A Dance With Dragons
Disclaimer: This is an Alternate Universe fan fiction based on characters
and situations taken from the Ranma .5 anime/manga series. The events
and characterizations depicted herein are of my own creation. All
concerns, critiques, and comments are welcome and appreciated.
Prologue
A single candle stands before a shrine, illuminating a small portion of
the room that houses it. A small, golden dragon, sapphire eyes gazing
into the darkness, guards the flame with it's claws extended for battle.
The tiny flame flutters towards its defender, a sign of gratitude for the
dragon's display of service. For the light is small and darkness
dominates the greatest part of its world. A hidden breeze shudders the
fire, and hands of light and darkness impinge upon the other's realm. The
light fights a hopeless battle against the ebony tide, for the candle will
inevitably wither, its strength spent. While it has life, the flame remains a
beacon, standing alone in challenge to the night.
Inconsiderate of this struggle, snakes of sandal-wood incense waft from
a gilded burner of obvious quality, though it fails to match the intricacy of
the great wyrm. The smoke flows past the dragon, dissipating before one
of the calligraphic placards that flanked the shrine. Painted by a skilled
yet abrupt hand, the artist quotes the proverb, "one step in the wrong
direction will cause you a thousand years of regret." Similarly inspiring
calligraphy and pictorial prints adorn the room's three other faces, hidden
by the darkness.
As the room is further explored, light reflects menacingly from the
weapons arrayed along one wall. Swords, axes, knives, and weapons of
varying shapes and sizes are arranged precisely, displayed proudly for
any visitor of the room to view. These weapons reveal a slight degree of
wear despite the tending that they have received. Standing beside this
exhibit is a mannequin rigged in an exotic form of armor. The ivory hued
armor appeared to have been cobbled together from the scales of some
tyrannical lizard. The candle light reflects murkily from this armor,
burnished though it is. Beyond these implements along the back wall,
several posts and bamboo targets are arrayed in varying states of repair,
echoing the apparent purpose of this room.
Power. Privilege. These are words that the room's contents accurately
ascribe to its owner. Archaic weapons of combat holding equal sway with
artifacts of cultural and religious significance. A warrior focused
persistently on self improvement. A scholar searching for knowledge and
understanding. More fundamental, the spirit that this private dojo
addresses is one of pride. Pride of ownership, apparent in the meticulous
display of the weapons and armor. Pride in one's heritage, visible in the
simple yet extravagant ancestral shrine arrayed on the dominant face of
the room. Lastly, and perhaps most crucial to this part of the story, is
the pride that the single occupant of this room holds for herself.
The woman stands in the center of the dojo, almond shaped eyes
closed and tapered hands clasped before her as if in prayer. Her beautiful
yet exotic features are tense with anxiety that she does not seek to
conceal. She rises smoothly from her bow, her silken mane of white,
pink, and blue settling at her waist. She inhales deeply as her long
lashes part, golden orbs shining brightly with their own light. Her white
silk clothing, slightly paler than her alabaster skin, ripples over her lithe
form as she fluidly draws a sword from it's sheathe at her hip.
The swords woman initiates her dance with the weapon, a chinese
butterfly sword with a jade, dragon-faced hilt, bisecting her body. She
enters a fencer's stance, arm extended with the tip of her sword pointing
down. She sinuously weaves the blade before her for a moment and
springs forward, gliding low over the bamboo floor with sword at shoulder
height. Pirouetting to stop a few meters away, she launches a flurry of
strikes slashes and parries as her form blurs in a circuit of the room.
Returning to her original position, she leaps, somersaulting to rebound
from the ceiling, and launches herself in a corkscrew towards the floor.
She rises in an arc from this dive without ever touching ground and rolls,
whilst airborne, to land facing her original position. Continuing her silent
battle, memories rise unbidden regarding her failures of the last few
weeks.
*************************************************************************************
3 weeks ago
"...need not remind you of the importance of your coming of age
ceremony," rumbled Gao'lung in his deep, commanding bass. The Lord of
the Musk Dynasty and Warden of the Western Reaches, King Gao'lung
crafted an impressive image of wisdom and power in his abundant robes
of imperial purple . A long, well oiled mustache highlighted an otherwise
smooth face, unmarred by scars from the multitude of battles in which he
had participated. Although he was approaching his 260th year, he did not
look a day over thirty five, a testament to his draconian heritage. The
dragon's blood that flowed through his veins gifted him with an expectation
of nearly another 250 years, spending all but his final few decades in peak
condition. After the upheavals that he had to weather through this century,
his first as king, he had no intention of maintaining the reins of power until
his twilight years.
He gazed approvingly at his son and heir standing proudly before
him. Herb was the portrait of himself at that age. Tall, with an athletic build,
he held himself with the pride and nobility befitting a crown prince. Herb, he
decided, would be ready to succeed him before the turn of the next century,
allowing him to enjoy an early retirement.
"Of course not, my lord," responded Herb. "The royal guan has
long been a reminder of the continuing rule of our clan. Since your own
coronation, there has not been a major spectacle to display the wealth
and power of the dragon clan. This will be the perfect opportunity to
showcase our continuing dominance of the tribes, especially in light of the
chaos that has surrounded the past few decades."
"And I am certain that you will do everything in your power to
ensure the success of this event," stated the King.
"Certainly, father. I will do my utmost to ensure that the festivities
are executed to perfection," Herb answered sternly.
The King inclined his head slightly and said, "Very well, Prince
Herb. When the time comes, do remember also to conduct yourself with
tact in view of my warriors. You are excused."
Herb bowed formally and replied, "As you wish, my lord." He rose
fluidly, spun on his heel, and strode out of the king's hall. Herb marched
beyond the massive, ebony and gold embossed doors that served as the
entrance, and they were closed by the castle's servants at his exit.
Several paces beyond the entrance, two Musk warriors fell into
step slightly behind Herb. Both were apparently in their late thirties, and
they moved with the confidence of men long used to their own strength.
One was a massive, barbarous looking man, easily identified by his scruffy,
orange beard, tiger fur clothing, and spiked flail resting on his hip. The other
was a serious man approaching Herb's height and build, with canine ears
resting on the top of his head, a short mustache, and weaponry arrayed in
the fashion of a Caribbean buccaneer.
The warriors matched Herb's gait as he marched silently towards
his own chambers and allowed him to brood upon his own thoughts. They
could instantly tell that he was agitated, though his countenance betrayed
no emotions. This was often the case after Herb's meetings with his father,
as the elder draconian had a habit of pointing out faults or correcting him
during these occasions. Although he was abundantly confident in his own
abilities, Herb held a nagging feeling that he would never be able to fully
please his father.
The group entered Herb's sitting room, and he ordered his
attendant, an elderly human, to stoke up the fires of his hearth. The
servant then vacated the room, leaving Herb alone with his companions.
Herb settled himself on a plush, ornate chair located near the hearth, and
the others occupied a couch across from him.
Herb gazed at the flames as he allowed his harbored tension to
dissipate. The vigor and hue of the fire always soothed his spirits. He had
always felt that he should have been born in a fire year since he identified
so much with the element. This year, his eightieth, he would at least be
able to celebrate his coming of age in the year of the horse, a fire animal.
Herb turned his attention from the flame to the warriors seated
across from him. He had known them since birth, having named them
Rasputin, formerly of the tiger clan, and Perrin, formerly of the wolf clan, by
Herb respectively. They were his current official guardians and caretakers,
and they had been so since they succeeded their own fathers at this task
nearly twenty years ago. During a small ritual, a younger Herb marked
them with his ki and removed his imprints from their fathers. Herb's mark
bound them to him, allowing him to sense their approximate positions
regardless of separation distance and likewise. Their bond was passed
from father to son within the dual lines designated by each draconian king
to safeguard his chosen heir. This tradition, employed for the last three
thousand years, was meant to tie the warrior tribes closer, in a definable
manner, to their king and he to them. Currently, however, it was primarily
a political tool, greater than even marriage, that was used by the clans to
secure chieftainships for their families for centuries. The sacrifice of their
best warrior and his lineage for the service of their king assured a clan's
position as one of the five ruling clans of the Musk.
"My father reminded me to act with 'tact' during the festival," Herb
said disgustedly. "When will he ever learn to trust me," continued Herb.
"I'm a child no longer."
"That is very true, my prince," replied Perrin. "But you know that
he only chides because he regards you so highly."
"Of course I know that," huffed Herb. "I would prefer to hear him
praise me himself, though, rather than always criticizing me."
"I can understand your frustration," said Perrin thoughtfully. "My
father acted much the same way when I was a pup. He constantly kept on
me about improving my technique and such whenever I had the chance to
see him. I thought he was wasting our time together outside of your most
gracious presence, but that was never further from the truth."
"You won't be dealing with the court and my cousins, though. I
need to continue building my reputation so I won't be forced to rely on my
title for respect. Any accolades from my father would go a long way to
ensuring that I'll be able to start strong after my guan," Herb lectured.
"If the king sung your praises all the time like everyone else,"
interjected the gruff voice of Rasputin, "he might as well get started getting
ready for retirement. All of us would try to get you crowned right after the
party."
Herb raised his chin imperiously and said, "Without question. Is it
not a fact that I am the greatest dragon born in generations? Why should
my father be forced to bear the crown when I am more than ready to take
the throne."
There was a moment of silence as Herb held his pose for several
seconds. He broke the impasse with a slight grin and shook his head.
"Even though I am the best, I will let the old man hold onto his crown for
a few more decades. I have no desire to deal with that burden before my
time comes."
"Certainly, Prince Herb," began Perrin. "you'll face more
challenges in the coming centuries than my descendants will like. By the
way, what do you think about the marriage interviews proceeding your
guan?" inquired Perrin.
"My interviews will be interesting, to say the least," replied Herb.
Since his cousin, Basil, had married his youngest sister twenty years ago,
there were no females of the dragon clan either unwed or of marriageable
age. This was typical of the draconians, the smallest of the Musk clans.
In addition to a lengthy maturation, they also paid for their extensive lives
with their difficulty in having children. Although they could live for over 500
years, draconian females were only capable of producing two to three
children over that span. Menstrual cycles that last nearly six months and
pregnancies that must be endured for four years contributed greatly to
their reproductive difficulties. To compensate for these problems,
draconian males were able, with some difficulty, to impregnate the females
of the other reptilian based tribes. Such crossbreeding had thinned their
bloodline a bit, but their dragon genes had proven to remain dominant.
"Knowing my father," continued Herb, "I'm a bit surprised that he
is granting me these interviews rather than foisting my baby cousin on
me."
"She is only 23 after all," said Perrin. "A mere child by your
standards. The continuation of your line seems to be his main concern."
"I realize that, especially in these times, but he has always
trumpeted the strength and purity of our lineage as a source of pride,"
explained Herb. "I will make certain that my sons are strong, but every
union with another clan moves us further from our heritage."
"You wouldn't want some little girl anyway," jibbed Rasputin. "It'd
probably be another fifty years before you could bed her."
"Brutally honest as always, eh Rasputin," chuckled Herb.
"That brings to mind one question I had, Prince Herb," said Perrin.
"Would your question regard how I am going to handle my first
meeting with women?" asker Herb.
"It is certainly something you've considered," replied Perrin.
"Of course," stated Herb. "I am well aware of that embarrassing
history. We almost seem cursed to make complete fools out of ourselves
at the first sight of women." At this, Herb grinned as he recalled a tale of
his father's antics on his guan. In a tale that he sworn to take to his grave,
the chamberlain, his grand uncle Wu Bei, disclosed Gao'lung's actions
upon first meeting his future bride. Herb could hardly believe that the king
would try to strip his intended to find out whether her breasts were real.
"I can remember clearly the anxiety that I felt as I approached my
warrior's trials. Women were the great unknown, always spoken of but
never seen," continued Perrin. "I was given a few ...scrolls by my father to
help get me used to the sight of women a few days before hand.
Otherwise, I might have made as big a fool out of my self as some of my
comrades did on their sixteenth."
Rasputin snorted and said, "At least I had something to fondle
when I first met my wife. All you could do was stare."
Perrin shot him a glare sideways and resumed. "As I was saying
before I being rudely interrupted, I believe that you could make ample
usage of these." Perrin reached into his vest as he said this and removed
a small bundle of paper, yellowed with age. The top sheet of this package
had a beautiful woman pictured on it, dressed seductively in the latest of
french fashion from the 1950's.
Herb stared at the image that graced the cover for a moment
before he glanced away. "I am quite certain that your own son would find
these pages to be more useful than I. Don't worry about my preparations.
I have that minor concern fully under control."
"As you will, my prince," replied Perrin. "Will you be continuing
your study of the Japanese tonight?"
"Certainly," said Herb. "I intend to learn as much about them and
the rest of the world as possible to prepare for my world voyage... don't
look at me like that." Herb was irked that his guardians did not approve of
the world tour that he planned to embark on in a few years. They were too
short sighted to realize how quickly the world had shrank in the last few
decades or how much it would continue to do so. He believed that the
Musk could not rely on the magic of Juseynko to keep them isolated from
the rest of the world forever. Herb concluded that the answers to their
problems could only be found at their source. As a result, he planned to
seek his answers in a ten year sabbatical, beginning in the mainland and
moving outwards to visit the world's major powers.
"Do you know why the Tibetans were slaughtered and their
territory occupied? Do you not hear the reports of our villagers leaving the
valley for the communist cities of Xinging and Lanzhou? The world is
moving on Perrin," lectured Herb, "and if we don't keep the pace, we will
be crushed under it's heel." Herb knew that Musk society was fragile, and
they could survive neither the republic's attention nor a massive exodus of
the villagers. He concluded that the answers to these problems could only
be found at their source. As a result, he planned to under take a ten year
sabbatical to study abroad and gain the knowledge that he needed to
confront the future. "Change or die," he remarked, "and I do not intend for
the Musk to die during my reign."
Perrin bowed to his prince in acquiescence. "Although I still don't
understand the urgency that you hold, I defer to your greater wisdom and
knowledge."
"If that is all, you are dismissed until the morning," said Herb. He
ushered his guardians to the door and said, "I wasn't entirely satisfied with
our training session this morning. I will increase the degree of difficulty
tomorrow."
Both Perrin and Rasputin bowed to their master and made their
exits. Perrin gave Herb a glance as he passed, and he wondered why the
prince had evaded his question about his 'preparations.'
*************************************************************************************
With her left leg extended and her sword extended before her
horizontally, she twirls the weapon in a butterfly pattern while maintaining
it at shoulder level. She flows into a quick overhand chop and crouches
low, rotating the blade across her perpendicular torso to fire a waist high
thrust. A tumble to the right brings her into an arcing, neck to shin level
slash. She springs forward, blade stabbing high as she launches herself
into the air. An aerial roll returns her to the low guard stance as she lands
facing in the reverse direction.
Continuing her dance, Herb wonders what could have possibly
inspired her course of action in the first place. Her plan was dangerously
flawed from the beginning. Ignoring the fact that the procurement and
usage of the Chisuiton had been banned for the last 800 years, there were
too many risks involved to consider carrying out this scheme. If she had
been discovered appropriating the ladle, she would have had no valid
excuses to claim that would prevent this disclosure from reaching her
father's ear. Even more incomprehensible was her decision to sidle into
the valley of the Springs of Sorrow under the cover of night. As if
traversing Jusenyko during the daylight was not dangerous enough, her
midnight stroll was a display of arrogance that practically begged
retribution from the fates.
The Musk Dynasty had penetrated much of the mystery that
surrounded the cursed springs. Their power encompassed far more than
the metamorphosing enchantment that displays it's most visceral effect.
The strands of fate were made to warp, part, and reassemble under the
ministrations of Juseynko. This was the magic that protected the denizens
of the valley from their more modern cousins while continuing to draw
others to it like moths the flame. That ancient chinese proverb, "May you
live in interesting times," was never more appropriate than when it is
applied to the victims of Juseynko. Madmen and martyrs, saints and
demons, kings and paupers, the spirit that ruled the valley forever guided
the lives of its unwary pawns.
A bow stance flows into a spinning, reverse diagonal slash which
becomes a low left parry. Herb's lithe body moves with a grace and
precision that belie her inner torment. She recalls with acute detail the final
time that she gazed upon her true form. She clung to this image, a mere
reflection from the murky waters of the Nannichiaun, like a drowning woman
to her last breath.
***************************************************************************************
A full moon hung high above the Bayankala mountains, illuminating
the valley of the springs of sorrow with it's soft, pale light. Herb regarded the
clear sky and fog less night as a gift. They provided him with enough light to
navigate Juseynko with out the aid of a torch. This was especially crucial
since his endeavor relied heavily on stealth. Even though he was the
crown prince of the Musk, his intended violation of a royal edict that had
stood, apparently, unchallenged for centuries would exact a heavy price if
it were to be discovered.
Herb glanced at the ebony clad reflection of himself that was
captured by the murky waters of the Naniichuan. A long, black cloak,
clasped to his neck by a short gold chain, concealed much of his form.
It's hood was loose, allowing his multi-hued hair to drape down his back.
A short sword was sheathed at his side, and a small satchel was carried
on his opposite shoulder. This arrangement left his hands free to carry the
a simple, iron cage that contained a common, brown monkey.
The monkey slept silently as Herb placed his burdens on the soft,
loamy earth before the Spring of the Drowned Girl. He removed the tie that
closed the satchel and reached inside. The satchel yielded a slender,
glyph laden bucket of dark gold from within. The next item that he procured
was a thin, cloth wrapped bundle. He carefully removed the covering and
revealed the bucket's mate, an ancient ladle that was similarly embossed.
He examined these items for any signs that his handling had damaged them
in any perceivable manner as he reflected on the legacy and power that
the Chisuiton concealed. 'Our entire history is owed to this innocuous
talisman,' he mused.
The last items, a short white robe and several leather strips, were
pulled from the bag. Herb considered the genius of his plan to lay in the
fact that he intended to hide his crime in plain sight. Victims of Juseynko
were known to retain their self consciousness and personalities regardless
of the forms that they assumed. These attributes, however, would exist in
brains that were not often human. As a result, the intelligence of those with
such curses was physically limited by their nature. The inverse, although
not nearly as common since most animals instinctively avoided Juseynko,
was also true. Herb intended to take advantage of this fact to train the
neophyte woman to be human. He planned to take her to a cave that he had
discovered several years ago near a crag several hundred feet above the valley
floor. There, he would spend several weeks teaching her mandarin, proper
proper manners, and a few skills to act as one of his personal servants, and
he would learn to be comfortable around women.
Herb reached down and unlatched the cage. The monkey awoke with
a start, and she darted to the rear of the cage. Her eyes gazed fearfully at
Herb as she tried in vain to stay out of his reach. His hand shot forward and
retreated too quickly for her to react, and he left the simian dangling from his
extended arm by her feet. As he maintained his grip on her writhing
appendages, he prepared to secure the leather bounds to her arms to ease
his task. His captive had other ideas in mind. She bent upwards, grabbed his
arm, and sunk her teeth into the exposed flesh of his hand. Her flung her
towards the spring with a yelp of pain. The monkey hit the Naniichuan with a
splash and became submerged instantly.
A head topped by a sodden mass of auburn hair emerged from the
rippling waters. The brunette glanced in Herb's direction with wild eyes and
scrambled to escape the pool. A stunned expression occupied his face as
he stared in slack-jawed appreciation at the nouveau human female.
Although only moderately pretty by most standards, she was a goddess
in the flesh to Herb, whom had never before viewed the female form before
this day.
Time seemed to slow as the woman clambered out of the pool
directly before Herb. Instead of escaping around him, she instead chose
to climb over him. She latched on to his head and shoulders as she
pulled herself up his body. His already lust filled mind was thoroughly
shattered when her ample breasts were smashed against his face.
When her foot reached his shoulder, she used his body as a spring
board to launch herself off him towards freedom. As Newton's first law
asserted itself, Herb was thrust violently over the edge of the bank.
Only feelings of surprise and lust occupied him as he rapidly approached
the black waters head first.
************************************************************************************
A bead of sweat rolls from the damp blue patch of hair directly
above her forehead. It continues down her smooth brow, passing many
other droplets of perspiration that have formed there. Passing between
her intense, golden eyes, the bead alights on the pert bridge of her
aristocratic nose. It comes to a stop on the tip and is flung off her nose
as her head turns.
Legs entwined in a lotus crouch, Herb twists her torso to launch
a horizontal slash. An over the shoulder jab breaks her from this stance.
She follows this with several diagonal slashes from opposing directs and
dances back to reposition herself for another series.
Perhaps the most vivid memory that she possess of her first
hours of womanhood is her near drowning. She recalls a sensation of
numbness that washed over her as she was submerged in the
Naniichuan. Her vision had wavered as she swallowed her first lung full of
that brackish water. Darkness encroached the edge of her sight as she
floated in shocked paralysis, oblivious to her approaching demise. She
doesn't recall where her sudden impulse to survive originated, but it was
urgent enough to jolt her into frantic action. Her last clear memory for at
least the next few hours following her affliction was the thumping that her
heart made as she heaved the water from her lungs in the dirt beside the
pool.
Herb considers the stench of her own vomit as she gasped for
air in the muck a fitting inauguration for her new form. That moment was
easily the most shameful that she had experienced in her life. She
knows, however, that her father will seek to further humble her before he
completes his judgement. In only a few short hours, she would submit to
her father's will before his court. Her fate would be decided there, and she
shudders slightly as she anticipates his decision to carry a death
sentence. 'I will not allow him execute me like a common criminal without
at least making a case for myself,' resolves Herb. She had not spent the
week and a half before her exposure researching Jusenyko, it's history,
and it's artifacts in vain.
************************************************************************************
Perrin was filled with a sense of foreboding as he peered through
the branches of the fern bush. It's skeletal limbs partially obscured his
vision, but they also provided some of the only concealment to be found
in this part of the Bayankala foothills. Although the light was fading as
evening approached, his acute eyesight enabled him to observe the
terrain that occupied his attention with much precision. The land sloped
upward harshly as it approached the base of the mountains, and the
rocky ground had proven unsupportable for most crops. The short grass
that thrived there during the late summer had long been eaten by the
sheep that were herded here, leaving the land barren except for the
small bushes that dotted the landscape. This did not imply that the
land was featureless, since it boasted many small boulders, fissures,
and some of the most broken and uneven terrain in the region.
The chilled wind blew down from the mountains to his north,
and it carried the scent of a winter that had yet to relinquish it's hold in
the spring's arrival. From his position downwind, Perrin was also able to
discern a trace of burning wood and another odor as familiar as his own
that drifted from the cave that occupied his attention. Like so many
others that littered this area, the cave was more accurately an over sized
hole in the ground that was attached to a short tunnel that widened at it's
end. They provided winter homes for the black mountain bears that
hibernated in the area, and they occasionally claimed the lives of unwary
night travelers since they were depressed into the earth. This cave was
fronted by a short crevice that the wind whistled through. Only the sounds
the crackling fire and the muted breathing of Rasputin were audible to him.
That his senses altered him to no other anomalies was
disconcerting to Perrin. Although he had fully expected any potential
ambushers to have seen their approach and halt, the lack of practical
concealment in the vicinity would also work against his expected
adversaries. Rasputin and he had trained with Herb in this area several
times, and he knew of no caves and few rifts or bushes that could
conceal a person from view. None of these obscurations, however, could
hide someone from his lupine nose, especially from upwind. Only a fool
would set a trap for a Musk warrior here since they had a reputation for
possessing enhanced senses. He realized then that they either faced an
enemy far more cunning than he could anticipate or none at all.
Perrin feared that Herb had been abducted from the moment that
he had received a strange message from the prince earlier that afternoon.
The messenger, a servant new to the keep, had been given the letter as
he carried out tasks in the Hon'shu village. He said that the person who
gave him the letter had claimed to be Herb but wore a cloak to conceal
his features. Herb's presence in the village was dubious at best since he
was prohibited, like all of the other minor warriors, from coming within
view any of the five villages. Perrin had considered 'questioning' the man
further, but he decided against this course. He found torture a distasteful
method of acquiring the truth, and the strangeness of the man's account
enhanced it's credibility.
The letter was the deciding factor, however, in determining
Rasputin's and his actions. It instructed them to meet Herb for training
that evening at an area outside the keep that they had previously
discussed. This message, which named no location, raised an
immediate alarm because they had not chosen an alternate training site.
It was certainly written in his script, but the obvious lie that it presented
ensured that only they could trace Herb's position. As such, Perrin
envisioned the letter being used either to deceive Herb's feared captors
by alerting his warders with false information or to make certain that they
would be the only ones to know of his location. The effect of the
message was the same regardless since Rasputin and him tracked Herb
by themselves as a matter of pride and to protect any possible secret
that Herb desired to keep.
Perrin gestured for Rasputin to begin moving, and he dashed
a few paces ahead of the larger man. They crossed the area to the cave's
opening quickly while maintaining their vigilance. They stopped at the
entrance and peered into the darkness of the small pit. The
ground showed signs of recent disturbance with a pair of footprints
leading through the dust into the tunnel, but there was no apparent sign
of a trap. Not willing to take unnecessary chances, Rasputin retrieved a
large rock from the crevice and tossed it into the pit. It thumped onto the
slate floor and raised a small plume of dust. Perrin felt even more certain
that his initial fears were groundless, but his apprehension towards the
entire situation only increased as he leapt into the cave's mouth.
Rasputin followed Perrin into the depths, and they crept
stealthily towards their master's presence. The light from the fire was
visible, and the acrid smell of the smoke grew. As they approached,
Perrin noted that there was something slightly... off about Herb's scent,
now that he was closer to his target. He could not readily identify it, but
it became slightly more apparent as they reached the tunnel's end.
Herb was seated, facing them, as they entered the small, dank
cavern. His body was concealed by his large white cloak, and his face
was hidden by his downturned cowl. A low-burning, bamboo fire
separated them, it's light grey smoke slowly wafting through the tunnel's
exit.
As Herb stood and allowed the cloak to fall aside, Perrin's
misgivings about the situation were fully realized. An elfin face greeted
them, illuminated partially by the fire's soft glow. Large, golden eyes
glared challengingly, almost daring them to reproach her. Their owner
was most definitely female, and her black, over-sized garb could not
entirely conceal her healthy form. Perrin stared in stunned silence at the
apparently female Herb, and he realized that his life would no longer be
the same. "My name, my clan, my son, you've destroyed us," uttered
Perrin.
Rasputin, however, quickly reminded him where his loyalties truly lay. He
kneeled before Herb, head bowed and with his fist touching his chest.
With no hint of uncertainty in his voice, he said, "What would you have
your faithful servants do, Prince Herb?"
Perrin felt shamed by his outburst towards his prince, whose eyes
echoed the betrayal that Perrin's statement held. From the moment that
he was bound to Herb, his most important duty was to the safety and
well being of the prince. He understood, then, that his loyalty to Herb
must be absolute, regardless of the consequences to himself or to his
family. He immediately joined Rasputin in submission before her, and he
pleaded, "Please forgive your humble servant, my prince. I had forgotten
myself, and I will never again doubt my duty to you."
He could feel the gaze of the prince burning on him, and he expected a
swift rebuke. Only a sigh came, however, and Herb bade them to rise.
"Of course I must forgive you," said Herb. "I know that I do not deserve
your loyalty, either of yours. That you give me your service at all after
seeing me like this is a gift that I will never be able to repay."
*************************************************************************************
'And how have I repaid their devotion to me so far,' thinks Herb bitterly.
Herb can feel their presence a short distance away, probably imprisoned
in far worse conditions than herself. 'With my father's sense of propriety,
I doubt he will ever give them an official trial. Their fates will be, inevitably,
tied directly to mine.'
She rises from a crouch with a backhanded arc that flows into a right
bow form. A diagonal slash from her shoulder returns from her hip. The
blade remains on her shoulder to parry as she spins tightly to her left.
She whips out of this with a quick, mid level slash with her left hand, and
she stabs over her shoulder as she slides forward.
She knew that her plan had been doomed to fail from the moment that
she had decided on it. Her father would eventually become curious about
the impromptu training excursion that Herb had supposedly taken with
his warders. Although he was often impulsive, an unexplained journey
such as this, especially so near to his guan, would draw attention from
the king. It was only a matter of time before her cover story was
penetrated, and her midnight activities were discovered within two weeks.
What little time she had, however, was not wasted. Every night, she
infiltrated the keep covertly and entered the archives. Her research was
conducted diligently to retrieve as much information as she could in as
short a time as possible. She expected to be discovered at any time, but
the scrolls were not organized well enough to allow her search to proceed
efficiently. Too many hours were wasted tracing misleading information
about the curse and the Chisuiton for her comfort. She was able to glean
some useful information from the archives before her entry was reported.
The Kaisufuu, or the Open Water Kettle, had been lost to the Musk since
the 4th century. It was capable of unlocking the effects of the Chisuiton.
Although they did not possess it, they had been interested in its
progress. The kettle was a powerful artifact, not a trinket to be forgotten.
It had passed through the hands of many men, both great and small, over
the centuries, but it vanished from the historian's purview in Japan over
300 years ago.
She suspects that the Kaisufuu is still there, and she is determined to
convince her father to allow her to find it. It holds the only hope that she
has to at least partially address her situation. A swift execution,
conducted privately to hasten her ignoble departure and minimize it's
impact, does not engender the same enthusiasm. 'I must make him
see reason.'
Herb raises the sword to chin height, holding it horizontally with her arm
curled. Weight leaning forward, she launches herself forward with a single
step. She glides across the floor in a blur, and she thrusts her blade
forward. Passing a point in her mind, she places her feet down and slides
to an abrupt stop. The sword once again rises to bisect her body, and she
resheathes it smoothly. It settles with a click in it's scabbard, signaling
the close of her session.
Her hand lingers over the hilt of her sword. This dance was quite possibly
her last, and she enjoys the remains of the adrenaline rush that begins to
recede. She would not waste this opportunity. "He at least owes me the
chance to make things right again," she mutters.
Disclaimer: This is an Alternate Universe fan fiction based on characters
and situations taken from the Ranma .5 anime/manga series. The events
and characterizations depicted herein are of my own creation. All
concerns, critiques, and comments are welcome and appreciated.
Prologue
A single candle stands before a shrine, illuminating a small portion of
the room that houses it. A small, golden dragon, sapphire eyes gazing
into the darkness, guards the flame with it's claws extended for battle.
The tiny flame flutters towards its defender, a sign of gratitude for the
dragon's display of service. For the light is small and darkness
dominates the greatest part of its world. A hidden breeze shudders the
fire, and hands of light and darkness impinge upon the other's realm. The
light fights a hopeless battle against the ebony tide, for the candle will
inevitably wither, its strength spent. While it has life, the flame remains a
beacon, standing alone in challenge to the night.
Inconsiderate of this struggle, snakes of sandal-wood incense waft from
a gilded burner of obvious quality, though it fails to match the intricacy of
the great wyrm. The smoke flows past the dragon, dissipating before one
of the calligraphic placards that flanked the shrine. Painted by a skilled
yet abrupt hand, the artist quotes the proverb, "one step in the wrong
direction will cause you a thousand years of regret." Similarly inspiring
calligraphy and pictorial prints adorn the room's three other faces, hidden
by the darkness.
As the room is further explored, light reflects menacingly from the
weapons arrayed along one wall. Swords, axes, knives, and weapons of
varying shapes and sizes are arranged precisely, displayed proudly for
any visitor of the room to view. These weapons reveal a slight degree of
wear despite the tending that they have received. Standing beside this
exhibit is a mannequin rigged in an exotic form of armor. The ivory hued
armor appeared to have been cobbled together from the scales of some
tyrannical lizard. The candle light reflects murkily from this armor,
burnished though it is. Beyond these implements along the back wall,
several posts and bamboo targets are arrayed in varying states of repair,
echoing the apparent purpose of this room.
Power. Privilege. These are words that the room's contents accurately
ascribe to its owner. Archaic weapons of combat holding equal sway with
artifacts of cultural and religious significance. A warrior focused
persistently on self improvement. A scholar searching for knowledge and
understanding. More fundamental, the spirit that this private dojo
addresses is one of pride. Pride of ownership, apparent in the meticulous
display of the weapons and armor. Pride in one's heritage, visible in the
simple yet extravagant ancestral shrine arrayed on the dominant face of
the room. Lastly, and perhaps most crucial to this part of the story, is
the pride that the single occupant of this room holds for herself.
The woman stands in the center of the dojo, almond shaped eyes
closed and tapered hands clasped before her as if in prayer. Her beautiful
yet exotic features are tense with anxiety that she does not seek to
conceal. She rises smoothly from her bow, her silken mane of white,
pink, and blue settling at her waist. She inhales deeply as her long
lashes part, golden orbs shining brightly with their own light. Her white
silk clothing, slightly paler than her alabaster skin, ripples over her lithe
form as she fluidly draws a sword from it's sheathe at her hip.
The swords woman initiates her dance with the weapon, a chinese
butterfly sword with a jade, dragon-faced hilt, bisecting her body. She
enters a fencer's stance, arm extended with the tip of her sword pointing
down. She sinuously weaves the blade before her for a moment and
springs forward, gliding low over the bamboo floor with sword at shoulder
height. Pirouetting to stop a few meters away, she launches a flurry of
strikes slashes and parries as her form blurs in a circuit of the room.
Returning to her original position, she leaps, somersaulting to rebound
from the ceiling, and launches herself in a corkscrew towards the floor.
She rises in an arc from this dive without ever touching ground and rolls,
whilst airborne, to land facing her original position. Continuing her silent
battle, memories rise unbidden regarding her failures of the last few
weeks.
*************************************************************************************
3 weeks ago
"...need not remind you of the importance of your coming of age
ceremony," rumbled Gao'lung in his deep, commanding bass. The Lord of
the Musk Dynasty and Warden of the Western Reaches, King Gao'lung
crafted an impressive image of wisdom and power in his abundant robes
of imperial purple . A long, well oiled mustache highlighted an otherwise
smooth face, unmarred by scars from the multitude of battles in which he
had participated. Although he was approaching his 260th year, he did not
look a day over thirty five, a testament to his draconian heritage. The
dragon's blood that flowed through his veins gifted him with an expectation
of nearly another 250 years, spending all but his final few decades in peak
condition. After the upheavals that he had to weather through this century,
his first as king, he had no intention of maintaining the reins of power until
his twilight years.
He gazed approvingly at his son and heir standing proudly before
him. Herb was the portrait of himself at that age. Tall, with an athletic build,
he held himself with the pride and nobility befitting a crown prince. Herb, he
decided, would be ready to succeed him before the turn of the next century,
allowing him to enjoy an early retirement.
"Of course not, my lord," responded Herb. "The royal guan has
long been a reminder of the continuing rule of our clan. Since your own
coronation, there has not been a major spectacle to display the wealth
and power of the dragon clan. This will be the perfect opportunity to
showcase our continuing dominance of the tribes, especially in light of the
chaos that has surrounded the past few decades."
"And I am certain that you will do everything in your power to
ensure the success of this event," stated the King.
"Certainly, father. I will do my utmost to ensure that the festivities
are executed to perfection," Herb answered sternly.
The King inclined his head slightly and said, "Very well, Prince
Herb. When the time comes, do remember also to conduct yourself with
tact in view of my warriors. You are excused."
Herb bowed formally and replied, "As you wish, my lord." He rose
fluidly, spun on his heel, and strode out of the king's hall. Herb marched
beyond the massive, ebony and gold embossed doors that served as the
entrance, and they were closed by the castle's servants at his exit.
Several paces beyond the entrance, two Musk warriors fell into
step slightly behind Herb. Both were apparently in their late thirties, and
they moved with the confidence of men long used to their own strength.
One was a massive, barbarous looking man, easily identified by his scruffy,
orange beard, tiger fur clothing, and spiked flail resting on his hip. The other
was a serious man approaching Herb's height and build, with canine ears
resting on the top of his head, a short mustache, and weaponry arrayed in
the fashion of a Caribbean buccaneer.
The warriors matched Herb's gait as he marched silently towards
his own chambers and allowed him to brood upon his own thoughts. They
could instantly tell that he was agitated, though his countenance betrayed
no emotions. This was often the case after Herb's meetings with his father,
as the elder draconian had a habit of pointing out faults or correcting him
during these occasions. Although he was abundantly confident in his own
abilities, Herb held a nagging feeling that he would never be able to fully
please his father.
The group entered Herb's sitting room, and he ordered his
attendant, an elderly human, to stoke up the fires of his hearth. The
servant then vacated the room, leaving Herb alone with his companions.
Herb settled himself on a plush, ornate chair located near the hearth, and
the others occupied a couch across from him.
Herb gazed at the flames as he allowed his harbored tension to
dissipate. The vigor and hue of the fire always soothed his spirits. He had
always felt that he should have been born in a fire year since he identified
so much with the element. This year, his eightieth, he would at least be
able to celebrate his coming of age in the year of the horse, a fire animal.
Herb turned his attention from the flame to the warriors seated
across from him. He had known them since birth, having named them
Rasputin, formerly of the tiger clan, and Perrin, formerly of the wolf clan, by
Herb respectively. They were his current official guardians and caretakers,
and they had been so since they succeeded their own fathers at this task
nearly twenty years ago. During a small ritual, a younger Herb marked
them with his ki and removed his imprints from their fathers. Herb's mark
bound them to him, allowing him to sense their approximate positions
regardless of separation distance and likewise. Their bond was passed
from father to son within the dual lines designated by each draconian king
to safeguard his chosen heir. This tradition, employed for the last three
thousand years, was meant to tie the warrior tribes closer, in a definable
manner, to their king and he to them. Currently, however, it was primarily
a political tool, greater than even marriage, that was used by the clans to
secure chieftainships for their families for centuries. The sacrifice of their
best warrior and his lineage for the service of their king assured a clan's
position as one of the five ruling clans of the Musk.
"My father reminded me to act with 'tact' during the festival," Herb
said disgustedly. "When will he ever learn to trust me," continued Herb.
"I'm a child no longer."
"That is very true, my prince," replied Perrin. "But you know that
he only chides because he regards you so highly."
"Of course I know that," huffed Herb. "I would prefer to hear him
praise me himself, though, rather than always criticizing me."
"I can understand your frustration," said Perrin thoughtfully. "My
father acted much the same way when I was a pup. He constantly kept on
me about improving my technique and such whenever I had the chance to
see him. I thought he was wasting our time together outside of your most
gracious presence, but that was never further from the truth."
"You won't be dealing with the court and my cousins, though. I
need to continue building my reputation so I won't be forced to rely on my
title for respect. Any accolades from my father would go a long way to
ensuring that I'll be able to start strong after my guan," Herb lectured.
"If the king sung your praises all the time like everyone else,"
interjected the gruff voice of Rasputin, "he might as well get started getting
ready for retirement. All of us would try to get you crowned right after the
party."
Herb raised his chin imperiously and said, "Without question. Is it
not a fact that I am the greatest dragon born in generations? Why should
my father be forced to bear the crown when I am more than ready to take
the throne."
There was a moment of silence as Herb held his pose for several
seconds. He broke the impasse with a slight grin and shook his head.
"Even though I am the best, I will let the old man hold onto his crown for
a few more decades. I have no desire to deal with that burden before my
time comes."
"Certainly, Prince Herb," began Perrin. "you'll face more
challenges in the coming centuries than my descendants will like. By the
way, what do you think about the marriage interviews proceeding your
guan?" inquired Perrin.
"My interviews will be interesting, to say the least," replied Herb.
Since his cousin, Basil, had married his youngest sister twenty years ago,
there were no females of the dragon clan either unwed or of marriageable
age. This was typical of the draconians, the smallest of the Musk clans.
In addition to a lengthy maturation, they also paid for their extensive lives
with their difficulty in having children. Although they could live for over 500
years, draconian females were only capable of producing two to three
children over that span. Menstrual cycles that last nearly six months and
pregnancies that must be endured for four years contributed greatly to
their reproductive difficulties. To compensate for these problems,
draconian males were able, with some difficulty, to impregnate the females
of the other reptilian based tribes. Such crossbreeding had thinned their
bloodline a bit, but their dragon genes had proven to remain dominant.
"Knowing my father," continued Herb, "I'm a bit surprised that he
is granting me these interviews rather than foisting my baby cousin on
me."
"She is only 23 after all," said Perrin. "A mere child by your
standards. The continuation of your line seems to be his main concern."
"I realize that, especially in these times, but he has always
trumpeted the strength and purity of our lineage as a source of pride,"
explained Herb. "I will make certain that my sons are strong, but every
union with another clan moves us further from our heritage."
"You wouldn't want some little girl anyway," jibbed Rasputin. "It'd
probably be another fifty years before you could bed her."
"Brutally honest as always, eh Rasputin," chuckled Herb.
"That brings to mind one question I had, Prince Herb," said Perrin.
"Would your question regard how I am going to handle my first
meeting with women?" asker Herb.
"It is certainly something you've considered," replied Perrin.
"Of course," stated Herb. "I am well aware of that embarrassing
history. We almost seem cursed to make complete fools out of ourselves
at the first sight of women." At this, Herb grinned as he recalled a tale of
his father's antics on his guan. In a tale that he sworn to take to his grave,
the chamberlain, his grand uncle Wu Bei, disclosed Gao'lung's actions
upon first meeting his future bride. Herb could hardly believe that the king
would try to strip his intended to find out whether her breasts were real.
"I can remember clearly the anxiety that I felt as I approached my
warrior's trials. Women were the great unknown, always spoken of but
never seen," continued Perrin. "I was given a few ...scrolls by my father to
help get me used to the sight of women a few days before hand.
Otherwise, I might have made as big a fool out of my self as some of my
comrades did on their sixteenth."
Rasputin snorted and said, "At least I had something to fondle
when I first met my wife. All you could do was stare."
Perrin shot him a glare sideways and resumed. "As I was saying
before I being rudely interrupted, I believe that you could make ample
usage of these." Perrin reached into his vest as he said this and removed
a small bundle of paper, yellowed with age. The top sheet of this package
had a beautiful woman pictured on it, dressed seductively in the latest of
french fashion from the 1950's.
Herb stared at the image that graced the cover for a moment
before he glanced away. "I am quite certain that your own son would find
these pages to be more useful than I. Don't worry about my preparations.
I have that minor concern fully under control."
"As you will, my prince," replied Perrin. "Will you be continuing
your study of the Japanese tonight?"
"Certainly," said Herb. "I intend to learn as much about them and
the rest of the world as possible to prepare for my world voyage... don't
look at me like that." Herb was irked that his guardians did not approve of
the world tour that he planned to embark on in a few years. They were too
short sighted to realize how quickly the world had shrank in the last few
decades or how much it would continue to do so. He believed that the
Musk could not rely on the magic of Juseynko to keep them isolated from
the rest of the world forever. Herb concluded that the answers to their
problems could only be found at their source. As a result, he planned to
seek his answers in a ten year sabbatical, beginning in the mainland and
moving outwards to visit the world's major powers.
"Do you know why the Tibetans were slaughtered and their
territory occupied? Do you not hear the reports of our villagers leaving the
valley for the communist cities of Xinging and Lanzhou? The world is
moving on Perrin," lectured Herb, "and if we don't keep the pace, we will
be crushed under it's heel." Herb knew that Musk society was fragile, and
they could survive neither the republic's attention nor a massive exodus of
the villagers. He concluded that the answers to these problems could only
be found at their source. As a result, he planned to under take a ten year
sabbatical to study abroad and gain the knowledge that he needed to
confront the future. "Change or die," he remarked, "and I do not intend for
the Musk to die during my reign."
Perrin bowed to his prince in acquiescence. "Although I still don't
understand the urgency that you hold, I defer to your greater wisdom and
knowledge."
"If that is all, you are dismissed until the morning," said Herb. He
ushered his guardians to the door and said, "I wasn't entirely satisfied with
our training session this morning. I will increase the degree of difficulty
tomorrow."
Both Perrin and Rasputin bowed to their master and made their
exits. Perrin gave Herb a glance as he passed, and he wondered why the
prince had evaded his question about his 'preparations.'
*************************************************************************************
With her left leg extended and her sword extended before her
horizontally, she twirls the weapon in a butterfly pattern while maintaining
it at shoulder level. She flows into a quick overhand chop and crouches
low, rotating the blade across her perpendicular torso to fire a waist high
thrust. A tumble to the right brings her into an arcing, neck to shin level
slash. She springs forward, blade stabbing high as she launches herself
into the air. An aerial roll returns her to the low guard stance as she lands
facing in the reverse direction.
Continuing her dance, Herb wonders what could have possibly
inspired her course of action in the first place. Her plan was dangerously
flawed from the beginning. Ignoring the fact that the procurement and
usage of the Chisuiton had been banned for the last 800 years, there were
too many risks involved to consider carrying out this scheme. If she had
been discovered appropriating the ladle, she would have had no valid
excuses to claim that would prevent this disclosure from reaching her
father's ear. Even more incomprehensible was her decision to sidle into
the valley of the Springs of Sorrow under the cover of night. As if
traversing Jusenyko during the daylight was not dangerous enough, her
midnight stroll was a display of arrogance that practically begged
retribution from the fates.
The Musk Dynasty had penetrated much of the mystery that
surrounded the cursed springs. Their power encompassed far more than
the metamorphosing enchantment that displays it's most visceral effect.
The strands of fate were made to warp, part, and reassemble under the
ministrations of Juseynko. This was the magic that protected the denizens
of the valley from their more modern cousins while continuing to draw
others to it like moths the flame. That ancient chinese proverb, "May you
live in interesting times," was never more appropriate than when it is
applied to the victims of Juseynko. Madmen and martyrs, saints and
demons, kings and paupers, the spirit that ruled the valley forever guided
the lives of its unwary pawns.
A bow stance flows into a spinning, reverse diagonal slash which
becomes a low left parry. Herb's lithe body moves with a grace and
precision that belie her inner torment. She recalls with acute detail the final
time that she gazed upon her true form. She clung to this image, a mere
reflection from the murky waters of the Nannichiaun, like a drowning woman
to her last breath.
***************************************************************************************
A full moon hung high above the Bayankala mountains, illuminating
the valley of the springs of sorrow with it's soft, pale light. Herb regarded the
clear sky and fog less night as a gift. They provided him with enough light to
navigate Juseynko with out the aid of a torch. This was especially crucial
since his endeavor relied heavily on stealth. Even though he was the
crown prince of the Musk, his intended violation of a royal edict that had
stood, apparently, unchallenged for centuries would exact a heavy price if
it were to be discovered.
Herb glanced at the ebony clad reflection of himself that was
captured by the murky waters of the Naniichuan. A long, black cloak,
clasped to his neck by a short gold chain, concealed much of his form.
It's hood was loose, allowing his multi-hued hair to drape down his back.
A short sword was sheathed at his side, and a small satchel was carried
on his opposite shoulder. This arrangement left his hands free to carry the
a simple, iron cage that contained a common, brown monkey.
The monkey slept silently as Herb placed his burdens on the soft,
loamy earth before the Spring of the Drowned Girl. He removed the tie that
closed the satchel and reached inside. The satchel yielded a slender,
glyph laden bucket of dark gold from within. The next item that he procured
was a thin, cloth wrapped bundle. He carefully removed the covering and
revealed the bucket's mate, an ancient ladle that was similarly embossed.
He examined these items for any signs that his handling had damaged them
in any perceivable manner as he reflected on the legacy and power that
the Chisuiton concealed. 'Our entire history is owed to this innocuous
talisman,' he mused.
The last items, a short white robe and several leather strips, were
pulled from the bag. Herb considered the genius of his plan to lay in the
fact that he intended to hide his crime in plain sight. Victims of Juseynko
were known to retain their self consciousness and personalities regardless
of the forms that they assumed. These attributes, however, would exist in
brains that were not often human. As a result, the intelligence of those with
such curses was physically limited by their nature. The inverse, although
not nearly as common since most animals instinctively avoided Juseynko,
was also true. Herb intended to take advantage of this fact to train the
neophyte woman to be human. He planned to take her to a cave that he had
discovered several years ago near a crag several hundred feet above the valley
floor. There, he would spend several weeks teaching her mandarin, proper
proper manners, and a few skills to act as one of his personal servants, and
he would learn to be comfortable around women.
Herb reached down and unlatched the cage. The monkey awoke with
a start, and she darted to the rear of the cage. Her eyes gazed fearfully at
Herb as she tried in vain to stay out of his reach. His hand shot forward and
retreated too quickly for her to react, and he left the simian dangling from his
extended arm by her feet. As he maintained his grip on her writhing
appendages, he prepared to secure the leather bounds to her arms to ease
his task. His captive had other ideas in mind. She bent upwards, grabbed his
arm, and sunk her teeth into the exposed flesh of his hand. Her flung her
towards the spring with a yelp of pain. The monkey hit the Naniichuan with a
splash and became submerged instantly.
A head topped by a sodden mass of auburn hair emerged from the
rippling waters. The brunette glanced in Herb's direction with wild eyes and
scrambled to escape the pool. A stunned expression occupied his face as
he stared in slack-jawed appreciation at the nouveau human female.
Although only moderately pretty by most standards, she was a goddess
in the flesh to Herb, whom had never before viewed the female form before
this day.
Time seemed to slow as the woman clambered out of the pool
directly before Herb. Instead of escaping around him, she instead chose
to climb over him. She latched on to his head and shoulders as she
pulled herself up his body. His already lust filled mind was thoroughly
shattered when her ample breasts were smashed against his face.
When her foot reached his shoulder, she used his body as a spring
board to launch herself off him towards freedom. As Newton's first law
asserted itself, Herb was thrust violently over the edge of the bank.
Only feelings of surprise and lust occupied him as he rapidly approached
the black waters head first.
************************************************************************************
A bead of sweat rolls from the damp blue patch of hair directly
above her forehead. It continues down her smooth brow, passing many
other droplets of perspiration that have formed there. Passing between
her intense, golden eyes, the bead alights on the pert bridge of her
aristocratic nose. It comes to a stop on the tip and is flung off her nose
as her head turns.
Legs entwined in a lotus crouch, Herb twists her torso to launch
a horizontal slash. An over the shoulder jab breaks her from this stance.
She follows this with several diagonal slashes from opposing directs and
dances back to reposition herself for another series.
Perhaps the most vivid memory that she possess of her first
hours of womanhood is her near drowning. She recalls a sensation of
numbness that washed over her as she was submerged in the
Naniichuan. Her vision had wavered as she swallowed her first lung full of
that brackish water. Darkness encroached the edge of her sight as she
floated in shocked paralysis, oblivious to her approaching demise. She
doesn't recall where her sudden impulse to survive originated, but it was
urgent enough to jolt her into frantic action. Her last clear memory for at
least the next few hours following her affliction was the thumping that her
heart made as she heaved the water from her lungs in the dirt beside the
pool.
Herb considers the stench of her own vomit as she gasped for
air in the muck a fitting inauguration for her new form. That moment was
easily the most shameful that she had experienced in her life. She
knows, however, that her father will seek to further humble her before he
completes his judgement. In only a few short hours, she would submit to
her father's will before his court. Her fate would be decided there, and she
shudders slightly as she anticipates his decision to carry a death
sentence. 'I will not allow him execute me like a common criminal without
at least making a case for myself,' resolves Herb. She had not spent the
week and a half before her exposure researching Jusenyko, it's history,
and it's artifacts in vain.
************************************************************************************
Perrin was filled with a sense of foreboding as he peered through
the branches of the fern bush. It's skeletal limbs partially obscured his
vision, but they also provided some of the only concealment to be found
in this part of the Bayankala foothills. Although the light was fading as
evening approached, his acute eyesight enabled him to observe the
terrain that occupied his attention with much precision. The land sloped
upward harshly as it approached the base of the mountains, and the
rocky ground had proven unsupportable for most crops. The short grass
that thrived there during the late summer had long been eaten by the
sheep that were herded here, leaving the land barren except for the
small bushes that dotted the landscape. This did not imply that the
land was featureless, since it boasted many small boulders, fissures,
and some of the most broken and uneven terrain in the region.
The chilled wind blew down from the mountains to his north,
and it carried the scent of a winter that had yet to relinquish it's hold in
the spring's arrival. From his position downwind, Perrin was also able to
discern a trace of burning wood and another odor as familiar as his own
that drifted from the cave that occupied his attention. Like so many
others that littered this area, the cave was more accurately an over sized
hole in the ground that was attached to a short tunnel that widened at it's
end. They provided winter homes for the black mountain bears that
hibernated in the area, and they occasionally claimed the lives of unwary
night travelers since they were depressed into the earth. This cave was
fronted by a short crevice that the wind whistled through. Only the sounds
the crackling fire and the muted breathing of Rasputin were audible to him.
That his senses altered him to no other anomalies was
disconcerting to Perrin. Although he had fully expected any potential
ambushers to have seen their approach and halt, the lack of practical
concealment in the vicinity would also work against his expected
adversaries. Rasputin and he had trained with Herb in this area several
times, and he knew of no caves and few rifts or bushes that could
conceal a person from view. None of these obscurations, however, could
hide someone from his lupine nose, especially from upwind. Only a fool
would set a trap for a Musk warrior here since they had a reputation for
possessing enhanced senses. He realized then that they either faced an
enemy far more cunning than he could anticipate or none at all.
Perrin feared that Herb had been abducted from the moment that
he had received a strange message from the prince earlier that afternoon.
The messenger, a servant new to the keep, had been given the letter as
he carried out tasks in the Hon'shu village. He said that the person who
gave him the letter had claimed to be Herb but wore a cloak to conceal
his features. Herb's presence in the village was dubious at best since he
was prohibited, like all of the other minor warriors, from coming within
view any of the five villages. Perrin had considered 'questioning' the man
further, but he decided against this course. He found torture a distasteful
method of acquiring the truth, and the strangeness of the man's account
enhanced it's credibility.
The letter was the deciding factor, however, in determining
Rasputin's and his actions. It instructed them to meet Herb for training
that evening at an area outside the keep that they had previously
discussed. This message, which named no location, raised an
immediate alarm because they had not chosen an alternate training site.
It was certainly written in his script, but the obvious lie that it presented
ensured that only they could trace Herb's position. As such, Perrin
envisioned the letter being used either to deceive Herb's feared captors
by alerting his warders with false information or to make certain that they
would be the only ones to know of his location. The effect of the
message was the same regardless since Rasputin and him tracked Herb
by themselves as a matter of pride and to protect any possible secret
that Herb desired to keep.
Perrin gestured for Rasputin to begin moving, and he dashed
a few paces ahead of the larger man. They crossed the area to the cave's
opening quickly while maintaining their vigilance. They stopped at the
entrance and peered into the darkness of the small pit. The
ground showed signs of recent disturbance with a pair of footprints
leading through the dust into the tunnel, but there was no apparent sign
of a trap. Not willing to take unnecessary chances, Rasputin retrieved a
large rock from the crevice and tossed it into the pit. It thumped onto the
slate floor and raised a small plume of dust. Perrin felt even more certain
that his initial fears were groundless, but his apprehension towards the
entire situation only increased as he leapt into the cave's mouth.
Rasputin followed Perrin into the depths, and they crept
stealthily towards their master's presence. The light from the fire was
visible, and the acrid smell of the smoke grew. As they approached,
Perrin noted that there was something slightly... off about Herb's scent,
now that he was closer to his target. He could not readily identify it, but
it became slightly more apparent as they reached the tunnel's end.
Herb was seated, facing them, as they entered the small, dank
cavern. His body was concealed by his large white cloak, and his face
was hidden by his downturned cowl. A low-burning, bamboo fire
separated them, it's light grey smoke slowly wafting through the tunnel's
exit.
As Herb stood and allowed the cloak to fall aside, Perrin's
misgivings about the situation were fully realized. An elfin face greeted
them, illuminated partially by the fire's soft glow. Large, golden eyes
glared challengingly, almost daring them to reproach her. Their owner
was most definitely female, and her black, over-sized garb could not
entirely conceal her healthy form. Perrin stared in stunned silence at the
apparently female Herb, and he realized that his life would no longer be
the same. "My name, my clan, my son, you've destroyed us," uttered
Perrin.
Rasputin, however, quickly reminded him where his loyalties truly lay. He
kneeled before Herb, head bowed and with his fist touching his chest.
With no hint of uncertainty in his voice, he said, "What would you have
your faithful servants do, Prince Herb?"
Perrin felt shamed by his outburst towards his prince, whose eyes
echoed the betrayal that Perrin's statement held. From the moment that
he was bound to Herb, his most important duty was to the safety and
well being of the prince. He understood, then, that his loyalty to Herb
must be absolute, regardless of the consequences to himself or to his
family. He immediately joined Rasputin in submission before her, and he
pleaded, "Please forgive your humble servant, my prince. I had forgotten
myself, and I will never again doubt my duty to you."
He could feel the gaze of the prince burning on him, and he expected a
swift rebuke. Only a sigh came, however, and Herb bade them to rise.
"Of course I must forgive you," said Herb. "I know that I do not deserve
your loyalty, either of yours. That you give me your service at all after
seeing me like this is a gift that I will never be able to repay."
*************************************************************************************
'And how have I repaid their devotion to me so far,' thinks Herb bitterly.
Herb can feel their presence a short distance away, probably imprisoned
in far worse conditions than herself. 'With my father's sense of propriety,
I doubt he will ever give them an official trial. Their fates will be, inevitably,
tied directly to mine.'
She rises from a crouch with a backhanded arc that flows into a right
bow form. A diagonal slash from her shoulder returns from her hip. The
blade remains on her shoulder to parry as she spins tightly to her left.
She whips out of this with a quick, mid level slash with her left hand, and
she stabs over her shoulder as she slides forward.
She knew that her plan had been doomed to fail from the moment that
she had decided on it. Her father would eventually become curious about
the impromptu training excursion that Herb had supposedly taken with
his warders. Although he was often impulsive, an unexplained journey
such as this, especially so near to his guan, would draw attention from
the king. It was only a matter of time before her cover story was
penetrated, and her midnight activities were discovered within two weeks.
What little time she had, however, was not wasted. Every night, she
infiltrated the keep covertly and entered the archives. Her research was
conducted diligently to retrieve as much information as she could in as
short a time as possible. She expected to be discovered at any time, but
the scrolls were not organized well enough to allow her search to proceed
efficiently. Too many hours were wasted tracing misleading information
about the curse and the Chisuiton for her comfort. She was able to glean
some useful information from the archives before her entry was reported.
The Kaisufuu, or the Open Water Kettle, had been lost to the Musk since
the 4th century. It was capable of unlocking the effects of the Chisuiton.
Although they did not possess it, they had been interested in its
progress. The kettle was a powerful artifact, not a trinket to be forgotten.
It had passed through the hands of many men, both great and small, over
the centuries, but it vanished from the historian's purview in Japan over
300 years ago.
She suspects that the Kaisufuu is still there, and she is determined to
convince her father to allow her to find it. It holds the only hope that she
has to at least partially address her situation. A swift execution,
conducted privately to hasten her ignoble departure and minimize it's
impact, does not engender the same enthusiasm. 'I must make him
see reason.'
Herb raises the sword to chin height, holding it horizontally with her arm
curled. Weight leaning forward, she launches herself forward with a single
step. She glides across the floor in a blur, and she thrusts her blade
forward. Passing a point in her mind, she places her feet down and slides
to an abrupt stop. The sword once again rises to bisect her body, and she
resheathes it smoothly. It settles with a click in it's scabbard, signaling
the close of her session.
Her hand lingers over the hilt of her sword. This dance was quite possibly
her last, and she enjoys the remains of the adrenaline rush that begins to
recede. She would not waste this opportunity. "He at least owes me the
chance to make things right again," she mutters.