Beyond Chaos – A DiceRPG

The duskval winds caressed wide fields of gold, trees of crimson, and people of steel. A lone figure stepped out into the long fields. He was tall, lean, bald, a thick white beard which fell at a fist’s length, but was thick enough to cover his lips.

He had grown up in such fields, under the shade of tall trees, those which his own grandfather had planted, and his grandfather before him, and his own grandchildren had grown under the shade of the trees he had planted so many years ago.

As the air whipped around his body, his clothed fluttering wildly, he closed his eyes, hands clasped behind his back, the memories of playing as a youth among such fields filled his mind, allowing it to calm his heart. The memories shifted, from the sweet brightness of youth, to the sour darkness that was growing up, and before him stood shadows of warriors, those he had fought so many years ago, faces lost to time, but the scars remained, like fingerprints on a blade.

As the wind caressed his skin, his body swayed, as though following the breeze, until the shadows moved, their steel falling upon him. He moved as though he were made of paper, shifting his body around the memories, recalling how some had cut into his skin, but now he could slip around them with ease.

The flames licked at his skin, causing him to pull back, for though he had grown more powerful, indeed he had reached a great height, even in his retirement, but to defeat the likes of such a figure, even now, it would be a flip of a coin.

Malfev inhaled sharply, and at first thought about unfurling his arms, but he leapt backwards, kicking off the tips of the grass, until he stood atop the tip of his spear, pausing a moment to gather himself. He leapt down, without a worry about piercing himself on the tip of his spear, the top of the spear falling gently against his shoulder. Malfev gently grasped the shaft, rotating it around himself so the spear was behind his back.

He had learnt the technique of the Fev, a different path to the Ool family, but to similar means. He stood, the shadow directly in front of him, and thus the blade came, fire crackling, but he became paper once more, swirling around the flaming blade, and before the flames could prick his skin, he forced himself up by his spear, which drove into the tip of the sword, and thus he descended.

Falling Swallow, also known as the Descending Swallow to some, was his epithet, his spear falling from the heavens. He who had travelled so many years ago, and clashed with a great many figures, like many of his peers. Among his family, he was considered one of the greatest, perhaps only second to his cousin, Shayfev. Even as his spear whipped through the air, claiming the eyes of many foes, if they were lucky, he stepped back, twisted his head to the side, trying to dodge the flames, but even so, they were not the flames of a Fireball, but those of a blade of a figure who chased down his neck.

Malfev stepped back, his heart thundering within his chest, sweat pouring down his body, peeking through narrow opening, barely able to see the shadow before him.

He couldn’t do it.

He could not guarantee a victory against the likes of the Fire Blossom Knight.

The Fire Blossom Knight, who would cause trouble for the Reavers, but Malfev, who should have taken a greater position in the Iyr, like that of Shaool, could not guarantee such. Whereas Shaool was considered one of the Ten Paragons, and though Malfev was only a step behind, the distance between them was vast enough that Malfev could not replace many of her duties.

‘No,’ Shayfev had admitted.

‘If you continue your training, you will feel it,’ Malfev assured, towards his cousin, who had grown up as such a crybaby, but now was the kind to kill the Wandering Spear.

‘You should have carried the burden yourself!’ Shayfev accused, her annoyance rising swiftly, since he had not informed the twins to watch her within the fray.

The wound was still fresh, Malfev gathered, and would remain at least until a year passed.

‘How many years will it require Shayfev to learn the technique?’ Malfev thought. Shayfev was a step ahead of him, she could begin focusing on mastering such a technique, but Malfev needed to rise up a little further before he could think of the technique, something akin to how Shaool had manage to employ against the likes of the Platinum Shield, something which was highly unlikely.

To be able to remove a figure such as the Platinum Shield in a single touch was perhaps one in a hundred, but how many times could their greatest employ such a technique? It wasn’t just once or twice, and as long as they survived three or four clashes, the chances increased. With every Iyrman who could employ such a terrifying technique, they only needed to manage to successfully employ the technique once.

Just once, and the world around them would change. If Shaool hadn’t taken out The Platinum Shield with such a grave technique, if Dogek hadn’t beaten the Sky Commander to an inch of her life, would it have been so easy to leave?

Malfev considered his strength compared to the Mad Dog. He knew how difficult it was to face against a Rage Dancer, for their strength lay in the fact they were just so difficult to defeat. In a battle of attrition, , when one’s feet were planted firmly in the ground, they were among the strongest. While he could bring countless blows, once he could no longer bring forth ki, he would need to flee, and every two of his blows would only act as a single blow against a Rage Dancer.

Malfev clasped the spear behind his back and bounded away, towards a nearby stream, towards a waterfall. He planted his spear nearby and sat under the falling water, meditating, regaining his inner energy. The cool water slipped through into his aching body, calming him, and he stepped away, leaving a trail of wetness as he returned back to the Front Iyr.

As he did, another old monster prepared his heart.

Jarot fixed the little hair pin into his granddaughter’s hair, brushing along her forehead, the girl thanking him politely, instead of just smiling as Iyrchildren would, for she had been corrupted by the manners of a fool. The old man smiled in return, letting her return back to causing a little bit of trouble, as she should, for his blood ran through her veins, his stories through her mind, and his adoration within that tiny beating heart.

The old man inhaled sharply, resigning himself for it was time, wasn’t it? He couldn’t delay it any longer, for he was a Mad Dog, not a fool.

“Jurot,” the old man called, his metal leg striking the ground, leading the young man way to one side, the ache in his arm, the ache in his leg, the ache in his heart, slowing him. His grandson followed him, keeping pace with the old man, until they were finally to one side.

“It is time for Lanarot to begin her training,” the old man said. “We have delayed it too long.”

“Okay.”

“You must train her.” Read full story at N0velFire.ɴet

“I am too young.”

“Young?” Jarot turned to face his grandson, raising a brow. “Young? Brat, you are a Master now! If not you, who? This crippled old man? The Family Head? The Family Elder? Your mother, who has taken the role of President of the United Kindom?”

Jurot expected the old man’s growling, remaining steadfast, giving the old man to calm his grieving heart. It was Jarot who had delayed the training, for though the girl had started some gentle training once she had turned six, they wanted to make sure her heart had not been affected by the deaths of her nephews. Lanarot, her heart had been taken by blood long ago, she would grow up with a wildness, but the deaths of her nephews, it was still so fresh. She watched over them well, and other than some minor issues, there had been little which ached the girl. However, it could manifest another time, so they needed to be careful.

Yet, now that her brothers had returned, and she held such a bright gleam in her eyes, Jarot could no longer refuse, though they would dare not force him to make the decision. Except, it was awkward. Those who could train her, Kamrot, perhaps, and Jurot, his equal, yet he was less than half his age, but Kamrot was already busy. It was best for Jurot, for she was close with her brother, who spoiled her in small ways.

Jurot thought upon his grandfather’s words. It was true it would be best for him to train her, but… could he? Just thinking about how brutal the Rot family training was…

He could at least begin training her general health, her general strength, at least, though…

“I will train her,” called a voice, who had also thought of this matter, though he was no Rot.