A Dark Beginning
Soul woke with a start. Thick, black rain poured off the shutters, streaming down the mottled stones that bordered the dilapidated home he was sleeping in.
Opening, or rather, throwing off the faded green, rotting windowpanes, he appeared to stare at the sky. The night burned red at the horizon, matching the crimson darkness that was his eyes. A sharp-toothed grin stretched unnaturally across the bottom half of his face and as creases formed near his eyes, his head tilted ever so slightly – such was his mood.
The white frosted, spiky mop of hair that adorned his head had streaks of red flowing like veins, though these soon disappeared as they swirled their way down his face, the large splatters of water forcing the dirt and blood out. He wore a suit, military in nature, with a few medals hanging across his heart. His black trousers are sliced at the right knee; blood seeped from the cut.
Soul, standing in front of the doorway, is silhouetted: a strong frame fills the old suit, wide shoulders giving him an imposing air; his face scarred from many battles, a thin line cascading down his jaw; his legs straight and taught.
As he smiles, steam slowly rises from him, the wisps dancing about him as though frightened. He turns back inside, reaching in for his two swords. The first sword is incredibly ornate; patterns bolt down the centre, the lower side has jagged teeth while the top is smooth and sharp.
It is as wide as two men and reaches far down Soul's back; an unholy tinge enhancing its sheen. This was slung over his back as though it were no lighter than a cape and no more than one. The second sword is much thinner, its body blacker than tar and harder than diamond, a slight shine covers it but as he draws it up, jets of lightning dance along it, fearing to go near the glinting edge.
The beauty is entrancing, breath-catching blue-white electricity flickers and cracks along its surface, silenced only when he sheathed the weapon. His footsteps burnt the ground beneath, leaving a scorched trail – not that anyone would follow him.
Soul, and the rest of the country, knew exactly what would happen to anyone he chanced upon.
The small fishing village of Sakamura 坂村 was once beautiful; fishermen would haul huge catches each day under the open blue sky.
The deep oak wood hulls of the fishing galleys glowed warmly, darkened further by the sea lapping gently at their full bellies, men and children running along the decks were laughing and joking as birds chirped and seagulls gawked at them, demanding an easy meal.
That was before Soul passed through. That was before his sword's thirst was sated with their blood. That was before the screams echoed across the plains as the silver grass beneath shivered, silent faces shaking in the wind.
That, however, was not the day that gave him fame, or rather infamy. Before his mind fell to the pits. A wickedly bright flash of lightning flits across the sky, the thunderous smack of sound hitting Soul moments later, launched him into his past…
-The Day Soul fell-
Wild lightning bolted across the clouds, the stampeding of thunder rolling up behind. Heavy needles of rain threw themselves against the soldiers' faces, soaking their clothes. The unique dark red grass of the Humishi Plains was crushed underfoot, revealing the smeared, slippery clay beneath.
The clouds and the Gods looked down on the field of men, torches scattered throughout the swirling masses, the light shaken and dim. General Soul smiled, baring his brilliant white teeth, he snarled at his underlings ordering them to advance.
No matter the enemy, he knew that to win, his men must first fear him more than the enemy. His name was not famous, not yet, but after this battle he knew it would be. All the odds were against him: they were outnumbered by thousands, but that was fine – more for him he thought.
A second more malicious grin once again spread across his face as he mounted his black-iron clad warhorse. The shimmering stallion named Toride とりで reared its huge head, its muscled neck straining, chomping at the bit as white foam frothed around it.
Heavy, shining black fur grasped the skin, the grand muscles underneath tensed, ready to spring, his massive hooves chewed the ground impatiently, the ground angrily smacking closed afterwards. Their armour was magnificently carved.
The dark lacquer moulded into the metal so that it wouldn't chip in the frenzies of war, stunning rubies pierced the front plates forming swirls of red and the sapphires contrasted them immediately, filling the oceans of grey beneath with a light blue glint.
The golden sun folded into the cold iron burned brilliantly at his sides, burning into his legs. Deep grey-blue eyes swivel in the horses head, it too knows what awaits them yet something isn't right.
General Soul's sharp uniform darkens; blues turned to black under the torrential downpour as he makes his way to the front lines - the centre of the battle.
He braces slightly as he pulls forth the Greatsword, his prized possession above all else. The rain slips across the saw-like blade, rivulets follow the channels of the mighty weapon. The Samurai part in front of him, not wanting to get trampled then, as if on cue, an overpowering roll of thunder threw itself across the sky; the Stallion and Soul riding the wave of sound into the enemies' ranks.
Swathes of enemy drop before him, his skin dyed red until the rain rinses him clean. On and on he powers, seemingly untouchable by the footmen he slaughters.
The arrows chase him, their pointed fury skittles and clangs off his armour as the bloodlust takes over. He scoffs at the thought of the one-man army that he was, and as this realisation dawned on him, his mind had its light sucked out - swallowed by his actions and himself.
That day was the greatest Victory and the greatest Loss for his nation. Both armies were shattered and dead, lying at his feet, his horse triumphantly snickered, flicking its matted mane across its neck.
Blood covered him; it was in his mouth, in his eyes and over his skin dyeing him a peculiarly bright rose. He chuckled, then charged through the rain screaming at the crows and flew into the river. He danced madly before collapsing into the silky water.
That was when the rider realised quite how much he enjoyed killing.