Song of the Sacae
Lyn/Rath Pairing
Chapter 2: A Change for the Better
Rath looked up at the distant horizon, immersing himself in the vibrant colors of the Sacaen sunset. Great regions of red and orange mixed with the churning purple clouds, creating what seemed to be something out of a Mage's mind. Yes, nature has its own brand of magic it seems.
Great formations of birds, traveling through the plains from Ilia to Bern, flew into the vortex. Looking at the birds, Rath noticed two of them happened to be rather attached to the other. Whenever one flew one way, the other would follow. Averting his attention from the birds to the dirt before his feet, Rath sighed.
(It was good to be back home,) the Nomad Trooper thought as the shadows grew longer. (Yes, it's good to be back.)
Standing up, he knocked the dirt from his trousers. His hands were still sore but Rath was sure that they would quickly heal. Placing two fingers into his mouth, he whistled sharply for his horse.
As he stepped from the shadows cast by the trees, he took a deep breathe, tasting the cool air mixed with drying dew and still wet grass. Yes, this was the taste of freedom, a taste that many had sought for and many have longed for.
It was still light enough to travel, but only for a moment. The stark contrast between light and darkness on the plains has always fascinated Rath since he was a child. Perhaps he will experience the meaning of true darkness tonight.
Tossing his pack back onto his Arabian, Rath gave a quick check on his ride. Yes, it looked well watered and fed. The tension that was in its legs have been replaced by the jittery nerves that usually inflict themselves upon a horse when it's ready to go for a sprint.
Smiling as he climbed on, Rath knew that his horse would take him well into the distance. Pulling the reigns, he made it so his horse would be facing the sunset. Giving a small clicking of his tongue, he urged his horse to race toward the sun.
In a column of grass and dirt, the Arabian charged forward, neighing triumphantly. No one may be around to witness their challenge to the setting sun but as the Sacaens put it:
"The Wolf shall challenge the Sun and the Wind, but the Swift Ones will prevail."
Lady Lyndis emerged from her tent, weary and drained. She had changed to her traditional Sacaen garb, one of the many spares she had brought along from her homeland. It was the blue full-length dress with green embroidery along the edges. It was also the one that she had wore when she first met Rath.
She wandered about the slowly awakening camp, thinking of the things that she had done alongside her fellow Sacaen. Rath was the only one she had come to truly respect. While the stoic Nomad Trooper was never one for much words, Lyn knew that he had his reasons.
Coming toward the kitchen area, she smelled the aromas being conjured up by the cooks on duty. When she rounded around the last of the tents, a small organized chaos was underway.
Merlinus the Merchant, was on one side, muttering wildly as he mixed pancake batter as he read from a cooking book. The blue-haired morning cook was so intent in both reading and mixing the batter that he nearly caused the batter to spill out of its container.
Lowen the Cavalier, was at the other side of the kitchen area mixing grains of different varieties together in a great mixing bowl. The wild green-haired youth muttered words that Lyn had heard in a bar before but never in the kitchen.
Standing in the center of the kitchen area was one person whom Lyn was so sure would never pass a cooking lesson taught by a very, very patient mother. With pancake batter and grain stuck in his crimson hair, Kent looked worthy of a smacking from his own mother. Looking guiltily from Lowen to Merlinus, the young Knight Retainer seemed rather ruffled to have Lyn finding him in such a state.
Lyn giggled as Kent tried to hide himself behind a crate of dried meats. "Kent, I've never thought of you as the cooking type of person."
"Well, milady, there's always a time for a man to step up to the mixing bowl with a spoon to take on the job of a woman," Kent said. He then hastily added, "No offense or anything to you, milady."
"Oh Kent, you're always a good person no matter how badly you don't succeeed," Lyn said.
"You mean fail so spectacularly that he makes it seem like nothing compared with the time he tried to hold back Sain from flirting with Florina?" Merlinus muttered darkly. "I heard that he got his buttocks beaten by that talented young Pegasi Knight."
"Or a terrible cook for that matter," Lowen grumbled as he vehemently smacked his mixing spoon against the edge of his bowl. "He's made this too sticky. Now it'll stick right to the bottom of the pot when we cook it!"
"Aye, a terrible fate will befall you, young knight, if you dare step inside this kitchen once more!" Merlinus said darkly to Kent as he pointed his spoon in Kent's face. "Mark my words, you... you... imbecile of a cook!"
"Okay, okay! I get the message, Merlinus. You should've just grabbed Sain this morning instead of me for kitchen duty." Kent tried to dodge Merlinus's angrily thrown spoon. It connected and left a lump on Kent's forehead along with a dab of pancake mix.
"You get yourself out of my kitchen right now!"
It was still light when the small figure of Rath upon his horse in the distance slowly approached his tribe's last known location. It was near a stretch of woods, a rare sight on the almost never-ending plains of the Sacae. Upon spying the woods, he urged his horse to ride faster. Giving a snort of indignation, the stallion charged toward the woods.
The familiar thundering noise of hooves striking the earth mystified Feng Loung. He was on guard duty in the name of the Kutolah Tribe. Drawing his Steel Sword, the Myrmidion cautiously peered around a tree. Nothing will get past him this day.
Ever since they had lost four tribesmen to Ganelon mountain thieves a year ago, a bitter anger had settled upon the Kutolah tribe. Upon sighting a thief, be it allied with the Ganelon or not, they have all full rights to shoot them dead. So far, Feng has proven himself at least ten times in combat against those carrion crows.
A faint breeze suddenly kicked up, tossing leaves and other organic matter into the air. Attuning his ears to any footsteps, Feng heard a faint almost inaudible snap of a twig. Taking cover behind the tree, he carefully blended himself into the scenery.
With his sword raised before him, Feng looked hard at the blade and prayed. He had been wounded by a mountain thief before and the pain from the axe had been unbearable. Feng just hopes that the weapon of choice this time would be wielded by a green and inexperienced brigand.
The footsteps fell once more, pausing every so often, as if the intruder was straining his own ears for a noise. Feng could hear the breathe of the bandit, each time louder and each time closer. Slowing exchanging his Steel Sword from his right to his left hand, Feng could hear more twigs snapping under the footsteps.
At last, the intruder walked directly past the tree Feng was blended against. Looking at the back of the man, Feng knew what to do. Pushing himself against the tree, Feng launched himself forward with his Steel Sword pointed for the stab between the shoulder blades.
Time seemed to slow down. Feng didn't make a sound. His blade's tip was almost there. Somehow, this always seemed to be the most difficult part to kill a person.
But at the last possible second, the intruder fell forward and rolled aside. Feng was caught by surprise and fell onto the floor of the forest. His sword was planted into the moist and damp earth, shaking from the impact it made into the Mother Earth. Feng struggled to get up but a boot was jammed onto his back. Howling out in pain, for the boot struck his wound from that accursed bandit, Feng struggled to get the weight, the painful weight, off of his back.
"Who are you?" a raspy voice said as the boot applied more and more painful pressure onto the scar. "Why are you upon the land of my tribesman?" Feng tried to knock the foot off but the flat of a sword knocked his hand aside.
"Speak if you have a tongue," the voice said harshly. "I have no time to waste with incompetent warriors such as yourself."
Upon hearing such insults, Feng spat at his enemy. "I am Feng Loung, member of the Kutolah Tribe. If you so as much dare to fight a man that is unarmed, you are a coward."
The voice chuckled. "Coward? I believe it was you who dared to strike a man from behind, young Feng of the Kutolah. If you wish to regain your honor, then stand up and arm yourself."
Feng felt the boot slide off of his back and he quickly scrambled up. Ripping his blade out of the earth with venom, Feng grinned darkly at his cloaked foe.
Sizing his opponent, Feng was pleased to have easy pickings. This man, this old bent man, was armed with a sword that looks older than his own ancient Iron Sword from his childhood. Feng couldn't see the facial features of the man but he didn't care. This was truly a good day to kill a intruder, even if he was a member of the Kutolah Tribe.
"You ready, young Feng of the Kutolah?" the old man said rasply. The old man leaned on one side, favoring his right leg and arm.
Grinning, Feng launched himself forward. His blade screamed through the air for blood as did Feng himself thirsted for blood. Giving a unearthly howl of darkness, Feng struck at the old man. His blade went through the cloak's material.
Turning around, Feng's smirk melted into anger and confusion. Where the old man was, there was only a cloak and a stick. He had been fooled!
Looking about the woods, Feng heard a voice calling from every direction. "Nice slash, young Feng. Your form, however, needs improvement. Your foot and sword arm should be parallel to each so that they act as one. Try again."
Feng heard the crackle of a bush and he threw his sword in that direction. It whistled through the air, screaming for blood and beggings of mercy.
"THUNK!" The blade bit deeply into the tree, quivering.
Out of the darkness, a hand slid out of nowhere and snatched the blade out of the tree with almost careless ease. The voice of the old man then spoke again.
"Excellent sword you have, young Feng. But it is not the weapon that is the master. It is the wielder who is the master. But until you can master your own rage, to tap it for a good purpose, you cannot wield a weapon of such worthy caliber."
A pair of hands then appeared from nowhere and held the sword, double-handed style. Raising the sword above a rock, the hands brought the Steel Sword down. The blade smashed agains the rock, quivering madly. The hands then raised it again and brought it back down. It then shattered into two pieces.
All that was left was the hilt and the blade.
Author Notes:
Okay, I'm not dead so don't send flowers to my family. I just took a month long break (this fic was done during then) from doing fanfiction in order to study for my Spring Exams.
Oh, and this "QuickEdit" thingie is not useful for me. I'd rather have it stored on NotePad (with a BackUp copy) for my own editing purposes. Oh well...