air, and landed somewhat off-balance. Recovering, he raced up the cracking, crumbling stairs, retrieved his stave sticking out of the Sphere's wreckage, and attacked the lone titan. Instead of going for the head he lashed out at its ankles. A painful jolt up his aching muscles told him otherwise—he instead ducked through its legs and stabbed, point-first, into the join where leg connected to foot.

Tottering the titan could only follow the path of the first—and blew apart in a blast of fire as the Cannon fired again. As its wreckage scattered the SharpClaw's senses gave warning, and he leapt to the side; a blade clanged into the ground. Kicking out with his foot, he nearly snapped the sword-wielding spirit's neck—instead he only threw it back. As it flew it screamed out: "You wish to kill me? Someone has already had that honor. Hah!"

Ignoring its taunts Sukēru looked around for his bow. His eyes moved quickly from side to side, and saw noth—there! He took off to where it lay, glittering in the ambient bluish-light, just as another battlecry told of the mace-spirit's return. Before he could grab it Sukēru deflected its blow, then another and thrice more, before counterattacking. The skull thudded into the shield, sending once again the spirit off-balance, and he followed up by slamming into its unprotected side.

He looked up as a glint of metal caught his eye—and jumped.

*BOOM*

The thunderous blast shattered the top of the stairflight and a good portion of the platform too; and sent him flying toward his bow. Landing, and rolling into a kneeling position, he snatched it up and fired as quickly as he could. Twenty spirit arrows flew, one after another, toward the Cannon with extreme prejudice and penetrated its skin, weaponry, and legs. It fell apart as its joints could no longer hold its immense weight, and the cannon's barrel crashed to the ground.

*Slice*

A scream left his lips as a golden sword passed through his left hand, severing it. He wasted no time, however, and slammed into the Sphere heavily. Kicking and slashing at it with his bow he ended its existence through sheer force. As it fell to join the others he turned—to face the two warrior spirits of before. Reacting, he ducked the mace-wielder's swing, and slashed through its body, sending it dissolving into mist. The other he caught its arm and nearly broke it by sheer might alone. As it attempted to recover he grabbed the bowstring with his teeth and released point-blank—

—with a dying scream of rage, not pain, the spirit flew backwards into mist and faded away.

Silence fell upon the hall.

Shaking he sank to his knees, recovering his strength. When he was sure he could stand without falling over, such was the pain (as much as he tried to shut it out), he placed the bow he could no longer use away, picked up his cracked stave and put it away too, and began to doctor his wounds. Tearing a strip off his white cape with his teeth Sukēru tied off the bleeding stump first before cutting all blood-flow with another strip.

Breathing heavily, he staggered to the top where the Staff of the Krazoan Lords hovered serenely, untouched in the fight. By Quan Ata Lachu, by all of his blessings, Sukēru had indeed passed his Final Trial. Reaching out, hesitating for a moment, he took hold of the Staff and pulled. A delicious warmth spread through his body, numbing away all pain and soothing his wrist. He exhaled, feeling exhaustion for the first time as the adrenaline faded away.

By Quan Ata Lachu he had done it.

He was now a SharpClaw warrior, truly in both spirit and body.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

He stumbled out of the Deepest Gate, still open, clutching the Staff. It seemed sacrilegious but he was forced to use it as a walking stick, like an old egg-mother. The Krazoan Lords forgive him. Nothing had met him as he retreated through the halls, going back the way he came, but as he departed through the stairs in the antechamber he heard a vast multitude of rattling and scrappings. Fearing that more Centurions were coming he redoubled his pace and burst through the Gate before, he was sure, they had seen him.

The Deepest Gate seemed to understand his haste, or perhaps Quan Ata Lachu was guiding him, for it closed behind him. With a grinding pop the keystones fell out. He turned to consider them before bending down, setting the Staff aside, and put them into his pouch. No other being would enter the Palace, to defile the sacred tomb of the gods.

Turning he picked up the Staff again and set off for home. His way would be much quicker now. Smiling at the reception he would receive, especially from his father and egg-mother, Sukēru SharpClaw hobbled onward.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Watching him go from a Palace window, smiling contentedly, was the Honored Ancestor. He had chosen well. The young SharpClaw would make a fine servant indeed. Everything was proceeding as he had foreseen. Turning away the Honored Ancestor started to walk away, not fearing the denizens within—and lo! his form began to shift.

Digitigrade limbs changed to those of the SkyPeople, plantigrade; thin arms lost their feeble look and became powerfully built; an equally thin body became something similar, a massive figure of nearly four meters. The "Honored Ancestor" passed into a shadowed place, obscuring all features save for a flowing cape and a helmet with curving horns, and went on.

The SharpClaw would never know who had arranged for him to claim the Staff, nor would he know that the exact number of Centurions had all been planned. Let him become engorged in his pride, the time would come to disabuse him of that notion. Everything would happen in its own time, and in its own manner.

Everything…

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Story Word Count (title and song excluded): 9532
Story Word Count (title and song included): 9575

WordCounter-dot-net Word Count (title and song excluded): 9326
WordCounter-dot-net Word Count (title and song included): 9349

Total Word Count: 10083
Total Word Count (2): 9839

A/N: The "visions" he sees are actually teasers of my other stories, two of whom are in limbo. The one I am most definitely going to work on some time in the future I made sure to stick the fight scene in a major, plot-mandated dungeon so I don't forget. Props to whomever figures out what these stories are.

An interesting story surrounds the rapid creation of this story, and it has nothing to do with it. As I whiled away the time allotted for writing I became attracted to an extremely well-written fanfiction trilogy entitled Inquisitor Carrow by littewhitecat (see my Favorites). It was so damn good, so damn-well written, that it not only set me off into a writing frenzy but should be the one published into a trilogy, and furthermore, be the one made into a movie rather than the "Trash-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named" that was based off of Twilight. I heartily recommend it to you all for your reading pleasure once the contest is over. It is that good. Oh, and, yes: it is a crossover and to give you an idea (without spoiling the plot) here are two quotes, one from each fandom, to give a clue as to what it is:

1): "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

2): "In the grim darkness of the future, there is only war."

Cheerio, folks!