Description: On the night before the Strolheim tournament, aspirant Amy Johnson meets with her assigned tutor for the event; a living legend and a formidable presence. A scene from the misty vestiges of the past, the words they shared echo still through the woman's heart. But what does the future hold...?
The eve of battle, the night before those stalwart warriors summoned by Strolheim are allowed entry into the venue proper; and it is a clement night indeed. The moon nears the point of fullness, casting an ethereal glow about the quaintly beautiful town. Light scatters off darkened windows, and highlights the more unusual architectural features in a compellingly gothic display. No place is benefitted greater than the castle itself, emerging proud and powerful from the reflective surface of that vast lake. The ancient stronghold rises above it's distorted twin with the pride of many centuries, as inviting as it is cowing; indicative of a greater strength than most could ever hope to possess. The Krauser line is represented well by its homestead.
Few coming to the tournament would be capable of denying this - but some feel it more greatly than others. Amy Johnson is one of those who have come not just to prove themselves, not for fortune or glory alone, but to establish a foothold amongst the echelons of legend. Strolheim's legend. The young Templar stands now upon a clifftop over the lake, one foot braced against an outcrop of jagged rock. She is some way from the town, and though it is past midnight, a dim mutter of activity can be heard even this far out. The inhabitants are alive with a sense of expectation and excitement, but Amy?
The Templar stands paralysed by something similar yet greater. Her dark, stormy eyes scan the indomitable battlements obscuring the skyline, settling upon a fluttering penant proclaiming with little doubt the affiliation held by the mighty palace. Is she good enough to serve Wolfgang Krauser? Is she good enough to learn from him? Or is that very question self-defeating in itself? She has barely begun to consider her master for this tournament, but therein lies a riddle within the enigma... an unknown quantity who might yet prove the greatest or most unfortunate thing that could have happened. Another part of the trial. And another factor unknown this night. Destiny calls from across the lake, obscuring all else; the town that lies several miles through the dense forest at her back, even the revelation that she will be fighting alongside another woman who might yet change everything.
The night may be mild. But it is troubling.
Troubling indeed. One doesn't need supernatural perception to know that the young woman is...disturbed. Ill at ease. The tension rolls off her in a manner almost visible to the naked eye.
Even if those eyes are old with age.
"Control your aura, girl," comes a rasping voice.
A small, stoop-shoulded man approaches from the direction of the village, mounting the winding path leading to the lake's shore. The moon casts his figure into stark relief, his lean frame clad in long flowing robes, his hair and beard standing out sharp and white in the twilight. With measured steps, he comes up behind where Amy stands, his footfalls nearly silent. The man might be old, but his strides are sure and certain, despite the treacherous footing of the rocky Strolheim ground.
His lips pull back, flashing a crescent of faintly yellowed teeth.
Gen eyes the woman. This would be, he's sure, the other youngling the Krauser brat saw fit to put under his charge.
Is it coincidence, then, that he should find her here, now?
Those words are unexpected. Any words are unexpected. But these... these carry a weight beyond their mere anunciation, holding an authoritative wisdom belied in their simplicity. There are many who could be talented enough to spot the knight-errant's presence by her mystical vibrations alone, and they are not all necessarily greater in power than she. But not everything screams cosmic significance; Amy is hardly alert, lost in her thoughts, driven to inhabit the innermost self. A child could sneak up on her. And yet, something about the arrival of this being changes the atmosphere completely. This is not her lonesome place disturbed - this is not somebody she can brush aside.
The realisation, however well it may or may not be reflected in reality, jars the Templar mentally and physically. With a sharp intake of breath she whips her gaze sidelong and back, turning her head fast enough to whip long black hair into a winged frenzy. A hand lifts self-consciously to her shoulder as she stares at the approaching figure, a frown eking out a crevasse upon her brow. She does not appear disgusted by the grisly smile, nor repulsed by the man's obvious age. But the frown does deepen after the passing of a long, silent moment. Her lips part then, and she puts voice to a rebellious thought. An unwise thought. An objection that would be better left unraised.
"I /am/ controlling my aura," she states clearly, dark eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. Perhaps confirming her identity in the space of a few tightly delivered syllables; the accent is unmistakable. After a further few seconds' consideration she lifts her boot from its perch and turns, presenting herself face-on to Gen. A hand comes to rest at either hip, and her head cants slightly to one side. "Though it seems that's of no disadvantage to you. I just hope you didn't follow me all the way from the town..." As she tails off, the trace of a smile twitches on her lips. She says nothing more, drawing in a slow, relaxing breath and merely keeping her gaze upon the interloper. He doesn't seem the type to buckle under immediate interrogation.
A dry chuckle escapes from the old man's throat. He dips his head just a touch, in a manner that is not quite acknowledgement. His gaze remains, however, more or less level with the young woman. And that grin, upon his lips, is still there. If anything, it increases in intensity.
Fabric creases as Gen joins his hands, his palms pressing together, fingers interlacing - almost vanishing beneath the folds of his sleeves. He turns the movement of his head into a shallow little bow, his spine arching forward. The expression on his face, though, isn't anywhere near the polite subservience that his body language conveys.
"I'm sure," Gen replies, slyly, "that your youthful pride can forgive a foolish old man's ramblings, hmm?"
Or indeed, the type to give anything away at all. Gen's manner would - in the period a less-ancient observer would likely refer to as her youth - have aggravated the Englishwoman terribly. Impulsive to a fault, the Amy of yesteryear would have been swift with demands and yet quicker to turn her back if they were not answered. Catching this trait, recalled in her words a moment before, she hastens to answer the assassin's bow with an inclination of her own body. It is not overstated; she bends from the waist without shifting her hands, allowing her chin to dip low without removing her gaze from Gen. Neither does the smile leave her lips. If anything, her lips quirk a little higher.
"I'd hardly say you've been rambling," The Templar smoothly replies as she in turn straightens, "Or is that a warning of worse things to come?" Thin eyebrows curve heavenward, an amused challenge glinting in the turbulent depths of her eyes. She appears to have gained confidence in the moments since the interruption of her vigil, though an uncertainty still lingers that perhaps only a man of Gen's calibre might see; she does not know why he is here, she is in equal part intimidated and intrigued. If she had a Spider Sense, it would be tingling... as it is, she has only the merest sense of a greater stature to this stranger. Of a greater meaning to this encounter.
The old man arches one white eyebrow, tilting his head as he looks at her. After a moment, he straightens, standing from his faux-bow. His arms are still clasped together, his sleeves joined in front of his chest. He regards the younger fighter, his posture and bearing almost meditative.
"Hmph," Gen snorts, exhaling loudly.
"That would," he says, "depend on you, wouldn't it, hmmm?"
His hands part, then. One rises, smoothly, silently, until two fingers point straight at Amy. She is not tall, but the wizened Chinese man is shorter still, even with his spine straight.
This doesn't seem to deter him. Not in the slightest.
"You," Gen states, "are uncertain. Troubled. Hmmm?"
It's not a question. Not even a rhethorical one. Not really.
More of an accusation, if anything.
Or perhaps just a statement of fact.
There comes a time when a person has to question the entire course of their life thus far; to ask, how did I come to be here? What decisions have I made to set me upon this path? To ask, /why/? Now is one such moment for the maiden of mist. Meditative practices have long provided a focus for her training, in learning the internal arts and in fighting to exercise control over her uncanny ability with natural energy. To place oneself outside one's body, to observe the self, becomes almost instinctive. It provides Amy with a sense of humour that may otherwise have been purely cynical, if present at all.
Gen's fingers jab toward her, and Amy barks a breathless laugh. The sound is barely more than an exhalation, but the opening of mouth and widening of eye ensures there is no mistaking the gesture. Stood upon a dramatic clifftop, overlooking a place straight out of a storybook, and faced with this oddly powerful apparition? It is all she can do to pull herself together a moment later. A tight and brisk shake of the head precedes the regaining of composure, a couple of swift blinks following. There is no more sign of amusement or uncertainty; the smile is gone, the frown does not return to replace it. Gen's words are a chill splash of water.
"It's taken a long time to reach this point." Her reply, such as it is, comes more to the situation than to the man. There is a distance to her tone, a dreamlike quality that the ancient master will know is far from fantastic in nature. It comes from the heart. She meets his gaze, allows it to pierce deep, but does not acknowledge his presence further - indeed, she turns away, strolling to the very edge of the clifftop. There is a breeze at the precipice, the wind no longer denied access by dense foliage. Subconsciously the Templar raises her voice, allowing it to float back to Gen. "The road has twisted and turned. Sometimes... I feel as though the decisions have not been entirely--- no. Not my own at all. I came here long before the tournament, seeking... guidance? Strength? I'm not even sure about that much. Something, in any case."
She turns back to face the older warrior, and nods her head once. "Now I'm here, I expected a weight to lift from my shoulders. But the burden grows greater. As though the future I've seen, the future I /want/, depends totally on actions I cannot discern the nature of. To fight alone is not enough; I have a future here beyond victory. They say it's all about taking part, don't they?" A smile emerges once more upon her lips, but it is vague indeed. "I don't feel that's enough. I suppose, really, the problem is that I've concerned myself so much with reaching this point - /this moment/ - that I can't foresee what lies beyond. Does that make sense to you..."
The smile grows, the amusement returns. The distance is momentarily lost. "Mysterious stranger?"
"If you haven't figured out who I am, girl," Gen retorts, acrid sarcasm creeping into his tone, "then maybe you're not worth it after all, hmm?"
There's a hint of challenge there, a perceptable edge to the old man's voice. He stares down the shore, at the young woman framed against the castle and lake.
"Fight," he says, "don't fight."
He flicks the fingers of his outstretched hand, making a dismissive gesture.
"You want choice, girl? Make one. If you don't know why you're here..."
His eyes narrow into slits.
"...you've already lost."
An awakening is a curious thing. The operations of the subconscious provide so much insight that goes unnoticed until a single, explosive moment of realisation wracks the conscious mind. To wake from sleep is to feel dreams come flooding forth, a moment's imagination suddenly seeming as hours spent in fantasy. To awaken when conscious... it is something else. Unrealised conclusions bring thought and sub-thought into a glorious synergy, providing insight that stretches back beyond that moment of realisation. A journey in the space of one's self.
Gen speaks, and Amy does not shift in the slightest, gazing levelly at the grizzled assassin. She draws in a breath, chest rising and falling as it is released. She makes no move to protest, does not interrupt, pays full attention to the man. And then, his eyes narrow. The stare hits her like a thunderbolt even before the last sentence hammers it home, turning toned legs into so much pulpy flesh and sinew. Were she not better controlled, were she not now awake, the Templar would gasp and stumble. She almost does; he might sense that. Shame burns in her chest, and she swallows tightly. Only pride allows her to maintain her posture.
"You're right," she admits after a full minute has passed, the dull cacophony of the nearby township ringing in her ears but failing to reach a mind working overtime. Trying to salvage some dignity, some honour, some self-respect. It is the only way to survive in the face of life, and in the face of this man. Sometimes, desperation is fulfilled. Clutching at straws can yield results. "I should have been stronger from the beginning. There's no sense wondering about anything when the answer lies alongside the question. I'm here to fight, I'm here because this is where my future lies - not where it /might/ lie. The future is never certain, but that changes nothing about the present."
Amy pauses, chewing over her words, jaw setting firmly as she considers the warrior before her. For surely, he is that. Private thoughts come in a flood, concerns from the past resolving themselves. Concerns for the future dying in the face of Gen's attack. They have not met here by chance; even had he not come seeking her, they would have met. It is as certain as it is that the Templar will stand before Krauser, will pledge herself to him, and will thereby forge her own path away from the master she did /not/ choose. The master she stumbled toward through youthful foolishness. A moment passes on the clifftop, but /years/ flash past the Templar's inner eye.
And then, she bows her head. "I know why I'm here... Master Gen."
He laughs.
It's not a mocking laugh, however, but one that seems...genuine, or at least as genuine as the twisted old man is capable of being. His face creases as he grins, pulling his mouth back in a bemused leer. White whiskers shift beneath Gen's fingers as he strokes his bearded chin.
"So," he murmurs, with a small amount of satisfaction, "you're observant after all."
He blinks, just once.
"Yes," he confirms, "the Krauser boy thinks I have something to teach you. And, I suppose, that must mean he thinks /you/ are able to learn, hmm?"
Gen leans forward, fractionally, his eyes nearly glinting in the dim moonlight.
"Or am I mistaken?"
With the gift of revelation, of hindsight, there was only one person that might have approached her in such a way. But all are subject to some level of human weakness. Gen has given her his first lesson; shown his pupil the error of her ways. It is a lesson that permeates every fibre of her being, that transmutes her soul. The transformation may be viewed as a subtle completion of something already set in motion - the culmination of a transgression, setting Amy Johnson upon a path to which she strode parallel. And how would one describe the lesson? Perhaps one would not. To another, it would not have existed. His words would have been only that.
Her show of respect is as genuine as Gen's laughter; everything that she is capable of. He has earned it. Amy's head does not remain bowed long, however, her posture straightening as she listens to the man she now calls master. He is, arguably, the third to receive that title; and he will not be the last. Hearing the next referred to as a mere 'boy' garners a shocked twitch from the Templar, a blink of the eyes and a shift of the shoulders betraying her astonishment. Is this man so great?
"I've been.." Or is he so... "Arrogant." Despite any other implication, Amy admits this with no small gathering of willpower, chin raising faintly to counteract the humility in the admission, "Perhaps I still am. But any illusions I had about my power have faded- been recognised for what they are. There is much for me to learn, much I must learn still to grow away from foolish presumptions. I do not believe any one man can teach me all I need to know, nor would I expect a truly wise man to believe he possessed 'all the answers'," she clearly intonates the punctuation, tone crisp and curt, "But," it softens, and she smiles, again inclining her head to the legendary assassin, "What you've shown me tonight has proven Lord Krauser has the judgement he is renowned for. Instruct, and I will listen. Teach, and I will learn."
"Mmn, good, good," Gen murmurs, inclining his head. His smile softens, ever so slightly, his stare coming down a notch.
"If you know both yourself and your enemy, you can survive a hundred battles without disaster."
As he speaks, he looks away from Amy - quite deliberately so, instead turning his gaze to the wide expanse of the lake, over the waves...to the rocky island at its heart, and the carved stone walls of the great Strolheim castle. The elderly assassin's face goes still, then, inscrutable.
"He was a damned Taoist, but it's true all the same, hmm? Far as anything is, I suppose."
Gen lifts a hand.
"Still...we have ascertained that you are /willing/ to learn. But tell me, Templar..."
There's quiet steel in his voice.
"...all favours to Krauser aside - for what reason should /I/ help you?"
Her enemy. Even if oneself is the enemy, there is a necessary separation beyond that single undesirable facet and the greater whole - though the process of victory may inescapably be one that repairs the rift between the two parts. A person cannot simply destroy a part of themselves and continue onward at full strength. An illusion may be maintained, but personal growth is precluded. Or, at the least, irreparably stunted. The reference is missed- but the point is made. To know, to understand, is to reach a synergy. In synergy lies strength of purpose.
Amy continues to watch Gen when he takes his eyes from her, watching the reflection of the gothic behemoth amidst his milky eyes. Her own, somewhat softened from the storm that seems ever to rage within, would betray nothing even were he to look. She feels at peace with herself now, able to think without driving herself into emotional conflict; able, figuratively, to breathe. When controlled she is far more the enigma herself, a far more likely companion to the mystic Chinaman. With this control, his words do not stagger the Templar. Hard steel strikes a bending reed.
"There is no reason why you should help me." The reply comes easy, and frank. Amy smiles, turning to stand alongside the dimunitive master, following his gaze and then rising to the pennant she glimpsed some minutes ago. "The 'boy' who sits as lord and master of that castle would not have asked this favour of you if he did not believe you would rise to it. I imagine he believes you would do so because, through teaching, through sharing the wisdom you have gained, you may yet learn more about yourself. You may find reason to continue the endless hunt we call living." Suddenly she glances sidelong, frown replacing smile, beholding Gen as master /and/ man now; rather than the two sides of the coin she has already seen. The effect is compelling. "I sound presumptuous, for which I hope you forgive me. But no matter how strong, or how experienced, surely all men need their reasons? All warriors need a fresh fight?"
"A fresh fight indeed," Gen repeats, mulling over the words. His shoulders shake, subtly, with restrained laughter. He gives a brief, harsh bark, shaking his head ever so slightly...before he turns his gaze from the lake, looking back at Amy.
His eyes betray his age - clouded with the distinct discolouration of cataracts. But this doesn't appear to deaden the intensity of his stare. He looks at her. Looks -through- her, quite possibly.
"That," he remarks, "is dangerously insightful of you, girl."
He says it in a conversational-sounding tone, but there's nothing casual in his expression. Nothing at all.
"Fair enough," he adds, after another second, "fair enough."
But he isn't done with the questions.
"Let us say...I teach you. For whatever it's worth. We fight in this tournament. We win - or we lose, whatever the case, you gain. You learn. I suspect we agree on that."
That finger stabs at Amy again.
"And what do you -do- with that strength, hmm?"
In Amy, the arrogant faux-wisdom of a rebellious teenager has been taken and tempered through two distinct forms of spirituality. Western and eastern, with roots reaching into science and religion. Fact and hypothesis. History and mythology. Cynicism has become honesty, and antisocial tendencies have mutated; she will pass judgement, but it is an educated judgement. And a frank judgement, formed with the best in mind. Here it serves her well, and though she feels no flare of smug self-satisfaction she can at least admit to herself that it was well played. She nods her head at Gen's approval, blinking eyes that meet his with neither hubris nor undue humility.
Again she does not interrupt him, again she keeps her attention rapt. The frown is long gone, her expression that of the student she has promised to be. Willing, ready, able, if not unquestioning. Her only, idle, gesture is to reach up and smooth back her hair, tucking billowed strands behind her ear and lingering at the silky edge when the Chinaman's finger is thrust toward her. She freezes, breath becoming more shallow, meeting his gaze's intensity with nothing but deep thoughtfulness. What will she do with her strength? Where will she go? It's a question worth considering. Every action must have a purpose.
"Many years ago," she begins quietly, voice barely above a murmur as she pulls a thought from the depths of her mind, grasping at a glimmer of light, "My grandfather made a decision to turn away from the path he had chosen. To serve another master. Somebody with great vision, and the drive to make that vision reality. He did not gain strength - he destroyed it. He threw years of training, years of thought and dreaming, years of his /own/ drive away on the promise of something greater." The Templar raises a hand, waving dextrous digits toward the castle upon the lake, "My coming here is the first step in redeeming him."
"The strong should not throw themselves under the control of others," she looks back to Gen with tone gaining certainty, hand unconsciously closing in a fist as it lowers back to her side, "Any strength I gain will be under /my/ control. How I use it is... not set in stone. To live is a fluid thing, ever-changing. Yet not always moving forward. Sometimes we throw ourselves against the current, feeling another person has a better answer. A better way. But that's never the case." She shakes her head and breathes out, a long exhalation for which she again looks away from Gen, breath misting in the air. "All I can tell you, all I can promise you, is that I'll choose my own path using whatever wisdom I've gained."
"And the worth in that," she concludes, nodding her head and glancing down, to the lake's surface, "You will have to trust me on. I won't justify myself to you, except through my actions. I am not here to defend my character, or to prove my worth. Those things speak for themselves."
The old man closes his eyes. When he opens them, his gaze is...distant. He exhales a breath of his own, in the chill mountain air.
"It was one of you Westerners," Gen says, casting a look at the lake and the castle within, "a German, in fact...who claimed that there are grammars of violence. Never killing...for itself. Always to communicate, to send a message. Grammars of killing."
He smiles, thinly, as if the idea greatly amuses him. A dry chuckle escapes the elderly assassin's throat. He gives a small shake of the head.
"Very well, then," Gen murmurs, as he turns, beginning the walk back to the village.
"By your actions...we shall see."
Log created on 02:35:15 12/28/2010 by Amy, and last modified on 03:04:05 12/28/2010.