Ketrus/DiamondOfSummerKungFuAttack

I'm far too lazy to e-mail this to you, so I'm violating your explicit wishes and posting a preview. Hate me later.

Feel free to tear into me over this--it's not my best writing. I won't cry any tears if you tell me some or all of it has to go. I tried to roughly follow the format from the various Castebooks, but I didn't try too hard. It's mostly a narrative with the story themes mirroring the minititles.

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My Soul Through My Eyes

I remember that day because of its monotony. That's a strange thing to say, I know! It was a morning like any other morning, though, for me, and until sunset I thought it would be a night like any other night. Of course, I should note that the ordinary for me has always been a little strange. Many people wake up to the heat of the sun on their faces, a gentle east breeze blowing sand into their hair and the warm comfort of long familiar blankets. But who else can say the first thing they see is their father's smile, white as ivory and nearly as bright as his skin! Like me, I think, he was born strange. The tribes of the Glitter-Flame Desert are all the deepest blank in color, each and every one, with dark and scornful eyes. Born among them as he was, though, my father was cursed, they say, with alabaster skin that could not stand the light of the sun, and pink irises prone to a friendly smile. This would be little trouble in its own, with decent clothing and a strong will, as the color of his skin did little to stop his growth into a large and imposing man. With the Wyld tribes, though, and their white skin and mis-colored eyes... he couldn't long endure being labeled a monster, either by mistake of strangers or the full knowledge of his own people. All of that isn't important though. All that matters is that he, with a dozen or so likeminded men, returned south, to the desert, as he did most years.

The desert is as vast as the ocean and twice as dangerous, for those who do not know how to survive it. Thirst, hunger, and simply getting lost, on top of predators and bandits, everything under the sun is a threat. For me, though, the worst part of all was the absence of women. Do not laugh! Loneliness is a threat too, you know, and one that can gnaw at both body and spirit. I remember daydreaming over Allandra--or was that Cassandra?--when they were upon us. They erupted from the sand itself, tall and lean, wiry things as white as my father, but their faces suffered no warmth. They wielded bones, human bones and other besides as clubs, some sharpened to spears, and attacked like the madmen they were. I still do not know what savages such at these were doing so far north, and perhaps I never will. At the time, my only concern was survival.

These were predators, not bandits. Bandits in their number might have taken what gemstones we had already collected, and been on their way, not wanting to risk a fight against so many large and armed men. The wyld-touched fought like beasts, for it was our meat, not our goods they desired. Still, all of my father's companions were strong and quick, and knew how to wield their weapons well. Their fury met our resolve, and the battle was joined. It was a strangely even match, at first, but where our friends suffered wounds and retreated to the protection of others, they responded to injury with only greater anger. Our circle shrank in on itself, and began to collapse when one landed a sharp blow on my skull.

The next few seconds were a painful, blurry haze, but I clearly remember my father's wrath. He swung his sledge like a child swings a stick, wildly and uncaring, swift and dangerous. Their bones snapped like twigs beneath it, and where he turned they fell wheat before the scythe. I rushed to join him, and my grandmother's swords sung in the still Southern air. Seconds, minutes, it may as well have been hours that passed as our companions rallied and drove them back. Some fled. Many stayed and died.

Have you ever had a moment of perfect clarity? When you see, in perfect detail, what you ordinarily could have never seen, and know, with perfect resolve, that you must do what you ordinarily could never do? Perhaps it was the blessing of the Sun, perhaps it was simply luck or fate. I am not sure what turned my eyes to witness my father, in mid-swing, about to crush the huddled, pitiful thing that may have once been a woman. What I do know is that it was something hidden, something burning within that moved me to intercept. I can only half- explain, even now, why I felt the need for mercy so deeply at such an awful time. But I did, so I moved. I moved faster than I ever have, and his sledge's haft met the crossed blades of my swords, as I stood before the crouching, bleeding thing. I cried "Enough!", and his sledge left his hands and hit the sand, five meters away. I cried "Enough!" again, and all fighting ceased. Pointing my sword, not even noticing the kindling golden fire surrounding my body, I shouted, "Return south and leave us!" in a strange tongue that dies on my lips whenever I again try to speak it. The wyld-things fled, south as I instructed, even quicker than they came. I caught the eyes of the one I saved, and saw warmth there.

It seemed to me at that moment that the desert itself pulsed, and became ten times hotter, then pulsed once more and became hotter still. It beat, slowly, scorching me although I could not cry out in pain, it beat until time itself seemed to pause and kneel in supplication. Just when I felt as if I should be ash, a voice stronger than strength, more melodious than melody spoke to me. In the terrible beauty of his words, I fainted.

I was a different creature when I awakened, living in a much different world, with a completely new mission. I am he you see today.

Obligations of the Caste

The sun was setting when we returned to the village, and my eyes were happy in seeing my mother waiting impatiently on the road at the outskirts. My father's eyes were a mask of pride hiding fear. Then the wind turned south, and we jumped, interrupting me from a snide remark--that is one of many traditions our village keeps, that when the wind turns south, you should hop! The gods are terrible foes but easy to please, so hop!--and probably saving me a nasty glare from them both. It was always like this. When he decided it was time for a journey, he would gather his friends and theirs, make preparations, and leave with just a simple note his wife. Months later he would return, laden with the jewels and firedust, and for months she would wait, brewing, just so she could be the first one to greet him upon his return.

After she punched him in the face and berated him in a tongue they refused to teach me, we returned home. Setting my things and my greetings aside, it wasn't long until I fell asleep in the arms of Cassandra--yes, now I'm certain it must be Cassandra. My dreams were unkind that night, as they were for many nights after the gift of the Sun. Visions of a glorious future were interrupted, and torn asunder by shaded memories of tragedies past. Not ignorant of what the Dynasty and its Immaculate Philosophy labelled me and my kind, I knew the atrocities of which they accused me. How wonderful to know many were false, and how horrible to discover so many to be true! But I will talk later of my nightmares, for this story concerns what was awaiting me when I awoke.

The bed was cold with her absence, and a murmer of some commotion outside bled through the walls. I checked my headband, which I had taken to wearing after the brand on my brow refused to fade or scab, and headed outside. It was a brisk morning, just before dawn, when the air is cool, and windy with the promise of the sun's arrival. The serenity of the atmosphere was broke, though, by the shouts of the crowd surrounding two men, one easily recognizable as my father. He had his sledge ready in his hands, but for all his imposing strength, he was as a mite against the mountain of the man accross from him, whose strange white skin had the apparent texture of flint. Bald, wearing robes and hefting a jade hammer far larger than my father's, it was obvious who he was, and for whom he had come.

For many, many long days and nights I've regretted not leaving as soon as possible, or simply retreating out the back door of Cassandra's home when I first heard the commotion. But what's done is done, and what the foolish little girl Cassandra called her sister did can not be taken back either. She had been watching for me, it seems, probably unaware I was under her own roof, and pointed in my direction, shouting out "There he is! There!"

I stood transfixed. Months of nightmares and indecision came to a head, as the Immaculate walked towards me. I'm not sure what he was expecting, really--he seemed so calm. Maybe, until a certain point, he doubted whoever had told him I was Anathema. Maybe, until a certain point, he would have simply walked away. But my father, my loving, idiot father moved to stop him. He rushed, and swung, and his hammer connected with the Immaculate's own. He was shoved aside like so much rubbish, but the people of our village would not have it. They drew arms, what arms they had, most wielding nothing more than fists or farmer's tools. Was I really so loved? It shook me out of my reverie, and I shouted for them to back away. They conceded, my words moving them far too easily for it to be my voice alone. By the Sun's own grace they were calmed and many lives were saved, I think. Because then I did a very, very stupid thing. I assumed the Mantis Form.

His mood changed in an instant, the calm and quiet vanishing from his eyes, replaced with apphrension and determation. My anima banner was not yet blazing for all to see, so somehow, he recognized the form. Somehow, he recognized the danger. And he charged, intent to end it.

It is a dangerous thing, for the Chosen of the Sun to surround themselves with mortals, even ones they love. I learned that lesson quickly and painfully, as my foolish, loving father once more tried to leap to my rescue. I will spare the details. Let it--let him--rest. It was a single, brutal blow that ended his life instantly. Were I to meet this Immaculate again, I might even thank him for the mercy in it. I have since learned his order's capacity for cruelty. I nearly fell to my knees, but the shock of the situation was too strong for me to collapse entirely. That would come later. I shouted for everyone to stay away once more, and let essence lend to the urgency of my words. My father had brought the twin blades of my grandmother, bound but not sheathed at his belt. I dove for his body, evading the monk's next strike more by luck than skill, and grasped their familiar handles.

Rolling to my feet, I began the fight in earnest. Embracing the strength of my essence, I let it fill me and my weapons, and became a great golden fire to rival the brightness of the rising Sun. Where I once had to urge the people to stand back, they now fled, scattering. Only the men who witnessed my Exaltation and my mother, now visible and harboring no tears, stood fast but distant. This was my fight, and mine alone.

The first rule of combat, my father taught me, is patience. It is the easiest to forget, the easiest to abandon, which is why it is the first rule. So it is in life, and as a member of the Pillars of Heaven, and so it is in combat. I welcomed his blows with the strength of the Sun and the blessings of Mars, driving each one away when he attacked quickly, and diverting with great effort the mighty single strikes he charged with his own essence. After some time, he attempted to lure me into attacking, but I did not, merely circling him in anticipation. He threw his foot to the ground, and shook the very earth in an attempt to trip me, but I held fast. After many long moments more, his anima banner now as violently prominent as my own, the silence between us finally moved him to attack again. He exhausted himself against my defenses, unable to strike me, unable to trip me, unable to lure me in, and in time he was wounded and disarmed. The Solar Exalted, but we of the Zenith Caste especially, must be more patient than the mountains themselves when necessary.

It was not easy to bring low the Terrestrial, but it was far easier than what came next. His goremaul too far to retrieve, and his many shallow wounds sapping his strength, he was defenseless before me. I threw down my weapons, and attacked, speaking as I did so. I told him he killed my father. I told him I had no family left for him to slaughter. I told him I would soon leave this place. Finally, I told him I would spare his life, so that he would live long knowing beyond doubt that an innocent died so he could hunt the righteous. The Zenith must ever fight on two battlefields.

My father's body was consumed and sent to Heaven above, with but a thought and a prayer. It would not be good for the town if they found his body. Instead, they would bury his murderer's weapon in his place. My mother's farewell was hasty and without sorrow. She told me to seek a friend in Gem, the one who had forged my grandmother's swords. I told her to seek the cities, to hide and to deny me and my father for the rest of her days. I followed her advice, and I pray she followed mine. I do not know to this day whether or not my village still stands, or if it was burned to the ground in the wrath of the Wyld Hunt.

The World Awaiting Us

Creation belongs to the Unconquered Sun, though he has taken long in reclaiming it, and to his Chosen's will it bows. I did not bother to prepare, I simply ran as fast as my body would allow, ran through the mountains and into the desert where my father taught me the ways of survival. I ate what the land would give me, and with my charms I commanded it to give me enough to subsist. I traveled as fast as the land would allow, and by my essence the dunes unraveled and the shifting paths through the desert were made clear. I wore nothing more than the clothes I slept in, and later what I would trade with nomads, but the Sun would not burn his Chosen, and to his Chosen the coldest desert night was as a refreshing breeze.

For many months I walked, ate, slept, and meditated on my existence, my mission. With little else to occupy me, save the bandits, creatures, and wyldspawn that fled from my newly found strength, I contemplated long on the meaning of faith, purpose, atonement, and forgiveness. I came to understand that I must spare those lesser human beings who attack me, as well as the creatures who think to do the same. It is a difficult time in an already difficult world, but if I am to earn the clemency granted to me by the grace of the Sun, I must reciprocate to the rest of the world in reflection of his glory. Like sparrows to the eagle, my fellow men are less than me, but not fundamentally different. They deserve respect.

My fellow Exalted, in the rare times I have met them, have all been Terrestrial, although I'm sure other 'anathema' will cross my path soon. They are the sparrowhawks, those that feed on their lesser brothers. Crude and, yes, earthly, they are dangerous if not properly tamed. Hopefully, there will come a time when the Solar Exalted will once more fulfill that role, and bring order to our kind.

Voices Not My Own

Missive from the Outcaste Pride of Conquest to the Immaculate Cynis Ishang

I think, at last, I understand your foolish ways, 'brother'. Your teachings, as I've long established, are nonsense, your church a sham, and your skills pathetic. Now, however, I have long last experienced how glorious your much famed Wyld Hunt truly is. Do not expect my visits any time soon, for I will not return until I am able to deliver the head of the Anathema I have just encountered in the middle of the Southern wastes.

His arrival was that of a sandstorm, impossible to foresee, seemingly innocuous in strength until the first great gust that knocks lesser men to their feet. A lone traveler, without even a shirt to shield him from the Sun, we thought him a lost madman--certainly, he carried no supplies. My men, my--ah, how did you put it, 'brigands and bandits'?--rode out to meet him at my lead, and I commended him on his noble death. To survive so far into the wastes in order to die at my skillful hands would be such an honor to one so low! Expecting him to cower, you can only imagine my surprise when he simply smiled in response. Upon taking in his features, I grimly realized that he must have been one of the fair folk, although his guise was most odd for a band of men--he is tall, strong but lithe, and fairly handsome by the measure of a certain two among my force. Dismounting, I hefted Heaven's Raptor and commanded him to drop the weapons at his belt. To this, he only drew them, and masterfully assumed a form I have never before witnessed--obviously, a challenge to battle.

I answered him with spear and flame, but my blows spilled against his swords like a fiery arrow shot into the ocean--they were taken, harmlessly, and without effort. Enraged, I called forth my full heritage and struck recklessly, and the Southern Pole itself would pale against my fury. Within seconds I was disarmed, and tackled--tackled, brother!--by the man, and as I stared up in disbelief I soon knew how. How he deflected my assault, how he snuffed out my flames, how he reached out and grasped the very fire of my anima without suffering a single burn--all was revealed by the brilliant golden circle I saw shining through his headband. Yes, this was one of your Anathema, one of your Unclean! His strength will fall before my own, mark my words, before the next Calibration. I will not forgive the indignity of his mercy.

Within his clutches, he merely deigned it necessary to knock me out, and what little I know of afterwards was volunteered by those men who knew too little to fear my wrath. They will not soon forget my anger at learning how he dismissed what blows I managed as a mere inconvenience before moving on his way--but not before, not before he PAID my cohorts for what he called 'the inconvenience.' The impertinence of this demon of yours is intolerable, and as I breathe I swear his head will be mine!

Obsidian Majestic, Smith and Gemcutter formerly of Anjin Village, currently of Gem

The most remarkable young man walked into my shop earlier today--he'll be back, I wager, said he had to buy a few things--anyway, he walked into my shop and set down two VERY familiar swords. Now you know I don't make certain styles of swords anymore, and I don't make hooked swords for a very good reason. The best hooked swords I'll ever make I gave to a dear friend back in the village, Rainfall of Jade--I've told you about Rainfall, right? Quite a character, she was, as unlikely as her name! Anyway, now she had the best hooked swords I ever made, and if I worked for a dozen years I'd never make a better pair. This young buck walks in wearing them, without any sort of proper covering, right into my shop, and smiles at me--the kid's got a great smile, he must get girls by the dozen--saying he's 'Son of Summer Rainfall, Daughter of Rainfall of Jade'. Figured he had to be formal about it, I guess, but sure enough, he's her grandson! He's got her eyes, although his are kinder.

Besides the eyes, you can tell he's from Anjin just from the way he jumps--yeah, I mean 'jumps' as in hops. He does it every time the wind turns south, like they teach all the fool villagers to do. It's silly, but they've got a load of traditions like that, and they keep 'em, every one. Part of the reason I left, you know. Most of the superstitions were silly, and demeaning, but a couple were just downright dangerous. Did you know they teach their kids that a ghost can only harm them if they turn their backs on it? They think they're safe as long as they look straight at it! Good thing those poor fools don't live near a Shadowland, from all the stories I've heard. Thank goodness for everyone that doesn't.

Anyway, he's passing through Gem--no, actually, don't know what caravan--and wanted to stop for a visit. He gave me first pick of the beautiful rubies he picked up somewhere in the desert, probably the eastern regions, and it looked like he had quite a bit of firedust to sell off too--I'll bet that's what he went to go do, went to go sell that firedust. Actually, I take that back. There was one gem, hidden away in his pocket--you know I have an eye for gems!--that he didn't show me. Bet it's a present for his sweetheart. Anyway... why was I telling this story again..? Oh yeah! You're always telling me you can always use another guard--mind you, I don't buy that hogwash about Gem being all that 'dangerous' or 'risky'--and let me tell you this kid must have learned a thing or three from his grams! I asked him for a presentation, just to see if he's earned those swords of his, and he knows them better than he knows a woman's curves! And did I tell you about that smile--he's gotta 'ave known a lot of-- okay, fine, you can tell me it's a bad joke without that fake laugh. That's just insulting.

Anyway, he's more than competent, do you hear me? From the looks of his haul, he's got no great need for money, but you never know. Can't hurt to ask, right? I think he said something about buying a jade amulet and some good luck charms, so you might be able to catch him in the markets. He's tall, and somewhat light-skinned for a Southeasterner, but he's strutting around barechested like they usually do outside of the desert. Yeah, maybe that's another silly tradition, or maybe it's just a way to pick up girls. Some of us don't have to hide our looks, after all!

Dreams of the First Age

It was in the middle of the desert, months since my flight from home. Food and water were getting especially scarce, and while my charms ensured I need not fear starvation or drought, I still felt hunger and thirst. There was an odd wind in the air, strong but twisted. Growing into a sandstorm, it quickly blinded me, blanketing and darkening the sky. Unable to go on, due to the wind, and unwilling to sit or lay down, lest the sand shift and bury me, I simply waited with eyes shielded and closed, breathing carefully and slowly through my nose.

I did not see or hear it so much as I felt the air change around me. In an instant, the wind and sand were gone, and I inhaled a crisp, cool atmosphere so unlike the desert. After a moment's hesitation, I opened my eyes, and remembered. This was a place of my dreams and nightmares, a great stone tunnel, deep underground but little worn by time. Phosphorescent fungus grew along the ceiling, feeding on unseen moisture, lighting the dim passageway. Here, long ago, I retreated when on assignment to the oppressive heat of the South. A hundred meters or more below the surface of the Glitter-Flame Desert, my old Manse still waited faithfully. I stepped cautiously through the tunnels, the half-recalled, half- -dreamed stories of a time long past playing out before my mind's eye. I walked past a room where I once composed a speech to encourage the Southernmost work forces through a difficult time of disease and disappointment, while my Twilight colleagues a thousand miles away developed the cure. Another chamber, now collapsed, once held the sacrificial pedestal where countless innocent lives were ended--first, in the name of the Unconquered Sun, later in much darker, forgotten names. Journeying down a steep cliff built into the hallway itself, I recalled the time I made love to a nameless consort on the ceiling, simply out of boredom. I passed carefully through intersections, where the passageways of men intersected with the carefully hollowed passageways of wind, tunnels through which galeforce gusts would storm at certain times. My feet knew the way when my mind did not, ritual and habit from a life a thousand years over still guiding me.

At last I came to the hearthstone chamber proper, where a glimmering gemstone awaited me. Here, I stayed and attuned myself once more, then lingered and meditated until my stomach could no longer endure the fasting. Invoking the necessary phrases and gestures, I journeyed back up to the surface, where the wind had momentarily calmed, the hearthstone stowed away in my pocket. Later, I would purchase a fitting amulet of jade from my earnings in gemstones and firedust, but for the next two months, it stayed there.

No human being, Exalted or mortal is without mistakes or triumphs. What we Solars must come to terms with is the raw scale of atrocities and glories achieved by our previous incarnations, the millenia of sins and deeds that weigh on our shoulders, whether we remember them or not. There is much for which we must repent, but also much from which we can learn. By the grace of the Sun, I pray we succeed in making the distinction.