By The Blade
A/N: I felt that after doing a bit of reading around in here, and a bit of replaying of Jak 3, that we needed a bit more of a Dune vibe. Therefore...I submit this. You'll also get a nice dose of melee fighting, which I find fun to write, and most people like to read.
Many things have happened to me in my time, short as it's been, on this planet. I've fought robots built by the gods with naught but my hands and my ability to channel Eco. I've been clubbed down by the butt of a rifle. I've been injected with toxic levels of Dark Eco…that which turned my buddy into an orange rat after a little swim. I've turned into a killing machine. I've been shot by beams of energy that scorched my flesh. I've been slashed by claws that parted my flesh like water. I've had currents that slowly cooked me from the inside out while sending my nerves mad run through me. And yes, Precursors forbid…I've endured pointless banter from someone riding my shoulder while fighting for my life.
Still, there's something special about the torment of walking through the desert with no water, no food, and a pair of rival, not to mention chatty friends as companions. Did I mention that my clothing isn't really suited to desert survival either? All praises be for heavy cloth when it comes to riding a zoomer through an often stormy city, but it and heavy leather gloves do not make for something you want to wear in the desert.
All in all, the torment of dehydration while the sun slowly fries any exposed skin and roasts what IS under the cloth, is hardly pleasant. Not the worst pain I've endured…not by a long shot, but it isn't really the pain in this case. It's the sensation that your body is shutting down around you, and there isn't a think you can do about it outside of committing a horribly unspeakable act. That of killing your friend and eating his flesh. It would stop his complaining…but to do that? No. Never.
Still, this crystal knife that Ashlein placed into my hand as she left keeps me looking at it. It's not because I want to slaughter Pecker and Daxter…but why in the name of Mar would someone make a knife blade out of a crystal? I know that she seems to think that this thing is my key to survival, but what am I supposed to do with it? Flash sunlight off the blade in an attempt to signal an EXTREMELY lost Wastelander?
Not that it matters. I've reached the end of my tether. My body simply can't go any further and I'm slumping and falling towards the sand. It's both silky smooth…and unbearably gritty. Precursors above! How could any sane person say that this is anything but a death sentence? Sticking a guy in the desert with nothing more than a knife that looked as if its blade was cut from some milky-white crystal of unknown origin…not giving him any lessons in desert survival. I've got half a mind to use this blade on myself…the other half of my mind is quite rationally informing me that I lack the energy to do that…rolling over and staring up at the sky just sapped the last.
Dumb idea. Normally a guy's vision would be going black, but me? Gray. Thrice-dammed sun. Blurry, too. Some hero I am. I kick the ass of what everyone thinks is the BIG BAD GUY, and plunge the people I saved from that into worse. Well, more a matter of me creating the right environment for such shit to happen. Hmmm…my vision's actually getting with the program…everything is black now. Now…if we get rid of the nudging, grabbing, and dragging sensations…and the muffled voices…we'll be good and unconscious…that or dead.
Okay…let's stop with the sensation of being heaved onto a vehicle with a running engine. Let me die in peace! Wait…where's my knife? There we go...Jak has left the body.
Damas looked over at the compact frame of the exiled Havenite that occupied the second seat of his personal vehicle, the Slam Dozer. How old was this boy? 17? 19? Less, perhaps? Something about the bone structure of the boy's face seemed somewhat familiar. But that was hardly impossible. He could easily be the descendant of someone he knew from the city…having a crysknife only made that more likely. Now…what royal bloodline did that boy come from?
A gust of scouring sand cut off Damas's musings and made him wrap his robes tighter to his body. The storms did not discriminate on the status of nobility or power…they would still rip the flesh from one's bones all the same. He hit the turbos, nodding in approval as Kleiver stuck to his vehicle's side in the Sand Shark. Ahead of them rode the Gila Stomper, with a trio of warriors in it.
And here were the sand-scoured walls of the city looming out of the blowing sand. Damas watched as his Wastelanders maneuvered their vehicles into their places in the garage. All of the gathered around the Slam Dozer, even as Damas grabbed his staff and jumped off. "Kleiver…go to Seem and tell her that I require her presence, along with that of a number of her monks. Warriors…bring these three to my throne room. The water there will provide an atmosphere conducive to their recovery." He gave a tight smile as the Wastelanders jumped to his orders, then looked down at the crysknife. It was of elaborate make…that of a high royal. Could the boy be a relative of Praxis? Was his banishment due to him revolting against the Baron? Had Praxis been overthrown, perhaps? Damas sheathed the knife in a black leather sheath that had held his old knife. Hmm…it fit well. Well, it stood to reason that Praxis would adopt the royal design for his family. Scum…though perhaps this child was not.
Kleiver swaggered through Spargus to where the Precursian Monks stayed in the city. He knew full well that they did not like him, especially their female leader…Seem. That didn't change the fact that they obeyed the orders of Damas explicitly…as did anyone in Spargus who wasn't a fool. Though they would not like the fact that Kleiver was delivering the orders, something which gave a bit of wry amusement to the heavily scarred man.
Raising his meaty hand, Kleiver banged on the solid wood door that kept the monks cloistered from the rest of Spargus. "Ey! Damas says that your whole paint-faced band is to double time it to his throne room! We brought some interesting items in from the desert!"
The door swung open, revealing an irritated Seem. "I suppose this has to do with the beacon the scanners picked up? Fine." The rubber and Precursor metal-wearing woman brushed by him, her monks following. They climbed onto Leaper Lizards, preparing to get to the throne room post-haste.
"That little blip was no beacon, priest. It was a crysknife." Kleiver smirked as even Seem drew an involuntary breath before riding off. Assuming that boy survives the arena, he might be useful. I can't see a crysknife carrier being snuffed by a little heat, even if he was dressed like some borehead!
Damas quirked a smile as the royal boy and his talking rat revived. The rodents antics in the water were actually somewhat amusing. But amusement was not what he was looking for. He was looking for the repayment of the debt to Spargus. "Heh. So you're alive. My monks were ready to pray for you." The royal-blooded boy looked up at him in surprise, yet said nothing. "I am Damas, King of Spargus."
That got the young man's attention. "Wait…no one lives outside the walls. Not a whole city!" He seemed quite surprised, not an entirely strange thing.
Damas got to his feet, grabbing his staff and walking down the stairs towards Jak. "Yes…we are the forgotten ones. Haven's 'refuse', thrown out and left to die, much as you were. But now that we have saved you, your lives belong to us now. Soon we shall see if they are of any use to us."
Damas's lavender eyes widened slightly as the boy stood and stared him down. "You need to work on your first impressions."
Spargus's king laughed in morbid amusement as he easily tripped the blonde boy and walked back to his throne. "Here in the unforgiving Wasteland, we value strength and survival. We live by the blade, and you had best remember that if you want to live." As he sat down, he tossed the crysknife onto the boy's chest. "Your crysknife. It shall be your weapon as you are tested in the Arena. If you prove yourself best, crawling out of the Arena at the end, we shall see what happens to you."
The rat spoke up. "What happens to those who don't crawl out?"
"Then it shall be as if we never found you. Go." Damas watched as the boy climbed to his feet, grasping the knife firmly. He could have sworn the rodent said something along the lines of 'I was afraid of that', but the boy seemed calm. Promising.
A/N: Well, that's the first. Review if you like, or if you don't.