Honor Unstained
As always, a blue horizon. The deep blue horizon of a mist-shrouded morning, the sky a callous gradient from black to bruise-blue, birdsong and a distant rumbling the only interruptions to the thick silence of this hour, a quiet thicker than the all-pervasive fog. A quiet like iron smog settling in the lungs. Even the detritus of the Inners is oppressive.
He shook his head, blinking away his father's resentments. The contamination was worsening. For six hundred and seventy-six days, Vanreir had awoken at exactly this time to attend to his daily duties. He grabbed pail and cloth and began to scrub.
There were those for whom duty was a prison and habit its cage, but he considered both more as scaffolding, the bedrock structure on which a life could be built. Meticulously he cleaned his room, the light of his soul kept coiled and inert, and moved steadily on to his sister's.
"Mm..." Erii was sleeping still, wrapped protectively around her plush pillow, and he maneuvered around her with quick, efficient movements, wiping down the weathered wood of the floors and carefully organizing her toys and knick-knacks.
"Brother?" She murmured groggily, slowly sitting up. She was growing more alert, even as his own body continued its slow decay. One day they would meet in the middle, and then irreversibly diverge. But not today.
"Hush, small one. Go back to sleep." He smiled and placed a hand on her head. Today, he could still keep her safe.
"M'kay. Love you." She nuzzled his hand affectionately before settling down to sleep.
It is all on your shoulders now, my son. Everything I am, I leave to you. Let my soul be your guide. Let your soul be my tomb. And let this be enough, to awaken that which was promised. Please... let it be enough.
Finished with his task, he walked past the now-empty master bedroom and towards the water closet. Their home was presentable, time to work on himself. A simple, linear routine was best. Fluctuation was the predecessor to instability.
In the distance, the Star-forges of the Inner Ring began their spinup, ceaseless clanging like a bell endlessly rung. They would not stop until well after the sun went down. Were the Inner Residents inured to the clamor, or did some miraculous artifice render them immune?
One day, they would know the answer. One day, they would live Inside as well. Soon, if he proved himself. If he made just one more step forward. They were such wondrous rumors of the Land Inside, and yet the veil of secrecy was profound, so much so that even an Outrider of his exalted rank didn't warrant concrete details. Of all the scattered peoples who'd come together around the Ring, his House had had the most precipitous fall. Once a legend, now a cautionary tale. His father had lived Inside, but Vanreir had never seen past the cerulean shell that marked the Inner Perimeter, and by the time of his birth his father had been unable to speak of matters beyond the sword and his legacy. Nonetheless, he didn't resent those who'd engineered their fall. Why wallow in bitterness, when one could move forward instead? He would dispatch them, like any other opponent, when the time came. One policy for all enemies was simplest.
His sigil hummed, and Vanreir suppressed a frown. The coordinators were well aware of how the light of his soul operated. They knew he was not to be bothered in the morning, regardless of the urgency of the task. An even, regular routine was necessary to stabilize the power within; for all the sharpness of his light, it could only ever move in one direction. He did not consider such a fault. That which was linear, was also stable. That which was simple, was also strong.
"First Blade," the sigil spoke, and he recognized the cadence of Chief Coordinator Thran, whose normally-jovial disposition was utterly absent now.
"How can I help?" He said. As he spoke he continued to move, shaving cream applied to the throat with circular whisks of his horsehair brush.
"There's been a major incursion. Your services are requested."
"Is it the Brutes again? I thought Gondar had dealt with them."
"No. The Fairbright."
Shocked as he was, his movements did not stop. Fluidly, effortlessly he drew the razor over skin, allowing himself to enjoy the satisfying schlick of the blade as it scooped cream and hair from skin. There, all done. Faultless and bloodless as always. His hands had never been so steady before his father's death.
He flicked away the last daub of shaving debris and slapped a hand across his cheeks, examining his reflection coolly. Eyes of storm blue. Hair of storm grey. His body's discorporation had not yet become apparent, his secret unrevealed. Time enough for two souls to do what one could not. Give us just one year more. One year, and Erii would be safe.
"The Fairbright," he finally said, voice level. "Her stay of execution's been lifted?"
"The Inners decided they want no part of her. Make it clean, First Blade. The stain on your House has almost been lifted."
His eyes widened slightly. "Faster than I'd expected. It hasn't even been two years. Will this be the last, then?"
"No. But we've detected two other R-types in the region. Bag them both and the Tribunal has agreed to review your case."
"Don't give me false hope, Coordinator."
"Experience has shown your abilities to be anything but false, Sir Amarlt. Keep this up and you'll be Lord Amarlt by day's end. Your grandfather would be pleased."
"And my father," he said.
The Coordinator coughed uncomfortably. "Er, yes. And... him. Good hunting, First Blade."
Unfortunate. He was far from peak condition, with his morning routine interrupted so. Still, this calibre of enemy did not demand his utmost. A junior Fairbright, her power barely tested. Mighty as their bloodline was, it could not compare to the light of his soul, much less his father's.
Seven decades had Justinan Amarlt trained to erase the disgrace of his youth. He'd never succeeded, but Vanreir was his legacy in form and in truth, the sword of their composite soul unfurling in perfect unity. Justinan the Blade. Vanreir the Unerring. They were hilt and tang, bullet and blasting-cap: helpless apart, but together unstoppable. Artificial as it was, they were the Unerring Blade returned, the Amarlt inheritance resurgent at last. As had been promised, if the successors were true and the hour was dire. Look through the cycle, and where I am needed, there you will find me.
Sometimes he wished that their forebear's standards had not been quite so high. Sometimes he thought that his father's life had been too high a price to pay, simply to prove the sincerity of their cause. But he cast such thoughts quickly out of mind. Sincerity was simple, that did not mean it was easy. For a disgraced line, even this minute Return was grace undeserved. His father had bent everything to their restoration. Some would say he had gone too far. They would never understand the nature of a Blade. This, son, is the essence of our Thrust...
Lightly he took his sword from its rack and stepped out the door. Dawn's first rays graced the horizon, the gold commingling with the blue. He spun his blade gently, crystal-steel trapping and refracting the light, sunbeams shattered into a dizzying spray. They painted the cobblestones and the world-worn walls of the Middle District and slipped futilely off the Inner Perimeter just beyond, its matte-blue opacity obdurate and unchanging.
Erii would be behind that sturdiest of walls soon enough. She was able, empathic and wise, already skilled in political maneuver. One day, she would ensure that House Amarlt could stand on its own legs once more, without the First Sword of the Outriders looming over its foes. On that day he would relinquish his father and join her for whatever years he had remaining. Until that day, there was only one thing that he could do.
Gabrielle Fairbright fell without incident. The blood of ten thousand heroes sang in her veins, choirs of the Astral had descended to shield her, her blade of legend had blazed like a second sun, plain become glass before its incandescence; and yet none of that had saved her from the ordinary thrust of his blade, which with unerring force struck true. That was his pride and culmination, the sole point and purpose of his existence, for which his father had given his life and his mother had died in despair. Strike a thousand times, or make one strike that tells.
That single strike his father had practiced day-in and day-out, practiced until his tendons wore down and his joints melted away, until his blood became dust and his bones became kindling, until the killing blow was nothing less than a way of life, and the conclusion of its stroke indistinguishable from life's ending.
I do not know if you will understand.
In the end, language can only reduce things so far.
This, son, is the essence of our Thrust:
Pierce through. Even if it cannot be pierced.
Panting, he leaned atop the blade like an old man with a cane, eyes roaming his body to assess the damage. His right arm was burned, his left arm a seared ruin, one eye gone, the lung on his left side unresponsive. A small price to pay to see a Fairbright downed. Though his body was a ruin, the light of his soul hummed merrily, eager and undiminished, its appetite whetted but far from sated. It was the nature of a thrust to go too far, to over-penetrate. That was how you made certain of the kill.
On to the next.
---
The winners were [X] Opportunistic Raiding and [X] Sublime Attainment. When did Hunger come across the First Blade?
[ ] R-Type #1 - How convenient, that the R-types would converge. Now Vanreir would not have to go searching. Enough simply to overcome them. A difficult task, but simple. The kind he liked best.
*Receive a +11% effectiveness bonus from allies of circumstance
*Though Vanreir is wounded, the light of his soul is otherwise at close to full power.
[ ] Close of Day - Mopping up some remnants, Vanreir encountered the second R-type, a man whose wounds were oddly symmetrical with those he'd picked up from his first fight of the day. Weakened and exhausted from his battles so far, nonetheless he would pierce through. One last obstacle, one last barrier, and then Erii would be safe.
*Vanreir is significantly weakened and, more importantly, fatigued from using his Compound Soul Evocation in multiple fights.
*However, his determination at this point is unstoppable, the inertia of the day and its proximity to victory fueling his will in all things.
Hunger's preliminary observations of Vanreir:
*A strange affinity
*A highly skilled swordsman, even moreso than Hunger himself
*Employs simple, linear, but highly effective tactics
*His basic thrust is his 'ultimate move'
*Once begun, his thrust cannot be interrupted, nor does he miss. Range is not a factor.
*Similarly, he cannot cancel out of his thrust either. It requires wholehearted commitment.
*His overall parameters are substantially greater than Hunger's, though this does not account for any blood-based debuffs or the Form of Rage.
*However, his thrust would be threatening even to that Form.
Choose 2 modifiers:
[ ] Preparation: Withdrawal - Just try to stay alive. Vanreir wants your head, but even if he chases you to the Outer Temple, it's unlikely he'll be able to pass through the antechamber's defenses.
+20% chance of survival
+40% chance of no rewards from this fight
+Discretion
[ ] Preparation: Focus - You've faced longer odds with fewer forces. Against a magus, perhaps you are helpless without Gisena or the element of surprise. But this is a swordsman, and if his skill in the art is presently the greater, still Hunger recalls his war against a bladesmaster far greater than him. Before the violet blade of the Tyrant, what is one man's ordinary Thrust?
+5% effectiveness
+Awakens Moderate Condition: Trauma after the fight concludes
+Valor
[ ] Preparation: Dialogue [2 Arete] - Try to draw upon the strange affinity and turn him to your side. There's no reason beyond raw intuition to think this would work...
Baseline 10% chance of success, can be modified by other votes and discussion.
As it currently stands, will put you in Arete Debt.
[ ] Preparation: Resolve - Withstand the Thrust, its sharp terrible wounds of body and soul, and opportunity arises. Speed and technique are not the only types of strength. Weather the enemy's blow and they are open to counterattack.
+8% combat effectiveness, +17% Form of Rage chance
+50% chance to suffer a devastating condition if victorious
Tactics, omakes and discussion of all kinds will improve your odds independent of, and possibly synergistic with, your choices, even if they are not used in the update itself. Consider your votes carefully!
