Of Wood and Bone, Of Metal and Fear

DAYBREAK’S DIFFERENT HUES OF purple, blue, pink, and orange drove the black night away from the east and back towards the desert. The light of dawn rose from the sea and flooded the landscape. The Oussanean and Caliphian armies now had each other in sight as they marched towards oblivion. 

The eastern skies grew dark and turbid around the sun. The cloud cover manifested in a devastatingly unnatural manner and brought with them a darkness of a different kind. The Shadekin chanted in unison as they led the Caliphian army towards its moment of reckoning. Their otherworldly hymn charged the aether around them. It revealed their white hair, the red irises behind their silver-purple glow, the luminous insignias tattooed upon their flesh, and their midnight colored shadow armor. Their white breastplates bore the infamous red symbol of the shadow tribe and their capes flapped like loose sails in the wind. 

There were different units in the Caliphian army, based on what weapons they wielded and what function they served, but the majority of them looked the same. They were adorned in hardened leather armor studded with steel and protected by breastplates and pauldrons. Beneath their armor they wore chainmail over mahogany colored gambesons. 

Their heads were sheltered by steel barbute helms that were as varied as the individuals wearing them. Some had ferocious demon horns sprouting from the sides of cold steel while others had dragon wings spreading out of them. Steel gauntlets protected their hands. Those closer to the frontlines wielded long swords, hammers, and maces, and wore cuirasses with bevors to protect their necks and tassets to shield their thighs. 

One might think that nothing could capture the rising sun, that nothing could close the world’s great eye of light. One ignorant enough to mold his beliefs to the narrow shape of his perspective could never understand the Shadekin. They were created from an idea and they existed as such. As energy obeys natural law, it may never be destroyed. As ideas are energy created from thought, they are bound by this same principle. As long as men think, they create ideas. As long as ideas are created, so too are the lives and illusions of the Shadekin. 

Taliesin, the Shadekin Prince of Bards, played his xun fearlessly. He was every bit a warrior. His instrument was his weapon. The xun imposed its unearthly influence on the chants. It harnessed a power that patiently waited till battle to be unleashed. 

The Shadekin knew the names of all things. To know the name of something is to command it. They called the name of a storm as a master calls the name of his slave. 

The Oussaneans approached the battlefield from the west. The thunder of hooves spread across the landscape in an ever-moving echo of fright. An acrid smell accompanied the loudest gallop of all. 

A mildew scent, mixed with hints of musty, rotting wood and moist earth, chased away the smell of foreign spice. The scent belonged to Neirym, a master conjurer. She was named after the goddess of creation, death, and the hunt. Her features were Oussanean, but her hair was sleek and black. Her eyes were a pale tint of azure. Her skin was smooth like porcelain yet fragile like parchment. She was a vessel that sailed between worlds, neither fully alive nor fully dead. 

Neirym glided over the terrain beside the rider of the demonic warhorse. Her body was slender and athletic. She was adorned in the spikey, light armor of a necromancer. Her dark cape shrouded her from behind and surged with the wind like smoke. It was difficult to tell where its edges ended or began, for it seemed to be part of the air itself. 

Neirym carried with her a blood magic staff made of wood and bone, of metal and fear. A jewel embedded at the end of the staff glowed with the captured souls of those valiant enough, or foolish enough, to oppose her. They were the main component of her power to summon the dead. There was a tragic feeling that pervaded the hearts of men whose gaze fell upon Neirym. Were she not a soulless, heartless sorceress, she would be amongst the most beautiful of maidens.  

Atop the demonic steed sat a hulking specimen of man. Beneath his dark obsidian armor, his garments were the color of coffee and caramel. A crown jewel of mysterious origin rested on his forehead, swirling with magic of fire and ice. His hair was receding and untamed as a tempest. It seemingly had no separation between his scalp, his eyebrows, or his beard. Facial hair was absent on his upper lip. It revealed the coarse, leathery texture of his skin, which had a reptilian hue. His irises were a muddy green outlined in a vengeful red. His large ears came to sharp points like those of a wolf. His jaw was square and his nose was hooked. He was the only male Oussanean born within the past century. His name was Rotmörder, the King of Lunaega. Wherever he went, hell was sure to follow. 

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A free sample of my anarchist fantasy series, based on my life and dressed in an amalgamation of my favorite stories that were never made into film/books, which can be found here in all formats: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00JJI4GFE

For those that like audiobooks, listen to how epic the voiceover actor I hired to do book one sounds: https://www.audible.com/pd/Sci-Fi-Fantasy/The-Boy-and-the-Peddler-of-Death-Audiobook/B00YCP21F6?ref_=a_search_c4_1_1_srTtl&qid=1433044232&sr=1-1

For those who don't like fiction/allegories but still seek knowledge, you can find Book 1 of Spirit Whirled here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06XF84YR5