He awoke to the drizzle of heavy rain.
Inside a cavern adorned and etched with unintelligible runes, the naked youth stirred. He gasped as air filled his lungs. Like a corpse, his slumber ended and reality came crashing down. He sat up and stared at the burial chamber. Two matching dragons spewed fire from their mouths, long-fork like tongues slithering from their jaws.
He stared down at himself and covered his pelvis. Not exactly the best way to awake to anything. A dull sensation burned through his mind.
He couldn't remember a lick of information about himself.
Was it like some fairy-tale where the nomad prince finds himself cursed?
"Where am I?"
No one answered. Only the caves walls watched in silence. He shuddered at the draft coming from the entrance of the cave. A dim fire illuminated the burial chamber. Whispers roared through his mind, fragments jumbled and cracked inside his memories.
"I can't remember. This is a joke right? I'm amnesiac? Oh wonderful" he laughed.
The flames flickered. Their heat burned the man at their inviting touch. He muttered and cursed several times while looking to the side. He stared at a mantle of a man with a skull like helmet and a tight fitting set of armor and straps. His body was etched from fire and the blood of hundreds. Underneath him stood a girl and a woman, each wearing regalia while a man laid with his blood spilled.
"What is this?" he said.
A roar of thunder sent a shiver down his spine. He turned his back and saw a smooth red cloak hanging over a rock bed. A cracked mask with a beastly pattern lay at its side. Laid out on an altar, an ornate blade rested. The whispers grew excited, they chattered their teeth. They nudged him to the blade. He examined with a cautious gaze. It felt firm. He ran his fingers over the grooves along the black, cloth wrapped grip.
The blade responded to his touch. He glided it through the air. It was a part of him. Instinctively it was an extension of him. He swung and blocked imaginary phantoms aiming for his life. His breathing grew haggard, sweat dripped from his naked body. He grabbed the sheath and slid his odachi back into its resting place.
The storm swelled outside. Lightning blinded the crags and massive earthen spires along the horizons. He stared out to a long walkway. A metal gate hung overhead. The man quickly grabbed what he imagined were his belongings. He tucked his pants with a large belt bearing the symbol of two daggers and a dragon's head. He strapped the leather bracers around his arms, burnished with a similar design of the buckle. He wrapped the red cloak around his body, it concealed his entire frame. It was more like a robe than a long jacket. He pulled the hood over his face head, covering his messy, long hair. Finally, he strapped the metal mask around his face. He didn't blend in, but he made an impression.
The storm drowned out his thoughts. He stood like a shadow waiting for the end of it. For hours he stood like a statue, noting the various engravings along the walls. The first one grabbed his curiosity. Another one showed two men standing a part from one another. Dual dragon like etchings reflected on each side of the drawing. A large temple towered over them. Another showed the man with the skull mask with ugly creatures, four armed monsters, and men with the bodies of four legged creatures.
He stared at the other etching; it showed a large, dragon like humanoid sitting on a throne with a man similar in shape to the skull killer. The next stone engraving showed the man placing a skull crown over his face while the dragon creature laid on the ground. Blood spilled from his grievous wounds.
"What does this all mean? It's familiar, but I have no idea what it means.
A lever shut someplace. Gears grinded against one another, he heard the cracking of rocks. On the burial chamber rested a long gauntlet with scales like that of a dragon. The voices whispered to him again, a dozen voices begging him to take it. He knew in the back of his mind it wasn't wise. Whatever had been sealed inside that chamber should have stayed in its vault, locked forever.
He examined the gauntlet, scrutinizing its metal, running his glove along the groove. A small mechanism opened and opened its grooves. He jammed his fingers into it. They latched to his fingers, burning his hand with black fire. A slithering series of metal grooves twisted along his arm, latching and connecting to his skin.
He panicked and flailed about while the gauntlet devoured his right arm. More fragments burned and wedged their way into his mind; faces, places, and deserted battlefields raced by him.
"None of this makes sense? Who was I? Elder Gods…this makes no sense."
He waited for another day to pass. The storm and the memories come and go as I sat there. Lost in the darkness, he meditated with a natural ease. Whoever he was, he felt at ease amongst the stone and damp caverns of wherever he was.
Finally, the sky cleared. Outside, a dark haze of blood red and dark purples illuminated the skyline. Stars burned in the heavens, while a large set of spires and building laid miles off in the distance. The vagrant walked towards the entrance, he turned his back to the burial chamber. He cocked his head and saw a strange symbol: It bore that of two horns and small slits embroidered into a faded, destroyed banner.
He turned his back on the forgotten ruins. With no aim in sight, he decided to follow a path to the spires. Instinct alone guided him. For days he ventured closer to the seemingly endless caverns and crags along the various pits filled with blades and decayed corpses. He rested and sat over there corpses, indifferent to their plight. Gates long forgotten or unused met him at every chasm. He heard the roar of a hundred creatures. Some loud, some proud, some humble, it was like a child seeing the world for the first time.
Taking in the sights, the spires become larger and larger. Entering the edge of a forest, the voices that plagued him drew to a hush. Something was not right. Of course not. A dark and ominous forest where the trees stalked you; how could it be normal?
Smoke billowed in the wind. The sharpening of blades sliced across one another. A small creature gargled as something gnawed and gnashed its teeth into it. It wore a white tank top and flowing black pants. It skin was terse and cragged in various ways, spikes adorned from the back of its head. The side of its face was pulled back to the jaw line, revealing a mockery of talon like teeth. Its stubby nose sniffed and whiffed the burning fire. The creature snorted and dug into his meal.
He stopped and watched the monster devour its meal. A deep voice grunted.
"I could smell you the moment you entered the forest, stranger. You have a strange stench. Like death and regret of someone without any life. I'm not poetic. Show yourself or I'll grind your bones with my blades"
He revealed himself to the beast-man. The creature drew closer and retracted its blades. He shook his head and walked back to his dinner.
"Why do you not attack me?"
"I have fresh prey. Besides, your stench is foul and rotten. I don't want to eat flesh that's already sour." He gagged.
He smirked from behind his mask.
"Besides, that mask creeps me out. And look at my face, I'm an ugly beast. But still the strongest out of all Tarkata."
He paused and cocked his head. The Tarkatan waved him over and sliced a piece of the fat rodent and tossed it to him.
"Grind it with your teeth, oni." He grunted.
He pulled back the mask and chewed on the raw meat. His incisors grinded and sliced through the bloated creature's flesh. The Tarkatan narrowed his already thin eyes and pointed his blade at him. The bone tore at the flesh along his side, leaving it blistered and raw. "Damn things. Always leaving an infection." He muttered.
"What are you? You wear the face of an oni yet you are a man? Who are you?"
"I don't know."
The Tarkata pressed his blade against the man's throat. The chewed meat slid down his throat while his pale grey eyes stared back at him. "Are you an assassin, a bounty hunter? Did that tribal chief send you?"
"I do not know who you are. I have no memory of myself."
The Tarkata stared at him and pulled back his blade. He slapped his knee and chortled at the man's reaction.
"You're unafraid. No, not even that. No assassin would come up with some idiotic story like that. An amnesiac? Are you some great prince bent on revenge against Shao Kahn?" he asked.
The ronin folded his arms and scratched the back of his ear.
"Who is Shao Kahn?"
"Those are dangerous words, face stealer." The Tarkata glared.
"Is he important?"
"He's the man who's going to make my people his favored enforcers. Shao Kahn is the glorious Emperor of Outworld, the conqueror of a hundred realms. He is the heart of our world."
"And what are you?"
"Watch your tongue, face stealer. I am Baraka, son of Iscar. I am from one of the tribes of the Tarkata. We are the most powerful and vicious of Outworld's races. No one can withstand our might. Not the tormentors, not the Centaurs, and certainly not the foolish Shokan."
All of the names meant nothing to him. Baraka ranted and raved about the politics and the shifting balance from Shokan to Tarkata, and the feud Kahn manipulated between the Shokan and Centuars. He talked about his father's assassination and how he'd been forced to flee into exile. He vowed to retake his father's tribe, by proving himself in something called Mortal Kombat.
"Mortal Kombat?"
"I almost pity you, how you're not dead in the Living Forest yet is a mystery. Haha, maybe you are dead."
He thought it was a possibility.
"It's a tournament that decides the fate of Outworld. We haven't lost one yet. I will become Outworld's champion and bring the glory of the Tarkata to our Emperor. It's the only way I can restore my tribe. We're too divided though. Infighting and massacres one after another. We're seen as dumb animals." He muttered.
The swordsman finished what remained of the meat. He pulled off his mask and sat staring at the fire.
"I have no idea about the Shokan, the Tarkata, or the Centaurs. If you're people are in disarray, why not find a leader?"
"The last time the horde was united only happened when the Centaurs tried to steal our territory."
"I don't know your people. You sound barbaric, amoral, and rabid. But that is a strength I think"
"We're not savages." He snarled.
"No, you are brutal in your conquest. Outworld seems like it's a chaotic landscape of warring races and usurpers. Why does Shao Kahn allow such disorder in his own realm?"
Baraka scratched his bald head, running his long fingers along his spikes. He narrowed his eyes and tried to come up with an intelligent response. His temporary companion stared into the fire while he waited.
"Kahn is brutal. It's like he feeds off the conflict, the glory, the violence. He's invincible. You're either suicidal or a fool to challenge him. Even I fea..respect him" Baraka muttered.
"The strong are elevated, the weak destroyed. It's not a half-baked philosophy"
"Of course not."
"So why not unite the Tarkata?" The nameless ronin suggested.
Baraka snapped his teeth at him. The glow in his yellow eyes illuminated the darkness. He fumbled for another piece of meat with his wrist blade.
"The Tarkata are filled with mostly idiots."
"Then rule them. Fools will blindly follow one who appears intelligent."
"We're not known for our intelligence. Not me of course, I'm smart. My father always told me that."
The fire began to die. The two sat in silence while the enormous moon shimmered in the sky. They stared at the remains of their meal.
"I'm leaving. Do what you will face stealer. The next time we meet I'll kill you." He said.
"Why is that?"
"You smell wrong. I can't trust someone with a stench like yours. It's unnatural, even to a bastard like me" he snorted.
The swordsman rose from the dirt. He brushed himself up while Baraka watched his cautiously. He pointed to the north of them. A long set of trees with gaping mouths and shifty eyes watched them.
"Don't get close to the trees. They'll eat you. And there are rebels of the various resistances lurking about. They'll mistake you for one of Kahn's soldiers. Stay the to the northeast, that'll take you to a small village called Mani. There a popular stop for travelers coming and going from the capital."
He nodded and bowed to Baraka. The Tarkata sheathed his blades and stretched his arms.
"You're not bad for a smooth-face. But you still smell wrong. Farewell amnesiac. I hope you find what you desire." He laughed.
"Baraka." He called out.
The Tarkata kept walking.
"Unite the tribes. You have the ambition."
He waved his hand to him while vanishing into the forest. He was alone.
The dead watched him traverse through their sanctuary.
They didn't envy a living corpse.