Wednesday, December 10, 2014

The View Retrospective



The Heat of the Moment 

by Katasha of Folkestone (Tanja Johnson)


[Editor's note: this story by Tanja describes her part in an epic battle during that year's Queen of Hearts Tournaments and War Maneuvers and showcases the strength of Realms women. This story was chosen as the Retrospective piece this week to celebrate the history of the Huntress Guild. Tanja, a renowned female fighter, was the original founder of the Guild and remains a role model for females in the community.] 

Oftentimes I have been asked to explain myself and my actions on a particular day some-August-ago. In fact so much so, that I have laid my sword aside for a moment and have tried to think, to truly think on that day, so I may truly give an answer from the heart. For sure, you may have been there; perhaps it did not seem to you that it happened as follows, but for me this is what I dream at night.
To look at me, I often have been told that one would not think that I follow a God of Darkness. A God that often takes action in unpretty avenues from within an already not-so-pretty world. I have my reasons, and they are true to myself in all ways. The end justifies the means in my case.
But that is another story for another time.
One particular day some-August-ago I entered into a challenging series of combat under my own banner for the honorary title of Queen of Hearts. Truth be told, I came onto the field that weekend with one goal: My family, the family of Folkestone, had ran into a continuous chain of events over the previous year that seemed to have sapped the unity of our past. The only victory I had expected to win was in our own ranks. Of course, adrenalin often has a funny way of altering our expectations.
Enter Team Twen.
Team Twenaria stormed into the tournament with a sense of urgency and community that was enviable to all, even from mine own end of the field. The consistent and potent struggle in every combat worked many into a bloodlust that even a genuine berserker would admire. Somewhere in the midst of the blood and steel and frustration rose a spirit. It was the spirit of my family. Folkestone. Unthinkingly, Team Twen had given me the edge to my personal victory; with a common enemy, the group had to pull together behind the scenes before it could put the action on the stage. But I digress...
As our ranks formed for the Bridge Battle against Team Twen, I felt as if we had entered a human-sized card game. Shuffle, shuffle. Shield to the front, arrow to the right back. No, wait; their left shield man has two points armor. Shuffle, shuffle. Pike to the left, shield to the right, healer tucked tight.. Quickly we each arranged and rearranged in response to the warriors before us, waiting for the start. Lay on.
It's an eerie quiet at the beginning of every intense battle. Perhaps if a scholar wished to study it, I am willing to bet that the ratio of quiet to time before the fight would be somehow linked to the intensity of the actual battle. Now that the hands had been shown, the players needed to decide what to do with their deal.
Movement began on both sides, a shield-dance forward here, an answering pike there; arrows flew enmasse from both sides, lithe rogues dived and rolled to retrieve those that missed their mark. Metal upon metal was the loudest music, followed by a chorus of commanding shouts and painful cries. The power of the Dark One was constantly at my fingertips, an amiable dark fluid that coursed throughout the body. I was told that time moved throughout this conflict, but I could only measure in the scores of bodies and puddles of blood that grew around me. Both sides staggered in the mire and pulled their comrades back into the fray whenever possible.
There was a moment when a shield fell before me, onto the body of Hawk perhaps? If that mass of red could have been given a name. Bruised hands pushed passed me, grabbing the form and struggling to slide it back. I found myself within a pocket of our front line, no one near to raise or heal effectively. The eyes across from me, behind the metal and leather masks, suddenly flamed with the hunger of opportunity. What adrenalin came in response spurred them forward with giant strides. Pikemen advanced, weapon points moving so quickly that they blurred.
A commanding voice, whether Jarrod, Callin or Blade, demanded a counter to the advance (they sound the same at moments of stress). I glanced warily around, while my weapon moved to block the barrage of metal that came within reach. As a moment passed and the gap widened, my feet moved and an unintentional plea for mercy to the Dark One whispered in my mind. Diving to the shield that now lay before me, empty of a partner, I felt the still-warm handle fall into place. Huddling in the midst of the mess of bodies, I dropped my sword and slowly inched to the side of Jarrod.
Looking back, I honestly believed at that moment that this was perhaps the most that I had expected to accomplish in the fight. Although I had the blessing of the Dark One and consistently mumbled his praises throughout, I felt that the victory was slipping away. In a resurgence of energy (from hell knows where) Team Twen was effectively weeding our line. Within my peripheral I could see a few of our healers brandishing their daggers unwaveringly at metal encased enemy and pikes that were longer than my horse so happily stabled at home. Always not a good sign, no matter what the occasion.
Both sides were feeling the pain and weariness of the engagement. Pockets of resistance on each side were now winning this fight. At some point the shield was taken away from me- I assume that it was after I fell to a stunning blow to the temple. I saw metal, and then sheets of red liquid (probably mine own blood). The pain never quite hit, just the darkness. I awoke in a pile of struggling bodies, along with the nagging uncertainty of surroundings that follows the intervention of a divine raising of the dead. The familiar handle of my weapon was within reach as I rolled over a scrap of rope. A woman clothed in torn robes hastily pulled on the rope, only to be struck a moment later by a well placed arrow.
Running at this point, I could see that Team Twen had been greatly thinned. Of course, I also could catch a glimpse of the flames and light that indicated an answering group raise in the rear of their party. Their group of renewed bodies were slow to stand. Nearing the front line, I felt the reassuring hand of a healer on my back, erasing the stray shots that tore into me as fast as they would appear. I am indebted to that person, if I could so remember even a face.
My world in this combat was crumbling. I could see the renewed fighters gathering their gear for a final push. Our soldiers were falling quickly. I yelled as loud as I could for a push to clinch a gain. The nearest fighter to me was Jarrod, on his knees a few feet away, blood pouring from the back of his legs. His left side was open and I had only just raised my foot a step to help, when I saw a point of metal exit through the back of his mail. Two shield men, separated by a body length, could not pull back enough to fill the gap he had left. Pieces of armor and gore flew in all directions as they vainly tried to hold their stance.
If only we had a few more bodies in motion, this was THE time to push!
I have not heard of many Darklore followers having an epiphany of any sort (the Dark One doesn't often act in such ways), but I felt something shift in my spirit. The scene froze around me, facial expressions wary and pained. Blood and sweat arcing through the air, purposeful advances stopped mid-stride. My goal seemed so simple at the time. Whether weapon of magic or metal, for a decade I have always declared my actions in the name of the Dark One. If my magic was drained through use (as it was), I could not stand and wait for the fight to end. My weapon now seemed just too short to reach the heavily armed enemy. I had been batted away as a tickling fly; nothing more than an annoyance at this point.
Yet every action has a reaction; every gift a price.
My surroundings began to pulse again, strides returned to their purpose, metal met it's target, the spray of liquids fell to the ground. A pike lay by my feet, submerged in the muck of the battle. It was so easy.
F&* This! A voice rasped.
A torn hand grasped the handle of the pike and slid it from its resting place. A figure walked forward, pike in tow, past the strewn bodies. A swing and a hit. A swing and a hit. A swing and a hit.
With the first hit, something central to my being closed. The Dark One's power was ripped from my veins, leaving a burning sensation where it once had embraced. I felt empty, but surprisingly still felt purpose. I swung and yelled to comrades, recognizing a sense of confusion in the enemies I attempted to bring down.
We rallied, but in the end it was of no avail. The rivers of energy and healing had ebbed too much. Disoriented after a raise once again, I stood in the midst of a group of warriors from both sides. They were milling around exchanging stories and embrace for a battle well fought. Realization had filtered through my conscious; I could not move but stared dumbly at the bloody pike before me. A hand touched my shoulder and woke me from my reverie. Turning, a few people barraged me with questions. I believe Veros, Rebel, Owen and Aelias were among them.
Did I see what I just thought I saw?
Katasha, was that a pike?
Aren't you a mage? I was so confused!
Were you swinging with a PIKE?
A deep breath before response, trying desperately to keep my composure.
"I broke my restrictions."
Why? That was stupid!
No, that was Awesome! I didn't even see that coming!
That's the way I'd do it!
Another person approached, pushing past the others. I couldn't even see who it was at this point. My throat was choking, I could barely breathe past the pressure in my chest.
Katasha, did you break your restrictions?!
"Yes."
 I can't believe I thought it would make the difference. My eyes filled and overflowed. Here I was in the middle of a bloody mess, surrounded by leather and chain and weapons, and I cried. No, I sobbed. Apologizing, I pushed away from the crowd, someone tried to give me a hug and whisper words of support. Stumbling behind a tent, I took a silent moment to calm down. Kneeling in the mud, I attempted to meditate.
There was no answer to my calls of power. The incantations were just words now. Repeatedly apologizing to the Dark One for my ignorance, I prayed for his judgment.
---In my mind I entered a virtual meeting room, dark and foreboding with stone carven chairs set around a shadowed throne. A swift gust of wind edged me forward, to follow a path of bloody footprints that ended at one particular seat.
*Sit* Thunder in the recognizable word rolled through my head. Bowing in subservience, I sat. The chair was impossibly soft for stone.
*Child of Mine, what have you done this day? You have knowingly given away my Gift, MY presence, in a mere TOURNAMENT? How do you serve me now?*
Shuddering at the palpable displeasure of my god, I hesitated to answer.
*SPEAK!*
"I thought I could make a difference, Great One. I had used all that I had and saw victory in sight", my head was heavy as I whispered in response. "I did not feel that I was in a tournament when it happened; I am hopelessly imperfect, Lord. I am still your dedicated servant. I am at your service, whatever you may ask." A thousand daggers suddenly stabbed into my skin. With a shriek of terror, I slid onto the cold floor. The pain stopped.
*IGNORANCE! What could I possibly want with you! Your soul is already mine, you have NO CHOICE!* The hidden walls shook in fury, loose boulders crumbled into dust at my feet. Cringing, my face was bruised from the force I was using to keep it touching the floor.
"Dark One, I realize even now that I am more of your servant than before; I realize what I have lost this day and how I am incomplete. I do not mean to overstep my bounds, but I know you need servants in all avenues, whether by might or magic. Let me continue to be an extension of your will in my world. I intend to be a factor in your goal of souls! Do not take me yet from this world, I am doubly dedicated!"
Silence. The shadows swirled through the room erratically. After a moment, I was engulfed in their presence. They slid over my body with a frightening potential to suffocate.
*Enough. The war is still long from over. Your penance is for a year and a day before you may even ATTEMPT to regain your magic from me. Serve me doubly well, if you are so 'doubly dedicated' to me; Katasha do NOT disappoint me again!---
As the words rumbled to a halt, the shadows tightened into a stranglehold around my chest. As quickly as it began, I was forcefully thrown from the room and out of my meditation. Mere moments had passed in our world.
Breathing heavily, my respite was short-lived as Radstar came bounding around the tent corner.
"Katasha, get movin! We're on the field again! Go! Go!" Putting a hand out for his support, I raised myself to my feet. In a daze, I began to walk towards the field when Radstar hesitated, pointing at my arm, "'Tasha you better get that fixed first, it looks pretty nasty."
Confused, I looked down at my forearm, now bleeding profusely from a ragged gash that circled around my arm at least three times. Apparently, a reminder from the Dark One's visit. Not like I could have forgotten it, anyways. 

[Editor's note: Part I orginally published in The View from Valehaven, 2nd Ed, Vol. 2, Issue 6; June 2005; Part II originally published in The View from Valehaven, 2nd Ed, Vol. 2, Issue 7; July 2005]