The Journey, Boook 2; Chapter 6 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 7; White-wind
Tara was standing in the centre of the training arena, sweating and breathing heavily. Jason had been drilling making her practice the Falcon’s Guard time and time again, throwing different scenarios at her, Elqiana watched from the opposite end of the arena, her huge lizard-like form taking up a good portion of the space, much to the annoyance of the swordmaster, thinking she’s going to be a distraction, but Elqiana wouldn’t have anything of it, she was staying and that was that, she even went as far as growling at Jason baring her fangs when he tried to reason with her.
Tarasque, got ready, regaining her composure, she got into the stance she’d practiced hundreds of times, light on her toes, her wooden practice sword raised and angled slightly near her face, Jason suddenly jumped into action, swinging his sword down hard, she blocked it, holding firm, no expressions on her face, Jason pushed down, using more of his weight.
Tara knew she wouldn’t be able to hold him off for longer…
‘Push his knee with the heel of your foot, and pivot…’ Elqiana prompted Tara in her mind.
Tara followed through, she kicked Jason in his knee and he dropped to the floor, she pivoted, now behind him she swung her blade down quickly bringing it to an abrupt stop, the blade landing gently beside his neck.
“What the? How the? Where did THAT come from?” Jason exclaimed.
Tarasque stepped back, trying her best not to smile, to stay serious as she sheathed her practice sword on her belt loop.
“Have you been talking to Nekonata?!” Jason asked firmly, getting back on his feet, then he looked back at the dragon, “It was her wasn’t it, Elqiana told you what to do?”
Elqiana growls quietly, enough to let Jason know she didn’t like accusations thrown at her.
‘I won’t prompt you again, little red, in pointy-stabby-stick fights one needs to use their wits and brains at all times to look for an advantage.’
Tarasque turned her back and smiled inwardly, ‘Thanks’ She simply replied back to her dragon friend.
The heat of the midday sun hung heavy over the training arena, casting the ground beneath into a mix of scorching patches and cool shadows. The stone walls of the arena seemed to hold the weight of the world, their silence broken only by the rhythmic clash of wood and the occasional command issued by Jason.
Jason stood at the center of the space, his weathered face serious yet patient, his sword an extension of his arm, its blade gleaming under the sun. His black leather armor was worn, as if forged from experience itself, and his stance was one of quiet mastery. Before him, Tarasque stood ready, her frame small but muscular, her posture upright with a little hesitance and uncertainty. Her sword hung loosely in her hand, a wooden practice sword that she’d recently just begun to practice with.
“Alright, Tarasque,” Jason’s voice cut through the stillness, strong yet calming. “Today, we’re working on the Widow’s Kiss.”
Tarasque’s brows furrowed slightly, her gaze never leaving her teacher. “The Widow’s Kiss?” Her tone was a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. “Kisses don’t kill anyone, what are you talking about?”
Jason’s lips twitched into a half-smile, and he stepped forward, his sword swinging in a lazy arc before he raised it, positioning himself in a graceful stance. “It’s not a kiss, not in the way you think,” he said, his eyes glinting with humor and wisdom. “It’s the kind that leaves your opponent breathless, draws them in and then takes their life before they even realize what happened.”
Tarasque tilted her head, studying him. She was no stranger to the brutal realities of war, but Jason’s words were always full of deeper meanings. “Sounds more like a trap than a kiss.”
“That’s the point,” Jason replied, stepping back and lowering his sword, his voice becoming more serious. “You offer them a chance, an opening, and when they think they’ve won, you take it away.”
Tarasque’s lips pressed together as she absorbed the information. She had been training in many different styles but this one… this felt different. There was something about it that piqued her curiosity, something deeper than just battle.
Jason took a few steps to the side, gesturing for her to follow. “Let’s see you try it. You already know the basics of how to fight, but this is about control. Not just of your body, but your mind. You have to be willing to commit fully, without hesitation.”
Tarasque exhaled, adjusting her grip on her sword, letting it hang loosely at her side, as if inviting Jason to make the first move. She offered an opening, the blade angled downward, her posture open and inviting.
Jason nodded, his gaze narrowing, sensing her determination. He stepped forward, his movements slow but deliberate, feigning an attack, making it look too real. His sword came down in a calculated arc, aiming straight for her chest.
Tarasque’s eyes locked onto his every motion. The moment he began to move, she sensed the trap. It wasn’t the blade she feared, it was the moment of hesitation, the moment where her instincts would falter. But she had learned long ago to trust her instincts.
In a blur of motion, she turned her body, her sword snapping up to meet him in a perfect counterstrike. The edge of her blade stopped just short of his throat. Jason froze, his breath barely a whisper as he stood in the deadly calm of the moment.
“Not bad,” Jason murmured, his voice low. “But you hesitated. Just for a second. You need to fully commit to the strike, Tarasque.”
She nodded, though she could feel the tension in her chest. “It’s… hard to let go. I’ve always been told to be careful, to think ahead.”
Jason stepped back, lowering his sword. “The Widow’s Kiss isn’t about caution. It’s about rhythm. Control. You set the pace. You offer them the chance, and when they think they have you, you end them. No hesitation. No doubt.”
Tarasque studied him for a long moment, absorbing his words. She knew he wasn’t talking about physical prowess alone. This was something different, something deeper. Something that made every fight, every decision, feel like a performance.
“Alright,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him. “I’ll try again.”
This time, when she assumed the stance, there was less thinking. Her movements were more fluid, less stiff. She allowed the sword to feel lighter, almost as if it were a part of her body, responding naturally to every shift in her stance. Her body moved with the rhythm of the fight, like she was performing a deadly dance. The moment Jason moved toward her again, she did not hesitate.
Her sword flashed upward in a seamless motion, just as Jason’s blade neared. She felt the power and grace of her own body as the strike landed, barely an inch from his throat, but this time, the timing was perfect.
Jason’s eyes lit up with approval, and he took a step back, his grin widening. “There it is. That’s the Widow’s Kiss. You gave me the opening, let me think I had the advantage, and then you closed the trap before I even saw it coming.”
Tarasque lowered her sword, a smile tugging at her lips. “It felt… different. Like I was leading the whole time, like I knew the next step before it even came.”
Jason nodded, his expression softening. “That’s the key. The moment you let go of doubt, you become the one in control. And remember, you’re not just fighting your opponent, you’re fighting what they expect. Every move, every pause, every breath, it’s all part of the illusion. But when you strike… it has to be decisive.”
Tarasque stood still, her grip still firm on the hilt, but now, there was a quiet confidence in her stance. “I understand now,” she said, her voice steady, no hesitation in it. “It’s not just about strength. It’s about outthinking them, outmaneuvering them before they even realize they’re caught.”
Jason stepped back, his posture relaxed but still alert. “Exactly. And if you can do that, if you can control the rhythm, then you’ll never just be reacting. You’ll be leading the fight.”
Tarasque nodded, her gaze unwavering. She had taken his lessons, had felt them sink into her bones. The Widow’s Kiss wasn’t just a sword stance, it was a philosophy. A dance with death itself. And she was ready to lead.
Jason gave her one last approving glance. “Alright, Tarasque. Now, let’s see you lead again.”
Tarasque stood poised and ready, her eyes focused on her instructor as he demonstrated the fluid grace of the Widow’s Kiss.
But just as she was about to execute the technique herself—her body primed, her breath steady, a glimmer of light caught her eye.
A sharp, green flash.
She blinked, distracted, and her gaze shifted to the far side of the arena, where a weapon rack stood against the stone wall. The glint came from a large two-handed sword resting there, its hilt adorned with intricate carvings that shimmered in the sunlight. The blade itself, green like new leaves in spring, seemed to hum with an energy that both unsettled and intrigued her.
Jason noticed the change in her focus and followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Hmm... The Whispering Wind has returned again.”
Tarasque’s brow furrowed, and she hesitated for a moment, torn between the lesson she was supposed to finish and the pull of the sword that now called to her. She stepped forward, her boots silent on the stone floor, the heat of the day now forgotten. Her hand reached out, fingers grazing the hilt of the blade.
It was light. Too light. As if the weapon barely existed in her grasp. Yet it felt... alive, its energy humming beneath her fingertips.
The moment she touched the weapon, there was a sudden, unexpected flash of bright light, a sharp, blinding brilliance that filled the arena for a brief second, forcing her to squint against its intensity. She instinctively drew her hand back, but the sword was still there, now clutched in her grip, the green hue slowly ebbing away.
As the light faded, Tarasque blinked, staring at the weapon in her hand. The green had disappeared entirely, replaced by something... other. The blade had transformed, now a shimmering opal white, the surface of the steel iridescent, almost pearlescent, shifting in the light. A faint aura seemed to swirl around it, an ethereal mist tracing along the edge, and the hilt, once adorned in silver and jade, was now wrapped in an ivory white leather, the opal gems glowing faintly.
“Jason… what is this?” Tarasque whispered, awe and confusion mixing in her voice as she turned the sword in her hands, examining the intricate details. It was like no blade she had ever seen before. It felt both alien and familiar, like something that had always belonged to her, yet something she couldn’t fully understand.
Jason thought about it for a moment, “This is a blade of an elvish making. It’s a mysterious blade, no one seems to be able to recall who the original owner was, but it’s an old blade, nicknamed the training blade, Gabija trained with it, as did Elvina, and Nekonata before you.”
Jason gently took the blade from Tarasque and turned it over in his hands, “It seems the blade has now chosen you Tara, you and Elqiana for it now matches your aura and her scales. It deems worthy of a new name, for it is no longer aligned to its previous owner, but now belongs to you.” Jason carefully hands the white iridescent blade back to her.
“A new name? I need to give this blade a name?” Jason nodded as Tarasque started to think of names… Gleave? No, that doesn’t sound right, Opal Gleam? No, no…”
“White-wind”
‘White-wind’
Tarasque and Elqiana look at each other, for the first time they’d thought of the same thing and said it at the same time, they both repeated it, White-wind. Suddenly the blade started to glow a shimmering opal white colour.
“There you have it, White-wind, or Blanka-vento in the ancient language.” Jason commented softly.
Elvina walks graciously across the training arena towards Jason and Tarasque, “What was the bright white light?” She asks curiously.
“It seems the Whispering Wind has decided to realign itself finally.” Jason commented.
“That would be the second time in history this sword has realigned itself, no other elven blade has done that before.”
“You know who owned this blade before?” Tarasque asked intrigued.
“Hmm… the previous owner, vowed never to use a weapon again, killing even in war, weighed too heavily on his heart and mind. The first original owner was a horrible person, not many are brave enough to say his name… and nor will I say it either.”
“Why are you here Elvina?” Jason asked, sensing there was a purpose for her visit.
“Oh… yeah, that… I’m to umm” Elvina clears her throat nervously, “Take Tarasque dress shopping, well for a dress fitting… or something or other…”
Chapter 7; White-wind
Tara was standing in the centre of the training arena, sweating and breathing heavily. Jason had been drilling making her practice the Falcon’s Guard time and time again, throwing different scenarios at her, Elqiana watched from the opposite end of the arena, her huge lizard-like form taking up a good portion of the space, much to the annoyance of the swordmaster, thinking she’s going to be a distraction, but Elqiana wouldn’t have anything of it, she was staying and that was that, she even went as far as growling at Jason baring her fangs when he tried to reason with her.
Tarasque, got ready, regaining her composure, she got into the stance she’d practiced hundreds of times, light on her toes, her wooden practice sword raised and angled slightly near her face, Jason suddenly jumped into action, swinging his sword down hard, she blocked it, holding firm, no expressions on her face, Jason pushed down, using more of his weight.
Tara knew she wouldn’t be able to hold him off for longer…
‘Push his knee with the heel of your foot, and pivot…’ Elqiana prompted Tara in her mind.
Tara followed through, she kicked Jason in his knee and he dropped to the floor, she pivoted, now behind him she swung her blade down quickly bringing it to an abrupt stop, the blade landing gently beside his neck.
“What the? How the? Where did THAT come from?” Jason exclaimed.
Tarasque stepped back, trying her best not to smile, to stay serious as she sheathed her practice sword on her belt loop.
“Have you been talking to Nekonata?!” Jason asked firmly, getting back on his feet, then he looked back at the dragon, “It was her wasn’t it, Elqiana told you what to do?”
Elqiana growls quietly, enough to let Jason know she didn’t like accusations thrown at her.
‘I won’t prompt you again, little red, in pointy-stabby-stick fights one needs to use their wits and brains at all times to look for an advantage.’
Tarasque turned her back and smiled inwardly, ‘Thanks’ She simply replied back to her dragon friend.
The heat of the midday sun hung heavy over the training arena, casting the ground beneath into a mix of scorching patches and cool shadows. The stone walls of the arena seemed to hold the weight of the world, their silence broken only by the rhythmic clash of wood and the occasional command issued by Jason.
Jason stood at the center of the space, his weathered face serious yet patient, his sword an extension of his arm, its blade gleaming under the sun. His black leather armor was worn, as if forged from experience itself, and his stance was one of quiet mastery. Before him, Tarasque stood ready, her frame small but muscular, her posture upright with a little hesitance and uncertainty. Her sword hung loosely in her hand, a wooden practice sword that she’d recently just begun to practice with.
“Alright, Tarasque,” Jason’s voice cut through the stillness, strong yet calming. “Today, we’re working on the Widow’s Kiss.”
Tarasque’s brows furrowed slightly, her gaze never leaving her teacher. “The Widow’s Kiss?” Her tone was a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. “Kisses don’t kill anyone, what are you talking about?”
Jason’s lips twitched into a half-smile, and he stepped forward, his sword swinging in a lazy arc before he raised it, positioning himself in a graceful stance. “It’s not a kiss, not in the way you think,” he said, his eyes glinting with humor and wisdom. “It’s the kind that leaves your opponent breathless, draws them in and then takes their life before they even realize what happened.”
Tarasque tilted her head, studying him. She was no stranger to the brutal realities of war, but Jason’s words were always full of deeper meanings. “Sounds more like a trap than a kiss.”
“That’s the point,” Jason replied, stepping back and lowering his sword, his voice becoming more serious. “You offer them a chance, an opening, and when they think they’ve won, you take it away.”
Tarasque’s lips pressed together as she absorbed the information. She had been training in many different styles but this one… this felt different. There was something about it that piqued her curiosity, something deeper than just battle.
Jason took a few steps to the side, gesturing for her to follow. “Let’s see you try it. You already know the basics of how to fight, but this is about control. Not just of your body, but your mind. You have to be willing to commit fully, without hesitation.”
Tarasque exhaled, adjusting her grip on her sword, letting it hang loosely at her side, as if inviting Jason to make the first move. She offered an opening, the blade angled downward, her posture open and inviting.
Jason nodded, his gaze narrowing, sensing her determination. He stepped forward, his movements slow but deliberate, feigning an attack, making it look too real. His sword came down in a calculated arc, aiming straight for her chest.
Tarasque’s eyes locked onto his every motion. The moment he began to move, she sensed the trap. It wasn’t the blade she feared, it was the moment of hesitation, the moment where her instincts would falter. But she had learned long ago to trust her instincts.
In a blur of motion, she turned her body, her sword snapping up to meet him in a perfect counterstrike. The edge of her blade stopped just short of his throat. Jason froze, his breath barely a whisper as he stood in the deadly calm of the moment.
“Not bad,” Jason murmured, his voice low. “But you hesitated. Just for a second. You need to fully commit to the strike, Tarasque.”
She nodded, though she could feel the tension in her chest. “It’s… hard to let go. I’ve always been told to be careful, to think ahead.”
Jason stepped back, lowering his sword. “The Widow’s Kiss isn’t about caution. It’s about rhythm. Control. You set the pace. You offer them the chance, and when they think they have you, you end them. No hesitation. No doubt.”
Tarasque studied him for a long moment, absorbing his words. She knew he wasn’t talking about physical prowess alone. This was something different, something deeper. Something that made every fight, every decision, feel like a performance.
“Alright,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him. “I’ll try again.”
This time, when she assumed the stance, there was less thinking. Her movements were more fluid, less stiff. She allowed the sword to feel lighter, almost as if it were a part of her body, responding naturally to every shift in her stance. Her body moved with the rhythm of the fight, like she was performing a deadly dance. The moment Jason moved toward her again, she did not hesitate.
Her sword flashed upward in a seamless motion, just as Jason’s blade neared. She felt the power and grace of her own body as the strike landed, barely an inch from his throat, but this time, the timing was perfect.
Jason’s eyes lit up with approval, and he took a step back, his grin widening. “There it is. That’s the Widow’s Kiss. You gave me the opening, let me think I had the advantage, and then you closed the trap before I even saw it coming.”
Tarasque lowered her sword, a smile tugging at her lips. “It felt… different. Like I was leading the whole time, like I knew the next step before it even came.”
Jason nodded, his expression softening. “That’s the key. The moment you let go of doubt, you become the one in control. And remember, you’re not just fighting your opponent, you’re fighting what they expect. Every move, every pause, every breath, it’s all part of the illusion. But when you strike… it has to be decisive.”
Tarasque stood still, her grip still firm on the hilt, but now, there was a quiet confidence in her stance. “I understand now,” she said, her voice steady, no hesitation in it. “It’s not just about strength. It’s about outthinking them, outmaneuvering them before they even realize they’re caught.”
Jason stepped back, his posture relaxed but still alert. “Exactly. And if you can do that, if you can control the rhythm, then you’ll never just be reacting. You’ll be leading the fight.”
Tarasque nodded, her gaze unwavering. She had taken his lessons, had felt them sink into her bones. The Widow’s Kiss wasn’t just a sword stance, it was a philosophy. A dance with death itself. And she was ready to lead.
Jason gave her one last approving glance. “Alright, Tarasque. Now, let’s see you lead again.”
Tarasque stood poised and ready, her eyes focused on her instructor as he demonstrated the fluid grace of the Widow’s Kiss.
But just as she was about to execute the technique herself—her body primed, her breath steady, a glimmer of light caught her eye.
A sharp, green flash.
She blinked, distracted, and her gaze shifted to the far side of the arena, where a weapon rack stood against the stone wall. The glint came from a large two-handed sword resting there, its hilt adorned with intricate carvings that shimmered in the sunlight. The blade itself, green like new leaves in spring, seemed to hum with an energy that both unsettled and intrigued her.
Jason noticed the change in her focus and followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Hmm... The Whispering Wind has returned again.”
Tarasque’s brow furrowed, and she hesitated for a moment, torn between the lesson she was supposed to finish and the pull of the sword that now called to her. She stepped forward, her boots silent on the stone floor, the heat of the day now forgotten. Her hand reached out, fingers grazing the hilt of the blade.
It was light. Too light. As if the weapon barely existed in her grasp. Yet it felt... alive, its energy humming beneath her fingertips.
The moment she touched the weapon, there was a sudden, unexpected flash of bright light, a sharp, blinding brilliance that filled the arena for a brief second, forcing her to squint against its intensity. She instinctively drew her hand back, but the sword was still there, now clutched in her grip, the green hue slowly ebbing away.
As the light faded, Tarasque blinked, staring at the weapon in her hand. The green had disappeared entirely, replaced by something... other. The blade had transformed, now a shimmering opal white, the surface of the steel iridescent, almost pearlescent, shifting in the light. A faint aura seemed to swirl around it, an ethereal mist tracing along the edge, and the hilt, once adorned in silver and jade, was now wrapped in an ivory white leather, the opal gems glowing faintly.
“Jason… what is this?” Tarasque whispered, awe and confusion mixing in her voice as she turned the sword in her hands, examining the intricate details. It was like no blade she had ever seen before. It felt both alien and familiar, like something that had always belonged to her, yet something she couldn’t fully understand.
Jason thought about it for a moment, “This is a blade of an elvish making. It’s a mysterious blade, no one seems to be able to recall who the original owner was, but it’s an old blade, nicknamed the training blade, Gabija trained with it, as did Elvina, and Nekonata before you.”
Jason gently took the blade from Tarasque and turned it over in his hands, “It seems the blade has now chosen you Tara, you and Elqiana for it now matches your aura and her scales. It deems worthy of a new name, for it is no longer aligned to its previous owner, but now belongs to you.” Jason carefully hands the white iridescent blade back to her.
“A new name? I need to give this blade a name?” Jason nodded as Tarasque started to think of names… Gleave? No, that doesn’t sound right, Opal Gleam? No, no…”
“White-wind”
‘White-wind’
Tarasque and Elqiana look at each other, for the first time they’d thought of the same thing and said it at the same time, they both repeated it, White-wind. Suddenly the blade started to glow a shimmering opal white colour.
“There you have it, White-wind, or Blanka-vento in the ancient language.” Jason commented softly.
Elvina walks graciously across the training arena towards Jason and Tarasque, “What was the bright white light?” She asks curiously.
“It seems the Whispering Wind has decided to realign itself finally.” Jason commented.
“That would be the second time in history this sword has realigned itself, no other elven blade has done that before.”
“You know who owned this blade before?” Tarasque asked intrigued.
“Hmm… the previous owner, vowed never to use a weapon again, killing even in war, weighed too heavily on his heart and mind. The first original owner was a horrible person, not many are brave enough to say his name… and nor will I say it either.”
“Why are you here Elvina?” Jason asked, sensing there was a purpose for her visit.
“Oh… yeah, that… I’m to umm” Elvina clears her throat nervously, “Take Tarasque dress shopping, well for a dress fitting… or something or other…”
The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 8
Chapter 8; Buradoth After days of trudging through mist-veiled valleys, frozen streambeds, and windswept ridges, Nekonata and his companions finally reached the foot of the Buradoth Mountains. Jagged peaks loomed overhead, scraping the grey sky like a wall built by ancient gods who had grown...
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