Jaakan's hate

Jaakan and Jud'la stood in the courtyard, their movements accompanied by the crackling sound of the fire. The torches nearby flickered, casting dancing shadows on the ground. As Jaakan manipulated the flames effortlessly, the courtyard was bathed in a warm, golden glow, pushing back the surrounding darkness. 

Suddenly, Jud'la's fist struck Jaakan's chest with force, causing him to stumble and lose his balance. "Well done, my young student," Jud'la praised, his voice resonating in the quiet night. "But remember, true strength lies not only in power. What did I teach you on the very first day?" 

Jaakan's voice trembled slightly as he replied, "True strength comes from Eloh becoming your strength, Shimori Jud'la." The words hung in the air, mingling with the scent of burning wood and the faint aroma of sweat. 

Impressed, Jud'la circled around Jaakan, his footsteps barely audible on the stone ground. He stopped in front of Jaakan, who kept his head respectfully bowed. "Tell me, what is your purpose?" Jud'la inquired, his voice filled with curiosity. 

"To perfect my technique, to become the perfect Shimori," Jaakan responded with determination. "And to rid my world of darkness." The words carried a hint of urgency, like a flame yearning to consume the darkness. 

"Rid the world of darkness," Jud'la repeated, his voice resolute as he locked eyes with Jaakan. The weight of his gaze sent a shiver down Jaakan's spine. "And how do we achieve this?" 

Jaakan's gaze lifted towards the sky, his eyes filled with unwavering confidence. "The key is to maintain purity, untainted by any mixture or dilution, by staying connected to the Yah," he declared. The cool night air brushed against his skin, heightening his senses and strengthening his resolve. 

Jud'la's gaze held a mixture of pride and certainty as he spoke softly, "When the Malik'Aram comes, I pray that he discovers his servants as devoted as you, my student." Jaakan felt a surge of gratitude and respect, his heart swelling with a sense of purpose. 

"Thank you, Shimori," Jaakan whispered, his voice filled with gratitude and determination. 

As Jaakan strode confidently across the cobblestone courtyard, a palpable tension filled the air. The piercing gaze of the Septuni Soldiers bore into him, their presence looming tall and imposing. Their polished armor emitted a faint glow, casting an eerie light in the darkness. Undeterred, Jaakan's determination burned fiercely in his eyes as he pressed on towards the Governor's quarters. 

Entering the opulent palace, the cacophony of enraged voices and the clinking of armor assaulted his ears, creating a symphony of discord. General Rufis, breaking away from his meeting with Jaakan's father, raised his head and turned to face him. Governor Zamiel, weariness etched on his face, "Son, You're home early." 

With a stern gaze, Rufis peered down at Jaakan, his voice dripping with condescension, "Is that your heir?" 

Zamiel, his fatigue evident, confirmed, "Yes, that's my son." 

Rufus, leaning in closer, taunted him, "I hope you're as weak-willed as your father, boy." 

Jaakan, refusing to be belittled, defiantly looked up, "You have no right to talk about my father in such a manner!" 

The tension in the room escalated, prompting Zamiel to interject, "Jaakan please…" 

Jaakan interrupted, "No father, who do they think they are coming here and taking our home, our workers, our crops, our panthers," the anger built in his voice, "Our firstborn! We aren't like you Ithori mangelodites, we value our firstborn…" 

Zamiel, now enraged, shouted, "Zamiel!" 

Rufus chuckled, his laughter echoing in the air, "Kids got more stones than you, Barfos, for your sake I hope he doesn't become the next Governor, because I'd love to make an example out of this one or face him on the battlefield." 

Jaakan looked up at Rufus, his eyes blazing with defiance. "You won't get the chance, Ithori." 

Walking out, Rufus couldn't help but break into a wide smile. 

© Copyright Tailspinners Ink and Dustin Cooley all rights reserved 2024

The Thunderfist

    Torston’s hand trembled slightly as he dragged his blood-soaked sword out of the man’s chest, the metallic scent mixed with the unfamiliar stench of death flooding his nostrils, mingling with the putrid stench of burning flesh. The life drained from the man’s eyes, leaving behind an empty, haunting gaze that sent shivers down Torston’s spine. The deafening sounds of carnage enveloped him as he stood amidst the chaos of the battlefield, the clash of weapons and anguished cries echoing in his ears. Blood dripping down the shaft of his sword, warm and sticky against his palm.

    A fierce warrior charged towards Torston, his battle axe raised high, the glint of deadly intent reflecting off its cold metal surface. With a swift motion, Torston drew his own axe from his belt, deflecting the warrior’s attack, the loud clash of metal ringing through the air, a symphony of violence. Another enemy lunged at him, but Torston skillfully parried the strike, the impact reverberating through his arms, his heart pounding with adrenaline.

    Amidst the chaos, Torston pressed forward, his body moving with determination. Every swing of his weapon was fueled by the words of his grandfather, “Fight for the kingdom.” But Why fight for a king or an emperor who cares not for the people. The High Emperor would not let the kings waste the imperial army on their petty land squabbles, so they were forced to rely on the nobles and warriors from the conquered colonies. The echoes of Noorai against Noorai, Kidmor, against Kidmor, brother against brother reverberated across the battlefield, the once revered class of noble warriors had been reduced to mere pawns in the disputes between brothers.

    Torston stood at the edge of the battlefield, his eyes fixated on the gruesome sight before him. The metallic tang of blood coated his hands, a stark reminder of the lives he had just taken. His hand wanted to tremble, but seven years of training prevented it. As his mind pondered the brutality, a man lunged at him, his hands instinctively moving of their own volition attacking and defending, tearing, ripping, slicing his way through the of warriors, numbing the guilt of every kill, the sensation of each impact vibrating up his arm.

    More men charged towards Torston, their heavy footsteps pounding against the earth, the ground trembling beneath their weight. In a desperate move, he unleashed a blast of light, the sudden burst illuminating the darkness, temporarily blinding his attackers. Swinging his azure blade, he carved a path through the army of warriors, the searing heat of metal melting through flesh filling his senses.

    Amidst the chaos, a light arrow burned past Torston’s cheek as he leaned away from its strike. Determination fueled his actions as he launched himself in the direction of the archer. In her place he saw a girl of 15 years, she brandished a billhook spear. Dodging her strikes, Torston exclaimed, “You can go home, you don’t have to be here!”

    Torston did not want to harm her because of her youth, seeing his Aunt Ragga in her eyes.

    She knocked him off his feet, exploiting his bladed stance, she exclaimed, anger fueling her voice, “FIGHT ME LIKE A MAN, GRANDSON OF RAGNAR THE BOLD!!!”

    With a swift swing of his sword, Torston deflected her spear, only to feel the hook dig into his shoulder. The pain made him grimace, yet he still pleaded with her to leave. Ignoring his words, she pressed on, launching a flurry of attacks. Blinded by her aggression, Torston instinctively thrust his sword forward, unintentionally striking her in the heart.

    As she collapsed, Torston rushed to her side, pulling her close. He watched in anguish as the life in her eyes faded, tears streaming down his face. Torston held her to his chest, as the innocence of his youth faded. He was a man now, a Noordanian man now. Torston couldn’t help but question their king’s motives. What kind of ruler sends young girls and boys to face battle-hardened warriors? What kind of man forces others to fight on his behalf? No, true king sends others to pay for his mistakes, only a tyrant. Clenching his fist, he gently laid her down. The battle went on around the platform he stood on as he sat there looking at the lifeless body of the girl he had just slain. He knew, Grandfather would say, “There are always casualties in war.” But this death could not be justified. Never would he justify this. Still, he had a duty, to his kingdom, to his clan, to his family. Retrieving his sword and removing his axe. Summoning his strength, he leaped back onto the battlefield, soaring through the air, his grandfather’s words echoing in his mind, his heart echoes in reply Casualties are never justified.

    Despite his inner turmoil, he did as his grandfather had instructed, fighting for the glory of the kingdom. But deep down, he knew this was not the king he truly desired to serve.

    Torston mindlessly cut through the enemy soldiers, his sword, his axe slicing through them effortlessly. Amidst the chaos, a new warrior emerged onto the battlefield, he glowed with Orificium-clad armor. Torston’s eyes caught sight of him - it was his father.

    Suppressing his rage, Torston propelled himself further into the horde, refusing to even acknowledge the man, even though they fought on the same side. As he mowed down the enemy army, a brilliant light radiated from Torston’s eyes, his strength gradually fading as he used his power.

    A Kidemor soldier thrust his weapon in Torston’s direction, but he skillfully deflected it to the side and swiftly counterattacked through the man’s chest. Amid the battle, shouts could be heard from behind - another enemy was attempting to strike. Torston swiftly pivoted, slicing upwards, his sword colliding with the other man’s war hammer, shattering the sword like brittle ice.

    Torston’s eyes transformed into a deep shade of red as his fists emitted a vibrant blue glow. Seizing the shaft of the broken war hammer, he pulled the enemy soldier closer, delivering a devastating blow to the man’s face, sending him soaring through the air. Now weaponless, Torston improvised, relying on quick and precise strikes of light to fend off his assailants, skillfully evading their blades to land his thunderous punches to their faces. As he fought, the enemy soldiers closed in from all sides. His mind wondered for an escape route, but no opportunity presented itself. The enemy soldiers overwhelmed Torston, their attacks scratching his hands and face, as they covered him with their bodies, trying to subdue him. Summoning the last reserves of his strength, Torston released a powerful blast of energy from his body, forcefully knocking all the men onto their backs. Exhausted and drained, he collapsed to the ground, feeling the weight of his armor pressing down on him as if it weighed a thousand pounds. His eyes faded as the enemy Kidmore surrounded him with no means of escape.

 © Copyright  Tailspinners Ink and Dustin Cooley all rights reserved 2024