Prologue: What Came To Pass

War was coming to the village of Yarrow. The traders, traveling between the myriad villages that populated this region of what was once known as the state of Washington, had been bringing word of it for months, word carried from the south and east of what was called North America, and now called divided up into villages, and city-states and petty fiefdoms. Information was hard to come by these days, and was usually badly distorted after a few tellings, but when so many rumors all claimed the same thing, the village elders knew that it was most likely the truth. Indisputably, War was coming.

A rider had barreled through the center of town only moments before, bellowing that the first distortions had been seen on the horizon. There was, apparently, no weapons fire yet, although that would inevitably come. Across Yarrow, parents quietly tucked away their children into the dugout shelters underneath their homes, shouldered their own weapons, and went out to meet the invaders. The elders looked on sadly, having themselves an inkling of the futility of resistance. Some among their number could remember the tales of their grandfathers, of when the word 'War' meant the clash of armies; great masses of troops coming into conflict, tearing each other asunder. Or, more recently, of when it meant The Great War, the war between the gods, when the old order of the world fell and left as survivors only those tough enough to endure the hardships of life in a disintegrating world. Those of the younger generations, though, they only knew these tales second or third hand. They were not real; not in the way that the rain and the sun and the great Sound were.

In these days, War was a man.

And the people of Yarrow didn't truly understand what it must have taken to change the meaning of that word. And so they shouldered their weapons; hunting rifles, some handguns, and even a few ancient assault rifles passed down from their forebears. They donned cobbled-together suits of armor made from stiffened leather or half-rotted Kevlar, and as one they marched out to defend their home.

At the outskirts of town, a lone scout lay in the woods near the top of the hill, and watched the column of invaders approach through his precious pair of ancient binoculars. There weren't many of them, really. Certainly, they didn't match the numbers of the villagers. And they didn't have the intimate knowledge of the terrain that the Yarrow villagers had, and they weren't fighting in defense of their families...

He sighed in disgust. Useless advantages, those. He peered through the binoculars again; looked closers at them. In contrast to the makeshift equipment worn by the defenders, these soldiers appeared almost insectile inside their suits of tactical armor. It was sleek, matte black, and almost painfully high-tech. Their faces were obscured behind the sensor visors of their helmets, and the scout knew for a fact that the spear-like weapons they carried could fire a lance of heat capable of melting rock. He'd seen it happen before, years ago, on a journey to Angel City, far to the south. It was the last time he'd ever gone there.

They rode on hoverdisks. There were five disks for the troops, each of them carrying ten soldiers, an absurd number. Only the wealthiest of merchants could afford more than one disk, though they were certainly worth the cost. He cursed under his breath as he saw the telltale distortion in the air that signaled the presence of air shields. He dropped his own large-caliber hunting rifle in disgust. It would be useless until the shields were dropped. By then it would be too late. All this was more confirmation that he had been right when he forbid his daughter his daughter to hide with the other children. Instead, she lay behind him, sheltered by the swell of the hill, well out of the conflict that was to come, occasionally kicking stones out of boredom. Even events such as these could only occupy the nine-year old mind for so long. So unlike her brother, who had demanded to take part in the village's defense, despite his father's objections, and, because he was of age, had gotten his way. Now all the scout could do was pray for his safety.

He turned momentarily to gaze at the Tower. The stone monstrosity covered half the village in its shadow in the evening. The home of the resident god, Shiil, it was without a doubt the target of the invaders. He'd heard of War before; it was said that the man traveled across the world seeking out the remnants of the gods, and executing them. His motivations for doing so remained unclear, but he was said to be unmerciful with those humans he found sheltering a god.

Looking back at the column, he now focused on the sixth, smaller hoverdisk at the front of the column. They were closer now, and when viewed through the binoculars, the features of the man standing upon it were thrown into sharp relief.

He was tall, although not markedly so. About six foot, and obviously fit, although his form was concealed beneath a black robe. His hair was long; worn all the way down to his waist, and as black as his robe or the armor of his soldiers. His eyes were concealed behind a pair of round sunglasses, and his face was set in an expression of moderate boredom.

The rumors about those glasses: that they were sensors of incredible sensitivity, and allowed the wearer to see with perfect acuity out to the horizon. Some even said that with them, he could see through solid objects, or even into the souls of his enemies. There were nearly as many stories about his apparent youth; for all that he appeared to be a man no older than his mid-twenties not even the longest lived of the elders could remember a time when his name was not spoken. Some said that he consumed the souls of the gods he slew in order to maintain this immortality. Others said the souls he devoured were more mortal in nature.

The scout discounted none of these rumors. After all, when dealing with War, it seemed best to be cautious.

As the column moved forward, one of the soldiers, with a marking of rank upon his shoulder, diffidently moved behind the left shoulder of the man who stood, arms clasped behind his back, at the head of their number. His voice was quiet, and uncertain as he spoke. "Lord War... The sensors indicate that we are being observed. It is most likely only a single scout; the main body of the villagers is still marching toward our head. Shall..."

War answered, in a voice just as soft, but considerably calmer than his underling. "I have been aware of him for some time. He poses no danger to us, no more than the villagers do. He is carrying an old H&K SLB2000, chambered for .308. It will not be able to penetrate your armor, much less the air shields."

Beneath his helmet, the young officer paled at the tone of rebuke in his masters voice. In his time with War, he had never seen the man punish anyone for something so trivial, but when punishment was handed out, it was not to be forgotten quickly.

War gave a small, rare smile. "Your vigilance does you credit. I will remember this when it comes time for payment. Now, return to your station; the villagers are approaching. I think that we will begin with the usual methods."

Nodding in relief, the officer did so.

The villagers were beginning to have second thoughts. True, this was their land that they were defending, and the homes passed down by their forebears from the time when you could still see the city of S'Tol across the Lake. And Lord Shiil had always told them that they must defend themselves against all invaders. But still...

This was no bandit, or petty Feudal Lord come to claim their belongings. They could have dealt with that as they had so many times in the past. Lord Shiil could have swept aside that kind without even trying. No, this was War: a figure that had ingrained itself into the souls of every man woman and child in the world.

And Lord Shiil was conspicuously absent from the battlefield.

They watched nervously as the column approached. More than one among them felt a trembling in their knees, and was only prevented from running by the thought of the shame that would be inflicted upon them. Almost as one, they raised their weapons, and took aim. Closer... closer...

Finally, the patience of the crowd snapped. One among them, brash young man of seventeen summers screamed a yell of defiance. "Fire!" he bellowed, as his finger, along with a hundred others, pulled on the trigger of his weapon.

There was only silence. Not a single one of the weapons had functioned. With growing panic, the villagers tried again and again, with the same results. The guns, carefully maintained and serviced for generations, would not fire.

War stepped down from his disk, the air shield lowering as he did so. His mouth was twisted into a bored smile. "People of the village of Yarrow. You know who I am. Now step aside; my business is not with you."

With that, he stepped into their midst, noting with some disdain the fearful reactions of the crowd as they attempted to back away from him. All but the youth, who gave a strangled cry, unsheathed a hunting knife, a nine-inch length of simple steel, and rushed towards him.

Ah. So it is to be one of these...thought War.

None of the soldiers made a move. They understood what their roles were in this situation. They simply observed, as War allowed the boy within twenty feet, fifteen, ten... And then, with a contemptuous flick of his wrist, four chains, tipped with sharp blades sprang from the voluminous sleeve of his robe. They moved with impossible precision as they wound themselves about the boy's arms and legs, bearing him to the ground.

The scout cursed as he watched his only son attempted to rush the black-robed figure. Stupid boy, what did he hope to accomplish by this? Then, he heard the rustle of brush the signified his daughters' exit, and belatedly realized that she must have seen it as well. He rose to follow her.
War sighed as the youth struggled. "This boy disobeyed me. His punishment will remind the rest of you not to do the same." He gave another flick of his wrist, and flickering bolts of lightning danced their way down the chains. The boy began to scream, and he writhed in pain, arching his back so far that it was a wonder that he didn't break his own back. Some of the villagers groaned as this boy they all knew, who had worked the fields alongside them, who had caught fish in their lake, who always been known a friendly, if somewhat foolish person, seemed to scream his very soul away in their midst.

Just as it seemed that the pain of one they knew would break the spell of fear War had cast over them, the soldiers moved. With practiced ease, they forced themselves between the villagers and their leader, herding them at the point of their spears into a large, rough circle.

Finally, the screams subsided. The soul-wracking cries of pain faded to subdued whimpering, and his maddened writhing ceased, aside from the occasional spasmodic twitch as nerves randomly fired throughout his body. The chains, apparently of their own volition, unwound themselves from his body, and retreated back into the recesses of the black robe. War looked about himself calmly, staring into the eyes of the villagers, who were half-mad with fright. "He will live, although he will likely have trouble walking very far on his own from now on. He'll have shaking limbs and weak muscles like an old man. Hopefully, he has family that will be willing to care for him. Now..." His gaze moved toward the tower of Shiil. "Men, keep the villagers here. I don't want anyone sneaking up behind me." With that, he began walking, taking no notice of the cries of a little girl as she rushed up to cradle the fallen form of her elder brother.

A soldier, young and unranked, nudged one of his rather more experienced fellows. "Hey... Is it all right to just let him go alone like that? I mean, I know this isn't the first god that he's killed, but shouldn't we give him some backup?" His voice betrayed a certain amount of worry over the source of his income.

The other responded. "He'll be fine. The power readings on this one are fairly low. A jumped-up Lieutenant or a Lord that's let his power slide into the dregs. It's nothing to worry about. Our job is to keep the rabble in line. Heh. My dad told me some tales about a couple of times when he did have to fight alongside Lord War. He was there for the Paris Ruins campaign."

The first soldier whistled softly. "Fate preserve us from something like that..."

War came to the top of the hill, upon which stood the Tower of Shiil. It was obviously not of human construction. Except in rare cases, in the more advanced city-states and at Phoenix Mountain, humans simply didn't make things like this anymore. It was ugly, brutish and squat despite it's height, and dreadfully out of place amidst the pastoral surroundings of Yarrow. And within, War knew, lay one who refused to admit how out of place he was.

He strode up to the massive gates of the tower, and called out. "Shadow Lord Shiil..." It was perhaps a bit of flattery; Shiil was only marginally powerful enough to deserve that title. "I give you this one chance to give yourself up to a swift death at my hands. I promise that it will be quite painless."

There was no answer. There never was. War nodded to himself, satisfied that his offer had been heard. He Changed.

The armor, which formed over him, was superficially similar to that which his soldiers wore. It was just as black, and just as high tech in appearance, but while his soldiers looked vaguely insectile, War looked like nothing other than himself. It was bladed across the helm, forearms and fingers. Spikes jutted out at the elbows. Black, non-metallic plates whispered across each other as he moved. His round lenses had altered their shape, becoming part of the sinister visor that hid his face, and his long hair had become a tassel hanging to his waist from the top of his helm.

He moved forward, grasped the iron gate of Shiil's Tower; a massive thing that must have weighed five or six tons, and, one handed, tore it from its hinges.

"...And that's the long and short of what happened at Paris Ruins," concluded the soldier, happy to have someone to tell the tale to. "Four Shadow Lords, fifteen Lieutenants, and who knows how many Soldiers. Took the better part of eight months for Lord War and his men to clean up, but once he's set, he doesn't give up no matter how long it takes." The other soldiers nodded.

The crash of iron at the Tower caused most of those present their to turn towards it. A cloud of dust was settling about fifty feet away from it, where the gate had been flung. "Well..." drawled the soldier. "Looks like he's getting started."

By the fallen youth, the scout's young, red-haired daughter glared daggers at them both.

War was assaulted almost immediately upon stepping through the threshold, just as expected. Shadow Lords used predictable tactics; overwhelming force at first, attempting to cow the enemy into submission, followed by guerrilla style hit-and-run if this failed to eliminate the enemy. He's seen it hundreds of times before.

A cascade of energy beams lanced through the air towards him, ionizing the air with their passing. Some struck the stone around him, causing it to melt and run like butter left outside on a hot day. Most struck his armor, and simply glanced off. War didn't bother dodging. With energy levels this low, it wasn't worth the effort. He continued walking, his visor examining the area in detail, attempting to find his quarry.

Ah... There you are. With no warning, War shot forward with blinding speed, his fingerblades open, swiping at the figure he had just glimpsed through his sensors. Expecting it to be over that quickly, he was startled to find his attack passing through the already fading image of his opponent. Hmmm. So, an Illusionist as well. And fairly skilled, if he can fool my sensors. His mind tightened with remembered pain. But if he thinks to defeat me with illusion... He rushed toward the stairs, following the faint sounds he heard ascending them. His footsteps were heavy with tightly controlled, bitter anger.

As soon as he reached the second floor, he sighed. Seven identical images awaited him. All of them appeared as classical demons, huge, clawed and bat-winged. They laughed as he skidded to a halt. Oh, for pity's sake...Skilled, but not intelligent.

"So," thundered the Shiils, "You seek to face me in my lair, do you? I shall teach you the price..."

He never got farther. War's sensors had already located the eighth, far smaller figure hiding invisibly near the upper corner of the room, to the left of the door where he had entered. With a sigh, he materialized a few chains, which wrapped around his prey and dragged him close. Shiil yelped as the bladed metal bit into his flesh, and bereft of his concentration, the images disappeared. War stepped over to look at him. Shiil appeared to be nothing more frightening in appearance than a wizened old man with greenish skin and pointed teeth. He writhed pathetically attempting to escape. Finally, as War stepped near, Shiil unleashed a massive bolt of energy from his mouth.

The explosion ripped throughout the tower, nearly shaking it down. A chunk of the wall twice the height of a man was ripped away, falling to the ground outside of the tower. Shiil cackled with glee as the chains loosened. "Ha! That should teach you to confront Shiil in his... urk!" His laughter was abruptly caught off as bladed fingers wrapped around his neck. As the smoke from the blast cleared away, he could clearly see War standing before him, armor undamaged by the colossal energies of the blast. His eyes widened, and he collapsed into a terrified heap. "Why... why are you doing this? I can feel your power! You're a Shadow Lord, just as I am! Why are you so bent on destroying one of your own kind?" His entreaties were becoming more desperate, and finding it difficult to make it past the constricting force applied to his throat. "I wasn't causing any harm, I wasn't! I was just trying to survive out here, away from everyone but this little village. I even protected it! What did I do to deserve this?"

War was silent for a moment. This was the first time any of his prey had asked him 'why?' "It doesn't matter what you did. This is about what you are, and what your kind took from me. I am not a Shadow Lord, though my power comes from the same source. I cannot rest until the last of your damned kind is wiped from the Earth. Only then will I forget what you did to her..." His voice became soft, near the end, and his head tilted upward, as if he were peering into the distance.

Shiil whimpered in sudden realization. "You... you are him! You are Mou..." His exclamation was brutally cut off as War's grip tightened, and his gaze once more focused upon him.

War spoke, slowly and deliberately. "That name died, along with man who bore it, a very long time ago. Now there is only War." His grip closed, and one more dark soul fled screaming into the abyss.

Then, he Changed back, wiped his bloody hand on the clothes of his enemy, and walked back to the village of Yarrow.

By the time he reached the village, the sun was already beginning to dip below the horizon. He nodded toward his men, who immediately broke ranks and began to board their disks once again. As he walked toward his own disk, he heard the voice of a young girl brokenly demand of him "Why?"

He turned toward her, more out of curiosity than anything else. This was, after all, the second time this day that he'd been asked this question, though he really had no intention of answering. The girl's father, a man in hunter's gear, was already attempting to silence her. He prepared to turn away, when out of the corner of his eye, the rays of the setting sun caught her hair, turning it from red to an almost violet hue. War froze, staring silently at the girl. His soldiers looked at each other in confusion.

Emboldened by the lack of immediate reprisal, the girl demanded again, "Why did you come here? Why did you have to hurt my brother? What did we ever do to you?" Her tears were flowing freely now, but she refused to look away from him.

The set of her jaw... the anger in her eyes... A thousand memories long hidden away came flooding back in an instant. He stepped towards her, and was faintly pleased that she did not step back. A mere pace from her, he stopped, and looked down at her solemnly. A moment passed, and then he spoke.

"Do you really wish to hear the tale?"

A murmur ran through his soldiers. Never, in any of their careers had Lord War ever offered to share the story of his past with them. None of them had ever dared ask more than once.

The girl nodded fiercely, her eyes filled with hate. "Yes! I want to know why you came here."

War nodded in return. "Then I'll tell you my story. You may be disappointed in it; after all, I do not possess a starring role. My part, as ever, is that of a secondary character, playing a supporting role to two who's lives shook heaven, hell, and earth." He paused for a moment, as if to gather his thoughts, and then continued. "It begins, after a fashion, more than two hundred years ago, back in the days when the entire face of the earth was covered in great nations, and men thought that the gods were either made up, or dead, or absent. As for the place... my life does not begin there, but the story, yes. The story begins there. In Nerima."

And again he paused, and stared off into the distant past. To a time and place when he wore a robe of white, and spectacles of thick glass, and lived, and fought, and loved a beautiful woman with all his heart.

Ganaroth Les Presents

A Ranma ½ Fanfiction

Souls and Shadows.