Written for Roni for her birthday. This was inspired some time ago by some random comment she made that she never intended to inspire things like fanfictions with. The best muses are the unsuspecting ones!
This is the first fic I have written in a long, long time, so feedback and flames are especially appreciated! It's called Prelude... but will there be any more? We will have to see.
3/25/03 - Written and published
3/28/03 - Minor edits, fixed typos, improved clarity. Thank you, Josuke!
4/09/03 - Holy Order division properly named. Thanks Ed!
-----------------------------
Prelude
by Calico Kat
The grass shivered as a gentle wind drifted the rank stench of battle aloft and over the fields--sweet and pungent sweat and the excrement of dead bowls, the brackish tang of blood and sharp, sickly smell of charred flesh. Lonely, the warrior stood among the sinuous broken bodies of the light footed GEAR regiment that had been on march towards Turin, but he did not stand alone.
"Well met, comrade!"
Gazing sharp eyed for any stirring in the enemy's wasted ranks, the burly black and crimson clad bounty hunter grudged a glance at his wild haired companion. The massive cleaver thing the knight passed for a sword had lodged itself up in the ribcage of his foe in the final, fatal thrust and he had only just found the leverage to loose it, yanking it free with a slick shluck in one tremendous tug. He swung it easily to his shoulder for all that the blade must have been some seven feet long. He was slimmer and a little shorter than the glaring brunette he faced, and his own lips were turned up in a companionable smile all too near enraptured by the figure that had more than matched his prowess for the fight. Sol saw upon inspection that the shock-white mane of his companion was the color of hair long prematurely white, too flexible and too evenly shaded to be the brittle result of some extreme punk dye job, white to the roots of the youth's thick brows. He had a strong jaw and hard cheekbones, a blunt nose, his features cut as if chiseled from hard stone. The intensity of the knight's brown eyes caught Sol off his guard, more power there than he had seen in any mortal in decades, but he did not allow himself to register his surprise as any flinch the knight might see. He held his silence.
"I was fortunate for your aid," the youth went on undaunted, swaggering mere steps short of Sol with loose and even strides. His words were marked by the thick accent of the Swiss, with the harsh edge of German and soft vowels of French. He had a pleasing voice well tempered by confidence. "Their number was many greater than I expected, and there was no time to call for my men."
Sol broke his gaze, letting his eyes roam over the blood smattered grass until he was well satisfied. His companion lapsed to silence until he saw the shift towards placidity in the bounty hunter's eyes.
"You're not the type for conversation, so I'll cut to the point. It was a hard fight and I'm hungry. Will you not accept a meal at the expense of the Holy Knights?"
Sol could hear the amusement in the man's words and also the appreciation. It didn't hurt to hear things come straightforward and unadorned. He nodded slowly, once, and smirking turned in the direction of the city, letting the knight take initiative and lead the way. No trap here that he could see, and he had no complaints over the man's combat ability. He recognized in this powerful young man a bodily strength rarely seen among men, and his senses told him the greenish power behind the youth's attacks had been no ceremonial magics, born from no complex seal patterned from air and aether, but that elusive Asian element of ki. To deny his curiosity would leave him at a loss; he did not intend to expend his resources and tax his contacts to discover what weird chance had granted a European such a power when he could query over a meal, be done with it, and be gone.
-----------------------------
"You're an American," the young man decided as the waitress left them to each other's company out on the river-side veranda of the small Italian bar. They had not spoken to each other since leaving the battlefield. The first time Sol had spoken was to order, and then in Italian. The white haired soldier had folded his hands behind his head and watched the sunset's pink and orangeish hues bathe the buildings gold and flicker warm on the face of the waters. He had roused himself from his thoughts as the plates were set upon the old, worn wooden table, and he turned his attention to his companion.
"Yeah?" Sol challenged, raising a brow and looking if nothing else a touch amused. He had had a cigarette while the knight had withdrawn to reverie and he leaned forward to snub it out in the small ceramic dish, the ash and smoldering leaf smothered in a final, thin wisp of smoke that drifted out into the dimming twilight.
"You move like an American. Your skin is dark, but you don't remind me of an Arab. I've met many Arabs," he explained, satisfied with his reasoning.
"Maybe," the bounty hunter agreed, lips quirked in a smirk again. He didn't feel like his time was being wasted with this man. It was a rare sensation. Here a time for a smoke, and now the briefest conversation, and then they ate a little while in silence. The food was good and heartily portioned. The knight had gotten pasta and a side of vegetables, the wanderer a large, toasted sandwich, an inordinately hulking thing tailored to the American's brutal inelegance towards food. (The waitress had been a little surprised at the amount of extra material she'd been asked to add). One took his meal with wine, the other with beer.
"Y' use ki," Sol Badguy stated, his words heavily implicit in their demand for elaboration. He wasted neither time nor words, though the words he chose drawled lazily like he wasn't in no hurry.
"I shouldn't be surprised you recognize it," the young man said, surprised anyway; it was the first time his power had been pinned for what it was by any stranger. Sol remained silent, waiting for the forthcoming explanation. He did not wait long. "I was trained in the colonies by one of the old masters. I was stationed there for a year to train in martial arts. They turned up the talent accidentally… I've studied many unusual arts. I'm a dragon slaying specialist, you see."
"Young for it," Sol said, looking him over critically, and he was satisfied with the explanation for his use of ki, and moreso with the inspection.
"Twenty three this September," the youth admitted, though it was hard to say by his words if he saw this old or young. He paused, his fork poised over his meal, to give his company a skeptical glance-over. The red head band, smooth metal marred by the words 'Rock You', was an unusual fashion statement, outstanding, drawing attention from brown eyes of an unusually reddish hue. He wore a jacket of thick black leather, a red shirt beneath it, and the knight remembered his shoes to be red and his jeans black. He wore black fingerless gloves with red trim on the backs of his hands. His skin was indeed dark, and tanned healthily to an attractive tone. His skin was smooth and taut and uncreased by the cares of age. "You don't look so old, yourself."
Sol caught the fond amusement in the words, and it put him on his guard, for he could not place the reason for it, and yet felt sudden, vague suspicion. He sensed no threat to be spoken of. "Guess not." He took a large bite of his sandwich. He was beginning to feel unconversational. He had been gracious to speak so much already.
The young man lapsed into silence obligingly, Sol's growing recalcitrance easy to read. He seemed content to sit and dine, eating somewhere between great vigor and strict European manners.
"Your sword is made out of a dragon's claw?" he asked curiously when he believed he'd let the hunter settle back somewhere close to comfort, his gaze falling on the short and bulky sword propped beside his own massive blade at the end of the porch. Its handle was fashioned of heavy steel gears to counter the weight of the thick, sharp-curved blade, the handle tightly wrapped in cloth for grip.
"Killed dragons before," Sol explained. There was little use hiding his ability to do so. Between the two of them they had decimated a GEAR regiment, and he had never shown more skill on that field than the man dining with him now.
"The Order could use you, Sol Badguy," the youth mused ruefully, straightening himself apologetically as Sol's eyes narrowed, the short white hair on the nape of his neck prickling beneath a glare so suddenly predatory in intent. The youth softened and offered him a soothing smile.
"Kliff Undersn, commander of the twenty-first company of the Sacred Order of Holy Knights' Physical Offense division. Don't look so suspicious. You saved my life when I was six, in the Sierre Massacre. You will always have my gratitude, sir."
Sol studied him for what seemed too long without decision, relaxed suddenly, the aggression fading from him, and said nothing else. Night fell over the small village outpost, lanterns were lit and the lights come on one by one in the buildings across the river. Kliff paid for the meal and they parted without words. Sol had no more to say, and Kliff Undersn found himself satisfied.
This is the first fic I have written in a long, long time, so feedback and flames are especially appreciated! It's called Prelude... but will there be any more? We will have to see.
3/25/03 - Written and published
3/28/03 - Minor edits, fixed typos, improved clarity. Thank you, Josuke!
4/09/03 - Holy Order division properly named. Thanks Ed!
-----------------------------
Prelude
by Calico Kat
The grass shivered as a gentle wind drifted the rank stench of battle aloft and over the fields--sweet and pungent sweat and the excrement of dead bowls, the brackish tang of blood and sharp, sickly smell of charred flesh. Lonely, the warrior stood among the sinuous broken bodies of the light footed GEAR regiment that had been on march towards Turin, but he did not stand alone.
"Well met, comrade!"
Gazing sharp eyed for any stirring in the enemy's wasted ranks, the burly black and crimson clad bounty hunter grudged a glance at his wild haired companion. The massive cleaver thing the knight passed for a sword had lodged itself up in the ribcage of his foe in the final, fatal thrust and he had only just found the leverage to loose it, yanking it free with a slick shluck in one tremendous tug. He swung it easily to his shoulder for all that the blade must have been some seven feet long. He was slimmer and a little shorter than the glaring brunette he faced, and his own lips were turned up in a companionable smile all too near enraptured by the figure that had more than matched his prowess for the fight. Sol saw upon inspection that the shock-white mane of his companion was the color of hair long prematurely white, too flexible and too evenly shaded to be the brittle result of some extreme punk dye job, white to the roots of the youth's thick brows. He had a strong jaw and hard cheekbones, a blunt nose, his features cut as if chiseled from hard stone. The intensity of the knight's brown eyes caught Sol off his guard, more power there than he had seen in any mortal in decades, but he did not allow himself to register his surprise as any flinch the knight might see. He held his silence.
"I was fortunate for your aid," the youth went on undaunted, swaggering mere steps short of Sol with loose and even strides. His words were marked by the thick accent of the Swiss, with the harsh edge of German and soft vowels of French. He had a pleasing voice well tempered by confidence. "Their number was many greater than I expected, and there was no time to call for my men."
Sol broke his gaze, letting his eyes roam over the blood smattered grass until he was well satisfied. His companion lapsed to silence until he saw the shift towards placidity in the bounty hunter's eyes.
"You're not the type for conversation, so I'll cut to the point. It was a hard fight and I'm hungry. Will you not accept a meal at the expense of the Holy Knights?"
Sol could hear the amusement in the man's words and also the appreciation. It didn't hurt to hear things come straightforward and unadorned. He nodded slowly, once, and smirking turned in the direction of the city, letting the knight take initiative and lead the way. No trap here that he could see, and he had no complaints over the man's combat ability. He recognized in this powerful young man a bodily strength rarely seen among men, and his senses told him the greenish power behind the youth's attacks had been no ceremonial magics, born from no complex seal patterned from air and aether, but that elusive Asian element of ki. To deny his curiosity would leave him at a loss; he did not intend to expend his resources and tax his contacts to discover what weird chance had granted a European such a power when he could query over a meal, be done with it, and be gone.
-----------------------------
"You're an American," the young man decided as the waitress left them to each other's company out on the river-side veranda of the small Italian bar. They had not spoken to each other since leaving the battlefield. The first time Sol had spoken was to order, and then in Italian. The white haired soldier had folded his hands behind his head and watched the sunset's pink and orangeish hues bathe the buildings gold and flicker warm on the face of the waters. He had roused himself from his thoughts as the plates were set upon the old, worn wooden table, and he turned his attention to his companion.
"Yeah?" Sol challenged, raising a brow and looking if nothing else a touch amused. He had had a cigarette while the knight had withdrawn to reverie and he leaned forward to snub it out in the small ceramic dish, the ash and smoldering leaf smothered in a final, thin wisp of smoke that drifted out into the dimming twilight.
"You move like an American. Your skin is dark, but you don't remind me of an Arab. I've met many Arabs," he explained, satisfied with his reasoning.
"Maybe," the bounty hunter agreed, lips quirked in a smirk again. He didn't feel like his time was being wasted with this man. It was a rare sensation. Here a time for a smoke, and now the briefest conversation, and then they ate a little while in silence. The food was good and heartily portioned. The knight had gotten pasta and a side of vegetables, the wanderer a large, toasted sandwich, an inordinately hulking thing tailored to the American's brutal inelegance towards food. (The waitress had been a little surprised at the amount of extra material she'd been asked to add). One took his meal with wine, the other with beer.
"Y' use ki," Sol Badguy stated, his words heavily implicit in their demand for elaboration. He wasted neither time nor words, though the words he chose drawled lazily like he wasn't in no hurry.
"I shouldn't be surprised you recognize it," the young man said, surprised anyway; it was the first time his power had been pinned for what it was by any stranger. Sol remained silent, waiting for the forthcoming explanation. He did not wait long. "I was trained in the colonies by one of the old masters. I was stationed there for a year to train in martial arts. They turned up the talent accidentally… I've studied many unusual arts. I'm a dragon slaying specialist, you see."
"Young for it," Sol said, looking him over critically, and he was satisfied with the explanation for his use of ki, and moreso with the inspection.
"Twenty three this September," the youth admitted, though it was hard to say by his words if he saw this old or young. He paused, his fork poised over his meal, to give his company a skeptical glance-over. The red head band, smooth metal marred by the words 'Rock You', was an unusual fashion statement, outstanding, drawing attention from brown eyes of an unusually reddish hue. He wore a jacket of thick black leather, a red shirt beneath it, and the knight remembered his shoes to be red and his jeans black. He wore black fingerless gloves with red trim on the backs of his hands. His skin was indeed dark, and tanned healthily to an attractive tone. His skin was smooth and taut and uncreased by the cares of age. "You don't look so old, yourself."
Sol caught the fond amusement in the words, and it put him on his guard, for he could not place the reason for it, and yet felt sudden, vague suspicion. He sensed no threat to be spoken of. "Guess not." He took a large bite of his sandwich. He was beginning to feel unconversational. He had been gracious to speak so much already.
The young man lapsed into silence obligingly, Sol's growing recalcitrance easy to read. He seemed content to sit and dine, eating somewhere between great vigor and strict European manners.
"Your sword is made out of a dragon's claw?" he asked curiously when he believed he'd let the hunter settle back somewhere close to comfort, his gaze falling on the short and bulky sword propped beside his own massive blade at the end of the porch. Its handle was fashioned of heavy steel gears to counter the weight of the thick, sharp-curved blade, the handle tightly wrapped in cloth for grip.
"Killed dragons before," Sol explained. There was little use hiding his ability to do so. Between the two of them they had decimated a GEAR regiment, and he had never shown more skill on that field than the man dining with him now.
"The Order could use you, Sol Badguy," the youth mused ruefully, straightening himself apologetically as Sol's eyes narrowed, the short white hair on the nape of his neck prickling beneath a glare so suddenly predatory in intent. The youth softened and offered him a soothing smile.
"Kliff Undersn, commander of the twenty-first company of the Sacred Order of Holy Knights' Physical Offense division. Don't look so suspicious. You saved my life when I was six, in the Sierre Massacre. You will always have my gratitude, sir."
Sol studied him for what seemed too long without decision, relaxed suddenly, the aggression fading from him, and said nothing else. Night fell over the small village outpost, lanterns were lit and the lights come on one by one in the buildings across the river. Kliff paid for the meal and they parted without words. Sol had no more to say, and Kliff Undersn found himself satisfied.