It feels like something out of a daydream. Sol can feel his body react to his opponent far faster than even his own imaginings. He can feel all components of his body working with one purpose, in unity. He does not notice it, but the color of his singular horn has changed into something a bit more red and gold than its usual dull red at the tip.
I... can see everything that he's doing. Sol tries to break his focus from the Old Chief, but he cannot.
Something has happened, and now what Sol feels is that his body is no longer his.
The Old Chief went down for a second after the hit and stood up slowly. The left side of his face was wounded, like a mark of claws from a beast, still shining and glistening with fresh blood. "Truly, a blade need not be sharp to draw blood." He just stands, not even taking his stance. "Especially if it's wielded by another hand."
The Old Chief's eyes squint. "A hand, unworthy of such blade."
The Old Chief looks toward Wanwan and Nia on the side, still waiting. Sol's mac'ga is clear to him; he just wants Sol to tell him directly, something that Sol has not been able to do since the start of this fight.
Unlike the other Geherrim tribes, the Nhevari youths of Elm are trained with only one thing in mind: not to be the most powerful, not to be the fastest, or to be a conqueror, but to find a purpose. Because for the naturally strong and battle-hardened Nhevari, power is akin to the blade of a sword, and power without purpose means that same blade can someday end up slicing their own jugulars.
"The path of a protector is harsh, boy." He takes a stance, but now it is different. His right hand and left hand are open at his sides, his feet planted strong in the ground, his body bare, without any protection. "Those who choose to shield others walk barefoot on blades."
The Old Chief gestures at Nia and Wanwan. "You offer your own flesh so theirs can stay whole."
Sol knows what the Old Chief is saying; he gets the message. Even without him saying it out loud that he wants to accompany Nia on her journeys to meet with the Seven Lords, he wants to reply to what the Old Chief is saying, but he cannot move anything.
He understands. A desire to let go of his battle-ready stance flashes in Sol's mind. Unfortunately, something refuses. Then why... why am I so upset? Why am I so angry?
"Power does not kneel beside the weak." The wind surrounding the Old Chief changes its direction. No longer is it moving towards the river from the mountain, blowing cold snows. It is now slowly moving to surround him, like a veil, a slowly moving, translucent sphere of grass and snow. "It reaches for their throat and names it guidance."
Sol's muscles are taut. He tries to relax, but his body refuses his commands. His vocal cords are tied, his eyes are forced to focus on the Old Chief's movements. It feels like he is being controlled by the battle, for the sake of even more battle. It feels like his body finally realizes why it was made in the first place.
"Do you desire power, gja'rim?"
Sol did not feel like this when he fought the Nhiven, or Wanwan, or the Csezul. Sol wants to shake his head, out of desperation.
He cannot.
"You do not have to desire it." The Old Chief continues. "What you wield right now, gja'rim, is power."
The Old Chief looks at him and exhales.
"An unguided hand does not find enemies first, gja'rim." Only the Old Chief's voice is able to break through the wind. "It finds the ones it loves."
—
Wanwan realizes something is wrong. Sol's entire vibe has changed. It feels like the one who is standing there in the middle of the Longrass Meadow is no longer him. He feels... focused, strong, confident, brimming with surety, like someone with years of experience fighting someone with an equal amount of knowledge and strength. It's just, there's too much of it, too much strength, too much focus, too much surety; it does not feel natural in the slightest.
Sol's scent changes from something that smelled like the wind and the cliffs into something sharper. Like the scent of a tree after it has been struck by lightning, the scent of flames. Or the scent of an elk after it has been skinned by the sharp fangs of the Snow White Garms.
A sharp stench of blood and flames.
Wanwan can see Sol's hair color start to shift from the roots into something lighter, like the color of freshly drawn blood. His eye color also shifts into something brighter, almost golden. Wanwan can feel his fur standing on end, his instincts screaming at him to protect himself and Nia, and if possible, stop whatever Sol is doing right now.
"Bark!! Bark!!" He wants to lunge forward, but something holds him back. He does not want to go forward and join the fight only to make Sol bleed once again. Sol is already teetering on the brink of unconsciousness.
What Wanwan sees right now is heat, almost like invisible tongues of flame emitting from the entirety of Sol's body. The Longrass right around him smokes at the tips before catching fire. The snow that is almost storming also disappears once it reaches Sol's range.
He still stands without any stance, open. Yet extremely dangerous.
Nia notices this a beat too late. Sol has already disappeared and is spinning below the Old Chief's position, the heat from his feet burning almost a whole patch of Longrass. The Old Chief jumps easily and, as if he is weightless as a feather, runs vertically on the cliff face only to somersault back above the meadow and land near Wanwan and Nia's spot.
"His fire runs wild." The Old Chief looks into Nia's eyes. "An ember will burn itself out if let be."
"Wan! Wan!" Wanwan concurs immediately. This Sol that is currently standing right in front of them is not the previous Sol from a couple of minutes ago. Something else has taken over him.
Sol looks at them like someone with a vendetta to follow. A rage sits inside both of Sol's now almost golden eyes, unquenched.
No. No! I don't want to hurt them! Don't make me do this!
He dashes towards Nia's direction, with the same fervor that a hungry beast would show.
—
—
"It's almost time." Gazmir prepared his studded leather armor and half plate. He planned to go out and intercept Rahzar before he issued his challenge to Rahzmir. His trusty greataxe he had sharpened until it was proper dangerous. He resolved himself.
"Dear..." Naama stands right beside him, clearly overtaken with worry.
"Do not worry too much, Naama. I won't be fighting alone."
"I know..." Naama clutched her husband's chest and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I..."
Naama held her breath, knowing that she would break into tears soon, and she does not want to let her husband go with sadness. "...I will be waiting."
Gazmir closed the door behind him and walked through the village's snowy soil towards the plaza, near the frozen elm. The snow has not fallen yet, but he knows that there will be a blizzard soon. Whether the blizzard is natural or because of the Rimelord, no one knows.
His heart is beating fast. If he were to stop Rahzar a few years earlier, he might be strong enough to do so. But now, he can only depend on his experiences these past five hundred years of surviving, and hope that Rahzmir might want to sully his honor to fight Rahzar together with him, side by side.
Just like the old times.
He stopped his footsteps right in front of Dobzim's closed workshop. He can still feel the faint warmth of the smith's hearth, even from behind the walls of the forge area. He cannot hear any sound from there; Dobzim must have been resting already. His health was always poor, yet that man was always the first to present himself in any type of situation, with almost zero concern for his own well-being.
"Granpa Gaz?" A youngling, her steps obscured by the snow, called upon him from behind. It is Dobsy, Dobzim's only surviving child.
Small, yet she inherits her father's sharp eyes and strong expression. Her curly hair is tied up in a high bun, and the bandanna that she wears obscures the high hairline that she inherits from her mother.
Her face luckily came from her beautiful mother, Seena; she passed away a few years after giving birth to her, a victim of mana corruption. Her siblings were all hunters. Dobzar died gored by the Nhiven a few years back, Dobuz fought with a Garm in the Lowlands and lost, Dobiir helped Rahzar's party to escape Zyneios last year, only to be ambushed by a Basaltar inside the caverns of the Stake.
Gazmir glanced at her swiftly. She has just returned from the outside. Her thick, padded and furred leather shoes are already worn with age, her fur coat already exhausted. Her right hand is clutching one of her many inventions, a long shaft of Steelpine that is coated in a very thin layer of metal, with rings of Dagzan tusk at the top, middle, and handle; with ribs that can be opened in order to expose a canopy created from cured Dagzan leather. It's an umbrella; a portable, one-person storm shield that you can still walk with.
From the outside, the umbrella is coated with black resin from the Lowland Firs. It's quite an innovation, as it would make the canopy itself waterproof and ice-proof. The inside of the canopy itself is left slightly rough so that the cured leather will not "sweat" and drip condensation on the user.
Gazmir was always amazed by the younglings' capability to prove that they are stronger than the older generations. But Dobsy's ability is on another level.
"Dobsyna. Is your father alright?"
"Da's out of sorts today, but I can get him up, Granpa. And it's Dobsy. Only my Da gets away with Dobsyna."
Dobsy walked towards the entrance of the house, opening it slightly, exposing a little bit of warmth to the cold.
"Wanna step inside a minute? I can put the kettle on. Weather's only gonna get meaner from here."
"No. That would not be necessary, I'm only here to ask for a favor." Gazmir reached inside his coat for something.
"If it's about the forge, that's Da's say, not mine. He don't let me near it when he's restin'." Dobsy scratched her head a bit, her tomboyish nature shining through.
Gazmir knows that Dobsy forces herself to be more like a male because of her mother's death. Seena was a great chirurgeon back at Gehenna; Gazmir knows her as a great healer, someone that weaved loose strands of life to mend wounds. Unfortunately, this world's hostility towards Geherrim just will not stop, even if the Final Conflict has been resolved. All of the Weavers of Geherrim, those who can inherit mana and channel its flow in order to create a tangible effect on the world, much like the human sorcerers, are all corrupted from the inside slowly but surely by this world's ambient mana.
Weavers can only be born, and they are usually born female. And Dobsy inherited much of her mother's beauty and weaving. That is why, in order to not die from the corruption, she forces herself to not be a woman, and to learn her father's trade instead, with her brothers choosing to be hunters.
"No. Dobsyna. The favor is for you." Gazmir found what he was looking for inside his coat.
"Tsk. I told you, just call me Dobsy. Dobsyna sounds plain wrong on me." Her expression shows much dissatisfaction. She walks forward towards Gazmir, who is currently still standing underneath the darkened grey skies, and holds the umbrella atop his head. "That name makes me sound like I'm wearin' a dress and pourin' tea for guests."
He shows his hand. It's a ceremonial sword, long, thick, and ornate, extremely useless for battle, but it does look powerful.
"Reforge this weapon. This longsword belongs to a very strong warrior of the past who swore to not use his strength again."
"This? Gramps, this is a showpiece. It ain't a fightin' blade. Somethin' this old's what, five hundred years? You sure you want me puttin' it through a real quench? It might crack clean in half." Dobsy looks at the sword with utter disgust. It's not because the sword is ugly or anything, but more because it looks powerful without any kind of real power behind it.
"I know. But at least I want you to try." Gazmir looks at her with kind eyes. "Please."
Dobsy is stricken with surprise. Gazmir is a hard man, a veteran of the Final Conflict. He never says something weak like "please," it's below his stature as a warrior.
"I'll try, but I ain't swearing it'll turn out pretty. This is touchy work for a half-trained smith." Dobsy looks at the ceremonial sword once again, grabs it with her left hand and unsheathes it. The sword's black luster of its blade shines from Hellglass, a material no longer obtainable in this world. It's not hard to unsheathe; Gazmir must have maintained it faithfully for hundreds of years.
"You will." Gazmir pats Dobsy's hair gently.
Dobsy looks at him and continues. "Whose blade am I messin' with here? It ain't yours, I can tell." She looks at Gazmir, who is currently looking at her with the kind of eyes a warrior would show if they were to walk towards their last march. A look of fierce determination.
"The owner of those daggers will come and collect it from your hands real soon, Dobsyna."
"Daggers? What daggers? This is a sword—!" Gazmir just smiles and lets the sword go from his hand. Dobsy grabs it before it slips her grip. "—Hey, where are you goin' gramps?"
She just stands there, umbrella still in hand, watching Gazmir walk towards the frozen elm that is still quite a ways away from where they stand.
Not until Gazmir was gone from her sight did Dobsy drop her umbrella and go inside.
Dobsy walked towards the forge and opened its doors slowly, making sure that her father would not be disturbed. The forge still burns with embers on her left, the hood above well protected from snow. The anvil right next to the flames of the forge, a heavy block of darksteel on a thick wooden stand, big and well used.
She went inside a few steps. The tools rack next to her housed hammers of different sizes, tongs, pliers, punches, chisels, files, rasps, and smaller chisels for finer work. Hooks and pegs everywhere, and each of these tools carries with them their own history, their own shadow of soot and use.
Close to the rack was a barrel of melted snow, and another one filled with oil, plus a few smaller bowls for some more of the specialized tempering. Although Dobsy had no idea how to use those just yet.
Right at the other side of the forge was a workbench with vises and clamps, a not-so-small area for fine fitting of hilts, leather, rivets, and others.
Blades hung from rafters. Axes, spades, picks. Chains, locks. Half-finished goods everywhere.
She walks towards the workbench and removes the sword from its sheath.
She has felt that something was off; Gazmir's words were uncharacteristic for him.
"No..." She has just realized that Gazmir is going towards the Nil Mac'gjar of Rahzar and the Chief, which means he will commit a taboo.
Gazmir is walking towards his own death.