Han'ya/Drifter, Slayer, And Walking Rock

The sun shone in the sky, as it had a tendency to do.

It shone on a logging town somewhere in the near East. In this particular village, nothing terribly out of the ordinary was happening. The logging crews were out working. The women and children were doing those things that they do, which cannot be adequately explained by men.

The only thing remotely out of the ordinary was that three nights ago, lighting had struck the village meeting hall, and it had burned to the ground. One of the lumber crews had stayed in town to rebuild it. As the sun approached its zenith, some of the women brought them their midday meal. This would not have been remarkable but for the fact that one of the ropes being used to hoist the largest roof beam had become frayed, a fact which would have only been mildly alarming if not for the fact that, by some fate or chance, it chose to give way.

Fragrance of Sandalwood had just turned fifteen a few months before. She had been so named because she was so small and still when she was born, that they had thought she was stillborn and had already begun to burn the fragrant funeral wood when she began to cry. She led a fairly unremarkable life, and had not done anything in particular to warrant a large wooden support beam falling on her. By some fate or chance, when she looked up to see what was casting the growing shadow around her, there was a sound like a cross between a hissing snake and a signal arrow, and the immense wooden support beam was broken in two and hurled away from her by a beam of blazing gold light. She spun, confused and frightened, and saw a man with a waist-length mane of spiky red hair holding an immense sword of some red material that looked like stone and metal at the same time. A golden light blazed from his forehead, and he wore traveling clothes of red cotton, with flames picked out in orange thread. He sheathed the sword in an immense leather scabbard on his back, and jogged over to her.

“Miss,” he said, “Are you alright?” His features, from what she could see past the glowing sunburst on his forehead, bore an expression of worry. She wrinkled her eyes and raised a hand to shield them from the light.

“What?” she asked. “Who are you? What just happened?” Her mind was still working on processing the last few seconds.

“Yep, you seem fine,” the man said. He pulled out a scarf and tied it around his head, doing little to dim the light. He turned and began to walk away. As he neared the edge of the construction site, a smaller beam fell with a snapping of rope and landed on his head, knocking him prone.

“Aaaagh!” Fragrance of Sandalwood shouted and rushed over. The man lay facedown in the dirt, blood matting his hair. “Aaaagh!” she yelled again. The men rushed over, drawn by her yelling.

“What happened?” one of them asked.

“The beam fell! And he…and there was this light coming from his forehead! And then…Aaaaagh!” she gabbled frantically, waving her arms.

“Yeah…alright, just calm down. Boys! Get a stretcher! That man doesn’t look to good!” the man yelled over his shoulder, seeing that he wasn’t going to get a coherent explanation out of her for a while.

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Bosuk’s eyes snapped open. He shot upright, throwing off his covers. He sat on a woven reed mat in a simple wooden shack. Bandages swathed his head. He stood up. They had left his clothes on, at least. He spat blood out of his mouth onto the dirt floor, and picked up his red jade reaver daiklave where it lay next to the pallet. He swung it over his shoulder and walked out into the sunlight. It was bright enough to blind an ordinary person, but his eyes welcomed the light, drinking it in and knowing it for what it was. The glory of the Unconquered Sun, shining into the material world.

“Good morning!” came the voice of a young girl. He turned. It was the girl he had saved…was it yesterday? He couldn’t have been asleep for long. “You shouldn’t be up,” she continued. “Stubborn Willow said he’d never seen anyone survive a blow to the head that severe,” she continued. “And why was your forehead glowing? What’s that sword made of? And how did you shatter the beam? And from all the way over there? Isn’t that sword heavy?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” he said. “It’s made of red jade, and I doubt anyone here could lift it. And it’s not just any sword, it’s a reaver daiklave that’s been in my family since the First Age. This is the sword that killed me, and it’s the sword I claimed as my inheritance. As for why my forehead is glowing, ask an Immaculate monk. Same for how I shattered the beam.” He pulled the bandages off of his head, tossing them in the dirt. “And now I must be going, I really must. My companion is probably several days ahead of me, and I’ve no time to waste.” He began to walk briskly down the dusty street, ignoring the stares of the villagers as he walked past, apparently recovered from his grave injury of the day before. In minutes, he had exited the village gate and vanished along the road to civilization.

“He never even told me his name!” Fragrance of Sandalwood said, irritated by his rudeness. She shrugged and turned back to her basketweaving.

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The next day, Fragrance of Sandalwood was sitting in front of her family’s shack, finishing another basket, when a shadow fell over her. She looked up, a sparkle of fear in her eyes. It quickly faded. Two men stood before her. One was tall and thin, the other short and stocky. They both wore long, drab traveling cloaks, covered with the dust of the road. The tall one smelled. The stocky one was completely hidden by his voluminous cloak, and his hands were concealed by thick leather gloves.

The tall one spoke in a deep, somewhat raspy voice. “Good morning, honorable native. Seen you have a young man possessed of burning hair and a big sword?”

“You don’t speak Tree-tongue very well,” she said. “Yes, he left yesterday.”

The tall one muttered something probably obscene in Skytongue, still smiling under his wide-brimmed hat of woven reeds. “Sycophancy, honorable native. There is a place where I can spend the night?”

“No, I’m afraid we don’t get many visitors,” Fragrance of Sandalwood said. “You’re welcome to…”

The stranger cut her off. “Silence please, honorable native. We shall sleep in custom having vagabonds across Creation. Got any grub?”

“You’re welcome to eat with my family tonight,” she said, a little disturbed by the man’s imperfect grasp of the language.

“Sycophancy supreme, honorable native. Han’ya of Icehome it is, Hak they could have not been,” indicating himself and his companion. “I perhaps disbelieve my justice in speaking mannerisms.”

“Yes, you’re very difficult to understand,” Fragrance of Sandalwood said. “I am Fragrance of Sandalwood.”

“The honor truly is mine,” he said. “In exchange, a story tell you I shall.”

“That sounds nice. Please, you and your friend may sit,” she said, indicating the ground in front of her with a wave. The duo complied, sitting with their legs folded under them.

“Long ago, gods many won in long war, and slept in Heaven. Servants theirs, the Exalted, dominion over Creation were given. Many many years, a better world was. Magic beyond dreams there is, the Wyld may not presence fished…excuse, maintained. Sun Children there were, just and kind hetmen. Sudden, betrayal by those once loved! All slain, and armor of souls chained by jade and cruelty. No longer peace and joy. No longer unity. No longer faith and brotherhood. Now just war. Dragon-Blooded, the Children of the World, did wage strife and multitudinous plots execute. For many year continues so, until great dead gods unleash plague that kill nine from ten. Then Wyld hunt for souls, and dead hunger for flesh. Beset from within and without, the world was. For time seems it is that all soon shall be lost. But, hero ascends! Great woman hetman wrests control of ancient magics and banish all who oppose her. She conquer world in days, honorable native. She rule eight hundred year. Five year ago, gone she manifests. Now all is chaos! Oh, people cry, oh if only Sun Children return to make right the wrong! But Children of Earth slay all who say so, for they fear the return of those whom they once loved, and who loved them in turn, and who they slew. But, honorable native, I tell great secret I learn firsthand.” He gestured for her to lean in closer. She did so, only mildly curious. He seemed a bit wrong in the head. He leaned even closer, the smell quite pungent, and whispered in her ear. “Sun Children returned have,” he said triumphantly. “Know this I. Seen this I. Great they are. Terrible they are. Soon all world know. When Sun Children rule again, you say this: I knew. I was told. Heard I before you.”

She shied away, a little frightened by the manic gleam she saw in his eyes. It must have been a trick of the light, but she saw a glint of white on his forehead. He continued, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort. “Man see you yesterday, hair flaming. Sun Child he is. Great he is. My friend, he is. Separated, we were, by treachery and a Child of Earth. Find him, I must, for without him we are both lost.”

A Sun Child? The man who had saved her? It seemed implausible. But the light that blazed from him, the way he swung the five-foot blade as if it weighed no more than a stick of wood. It might be true. “These Sun Children,” she asked. “What kind of gods are they?”

“Gods?” said the stranger. “Not gods. Men. Men who will been chosen. Men who will been as gods, but not gods themselves. No, not gods. Men.”

“No man can split a wooden roof beam as wide around as this basket without even touching it,” she scoffed, holding up a wide basket for emphasis.

“Not entire men, honorable native. Not entire men. Two souls have. One man. The other god. Well, part of god, but mighty god. Even small piece, as second soul is, mightier than many god. Mightier by far than dog of unbroken earth. Mightier even than great mountain boar king. Perhaps mighty as great dragon, when come into their own they have,” said the stranger. “Believe, honorable villager, for time of change is near. Time for chaos. Time of anarchy, my second true love. First true love die bottom of river, so is justice have more than one.”

Fragrance of Sandalwood frowned. That made very little sense to her. Two souls? You could not have two souls in one body. Saying no more, she returned to weaving baskets. The stranger smiled, pulling his hat down over his eyes and laying in the dirt like a dog, or like the vagabond he was, snoring. His companion turned around, his back to her, and pulled his gloves off. She caught a flash of gold before they disappeared behind his broad back.

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“So, you’re a friend of the man who saved our Fragrance of Sandalwood,” said the young lady’s father.

“Honor my possession is,” said Han’ya in his halting Tree-tongue. He really hated this language. It sounded stupid, for one thing, full of chirps and odd rustling sounds, and it was fiendishly difficult, for another. He had never heard so many prefixes in his life! “Friend of heart is Bosuk. Strong arm and sharp mind.”

“Bosuk? What a curious name,” replied the logger, a swarthy red-nosed man in his early forties.

“Blessed Isle home his,” Han’ya explained. “Customs different much. People different much.”

“How far away’s this Blessed Isle, man?” the logger asked. Han’ya thought his name was Glorious Undergrowth.

“Almost four thousand mile, honorable logger,” Han’ya answered.

“Four thousand miles? Boy, you’re daft in the head! The world’s not that big!” the man exclaimed. Han’ya just smiled, picking up another chunk of fried fish with his fingers. He ate it, sucking the bitter greenish sauce off of his fingers.

Suddenly, an eerie shriek split the sound of owls and mosquitoes. Han’ya froze, the hair on the back of his neck rigid. He stood up abruptly, walking to the door and throwing it open. He looked around into the night, every sense of edge. Behind him, he heard the nervous chatter of the loggers. “QUIET!” he shouted. They were instantly silent, his voice carrying some resonance of authority. He stood like a statue in the doorway, hardly breathing. Another shriek sounded, louder this time. He whirled around. “Do you men have weapons?” he demanded, fear evident in his voice.

“We’ve axes,” one man said nervously.

“Fetch you must. Together. Nobody alone shall be. Women and children inside be houses have barricade within make. Fast. Little time there is. And light torches. Put everywhere.” Han’ya whirled about, and addressed his traveling companion in a rapid language that nobody understood. The stocky man nodded, and shining orichalcum blades erupted from his forearms, sliding into place with a click. He strode over to Han’ya, movements mechanically smooth, then turned to face the villagers, who had not moved. “GO!!!” Han’ya shouted. They heard the desperate fear in his voice and moved. As they scattered, Han’ya turned and looked into the darkness as another shriek sounded.

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Ten minutes later, the men stood in the town square, axes in hand. Han’ya stood at their head, his wide-brimmed hat hanging around his neck. He flexed his bare hands. “Dead come,” he said. “Starved dead. Angry dead. Come to eat us. Seen this I have as a young man. Ugly is. No survivors are. Fight must.”

“The dead?” one man said, paling.

“Don’t be a fool,” another said. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Another shriek pierced the night, frighteningly close the time. And behind them. They whirled about. A glowing figure stood in the middle of the road. Intestines hung out of its belly. A sickly green-white light, like marsh sprites, hung about it. Its face, no longer recognizable as human, let loose another shriek. It began to run at the men, ghostly saliva dripping from its mouth. Han’ya moved towards it, and aimed a kick into the thing’s face before it got a chance to dodge him. Its neck snapped back, bone cracking. It continued forwards, heedless. He kicked it in the gaping pit of its belly, his foot punching through its spinal cord. Its grasping talons reached for him still, but they pawed ineffectually at his flesh. He swung his leg out, tearing through the diseased flesh of its side. His other foot took it in the chest, and as it touched the ground his other swung up and then down again, crushing the ghost’s skull. It faded away with a final shriek.

“That didn’t look so hard,” said another of the men. Suddenly, many more shrieks cut the heavy night air. Hungry ghosts swarmed them, at least twenty, tearing into the assembled townsmen, who swung at them with their axes. A blood-boiling melee erupted, pierced by the shrieks of dying townsmen and hungry ghosts. Han’ya smashed into their ranks brutally, with no thought for his own safety. Their claws, which tore into the townsmen, seemed to slide off of his flesh. His companion was even more fearsome. A few slices from his slayer khatars made short work of any ghost to cross his path, and he moved fast. Within minutes, the fight had ended. Several townsmen bore gruesome bite and claw marks. Several others lay dying in pools of their own blood. Han’ya had a scratch along one cheek, and his friend’s cloak was torn, but he was apparently unharmed. Ectoplasm faded from the ground as they watched, sliding from Creation back to the Underworld.

Suddenly, the sound of many voices moaning split the air. From beyond the circle of torchlight, movement was half-seen. Han’ya gritted his teeth and growled in irritation. His forehead suddenly erupted in white light. The torches dimmed in comparison, and what lay beyond their light was revealed. A crowd of grisly, rotting corpses encircled the men. Beyond the light cast by Han’ya’s blazing aura, more bodies swayed in the chill breeze that had risen. The men fell silent, the stench of fear heavy in the air. This was an altogether new and terrifying experience for every one of them.

Han’ya turned to his cloaked companion, and barked out a short sentence in that rapid language. The man turned, and began to jog towards the wall of undead flesh that separated the men from relative safety inside the buildings. “Follow him,” Han’ya said, indicating the man. The blazing mark on his forehead and the authority in his voice did not brook argument. The man hit the zombies like a whirlwind, slices of undead meat flying everywhere. The men ran after him, hacking away as well. As the wall of undead flesh closed around them, Han’ya turned in a slow circle, eyeing the unmoving zombies.

Suddenly, the zombies parted, allowing two figures to pass through. Their empty black eyes seemed unaffected by the blazing caste mark on Han’ya’s forehead. His eyes narrowed, and he sighed. “My greetings, servants of Oblivion,” he said in Riverspeak.

“Sun-Child. We didn’t expect to find one of your kind here,” on e of the figures said, holding an immense grimcleaver in each hand. “I am the Flagellant of the Heretical Crusade. My delightful companion here is the Mourner In Maudlin Finery.”

“My name is Han’ya of Icehome. It is truly a pleasure. I think I’ve a good idea of your aims, so let’s waste no time on pleasantries.” He leapt at the Flagellant, a knife in each hand. The dark-haired man blocked the slashes with one grimcleaver and swung at the Solar’s legs with the other. Han’ya jumped, avoiding the slash and landing a kick on top of the man’s head. The grimcleaver used to block his knives swung up, catching him on the side. It glanced off of his faintly shining flesh with a thunk. Its impact did send Han’ya spinning, landing him in the dirt. He managed to narrowly avoid another series of blows, and answered with a flurry of kicks that clanged dully off of the soulsteel breastplate of his opponent. He leapt back out of his opponent’s rage, holding his foot and cursing. He looked up just it time to narrowly dodge the vicious double swipe of the grimcleavers at his head. He turned his fall into a spinning kick that snapped up under his opponent’s chin, stunning him. Han’ya hit the dirt on all fours, and darted through the Flagellant’s legs, pulling another knife from his long coat and running for the second deathknight. He was no more than a few yards away when he felt one of the grimcleavers slash into his unguarded back. He collapsed to the dirt, blood spurting from a deep gash. The Flagellant raised the blood-soaked grimcleaver above his head, and prepared to finish it.

Just then, there was a cracking sound, and a line of golden light lanced from the darkness. The crowd of assembled zombies stood frozen for a moment, then they collapsed into pieces as though struck by an invisible blade. Both deathknights turned. A young man with a mane of red hair stood, traveling cape swirling about him, holding a red jade reaver daiklave about which golden light still danced.

“I leave you alone for one second, and look what happens,” Bosuk said, grinning. “Fear not! I am here to save your sorry life.” He began to walk over the piled corpses, tossing his daiklave from hand to hand and swinging it about.

“Another Solar?” asked the Mourner, a full-figured woman in velvet robes. “My, it’s busy tonight. Flagellant, do take care of these worms. I’ve work to do.” She turned and began to walk towards the cluster of buildings around which barrricades had been erected.

“Be still!” Bosuk shouted, and swung his sword again. With a crack, a wave of golden light raced towards the Mourner. She whirled, pulling a soulsteel wand set with a bone-white hearthstone from her cloak, and turned the ray aside with a flick of her wrist. It crashed into a cabin, demolishing it.

“That was rather unchivalrous of you, attacking a lady whose back was turned,’ she said, gore-red lips in a pout.

“Chivalry is for suckers,” the man said. “I’ve got work to do.”

While this little exchange was going on, the Flagellant had been walking as silently as he could towards Bosuk. As the last words left his mouth, he slashed with both of his grimcleavers. Bosuk raised his daiklave, blocking both of them. The tremendous impact hurled him back, sending him crashing through the wall of one of the cabins. Bosuk picked himself up, caste mark now blazing on his forehead. He began to run towards the deathknight, sword held high. Their blades met with a crash, and erupted into a flurry of crimson and grey. Sparks and trails of Essence lit the night. They fought furiously, neither having a definitive advantage. Han’ya lay forgotten in the dirt, and the Mourner simply watched, a sultry smile on her face. The surviving zombies, still coming in from the woods, attacked the barricades and the frantically fighting, rapidly shrinking crowd of armed villagers.

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Fragrance of Sandalwood saw all of this from her family’s cabin, which they had barricaded shut. Her mother and twin younger brothers huddled in the far corner, but she watched eagerly from a hole in the wall. She didn’t want to miss a moment of this. Each blow the two combatants struck against each other was of earth-shaking force. They smashed holes in the ground as their feet were driven into the hard earth by the energy of their combat. Trails of light and darkness warred in the night, clashing with sparks and strange thrumming sounds. Sweat dripped from the faces of both combatants, but neither gave an inch. The woman, the Mourner or whatever she called herself, simply stood watching, fingering the ebony wand at her side. The strange man who had told her the story about the Sun Children, and who had blazed with the same light as Bosuk, lay bleeding in the dirt.

Suddenly, there was a shrieking sound and Bosuk fell to his knees, a trio of arrows in his back. A third man walked from the darkness. At least, Fragrance of Sandalwood assumed it was a man. His form was swathed in bandages and he wore a heavy cloak, so she couldn’t be sure. He held a longbow of black metal, and nocked another arrow as she watched.

“Hello, Revenant. What took you so long?” the man who hefted the immense axes in each hand asked. The man in bandages muttered something she couldn’t understand, and the man with the axes grunted. “Well, that doesn’t matter. We-“ Whatever he had been about to say was cut off as Bosuk stabbed with his sword, the corona around his head blazing even brighter now, as his sword threw the deathknight into the air. Jumping impossibly high, Bosuk hurled another ray of golden light at him, smashing the man into the ground. Bosuk fell, his immense sword punching through the man’s breatplate, pinning him there like a bug. The man gurgled, the black aura around him flickering, and died. A wailing cloud of darkness rose from him, and collapsed into a black dot before vanishing with a cry of agony. Bosuk pulled his red sword, now covered in black blood, from the man’s still form and turned to face the bandaged man. The arrows fell from his back, unable to pierce his glowing skin. As he drew back for another beam of golden light, an arrow surrounded by a shrieking red-black miasma tore through his glowing anima and buried itself in his torso. He was hurled backwards, falling to earth. The bandaged man lowered his smoking powerbow, and walked over to the fallen Sun Child. As he pulled back another arrow, ready to bury it in Bosuk’s eye, the full moon shone through the clouds. The silver light shone on the grim scene, and something stirred inside Fragrance of Sandalwood. The silver light seemed to intensify, although nobody noticed. It began to drive deeper into her, falling gently through her mental defenses as though they were not there. The softly glowing disk of the full moon burned itself into her mind, and she felt full of power and energy. She felt strong, powerful. In a flash of silver, she saw golden sands and a blue sky. The heat was enough to crush a human, but she walked unaffected. She was mighty. She was master of this desert. As far as her eyes could see, all creatures paid her homage. Her red scales were as hard as jade, and her mighty tail could break a yeddim’s back in a single blow. Her fangs were as swords, her claws as scythes. She was unstoppable. She was a tyrant lizard. She knew this even as she knew that she was Fragrance of Sandalwood, a nobody, a simple village girl. She had never even seen a desert, yet she understood what it was. The tyrant lizard, an animal she could never have dreamed of, flowed through her. She felt its strength and invulnerability. She felt change. She felt a writhing in her body, in her very Essence, the sensation of change and upheaval. Of chaos. This was her inheritance, her birthright. She felt her mind expand, drinking in this new knowledge. She finally understood what Han’ya had meant by two souls. With a crash, she leapt through the wooden wall of the cabin, smashing it aside like rice paper. She ran with inhuman speed for the bandaged man, and he turned just in time for her glowing silver arm to break his skull like an eggshell. She whirled, fangs sprouting in her mouth, and leapt for the woman who stood there, still smiling. Just as she was about to reach her, the man with the axes reared up from where he lay and swung at her stomach. The screaming edge of the axe bit deep, and blood poured over his dead face. His eyes were rolled back in his head, and she knew that he was not alive. She shrieked in pain, falling to the ground. The corpse raised its axe, the woman controlling it like a puppeteer, and brought it down. She rolled to the side, holding in her intestines with one hand, the pain beyond anything she had ever imagined possible. Her legs snapped out, kicking the corpses’ from under him. It crashed to the earth, and she smashed its skull with her elbow. She struggled to her feet, blood soaking her dress, and saw the woman mutter a curse and stab the wand through her free hand. She showed no indication of pain, and the white stone on the wand’s pommel blazed with a sickly light. She seemed to lose substance, fading away like a ghost come morning. Within seconds she was gone.

Fragrance of Sandalwood’s knees began to shake. She fell to the dirt, and knew no more.

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Han’ya and Bosuk were out of bed several days later, but it took Fragrance of Sandalwood a whole week to recover. When she did finally recover, the village, or what was left of it, held a feast in their honor. Han’ya’s mysterious friend had destroyed most of the zombies single-handedly, and many of the men survived thanks to him. He did not attend the feast, but went into the forest. Han’ya said he was “recharging”, whatever that meant.

After the feast, Han’ya and Bosuk came to talk with her. “You kill two Grave-Child without weapon, Fragrance of Sandalwood. I see you shine with moon,” Han’ya said. “Heard will I of kind yours. Moon Children. Many kill with Sun Children in First Age. Friends were. Friends be again?”

“You want to be friends?” Fragrance of Sandalwood asked. “I’m sorry, I hardly know you. And won’t you be leaving tomorrow anyway?”

“Ah. Perhaps wrong word used I. Mmmmm…partners, yes. Allies. Grave Childs they come near from. Find them we. Kill them we. Duty our may was. Help yours we ask for. Power have you. Major badasses they be.” Han’ya said. Bosuk, who seemed amused by his companion’s imperfect grasp of the language, nodded and held out his hand.

“You mean…revenge?” Fragrance of Sandalwood asked. “For what they did?”

“As for what they have do. Excuse, will did. Yes,” Han’ya answered. Fragrance of Sandalwood was silent for a moment. The power that welled up within her was changing her already, she could feel it. The steady growth of her teeth. The glowing silver mark that others said they saw on her forehead. She walked into the street and looked at the immense funeral pyre that still smoked after a week.

She turned to face the pair of wanderers. “I will stop this from happening again. Whatever powers I may have are yours for this reason, and this reason only.”

Han’ya smiled. “Fear not us, Fragrance of Sandalwood. Harmless we are. Honorable we are. You fear us need not. Grave Children fear you. Think that night bad? Worse have I seen. Worse will happen, if not here than place others. Can stop, you. Stop must this we.”

He held out his dirty, callused hand. With a moment’s hesitation, she reached out and shook it.