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]