Hotashi Soboru.
The black well of light coming from the stream bed sheds softly onto the young man’s face, the darkness a blanket and the warmth of the forest coalesce amicably as he drops to one knee and reaches into the water glowing fiercely, his eyes illuminated from behind. Never wanting more than this, his prize, always coming back to this place, a black drop of serenity as he closes his eyes to hear the sound of soft thistles being combed by the air in the moonlight, and the dull chime of steel orbs colliding before him. The rocks in the stream, ornaments and the light burning brightly within them contain the essence of what could only be fragments of a power that must only be revealed to be what many think is magic. This magic can be viewed within a ball of clear ice resembling the egg of a tadpole floating in a stream. Yet, the eggs in this stream contain sand the color of the many seasons, seasons bled away by the carnage of days spent in combat. Seeing the many auras of the sun and the moon, a full spectrum of life and death; blue, red, green and purple. The stream harbored them all within its protected realm, Hotashi Soboru as its vanguard, only sleeping once prepared to awake in the dark of the evening to view this magnificent spectacle, and to slumber within his fondest memories. A sight that can always be replenished when his hardships are fawned over amorously in the future, and he remembers why he suffers purposefully. Heaven said no, you shall not return but with the promise of his signature deeds in the process, he pulls two glowing orbs from the floor, the bed of water a stream littered at the bottom by soft fluorescent light shown from the magic crystals beneath the surface glowing faintly enough for him to see the trees and the moonlight behind them, a monstrous call to arms, the call of winter storms and thunder over the horizons.
Hotashi pulls the straps of his bag over his shoulder and tightens the clasps of his leather armguards before he makes his way back to his forge. The man hears the frightening howl of a single wolf in the distance and prepares himself for the fight that he always dreads. The leader of a pack of murderous canines scratching at the forest beds with their charge to defend the secrets of the darkest corners of the rural plains and their flora, the stand between good and evil in his heart. The murder of everything he ever held dear in this world, the place of worship in this domain shattered when he pulls the life away from an Alpha male winter wolf is the most savage act of warfare to survive the elements. His timing horrible but his adrenaline high, he beckons the wolf into his loving embrace to commensurate justice in love with solace and hope for requital in the end. Moments pass and his heart beating the only sound he hears, the wind gale blowing to end the standoff between the two combatants. Hotashi breathes once more heartily and wishes his new companion well in the distance. The wolf barks at the darkness harboring vainglorious sentiment at the cherished blacksmith from the lands farthest away, and makes his way back to his stronghold to bleed his tears of apathy into his palms. His shanty, a mere relic with a treasure trove of minerals and diamonds at its back; literally, a cave littered with a plethora of minerals that can be smelted and imbued to his liking. Now the night time air and the masks of mist dissipate and the crickets in the dark play their songs vehemently. Hotashi Soboru’s life of hardships returns to him in remembrance of what he once had when he had been living among the people of his wayward past. He summons up the will to continue living without fear, for the only reason he chose a life of celibacy was to detract from others the horrible dangers that spawn from his blood-soaked hands whenever he destroyed evil was betrayed and brought back to childhood, his chest heaving from the denials of his best friend’s courtship then finds reprieve after a few minutes contemplating servitude. The basis of his existence is that one sworn of fealty, he realizes that with his departure he was shown respect for his strength to move on and to do away with his aspersions of their dogma.
He pulls his bags over his head, shuts the door and sits on a creaky wooden stool and breathes in the dusty corridor to his right, and does away with his mourning. Washes his face and hands to retire to the second level dormitory before the sun rises. Maybe for five minutes I believe is sufficient. He plops down hard on his matting and lays back and falls away from consciousness easily. I have work to do, Baroness, he says to himself and gulps the hearty film of past trysts with satisfaction. Nobody would ever find us here, Dabaldung. And what he hears in response, “Don’t worry about being found if you’re lost, young brother. I’m a wayward foster bred for nothingness in this cot”. Four minutes left, and I’m still alive, he thinks. I should be dead, then he falls asleep.
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