Watch the silent fire,
Watch me scorch my battered heart,
Ashes cannot burn.
- Robert Van Lingen
_____________________________
Orcs, Vizier Jerik.
Orcs.
Them. Of course.
Throughout his life, Sparhawk had never had the best luck with orcs. First, the village in
the spine, having to fight off a small tribe of them, eventually running away. And of course the entire business with Gerra in Molthal, surrounded by them. But to think they'd do something so barbaric, so base, puzzled him. Why wouldn't they have just killed her?
It wasn't as if she was useful to them.
He knew of an Orc settlement, not far from there. They'd been attacked many times before, but all of them had been in vain, their warrior
culture serving them well in the desert. Rumours were told of how they hung the bodies of their enemies outside their walls to ward off intruders, and to challenge rival tribes. Unlike the tribes of the spine however, they almost exclusively used weapons of war, like swords, axes and blunt weaponry, without an experienced Sorcerer or Shaman in sight.
That would be their downfall.
Jerik turned towards the door, and walked out without saying a word.
With each step he took towards the stable on the lower level of the Palace, the more he felt unburdened by seeing Alina. For years he held onto the hope of her life, and the hope that he could save others. But now, he had finally come to realise that, for him to truly shape the fate of the world, he must
kill his old self. The Sparhawk that cared for her life, sought to teach others, looked to further the exploits of the
College of Elbion, was no more.
If all he could do was destroy, he would seek to master the art of death.
He would be the man who scorched the sky,
_____________________________
The sun was gone, and the moon was high.
When Sparhawk had arrived at the outskirts of the village, it was already night, the cold, sandy-breeze low in the air. The only light provided was the camp setup by the Orcs, and the smoke that rose in the sky. Awake, were the tribe's strongest men, women and warriors, resting during the day, and active during the night, always wary of a raid or rival orc tribe wishing to claim their territory. The younger children and mothers slept peacefully during the night, protected.
The light was bright on the sands, the sillouhete of the soldiers shadowing onto the loose ground they stood on. They stood in a powerful ring around their campfire, guarding the entrance way to their families, their loved ones. That which they sought to protect.
And, it seemed, the rumours were true; as Jerik glanced at the outer wall of the village, bodies were strung up, or even nailed, to the various walls and entrapments. He imagined it would work wondefully for most mercenary bands of warrior groups, but - unfortunately for them
nothing would deter him now.
As he approached closer and closer, his horse left behind him now, he could see more and more of the village, until, eventually, they noticed him. One of the largest in the group, most likely the fiercest warrior by combat, noticed him first and stood up fast, axe in hand.
"Nalkriuk ayh lat? Ukavaausan kurrauz!"
Jerik kept walking forward. The warrior shouted something to the others, and the 70 or so warriors all stood up, weapons in hand, all giving fierce looks towards him.
As he raised his hand, he hesitated.
But-
No. This is who I am now. No more second chances.
"Do'tahshi Rekni Tou Fimen." He murmered.
All of the orcs stopped in place, still, like an army of statues. They all began to twitch, their hands reaching for their heads, dropping their weapons. The largest dropped to his knees, groaning terribly, as did the rest of them. They rocked from side to side, some of them even scrapping their heads against the floor, looking for some kind of relief.
Jerik kept walking forward, until he was only a step or two away from the largest.
"K-Ki-Kj-" The Orc warrior tried to utter some words, but simply couldn't string anything together.
Jerik lowered his head to stare him down. As he did, the Orc began to violently scream, showing his sharp teeth, so vulnerable. His hands clasped his skull, shaking it furiously, as if something inside was trying to escape. Trickles of blood began to fall down from where the Orc's eyes were. His screams became louder and louder, as he looked for comfort in Jerik's eyes. But he would find none, as with his final, ear-shattering scream, his head burst savagely, many of the pieces landing straight onto Jerik's robes and mask. All that was left was an
empty shell of a head on fire, and a limp, lifeless body.
The other Orc warriors, seeing their demise, all quickly turned to one another. Jerik wasn't sure why. Looking for solace? Looking for help? It didn't matter, as all of them soon met the same fate as their Warrior leader, the camp-fire soon seeming insignificant when compared to the fiery carcasses created by Jerik's hand.
Heating from the inside-outward was deemed a technique to foul to contemplate by most Pyromancers, and was deemed one of the only banned elemental techniques, along with oxygen suffocation. But Jerik didn't have to listen to the rules anymore.
He was unhinged.
He was invincible.
As the noise of the screaming soon reached the ears of those who slept, all they found when they left the safety of their simple houses and tents, was the masked man standing at their gates, covered in the blood of their protectors. They stood, fear behind their stone-cold faces, many of the children ran to join their mothers and parents, looking for comfort. Looking for something.
Under Jerik's mask hid a sick smile. This wasn't like burning down
the Templar watch-tower. This wasn't like Belgrath. This wasn't Imamu. This wasn't Sparhawk.
This was Jerik.
He felt the fire within him rise, and in a split second, all that was heard were the screams of the damned, and the crackle and spit of a hot inferno.
The rest was simply a blur. He wasn't focussing on the minute details, as he was on showing them what
they had done. This wasn't Jerik's fault. Their actions led to their demise. And now, all that was left of their small culture, of the legacy that they were going to pass onto their children, was a village in ashes, and an orange sky. With each life he took, with each Orc the fire claimed, he could feel himself becoming stronger. He could feel himself becoming more confident in his abilities. He wondered why he hadn't done this sooner. Far sooner.
Jerik stood by his horse, looking at what he had done. What he had
accomplished. This was
Elbion's fault. If they hadn't betrayed him, all those lives could have been spared. All this blood on their hands. In his hands, was the amulet of their leader, inscribed with 'Telau-del'Tikak.'. Their village, named after it's founding leader. His prize. He thought of even taking a woman along with him, but he had no use for one. Unlike how they had a use for Alina.
As he rode back into
Annuakat, he got more than a few looks, still smattered with dried blood, and shards of... this and that. Walking into the Palace, no one stopped him. Even the guards gave an inch of fear as he passed them by. He sat down by the Golden Pond again, meditating where he once was, waiting for no one. Waiting for nothing.
His job complete.
For now.
