The Prison of Oaken Rebuke
"You are weak."
"You sound like my father."
"I was supposed to BE your father, Nameless."
Nameless Ravine said nothing and continued walking.
"But he was weak, and he rejected me. You share his weakness. You should never have let that vagrant beat you so easily. It doesn't have to be this way! Yours could be the strength that toppled the Dread Lord Alarun. Yours could be the power that laid waste to the foes of Heaven's Mandate. Yours..."
"Mine is the hand that betrayed my oathsworn kin at Varsi, because I listened to you."
"You listened to me at Takahara where you stood your ground against a thousand ravening foes who knew no fear. You cannot say you regret this deed."
"Oh, but I do. I should never have put my trust in you. You shackled my might to a ravening abomination. At Varsi, The Promise and I worked hand-in-hand and performed a greater deed than you could have granted."
"Hmph. The Promise. An elegant bit of metal, and not bad in a fight. But you really think that The Promise can stand against The Vendetta? That blade has centuries of experience, where the Promise has what... one year since Breaking Iron? But that's a false comparison, really. Why should they be opposed to one another? And why do you treat me as an adversary? I have so much to teach you. Learn to wield two swords, and you can hold the Promise in one hand, and the Vendetta in the other. You need not choose."
Again, Nameless Ravine said nothing.
"Why, your sworn friends could help you in this. Storm of Amber can teach you much about becoming a partner with a strong-willed weapon. Rivers Between Us could make you a gauntlet to wield the Promise with one hand, freeing your other for its mighty predecessor. Leaf Shakes the Wind could teach you the secret paths of the world, that you could reach your hated foe the Mask deep in his lair. And Sapphire River at Midnight..."
"...yes, Forsaken?"
"Your sworn sister could summon and bind The Vendetta to you, just as Larkin Ken did for me a thousand years ago. Oh, to see the look on his face! He'd recognize the blade. He knows what it can do. That's why he bound it and gave it to me, to prevent any from wielding it against him. Wouldn't you love to strike down the Mask of Winters, a Deathlord, with one terrible blow? Isn't that why you were sent here, Chosen of the Dawn?"
Nameless Ravine had to admit: he was indeed tempted. He scowled and shook his head and turned from the road towards a nearby copse of trees. He stopped at the grove's very center, and reached over his shoulder to The Promise's hilt. It growled as he touched it, but it settled down when he drew it and fell into an attack posture. The blade could read the exalt's spirit as a swordsman, and it knew that its foe was not in control.
Nameless Ravine lashed out in the Eight-Directions Stance, felling tree after tree, leaving him standing alone within a a small clearing. Then, switching his grip on the blade, and holding it as if he were holding a mighty ink brush, he made a long flowing series of deft motions with his arms and wrist. As he did, he brought all of his swordsmanship into alignment with his talents at calligraphy. Soon, one of the trees was coated, roots to branch, with lustrous carven ideograms, blazing with essence in the day's dying light; the first verse of the Fundamental Sutra of Integrity.
"Very impressive brushwork. But what exactly is the point of this?"
He smiled grimly. "You'll see soon enough, you misbegotten wretch."
He worked his way from tree to tree until the entire clearing was outlined with glowing letters; the Fundamental Sutra of Integrity, the Incantation of Oaths, and a Prayer to Lytek. He smiled to himself, for not all of the written words were visible to the naked eye; some were meant for a very special audience.
Finally, as day turned into night, he walked to the center of the grove and plunged The Promise deep into a tree stump. A keeing, wailing sound was heard as his banner flared; a river of molten gold flanked by deep precipices of gleaming white rock; and writhing in the orihalcum flow, and a crimson serpent, thrice-impaled upon a grand blade. He raised his arms to heaven and shoted for all to hear: "I tire of your whispered words. You want me, Boameth? You want me to become the Torrent of Woe, unleashed once again upon Creation? I am here, fiend! You have until the dawning of the sun. Come and turn me, if you dare!"
With that, his eyes flashed green. His anima banner begain to churn and roil until it was altogether unrecognizable. The light was no longer the brilliant dawn of a new day, but the utter bleakness of the light that penetrates the barred window of the condemned man's cell on the day he is to be executed.
The Torrent of Woe laughed - a deep, echoing, terrible laughter. At last, he was truly reborn! At last, he was free! He knew what he would do. First, he would return to the Plum Blossom Retreat. There, he would...
A tree caught his eye. The words on it... they changed and writhed before his eyes! No more were they simple scripture as for a peasant's feeble mind; no, these were words of rebuke and power. They seared his very soul. Images flooded unbidden through his mind of the time prior to his exaltation; the suffering he felt at the hands of Alarun; the sorrow at the loss of his family. Of the time of his solar glory; his great love for Erdene, which she returned; of the pain and agony in his heart on the day he turned his back on her, turned his back on his eclipse-sworn oath to return and marry her.
The Torrent of Woe screamed, a madman's tortured scream. He sought to avert his eyes, but everywhere he looked, the trees mocked him. This was a cage! A cage of words; of condemnation and judgement. His mind reeling, he stumbled backwards to the very center of the clearing; the furthest point from any of the terrible trees with their terrible words. He steadied himself upon a sword thrust into a tree stump, but it made an ear-piercing shriek, a terrible sound, and scorched his hand.
For too long had the Torrent of Woe been a free-floating shard. He had forgotten what it meant to feel pain and agony, to feel shame and failure. Now he remembered, and in his remembering he curled into a ball and wept.
At dawn, the Torrent of Woe was gone. Nameless Ravine staggered to the center of the clearing and placed a torn, shaking hand upon the Promise's hilt. It was warm and welcoming to his touch. He knelt down by the blade and regarded his reflection in its surface. The world was a blur; the Torrent of Woe had tried to claw his own eyes out, but lacked the composure to carry out the deed. Nameless Ravine could see ragged welts and bruises all over his face. His arms and legs were torn by a full night of violent thrashing, sufficient to overcome even one trained twice-over in the disciplines of Ox-Body. Still, he grinned. The Torrent of Woe, in his arrogance, had walked right into his trap. He had won! His hated foe was gone! He felt like shouting out to the heavens, and singing sagas of triumph and vindication.
But as his vision gradually sharpened, the cries of joy died in his throat.
Every single tree in the clearing lay overturned; pried from the ground with shocking force. The bark thick with words had been striped from each tree and torn into a thousand pieces. And on the ground, around the entire center of the clearing, was a series magnificent bloodstains, puddles of vitae in trenches dug with fingers and mouth and sheer will. Together, these bloodstains formed a series of enormous, graceless characters. The writing was almost illegible... but the message was unmistakable. "YOU ARE WEAK."
Now it was the Nameless Ravine's turn to weep.
