call for champions

Title: Call for Champions
Author: John Hofileña
Category: Fanfiction, Defense of the Ancients, from Blizzard’s Warcraft III: The Frozen Throne
Keywords: DotA, Warcraft III, fanfic
DISCLAIMER: We do not own the DotA heroes. If you want to get a glimpse of them, install Frozen Throne in your PC, download the latest DotA map here and play. Not claiming, harming, or selling anything through them. Don’t sue us, we’re penniless anyway. Just having a little fun with stories Ü
Author notes: John wrote the first episode here, and i continued the story here. This is the third installment of our ongoing DotA saga.

ooo000oooo

 

The light of Elune bathed all of Kalimdor in a soft, milky white light. Malfurion Stormrage [better known as Furion to the rest of the Sentinel] stood high up on a bluff, the north wind carrying his heavy locks to air, taking in the waste that lay before him.

Tsk tsk… the ancient wood elf let out something close to a smile in his mind. Archimonde will never know now how close he was to destroying the Nordrassil, the world tree. Even he himself had doubted what the wisps could do to protect their ancient. But he could still remember the blinding light, the burst of energy that almost set his own mana on fire, and the Dreadlord Archimonde’s scream as the wisps literally consumed him. The Scourge’s irresistible advance was finally stopped. And yet his high-elven gift of foresight knew…

Ah, better not to worry now. It is the time for rebuilding. And there was a lot of that needed to be done. The Scourge had gone through all of Kalimdor and Lordaeron like a damned locust plague. And most people had taken to manual labor to blunt the edge of the grief that lingered. And again he remembered… how so many have fallen — Aghanim – the Archmage of Dalaran, Thrall — chieftain of the Orc horde, wood elves, orcs, and humans alike… all consumed by the Scourge. Even the mighty fortress of the high elves, Quel’Thalas… Furion could not bear the thought that there was going to be more… more fighting, more death, more pain, but he knew it was going to come. It was just a matter of when. The old elf took a lot of effort in blocking the thought, temporarily.

The leaves and the bushes behind him stirred. Someone was coming.

“They have to invade some time soon. I know I would. It’s scary thinking how thin we’re spread.” It was the general of Lordaeron’s remaining forces, Purist Thunderwrath, the Omniknight. Furion remembered him a child playing in Lordaeron castle’s courts. Of course, compared to him, almost everyone would consider himself a child. Young Thunderwrath was Arthas’ second-in-command. With the prince’s demise, the knight has taken responsibility of leading Lordaeron’s army. A full-pledged paladin now, Furion knew that the young one would have to do.

Behind him was the beautiful young mage, Rylai Crestfall. “And you might want to know that Jaina has already left to secure Dalaran, or what’s left of it. She left an hour ago,” she said. Rylai was referring to Jaina Proudmoore, now saddled with the title – Archmage of Dalaran. Rylai was Jaina’s protege, but it seemed like everyone had to step up one level or two in these times. “We should take an inventory of the resources we have, both arms and people. We need to know what we can defend with when ole King Freezy comes strolling down,” the young mage added.

“That we have to do, young one. I fear it might not be that long ’til we find ourselves in the battlefield once more,” Furion said. “Purist, have your guard scour Kalimdor and Lordaeron for all the warriors still willing and able to fight. We need all the help we can get. We will meet in council at the foot of the Hyjal in a Kal-Elune… errr, that is, in a fortnight.”

The three figures walked away from the bluff, and by seeming coincidence or by a cruel joke of Elune, a freezing cold wind blew at their backs as they walked away.

 

oooo0000oooo

“I’ve dealt with worse scum than you, Banehallow. Don’t think for one moment that you and your puppies can stay my blades.”

Yurnero had been chasing for a good 4 hours now. They were in the woods outside of Quel’Thalas, where the Blademaster caught the Lycanthrope snooping around. He was getting frustrated — everytime he got near, Banehallow had always summoned gigantic black wolves to his aid, thwarting the blademaster’s attacks.

“Fool. You maybe stronger, but I am much, much faster. Eat my dust, ugly!”

I have to catch up with him. The Lycanthrope was probably spying on the elves rebuilding their city. That meant that somebody was gathering information on the elves. That might also mean that Banehallow was not the only one spying across Lordaeron. That meant that the Scourtge may be preparing another attack. That meant he had to get rid of this dog-lover before he can escape with whatever information he had. That meant he had to get this information to someone higher up. That meant… Ok. First things first. Cut the head off this wolfman.

“Why do you even try? Just go home and play with your knives. You’ll never catch me.” And with his fists clenched, the Lycanthrope summoned two great black wolves. To the blademaster’s surprise, another two came after the first pair. Now, four gigantic wolves surrounded the Orc.

“This refresher orb is a very handy tool, don’t you think? I got it off that old mage when we attacked Dalaran,” the Lycanthrope laughed as he held on to a glowing green energy orb. “My pets have tasted orcblood before. They very much like the taste of it. Die, ugly.”

The blademaster had no choice but to guard up. Drawing the two legendary Orc blades Sange and Yasha, he prepared for the wolves’ attack. They pounced, and blademaster started his deadly blade dance, slashing and parrying.

The Lycanthrope watched his pets attack, sitting himself on a big rock.

Ok, enough! Yurnero suddenly called upon amazing speed and started turning, blades drawn outward. The wolves, with one mind, just continued to attack, one by one impaling themselves to the Orc’s deadly spinning blade dance. One by one, the wolves fell.

The Lycanthrope saw that it was time to run again. He stood up on the rock, only to find that … what?!? The rock was moving!

Banehallow realized that he was sitting on a sleeping Stone Giant. This one woke up because of the noise. Facing a Stone Giant was an fearful concept, but he thought surely, he could outrun this one. He started running. The Stone Giant looked at the Lycanthrope running away, and then at the Orc starting to give chase. He was still annoyed at having been disturbed from his sleep. Deliberately, he picked up a stone and threw it at the direction of the one that sat on him.

The throw was surprisingly accurate, hitting the Lycanthrope square on the head. Banehallow fell, stunned by the projectile from the Stone Giant. Yurnero saw his chance. Unsheathing his twin blades, he blinked to the Lycanthrope, slashing at his body. Banehallow, broken from his daze, started to run again. They were nearing the edge of the woods. If he could just get there… but it seemed like no matter how fast he ran, the Orc was there at his side, unleashing his sword attacks that he could barely block. He had one last chance… reaching into his tunic, he held on to the refresher orb. Calling on two wolves to block the orc’s path, he took advantage of the orb’s extra energy to shapeshift himself to a blue wolf, running away faster. He was bleeding, and may very well bleed to death. But he wasn’t about to die by the hands of this ugly orc.

That was it. Yurnero knew he had failed. He had two wolves blocking his way and he did not have enough energy to blink to the wolf now running away. As he sank his blades into the last wolf, he looked at the figure of the bleeding Lycanthrope running away. Then it looked back.

“I’d rather kill myself than die at the hands of a filth-blood like you. Hahahaha!”

Then someone screamed in the background what sounded like a spell… Suddenly the sky grew dark, and a huge finger of blue lightning reached down and struck the Lycanthrope dead where he stood. Yurnero was dumbstruck. He just stood there as the most beautiful elvish sorcerer he has ever seen approached him.

“That was my kill,” Yurnero yelled, not really thinking about it.

“Yeah, as if you could reach him with your puny swords from where you were,” answered the elf while picking up the refresher orb.  “Hmm… this is Aghanim’s orb… a worthy prize for the day’s work.”  Noticing the approaching orc, she turned to him and said, “You’ll get to kill more of those, if you are willing. I am called Lina Inverse. And you are who they call the Juggernaut?”

“I have heard of you,” Yurnero said, which was an understatement. Lina Inverse was the most renowned mage-for-hire in Lordaeron. So powerful was she in the arcane arts of fire that you needed a huge amount of coin to get her services. Plus, she wasn’t exactly bad to look at as well. “What did you have in mind?”

“There is a call going out for able warriors to go to war. You get to run your blades through undead flesh. Are you up for it?”

oooo0000oooo

They were here. Furion looked around at the crowd that has gathered at the base of Mt. Hyjal. Some of the faces he knew, and these nodded back their recognition as he walked past them deliberately to the middle of the clearing.

There was, in the group, probably the only remaining Ogre magus (magi?!? It had two heads.) in all of Azeroth — Aggron Stonebreaker. Fortunately or unfortunately, he was away from their village when the Scourge struck, investigating the loss of their relic, the Mekanism. There was the Tauren hero, Raigor Stonehoof, who acquitted himself very satisfactorily in the defense of Kalimdor. The knight Davion was among them also, dragonkin-blood coursing through his veins. The only living daughter of Cenarius, the dryad demigod, was among them — Aiushtha was hungry to avenge the death of her father and sisters. Then there was the great dwarf sharpshooter Khardel, who fought with himself and Aghanim in the War of the Magi. He was a friend, and he was glad to have him by his side.

Then there were some that he knew by reputation — the rogue knight Sven — said to have god-like strength, Azwraith — most have heard of him as a master of the lance and the art of illusion, Rikimaru — the satyr prince, Gondar — the infamous bounty hunter, and the Orc blademaster Yurnero.

And there there were strange ones that he had not known of, but these showed up also to fight.

He looked at the core of his group, whom he considered his closest friends also – Rylai, Purist, Lina Inverse, Traxex — the Drow elf ranger, Chen — the only living Orc paladin, and Tyrande Whisperwind — high priestess of Elune and lady of the Sentinel.

It was not much, but it will have to do.

The old woodelf raised his voice. “There are some of you that know me, and some of you who don’t. All of you came for different motives, I assume. But let me make one thing clear right now — all of Azeroth needs you to fight. We are the wall, the only wall that stands in the way of Ner’zhul, the Burning Legion, and the Scourge having their way with this world. I, my friends here included, will have to trust that the motive of defending this world is at the heart of everyone here. You in turn will have to trust us, also, to lead you to the battlefield.”

“If I may, old one, grant me this chance to speak.” It was the satyr prince. “Of course, prince of the woods, speak your words,” Furion invited him to the middle.

“I am ready to fight for my piece of Azeroth. I’m sure all of us here are. In this place, our differences are indeed petty in comparison to the threat that comes from the north. But I’m curious… why do we turn away our friends who want to share the burden of defending this world?”

The wood elf made a curious face. “I’m not sure I know of someone we have turned away, prince. You can speak freely in this council. Tell us where we might have done wrong.”

Rikimaru looked sharply at the Lady Tyrande. “You can ask her about it. One of your elf wardens came here to protect the Nordrassil, and she turned her away!”

“You, satyr, do not know what you are saying! I, on my authority as Lady of the Sentinel, turned her away because she was a traitor, a murderer… and as far as I’m concerned, she stays that way for the rest of her life,” Tyrande spoke softly, but the venom in her voice and the fire in her eyes were unmistakeable.

“Enough! Enough…. enough.” A sad a look was on Furion’s face as he appraised Rikimaru. “My apologies, prince. I assure you that your… concern, will be dealt with.” To the gathering he said, “Let it be known that the defense of Azeroth is a responsibility for everyone. Unless any of you have any valid reason to turn someone away, all who are willing and able to fight with us will be allowed to do so.”

“But enough about that. We have a defense to think about. Even now I know that Ner’zhul draws near. Ultimately, his target would always be the Nordrassil. He will eventually make his way here. But if we can prevent that, we will need to cause him grief even as he makes his way here. In that light, some of you will be deployed to the advanced defense guard, to the lands of Lordaeron. Each one will do his or her part. That is the most that we can do. In your courage and skill lie the future of our lands. I hope you keep that in mind as you drive these demons back to where they should be.”

There were nods all around.

This time the Omniknight spoke, “This council is at an end. We will be planning the defense at length. Start your preparations now. You will be informed by nightfall where your skills are needed. The smithy will try to address your blades’ and armor’s needs, and suppliers are here in the camp to provide trade for the things you may need.”

oooo0000oooo

Epilogue to the chapter:

“Mortred came and you did not inform me?” The sadness in Furion’s voice cut through Tyrande’s pride.

“Why do you grieve her, Malfurion? Her sins were done to the wood elves, and I can NOT bring myself to grant her access to this grove for what she has done in the past. Given another chance, I would not hesitate to send her away again, just as I did.” Tyrande was adamant. A murderer is a murderer is a murderer. How could something so simple disturb Furion this much? No thought should even be wasted on this.

“I grieve her, Tyrande, because in her spirit she called out to ME for forgiveness. She only wanted to help, and I was not here to accept her and re-instate her honor by allowing her to protect not only world tree, but the only legacy she now has as an elf. Now she has nothing. We took everything there was left of the elf in her.”

“I… I only thought of the morale of the Sentinel. To have a murderer amongst them is…”

“You were thinking of your pride, Tyrande. You sent her away the first time, and it could not be good for your image that it be seen as your mistake sending her away the first time.” The old elf sighed. “This was a mistake, Tyrande. Your mistake.”

“No, Furion, I stand by what I did. It was my right! And I’d do it again, given the oppurtunity.”

“Then I’d have to make sure you don’t get the oppurtunity to do it again, Tyrande.” Furion’s voice grew softer. “It pains me to do this, earth sister. But I’m going to have to ask you to leave these lands. Leave Kalimdor, Tyrande. I cannot have your pride destroying the defense of our ancient.”

“Furion?!? How could you…?”

“I neither have the strength to say those words again nor explain what is in my heart and mind. It pains me, earth sister, so leave now, or I’ll have Purist and Rylai escort you to the docks.”

“I’ll go on my own.” She turned her back on Furion for the last time and started walking away. Before mounting her great white tiger, she threw her much-vaunted Elven glaive at the feet of Furion. “Give it to Luna Moonfang. She’s next in line.”

With that she urged her cat forward and it bounded into the woods in great leaps, anger in her heart and for the first time in years, tears in her eyes.

 

 

* images from dotaportal 

 

 

Choosing sides

Title: Choosing Sides
Category: Fanfiction, Defense of the Ancients, from Blizzard‘s Warcraft III: The Frozen Throne
Keywords: DotA, Warcraft III, Phantom Assasin, Stealth Assasin, fanfic
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the DotA heroes. If you want to get a glimpse of them, install Frozen Throne in your PC, download the latest DotA map here and play. Not claiming, harming, or selling anything through them. Don’t sue me, i’m penniless anyway. Just having a little fun with stories Ü
Author notes: John wrote the first episode here. This is the continuation of the adventures of Rikimaku and Mortred — the last remaining members of the guild of the [unseen].

oooo000oooo

 

Chapter 1: Rush to Kalimdor

Death and decay, in all the lands they passed on their way to Kalimdor..

Rikimaku’s silent demeanor couldn’t mask the anger that seared through his eyes. He was a king without a kingdom — the rightful heir of a satyr dominion decimated by the Burning Legion. His birthland — glorious forests where his people once lived — was nothing more now but ashes and dust. It was completely destroyed, much like the lands they now traverse on their way to Mortred’s homeland.

They have passed no enemy in their travels… the burning legion had apparently chosen to throw everything its got to raze the sacred World Tree. In their haste, they left no soldier behind.

THAT is what disturbed Mortred the most. The undead scourge was already terrifying in its power… but with the coming of the Burning Legion, could the World Tree stand against a concerted effort of an army known to have set ablaze countless worlds?

When the Scourge first made itself known through the murder of prince Arthas of his own father, Mortred immediately wanted to rush to Kalimdor. She knew it was only a matter of time before the Scourge set its sight on the one bastion of rebellion against them. But she had seen firsthand how brutally efficient the Scourge was in dealing death to its enemies. The massacre of the guild of the [unseen] proved that. To be able to kill whole towns is one thing; to massacre a brotherhood of feared assasins is another.

So she allowed herself to be convinced by the only remaining guild member aside from her to search for the fabled relic mekansm. Rikimaku was persuasive that only with the power of the mystical gem could they be able to counter the crippling blight of the Scourge and enable them to fight their enemies.

Their search was successful; however, the delay in rushing to Kalimdor looked disastrous. Mortred kept her silence, plagued by images of a smoldering World Tree. And beneath those fears lie a deeper anxiety insider her. Because even if they were able to reach the World Tree in time, would she be allowed to defend the one thing that still matters to her in her elven lineage?

oooo000oooo

 

Chapter 2: no place like

They were too late.

Thousands of corpses lined the base of Mt. Hyjal — strewn bodies of orcs, humans, elves and the undead littered the war-torn sacred mountain of the Night Elves. The battle had obviously gone for some time, and the Burning Legion was clearly winning. Here and there lay the mangled bodies of renowned heroes — all who fell under the onslaught of Archimonde, ruler supreme of the Burning Legion.

Then, the unthinkable happened, the final defenses broke and Archimonde was at the feet of Nordrassil, ‘crown of heavens’ — the World Tree itself.

Mortred could only watch in horror. She has dealt so much death in her life, but the destruction of the Sacred World Tree was a sacrilege no elf could ever contemplate.

“Mortred!” screamed Rikimaku. “Snap out of it! We could still help!”

She looked at her ally and saw him blink nearer to the Dread Lord. It seems that the satyr would battle the demigod alone if need be. But he was not alone, there was an elf still fresh in the battle, and she would gladly die before she allowed Archimonde’s demonic hand to touch the World Tree.

She was already willing herself to blink to Archimonde when she felt it. Thousands upon thousands of elven wisps rose to the air and began their ascent towards Archimonde. The very air itself seemed choked with the luminiscent power of the green elvish orbs. Mortred could not understand — what hope did the little orbs have against the Dread Lord who had already killed a host of legendary elven warriors?

Mortred could not believe her eyes. The wisps drew near Archimonde and surrounded the Dread Lord. The thousands of greenish orbs swirled as one and unbelievably converged upon Archimonde. One moment, the Dark Lord was laughing at the seemingly inconsequential wisps, and the next… the next thing he knew, the thousands of wisps drew to him as one and a blinding light consumed him, and almost all of Mt. Hyjal.

The blinding flash threw Mortred and all the survivors away from the World Tree. NEVER — not once in all the ancient lores did it suggest such power residing in the wisps. The famed assasin couldn’t help but be amazed. Hundreds of years ago, when she was still a child, she remembered her mother telling her of ancient beliefs that when the end is near, the World Tree would summon a mighty host of defenders to ensure its survival. They all thought it was just a story, a mere stylized rendition of elven armies amassing — who knew that that the prophecies would hold true through the wee wisps?

But the World Tree was unharmed, that was what mattered. Ashenvale was in ruins, true… but the land will heal and the elves would drive their enemies back from their lands. They will rebuild, they will survive — as the elves have done so for centuries. Already she could see elven archers pushing back the remnants of Archimonde’s scattered army. With hope once again alive for the elves, their arrows would once again fly with deadly accuracy…

… or they would have, if not for Mortred’s permanent ability to blur herself, the arrow that whizzed past her would have surely hit her.

“HOLD!” cried Rikimaku. “Watch that! Let’s not start killing the good guys, especially since we’ve… already… won?“

looking around, the heir of the satyr kingdom saw several elven archers surrounding them, their deadly arrows drawn and targeted at him and Mortred.

surrounded or not, the satyr didn’t sit well with weapons drawn at him. speaking with a voice of authority that could only be gained by being raised as an heir to a throne, he shouted a “what’s going on here?” to the elves while his left hand deftly prepared a smoke bomb to mask him and Mortred.

and then he noticed Mortred. her shoulders were slumped, her head bowed. where was the fearsome assasin that all of Lordaeron feared? where was the killer that held few peers?

“stay your hand, ‘maku.” said Mortred. “They have always been like this.“

Before he could ask what she meant, Rikimaku was interrupted by a battlecat that burst from the nearby trees. Riding the magnificent creature was an elf white as moonbeams.

“Tyrande Whisperwind. High Priestess of the Moon.” the edge in Mortred’s voice was back.

“Mortred. Why are you here? You have been banished from these lands. You know that.”

“I came… to help.“

“Your kind is not welcome here, murderer!” The steel in Tyrande’s voice was unmistakable. “Begone!”

“Malfurion would not turn me away!”

“But Malfurion is not here.” Tyrande answered, with hatred on her face. “He is tending to the World Tree, and it will take some time before he comes back. It would be time enough for you to leave — or for us to drive you away.”

Mortred looked at the faces of the elves she rushed to protect and saw only hatred in their eyes.  Even at the time of their near-defeat, pride ruled their ways.  Mortred turned her eyes to Tyrande once again…

… and vanished.

oooo000oooo

Mortred’s blink startled the elves but not Rikimaku.  He found her at a clearing, looking up at the moon.

“Elune was never kind to me” she whispered. “And her high priestess advocates the bigotry of these proud elves.”

“Then let us show her a lesson, sister,” said the satyr.

“Sister? surely you kid, Rikimaku.  What, really, do you know of me? Do you have any idea why they hate me so?  How I ended up as an assasin of the guild of the [unseen]?  Why in the time of their greatest peril, elves still could not stand the sight of me?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Hold! Oh prince.  You have been trained since birth to be your kingdom’s envoy to the Night Elves.  You are royalty — one of their kind.  Your place is with them.” Mortred’s voice enticed no argument.

“What?” Rikimaku couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  Wasn’t this the same phantom assasin that almost died with him on the cave of the mekansm?
“Go back, satyr.  Go back to Malfurion — he could help you.  The elves have forsaken me, I will spare no mercy to them.   You are one of them now.  The World Tree demands allegiance from you.  Do not look for me.  The next time you’ll see me, my dagger will be at your throat.”

And before Rikimaku could answer, as silent as moonbeams fall on the leaves, Mortred disappeared.

In Northrend, on a throne made of Ice, a wraith-like figure smiled.

The Weight of the Mountain

Title: The Weight of the Mountain
Category: Fanfiction, Crossover — Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Sandman
Keywords: time travel, samurai, miyamoto musashi, wudan, Li Mu Bai, Dream of the Endless, Green Destiny sword
Summary: Israel begins his journey to Wudan Mountain.  Surprises await him with the extra-ordinary feats that the masters of Wudan are capable of… but more than that, he meets Daniel, timeless, and newest member of THE FAMILY.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Wudan Mountain.  Sony Pictures has rights to that, i think. Dream of the Endless first revealed himself to Neil Gaiman.  Not claiming, harming, or selling through them. Don’t sue me, i’m penniless anyway. Just having a little fun with stories
TIMELINE: Right after leaving Musashi, Israel heads to the mountains of Wudan.
Author notes:

oooo000oooo

Chapter 1.

“The weight of the mountain must flow through you — from your will, to your shoulders, down to your arms, to the steady skill of your hands, to the tip of your sword.  Let it not burden you, let it pass through you.”

The quiet breeze of the dawn has always been the perfect time for Israel’s kata.  No matter what plagues him, a good night’s sleep and the subtle comfort of the morning breeze is enough to calm his heart. for a time.

Remembering his master’s words, Israel kept the forms of the deadly dance he performs with seeming ease.  Being a master swordsman, the moves looked effortless and natural, masking the years of hard work and discipline each set required.  Sweat glistened through his lean and muscular body, and his mind stilled as he focused his being on the moves long instilled into his psyche.

snap.

Immediately alert and ready, Israel tensed and awaited the intruder’s arrival.  Alone in the woods, he wasn’t expecting company.

nothing.

Perhaps it was just an animal, or perhaps, someone was watching him.  Perhaps.

Let them come. I don’t appreciate people disturbing my kata. awaiting the attack, Israel kept to his forms, and waited.

still nothing.

Finishing his workout, Israel proceeded to eat the last of the smoked beef that sumi gave to him when he left musashi’s dojo.  his master said goodbye to him and sent him to another country, another school, in the hopes of stilling his disquieted heart.  the move did not please israel.

but he went. because his master said so. because he had no desire to go against the wishes of a dying man he calls friend. and because he had no home to call his own, and he’s a man searching for peace.

and there, musashi said, peace might be a step closer.

Wudan mountain, and the closely-guarded secrets of its masters.

Chapter 2 The Weight of Water

Blue. sparkling, crystal-clear blue as far as the eye can see. the unmistakable smell of the ocean lulling him to relaxation, and smooth waves welcoming his feet.  Israel’s memory is sharp and clear — he can remember most things since that day he woke under the gentle rain and met Musashi for the first time, and he knew he has never seen the sea before.  But anything prior to that day, is a hazy mist no meditation has been able to penetrate…

but now, the sea feels like… home.

the feel of grainy sand on his feet. the sound of the comings and goings of the waves.  the cool breeze from the sea. the early morning sun quietly warming the earth. the endless sky above him, and the sea beckoning her welcome. israel didn’t know why, but for something he has never seen before, he was instantly at ease with the sea.

home.

and of course, it was too much to hope for the peace to last.

HELP! HELP ME!!

a young girl, not more than 15, pursued by western traders obviously drunk.

israel let the girl pass, and shifted his weight to his left foot, positioning himself between the girl and her pursuers. he might not be carrying a katana, but the wakisashi his master gave him can be just as dangerous, when placed in the right hands. and israel’s hands were perfect for the job.

four men, all burly and drunk. seeing israel’s lean frame and smaller asian stature, they didn’t even slow down as they neared him, obviously intending to just brush him aside.

israel didn’t bother warning them, nor unsheathing his sword.

a flash shifting of weight to his right foot and israel was airborne. left hand holding the still-sheathed wakisashi, israel did a tumble turn to evade the men, and while airborne, caught one of the men’s arms with his right hand.

using his momentum from his jump, and the man’s own imbalance, israel twisted the arm that he caught — and broke the man’s shoulder in the process. even before his companions could react, israel’s left hand was swinging — a horizontal ba’tto swing that caught another man on his right rib… and promptly fractured the bone.

two down, two to go.

sobered by how quickly israel dispatched of their comrades, the two remaining westerners were stunned for a heartbeat before they launched their own attack — more out of surprise and rage rather than planning.

they actually jumped him.

people familiar with the school of musashi know that jumping one of its masters is one of the most idiotic things you could do. unable to shift momentum, the body will provide a target too easy to hit, especially for a swordsman adept at lightning-quick draws.

a burst-jab with the wakisashi’s handle straight to the left assailant’s diaphragm. a rabbit-punch to the other attacker’s throat.

(so early in the morning… at least i didn’t cut them)

a broken shoulder, a fractured rib, and two other men down on the ground struggling to breathe. all four of them nursing injuries that would remind them of their folly.  less than a century from now, the emperor of japan would decree that the land of the rising sun would no longer welcome foreigners to its land.  But today, strangers from distant lands and their uncouth ways were free to roam japan.

israel walked away, wondering why he showed mercy to the foreigners.

maybe because he knew, that very soon, he will be a foreigner himself.

Chapter 3 The Steps of Wudan

A thousand steps, with the air thinning with each level.  Israel looked at Wudan mountain with wonder and appreciation — the very earth of the mountain seemed to have a soothing effect on him.

Sporting a superb physique due to his constant training, Israel was not especially concerned with the steps he will scale in order to reach the top.  He was, however, reluctant to face whoever is up there.  Afterall, his master Musashi was impressed by the skill of the Wudan initiates, and Musashi was far from being easy to impress.  Israel briefly wondered how he would fare against one of the Wudan masters.

So Israel took his time, scaling the steps with ease but not hurrying.  He allowed his mind to wander, and his eyes to feast on the old but well-crafted stone steps.  The vegetation was also new to him, as was the birds that fleeted from tree to tree.  The journey to China awakened the wanderer in him, and Israel was enjoying himself too much to notice the eyes that have been observing him.

“You’ve come a long way, stranger” said the gray-robed youth who seemed to have stepped out of nowhere.

Israel was surprised despite himself.  He couldn’t even remember the last time someone was able to sneak up on him like this — one minute he was sure to be all alone, and the next, he was facing someone who obviously had him in his sights for a long time.  He was sufficiently surprised to grab hold of his wakisashi’s sheath at his side and automatically assume the ‘ready’ position.

“People from the lowlands visit our mountain… but i don’t think i have seen you before. Yes… i am sure you’re a stranger here.. for everyone knows that it is forbidden to carry weapons in wudan mountain save for those trained here.”

“If you wish to continue up to our mountain, I would request that you leave your weapon here – to me, and i will even accompany you to the top.”

The gray-robed youth said all these with a smile, but Israel could recognize a warrior when he sees one — even when the person carries no apparent weapon in sight.  Moreover, his wakisahi was given to him personally by his master.  He could just as soon give it up as let his own arm be amputated.

“I am Israel, and i have come from across the seas.  My master has sent me to see the Master of Wudan mountain, and honor forbids me to leave my weapon behind.” answered Israel.

“And duty compels me to prevent you from going up our mountain with that blade at your side.” “Friend” the youth implored, “please do not let me fight you. I do not want that.  And you won’t either.”

Despite himself, Israel was impressed.  The quiet confidence of the youth was rare for his age, and he seemed pretty sure that Israel would be sorry if he insisted on going up.

(Well let’s see what you got…) Israel feigned dismissing the youth and continued up the mountain.

“Stop!”

“Stop!”

Even when walking away from the youth, Israel’s focus was centered on his adversary.  When the youth took the air, Israel was ready to meet him.

He couldn’t believe his eyes.

It wasn’t a jump, not really.  It seemed like riding the wind, or dismissing gravity all together.  The youth took to the air and landed gracefully at Israel’s front, and he’s now holding a sword that was apparently hidden somewhere in the folds of his robe.

The youth raised his sword and pointed it at Israel.  “Last chance, stranger.  Go down now, and leave this land. Or lay down your weapon.  I cannot let you pass otherwise.”

Israel let loose a swing he didn’t normally use. It was one of his fastest draws – a lunge mixed with a diagonal slash designed to kill with one lightning stroke.  This time, he was only intending to disarm the youth in a blink.  He didn’t really want to fight the youth, just let him know that there are other powers out there capable of matching his own.

a singular clang of steel. and the mountain seemed to hold its breath for the combatants.

but the youth still held his sword.

he was thrown aside, true, but he still had his sword.  Once again, Israel’s opinion of the youth went up a notch.

But idle thoughts such as that soon vanished from Israel’s mind.  the youth attacked with such grace and efficiency of motion that Israel had rarely seen.  Every swing, every twist of the youth’s sword seemed like a dance predetermined.  Not even Musashi was this graceful in battle.

But Israel was a master himself. Even with the shorter wakisashi, he was still faster, more experienced than the youth.

Israel caught a vertical stroke from his assailant.  Using the blade of his sword, he used the youth’s own momentum to twist their direction and slammed the youth to a nearby stone pillar.

“Yield.” Israel breathed.  The fight took more effort from him than he anticipated.  “I have no wish to harm you.”

“I can’t let you up with that blade in your hand.  It is my duty, my honor.  I would rather die than fail in my duty.”

“Death before dishonor, eh?” Israel couldn’t help but smile.  Most people crack under the threat of bodily harm, but this youth was obviously made of sterner stuff.

The momentary slip in focus cost israel.

The youth twisted his body and managed to shift into a more managable position. And even before Israel could act, an unexpected somersault by the youth slammed him to the stone pillar where he had earlier thrown his adversary.

blood.

blood in his mouth.

first blood to the youth.

Skilled or not, very few people manage to make Israel bleed and live to tell about it. With instinct taking over, a guttural roar escaped from the bowels of his throat as Israel simultaneously lunged and let loose his sword.
The youth froze. His skills may have been close to Israel’s but his adversary was trained by one of the most ferocious fighter the world had ever seen.  And Israel learned everything that his Master taught him. Everything.

CLANG!

Out from nowhere, an older man holding a thin greenish sword blocked Israel’s blow.  His speed was unlike anything Israel had imagined possible. With one swift move, the elder swordsman blocked Israel and threw him back.

“You have some skill with a sword.” said the elder.  “That move i used to block your swing is called the Nik’teh — a long stroke designed to stop an adversary’s attack by using the opponent’s own force and deflecting it not only to block but also to disarm the opponent.  I have been using it for the past 50 years and once i have mastered that move, no one has been able to keep their own swords. No one… until today.”

“Who are you, stranger? and what called you to Wudan mountain?”

Israel bowed; he knew this was the Master of the mountain of Wudan.  With his arm still numb from the block, he lowered his sword and spoke.

“I am Israel, Master of the two-sword school.  My own master bid me farewell and bade that I go to the mountains of Wudan to speak to its Lord.  I have come from across the seas.  I have traveled a long way.  I have no wish to harm anyone, but that boy blocked my path.”

“The boy is under orders to do so.”

“And this blade was entrusted to me by my Master! It does not leave my side.”

a few heartbeats.  and a stare deceptive in its softness.

“Courage.  Skill. Loyalty to your master.  I’m beginning to like you, stranger.  What is your master’s purpose in sending you to Wudan?”

“My master… wanted me to train here.”

“And who is your master?”

“Musashi. Miyamoto Musashi.”

“Musashi! I have fought him once… and his aura spoke of honor and skill very few can match.  If he sent you here, then there must be something special about you.”  Israel remained quiet.

“Very well then, I’ll see you at the top.”  With that, the elder turned to leave.

“Wait!  What… what shall i call you?

“I am called…  Nan He.  Southern Crane.  And this is my student, Li Mu Bai.  Welcome to Wudan.”

Israel couldn’t speak.

(Li Mu Bai?!?  Li Mu Bai?!?  I know that name!  I know it!  I know it from a time before I woke up in the fields!  I know that name!)

(And i also know he’s not a real person!)

With all the confusion going through his mind, Israel didn’t notice the growing blackness before it consumed his consciousness.  His body went limp, instantly asleep…

… with sand that suddenly appeared near his feet.

Chapter 4 The Sands of Dreaming

the sounds of gentle waves crashing on the shore. a heavy but silent wind rushing from the sea. gray skies, with no bird in flight.

israel regained consciousness slowly, gently.  as if the world recognized how empty he felt after the shock of meeting a person whom he knew was completely fictional, and wanted to ease him into waking.  he sat up, took a deep breath, and stared at the endless ocean before him.

“you made this, you know. the gray skies, the sharp winds, the silent environment. i took a look at how you felt, and this is what i found.”

israel turned to his right and saw a lean man wearing robes so colorful it hurt his eyes… robes that could have contained galaxies within itself. his hair was unkempt, his face white and sharp, with eyes that – unbelievably — seemed all black. he looked like a demon lord, he looked like a god. he was young and he was timeless. he spoke as if he had always been beside israel in that beach, when israel could have sworn that he was all alone a moment ago.

“where am i?”

“in your head, some would say.” answered the pale man with impossibly black eyes. ”although we both know better.”

“you’re in the dreaming, Israel. land of eternal dawn, realm of the lidless sleep… I am master here, and i bid you welcome.”

“Master of the dreaming… sure. and i’m the real emperor of Japan.” said Israel.  He didn’t know what the pale man wanted, but he had no plans of wasting his time.  He began to stand.

“is it really that hard to believe?” asked the pale man. and the world changed.

Israel fell… and kept on falling. He suddenly found himself falling from an impossible height, and he didn’t even had time to scream before something big broke his fall.

“Why are you surprised?” said the pale man who was suddenly beside him, riding a giant bird. “Haven’t you always dreamed of riding Gwaihir, King of Eagles, and touching the clouds?”

Israel was beside himself.  He has killed men and made love to women, he has battled foes fearsome enough to chill the blood of whole armies but never in his life did he expect to ride a giant eagle and talk to the man with nothing but black in his eyes.

And as suddenly as he found himself falling in the air, Israel found himself on a plateau, overlooking an island. the pale man was still with him.

Nauseous and reeling from the sudden shift of environment, Israel stood shakily and faced the pale man.

“Who are you?”

“I have told you before.  I bear many titles — Lord shaper, Prince of Stories, Master of the fleeting realm.  I am Dream.”

From the recesses of his mind, Israel remembered a name from a myth…

“Morpheus?”

The pale man stood silent, as if Israel broached an awkward subject.

“That name… is no longer mine.  I have changed and I am who I am now.  Morpheus is gone, as with the child Daniel. There is only Dream now.”

“What do you want from me?”

Here the pale man hesitated, as if he was about to ask a favor from Israel.

“I want you… to live your dreams.”

Chapter 5 The Song of the Green Destiny

First steps

Title: first steps
Category: Fiction, Crossover — Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
Keywords: time travel, samurai, miyamoto musashi, wudan
Summary: 17 years after he met Musashi, Israel has become a seasoned warrior with few peers.  However, mysteries about his past and his being place a burden in his heart that will push him to the mountains of Wudan.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Wudan Mountain.  Sony Pictures has rights to that, i think. Not claiming, harming, or selling through them. Don’t sue me, i’m penniless anyway. Just having a little fun with stories
TIMELINE: 2nd Story of Israel, under the tutelage of Musashi.
Author notes:

oooo000oooo

Chapter 1

Seventeen years.

Seventeen years has passed since the day Israel woke up with the rain on his face, lying in the mud of a rice farm in japan. 17 years since he met the renowned miyamoto musashi. 17 years of brutal training under the man, 17 years of friendship and guidance, 17 years of living and learning the ways of the samurai.

17 years, and he still had no idea who he was.

At the early months under musashi’s tutelage, israel picked his brains, wondering why he didn’t know who he was and where he came from. he searched for clues, asked a lot of questions. but exhaustion soon came in, under the relentless training of his master. but that was just temporary, of course. when it became apparent that his lack of knowledge on his background was something akin to permanent, musashi took him aside, and told him that he is a new man now, essentially. and this is his home, his life. his past is forgotten, his yesterdays, washed away. normally, israel took musashi’s lessons to heart, but not this lesson. because he knew, in his heart, that he didn’t belong where he was.

he dreams of mechanical contraptions and electric wonders. he knows he’s in the past (whatever that means), and he knows he came from a different time, a different place. how he got where he was, he had no idea. 17 years, he searched for an answer. he’s still searching now.

because the mystery of his past is but one of the unanswered questions in Israel’s life.

Chapter 2

walking in the market was always an interesting experience for israel.  Being the protege of the renowned master, he was respected and awed.  people smiled at him, and bowed. but for some, there was an air of suspicion, and fear that can easily turn into violence.

because in the past 17 years since that morning he woke up lying in the rice paddies, israel has not aged a day.

he walked with an absolute air of indifference, as if he was the master of everything he surveyed.  his master has taught him much, and his skill was considerable.  among all the students that mushashi took, he was the fastest, the strongest, the most attuned to the sword’s own timing… but most importantly, he has reached the zenith of his master’s training… absolute control over his own body.

“my lord! my lord!” came a voice from his left. “papayas for you and your master!”

israel turned and saw an old lady offering him a basket full of papayas. he recognized the woman as the mother of a child who once fell from a tree and broke his arm.  israel happened to be passing by, picked up the child, and applied what has been taught to him about mending broken bones by his master.  he then brought the child to the village healer, where he was assured that if not for his intervention, the child could have further worsened his injuries, and could have made his arm permanently unusable.

pleased with the offer, israel moved to accept the fruits when he spotted a small group of men coming towards him.

men of the spira clan. warriors known for their poisoned weapons and treacherous ways.

still unspeaking, israel quietly motioned for the old woman to get far away from him and began to move towards the middle of the street. unhurried and unworried, he stood relaxed and faced the determined-looking men coming towards him. seven of them. bearing various weapons and clear intentions. seeing the group, all the people around the market hurriedly got out of the way.

he knew what they wanted.  israel is known to be one of the most fearsome swordsman in the land, second only to his master.  outnumbering him and circling him, the men of spira hoped to take him down, and raise the notoriety of their clan.

israel recognized the men.  it seems that the spira has sent its best — all of them were masters by their own rights.  perhaps the brewing war between the spira clan and bolshu house has something to do with this impending attack.  the spira needs to bolster their morale, and how better to do it than take down a fighter with very few peers?

stupid, israel thought. utterly stupid. even if he falls (which he knows he would not), would the spira really risk the fury of musashi, and all his students, to be directed against them?

israel’s musings stopped as he felt the guy in his left side move. this one’s particular weapon was a bo staff with bear claws attached to the ends.  with this guy’s initiative, the other six moved.

by attacking at the same time, the men of spira hoped to provide too many targets for israel and prayed that even one of them would get through. against an ordinary swordsman, this would have worked. but israel was trained in the school of iaijutsu, where timing is everything. and he was trained by the best.

israel danced.

using a ‘soft stare’ technique where he didn’t focus on any individual but instead allowed a wide frame for his vision, israel saw the men move. like all his battles before this, his training kicked in and made things act as if in slow motion.

skip, block, riposte. a long swing that instantly slashed three of his enemies. using the wakisashi on his left hand to parry the remaining blows, the katana on his right hand finished the fight mere seconds after it has begun.

years later, movie makers would try to recreate the move where the protagonist would make slashing motions and his enemies would be remain still as if frozen. then blood would gush out and all of them would fall down simultaneously. it seemed highly improbable to be real, but there’s a reason why the Niten-Iehi of musashi was famous throughout the land.

he flicked the blood off his swords before resheating them.  he didn’t even bother looking at his fallen foes, certain that all of them were dead.  turning back, israel began to walk away.

the papayas were left lying in the street, bloodied.

and on his left leg, a slash.  with the green trace of poison telling of its fatal pronouncements.

Chapter 3

evening. at the house of his master.

israel was standing at the porch, looking at the stars when the slave girl sumi told him that mushashi was summoning him. taking a long breath, he paused before going inside the house.

“i have heard about your fight.” said musashi.  israel did not speak.  old as he was, musashi did not shrink against using deadly force against enemies, in fact, he was all for them. why allow an enemy to grow stronger and come back to haunt you, afterall?

“and i have also heard from sumi of the pants that you made her wash earlier in the day. the pants you wore to the market. pants with a slash on the left leg…” israel still didn’t speak. he bowed his head and waited.

“tell me, israel… has the spira clan stopped using poison in their weapons? i do not see your strength waning from the injury.”

“master… i…”

“it has healed, hasn’t it? even before you reached my house, your wound has healed.  not even the dreaded poisons of the spira can slow you down.”

israel looked up to the gentle eyes of his master.  mushasi is famous as a ferocious fighter, but kindness also resides in the man.

“for 17 years, you have been in my house. not once have you been sick.  your injuries heal even before the sun sets, and you have not aged a day… most men would be ecstatic with such a gift from the gods… tell me, israel… why is your heart so heavy? days would pass before you speak, and although no one can fault you from your dedication to your craft, i see no joy in you as you go through the days…”

israel breathed.

“i do not know who i am.”

“i do not know why my dreams contain visions of places and things that are not of this time.”

“i do not know why my body heals as it does, or why time hasn’t aged my body as it should.”

“i do not know why i’m here… and i am tired.”

“i am tired of killing foes that could not possibly destroy me. i am tired of not knowing where to go, or what to do.”

“i am tired.”

“i am yearning for something… and i don’t even know what it is.”

musashi waited. this has been the longest speech israel has muttered in almost a year.  he has known this man for 17 years, but he has spoken the truth — israel doesn’t even know himself.

“do you know why you are still unable to beat me, friend?” musashi asked. smiling at his student, he continued.  “your skills, certainly, are at par with mine… and your body is infinitely better. and yet, never have you been able to defeat me… would you want to know why?”

unsure of where the discussion was going, israel remained silent.

“it’s because of your heart, it is not at peace with itself.  your sword has become an extension of your arm, but your heart remains a separate part of you. never will you attain the highest of your abilities if your heart’s not in it.”

“i’m afraid that is beyond me, master.”

“oh no… nothing is beyond a person… especially you.” said musashi.  “then what am i to do?” said israel.

musashi stared at his student.  for 17 years, he has trained, slept, eaten, fought, and laughed together with this man.  there is no other person to whom he would trust his back, save for israel. his skills are unbelievable, his potential… immeasurable. and he knows exactly what to do with him.

“you need further training” said musashi. and even before israel could challenge him, he continued. “not of your sword skills, although they’d hone you with that also, but you need to train your spirit. you need to quiet it, to teach it to rise above these planes to attain the peace that you need. and i know just the place.”

“tomorrow, you will leave.”

“what?!?” for all the years he has known his teacher, israel was not expecting this.

“i will give you a map of a school in china located thousands of steps above the plains. i have once battled one of their initiates, and even i was impressed with their skill. i am excited to think of how much more powerful their masters are.”

“you will go to this place, and you will learn what you can. you will live as they live, you will learn what they know. and you will not see me again.”

“i have taught you everything i know, old friend. you need to move on. this place is not your home. we both know that.”

“and this school above a thousand steps will be my home?” challenged israel.

“no… but it’s a step closer.”

then, like the first time they met, musashi moved closer to israel, held israel’s face with his still-powerful hands, stared at israel’s eyes, and waited.

“i will miss you, old friend. but it’s time for you to go.”

Chapter 4

dawn came, and israel began to walk away from the house he lived in for the past 17 years. sumi cooked him some rice cakes, and musashi gave him his own wakisashi. he needs to find his own sword, said musashi… but the backup sword, the one he could use because he was trained in the two-sword technique, would remind him of his first master.

bearing a map that his master gave him, israel began the long journey towards his destination.

the mountains of wudan.

Green as grass, Deadly as rain

Title: Green as Grass, Deadly as Rain
Category: Fiction
Keywords: time travel, samurai, miyamoto musashi
Summary: 1st Story of Israel.  Beginning of his training.
DISCLAIMER: none
TIMELINE: 1st Story.
Author notes:

oooo000oooo

rain. cold, but gentle rain. israel woke up with the rain on his face.

and he saw the skies, grayish blue skies — but undoubtedly pristine. and mountains of green so fresh he almost questioned the reality of it.

he was lying down, he realized. with something wet — probably mud – on his back. strangely, this didn’t bother him at all. the gentle rain, the soft sputter of water hitting the soil, the rice paddies on his side…

rice paddies?!?

“where am i?” he asked. disorientation settled in. he remembered little before the rain woke him up. he raised his left arm to look at his watch but found it gone. instead of his usual attire of jeans, shirt and sneakers, he found himself half-naked from the waist up, a loose but comfortable cloth as his pants. and japanese sandals on his feet.

japanese sandals?!? he may not remember much, but he knew that he never wore japanese sandals before. something is definitely not right here. even the air seemed strange to him, as if it were the air of a time long past. a strange air, too fresh to come from wherever it was he came from.

apprehensive now, israel stood and surveyed his surroundings. not a cow, not a dog, not a person in sight. he was in some sort of a farm, but aside from the birds huddling in the branches for protection against the rain, he was alone.

he turned around, and looked far. there was a river, and beyond that, he saw a virile looking man. despite the rain and slippery ground, the man walked purposely. he carried himself with pride, almost with the absolute certainty that he was lord of everything he saw. despite himself, israel felt fear creeping up on his spine.

but this man could be the only one who could tell him where he was. so he ran towards him.

maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the disorientation, or maybe he just didn’t pay attention. in any case, it was too late — much too late before israel saw the relaxed but undoubtedly lethal stance the man undertook upon seeing him, or the sleek katana at his left side and the shorter but just as deadly wakisashi at his right.

too late before he could stop himself. too late until the stranger took half a step back, readied his arm, and prepared to draw his sword. the man shouted something in japanese.

shit.

israel may not have been very wise in rushing towards the stranger, but recognizing danger is a primal instinct, one that he didn’t even need to think about. so he froze. and prayed to the gods that might take pity on him.

the stranger continued to shout in japanese. israel may not know the language, but there was no mistaking the stranger’s tone. it was a challenge. the fact that israel obviously didn’t carry a weapon was probably the only reason why he was still alive. along with the string of expletives (or at least, israel assumed they were expletives) that the stranger shouted, israel managed to catch a few words: miyamoto musashi, and before that, something that sounded like watashi wa.

musashi… musashi… why was the name familiar? miyamoto musashi?!?

suddenly, recollection came. if indeed this man was miyamoto musashi, then israel was in deeper trouble than he imagined. miyamoto musashi was one of the legendary Japanese samurais of 17th century Japan. Founder of the [Niten-Iehi] or two-sword school and master of various kenjutsu [sword techniques] and iaijutsu [quick drawing of the sword and making a cut with one continuous motion], he was one of the most renowned fighters in swordsplay lore. he was also known for his ferocity, and for challenging anyone that he met. it was said that his first kill was when he was still a child — he beat a samurai to death with a stick, and he only improved after that.

and he was prepared to strike.

israel made sure he made no sudden movements, for he knew that if musashi made his move, there would be no chance for him to dodge the blow.

ever so slowly, israel lowered his head and began to bow. showing that he carried nothing in his hands, he caught musashi’s eyes, and prayed to the heavens that musashi see that he was no threat.

where the hell am i? thought israel. this isn’t right. but he was undoubtedly here, wherever, whenever here was. he may venture that it’s japan, during the time of musashi, but why he is here is another question entirely.

later on, israel would think it was something in his eyes that musashi saw, but he was never sure. but suddenly, the bushi [warrior] relaxed. he spoke, and his tone suggested he was asking something, although israel didn’t understand exactly what.

“Isreal!” he cried, guessing that musashi wanted his name. “i am…” “i am…”

i do not know who i am, israel realized.

then musashi did a very strange thing. he stepped closer to Israel, who still didn’t move, held Israel’s face with his arms, and stared at his eyes, as if seeing something there.

then as if nothing happened, he began to walk away, leaving israel bewildered. he had taken several steps before he turned back, impatient at israel, and made the universal gesture of “come.”

a moment after realizing that he had nowhere else to go, isreal went.