Kendricke

The Walk Old man comin' down the path he make. Old man gonna see the night's embrace. Old man tired seein' none her face. Old man comin' down the path he make. Old man gonna stop here fo' a while. Old man thinkin' back 'bout her smile. Old man knowin' he gots miles and miles. Old man gonna stop here fo' a while. Old man get up and he start again. Old man leanin' hard onto his cane. Old man walkin' off his hurt heartpain. Old man get up and he start again.

The Empty The Empty grabs hold of my chest, Icy tendrils take their root. Stabbing fingers coldly pressed, My heart contracts toward nothing-moot. The Empty fills whole of my mind, Eyes glaze over now-tonight. Daydreams bleeding with malign, Colors fade and become white.

Of Duties and Dieties Alas, I look up to the skies that shone once with the lights of valor, Reminiscing on those times long past, the present skies have lost that splendor. Verily, I make my vows! that if the Gods do what they must, I shall stand against them now and fight them in renewed disgust!

Life.

I might have to "research" this a bit more this weekend.

Thank you. I keep telling myself to contribute more here. I guess I'll have to be more dilligent. By the way, this was written in 10 minutes and is far from what I would consider "finished". I feel as if my writing is a bit rusty at the moment, so I'm wondering what could be done to polish it up. It's always nice to hear positive feedback, but I'm not going to grow as a writer (or a person for that matter) unless I hear some honest constructive criticism as well.

Doors open, darkness consumes. I close my eyes for the briefest of moments (I'm almost there). Hands on me, searching idly. Smoke, smoldering, smelling of old. Tribal undulations fill the concrete floor beneath me (I can feel it). Another doorway, another hand. This one uncaring and just wants my proof. I take a step, and the world falls out. I'm hit by a wall of sensation! I feel the heartbeat of the room, like some ancient mythic beast. All week I've stalked it to this lair, and now it's time to feed. Rumbling, stumbling, almost fumbling, there's movement everywhere! Move it, groove it, cannot lose it. Look at them stare - LOOK AT THEM STARE! I pick a spot and close my eyes, my feet are hypnotized. No longer who I was, my mind expands a dozen sizes. I'm in control. I grab my floor. I'll show them what to see. I am the one. I know it now. Perfection is acheived. They back up fast. They give me room. They know that it is me. The hunter's here - that's what they know - and now it's time to feed. I am the sound. I am the floor. I am the gasping heat. I am the move. I am the air. I am the breaking beat. Feel me now, rushing hard. I am now complete. The hunter's here. His kill is swift, and now it's time to feed. Other hunters come to join. The battle is begun. Striking feints, and counter thrusts. We fight till we are one. Tribal rythms shape our law. The ground shakes beneath our feet. We are the pack. Our hunt is here, and now it's time to feed.

This is just to say I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast. Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold. -William Carlos Williams Kendricke's Profile

Lord Frond, It seems you're pulling out your "Everyone is a Diamond" theory again. The young Vicar of Marr smiles knowingly at the older Druid. Kendricke's Profile

The young Guildmaster takes a moment to compose himself again. His face contorts in physical pain. The Dominion at his side looks concerned, and places his massive hand upon the tiny shoulders of Lord Kendricke. The lad begins again... Two of the crows were now circling each other, instead of me. I watched for some time with interest as they flew is tight circles high overhead. I continued to watch in a daze as they pecked at each other, and only when one fell to the earth did I realize that they were not crows at all! I turned my head sideways to where the "bird" fell and was shocked to find that it was a wounded Dominion! An angel with rank - the highest of the on-high...was laying here now on the ground a few feet from myself. I laughed. Almost inaudible at first, my laugh grew. First a slight giggle. Then a chuckle. Before I knew it, I was laughing the tears from my eyes. The irony of it! The sheer IRONY! I had lain here for days, waiting for a sign from the Gods, and here it dropped, almost in my lap! Still laughing, I stood. At least, I tried to. My days of despondancy had weakened me significantly. I called out to the angel, first with mocking, half-mad tones, and then with anger and rage. My life had been ruined by these creatures. I thought back on the acts of violence these beings had been capable of, and shuddered again at the thought of the pools of warm, sticky blood I had slipped in merely nights ago. My body pathetically tried to spasm and heave with physical illness, but there was nothing left to expel. I was wasting away beneath the sun, more broken than whole...just as the Dominion was. Then I looked at him. I looked at his face. I watched his pain. I watched his suffering. His eyes were still closed, and his features obscured by blood and grime, but I could recognize his expression without trouble at all. Though he was lying on this forsaken ground, bloodied and broken, that was not his true pain I realized. Like me, his pride had been shattered like a mirror upon a stone. Like a mirror, I was looking at myself upon the ground and my contempt turned to pity...pity turned to sympathy...sympathy turned to concern. The Gods had shown me a sign, and I would not ignore it. I must help the creature, but to do that, I knew I would have to help myself. I knew the Dominon's very ego had been destroyed by whatever fight it had just lost. Used to soaring amongst the heavens, this warrior was now a groundwalker, like the rest of us. It was an expression I had seen time after time as I looked into the eyes of the seraphim I had stripped of their own wings. For the first time, however, I was no longer bemused by the look. The Knight of Death lay broken now, The blood of men upon his brow, Look now did he upon the beast, and realized his rage had ceased. Kendricke stood and nobly decreed, that this God-sent sign he'd surely heed. He looked upon the angel then, and realized he must save him. Drawing upon my long lost instincts, I steadied my breathing and lay still again. I waited for the peck-peck-peck from my little winged friends. When it finally came, I snatched at it, and to my suprise, found that it had worked! I quickly killed the bird, and started the circle anew! I ripped at its feathers, and ate it raw. My mind was now thinking with a clarity I hadn't had in years. I was more lucid than I could remember ever being, and I knew now what I had to do. With my newfound energy, I made my way back to the castle, ignoring the death and decay that abounded. I made my way for the kitchens and then to the surgeon's. When I found what I had sought, I hurried back to the downed angel. He was badly hurt - from the fight AND the fall. He was not yet conscious when I began to dress his wounds. I bandaged and cleaned him, and gave him new garments. I made several trips to the ruins of the city for bedding and clothes. When finally he did awaken, several days had passed. He seemed suprisingly calm - at least he did to me. I tried to imagine his thoughts at that moment - waking up in the dark, next to an old wild man and his campfire. I suppose I must have looked slightly mad. After all, I'd not shaven or groomed since the beginning of my imprisonment. I noticed his stirrings, but kept at my stew, refusing to show that I had noticed him. I had no desire to startle this great warrior, and I waited for him to acknowledge me first. I watched from the corner of my eye as he curiously checked his dressings and clothes. He looked around - I assume for his armor and weapon (which I had left next to him for when he awoke). I noticed him watching me for quite some time, and then finally he spoke. His words were...light. I do not know the best way to describe it to those who've not heard it, but the winged ones do not speak so much as...sing? There's an ethereal quality - both soothing and frightning, that gives the angels a command over their speech. He asked me my name, that he could thank me by it. I told him, and then I waited to see if he'd heard of me. The look in his face said he had. I watched as his eyes darted to his polearm and then back to me - some old man stirring a pot of crow stew. Several minutes passed, wordless, as I tended to the evening meal, and he kept his gaze upon me. I considered it a test of the Gods. Either the Dominion would strike me down, or he would not. There was no doubt that even weakened, he could kill me easily. I certainly was not the warrior I had once been, nor was I in a position to handle an armed Dominion in single combat. As should be most obvious, he did not kill me...but instead shared his own name with me. Rather, he tried to. He translated it for me, to speech I could pronounce. He explained that his name meant "The gentle wind before summer storms which smell as if the rains will come". I thanked him for this Honour and offered him food. I watched as the tribesman took heapings of it the stew, practically inhaling his food. Yet, though wounded and obviously famished, the angel would not finish his bowl till he had made sure I had eaten my own fill. When I awoke the next morning, my new friend was now gone. Nothing remained of his stay, save for his empty bowl upon the ground, and a single white feather left where he had lain. I now felt as though I had a purpose. I packed up the small camp and gently wound the feather to a lock of my own hair, which I placed within a small satchel I had found. I then took one last look upon the city which had owned my life for so long and vowed to never willingly lay eyes upon it again. I knew now what I must do, and yet had no idea how to go about doing this. All I knew was that the answer was to the west...

One brave soul from the Pen emerged, To sing the dying Nimball's dirge. His voice held high above the din, Only Nyyark played with Nim! What sorrow has befallen all, the bards and skalds neglect the call. Only one came forth to try, only one with head held high. Shall we try this yet again? Calling now to all the Pen? Who will help young Nyyark to save, The Honour of the Pen today?

I did enjoy this immensely. I had a critique as well, but opted not to post it. Keep up the good work.

M'lord, I believe twas George Carlin who forwarded the idea that all "commandments" should be followed as suggestions.

A challenge have I, from myself to you, Valiant skalds and bards so true! So hear me now, and listen well, lest you mistake the rules I tell. This simple trial, this basic test, is not to see which is the best, but rather find if tales be right that o'er the sword, the pen has might! Your wit, your valour, your very will, you shall need all, to complete the drill. Your strength of character will decide, if ye are worthy of the prize. Now danger lurks upon this road, ye weak of mind will surely fold! So gather all ye need for this task so grim, and prepare to play with the ball named NIM!!! Enter here, all ye of little sanity!

I was going to comment on the intended meaning behind this particular poem, but then realized that I'd be destroying a great many of the fantastic interpretations that have been put forth so far. Keep 'em coming!

The boy Guildmaster seems to be most distant as he speaks. His face contorts in pain throughout his story. He did not even seem to realize that he had just allowed his voice to trail off. Behind him, his mighty protector, the Dominion companion which always seemed to be at his side, cleared his throught gently, and placed his massive hand upon the tiny shoulder of the young Guildmaster. At this, Kendricke stirred, and smiled. He continued: Finally I arrived home, though it pained me to lay eyes upon it. Great, gaping holes now littered the grand walls of my king's castle, and bodies lay everywhere. My heart skipped a beat as I approached, and I called out to the dead that I recognized! I yelled and wailed for those that I knew. As if in answer to my prayer, a shout was returned. It had come from within the now blackened castle. I ran toward the voices and was let in the shattered gates, by some guardsmen that I recognized as being from my army. I smiled broadly as the realization set in that I was NOT the only survivor. I began to exclaim as much, when I was grabbed and thrown to the ground. The guards began kicking me and hitting me with the blunt end of their polearms. In this way was I beaten, by the very men I once commanded! After some time of this, I was brought to the throne room and faced with surprise! The Prince now sat upon the throne. "He smiled as he read to him each of his "crimes", then declared him an outcast and traitor. The King, it seems, had died in the attacks, and Sir Kendricke was no longer in fav[/i] I was thrown in the prison, in the dungeons below, and held there for time best forgotten. Suffice it to say, that my hair turned to gray, and the light in my mind was the brightest to find. I do not know how long I was kept, nor how old I'd become. I only knew the confines of this prison of stone, and the squeaking of rats and vermin. Several years passed in this way. Sometimes, I would be forgotten for days on end, and my meals would be neglected. Other days, the prince (always looking years older than when last I saw him) would order me tortured and would come to watch for his own amusement. One day, in the morning, the door came apart! Before me, a fully armed Angel was there in its stead. He spoke to me in a singing voice I could barely make out, and said that I was now free from the tyranny of men. With these words, he ripped my chains from the wall, and then sped through the door and out of my sight. I could hear the sounds of attack, till late in the night, as I sat in my cell dumbfounded. Shrieks of men, and the clash of swords. Occasionally a sizzle and explosion. When I was sure that the battle had ended, I crawled out into the Hall. Blood. It was everywhere. It was smeared on the walls, and dripped from the ceiling into pools on the floor. I wretched! Its acrid smell saturated me. It hung in the air so thick I could taste it! Wretching again, I attempted to walk - my chains catching on the dead arms of men. Somehow, I sloshed throught the hall to the stairs, and slipped on the steps leading up. Finally I reached the doors leading out, or rather that which was left of them. I stepped through the splinters that once held me in, and stepped out into the night. I shielded my eyes from the moon's harsh beams - daggers against my sight! All around me - the smell of decay. The overripe stench of rot. Its sickly sweet oder assaulted my nose. Instinctively, I pulled my hands to my face, and stopped in utter revulsion! My hands dripped blood - sticky and dark, like some twisted syrup. Indeed, in the darkness, it looked almost... I ran! My chains flung about wildly and my heart beat as if it would race me. I let the madness consume me and I ran for the gate. The west - the west! I ran to the west! I ran to the west for hours before the darkness reclaimed me. When I awoke, it was to the overpowering brilliance of the sun. I looked at its dawning over the remains of the castle. Even now, it still looked black. I lay there, staring, into the sun. I looked till my eyes grew comfortable. The colors that shifted before me swirled in circles and eddies, as if the light was a river to swim in. I drifted in and out of consciousness a great deal that day, and through the days that followed. I lay there, with none by my misery for comfort, and the squawking of crows that dined on the dead. I was waiting to die - and why not? Wasn't this proper? Wasn't this justice? We killed the Angels for jealousy of their wings, and now they killed us. I watched the blackbirds and laughed at the thought that men had completed the circle. Where once we killed birds for food, they now feasted on us. Wings and circles. Circles and wings. I knew that my time was near when I saw the crows circling. Circles and Wings. Wings and Circles. They flew by my face, and cautiously pecked at my hands. Wings. Circles. I waved them off...for now. I wanted to die, but not without thinking. I'd much more to torture my self with before they could peck out my eyes. No...I would not succumb to their caws...not today...

M'lord Reverie, I assure you that no offense what-so-ever, was taken. Edited by: Lord Kendricke at: 6/29/02 5:30:43 am

I do not believe that opinions are ever "just" (double entendre fully intended). However, I do respect them, and yours especially. I did take a look at my poem as your changes would have had it, and chose to retain it "as is". Nothing against you, and I did feel your changes were good suggestions. However, I was trying to keep a more Archtypical slant with the second stanza. I don't want to refer to any particular set of "the eyes", but rather refer more esoterically to all "Eyes" or "Daydreams". This is a poem about "The Empty", that feeling we've all had more times than we'd like, whether it be due to lonliness, depression, hate, anger (or more likely angst), bitterness, betrayal or any number of negative emotions which threaten to unravel our sense of well being. I don't know about you, but I've always associated a tight feeling in my chest with these types of emotional states, and I don't recall ever feeling too warm at the time either. If you've managed to capture any of this from reading my words, then I've at least managed to not handidly mangle this work, and I'm loathe to change it. I should mention that I did very seriously consider changing "with" to "so", but in the end chose to retain my original form. "So" would seem to indicate that the Daydreams themselves have become corrupted - the word "malign" would now directly describe "Daydreams" and not "bleeding". I don't feel that "Daydreams" are intended to be so dark, which is the impression I get if using "so". Daydreams, as used here, are still intended to be innocent and open (a parallel to Eyes from the first line), yet now wounded in some way...bleeding with malign. I do thank you for your feedback, and hope you do keep working towards helping me to better my feeble skills. I'll just keep trying to put my virtual quill to virtual parchment in the hopes of performing what I feel the focus of art to be: the ability to fully communicate emotion and experience from one person to another.

This is likely the result of reading Robert Frost while idly listening to R.L. Burnside. Though the song was meant to be enjoyed idly, I envisioned deeper meanings for those willing to delve into it a bit more. At least, that's how I felt when I wrote it. I can see how you got the impression that his heart was broken by his girl leaving him, and that's the pain he can't get quite over. Then again, its perhaps my glass-half-full outlook that gets me to thinking there's a different angle. See, I was thinking this old man's lost his woman to something more - likely death. He's trying to move on through life, as symbolized by the path, and finally gets too weary to go on without her. A decision is reached, and he realizes he's "gots miles" to go still, meaning that he's chosen to live on, even without her. This, to me, is why he gets up and starts walking again, even though he's obviously pained (the cane reference - good catch). Dylan Thomas once wrote that we should "Rage against the dying of the light" and I love writing poems which embody the theme of fighting on, no matter the odds. Then again, I do enjoy a good double entendre as much as the next fellow, and have always striven to write as many meanings as possible into my work. However, in this particular case, you caught me off-guard, as the meaning you interpreted (though a fantastic one I'd love to take credit for) was completely unintentional. *sigh* I suppose I'll have to keep trying before I get it "right" the first time. Then again, what fun would writing be if everyone got the exact same feelings and emotions from reading it. Maybe there is no "right"...only true. Edited by: Lord Kendricke at: 6/28/02 7:47:34 pm

Old man comin' down the path he make. Old man gonna see the night's embrace. Old man tired seein' none her face. Old man comin' down the path he make. Old man gonna stop here fo' a while. Old man thinkin' back 'bout her smile. Old man knowin' he gots miles and miles. Old man gonna stop here fo' a while. Old man get up and he start again. Old man leanin' hard onto his cane. Old man walkin' off his hurt heartpain. Old man get up and he start again. Edited by: Lord Kendricke at: 6/28/02 7:28:54 pm

Lord Kendricke stands and strides toward the stage, flanked by a Dominion of towering stature. Conversations die out, and laughter stops as all eyes focus now on the young boy that commands the Legion of the White Rose. As he steps toward the small stage in the corner, the minstrels upon it bow deeply and leave. The lad looks out warmly upon those gathered, and a smile sets upon his lips as he speaks: My Lords and Ladies, Allow me to share. Allow me to share with you some personal insight into the youth that you see before you. Though I may look as though merely a boy, I can assure you that is not the case. Years ago - lifetimes it seems, I had grown weary of life. I had grown ever-so weary of my duties as a Knight in the employ of my Lord, whose name is now lost to me for lack of importance. I was a powerful Knight for my Lord, and called "Hero" for my services to my kingdom. Kendricke hunted the "Tribes of the Wind", those Angels who dwelled in the mountains of yore. T'was he who enslaved them, and cut of their wings, that no one who saw them could hope to adore. I grew old and fat on the blood of their Tribe, and my Lord rewarded me well! I was given rank and title, with lands and troops - all in reward for my routing the winged ones. As my Lord's lands grew, so did my fame. It was whispered throughout the kingdom that I would be chosen to succeed our ailing King, instead of his own son. These rumors, you could guess, did not set well with the Prince at that time, and his jealousy seethed over my accomplishments. My name was feared throughout the skies and the Winged Ones knew to run from my flag - that of the Black Rose of Death! Kendricke the Dark-Hearted, they called me - ever afraid to fight back against my Legions. I was death come for them, all for the jealousy of my king. I was their end, because he could not permit any to fly, if he could not. Raid after raid, and battle after battle. Works of art were commissioned in my likeness. Dances and galas were held in my Honour. Children played Knights vs. Angels, with all the young boys fighting to play as Kendricke. I tired of it, and simply wished to return to my farm. I did not relish this life of killing without purpose, but I was duty bound to my king. With every village slaughtered in his name, his faith in me grew. With every pair of wings ripped from a child-angel's back, I was buying his favour with the blood of these beings. His name struck fear amounst the hosts, his sword was caked with the blood of ghosts. These gentle angels, lost to fate, because of Kendricke, Knight of Hate. Twas after one such raid, when my army was journeying home that it happened. So quickly that I was unaware of what was actually happening till it was too late. It was near dusk, and we had only a half-hour or so till we camped. One of my captains noticed that the stars ahead were particularly bright. He pointed out that they were beginning to shine even brighter. As I looked, I noticed that the sky seemed to be growing brighter ahead, as if the dawn were approaching. I thought of how odd this was, when the suddenly all was white! When I was able to open my eyes, I looked around to see that my men were being slaughtered around me. Everywhere I looked, they were simply being thrown and rent. Stars of light were falling upon us, as if the heavens had opened up and begun to rain white death. Still unable to even comprehend what was happening, I tried to look up. The brilliance of the light was so intense that I feared I was going blind. That's when I saw them - the most terribly beautiful angels I had ever laid eyes upon. Though their bodies were no different from any other angel I had yet seen, their wings were awe-inspiring in their span. Each of them seemed to simply "float" above us, with wings that moved so slowly and full of grace that they seemed to be as the tail of a contented cat. I watched one in particular, who clasped his hands together in front of himself, and then began to chant. Within moments, his fists glowed with a light so furious that I could not watch without squinting. I watched on with a childlike gaze, as the angel released this light, which shot as a comet to a grouping of archers below. It exploded, and my men were tossed asunder. This was it! I had heard the angels talk of their protectors. They would weep, or curse, or simply stand there as we would rip their wings them with ropes tied to horses, or by tying them to racks we had built for the purpose. I would here them cry out to these "Gods" of the winged ones. These were the Dominion. I looked upon the battle with a new realization. Legions and legions of these "Angels-of-Death" were slaughtering my men, swift as the wind itself and twice as unforgiving. Horses were killed. Men were mortally wounded and left to die, bowels and limbs hanging from their broken forms. I charged into battle, and began shouting commands. I fought as a demon - a frenzied berserker. I grabbed a crossbow, covered in gore, from the hands of a boy, who's head was half gone. Below me, my steed fell, and I was thrown to the ground. Without looking to see, I fired into the sky. I stood and became more beast than man. I screamed out my fury and dared these gods to come get me. The first one went down, impaled by my blade. As I struggled to free my sword from his chest, I saw the light. Instinct took over, and I leaped to the ground. The blast carried me up as my ears sizzled. All went black... I awoke to a hell I was not prepared for. Everywhere about me, there was only death. Swarms of crows and vultures fought over choice pieces of the men and boys I'd lead to their graves. The Dominion had left no survivors save myself. I was left living, though broken and bleeding. No supplies had been spared, and was days from my home. Without anything to do, I walked around in shock. Shedding my Armor I began the long journey. I travelled for weeks through the hostile lands of my Lord's kingdom. I hid from flights of Angels which now flew through the skies, and I foraged for grubs in the dirt left below. For weeks this went on - hiding, foraging, always trudging on to the east - on towards the castle of my Lord and King...

Forward: I've been asked to post the complete tale of the origins of Lord Kendricke within this Hall. I certainly hope that this brings some small amount of pleasure to those that read it. Regardless, here it is, reprinted from its original telling within the Stage area of the Tavern of the Morning Rose (www.legion-whiterose.com). I give to you the first installmant of the story of my character's beginnings.

They rode hard through the night, with a small flight of angels overhead, the Guildmaster's personal bodyguards. Though the Halls of Honour traditionally resided within Lord Kendricke's kingdom, it was not safe these days. Yesterday, diplomatic talks had apparantly failed when the Army of Darkness had declared war upon the Legion of the White Rose. When Madoka, as First Knight of the Guild, had been summoned to Kendricke's side, she had never guessed his true intention was to ask her to be one of two Honoured kaishaku at his own ritual suicide, yet here she was, riding in darkness, each step taking her and her Lord closer to this ceremony. Death was not stalking her Lord, he willingly rode to meet him full on! She watched him now, in the darkness. Still young in form, he rode as a master horseman, as if he'd spent decades perfecting it. She smiled slightly, and chided herself for choosing to believe that all was as it appeared with the boy Guildmaster, something she found herself doing several times a day. "Of course he was not a child," she thought. After all, hadn't she known him for many years beyond his given appearance? She allowed her smile to grow slightly as she watched him charge his steed onward. He was not riding recklessly, but he was not taking his time either. If she didn't know better, she'd have guessed he was riding for the first time, the expression on his face showing such joy and wonder. A quick chirp from one of the angels halting the company in its tracks. In one motion, Madoka had stopped her horse, and pulled her paired katana and wakasashi from their scabbards. Around her, the sounds of scraping metal and bowstrings pulled taught, let her know that her mean had done likewise. Curiously, Lord Kendricke did not seem concerned. Madoka glanced at him, while 6 armored Dominion alighted next to him, most already shimmering in preparation for their powerful Holy attacks. In the starlight, she heard their chanting begin. She knew that the Angelic Tribes worshipped her Lord as some sort of saviour. She knew that they would die to protect him, completely content in their strange religion that they had performed their duty. "Oh, what Samurai they could make, given the right training," she thought to herself quickly. Realizing that her Guildmaster was as safe as he could be, considering the circumstances, she kicked her mount into a slow walk. As First Knight, it was up to her to make sure the Guildmaster made it safely to his destination, or die in the attempt. Now, she would give her unseen opponent the chance to die with Honour. "Watashi wa Madoka-desu!" She began her challenge with a shouted introduction to her opponent. They would know the name of their executioner, at least. She realized the risk at exposing the importance of their mission if her name was recognized as that of the Legion's First Knight. However, that recognition was a double-edged sword, and it could work to her advantage as well. Her abilites as a warmage and warrior were well known throughout the Terras, and it was this side of her reputation that she now banked on, for their mission required haste, and she could ill-afford conflict if it could be avoided. She continued the bluff, "Show yourselves now, or be cut down where you stand!" Behind her, she could hear the chanting of the Dominion steadily increase. Her own men were silent, and would remain so till she gave the signal. "Ohaya gozaimasu Madoka-san," came the reply from the darkness. She recognized the voice at once. "Buzzrock!" Her joy was evident. Buzzrock had been her first Mentor so many years ago. Her own father had learned his Bushido from the same teacher as Buzzrock, known then as the Onimusha, or "demon warrior", within the borders of her homelands.. He had recently tracked her down again, and immediately joined the Legion of the boy Guildmaster, swearing his fealty to Lord Kendricke as well. If he was here, then she had no doubt they were as safe as if they were in their own beds. She dismounted immediately, sheathing her weapons in the process. Remembering duty, she called out for Buzzrock to show himself now, as she had challenged. "Ever the dutiful soldier, eh Madoka-san?" Buzzrock came forth from the treeline that concealed him. Her joy turned to dispair almost at once when she realized what he wore - the traditional kimono of a kaishaku! He was here to aide in her Lord's death as well. Composing herself quickly, she approached Lord Buzzrock solemnly. "Konichiwa Onimusha-Sama." She would not betray her misgivings at Lord Kendricke's decision, certainly not to one of the few men alive she truly respected to such an extent. She would fall back on ceremony, and hide her emotion in its comfortable familiarity. "Lord Kendricke, is that you?" Buzzrock's gregariousness would be impossible to supress in any situation. Even while wearing the robes of his Lord's death, he could not be anything but optimistic. To Buzzrock, there was a silver lining to everything, and no doubt he'd found one here as well. "It is indeed, old friend. How have you been m'lord? It has been too long." "That, it has M'Lord," Buzzrock chuckled lightly. "Shall we continue on then, or will you block my way even now?" Madoka heard the seriousness of the question hidden within its joking tones. Her Lord was curious if Buzzrock would allow him to travel onward, knowing that it was to his death. Madoka considered this, since it had not occured to her that Buzzrock would ever disobey Kendricke. If he did, that would mean she, as First Knight, would be Honourbound to do whatever was necessary to see that her Lord's wishes were met - even cutting down Lord Onimusha! Madoka's lips tightened, and she realized that her hands had already found the hilt of her no-daichi. Though only a second or two of silence actually existed between Kendricke's seemingly innocent question, and Buzzrock's answer, it seemed as if hours had passed to the war-hardened samurai. Buzzrock sighed heavily and continued, "What if I did? What if I told you what a damned fool idea this was? What if I told you that in order to kill yourself, you'd have to kill me too? What then?" "It is the only way to end this war old friend. They will not listen to reason." Buzzrock's anger became evident, "And you are being reasonable?" Kendricke dismounted his horse, and the Dominion ceased in their chant. The young Guildmaster approached Buzzrock slowly. As he did so, Madoka felt her sword arm tense, and perspiration beaded across her brow. Kendricke now stood directly in front of Buzzrock. He outstreched his arms, and then embraced the old warlord. Buzzrock immediately returned the embrace, and Madoka suddenly felt alone, so very alone. It hurt her in ways she could not explain, how her Lord could show such affection openly for others, usually men, but not her. Had she not served her Lord far longer than Lord Onimusha? Why did he merit such comfort, while she was bound to formalities and ritual? She dismissed the envious thoughts as others might dismiss an annoying fly. One moment it was there, and then the next gone to annoy another. Duty took over, once again. "M'Lord?" She lowered her gaze in respect, and allowed her question to find Kendricke in the darkness. "Yes, m'lady, it is time." The men released their hug, and Lord Kendricke moved once more toward his mount. The Dominion silently took to wing, and Buzzrock made his way back into the woods. He returned, mounted, and surrounded by his own bodyguard of samurai. The ride was no longer silent however, and Madoka soon realized how much she had truly missed her old mentor. Stories flowed from his lips as a mountain creek, and in the distance, they could soon see the outline of the Halls of Honour contrasted against the coming dawn. Madoka began to compose a haiku in her head. The sun always rises... She thought again of the sunset in her Lord's bedchamber - the sadness she felt at the realization that her beloved Guildmaster would never see another. In the last remaining moments of darkness, the First Knight of the Legion of the White Rose finally allowed her tears to come, hidden from the view of those she truly cared about.

NOTE: I wrote this story some time ago, so many of the references may seem incredibly dated. However, I have chosen to not update the writing in favour of paying my younger self some measure of respect. Your patience in this matter is appreciated.

The Guards protested only slightly at the presence of the Defender of the Sacred Rose. Her presence was needed for their Lord and brother Kendricke. She was, after all, his kaishaku on this day. Though the boy they adored had given explicit orders to the Dominion that none should be allowed within his chambers, they allowed her entry with nary a hesitation. "Konichiwa Kendricke-Sama", the First Knight and Samurai of the Legion of the White Rose performed a ritual bow within the waiting room of her young Daimyo. "Guildmaster", she thought to herself, letting the word mill in her mind a bit. It was still too foreign a word to her, and she privately preferred to think of her Lord as Daimyo, but it was his wish to hold with the traditions of his lands, and she had no desire to disrespect her Lord. "Konbawa Madoka-san". Kendricke replied quietly, and his voice sounded almost curious and inspired. He sat in the traditional lotus position, facing the large plate window that looked out upon the western borders of his own Kingdom, the Arakk Mountains. His head was newly shorn, and he wore his familiar sackcloth robes. Madoka noticed his ritual kimono hung upon the same rack she had given it to him on, some years ago. "Is not the setting sun beautiful this evening?" Madoka forced the tears away before they had the chance to well up. She knew that this would be Lord Kendricke's last sunset, and here he treated it as if it were just another day. In the morning, she would be one of two Honoured seconds at his seppuku, and the thought of a life as Ronin was nothing compared to the thought of a life without THIS one. "It is indeed, Honoured Lord". "Madoka!" He spoke wryly as he turned slowly, rising from his meditative posture. "There is really no need for such formalities yet, is there ?" He followed her gaze, and looked at the kimono across the room. He smiled gently, and Madoka felt her cheeks burn from the sudden embarrasment. In shame, she looked down. "M'Lord...It's just...I...Wakarimasen!" Kendricke looked away. Silence descended upon the room. Minutes passed with only the sounds of cicadas in the distance, and the young darkness that comes from a distant sun giving its last farewell to yet another day. Madoka had been raised a Samurai. She understood duty, and Honour, and sacrifice. At her Lord's whim, she would thrust herself upon an enemy sword, and gladly lead her army to do likewise. Obedience to a Samurai was as natural as the stars in the night sky. However, this mage was not Samurai, and her time within his "Legion" had changed her in ways she was only just beginning to fully understand. She found that her opinions mattered a great deal, and that sometimes disobediance was important - sometimes MORE important than blind faith. Those she encountered in this Legion were as varied as sea shells. Yet, all shared common goals and visions. She's fought alongside 100,000 bushin at the Battle of the Thousand Rivers, and never felt the power she felt within a single meeting of the Orders within the Grand Keep at the Halls of Honour, the capitol of the Legion's vast member-kingdoms. Madoka looked upon the still silent Guildmaster she'd sworn Allegience to so many years ago. He had not aged one day in all that time. The stories she heard had once seemed fantastic, and she originally thought them fancy, yet in all her time with the boy Guildmaster, she had never thought to ask him if they were true. She'd always assumed he would tell her of his origins, when the time was right. Anger began to swell in her breast and she felt her temper rise, a flaw in her upbringing that she had never fully overcome. She had wasted her time! She could now see the many opportunities she'd missed spread out before her as a table buffet: He would never see another sunset from this room, and in fact, within another hour, he'd never see this room again either, when she helped him to his caravan bound for the Halls of Honour. He would never finish his Japanese lessons. He would never see her homeland. He would never perfect his mokuso. He would never share the story of his origins with her. Just then, Kendricke broke the silence, "it is time, is it not?" Duty. Years of training and conditioning took over at once, and the anger was gone as if it had never existed. "Yes, M'lord. At once." Servants were summoned and they began to pack for the long journey. One of the younger attendants began to pack some of the Guildmaster's personal effects. Kendricke stopped him with a gesture. "Where I go, these trinkets and baubles will not be needed." The servant suddenly seemed to remember where Lord Kendricke was going, and fell to his knees weeping. Madoka struggled to keep her own composure for the second time in as many hours. Silently, she cursed herself for her lack of discipline. Without a word more, Kendricke left the room, leaving his overcome attendant to grieve his Guildmaster, who rode off for his own death.