Dreaming of a Battlefield

Moonlight peered through the small opening of the tent as the void that Wyll lay adrift in seemed to shift, darkness becoming light. Wyll saw a figure as his consciousness began to fade into the background, becoming a silent observer of the events unfolding. The figure was tall, standing over two meters below a hooded cloak, their eyes peering over a smoldering battlefield. The ground was soiled with blood, smoke hanging in the air as the ruins of a town caught in the midst crumbled slowly. Nary a voice, a cry, or a whimper escaped the desolate landscape that had been torn asunder by a war that had lost its meaning long ago.

As if incapable of comprehending the devastation that had taken place, the figure shook where they stood. As if choking on the smoke, they fell to a knee as a ragged breath escaped their lips and blood soaked into their clothing. Tears slowly rolled down fair-skinned cheeks, originating from lavender-colored eyes as a hand shakily reached for their chest. With a forced inhale, the figure grasped at their shirt as their eyes shifted towards the sky, clouds hanging overhead as the figure reached out desperately to the sky.

Their hood fell, revealing a man with long steel grey hair, features that looked much too kind for someone on a battlefield. Tears continued rolling down his face as he shakily kept his hand raised, unaware that he was not alone. An armor-clad warrior began to rise from the remnants of battle, his vision blurry and his mind racing on adrenaline alone. He knew his name, Samuel the Crimson King, the slayer of First Hero-King Malik, and the scourge to order! The roar of booming laughter filled the empty battlefield, Samuel boasting as he survived the onslaught on the land and village. The laughter was broken when Samuel looked at the destruction he had brought with him, seeing his army no more and a lone man on bended knee reaching for the sky.

A source for his blade to drink, a fresh soul to devour. Samuel was thankful as he outstretched his hand and called for his Weapon. As if the underworld itself split open, the blade appeared in a fiery blaze as a long sword seemed to pulse malevolent energy as the Weapon breathed to life. The Weapon's blade was black, sleek, and elegant, which led to a very elegant handle guard that seemed adorned in a mess of thorns. The honed edge of the blade was crimson in color as a mist exuded from the Weapon.

"Awaken, Jure Grando! Feast on the blood of my enemies and give me strength to conquer armies and devour foes!"

Power pulsed from the blade as the blood that had flooded the once fertile soil began to stir awake, answering the call to satiate a hunger that seemed bottomless. Blood began to converge on the blade as strength bubbled within Samuel; another mighty roar left his lips as the nearby animals scampered away in fear. The man had taken notice of the intruder of his wallowing, eyes slowly being dragged from the darkened sky to see blood swirling about the blade like a typhoon. The man stood up and began to walk towards Samuel when a distant sound called to both sets of ears.

A babe calling for its mother, no longer tucked into the bosom of its protector for warmth. The child wailed out to get its mother's attention, unbeknownst to the underdeveloped mind that its mother was dead and not coming to tend to them. Samuel and the man met one another's gaze as they both made a mad dash toward the child. Samuel knew that if Grando were to feast on fresh innocent blood, he'd be strengthened for a good while, long enough to go on another rampage! Somehow he sensed that this other man knew this fact as well, but the odds were already outside the grey-haired fool's favor. Not a single Weapon was on the man, not even one scavenged from one of the corpses that lay strewn about the battlefield graveyard.

The two seemed evenly matched in speed, reaching the baby simultaneously as their gazes again met. Their eyes locked and narrowed as the two were engaged in dance, and before a breath was even drawn, Samuel made the first move. Samuel wasn't known for his honor, but something about this grey fox made him see this exchange as a duel for the child's life. Blood lept from the blade in a roaring current as the swing took form.

"Blades of Blood, Roaring Rivers!"

There wasn't just a single slash as the man dodged the first sharpened blade, a wild frenzy following it quickly as three more followed. Be it luck or skill, the man dodged them, seemingly dancing past the swings as if they were mere illusions. This made Samuel mad, an ordinary man shouldn't be able to keep up with him, and a Weaponless man should already be dead! Samuel closed the gap with a frustrated roar, ready to lay out a flurry of swings but was caught off guard as his gut was met with a swift blow, causing him to get sick on the man's boots as he wobbled back. With the sudden impacts, Samuel was dazed, stomach churning as he tried to recover but didn't have time as he found himself moving his blade to block blows from this stranger.

Samuel could barely keep up as swift and decisive blows were made against the metal of Jure Grando, causing Samuel to go on the defensive, as he tried his best to block each one but found each punch faster than the last. A feeling began to wash over Samuel, something he had never felt before, as he grew pale. He was going to lose; he was going to lose and possibly even die as he began to direct himself differently, trying to keep up with the pummeling he was receiving. Samuel was being pushed into a corner, and it was fair to play dirty when times were desperate. Samuel reached into a pocket and grabbed a handful of his secret Weapon, pocket sand. Promptly Samuel threw the handful of sand into the Fox's face, causing the man's stance and fight to falter as he desperately rubbed his eyes to remove the sand.

Samuel was quick to take this distraction as he plunged his sword into the crying child, back turned as he plunged his sword down. He felt it, the strength, the power! Before it all suddenly faded, his sword was caught in mid-plunge by a hand that had been driven through his very being, gripping the handle of the sword handle as Samuel's body refused to breathe. He choked and gasped, all strength seemingly sapped away with his breath as he felt the arm and hand pull through his chest with excruciating pain, as if his very soul was being dipped in the flames of the Blacksmith's forge.

Slowly Samuel's eyes rolled back, blood spilling from his mouth as he gagged out his last breath. The grey fox held Samuel by the helm as he used the warlord's blade to decapitate himself, blood spilling out more to add to the already full ocean. The head was then impaled, a warning for any passerby to know this is where the Hero-King Slay was himself slain. The man panted as he fell to his knees beside the cooing child, the baby coated in a splatter of blood from Samuel as thunder sounded off in the distance. The grey fox reached out with hesitance yet gentle touch, the baby reaching to meet the man's touch as rain began to fall, drops landing on the two as their touches met.

Wyll bolted upright in a cold sweat, feeling the rain on his face as he looked up at the roof of his tent, seeing a branch had pierced the once durable canvas. Wyll lightly panted as the whole dream felt real, as if he had witnessed history in the making but found it hard to believe. Samuel the Hero-King Slayer... Wyll had never heard that name before, and never had he seen someone overpower a powerful Wielder like that bare-handed... Wyll's thoughts were scrambled as he groaned and huffed; some dreams were nothing more than a dream. A dream of a distant battlefield and a fight won by a silver haired man, innocence saved form an untimely death.