Ashura
She was a fierce warrior. Her flag was purple with a streak of gold. Her hair a stream of menacing color. The color of blood.
In the middle of a battle that grew quickly somber, she radiated bright heat, anger, terror. They say her army was undefeatable solely because she was always present in the battlefield. Her presence was intimidating the enemy and acted as an endless source of energy for those who fought on her side.
They gave her many, many names. The queen of terror, the maiden of death, The female general. Most of these names are whispered in awe, and often in anguish, anger and vengeance.
It was not right to have a woman in the middle of a battle fought by men. It was not right to have that woman leading an army of men. And it was not right that the woman seemed to always win.
It was told in one particularly famous story that in an attempt to mock and strip her out of her charisma, a war general had challenge her in a one and one duel. The soldiers were quite anxious. They formed a wary circle in a field where the duel would take place. Holding their weapons with uncertain determination.
Her lieutenants did not seem to share the same anxiety. They kept their face cold, unreadable.
The enemy general entered the circle with cheers on his side and jeers from the other side. His gait was not followed by a series of insult. This was new for her army. This made them quite restless.
Nevertheless they parted to give her entrance to the duel ring.
She was still wearing her battle gears; the iron suit that gleamed dim golden hue, the war helmet with wings which was now tattered due course to the fight she had fought, on her waist was her sword which was said to be given by a hero, and on her left arm was a big shield of the royal family crest. Even with all these on her, she looked comparably tiny next to her enemy.
The previous cheers and jeers when the general entered the ring were not heard this time. They held their breath as she removed her helmet, and the wind blew the stream of blood on her head.
She was very young. The youth that still startled even her own army. She was not a beauty, now the enemy too can see. A line of old wound run diagonally on her face, across her right eye. The eyes itself shone the most peculiar color of them all, golden, burning and menacing, like those of a lion.
Somewhere from the throng of army, whispers could be heard. More in terror than in awe, “Shura.”
Shura, Shura, Ashura.
The enemy general unsheathed his famous battlesword. She followed suite. The wind blew the smell of blood, and her dark red hair flowed in the stream of menacing terror.
In the middle of a battle that grew quickly somber, she radiated bright heat, anger, terror. They say her army was undefeatable solely because she was always present in the battlefield. Her presence was intimidating the enemy and acted as an endless source of energy for those who fought on her side.
They gave her many, many names. The queen of terror, the maiden of death, The female general. Most of these names are whispered in awe, and often in anguish, anger and vengeance.
It was not right to have a woman in the middle of a battle fought by men. It was not right to have that woman leading an army of men. And it was not right that the woman seemed to always win.
It was told in one particularly famous story that in an attempt to mock and strip her out of her charisma, a war general had challenge her in a one and one duel. The soldiers were quite anxious. They formed a wary circle in a field where the duel would take place. Holding their weapons with uncertain determination.
Her lieutenants did not seem to share the same anxiety. They kept their face cold, unreadable.
The enemy general entered the circle with cheers on his side and jeers from the other side. His gait was not followed by a series of insult. This was new for her army. This made them quite restless.
Nevertheless they parted to give her entrance to the duel ring.
She was still wearing her battle gears; the iron suit that gleamed dim golden hue, the war helmet with wings which was now tattered due course to the fight she had fought, on her waist was her sword which was said to be given by a hero, and on her left arm was a big shield of the royal family crest. Even with all these on her, she looked comparably tiny next to her enemy.
The previous cheers and jeers when the general entered the ring were not heard this time. They held their breath as she removed her helmet, and the wind blew the stream of blood on her head.
She was very young. The youth that still startled even her own army. She was not a beauty, now the enemy too can see. A line of old wound run diagonally on her face, across her right eye. The eyes itself shone the most peculiar color of them all, golden, burning and menacing, like those of a lion.
Somewhere from the throng of army, whispers could be heard. More in terror than in awe, “Shura.”
Shura, Shura, Ashura.
The enemy general unsheathed his famous battlesword. She followed suite. The wind blew the smell of blood, and her dark red hair flowed in the stream of menacing terror.
What's weird about this piece is how Arnel suddenly popped out. After checking my charts I just realized, I had known nothing about Arnel and had prepared no background for him. It's nice of him to open up and introduce himself to me through this story.
I am waaay behind daily wordcount quota.
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