***This is my preview of my coming Berserk Epic. I don't own Berserk or its characters. I only write about them. And I'm basing myself strongly on the Anime since I never got a hold of the Manga, and it will be the same when the epic comes around.*** Jeremy ***
Musings
By Jeremy
Slash left. Recover. Slash right. Recover. Cross blades. Balance. Balance. Slash right. Left. Righ. Left. Stab. Block.
All of this went through Serin's mind in a flash, almost immediately followed by his hands, bidding his arms move in the sequence he wanted. To a casual viewer, the sight would have been an amazing whirlwind of steel, almost faster than the eye could see. A blur of motion almost. To a normal swordsman of Midland, the level of skill showed would be incredible.
To Serin, and to the one watching him in the intense, ever-brooding way that scared more than one stout warrior away before, it was adequate...barely.
"Faster, kid." growled his mentor, looking out from a lone eye in what always appeared to be a baleful gaze. "I can see so many gaps in that, I could kill you in a second! Push yourself! Faster!"
He tried. He truly did. But his shoulder muscles were taxed, screaming at him to stop this senseless pace. His lungs were barely oxygenated, burning him from the inside. Sweat was pouring out from below his red-haired brow, trickling down his face, stinging his eyes. His tunic and breeches were already soaked, and the fact that the day was warm and sunny only made matters worse. Still he pressed on, pushing himself farther than fifteen-year-olds should. He grimaced a bit as pain exploded in his tendons. Still he held on, blocking out the pain, harnessing it, feeding it to the half of his self he hated but also gave him a great edge over almost anyone.
But even that side couldn't sustain him and, without warning, his muscles blocked, his right hand opened spasmodically and let go of his sword. His momentum lost, he stopped, driving the other blade into the soil and leanin on it, his chest heaving as his lungs tried to gather air once more. He coughed, then looked vaguely in the direction of his mentor.
"I'm...hfff...sorry. I...cough, cough...just can't anymore." he said softly. For long moments there was silence, then a low grunt as the one watching him raised himself off the fallen log he'd been sitting on. Then steps approaching him.
"Hmmph. Well, its not that bad. You held off longer than the other time. And your speed is increasing. But you're not there yet, kid."
Serin saw the shadow of his mentor fall on him and looked up high to meet the man's eye. A tall, muscular figure stood there, armored, muscles rippling on the right arm and neck. Dark hair with a few strands of grey, cut very short, topped a squarish head with a strong jaw and rather slim nose. One eye was looking at him with its usual intensity, while the other was forever shut, lost long ago to horror and betrayal. As had the man lost a great part of his soul. Two peculiar, frightening facts were unique to the man.
One was his left arm. or rather lack thereof. Cut off below the elbow by the man's own blade, it had been replaced throught the near-magical skills of Godo the Blacksmith by a forearm and finely articulated hand made of black metal, attached to his stump and connected to it. How it was possible, only Godo knew, but the forearm and hand the man could use as he could the flesh that had once been there. The other fact was the sword which lay at the man's back.
Enormous, large as a half a strong man and just as tall, the sword was the terror of all those whom the man called an enemy. Many had fallen to this blade, and no mortal - indeed, even most most demons - could withstand it. Also wrought by Godo long ago, it had become the man's blade. His weapon. His strength.
His vengeance. For this and the relentless pursuit that had put him at odds with all kinds of monsters, both human and not, the man had earned the feared appellation of Dark Swordsman. But to Serin and a few others, he was better known as...
"Gatts." he said, coughing. "Sometimes I think you're watching me only to see when I'll screw up, sir." he added a smirk to show he was kidding - the man wasn't known for his sense of humor, after all.
For once, the teen was surprised, for a slight smile actually appeared on these lips, something which happened very rarely. The man only clapped an hand on his shoulder, as he did when he was in what could actually seem to be his good mood, then turned away.
"Stop speaking nonsense, kid. Now come on. Rickert, Caska and Erika will be waiting for us, and I don't want her to worry."
'Her' meaning Caska, of course. Not that she'd worry about the man, in the state she was in. Locked in her own mind, away from the reality which detroyed everything she held dear by the hand of the one she had spent her life idolizing and loving in her fashion, she seemed like a carefree child who only ahhed and giggled, never saying anything coherent, not even to Rickert, not even to Gatts. And that seemed to both sadden and enraged the Dark Swordsman, this man who had taken him out of the street, who had been the first not to judge him, even after the other part of his nature manifested, to levels unheard of by man. He loved her so much.
Rickert, now the official blacksmith since the death of Godo barely a year back - a blow to everyone, that had been, even though he had been old - he was the only one except Caska Gatts really allowed himself to relax with. Part of the Band of the Hawk himself, their years together during the Hundred Year War between Midland and Chuda and the loss they had suffered had made them friends.
And Erika...Godo's grand-daughter, always so cheerful, so strong, even at the great blacksmith's death. She was something else. He had liked her to begin with, but lately his feelings had deepened, and he'd found to his joy and surprise she recently started showing him the same feelings. Used to being ignored and alone, it had been very gratifying to meet tolerance and warmth. But love? That staggered him.
He sighed, held the two longswords in front of him, whispering a silent vow to the only ones who had cared for him, before Gatts had come along. Berana, his half-sister, and Hergal, his father. The two beings who held importance to him, and of whom he wielded the blades in his two-handed style he had learned and improvised. It was his motto, his word of honor. His solemn promise.
"I swear upon these blades that I will find and defeat the one who caused your deaths and my suffering."
And then he sheated them both while the older but far more skilled warrior looked on, respecting his little tradition. Strapping both swords at his back. He went to him, and together - mentor and student - they made their way back to the smithy and dinner, silent. Serin found himself thinking that it seemed destiny, whether they liked it or not, may have make them meet. After all, they both had lost things very dear to them, both had suffered beyond imagination. Both were after the god-like beings only aptly known in ancient texts as God Hand.
The Dark Swordsman wished to destroy one.
Serin wished the death of another.
And only time would tell if either will succeed.
Musings
By Jeremy
Slash left. Recover. Slash right. Recover. Cross blades. Balance. Balance. Slash right. Left. Righ. Left. Stab. Block.
All of this went through Serin's mind in a flash, almost immediately followed by his hands, bidding his arms move in the sequence he wanted. To a casual viewer, the sight would have been an amazing whirlwind of steel, almost faster than the eye could see. A blur of motion almost. To a normal swordsman of Midland, the level of skill showed would be incredible.
To Serin, and to the one watching him in the intense, ever-brooding way that scared more than one stout warrior away before, it was adequate...barely.
"Faster, kid." growled his mentor, looking out from a lone eye in what always appeared to be a baleful gaze. "I can see so many gaps in that, I could kill you in a second! Push yourself! Faster!"
He tried. He truly did. But his shoulder muscles were taxed, screaming at him to stop this senseless pace. His lungs were barely oxygenated, burning him from the inside. Sweat was pouring out from below his red-haired brow, trickling down his face, stinging his eyes. His tunic and breeches were already soaked, and the fact that the day was warm and sunny only made matters worse. Still he pressed on, pushing himself farther than fifteen-year-olds should. He grimaced a bit as pain exploded in his tendons. Still he held on, blocking out the pain, harnessing it, feeding it to the half of his self he hated but also gave him a great edge over almost anyone.
But even that side couldn't sustain him and, without warning, his muscles blocked, his right hand opened spasmodically and let go of his sword. His momentum lost, he stopped, driving the other blade into the soil and leanin on it, his chest heaving as his lungs tried to gather air once more. He coughed, then looked vaguely in the direction of his mentor.
"I'm...hfff...sorry. I...cough, cough...just can't anymore." he said softly. For long moments there was silence, then a low grunt as the one watching him raised himself off the fallen log he'd been sitting on. Then steps approaching him.
"Hmmph. Well, its not that bad. You held off longer than the other time. And your speed is increasing. But you're not there yet, kid."
Serin saw the shadow of his mentor fall on him and looked up high to meet the man's eye. A tall, muscular figure stood there, armored, muscles rippling on the right arm and neck. Dark hair with a few strands of grey, cut very short, topped a squarish head with a strong jaw and rather slim nose. One eye was looking at him with its usual intensity, while the other was forever shut, lost long ago to horror and betrayal. As had the man lost a great part of his soul. Two peculiar, frightening facts were unique to the man.
One was his left arm. or rather lack thereof. Cut off below the elbow by the man's own blade, it had been replaced throught the near-magical skills of Godo the Blacksmith by a forearm and finely articulated hand made of black metal, attached to his stump and connected to it. How it was possible, only Godo knew, but the forearm and hand the man could use as he could the flesh that had once been there. The other fact was the sword which lay at the man's back.
Enormous, large as a half a strong man and just as tall, the sword was the terror of all those whom the man called an enemy. Many had fallen to this blade, and no mortal - indeed, even most most demons - could withstand it. Also wrought by Godo long ago, it had become the man's blade. His weapon. His strength.
His vengeance. For this and the relentless pursuit that had put him at odds with all kinds of monsters, both human and not, the man had earned the feared appellation of Dark Swordsman. But to Serin and a few others, he was better known as...
"Gatts." he said, coughing. "Sometimes I think you're watching me only to see when I'll screw up, sir." he added a smirk to show he was kidding - the man wasn't known for his sense of humor, after all.
For once, the teen was surprised, for a slight smile actually appeared on these lips, something which happened very rarely. The man only clapped an hand on his shoulder, as he did when he was in what could actually seem to be his good mood, then turned away.
"Stop speaking nonsense, kid. Now come on. Rickert, Caska and Erika will be waiting for us, and I don't want her to worry."
'Her' meaning Caska, of course. Not that she'd worry about the man, in the state she was in. Locked in her own mind, away from the reality which detroyed everything she held dear by the hand of the one she had spent her life idolizing and loving in her fashion, she seemed like a carefree child who only ahhed and giggled, never saying anything coherent, not even to Rickert, not even to Gatts. And that seemed to both sadden and enraged the Dark Swordsman, this man who had taken him out of the street, who had been the first not to judge him, even after the other part of his nature manifested, to levels unheard of by man. He loved her so much.
Rickert, now the official blacksmith since the death of Godo barely a year back - a blow to everyone, that had been, even though he had been old - he was the only one except Caska Gatts really allowed himself to relax with. Part of the Band of the Hawk himself, their years together during the Hundred Year War between Midland and Chuda and the loss they had suffered had made them friends.
And Erika...Godo's grand-daughter, always so cheerful, so strong, even at the great blacksmith's death. She was something else. He had liked her to begin with, but lately his feelings had deepened, and he'd found to his joy and surprise she recently started showing him the same feelings. Used to being ignored and alone, it had been very gratifying to meet tolerance and warmth. But love? That staggered him.
He sighed, held the two longswords in front of him, whispering a silent vow to the only ones who had cared for him, before Gatts had come along. Berana, his half-sister, and Hergal, his father. The two beings who held importance to him, and of whom he wielded the blades in his two-handed style he had learned and improvised. It was his motto, his word of honor. His solemn promise.
"I swear upon these blades that I will find and defeat the one who caused your deaths and my suffering."
And then he sheated them both while the older but far more skilled warrior looked on, respecting his little tradition. Strapping both swords at his back. He went to him, and together - mentor and student - they made their way back to the smithy and dinner, silent. Serin found himself thinking that it seemed destiny, whether they liked it or not, may have make them meet. After all, they both had lost things very dear to them, both had suffered beyond imagination. Both were after the god-like beings only aptly known in ancient texts as God Hand.
The Dark Swordsman wished to destroy one.
Serin wished the death of another.
And only time would tell if either will succeed.