Fanfiction:Zipp Dementia Chrono Break 8
Chrono Break
By Zipp Dementia
The kingdom of Gaurdia was one of three major kingdoms in the conglomeration of continents that made up the known world. Of the other two, the Middle continent was called Medina and the far Western continent Choras. Neither had the power of the Guardian kingdom. As Gaurdia was made up of two land masses bridged by the enormous Zenan Bridge, it had access to far more land and population to secure its power. The other two continents had, nonetheless, made their mark on the world, and continued to be important allies in trade to Gaurdia. Medina was the kingdom of the Mystics, sentient monsters who had once fought and lost a great war against humanity. Never truly trusted by humans, the Mystics preferred to stay isolated on their continent, and had never spread beyond its borders. By good fortune, Medina was rich in minerals, including the precious ore and iron that was used to make most weapons. Thus they were important enough to maintain trade with, and through trade the Mystics were able to maintain a dignified economy. Choras, on the other hand, was a colder climate of mostly farmland and forest, once peaceful, but now favoured by thieves and ruffians for its remoteness. What Choras couldn’t offer in resources or high culture, however, it made up for with the best ale on the planet. This secured the Choras brewers a spot in the trade routes, as well as giving them the distinction of having the best taverns in the known world. As for the non-brewing residents, they all plied their trade where they could, whether that be as mercenaries or craftsman, and when work wasn’t readily available, they drank away their troubles in the taverns.
It was common knowledge that the best of these taverns to be in on a Winter’s night was the Hearthstone, aptly named for having the largest hearth in Choras.
It was here, several weeks after Truce had been declared under martial law, that four travelers gathered at a table near a piano that sang out song after song at the skilled coaxing of a Kilwala’s soft touch. The four characters had never met, but each shared a liking for dark ale and a desire for the crackling fire place, heaped with logs. One of them had also proved to be quite a story teller, and this more than anything kept them together through three pitchers and several restockings of the fire.
This storyteller wore a dark hooded robe, and as he kept his chin tilted down and never took the hood off, his features were shadowed. At the moment, he was finishing up an adventurous story with a great flurry of gestures and a vibrant voice that clashed with his secretive dress: “... and when the guard came to check the empty cell, I dropped down behind him and knocked him out!” He demonstrated the move with a swift jab that rocked the table and spilled a bit of the current pitcher. By this time, the others were too drunk to care about the wasted ale.
“A fine tale! A fine tale! In my opinion, jailers deserve each punch to the head we can give em!” This came from the carpenter, a large man with a red nose and cheeks that puffed out under the bushy line of a thick mustache. He wore a fur hat that was a size too small for him (it continually slipped off his bald head). His name had never made it around the group, but he was a regular at the Hearthstone and other Choras inns. A legendary drunkard, he finished up his statement by taking a massive swig of stout.
“More ale, wench!” Griff, an ugly, skinny man with the sly appraising look of a professional pickpocket, snapped his long fingers at the nearest waitress. His large eyes (a deep blue, beautiful contrast to the rest of his body) studied ruefully the dwindling pitcher of stout.
“This one’s on me, lads,” the hooded figure said, bringing a joyous belch from the carpenter, who then polished off his current glass and went to pour another.
The carpenter was intercepted by Tomas, another Choras resident, who batted his hand away and poured the remains of the pitcher into his own half empty glass. He addressed the stranger: “A kind gesture, sir, though really we should be paying you for the entertainment.”
Tomas, the charismatic descendant of a long line of well known adventurers, usually felt the burden of being the center of attention and was glad to pass the baton to a willing stranger. In any case, the stranger seemed to have an endless supply of stories, and each one seemed to top the last. Now the man had launched into an adventure that saw him sailing across the sea to a deserted island. Tomas listened with interest, and a bit of jealousy. He, after all, had been on adventures himself as part of his trade, and yet never had he half as grand a journey as the man described. Digging up lore and tomes was how he made his living, and it amounted to little more than a lot of travel time ending in simple grave robbery. Adventuring for the robed figure seemed much more like the epic journeys that legends described and much less like the harsh reality Tomas had encountered in his own career. When Tomas had needed to head across the sea, the worst thing he’d had to deal with was dysentery. The stranger’s sea journey, on the other hand, involved a battle with a sea serpent and a boarding by Mystic pirates... at the same time, no less!
As the man casually described how he fought off a giant squid using a Mystic’s own body as his weapon, Tomas naturally wondered how much of his story he was making up. Ignoring the exuberance and grandiosity of the fight, the man was fairly believable, speaking with a candor and an ease that spoke of personal experience. At the same time he left out little details, though, such as the location and time that his journey’s occurred. Also, though he presented the adventure’s as solo affairs, he would sometimes accidentally let a “we” or an “us” slip. Griff and the carpenter didn’t seem to notice, and the stories were entertainment enough that Tomas himself wouldn’t have cared, except that he found the man a fascinating puzzle.
When the man finished his current tale, ending with an encounter in an underground cave with a giant lizard, Tomas tried to get one piece of the puzzle. “To whom should we attribute these wonderful tales of daring-do?” he asked, filling the man’s glass.
“Ah... well, I suppose you could call me Tata.” The man gratefully accepted the drink.
“You suppose we could call...? A funny way to introduce yourself.”
“Well, it’s a funny name. It’s why I didn’t mention it.” Across the table, Griff chuckled. Tomas pushed on.
“And where do you come from?”
His voice must’ve sounded over eager, because Tata didn’t answer at first, leaning back in his chair to regard Tomas from under his hood. When he did respond, it was in an amused tone. “I come from the Eastern continent.” There was a lilt at the end of the statement, implying a definite question of ‘why are you asking this?’
Tomas took a sip of beer before answering. “I’ve traveled quite a bit myself, you know. Been to my share of exotic locales... met my share of exotic people. One thing has always been true, I’ve found. Everyone’s got a home, a place they can go back to, no matter how exotic they or that place is. Your home defines who you are. In a world of travelers, what else do we have but our homes?”
Tata was silent. The foam on his newly poured beer bubbled to the top of the glass and fizzed over. He made no move to wipe it away. Tomas continued, knowing he was getting somewhere, though he didn’t know quite where.
“A person who can’t go home is a sad person indeed,” he said.
Tata seemed about to respond, but the carpenter broke in with a heavily slurred voice: “I haven’t been able to go home for years! Not without a beating from my wife!”
With a bout of laughter, the moment passed. Suddenly the waitress arrived with a long ago ordered platter of pork, surrounded with sliced baked vegetables. The steaming roast was placed in the center of the table, where it exuded a mouth watering smell of rosemary and basil. For a few minutes no one said anything, instead busying themselves with chopping away slices of meat with their daggers and chewing on them. The meat was soft and delicious and tasted of honey.
Griff was the first to speak again, through a mouthful of pig: “I don’t know where all this talk of home came from. It’s true, I suppose. There’s a lot of lost people out there. But that’s why we have Choras- city of the lost!”
Tata nodded. “Home doesn’t always define who you are,” he said with a look at Tomas. He popped a roasted beet in his mouth, and chewed loudly.
Tomas persisted: “Then why continue to call it home? Why continue to go back there?”
Tata had found his cool, though, and wouldn’t let his guard down again. “Who said anything about going back? Home is anywhere with a warm bed and good food,“ he said with a sly laugh. He turned to Griff and raised his drink. “I drink to your health, sir. To all your health!” he cried out to the inn at large. “You may be thieves, but you at least have the good food covered.”
Whether because of the ale or an underestimation of his audience, the statement was an unfortunate slip of the tongue. The talk died at the tables nearest them, and Griff stopped halfway to cutting himself another piece of pork. The look on his face was not pleasant.
“What were you saying, boyo?” Griff asked, in a deadly tone.
Tomas tensed. Seconds ago the two had been preparing to drink each other’s health. Now, though Tata non-chalantly downed his ale, Griff’s tankard remained on the table, one hand clutching it with white knuckles. His other hand clutched his dagger, still dripping with the blood of the meat. Tata finished his drink and belched.
“I’m raising my glass to this den of thieves. You may be miserable bastards when it comes to an honest living, but you’ve done well for yourselves. I wouldn’t mind staying here again.”
“For someone who’s been around the world so many times,” Griff said in a low voice. “You have yet to learn proper manners.”
Tomas had seen it a hundred times in bars around the world. This was the moment before blood was shed. Griff would strike any second now. Tata’s dagger lay next to his plate and his other weapons, if he had any, were concealed under his cloak. There was no way he could draw before Griff’s dagger would be sunk in his chest. Tomas realized he was clutching his own dagger under the table. He could reach Griff, could definitely beat him... but then, the whole inn wanted a piece of Tata now. Everyone except the carpenter (still peacefully asleep) and Tomas himself, who for some reason thought of the man as a friend. Maybe because he was a fellow traveler. Maybe because he hadn’t figured him out yet. In any case, Tomas couldn’t take them all on. The best he could do would be to disarm Griff and try to force Tata out of the inn, blaming the incident on his drunkenness. It was a cold night. With any luck, no one would care enough to leave the warmth of the fire.
These thoughts crossed through his mind in the space of a breath. Tomas prepared to make his move. Then he saw Griff’s face and stopped. The colour had drained from the pickpocket, who had turned a ghastly white. The dagger in his hand shook slightly. He was deathly afraid! Tata sat across the table, doing nothing, having made no move, and Griff was afraid of him! He wasn’t going to strike. Instead, the thief looked away, admitting defeat. There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Ah, the carpenter’s asleep,” Griff said finally, bumping the burly man with his elbow, eliciting a loud snore.
More uncomfortable silence. “My thanks for the evening’s companionship,” Tata said. He pushed back his chair and rose, leaving a few silvers on the table for the drink and food.
Tomas noticed several unsavory types watching Tata as he headed for the door. He downed the rest of his ale and pounded the empty tankard on the table. “I’ll go with you,” he said.
Tata seemed about to protest, then shrugged and headed for the door. Tomas stole one more glance at the room as they left. Griff was still sitting, stock still and pale as if he’d seen the ghost of his mother. The rest of the room was all narrow eyes and concealed weapons.
The cold air hit Tomas in the face like a slap from mother nature. Combined with the sudden adrenaline rush in the inn, it served to sober him immediately. Tata hadn’t waited for him, and was already a good ways down the well paved road, headed for the north. Tomas ran to catch up with him.
“Your timing is a fair bit better than your tongue, good sir,” Tomas said. “I was truly sweating back there. Had you stayed a minute longer, that crowd would’ve torn you to pieces.”
“Is that why you think I left?” Tata glanced back at him. Now that they were both standing close, Tomas could see he was tall and either extremely well built, or wearing a lot of clothes under the robe.
“Well, I assumed that it was, yes.”
“No. I was full. And tired of drinking.”
“What? By my ancestors! You were close to being bled, back there! Had you not left, a real fight would’ve broken out!”
“Never. They would’ve just given me nasty looks. Maybe the waitress would’ve spit in my ale. But they never attack,” Tata said, and there was a sadness in his voice Tomas didn’t understand. “They haven’t attacked for years. Not when I fell off my horse in Truce... not when I taunted a bunch of low-lifes now. It’s like all the real bad guys are gone, you know?”
“Do you mean to say you tried to start a fight in there?”
Tata shrugged. “It’s your fault, you know, getting me all riled up with your incessant questions. I’ve never heard someone care so much about someone’s home.”
“And I’ve never seen someone be so evasive to the matter.”
“Then you haven’t traveled enough. Not all of us have a happy home life.” Tomas wasn’t going to pursue the matter any further. The mystery surrounding the stranger was no longer as inviting as it had been inside the warmth of the inn. Tata kept speaking, though, his voice getting more and more bitter. “It might seem nice on the outside... beautiful wife, more money and power than you know what to do with... but what good is a wife who won’t speak to you? What good is money when you have everything? What use is power without freedom?”
“I think you’re not quite looking at things right, eh? I mean, what man wouldn’t want all those things? It would be a fool who couldn’t be happy with that kind of life. I don’t know where you come from, but if you have too much money, feel free to send some my way! I’ll gladly spend it for you! And I’ll tell you, I could do with a few less words from my wife, especially after I’ve been out drinking!”
Tata stopped, and looked back at Tomas with a prolonged stare, as if seeing him for the first time. “And what is this? Your philosophy on life?”
“It’s called optimism,” Tomas said. “For a man who can tell such enthusiastic stories at the tavern, you sure get emotional fast. Can’t handle your drink?”
Tata laughed, and they continued walking. “I like the past. It’s easy to be enthusiastic about it.”
“Yeah, but the past is old news. You need to start living in the future.”
“Don’t talk to me of the future!”
Tata spun around, in a crouched position with his hands clenched. The sudden vehemence in his voice was shocking. For a moment, Tomas thought the man was going to attack him, and he felt an ounce of the fear that had gripped Griff. Tomas wasn’t the greatest of fighters, having only experience enough to know his way out of a brawl or a mugging. If this man attacked him, he could sense it would be something different... it would be a fight to the death. He remembered that Tata had been willing, desiring even, to start a fight with an inn full of ruffians. Despite the cold night, Tomas began to sweat. Why had he chosen to follow this man? Certainly the man didn’t need a companion to keep him safe.
Tata’s anger disappeared as quickly as it had come, however. After a moment, he relaxed and straightened. “The future... we have no future...” he whispered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just remembering something someone said to me once.” They started walking again. “You were right, you know, in the inn. A person who can’t go home is a sad person indeed. Some of us, though... we can go home any time we want. We just don’t want to. For some of us, home is a prison. A prison without a future.”
“Ah, you’re just drunk,” Tomas said, and regretted it immediately. He was trying to lighten the mood, but what if the man took offense? What if the violence he had shown a moment ago returned? But Tata said nothing, and they continued in silence.
Within a few minutes, they had reached the northern gates of Choras. Tomas stopped, expecting Tata to turn around, but the man kept walking.
“Hey,” Tomas called out. “They don’t open the gates for anyone at night. You can go out, but you can’t come back in.”
“Then I suppose I won’t be spending the night in Choras.”
“But there’s nothing out there except for woods, and... well, places people don’t like to go.”
“Those are often the most interesting places.”
Tomas didn’t say anything else. He watched the man leave through the gates, and he watched the guards bar them behind him. He shuddered. Some mysteries were better left alone. He turned for home. He never saw or heard of the stranger again.
Meanwhile, Tata made his way through the northern woods with the confidence of someone who had been there before. Midnight found him at the entrance to the squat sprawl of a mansion, long abandoned. Tata paused on the steps leading to the ruins. A wind blew through the nearby trees, turning into a howl as it reached the open doors of the mansion, filling its emptiness with the sound. Tata smiled and went inside.
The interior was dark and gloomy except for a single bright shaft of moonlight that fell through a skylight in the roof, nearly sixty feet above. In the light could be seen signs of curiously modern repair, such as new tiling or a new support pillar. Tata went up to one such pillar and ran his fingers over it, as if feeling something familiar.
A noise in the darkness made him turn around. Something had creaked above him. His eyes searched the gloom. Here in the main entrance hall, many walkways and balconies, accessed through hidden stairways and ruined doors, criss-crossed in the air. On one of these, just out of the beam of light, crouched a shape. In the dark, it was indistinct, but it had roughly the proportions of a man.
Tata strode forward and addressed the shape: “Are you the one who summoned me?”
After getting no reply, he called out again. “I’ve come a long way, too long to parley with ghosts and spirits. If you be not man, then begone! Otherwise, make yourself known!”
This time a voice, surprising in its normality, answered. “You’re the king of Gaurdia?”
“Yes.”
“You have proof of this?”
The man pulled his robes over his head and discarded them in a heap on the ground. In the moonlight now stood Crono, with his unmistakable red mane of hair. He wore not the golden armour he had donned for Truce, but rather a simple blue tunic and beige traveling pants. At his side hung a pair of swords, both katanas. Neither was particularly ornate, but both were formidable weapons. The shorter blade was called Swallow, and like the bird it was named for, was an easy to wield weapon good for quick strikes. The longer blade was the Rainbow, made by Melchior out of a fragment of the mystical Rainbow Shell and forged using the power of the legendary Sunstone. It could cut through stone and iron and would never rust. It’s power came at a price, though. Only someone of formidable will could wield the blade. If the user’s will wavered, or was not strong enough, the blade would shatter.
Crono now drew the blade and held it in the moonlight. In the light, the blade glittered and shimmered with multiple colours. The light reflected off of it in a million prisms that lit up the corners of the ruined hall.
“This is the Rainbow. There is only one blade like it in all the world, and only the king himself wields it.”
The man on the walkway, now partially illuminated by the blade’s light, rose from a crouch. Crono could still barely see him, but he seemed young. Young and fit. One arm was curiously larger and longer than the other, though Crono couldn’t get a good enough look at it to see why. He also thought he could make out the outline of a sheathed blade at the man’s side.
“Yes... I know the blade well,” the man said. “So, Crono... are you prepared to test your blade?”
Crono smiled. “I could ask for nothing more.”
In the next instant, the man had leapt from the balcony towards him.
From: Fanfiction