[In the middle of a snowy forest, Warhammer sits beneath an Evergreen tree as midday approaches.]
WH: Though not all matters are black and white as they seem to be, the choices we make are.
TWHammer presents
False Martyr
A side-story of Shara's Last Gift.
Darkon hated his isolation, with a passion. He was used to remaining inert for a long time when in hibernation or meditation, but due to the fact he was nothing more than a few body parts on biotechnological life-support and a consciousness without a body to use, he found movement to be rather hard.
Though he could easily blame Innsali for being the cause of losing most of his body, he could not. He was her enemy and had been for a time longer than she ever knew. He had betrayed everything that they fought together to establish for so long. Worst of all, he had murdered their leader and his closest friend.
That blasted android always seemed to know Darkon better than he knew himself. He often retorted by saying that Rolf had no soul, in spite of the fact his soul was indeed trapped inside a mechanical body, created to be the first in a long series of androids named 'Wren' by his former masters.
Darkon chuckled at the irony of it all. Rolf had been betrayed by the government he fought so hard for and though the old 'droid did not harbor the same feelings of malice any Kharusian would have felt, the rest of the androids turned against their masters without any sort of meddling on his part. Rolf had confided to him that the temptation to engage in open warfare was very strong, yet he never divulged the reason why he never did.
Now, Rolf had been betrayed once again. This time by the one he trusted most. Darkon had his reasons. None of them would ever have understood. The strangest aspect being that Darkon had alluded his turn to the Lahdam beforehand, yet the old android did nothing.
Now, in the present, Darkon was simply awaiting the time for his new host to be ready for his insertion into the body. From all the passengers of the Argos, this one was the best, physically, emotionally, and mentally. It would also take some time for the body to become adjusted to the Kharusian physiology, but he knew time was on his side. After all, it was his forces that were pounding the Earth based cities into the ground. His forces indeed...
"Nothing more than a bunch of mindless, overgrown insects," Darkon mumbled as he allowed his mind to expand momentarily and project his 'self' onto an untouched section of the war torn planet.
There was snow everywhere. Snow on the trees, rocks, wood, and ground. Every step his semi-transparent body took left no mark on the ground as he stepped to the edge of the forest. Though he would have walked right through the branch, natural instinct bade him to walk under it and stare at the bleak and cloudy gray sky.
"Just like home," he whispered. It was indeed like the first home he could remember. Lahuph was a small hamlet on the edge of a river in the western providence in the central continent Sentras of Kharuse Naws. The village was very small, but not so small that so that maps did not take down its location. It was also a place where travelers often stopped to rest and resupply before heading into the western part of the central continent where the Onoli city of Tsetiag was.
His 'parents' were decent folk. Not the brightest when it came to intellect, yet what they did know was he basic principles of being happy with each other and their children. The strangest thing was, he was not one of their biological children.
His lot was one of the most unfortunate that any Kharusian could ever endure. He was a 'Yik-Zerif' or 'The Zerif not of Zerif'. The Zerif were only known as wild, nomadic, and as savage as animals. This behavior, according to ancient scripture, was caused when sons of Zerif The Strong, assaulted and destroyed a temple of Iorouk, the Goddess of Darkness. As part of retribution, Iorouk caught Zerif and his sons off guard and cursed them sorely. For the remainder of their days, any Karci or Onoli unfortunate enough to have the bloodline of Zerif carried the horrid curse of Zerif's Wail. It was a curse that robbed the sanity and mind of anyone, regardless of mental or physical strength.
Yet, once every three years, a single child would be born into every tribe of theirs, which did not share the same curse as the Zerif people did. However, they were physically much weaker than all the others of their kind and were usually abandoned into the care of Karce that lived on the outskirts of towns and villages. Strangely enough, whenever a Yik-Zerif was taken into the household, they were miraculously sheltered from the raids of marauding Zerif.
Though he was a Yik-Zerif, Galin found himself in good fortune when he had been deposited within the residence of his biological father. When he was old enough to understand, he was surprised when he discovered that his Zerafi mother had kidnapped hid father, mated him against his will, and Galin was conceived. Though his father was mournful of the circumstances, he didn't treat Galin any less than a full-blooded son of his own line.
There was another memory this valley conveyed to him as he saw the smooth and untouched snow.
It was just her and him. They stood in the snow at the edge of the land that was given to them and spoke of their future together.
Galin Phorinstu? A farmer? It sounded strange since he had spent a good amount of his time reading and had hoped to be a scholar. Yet, there was an appeal to doing something that required physical effort to bring forth crops in the mountainous region they lived in. Though he never lost his love for reading, he discovered the many hours of working in the field with her at his side were to be much more fulfilling.
Her virtues were the things that endeared her to him. She was a woman of good humor and of unbreakable moral fiber. A refreshing break from all the other wistful women that seemed so... common to him. It was not that he didn't like the ordinary; it was when the beauty in simplicity was found. Then the usual did not seem so common anymore. She had been able to appreciate those sorts of things in their simple life. Fundamentals broken down into complex sub-concepts, completely making sense to the principles that held society together was a favorite subject of conversation for her.
Probably, the best thing they shared was each other's presence in time of suffering as well of comfort. It wasn't perfect, but it was worth more than any sort of monetary gain he could ever hope to gain, for the gifts she gave him were without price.
Shaking his head, Darkon returned to the present to see that the clouds had darkened slightly and though nothing much surprised him anymore, what came floating from the sky got his full and undivided attention.
A single flake of snow descended slowly to the ground.
Without thinking and full of wonder, he reached forward and cupped his hands together, wanting to catch it in his hands. Yes, it was a foolish child's fable that whoever caught the first flake of snow in their hands they saw, good luck would be granted unto that child's family for every good wish for another.
The flake fluttered slowly over his palms and seemed to resist wanting to enter into his hands. Darkon chuckled lightly. Every time he tried to catch the first snowflake, it would always try to evade his hands as it went to the ground. When the flake entered the crevice of his hands, a genuine smile appeared.
However, the flake passed through his hands and journeyed to the ground where it became one with the snowy landscape. The smile evaporated from his face and his hands fell slowly to his sides. He had forgotten that in this condition, affecting tangible objects with only his projection at this distance was impossible. More cruel truths returned to his memory as he returned his mind to the ship.
It also reminded him cruelly of the choices he had made ever since he had left Kharuse-Naws. Those times could not be redeemed so easily. The past was as it was, the past; meant to be learned from, but never forgotten.
All he wanted to have was a family, a home, and a peaceful life. Yet, for whatever reason, Ioroush guided him through the life at present. He did not curse Ioroush, yet he found it hard to be thankful for all the pain he had gone through. Now, it didn't matter anymore. He was a murderer, traitor, and conspirator.
However, he had a feeling that in the end, all of this bloodshed would be all that would be needed to end all bloodshed. He would be justified in the end. Whether he would be alive or not to appreciate the end product was not important.
There was no turning back.
The End
[Warhammer remains underneath a tree as he sun sets into evening.]
WH: Fun, huh? I was first inspired by a simple piano song entitled 'Beloved' a while ago and this story came to life, in a sense. You see, the actually scene which was inspired by the music, was only mentioned briefly and now I feel it would be better to let that lie until the next story.
Next, I absolutely love what I've turned this mediocre villain from the tv series into a character that, in my opinion, outdoes himself. Of course, this is just my ego-centric ego talking and for all I know, this could have been done billions of times and I'm just too ignorant to realize it.
I am also wondering if I went too overboard with all mentions of Darkon's homeworld culture. I mean, it's going to be necessary for future chapters of my stories, but I don't want to feel like I'm flooding the reader with information that they could not care less about. Any and all suggestions for the better is definitely appreciated.
Remember, Teknoman, Tekkaman Blade, and everything that has to do it with belongs to Saban and Tatsunoko Productions respectively. The names 'Rolf' and 'Wren' belong to Sega. I get no monetary gain whatsoever so don't even think about suing me. :p
Now, I need to rest so I can get to work on the next chapter.
[Warhammer makes like Rip van Wrinkle and catches a few 'z's under the tree before all the snow on its branches falls off and covers him.]
WH: Though not all matters are black and white as they seem to be, the choices we make are.
TWHammer presents
False Martyr
A side-story of Shara's Last Gift.
Darkon hated his isolation, with a passion. He was used to remaining inert for a long time when in hibernation or meditation, but due to the fact he was nothing more than a few body parts on biotechnological life-support and a consciousness without a body to use, he found movement to be rather hard.
Though he could easily blame Innsali for being the cause of losing most of his body, he could not. He was her enemy and had been for a time longer than she ever knew. He had betrayed everything that they fought together to establish for so long. Worst of all, he had murdered their leader and his closest friend.
That blasted android always seemed to know Darkon better than he knew himself. He often retorted by saying that Rolf had no soul, in spite of the fact his soul was indeed trapped inside a mechanical body, created to be the first in a long series of androids named 'Wren' by his former masters.
Darkon chuckled at the irony of it all. Rolf had been betrayed by the government he fought so hard for and though the old 'droid did not harbor the same feelings of malice any Kharusian would have felt, the rest of the androids turned against their masters without any sort of meddling on his part. Rolf had confided to him that the temptation to engage in open warfare was very strong, yet he never divulged the reason why he never did.
Now, Rolf had been betrayed once again. This time by the one he trusted most. Darkon had his reasons. None of them would ever have understood. The strangest aspect being that Darkon had alluded his turn to the Lahdam beforehand, yet the old android did nothing.
Now, in the present, Darkon was simply awaiting the time for his new host to be ready for his insertion into the body. From all the passengers of the Argos, this one was the best, physically, emotionally, and mentally. It would also take some time for the body to become adjusted to the Kharusian physiology, but he knew time was on his side. After all, it was his forces that were pounding the Earth based cities into the ground. His forces indeed...
"Nothing more than a bunch of mindless, overgrown insects," Darkon mumbled as he allowed his mind to expand momentarily and project his 'self' onto an untouched section of the war torn planet.
There was snow everywhere. Snow on the trees, rocks, wood, and ground. Every step his semi-transparent body took left no mark on the ground as he stepped to the edge of the forest. Though he would have walked right through the branch, natural instinct bade him to walk under it and stare at the bleak and cloudy gray sky.
"Just like home," he whispered. It was indeed like the first home he could remember. Lahuph was a small hamlet on the edge of a river in the western providence in the central continent Sentras of Kharuse Naws. The village was very small, but not so small that so that maps did not take down its location. It was also a place where travelers often stopped to rest and resupply before heading into the western part of the central continent where the Onoli city of Tsetiag was.
His 'parents' were decent folk. Not the brightest when it came to intellect, yet what they did know was he basic principles of being happy with each other and their children. The strangest thing was, he was not one of their biological children.
His lot was one of the most unfortunate that any Kharusian could ever endure. He was a 'Yik-Zerif' or 'The Zerif not of Zerif'. The Zerif were only known as wild, nomadic, and as savage as animals. This behavior, according to ancient scripture, was caused when sons of Zerif The Strong, assaulted and destroyed a temple of Iorouk, the Goddess of Darkness. As part of retribution, Iorouk caught Zerif and his sons off guard and cursed them sorely. For the remainder of their days, any Karci or Onoli unfortunate enough to have the bloodline of Zerif carried the horrid curse of Zerif's Wail. It was a curse that robbed the sanity and mind of anyone, regardless of mental or physical strength.
Yet, once every three years, a single child would be born into every tribe of theirs, which did not share the same curse as the Zerif people did. However, they were physically much weaker than all the others of their kind and were usually abandoned into the care of Karce that lived on the outskirts of towns and villages. Strangely enough, whenever a Yik-Zerif was taken into the household, they were miraculously sheltered from the raids of marauding Zerif.
Though he was a Yik-Zerif, Galin found himself in good fortune when he had been deposited within the residence of his biological father. When he was old enough to understand, he was surprised when he discovered that his Zerafi mother had kidnapped hid father, mated him against his will, and Galin was conceived. Though his father was mournful of the circumstances, he didn't treat Galin any less than a full-blooded son of his own line.
There was another memory this valley conveyed to him as he saw the smooth and untouched snow.
It was just her and him. They stood in the snow at the edge of the land that was given to them and spoke of their future together.
Galin Phorinstu? A farmer? It sounded strange since he had spent a good amount of his time reading and had hoped to be a scholar. Yet, there was an appeal to doing something that required physical effort to bring forth crops in the mountainous region they lived in. Though he never lost his love for reading, he discovered the many hours of working in the field with her at his side were to be much more fulfilling.
Her virtues were the things that endeared her to him. She was a woman of good humor and of unbreakable moral fiber. A refreshing break from all the other wistful women that seemed so... common to him. It was not that he didn't like the ordinary; it was when the beauty in simplicity was found. Then the usual did not seem so common anymore. She had been able to appreciate those sorts of things in their simple life. Fundamentals broken down into complex sub-concepts, completely making sense to the principles that held society together was a favorite subject of conversation for her.
Probably, the best thing they shared was each other's presence in time of suffering as well of comfort. It wasn't perfect, but it was worth more than any sort of monetary gain he could ever hope to gain, for the gifts she gave him were without price.
Shaking his head, Darkon returned to the present to see that the clouds had darkened slightly and though nothing much surprised him anymore, what came floating from the sky got his full and undivided attention.
A single flake of snow descended slowly to the ground.
Without thinking and full of wonder, he reached forward and cupped his hands together, wanting to catch it in his hands. Yes, it was a foolish child's fable that whoever caught the first flake of snow in their hands they saw, good luck would be granted unto that child's family for every good wish for another.
The flake fluttered slowly over his palms and seemed to resist wanting to enter into his hands. Darkon chuckled lightly. Every time he tried to catch the first snowflake, it would always try to evade his hands as it went to the ground. When the flake entered the crevice of his hands, a genuine smile appeared.
However, the flake passed through his hands and journeyed to the ground where it became one with the snowy landscape. The smile evaporated from his face and his hands fell slowly to his sides. He had forgotten that in this condition, affecting tangible objects with only his projection at this distance was impossible. More cruel truths returned to his memory as he returned his mind to the ship.
It also reminded him cruelly of the choices he had made ever since he had left Kharuse-Naws. Those times could not be redeemed so easily. The past was as it was, the past; meant to be learned from, but never forgotten.
All he wanted to have was a family, a home, and a peaceful life. Yet, for whatever reason, Ioroush guided him through the life at present. He did not curse Ioroush, yet he found it hard to be thankful for all the pain he had gone through. Now, it didn't matter anymore. He was a murderer, traitor, and conspirator.
However, he had a feeling that in the end, all of this bloodshed would be all that would be needed to end all bloodshed. He would be justified in the end. Whether he would be alive or not to appreciate the end product was not important.
There was no turning back.
The End
[Warhammer remains underneath a tree as he sun sets into evening.]
WH: Fun, huh? I was first inspired by a simple piano song entitled 'Beloved' a while ago and this story came to life, in a sense. You see, the actually scene which was inspired by the music, was only mentioned briefly and now I feel it would be better to let that lie until the next story.
Next, I absolutely love what I've turned this mediocre villain from the tv series into a character that, in my opinion, outdoes himself. Of course, this is just my ego-centric ego talking and for all I know, this could have been done billions of times and I'm just too ignorant to realize it.
I am also wondering if I went too overboard with all mentions of Darkon's homeworld culture. I mean, it's going to be necessary for future chapters of my stories, but I don't want to feel like I'm flooding the reader with information that they could not care less about. Any and all suggestions for the better is definitely appreciated.
Remember, Teknoman, Tekkaman Blade, and everything that has to do it with belongs to Saban and Tatsunoko Productions respectively. The names 'Rolf' and 'Wren' belong to Sega. I get no monetary gain whatsoever so don't even think about suing me. :p
Now, I need to rest so I can get to work on the next chapter.
[Warhammer makes like Rip van Wrinkle and catches a few 'z's under the tree before all the snow on its branches falls off and covers him.]