The Chronicle of Nemida
3rd Draft
Conceived and Written by Onikoneko
Prologue
A sodden, mist-drenched field.
The sparse grass was occasionally broken by uneven mounds. Some of the mounds still twitched and moaned, fallen, but not yet slain. The sun was powerless to pierce the drear, overcast sky. The fallen would not have even the comfort of a single warming ray of light as their life ebbed out of their torn, broken forms. Some of the mounds lie in such a fashion that it was obvious they had fallen to each others' weapons. Beliefs, ideology, motivation, all was cast aside as the figures, moments ago at odds, now joined to face the end of their mortality together.
Confused sounds tumbled out of the misty opalescence. Some would describe it as the hue and cry of battle. Cries certainly made up a large portion of the cacophony. Screams of pain, terror, blind rage, and other disreputable aspects of mortality. The deadened rings of implements of steel and wood crashing against each other. Vessels of destruction, wielded by vessels of flesh and blood, sent forth by at least two opposing factions to demonstrate the superiority of their own ideology. Crashes, screams, and muffled thuds as, at the mere cost of several hundred ordinary lives, an exceptional elite few gained the chance to hold control over the field they had now turned into a slaughterhouse.
A disturbance traveled through the mist. A single shadow detached itself from the grey void, striding slowly, yet purposefully through the scattered mounds of that which was either so recently alive, or had precious little time left to enjoy the life it had. The figure appeared quite unique in ways other than the fact that he was, for the moment, the only one in sight still capable of bipedal motion. Perhaps it was the fact that while he was clad in the raiment of battle, he was not besieged by the effects of battle. His mail was neither dented nor dulled, but shone with an unearthly lustre. The fine leather padding was not torn or sullied in the slightest. No blood, either his own, or that of those he presumably battled, stained his form. The two claidmores, a full two meters each, yet held with ease and grace, were not chipped nor dented in the slightest.
It was not just the anomalous cleanliness of the figure that attracted attention. The physical beauty of the figure was also rather uncanny. Well over two meters tall, the individual had a form that was unsettlingly pleasing to the eye. Ebon, perfectly braided locks of hair swung almost to his waist. The skin was deeply tanned, yet completely uniform in its colour, with no visible imperfections or scarring. The eyes, though looking bored, glowed with an disquieting radiance. Aside from the fact that the pupils of the eyes were a cloudy white, while the 'whites' themselves were of the deepest indigo, the figure was of the utmost in mortal beauty in every fashion.
The disorganized clanking of armoured feet drew closer. The mists parted a second time. This time, half a dozen dirty, haggard mortals were disgorged into visibility. No discomforting, unearthly beauty hung about them. Sweaty, dirty, bloodstained, they appeared a natural part of the world around them. One of the group spotted the lone, ethereal individual. With a hoarse cry of 'For the Broodmother!" the soldiers charged the figure, chipped and soiled weapons upraised.
The figure's initial reaction to this was to simply stop walking. A look of long-suffering boredom crossed his face, as if he was resigning himself to doing some tedious, pointless action that had already been performed countless times today. The eyes rotated, focusing on the charging humans for the first time. They narrowed. The claidmore in the figure's left hand rose, the two meters of steel supported without any apparent effort in a relaxed grip. The narrow lips open, and a single word was issued in a whisper that somehow carried over the tattered screams of the rapidly approaching mob, "Die."
The claidmore was swung, and a blinding flash of light erupted from the blade. No sound accompanied this visual spectacle. In fact, it seemed that the silence was its own material being, for it smothered the cries of the others. The figure held the claidmore at the end of its arc, an inscrutable expression on his face. The light died down to its former misty dimness. The cries did not return with the fading of the light, nor did the clanking of armour or the panting of the attackers. Six new mounds, horrific amalgamations of charred flesh and melted steel, decorated the field.
The claidmore was lowered. The figure turned to continue striding it its former direction.
The figure froze.
If the expression of the figure's face a moment before was vague, the look that crossed over his features now was the epitome of enigmatic. He cocked his head slightly, as if listening to something aside from the general muffled sounds of battle. Slowly, methodically, he sheathed the claidmores. One at his side, the other sheath strapped securely to his back. He continued listening.
A barely visible shiver passed through his body. The lips opened a second time, though the words whispered lacked their former carrying power, "The prophecy."
The figure turned and strode purposefully away, this time at a much faster clip. He headed to the north.
The hue and cry of battle continued to filter through the now empty patch of field.