Emyuil: Chasing a Broken Dream, part I: "Ashes Remain"

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Thu, 12/13/2012 - 13:51

A look into the past, into the early wanderings of Emyuil, when the Half-Rat rose, and Streamstone died. This takes place immediately after Forgefires of Fate, and some time after 'DoraRose: The Lost Season, p.1'.

Black smoke rose in the east as Emyuil strode out to the west, a dark sword over his back and a fire even darker in his heart and soul. Ye Gods, it felt good to be out of that place. He'd never traveled much further than along the road to Roma or another local village with his father to sell armor and arms in the marketplaces. This would be an adventure, the upbeat, juvenile part of him began. Then he rememembered his purpose and the bitter soul who had forged the black sword and vowed the death of Stormfeather, and if not, of himself, strode out from the black voids of his being and choked the optimism into nothingness.

This, the hateful spirit hissed, is not a holiday outing. This is a quest for blood. The blood of Stormfeather I seek. And I will have it ere the season grows much older. Emyuil Streamstone is dead, for there is nothing more for him here. Emyuil Streamstone is dead. He died beside his family's gravestones, beside the empty bed of his older sister, in the empty walls of the house of his family, now a place where only ashes remain.

The words echoed in his mind as he drifted down that lonely road.

...a quest for blood...

Tuscani, the mighty Eastern Plains, the rolling fields and stately hills receded in the distance and the sun crept towards the apex of its ascent.

...the blood of Stormfeather I seek...

The lone wanderer's shadow lengthened against the dusty, hard-packed dirt of the path, making him feel, for just a moment, small and insignificant and decidedly alone in a vast, darkening world. Then his eyes darkened and his heart hardened. He vowed that fear would no longer hold any meaning for him. The only way to survive in a world so cold and hostile and barren, then, would be to become, in spirit and mind, colder,more hostile, and impassive than this dangerous, unpredictable realm that he had been cast into by the whim of Fate.

...and I will have it ere the season grows much older...

Cricket song filled the humid night air as he continued to power along the trail. The scorched remains of the one place had ever known as his home were leagues behind him now. His footpaws were numb; each impact--no matter how painful after maintaining a scorching pace for an entire day--caused no change in his impassive face, not even a single, miniscule spark of discomfort in those shark-like, obsidian eyes.

...Emyuil Streamstone is dead...

Thunder boomed overhead, and rain slashed down as dark stormclouds concealed the pale crescent moon. Lightning jabbed down and obliterated a hollow, dead tree. Emyuil plodded on, implacable.

...for there is nothing more for him here...

Harsh, sneering voices from the dark woods. The smell of damp wood, the foul reek of wet kindling on a fire, the misty fog that always accompanies it. For the first time that day, Emyuil stumbled over something that squelched beneath his footpaws. The merest flash of plain revulsion and surprise in his gaze. A corpse.

It was a young mousemaid, sprawled out with blood matting her rain-soaked fur, ordinary, simple clothing, a basket over one paw, just as if she had gone out gathering herbs or somesuch, never suspecting that it would be the last journey she ever made...And in one ear, a plain copper hoop, a personal touch, an accessory affordable for the everyday countrybeast, a way to take pride in her appearance that wouldn't be a hindrance when working around the home and doing chores.

A plain copper hoop.

A plain copper hoop.

Emyuil's memory whispered,

Just like 'rose wore.

Then came a voice that echoed hollowly like coffin lids slamming open, like the doors of a crypt thrown open from within, a voice that whispered like the icy breeze in a graveyard on the solstice of winter, when the marble tombstones were frosted at the edges and icicles snuck down from the edges of the markers, that began as a murmur and blazed to a roar like black dragonfire, like the whistling song of an ice covered meteor in flight, like the screaming fires of Hell itself, like the volcanic thunder of an avalanche, like the wet, metallic slash of a swordblade rending a beast diagonally from waist to shoulder:

Just like Lily wore.

He gazed into the clearing ahead, where vermin, afflicted with varying degrees of inebriation, clustered around a sputtering, coughing campfire, laughing as blood glistened from their swords, as they argued and cursed and laughed and argued the ownership of the possessions of the forlorn, lonely deadbeasts that shared the clearing with them.

Emyuil Streamstone is dead.

He drew his sword and strode into the clearing, silent, impassive, implacable...

Unmerciful.

He died, kneeling beside his younger sister's grave, beside the empty bed of his eldest sister, beside the tombstones of his mother and father...

The first spray of blood along his virgin swordblade, the first screams of the dying murderers.

In the empty walls of the house of his family...

Tearful pleas for mercy. A distant, cold, impassive voice. "Ask and ye shall recieve...As much mercy as you gave the beasts who never wronged ye, whose remains you left lying in the rain like forgotten sacks of grain...Aye, you will recieve such mercy as ye gave..."

"None."

Now a place...

...Where only ashes remain.

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