The exterior of this new form before me is truly a conqueror, body of some metal, the eyes burn with the flame of a volcano and is that muscle...it seemed utterly and profoundly quiver and roar with flowing power and strength, unmoving might, this thing before me was a true progenitor of war. The skin that hold's the shape and form was covered in countless scales of searing otherworldly metal, had colour of iron or steel and sunstone, but it was unreal, this thing seems to twitch as if holding itself together, as if it was a force of a storm folded over and over again by some hoary being, godly most likely. The face was still as a dead petrified face, an odd shape to look like a man but so beyond, it was etched with purity of to be a force of battle. I know in my soul this is the greatest Man-of-War before me, it would slay all us servitors, I know this, we truly are just inferior, and I feel like I must kneel and weep for mercy, but I know deeply in my being that it has none.
So this thing will be my last fight. Was my doom dream of this? It seems typical that I'd be at death's door on my last tour. I am shaking, but I must fight. I fought for my ancestors and those to come, I must not falter before my sailors. Or maybe I'll survive? I could survive if I dive into the golden sea. Through that uncertainty perhaps I live, for I am certainly and all my men dead if we stay. Or shall I pray and pray and someone saves us all? Was this what my doom dream said would be my end, I refuse, I shall pray to the Many Lords of the Pale Palace and Palestone Throne. My Lords, come to me and we in our hour of need. Come and face this new conqueror and defy divinity and the cosmos, break the absolute lore of all beneath the Gods are shown when we pick up the sword a dream that is our doom. Let it not be mine today, let it be some other day.
It feels as if all is still and my muscles are filled with stone and my lungs with ice, it is stepping, so slow, but it feels as if the whole boat shakes. Even our ship blessed by the Pale Empress and Pale Lord yields to its boot, buckling and scorched, no chance. I am holding my breath and I won't attack just yet for I will hope some saviour will come. I must distract my men, keep them in line, for until then if any moves to strike they will meet their demise.
"FORM UP"
Damn it, my order lacked any confidence, will they listen? No longer are my sailors roaring to go, we ain't new sailors. We got experience of war and battle, death and dying, seen so many of ours die and killed just as many of our foes. Yet now utterly meekly, of course, that experience we have gained over so long in our warring is why we all know will be dead in a blink, I don't blame them, there is certainty in this new thing being absolute and waves of its divinity show nothing but a sense of killing intent, as if it was coated in endless feathers of blades and flames.
I don't see how we can hold this corridor of war with this godly mad lord of gore and destruction, this thing I know rules the battlefield, this thing is a ship of conquering, and we are those who stand on the storm struck shore. I pray again, will the others pray too? Will the cosmos and the Pale Palace save us? No. I am sure I die here, rot and become sea moss. Would a champion of the Pale Palace even stand up to this? The Blessed One fell, maybe it was tired from other battles, maybe it was caught by surprise? I have never seen a Champion of the Pale Palace in battle, they do roar of celestial power, will one come? Never have we had one in the Golden Sea for long, the sea seems to become unstable when they be near, what I'm I thinking? Of course, we will not be saved, I must with my comrades stand ready to die.
What is that sound? Something shot across the air, the pure Man-of-War, is still and has stopped approaching? It gazes elsewhere? Something has wrapped around its form, and it could not toss it? What has ensnared it? The Chain, I see it, follow it with my eyes and leads to the weeping cross scarred Blessed? The blood of the Blessed One sparkling, never have I seen a blessed injured, and it has saved us? It never spoke to us, barely sat with us, yet dying and its soul bleeding with embers separating and scattering in the air of its inner being, it fights for us? I got to fight for it, looks like my sailors feel it too.
The dying Blessed One defiance against this cloud-born monster has driven us, and we can not leave it behind I'd just feel scorn for myself and I know my fellow sailors would too, how many died today? How many died since heaven-born, those from the clouds, waged their war? We die in this battle and war, we die whether greenhorn, oldhorn or champion. That is how we reach the new morn, fight and fight with all our Pale Light's Might. We fight for the Marble Blade, who fell in The Battle of Black Belly. We fight For the Pale Lord and the Pale Empress, we fight.
Long ago I was a farmer and my crew from cobbler to smith, all sorts forged by our service into something new with all our fellow lowly born we became the pale guard, shield, blade and warrior for the Pale Palace. Champions and protectors. We live and die, die to hope the future's children yet to be born can wake in a brand-new morn with no lord of order heels be upon their throats!
My feet are moving, I can hear my comrades charging too, we all rushing and charging at this thing that be trapped, even the blessed one was part of our crew, a resident in our home though we never uttered a word and even if our blades shatter as if made of dust we will unsheathe our fangs, teeth and claws!
What? What is this light? It is so bright, all of us have stopped in are charge, so have my fellows, it's so bright we have covered our eyes, this is a new light fades? Not golden, not even Pale, but a Crimson glow that has embers darkly as the night? We all have stopped, as if frozen? I see a shade come to form before us. What is standing before us? This a new Man-of-War? Who is this blazing in red and dust. I hear whispering wails.
That mark upon this new form's head? I have seen it before. My gods, it is a Pale Lord, an Overlord of The Pale Palace and Foundation? In a pillar of red mist...the mark on this shape's head? Jagged symbol that looks like a spearhead that falls like rain, then tens if not more etched symbols that are the spiked flower surrounded by jagged shapes. The mark, by the Gods and Pale Palace, is Overlord of The Crimson Rainfall. The greatest God Killer in our force.
YOU ARE READING
On the Golden Sea
Short StoryA dimension, a realm, a place or territory exists beyond time and space, it is the only means to travel across the stars and creation, guarded with forts and fleets and never ending day, this is the place of battle low and the high above.
