{ 010 - Video }
“He’s one of them, one of the beasts!” The shouting voice belongs to a man wielding a staff.
“I remember him!” shrieks another, a dainty woman who is wearing her hair in a too-tight bun.
“Destroyed that building-” a kid attempts to chime in.
“He destroyed a lot of buildings, him and the others like him!” the first interrupts, fist in a white-knuckled grip on his staff.
A roar ripples through the crowd. They all remember him, the man with the silver hair dressed all in white at the center of their circle. It is hard to forget the one that demolished a portion of the city a few weeks earlier, the one that was left standing at the end of that foreigners’ war. The people raise their signs in protest and surround the man in question. Others raise their fists or raise weapons. The man does not move. His back is to the Forge but there is no questioning his identity.
“He’s the one called Isley, one of those creatures that turned on his own kind! Be careful!”
Isley neither confirms nor denies this accusation; the Natives’ aren’t entirely ignorant of the Scorched-they’ve been listening as much to their stories as the Scorched have the Natives’. He has nothing to say, however. Words would be wasted here, now. On these trifling humans. He remains silent as he brushes back his cloak. The folds hang behind his shoulders and reveal the ornate hilt of a sword at his hip.
“He’s armed!” the woman with the bun wails.
“He’s going to attack!” The child clings to the woman’s skirt.
Wielding his cruel looking staff, the nearest protester breaks free of the line. He charges at Isley screaming in a voice that is ragged and raw, “It’s all your fault my son was killed!” The fighting stick is swung in a half-moon arch that is aimed for the back of Isley’s neck. At the resounding CRACK that follows the swing it seems almost as though the blow connected.
But that is not the case.
Wood splinters and sprays the air instead. The staff is destroyed, and fragments of it rain down upon the trampled earth. The protester stumbles back with a startled scream. It is the instigator; it brings countless others forward from the line with weapons raised to attack the Abyssal. Isley reacts accordingly.
As he turns it becomes obvious that he is not fighting with his sword at all.
The steel was rapidly unsheathed, true-but it stands upright in the ground now. Isley wields instead his scabbard, a ruddy looking object with a blunted brass tip. Again and again it is used to deflect blows from the protesters. Again and again using only that he drives them to their knees, to their backs, and to their bellies. Not a single movement is wasted as he pivots around the sword embedded in the ground. The breezy smile upon his face never falters, and neither does he.
The Natives keep coming, and Isley keeps dancing. Amongst them he is a white blur of motion, a wintry tornado that sweeps more than twenty men off their feet and spills them to the ground. He doesn’t stop until they all lie defeated beneath him; the circle that had surrounded him earlier is all but destroyed now.
Every chest still rises, however. Coughs and wheezes can be heard. Not a drop of blood dapples the dusty terrain.
He’s spared each and every one of their lives without so much as breaking a sweat.
Perhaps just to prove he can.
“I remember him!” shrieks another, a dainty woman who is wearing her hair in a too-tight bun.
“Destroyed that building-” a kid attempts to chime in.
“He destroyed a lot of buildings, him and the others like him!” the first interrupts, fist in a white-knuckled grip on his staff.
A roar ripples through the crowd. They all remember him, the man with the silver hair dressed all in white at the center of their circle. It is hard to forget the one that demolished a portion of the city a few weeks earlier, the one that was left standing at the end of that foreigners’ war. The people raise their signs in protest and surround the man in question. Others raise their fists or raise weapons. The man does not move. His back is to the Forge but there is no questioning his identity.
“He’s the one called Isley, one of those creatures that turned on his own kind! Be careful!”
Isley neither confirms nor denies this accusation; the Natives’ aren’t entirely ignorant of the Scorched-they’ve been listening as much to their stories as the Scorched have the Natives’. He has nothing to say, however. Words would be wasted here, now. On these trifling humans. He remains silent as he brushes back his cloak. The folds hang behind his shoulders and reveal the ornate hilt of a sword at his hip.
“He’s armed!” the woman with the bun wails.
“He’s going to attack!” The child clings to the woman’s skirt.
Wielding his cruel looking staff, the nearest protester breaks free of the line. He charges at Isley screaming in a voice that is ragged and raw, “It’s all your fault my son was killed!” The fighting stick is swung in a half-moon arch that is aimed for the back of Isley’s neck. At the resounding CRACK that follows the swing it seems almost as though the blow connected.
But that is not the case.
Wood splinters and sprays the air instead. The staff is destroyed, and fragments of it rain down upon the trampled earth. The protester stumbles back with a startled scream. It is the instigator; it brings countless others forward from the line with weapons raised to attack the Abyssal. Isley reacts accordingly.
As he turns it becomes obvious that he is not fighting with his sword at all.
The steel was rapidly unsheathed, true-but it stands upright in the ground now. Isley wields instead his scabbard, a ruddy looking object with a blunted brass tip. Again and again it is used to deflect blows from the protesters. Again and again using only that he drives them to their knees, to their backs, and to their bellies. Not a single movement is wasted as he pivots around the sword embedded in the ground. The breezy smile upon his face never falters, and neither does he.
The Natives keep coming, and Isley keeps dancing. Amongst them he is a white blur of motion, a wintry tornado that sweeps more than twenty men off their feet and spills them to the ground. He doesn’t stop until they all lie defeated beneath him; the circle that had surrounded him earlier is all but destroyed now.
Every chest still rises, however. Coughs and wheezes can be heard. Not a drop of blood dapples the dusty terrain.
He’s spared each and every one of their lives without so much as breaking a sweat.
Perhaps just to prove he can.