Incarnation of Fire - Urban Fantasy - Writers Forum

MiloDaePesdan · 08-08-2006, 03:34 AM

PocketWorlds: Incarnation of Fire

I

Marcus Gearrs squinted at the marble cupped in his hands. If he looked hard enough, he could just make out faint, creamy swirls roiling in the deep blue within the glass ball. For an unwanted present it was the strangest thing old man Dawrson had given him yet. He hadn't the heart to refuse his neighbor--and the bizarre antiques he'd accumulated since the year he moved in this flat was a result of it.

"What have you dropped on me now, old man?" His question echoed in an empty room, sunset washing the tiled floors. Already it was cleared out to make way for the next tenant. Dawrson was dead. Marcus had attended the funeral only yesterday.

Anger sparked in him for a moment. The old guy's stuff had been divided so quickly it was like the agents had planned it only minutes ago. Like the bloody Romans chopping up Jesus' clothes between them. Goddamnitohell.

Marcus sighed and released his gathered tension, putting away the marble in his jean's pocket. Dawrson had, in fact, stated just to whom each of his knickknacks and oddities would go to--not to mention his meager savings--in a will written in parchment and quill.

A small smile creased Marcus' worn features, failing to melt the ice in his gaze. That last was typical of the old man. If a task could be done better the old-fashioned way Dawrson was sure to take it. But sometimes the conservative dinosaur liked to do things in style, and nothing beats the sheer authenticity of calf-skin.

He had to admit the blood was a bit much. Whatever was wrong with using ink?

One last look around the apartment. He blew a blond curl from his short mop out of his eyes, feeling the gloom occupying this empty box of wood and brick and mortar. No matter how much disinfectant the landlord used, no matter how well the cleaning crews had made the place hospital-clean, the whisper of death lingered in the air.

Oh hell. Enough of this sadness crap. Maybe if he watched some Toshiro Mifune movies it'll blow away.

* * *

The flat was ancient, but the turmoil of refurbishing and renovation it had gone under three years before at least put a stop to the whine and clang of old drainpipes. The North York Region of Toronto had seen major changes and quite a bit of construction, but the residential areas were more or less the same. His side of the community, mostly made up of people from a European or Jewish background, lived in relative peace with a few flare-ups now and then.

Like the bunch of Ukrainian youths haranguing each other beside their rides down by the parking lot. By the sound of it, someone had scratched a car in the middle of a drag-race, wrecking the expensive paint job. No doubt their mother wasn't going to be happy at that.

"Yo, idiots!" Marcus bent over his window and fired off profanity composed of Russian Slavic and English.

"--if you disturb me from watching Yojimbo again, I'm gonna open the whole can of whup-ass!" he finished, snarling in obvious irritation.

The half-dozen or so teenagers--boys, he thought scornfully--looked at each other, at their cars, and finally back up at the furious face some two stories above them. They knew all about Flat No. 4224. At least, the reputation of the blond man to run down belligerents in a customized gold-on-blue Suzuki motorcycle that was not a Suzuki. A bike that could scream down the highway at a hundred kilometers an hour within three-to-five seconds from a cold start spoke of juice. Lots and lots of juice. And that wasn't even its top speed. His ride might retain the brand name but to those concerned it was a monster of a different machine.

If the police ever painted him in a radar gun, he'd be surprised. The bike was totally composed of non-ferrous and composite alloys, the toughest he could find of this day and age. Neither chromium nor titanium nor steel for he, no sir.

"Bloody kids," Marcus grumbled under his breath, watching them pull out to carry their argument elsewhere. Yeah, sure, some of those cars were bought out of their own pockets, but he recognized a few of the boys from passing a local high school on his way to work. That Porsche down there was definitely from one of the punks' mothers.

Kurosawa-sama was not working his usual magic this evening. Marcus slumped in a very Victorian couch, courtesy of none other than Mr. Dawrson. Behind him, two maplewood shelves in the Rococo-style leaned against the wall. The old man had chosen it for him. The bamboo tables flanking the Bose speakers of his plasma television? Mr. Dawrson. The oven-fired clay statues of terracotta warriors from ancient China, gracing the tops of aforementioned furniture? Mr. Dawrson. The Persian rug beneath his feet?

Mr. Dawrson. Good old Mr. Dawrson, the best old man he'd ever met.

"Damn it. God damn it." Marcus rose abruptly, going to his kitchen to grab a drink. Non-alcoholic, though he did enjoy the occasional beer or vintage.

He found himself swearing more often these days. Coke in hand, he glanced at the television, not really seeing the crisp, black-and-white image of a ronin samurai playing off two detestable factions. He felt the same way. Stuck between the real and the metaphysical, unable to decide which was worse.

The Coke filled his stomach. It did little for the gnawed hole in his heart.

Slowly, more in absence than on purpose, his hand rolled the marble between thumb and forefinger in his pocket. He had no idea why he'd been given such a strange gift, and it drove him to distraction.

A squat bronze dragon with sapphire eyes, turning a curious shade of green from age, sat on a marble platform. It guarded the short hallway to his bedroom. Marcus didn't know from what land or civilization it came from, but he'd guessed it of European make, probably from a revival of the gothic era. A classic depiction of dragons, from the matrix of scales to the folded wings, the knee-high statue was his first gift from Dawrson. The old man had insisted every house needed a guardian. Even a place as humble as a flat.

The last of the sunlight died. And the dragon moved.

Marcus stared, uncomprehending. He brought his drink to his lips. Stopped, and stared at the can. Either he was more tired than he thought or the caffeine rebelled against him.

The dragon uncoiled from its pedestal. It stretched out a long neck and yawned, revealing crystalline teeth, then felt the weight of Marcus' gaze and turned around to match him eye for eye.

"Holy shit."

That was all he got to say before the world went mad.

(Comments on it so far? Should I post more?)

teflon · 08-08-2006, 08:31 AM

I think you have a good narrative, though have not checked your grammar.

The narrative suggests very impressionable characters, but the imagery is minimal ("crystalline")

good job

MiloDaePesdan · 08-09-2006, 02:22 AM

Snipped. Just realized it was a double-post. ARGH!

pug of crydee17 · 08-09-2006, 07:32 PM

I think this is pretty cool. Keep it up

MiloDaePesdan · 08-09-2006, 11:59 PM

Hai! Thanks--I'll keep on writing. More:

-----

He spilled Coke on his shirt--his favorite shirt, the black one with the bold red streaks of kanji for Karas, 'The Crow'. The can dropped from his nerveless fingers. It bounced once and rolled, the sound muted to his ears, a wash of foamy bubbles and sugary liquid on a ground drained of color. The world was leeched of color, like someone had splashed a bucket of bleach just for the purpose of turning everything into shades of gray.

Well, almost everything. The dragon faced him now, returned to a glorious bronze.

"Sooo..." He blanked. Marcus scratched his hair in lieu of words. Silence.

"You do not fear me?"

A rumbling timbre. The dragon had spoken to him.

"Should I?" To his own surprise, Marcus smiled. "Your question's standard procedure for meeting strange and fantastic beings, so I sorta anticipated that. I read fantasy, y'see. Now, if you were an alien, which in a way you are by definition, I'd thought 'greetings, Earthling, take me to your leader' would be more appropriate outta you."

The dragon snorted. "Then I presume the next question is also a known quantity to you."

"Yeah. What in the hell are you?"

The dragon sat on its haunches much like a dog would do, barbed tail coiling about its clawed feet. It spread its wings a trifle only to fold them back. The monochromatic gray passage that had replaced his hallway prevented the dragon's actions. "'Count one hundred years and the gods will breathe life upon the earth.' I am a yokai, a tsukumogami."

"Eh?"

"A tsukumogami. A spirit."

"Wait, wait, wait," Marcus stammered, holding up a hand. "This doesn't make sense. You've got to be from Europe, but you're speaking Japanese..."

"I have soaked up at least nine other languages," the dragon said in a dust-dry tone, "three from my former owner of twenty years--the Oriental tongue is perhaps the best way to explain myself."

Marcus took this tidbit and digested it. He caught on, fast. "So you're telling me you've been absorbing everything around you like a sponge for a hundred years?"

"Correct. My kind has the ability to gain physical form on this world after a set number of years have passed, also depending on the skill and the heart of the craftsmen that make us. I was crafted in the summer of 1908, June the Ninth from the lathe of a master artisan."

Bloody hell! Marcus shook his head, not bothering to duck back into the kitchen and look at the calendar for confirmation. Bang on the dot. "What's the catch?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Look," he began a trifle impatiently, "your waking up must mean something. And in all the stories I've read, trouble comes a-knocking sooner or later. It's like a chain reaction of that Chinese curse."

"Indeed, it is wise of you to take counsel of such portent. You have in your possession something of which my old master considered a world of trouble."

Marcus froze. The dragon could only mean one thing. He dug into his pocket and drew out the marble--

Only to flinch when a sudden flash like strobes of blue lightning seared his vision. He covered the marble in his fist, blinking rapidly at the afterimages. "Whoa, epileptic moment there."

One by one he uncurled his fingers in a cautious fashion. He stopped, and stared into depths of indigo blue. There was no mistaking the wisps of white moving in the glass ball now. If he knew any better he'd think the swirls were a bundle of clouds...

"What is this, really?"

"It's relatively easy to explain, and you may be one of the few humans ready to believe in anything, but I doubt your belief levels are up to this."

"Try me."

"You would benefit from a first-hand observation. An explanation will not suffice for someone of your mental strength." The dragon regarded him with a level gaze of those cat-slit sapphire pupils. "If this is what you wish, then it will be carried out. Look into the ball and think yourself there."

Doubtful, yet wanting to believe, Marcus held the marble close to his eye and released his imagination.

MiloDaePesdan · 08-10-2006, 03:14 AM

*whistles and twiddles thumbs* More bits:

-----

There was no warning in the transition from the weird limbo state to reality. For a heart-stopping second Marcus hung suspended between two sun-struck clouds moving at thirty kilometers an hour to a gentle northwesterly. Gravity called. He plummeted headfirst.

Marcus had always wanted to go skydiving. Here was his chance--without a parachute to his name.

"Ooohhh sheee-yiiit!"

Where was the floor? Someone had pulled the floor from under him! He struggled to gather his incoherent thoughts as he hit terminal velocity and stopped accelerating. Below, green hills and golden fields flanked by verdant forests loomed large in his vision. Pretty pavilions were scattered all over one meadow like so many silk kerchiefs. A long dirt road snaked to a distant habitation nested between the hills.

Beside him, the Coke can was tumbling like a clumsy tin miniature of a football. The rational part of him calmly noted physics was at work. The screaming part of him noted this experience was going to be very painful. Off to the side and slightly above him flew the dragon, and Marcus' breath caught at the sight of majestic wings spread to their full span.

Then the dragon tucked in its wings and dived.

Tiny figures scurried out from the tents. So, he had a reception committee for becoming the first man to splatter all over a field like a rotten tomato. How did they expect him to survive this?

The answer came in the form of three shapes streaking up into the sky to meet him. Suddenly he felt a pair of heavy claws clamping around his outstretched arms. The dragon tried to increase their air resistance and did succeed in slowing him down--somewhat. They were still falling, but not really as fast as before.

"Aaahhh!"

A thermal air-current buffed them from side to side. One remarkable thing about near-death experiences was the acute focusing of the dominant senses, and in Marcus' case his eyes were locked on impending doom. He could make out some of the details now, the crimson pennants flying from pavilion tops, the weird creatures running back and forth either in excitement or panic or both--the sharp, pointy bamboo fencing around a square perimeter of a tourney ground. But the trio approaching him was not what he'd expected.

A woman's frilled umbrella, made of white nylon and whose handle was crafted from rattan wood reached him first. It shot straight up like a missile, then clung to his other arm and opened up. Marcus feared the wind of their descend would tear the delicate thing to tatters, but the umbrella held gamely on.

Next was a wormy yellow mass writhing skyward. Marcus, whose guts had long flown to Mars, felt what remained of his insides tightening in horror. But a closer look revealed not a worm but a rolled up picnic mat. He snatched at each proffered end and the cotton cloth unfurled, trapping a pocket of air. This helped him flip the right way around.

The last was even more bizarre than the rest. A basket, for Chrissakes! In a moment of inspiration, he bit down on the wick handle. The basket tilted upside-down over his head and started flapping its lids like a thing possessed.

He landed with a muffled whump in the tall grass.

-----

Sooo, howzat?

zallan · 08-18-2006, 05:55 PM

Awesome! Write some more - I'm hooked.

MiloDaePesdan · 08-22-2006, 10:49 AM

Hoo boy, sorry for the rather long time it took me to reply here. But I was over at another forum...*sheepish grin* (Don't kill me and I'll post, okay?)

Note: this piece has been edited a bit. Dawrson -> Dawnson.

-----

His world was a faded pattern of tartan yellows and dandelions. For a brief minute Marcus remained flat on his back, feeling the sunshine warming his face through the picnic mat. God but his legs hurt! He'd retained enough sense to bend his knees in that split-second of landing. Still, paratroopers made it look so easy. On the other hand, looking and doing are two different things. His only consolation was, they had never tried it with weird stuff flying all around!

"If you have sufficiently recovered," grumbled a voice beneath him. "I am not a footstool."

"Oh crap! Sorry." Marcus scrambled upright, waving away the mat and umbrella that still held onto his arm. The picnic basket hopped off his chest and joined the animated...household items a short distance from him. The bronze dragon, freed from his tangled legs, gathered the remains of its dignity.

"Um," Marcus began, not knowing what to say. Thank them. Right. He grinned sheepishly. "Thanks for helping me out. I kinda thought I was a goner there for a second."

A shadow darkened the grass. A very big shadow, judging from how it completely swallowed him, the dragon, and the walking furniture. Marcus spun and tried to rise at the same time. His legs threatened to buckle from under as a dizzy spell hit him.

Two huge, paw-like hands steadied him by the shoulders. The world stopped playing revolving doors. Marcus stared out the corner of his eyes at the heavy claws where the last crook of a finger would've been. He followed the crease lines of black, leathery skin up to its shoulders, hidden by a ruff of copper-red mane, and his eyes rested on...

Take a gorilla, add two gazelle horns, a mouth filled with carnivorous teeth, and to top it off, add a one-piece leopard loincloth beneath the straps of a saber's baldric slung across the humongous body. As an afterthought, stretch it out to a broad, two-meter tall beast.

Marcus' eyes widened and threatened to bulge from their sockets. His voice stuck in his throat, and he gulped visibly. My, what sharp teeth you have, Grandpa.

"Thanks," he croaked, carefully shrugging off the supporting hands.

"Think nothing of it!" The thunderous bass of the not-gorilla was lower pitched than the dragon's, not to mention even louder. His eardrums couldn't decide whether it belonged to Mr. King-Kong or a sonic boom. The thing grinned at him again, black eyes crinkling in what Marcus hoped was a smile. "I am honored to have met the next Senessian Guardian! Welcome to Seness, the Country of Eternal Summer!"

"Eh?"

"This is the world you saw through the marble," the dragon supplied, sidling up to him. "Where the skies are forever blue and the sun smiles down upon us."

A world in a little glass ball. Marcus cradled his temple. "Good God. So that's what the old man gave me."

Before he knew it, he was swept in a bone-crushing embrace. His eyes did bulge a little this time, and stars spangled his vision. Then the big, clueless...bonehead held him at arm's length. "My name is Shingo, Master-at-Arms and Tourney Judge."

"Marcus," he squeaked, wriggling away again. "Marcus Gearrs."

Oh, yeah. Struck by a sudden thought, he remembered one forgotten detail. He glanced at the dragon. "Y'know, I didn't catch your name."

"I have not offered it for I have none," the dragon replied, sounding a little chagrined by the question. "If my new master would be so kind as to name me...?"

"Sorry. I kinda have a hard time thinking right now. I mean," Marcus spread his arms, taking in the world around him, "this place is--it's--"

"It's?"

"It's wonderful!" he exclaimed, and knew the word was truth. He startled everyone by laughing, a carefree burst of joy. The sun lit up his face and caught in his curls. Scents of summer blew in the gentle wind, ruffling the meadow's wild grains and the leafy treetops of oak, rowan, and beech standing alone here and there.

The perfect summer, given him as a farewell gift by a good friend. Marcus didn't want this moment of serenity to end. But one good look around Shingo's bulk showed him there were others to consider.

By the edge of the pavilion camp, a mob of utterly weird creatures had gathered. More walking knickknacks and furniture, from straw sandals to floating jars to big, lumbering four-poster beds. Marcus did a double-take, for he recognized quite a few of the beings, if only in books and folktales. Many-tailed kitsune foxes held back the eager tide. Giant cats, bakeneco, prowled the second line. But prominent among the mob were outrageously dressed raccoon-dogs, shapeshifting--and failing--to foil the foxes. He knew they were tanuki by the overblown bellies, the black masking across their eyes, and the...

His eyes bulged for the second time. One thing to read about the legend, another to see it for himself. Those had to be the largest balls he'd ever seen on any creature. Great, big brass ones.

"What's going on?" he inquired in a small voice. "Why all the fuss?"

"Ah! Let me show you before your well-wishers," Shingo said, bringing him around. Marcus felt a sinking realization in his gut. Well-wishers? Wishing for what? Somehow, he knew all was not well in paradise.

The level of noise threatened to pierce his ears. The hullabaloo increased in decibel when the yokai finally got a good look at Marcus.

"This is Marcus Gearrs! He will become our next Senessian Guardian--or die an honorable death in the Summer Tourney!"

Uh oh. A tourney? An honorable death? This is bad.

"In honor of our old Guardian, the venerable daimyo Dawnson Ryusuke, may his soul rest in peace--"

Oh shit. Very bad.

"Let the tournament begin! Banzai!"

The crowd roared back. "BANZAI!"

What in the world had he gotten himself into now?

-----
(That's Chapter 1 done! If ya'll liked it, I can post bits of Chap. 2.)

Jailbait,
Milo

zallan · 08-22-2006, 04:04 PM

Yay, goody goody!

MiloDaePesdan · 08-23-2006, 05:59 AM

Still hooked? Here we go--Chapter II begins:

-----

II

In the sanctuary of his own pavilion, seated on a backless chair fashioned from sturdy bamboo and leather, Marcus eyed the curious onlookers peeking in now and then with obvious bemusement. He stretched out his limbs, grimacing at the accumulated kinks in his body. While this may not be a dire predicament, it was darn near to one in his judgement.

"Okay, buster," he began, eyes narrowing on the dragon seated across from him on a woven bamboo mat. "Who signed me up for this competition?"

The dragon cocked its head and eyed him sidelong. "'Buster'. Is this the name you wish to give me, milord?"

Nonplussed, Marcus considered the appellation. He shrugged. "What the hay, guess it's as good as any. Better than Bubba, that's for sure. Now, my question?"

"Buster. Bussstherrr." The dragon rolled the name on its tongue and nodded in satisfaction. "A good name. Arigato, Gearrs-sama."

"Look," Marcus said, exasperated. "Can you please answer my question?"

"As far as I know, no one 'signed you up'," Buster replied, picking dried scales off its tail. "But I do know Dawnson-sama was grooming you for the task."

"What?"

"Were you not aware of it, milord? I thought he invited you over at least once a week to his home, whereupon you sat in tea ceremonies, read folktales, translated old manuscripts, critiqued the sword techniques used in old samurai movies, engaged in kenjutsu with bamboo shinai--wooden swords." In a wistful voice he added, "I know he'd hoped to further your teaching by introducing you earlier to this world, but karma had it he would die before ever fulfilling it."

"Oh." Come to think on it, the old man liked to do weird things. Beating the bushwah out of him with a wooden sword was one of them. So was calmly sipping tea in a peaceful summer evening, lost in a bubble of serenity--until some burglar tried to climb over the balcony.

An involuntary grin lifted his lips. The memory was priceless. Whack, whack, WHACK--two blows to the hands clinging on the railing, one blow to the ski-masked head squinting in the dark--and a smarting thief broke both legs in the fall from the fourth floor of Flat No. 4224. What happened afterwards was between the police and the Devil.

He shook himself out of his memories. "So, what's this tournament crap about anyway?"

"Every time a Guardian passes on to the next world, Seness holds a tourney to decide who shall become the next protector to guard the country from ethereal threats," Buster said. He pinned Marcus with a faint glower. "Threats from your world, milord."

"Threats, huh? Other...yokai, spirits? And please, call me Marcus. It's the name I was given."

"Very well, Marcus. Yes, there are other spirits that would love nothing more than to get their claws on Seness. You, even. Guardians are secondary targets, but eliminate the protector and the path to this world would be laid open."

"Okay. Why?"

Buster took the long way around to answering that question. Marcus sat back, sensing a long story behind this one. "This world was created to separate us from the human world, where your people have stifled the Old Ways. But others thrive in such a rapidly changing environment. Dorotabou, the reanimated bodies of our ancestor's farmers; necomata, cats transformed into humans; onryo, spirits born to seek vengeance. And there are some among us, like the kitsune and the tengu, who've chosen to remain on Earth.

"The Guardians act as a stabilizing arbiter between the worlds. He or she has a duty to pass justice, to ensure the lives and safety of our people of both worlds--and to stop the jealous drives of those who wish to control Earth and Seness. You see, over time some yokai on the other side grew...infected by the mores and influences of humans."

"What sorta mores are we talking about here?"

"Greed. Envy. The capacity to kill."

"Bastards." He could see why any rampaging spirit from Earth would want Seness. Nothing beats an idyllic day out in the pure, sweet countryside. And it's mine, mine, mine! All mine, I tell you--

The dragon nodded. "If malignant spirits ever bridge the gap, there will be war."

"So. I'm like the bloody customs officer between Fortress Amerika and Canuckistan." Marcus sighed. "Who else is participating in this crazy game?"

"Actually," Buster said in a far-off voice, listening to a faint clamor beyond the pavilion, "you'll be facing only one, Marcus. I believe the competition has already been whittled down by this world's potential champion."

-----

(Next bit up: Marcus meets his strong but bullheaded rival. Comment if you want me to post more!)

Jailbait,
Milo

zallan · 08-23-2006, 04:36 PM

Commenting, commenting, and commenting!!!
This is actually good and I can't wait to see his rival, the "Champion."
But actually, I'm a bit confused, so continue but at a slower, more detailed pace, please! Can't wait.

MiloDaePesdan · 08-23-2006, 11:45 PM

Okay, this is one massive post. Shall I say 2600 words? I won't be around for a couple of days, so I hope this'll be more than enough until then.

-----

Over by the tourney grounds, in the great square of leveled sand bordered by a high bamboo fence, two athletic forms, one a little more well-rounded than his opponent, pounded each other into the dust while a riotous crowd cheered from the elevated sidelines above.

Marcus thrust his hands in his pockets and stood slack-jawed, looking down at the competition. Aghast, he blurted, "Wrestling?!"

Instead of Buster, who craned his neck over the fence's lip to get a better view, an enthusiastic tanuki beside him banged his pot-bellied stomach in answer. The fat wobbled visibly. "Yosh! Lord Kiyonobu is the bestest wrestler in all Seness! Go Kiyonobu-sama!"

A calmer, five-tailed kitsune, face powdered white and dressed in a flower-patterned yukata sniffed her nose at the raccoon-dog. "My silver is on Lord Ichida. Kiyonobu has no stamina."

"Baka! Lord Kiyonobu will smash him!"

Marcus tuned out the noisemaking and the crowd's roars. He focused on the embattled lords. A little ways off from the wrestling, Shingo wore the ceremonial blue-on-white kimono of a Tourney Judge, observing the wrestlers closely.

Another roar surged through the stands. The slighter of the two had tackled his opponent in a brutal charge. Seconds later the other remained inert, facedown and eating sand. The female kitsune smirked at the flabbergasted tanuki and held out a dainty paw. She waggled foxy ears at him. "Lord Ichida wins. Pay up."

Marcus leaned forward over the palisade, taking this time to examine the victorious Ichida. He was the very archetype of Achilles, strong, muscled, curly black hair and aristocratic nose. The man was clearly in his prime, at the height of his strength, speed, and stamina. And this was the man he had to face in tourney.

"Ichida-sama!"

"Lord Ichida! Banzai!"

"BANZAI!"

Gulp. Hopefully Ichida had Achilles' foot.

"You're crazy if I have to face that guy," he hissed in Buster's ear when the crowd broke up, returning to party and recuperate in their pavilions. Not for him a celebration. More like a memorial service. O Father, who art in heaven...

"It is my belief, and I think Shingo's also, that you are the best candidate for Guardianship."

"Huh? What's wrong with the mighty Ichida?"

"He is not, let's say, the best exemplar of both worlds."

Marcus shook his head. "Dammit. He's too strong--I can't fight him in the Pit. Shit, I wanna forfeit."

"I'm afraid you lack the option," Buster said in a cold voice. "Dawnson-sama would have wanted you to enter. There is no going back." He gave Marcus a penetrating stare before entering their morbidly colored tent. They'd derived the colors from his clothes: blue, red, and somber black. "To forfeit is death. A shameful death, point in fact."

He could feel his grave swallowing him up already.

Marcus stopped and addressed the blank air. "I really can't quit, huh."

The dragon poked his muzzle out the tent flap. "No, you cannot."

Marcus lingered outside, rocking back and forth on his heels, face expressionless. Around him the world moved on--even here, in this bizarre refuge for spirits. Tanuki servants scrambled in and out of tents to carry empty platters from the massive, outdoors kitchen to his left and came back with heaps of food. Animated jars whistled as they bypassed him, their lips dripping rice wine. He noticed most of the action was happening in a giant pavilion right beside the tourney ground. Dancing animal shadows were thrown on the tent walls. Music drifted out, just like the thick ribbon of smoke from their bonfire.

Another victory, another celebration. Heh.

This was more than he'd bargained for. But he had a feeling that, in order to return to Earth, he had to go through the gauntlet. What was this tourney but another test? He owed Dawnson this much.

Still, he hesitated. What was holding him back? The thought triggered a remembered lecture from the old man. Not about duty being heavier than mountains and all that rot, but to search for the roots of his doubts.

Grief? The depression he'd immersed himself in the past few days had strangely vanished. Death? He knew enough of it to know it was a one-way ticket on the ferry. To his surprise he discovered he wouldn't mind joining the old man in his heaven. But not like this, not this way. Fear, then?

Shit. I'm scared after all.

He was afraid. Terrified, even. That much was true. But why? In his ruthless introspection Marcus stripped his spirit to the bone. Yes, he was indeed afraid. Afraid to fail the challenge and come away with the knowledge he had failed to take up a task worth doing. Besides, becoming a Guardian sounded like a thankless job full of insomniac nights. A responsibility no sane man would pick up.

Hell, I've done worse.

Marcus almost laughed at himself then. Mr. Dawnson had taken a personal hand to advance the education of a twenty-four-year-old loner, who had no familial ties, no prospects, entirely too much money in his hands, and no goals apart from getting by each day. Not something any sensible person--and the old man was by habit a little over the edge--would try to do, especially as said loner was, to use the crudest term, a hitman by his job description.

But what better person to stand guard between two worlds than an experienced assassin?

"I'm crazy but I'm not stupid," he whispered, as much to himself as to the ghosts in his mind. No matter how people liked to turn their noses up on the thought of hired killers--how could such criminals exist in this age of civilization--he was very good at his job. But, perhaps it was time to use such skills for something less temporal than knifing the next target on his to-do list. Something more...worthy.

Hah! As if he could make any noticeable dent in the world. Yet he would do this, and do it damn well his way. Not for Mr. Dawnson as he'd like to think. He didn't need that hanging over his head to justify his actions. No, he would do this just for himself. Besides, he could do with the change of scenery.

"Time to open the whole can of whup-ass."

* * *

Marcus put more swagger into his walk and stalked up to Ichida's pavilion. The guy had posted no sentries, much less an honor guard. But he suspected that what hired thugs Ichida had were busy getting as drunk as the next yokai. Marcus jerked back from the tent and sniffed the air. The distinct aroma of warm sake tickled his nostrils.

The scent was a pretty good warning of what to expect inside.

"Jesus son of Mary mother of God!"

A hedonist's paradise lay within. Human shapes and shadows circled a roaring bonfire, occupying colorful mats on beds of grass. On those mats were inebriated men engaged in drinking and singing, while scantily-clad women in silk shifts, little more than thin strips of cloth, massaged and cooed over their chosen studs. From time to time a woman raised a sultry hand to drop peeled grapes and other assorted goodies into their mouths. The noise level in here was full of squeaks, gasps, and groans, meaningful conversation having flown out the tent flap.

He looked on and thought a number of things. Mad Bacchus' wild carousing. Harem orgies. Persian belly-dancers. Indians rewriting the Kamasutra book in the time-honored fashion. Getting laid.

"Like hell," Marcus growled, and began a methodical search for Ichida. He could go through all of them right now like an abattoir before they could get unstuck from their positions. Where was the professionalism? No wonder these yokels needed a Guardian from the Earth yokai. "Idiots have the hormones of a farmer. Damn it, why do I always get the sheep?"

The leading champion lay on the biggest mat of all. It took up a fourth of the tent, and hosted a fourth of the ladies. A naked Ichida was straddled by two playful brunettes and cuddled by a trio of blondes, one on each side while another supported him on her lap, when Marcus' lean shadow fell across his vision.

"Hullo," Ichida said in a cheerful enough voice. Otherwise he ignored his visitor. "I'm afraid these girls are mine, young fellow. You'll have to look elsewhere."

"Yo," Marcus returned, flicking his hand in casual greeting. "You're dead. You know that, right?"

The blonde plumbing his left ear paused. Ichida tilted his head oh so carefully and his eyes crossed looking at the three-inch long pocketknife a hairsbreadth from his jaw-line.

"Ichida-san?"

"Yes?"

"Have I got your attention now?"

Instead of answering, the man tried to reassure his women by conveying a smile that did not quite touch his eyes. Obvious fright written all over their faces, Marcus stopped his brows from rising when they dropped the illusion he hadn't even thought was there. Female kitsune and tanuki scurried away from Ichida.

This magic business took some getting used to.

"Yes, you have my full attention," Ichida replied in a flat voice. "Are you an assassin?"

"That's a pretty dumb question, doncha think?"

"I suppose so," the lord admitted, sitting up and tugging on a kimono. "If you were an assassin I would be cut and bleeding like a bull by now. I'd be dead. You aimed deliberately."

Tense silence had filled the pavilion, broken only by the crackling flames. Marcus took a step back and waited.

"Everyone, will you kindly please leave me alone with this young man," Ichida said. "I'd like to exchange a few words with him."

When the mad scramble for the flap had ceased, Ichida tugged the pocketknife free and examined it minutely. He folded the blade and handed it back. "An interesting weapon, but not an assassin's weapon, I think."

"A blade two inches deep in the right place is enough for a human."

"Ah, but I'm not human." Ichida looked smug. "I am hanki."

Marcus looked puzzled. "Eh?"

Had Ichida expected him to flinch by whatever implied reputation following the word, he hadn't expected him to sound so indifferent. "My father is oni and my mother is human. The offspring of both is hanki. I possess the strength and power handed down to me by the father."

"Hanki?" Hanki, if he remembered, were merely a sort of half-demon.

"You must be the newcomer," Ichida said, and paused. "An ignorant newcomer."

"What in the hell is an oni? Some kinda wild onion?"

Marcus knew very well what an oni was. In fact, he'd already met one. If Shingo was not the very picture of a Japanese mountain ogre, Marcus would eat his horns.

"Watch your tongue," the hanki warned, "those words construe as an insult upon my clan."

Marcus parried with misconception of the retarded sort. "Huh? You live with wild onions?"

"You," Ichida said in a tight voice, "are the most clueless foreigner I have ever met."

"Well, you're gonna have to fight me soon anyhow. I'm next in line for the Guardianship. Besides, if you win you'll have to deal with humans like me in the next world, eh?"

"Are you insulting my honor?"

Geez, how long did it take for the mental processes of this guy add two and two together? "Naw, I'm playing dumb," Marcus shot back sarcastically. "You insulted me first by purposely calling me an ignorant foreigner, idiot. Not my fault I can't tell you hanky-pankies apart."

"Baka. You must have a death wish." Ichida frowned. The gears turning in his head were almost visible. "Are you trying to provoke me to attack you?"

"Bingo! Let's see what you got, onion."

"You have no idea what you're bringing down upon your head, do you, human?"

"Exactly."

Ichida's eyes narrowed to black beads. Marcus blinked, leaping back close to the fire. The hanki suddenly sprouted ram's horns above his ears, and his shadow elongated along with his rapid muscle growth as he transformed into his true body. Sheathed claws sprang from his paws, and his skin hardened to the toughness of leather. He vented a roar that threatened to bring down the pavilion, impressive show of fangs gleaming in the firelight.

Marcus reached down and unsheathed the Bowie knife strapped to his leg.

"Cheat," snarled the enraged hanki. "You cheat most foul, human!"

"I'm only human, after all. I got my limitations."

Ichida sprang.

Damn but he's fast! Marcus ducked and rolled towards his foe at the final second. Ichida skidded on his gorilla feet, arms a windmill to stop him from kissing the hungry flames. The fire hissed when he regained his balance and spun around, an infuriated beast sending tremors through the earth with each heavy step.

Marcus crouched, back to the pavilion wall and adopting his favorite stance, knife-blade pointed at Ichida's eyes, legs bent for an easy leap or roll, free hand hidden. If he ever grappled at close range with this bugger, he'd better make sure the blade carved out his opponent's heart before he got squeezed to a pulp. Ichida looked like the type for deathly embraces. Those thick arms of his had the gripping power of a python.

No bloody way is he gonna hug this one.

They stood staring at each other as if from a distance though only a paltry few meters lay between them. The air was strangely still, the crackling and spitting flames tempering Marcus' hair-trigger senses. Beads of sweat triggered by the heat trickled down his cheeks, and his eyes held a feral light. He felt no fear, no dread or anxiety, just the thrill of anticipation shivering down his spine.

Come on. Break.

Ichida flexed and closed his fists, the click-click-click of his ivory claws loud in the silence. Marcus licked his lips, daring the other in this psychological battle to lash out first.

"You irritate me," rumbled Ichida's voice behind a forest of fangs.

"You gonna talk or you gonna stalk?" Marcus shot back.

"When I become a Guardian, I will ban all humans from ever entering Seness!" Ichida snarled, and tackled him.

Marcus only had time to murmur "Oh," when the world became a confusing whirl of shadows and light. The knife was torn from his hands and Ichida pressed in for the kill, howling his triumph. They rolled on the mat, on the grass, on the ashes flung by the bonfire, trying to get a grip on the other.

Gotta let my body go. Marcus blanked out his mind, letting muscle memory work for him when he found himself pinned to the ground. Ichida got a hold around his neck with his left paw and pulled the other back to smash in his head. In desperation Marcus unclasped the pocketknife hidden in his free hand and slit the stupid gorilla's wrist, deep.

Ichida convulsed and roared in pain, violet ichor spurting from the cut, shocked and surprised a mere human--a good-for-nothing human--could inflict a wound on such as he! He, the son of a daimyo oni! He relieved the pressure of his chokehold and backed off, clutching the wounded appendage.

Now!

Marcus followed his motion, knife outstretched and targeting the place between the hanki's collarbone. He could see the fear in Ichida's eyes, the reflection of a killer's triumph gleaming bright--

And strong, rough hands pulled him off his opponent. They jerked him away with such force he thought he heard an audible 'crack!' from his shoulder-blades. He snarled and twisted like a beast gone mad until something heavy and painful thudded between his ears.

Ouch.

-----
(Sooo, how was the fight scene?)

Jailbait,
Milo

zallan · 08-24-2006, 05:34 PM

Pretty good, but Marcus is starting to appear more of a cheat than a hero - was this on purpose? Just wondering.

MiloDaePesdan · 08-24-2006, 09:19 PM

Lol -- here I am. A hypocrite. Anyway, I really won't be posting anything new for a couple of days, since I have got to finish this story and now got the motivation to do it!

As for Marcus appearing as a cheat...*evil grin* You'll find out when I post Chapter III.

Hmm. If you asked Marcus if he was supposed to appear as a hero, I'd say his answer would be something along the lines of:

"Baka! What the hell have you been smoking? I'm no bloody hero, fool. Go watch Hercules or something."

Jailbait,
Milo

I'm afraid Marcus can be very blunt.

magelet · 08-24-2006, 10:38 PM

hmm... that looked familiar. Are you plagiarising? j/k.... if you hadn't figure it out already, i'm wildbluefaerie.

nice to see someone else uses two forums. I've got my stuff posted in both, too. get double the feedback... in theory, anyway.