This is it- Masked Templar (otherwise known as Zeratul)'s first fanfic. I've mad some changes, the biggest of which that "Khass" is actually "Khas"- review and lemme know if ya got any more suggestions!
Some call me a savior. Others call me a traitor. Still others name me as a trailblazer.
The only thing that I know is that I am an outcast. An outcast of the Protoss race.
The most terrible thing a young zealot can be.
I should not have done it.
I should have gloried in it.
You decide. I shall tell you my story, the story of the Templar.
My name is Khas. I am the first.
This is my story.
He looked up at the Tribe Leader, Ghougon, eager for the trap to be sprung. The mission was approaching a critical point in time. The enemy tribe was wandering around, looking for a place to stay for the night. Off guard. Ghougon nodded. The young zealot nodded in turn.
His name was Khas.
He concentrated on his open hands before him. The blue blades behind his wrists sprung to life, humming. That was the signal for the rest of the tribe, hiding in trees around the small clearing, blades stored, conserving energy.
But no longer. There were two score of them, the Skhilas tribe, and at the sound of the signal by Khas, second in command, they instantly activated their blue weapons and sprung out of the trees.
The Norghem tribe never had a chance. There were only twenty warriors among them, half the enemy tribeÕs number. It was slaughter.
Ghougon called Khas to his side.
ÒReport, my fellow tribe member.Ó
ÒWe lost none, though Yamfaast has a new scar down his arm. Fifty- eight of the scum down.Ó Khas couldnÕt suppress the bloodlust in his voice, so recently after the thrill of combat.
ÒYamfaast is getting old.Ó The enigmatic Tribe Leader pondered this a moment. ÒSend him to our clanÕs cave. Send two younger escorts with him. He is now in retirement. Tell him also that he is to bring the message that the area is secure for the rest of our tribe to move in.Ó
ÒYes, Revered One of our tribe.Ó
Ghougon nodded. Khas stalked off to speak with Yamfaast.
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It is the Eon of Strife. The Protoss race, in itÕs infancy, is warring with each itself, but rather than armies doing battle are scattering of zealots in tribes. The creators of this race that is pure of form, the XelÕ Naga, have fled from Auir in shame and fear. The Protoss people are not technologically advanced, much like the human Native Americans. Their strange blue blades have unknown origins. The Skhilas Tribe is quickly becoming the most feared band of warriors, swiftly annihilating other tribes using strategy, protecting their women and children with unmatched ferocity. Their Tribe Leader, Ghougon, is the mastermind behind the tribeÕs strength, a brilliant commander and a fighter with skill renowned. His second in command, a young zealot named Khas, shows much promise as GhougonÕs follower.
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ÒGhougon! Revered One! Awake! Warriors are closing in from the south,Ó Khas exclaimed. ÒThe sentries alerted me to their presence. I decided I should wake you first, to assess the situation. They are about an hour [Ôabout an hourÕ is not the correct term in this case. The Protoss word would translate into that phrase, however] away, moving in a straight line. What should we do?Ó
Ghougon got up from his sleeping grounds, awake and alert, his fertile brain assessing the situation. He spoke.
ÒHow many warriors are there?Ó
ÒMore then twice our number, but they are spread out far between each other, in clumps. We could lead some away from the main pack easily.Ó
ÒDo so. Lead them into a circle of our warriors and slay them, one group by one, until they are completely vanquished. Start with the last group, twenty of our warriors for each group.Ó
Khas nodded in agreement. He gave the order, than returned to Ghougon.
ÒWhere do you think these blades came from?Ó he queried.
ÒHmm?Ó
Khas held his fist up in front of his face, and extended the blue blades, humming soft and harsh. ÒThese. Where did they come from? How did we gain the ability to call them at will?Ó
ÒHmmf. Who cares?Ó was GhougonÕs reply.
Khas, feeling some frustration, gave up. He still felt tired, functioning on only a half nightÕs rest. He slept.
When he awoke, he was under attack. A humming blue spike was rushing towards his face at a remarkable speed, however, the young zealot saw the world as if time had slowed.
Time had slowed.
He had not.
He blocked the blade, turned it aside, and ran his opponent through with his own. His enemy dispatched, he looked around. His tribe was under attack by the tribe his sentries had alerted him of earlier. Apparently they had come from all directions, the fourscore force thrashing through the woods as a decoy. A decoy that worked.
He saw the combat around him and stood in the middle, a calm center, thinking, seeing the world as if it were moving through water, slowing it's occupants. He saw the mass murders, and again he wondered:
Where had the ability to extend our weapons come from?
In that moment, he had a revelation. The ancient race known as the XelÕ Naga had psionic powers. In creating the Protoss, they had lent their race some of their powers. The blades were psionic- psionic blades...
In that moment, the battle stopped. All the combatants had froze, and were looking at the young- zealot?- with wonder. The air around young Khas had bulged out, as if trying to hold in a massive power. The blue spikes fell away from his wrists, and he arched back and screamed to the night air above him. His arms shot above him, and blue lightning thundered out of his fingertips.
The planet of Auir was instantaniously at peace. The wars, battles, tribal conflicts, all ground to a halt. The Protoss were finally united.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In later years, Khas became the leader of his people. He was the holy being of his race. His telling of the story came a few days after it had taken place, after the world had rejected him and outlawed him as something strange and disgusting. The world of Auir, in time, came to realize that Khas was the one who had given them world peace. He was the symbol of the Protoss race. Some of the Protoss began to realize their own psionic powers, and worked with other beings such as themselves and Khas to make defenses. For the High Templars, as they called themselves, had telepathically become aware of their creators, the mighty XelÕ Naga had been destroyed by another of their races that they had created. The Zerg. The High Templars realized that if the Zerg could kill the XelÕ Naga, then they would kill the Protoss as well. So they began climbing their own tech tree. They figured out how to reincarnate the souls of dead Zealots and have them reside in the cold shell of a Dragoon. They made the andriod tanks, which they called Reavers, they even made huge starships. The great hero known as Tassadar was the direct descendant of Khas. This is the legend of the High Templar.
Some call me a savior. Others call me a traitor. Still others name me as a trailblazer.
The only thing that I know is that I am an outcast. An outcast of the Protoss race.
The most terrible thing a young zealot can be.
I should not have done it.
I should have gloried in it.
You decide. I shall tell you my story, the story of the Templar.
My name is Khas. I am the first.
This is my story.
He looked up at the Tribe Leader, Ghougon, eager for the trap to be sprung. The mission was approaching a critical point in time. The enemy tribe was wandering around, looking for a place to stay for the night. Off guard. Ghougon nodded. The young zealot nodded in turn.
His name was Khas.
He concentrated on his open hands before him. The blue blades behind his wrists sprung to life, humming. That was the signal for the rest of the tribe, hiding in trees around the small clearing, blades stored, conserving energy.
But no longer. There were two score of them, the Skhilas tribe, and at the sound of the signal by Khas, second in command, they instantly activated their blue weapons and sprung out of the trees.
The Norghem tribe never had a chance. There were only twenty warriors among them, half the enemy tribeÕs number. It was slaughter.
Ghougon called Khas to his side.
ÒReport, my fellow tribe member.Ó
ÒWe lost none, though Yamfaast has a new scar down his arm. Fifty- eight of the scum down.Ó Khas couldnÕt suppress the bloodlust in his voice, so recently after the thrill of combat.
ÒYamfaast is getting old.Ó The enigmatic Tribe Leader pondered this a moment. ÒSend him to our clanÕs cave. Send two younger escorts with him. He is now in retirement. Tell him also that he is to bring the message that the area is secure for the rest of our tribe to move in.Ó
ÒYes, Revered One of our tribe.Ó
Ghougon nodded. Khas stalked off to speak with Yamfaast.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is the Eon of Strife. The Protoss race, in itÕs infancy, is warring with each itself, but rather than armies doing battle are scattering of zealots in tribes. The creators of this race that is pure of form, the XelÕ Naga, have fled from Auir in shame and fear. The Protoss people are not technologically advanced, much like the human Native Americans. Their strange blue blades have unknown origins. The Skhilas Tribe is quickly becoming the most feared band of warriors, swiftly annihilating other tribes using strategy, protecting their women and children with unmatched ferocity. Their Tribe Leader, Ghougon, is the mastermind behind the tribeÕs strength, a brilliant commander and a fighter with skill renowned. His second in command, a young zealot named Khas, shows much promise as GhougonÕs follower.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ÒGhougon! Revered One! Awake! Warriors are closing in from the south,Ó Khas exclaimed. ÒThe sentries alerted me to their presence. I decided I should wake you first, to assess the situation. They are about an hour [Ôabout an hourÕ is not the correct term in this case. The Protoss word would translate into that phrase, however] away, moving in a straight line. What should we do?Ó
Ghougon got up from his sleeping grounds, awake and alert, his fertile brain assessing the situation. He spoke.
ÒHow many warriors are there?Ó
ÒMore then twice our number, but they are spread out far between each other, in clumps. We could lead some away from the main pack easily.Ó
ÒDo so. Lead them into a circle of our warriors and slay them, one group by one, until they are completely vanquished. Start with the last group, twenty of our warriors for each group.Ó
Khas nodded in agreement. He gave the order, than returned to Ghougon.
ÒWhere do you think these blades came from?Ó he queried.
ÒHmm?Ó
Khas held his fist up in front of his face, and extended the blue blades, humming soft and harsh. ÒThese. Where did they come from? How did we gain the ability to call them at will?Ó
ÒHmmf. Who cares?Ó was GhougonÕs reply.
Khas, feeling some frustration, gave up. He still felt tired, functioning on only a half nightÕs rest. He slept.
When he awoke, he was under attack. A humming blue spike was rushing towards his face at a remarkable speed, however, the young zealot saw the world as if time had slowed.
Time had slowed.
He had not.
He blocked the blade, turned it aside, and ran his opponent through with his own. His enemy dispatched, he looked around. His tribe was under attack by the tribe his sentries had alerted him of earlier. Apparently they had come from all directions, the fourscore force thrashing through the woods as a decoy. A decoy that worked.
He saw the combat around him and stood in the middle, a calm center, thinking, seeing the world as if it were moving through water, slowing it's occupants. He saw the mass murders, and again he wondered:
Where had the ability to extend our weapons come from?
In that moment, he had a revelation. The ancient race known as the XelÕ Naga had psionic powers. In creating the Protoss, they had lent their race some of their powers. The blades were psionic- psionic blades...
In that moment, the battle stopped. All the combatants had froze, and were looking at the young- zealot?- with wonder. The air around young Khas had bulged out, as if trying to hold in a massive power. The blue spikes fell away from his wrists, and he arched back and screamed to the night air above him. His arms shot above him, and blue lightning thundered out of his fingertips.
The planet of Auir was instantaniously at peace. The wars, battles, tribal conflicts, all ground to a halt. The Protoss were finally united.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In later years, Khas became the leader of his people. He was the holy being of his race. His telling of the story came a few days after it had taken place, after the world had rejected him and outlawed him as something strange and disgusting. The world of Auir, in time, came to realize that Khas was the one who had given them world peace. He was the symbol of the Protoss race. Some of the Protoss began to realize their own psionic powers, and worked with other beings such as themselves and Khas to make defenses. For the High Templars, as they called themselves, had telepathically become aware of their creators, the mighty XelÕ Naga had been destroyed by another of their races that they had created. The Zerg. The High Templars realized that if the Zerg could kill the XelÕ Naga, then they would kill the Protoss as well. So they began climbing their own tech tree. They figured out how to reincarnate the souls of dead Zealots and have them reside in the cold shell of a Dragoon. They made the andriod tanks, which they called Reavers, they even made huge starships. The great hero known as Tassadar was the direct descendant of Khas. This is the legend of the High Templar.