VII. Clashing Gold
You feel it now. The spark lighting up in their eyes. The line it draws between you and them. They want to hope, but they are afraid. They do not know what you are - a savior? Or another petty tyrant like Nashai, come to rule their lives?
You open your mouth to try and say something, and the mountain behind you howls.
You turn on your heels, wide-eyed, and all the village stares as a gout of golden flame comes rolling down the road to the shrine, blows into a gust, and as it reaches the village it stumbles into the shape of a great hound, its gold fur weathered and stained with red.
You duck to the side, as do Marrow and several villagers, as the goddess of Embercairn comes smashing into the plates and benches left in the wake of Shay's kick. She slides in the dirt, landing curled up at the foot of the heap of kindling and offerings, and a pained whimper escapes her fangs.
The people of the village look on in horror, struck speechless. Then Abanya lets out a strangled cry, stumbling over himself in a rush, and falls to his knees at the hound's side.
"Goddess," he whispers, laying his hands on her flank, "goddess, no, it cannot be…"
You walk amongst the spilled grain and vegetables, the beer-stained dirt, until you stand over the goddess; her breath curls into steam from her narrow muzzle, and she seems so much smaller than she was in your dreams last night. There is a bloody rend in her side, but more than this, grey-tinged veins spread, spider-like, through her skin.
Venom.
A ruby eye opens halfway, staring at you.
"Your test," comes the hoarse voice of the goddess. "She… did not pass."
Her eye closes, her breath slowing, and the sight of it twists your gut. You knew this could happen, and yet to see it… Is this your fault?
Dozens of people flock to their divine patron, kneeling to the ground, head bowed, wailing, weeping. Distraught and horrified…
You do not know when your walking stick found its way back into your hand, but there it is, firm under your fingers, and you find that it is more than a crutch.
You stomp the ground with it, once, twice, three times, and each time it echoes more loudly, until the villagers are drawn from their sorrow to look at you again.
The night has come and stars stud the sky, but they do not see it. What they see is that the sun has come among them: that it stands here, on the small plaza of their small forgotten village, bringing its light and its warmth.
The moment when you are recognized for what you are and can no longer stand among the people as one of them is always painful. But it is also necessary. When this mantle was given unto you, it brought with it an extension of the responsibilities that were yours as a magistrate of Prasad.
It made them reach all the way to the four corners of Creation, and cover all of its people. You must exist as more than a woman, a martial artist, or a magistrate. You are the symbol of justice.
"Light the pyre," you say solemnly, "and burn your offerings in the name of she who hounds the rain and brings the harvest. Dedicate your prayers unto her. She is a goddess, beyond mortal death; these wounds shall heal, but it is by your faith that her strength shall be returned."
"You… know these things?" young Shuri says, frowning.
"She is right," Abanya says, standing up. "Gods do not die from such blows. But to think - to imagine that Nashai could do such a thing - not even that she would commit such transgression, but have the strength to strike down our guardian-"
"Fear not!"
You slam your stick on the ground and your anima ebbs, tendrils of light flicking around you, shedding a bright glow over the plaza.
"Do you see now why I have been sent among you? Though I came to this village looking for the Golden Hounds, my steps were surely guided by the will of Heaven! I am a chosen of the Sun, and he has bestowed upon me not only his strength, but eyes with which to see the inequity and corruption of this world - and the strength to smite it! How many chances has Nashai had to make things right? To cease acting as a petty tyrant? And yet, to the last, she has allowed hubris to guide her! Now she has committed sacrilege. Yes, indeed, she is the Steel-Fanged Adder - a viper in your midst, biting the hand that has fed her. Her own honor has been discarded on the altar of pride and power - and this is why I am here, with you, tonight. Justice will be served."
There it is. That spark you saw at first, which had guttered out at the sight of their wounded goddess, has been rekindled into a candle - and that candle can be made into a bonfire. They look up to you and see the coming dawn, four years of darkness chased by the light.
You are not the dawn. You are the eclipse. You can only exist within that darkness, within the shadow of evil. Your existence is defined in opposition to it - set right what has gone wrong. Protect the helpless. Punish the wicked. And move on - to the next shadow. To the next crime.
Wandering judge of this Age of Sorrows. Worshipper of Ruvia.
This is why your punishment was the greatest that could be. The loss of your legs was not the loss of your martial arts. It was the loss of your purpose. Your journey come at an end. A thousand wrongs across the world, going unavenged. A thousand crimes, festering in secret like gangrenous wounds under the skein of the world.
"Please," Abanya says, bowing his head deeply. "We place our faith in you, Chosen of the gods. We beg you-"
"Do not beg," you say. "This is my duty."
And they all stand. They all look at you.
And you turn away, towards the shrine and your enemies, and the bitter bringing of judgement...
...to find Marrow standing in your way.
"Nice speech," he says, "but I'm not letting you go up there alone."
You glower at him. "Marrow, you are a merchant."
"I've lived a rich life and learned many trades," he says with this weird fang-grin of his.
"This is my responsibility."
"You asked me to trust you," he says, the grin fading, his pupils narrowing to slits. "I did. Now I ask you to return the favor."
"I-" you start, and then you sigh and rub your temple, where the stem of the black rose pokes into your skin.
Perhaps you do not have to do this on your own. Even a wandering judge does not travel alone.
"Fine," you say with a resigned smile. "Consider yourself trusted, Marrow of the mysterious past."
"Like you have any leg to stand on when it comes to-"
And then he pauses, considers his figure of speech, and his quip turns into an awkward cough.
You can't help but laugh and pat his shoulder. "Let's go," you say, and kick off, dirt rising in clouds in the wake of your hard wooden feet beating the earth, Marrow's lengthy stride easily keeping up with yours.
After four days staring at that cairn, that tower of rough stone always looming in the distance, knowing your goal was there so close you could almost touch it, you are finally on your way. The flame of Essence fills your leg with strength and confidence, making your steps as sure as if you were whole, your own anima a warm mantle on your shoulders and a beacon for Marrow to follow. You race across a path of beaten earth between stuccoed houses and past them, up the steadily rising incline of the mountain, first across ochre stones and shrubbery and then between the flat platforms of rice paddies, greenery rising out of the water on all sides of you, the livelihood of the dozens of children who drank your stories like water.
You cannot fail them. You cannot allow whatever vengeance Nashai would unleash on the village for their perceived betrayal. They all depend on you.
"Road!" shouts your companion, but you have seen what he saw and slid to a halt, peg-legs driving two furrows in the ground.
Shay Grass-born stands before you, his posture relaxed but his eyes cold and focused, a segmented staff slung over his shoulders.
"So he wasn't delirious," he says, a thin smile drawing on his lips. "You really are Exalted."
If you've heard from your friend," you say coolly, "you know that you are no match for me. Stand aside."
"No…" The young man says thoughtfully. "No, I don't think I will. I have always dreamed of testing my skill against one of the Chosen."
"Such a test only ends one way," you answer, taking a step forward.
And finding Marrow's hand holding you back.
His eyes peer at Shay, inscrutable, his inhuman face showing no expression.
"You don't have time for him," he says. "Nashai could be claiming the Hounds even as we speak. Leave him to me."
Understanding dawns on you. "This was your goal to begin with, wasn't it?" you ask. "It's why you came with me."
"Shay and I have something to settle."
"Don't be stupid, Marrow," Shay says, his smile curdling into a grimace of anger. "You picked the wrong side, but you're an outsider. I can forgive you. But I am a student of the Adder, and you have never set foot in a dojo."
You give Marrow a worried glance, but he simply shakes his head without taking his eyes off Shay. "I asked you to trust me, and you said you would. This is the part where you show you meant it."
You turn from him and to the young man standing in your way, biting your lips in thought.
"I am not letting her go past me," he says, "even if I have to fight you two-to-one-"
You take a sharp breath and brace on your feet, and you jump.
You soar twenty feet up, far above Shay, far past him, landing on the ground with a painful throb in your knees.
"I won't let you-" a voice calls out behind you, and there is a rush of motion, two colliding footfalls and the dull song of blows, claws against wood and flesh against scale.
You don't turn to look. Marrow asked you to trust him, and trust you will. You keep running, your eyes set straight ahead, your chest pumping like bellows.
The light around you is answered by a light ahead. The embers of the cairn - the shrine feels taller from up close, bigger, its architecture of rough stone so different from the mudbrick village below, no doubt much older; glassless windows glow in dull reds and burnished golds, the door to the shrine like the maw of a furnace, otherwise a simple featureless tower.
A handful of students of the Adder stand before the shrine, and once again you come to a halt. You open your mouth to shout the same warning you gave Shay - but before you can say anything they all stand aside from the door and fall to their knees, like an honor guard at a prince's passing.
You feel it. Waves of power radiating from the inside of the shrine. Raw Essence unleashed in that fiery glow. The taste of metal on your tongue, the hiss of the viper at the edge of your hearing. You know what is coming.
Mistress Nashai of the Adder comes out of the shrine with a gleeful smile. Long braids adorned with snake-heads of steel, slit pupils in golden eyes, dark skin adorned with the faint, barely visible pattern of snake scales, fangs on display. She rolls her shoulders, muscles flexing visibly in her dark sleeveless outfit. A coiled snake emblazoned on her chest. In each of her hand, one of her school's false relics, a hooked sword of purple hepatizon.
She comes out of the shrine in golden boots - no, not golden. Orichalcum. The metal of the highest of the Incarnae. The iron of the Godspear. Sunlight trapped in gold. Sleek and shining, forged to resemble the abstract outline of a hunting hound on the pounce, dark leather where the metal must leave room to flex. A true work of art worthy of the highest of the Chosen.
Worthy of the divine gift at their heart - Ruvia's ever-swift sandal, which are now the soles of these boots.
The Golden Hounds.
"You arrive too late," Nashai says, walking between her adoring students.
"You have never truly understood my true intentions," you muse, watching her approach with her swords held low.
"What," she scoffs, "this charade of being a magistrate? Come on! Do not insult me! You are Prasadi - among your people, the Chosen of the Sun are Anathema! The dragon-princes would kill you on sight, and yet you still claim yourself a law-giver?"
"You may have claimed the Hounds," you say softly, inclining your head and pulling your power inwards, "but your crimes stand unatoned for. I have come bringing judgement."
"And you think the strength of the Exalted," she says dramatically, opening her arms as if to invite you to strike her down, "will stand up to my gifts? A life of dedication and self-perfection! The blessings of my master, may he die on the road and reincarnate into a cockroach! These sacred swords! And above all, these Golden Hounds, divine boots! I have defeated a goddess without a single scratch, Magistrate Road, but you think yourself better?!"
"Yes," you answer.
She blinks, surprised. Then she starts chuckling.
"So I see arrogance is not my vice alone."
"You asked me why I could still consider myself a magistrate even when my very existence would now be seen as a sin by my people," you murmur, just loud enough for her to ear. She narrows her eyes, lowering her arms into a relaxed stance. "The truth is that is because my existence has always been a sin."
Nashai looks at you quizzically, and you can see the gears of her mind start running as she works out the implication; she looks at the black rose in your hair, likely remembers the white lily days ago - would the touch of the Wyld be seen as a curse? No, that is not enough, and she can't even be sure it is the Wyld kiss and not a hint of dragon's blood. Perhaps you were born of a forbidden union? Or else…
Her eyes widen.
"Your school," she says. "The school whose name you refused to speak even at the risk of offending your house. Who did you study with?"
You give her a mirthless smile and extend one arm, palm to the starry skies, and your golden anima coils around your hand in endless many-legged segments, its light inverting into a bleak, gold-crowned darkness.
"I am a student of-
[X]"The Art-Defiling Venom Style."
A secret and forbidden branch of the Centipede School practiced by a sect of Kegare-worshippers embedded deep within Prasadi society and the South-East as a whole, the Art-Defiling Venom Style was designed to bring punishment to the deserving, and specifically to those who misuse martial arts in the pursuit of evil goals. It is considered highly heretical because it aims not to kill, but to rob its opponents of their ability to ever practice the martial arts again - the channeled essence of the Centipede God enabling curses which corrupt even the powers of Exalted healing.
Of the Four Hands of Ruination known to the school, Golden Road has mastered one.
[ ] The Ninety-Nine More, a vicious grappling move capable of crippling an enemy's limb forever, allowing the user to specifically deny the use of however many of the victim's techniques they feel like taking from them.
[ ] The Agony-Of-One-Hundred-Hells, a magical poison which permanently taints the nervous system of its victim, leaving them with a seemingly intact body which undergoes excruciating pain whenever they exert significant effort.
[ ] The Soul-Scarring Embrace, a spiritual venom which creates a traumatic vision and sears it into its victim's psyche, forever associating thoughts of violence and the martial arts with overwhelming dread and horror in their mind.
