Post by Tidus Revok on Dec 21, 2006 3:30:40 GMT
All over Dragonia, the news stations were still showing clips from the tournament, now weeks later. BY far the most common of the highlights to see, even above the awesome displays of power during the fights, was the absolutely baffling actions of the tournament champion, Nishaio Shimata. With never a word spoken by the warrior, news anchors, sports writers, and tournament watchers alike were left to speculate for themselves what exactly was wrong with the guy.
On the big screen in the corner of a run-down resturaunt outside of Esperanza, that same clip was showing for what had to be the millionth time. The announcer had just pronounced him the number one fighter in all Dragonia, which elicited no response from the man whatsoever. Then came the official carrying the load of money for which warriors had gone to such lengths to obtain, and handed it to Nishaio Shimata...
Who looked at the bag, slowly pulled out one bill, and wiped the sweat from his face with it. After a few more seconds staring at the money, amid the cheers of an adoring crowd, he put the bag down, turned, and walked down from the platform, across the open stadium ground, and out of the arena, without so much as a look to the fans.
Now he sat quietly in the darkened corner of the tavern, staring at the screen and keeping whatever thoughts he may have had to himself, as he had from the moment he arrived on Dragonia. The place's usual patrons hadn't noticed him, which was exactly what he wanted. All he hoped to gain from watching the display was information on one man:
Falkan Reval.
There had been a few decent warriors in the tournament, even one or two who had surprised him. But after 975 years, since the defeat of the Lord Valeen, nobody - NOBODY had been a challenge to the Falcome. Not in Civea, not anywhere else in the galaxy, not anywhere, until Dragonia and that first battle with the one who called himself a V'alcan. The dark little man had actually survived a direct hit from not one, but several crystal arrows, lived to tell about it, AND come back fighting. But there was something beyond physical skill or power. Other fighters had shown that during the tournament as well. Something about the man's attitude, the way he conducted himself. Nishaio had come to the conclusion that deep down, where it really mattered - in the heart - Falkan Reval was a warrior of the rarest caliber. And that was what made him a worthy opponent.
He hadn't battled a truly worthy opponent in nearly a thousand years.
But the fight had been ended. Stopped at the most crucial of points by the meddling rules of a tournament. A cheap show where men with no honor paid to watch others fight. TO make matters worse, after having to endure several opponents too cowardly to even show up, by some incredible twist of fate, Reval had ended up in the second division - not even in his league to fight with. It was simply unbearable. He had to find this man, fight him again, and truly test his skills...even to the death.
Finally he realized he was not going to get any help from the ever changing display screen. Evidently the whole world was busy watching footage of him, not Reval. He hated it. Slowly, he stood up, yanked a knife free from the table where he had embedded it hours ago, and threw it in frustration at the TV screen. It exploded in a shower of sparks and crystal, drawing shouts of panic from the nearby customers, and angry stares from others. The stares and shouts changed, however, as he emerged from the shadows.
"Look, it's HIM!"
"The Champion!"
"Nishaio Shimato!"
"He's dreamy!"
"Can I have your autograph?"
Nshaio simply walked through the crowd with absolute disinterest, and they parted for him in spite of themselves. Just as he reached the door, he felt a tug at his sleeve. Enraged at the audacity of someone touching him, Nishaio gripped the hilt of his sword and whirled, then stopped in surprise.
A little boy, about seven years of age, stood looking up at him, hope etched on his face.
"Mr. Nishaio? You're my favorite! It was so awesome the way you..."
Nishaio didn't hear the rest. The boy's face had awakened a flood of memories within the Falcome. He looked so familiar...the same as his son had looked all those years ago...
Just before his death.
"...and it would be sooo cool if you would just sign this!"
The boy was eagerly holding out a notepad and pencil, while the crowd around looked on in suspense-filled silence. Nishaio had become a hero overnight, but the kind of hero one looked at from a distance, and definitely not an approachable one. Nobody breathed for the longest time. Then, to the shock of the entire room, Nishaio stooped down and looked the boy right in the eye.
"Kakusha?"
It was the first word he had spoken since his arrival, and he had no intention of saying anything more. Instead, he stood and, still watching the boy, and removed his coat. The garment was valuable beyond reckoning, made of a woven alloy, completely unbreakable and impervious to energy of any kind. It was what had kept him alive for all these years. But it was a small price to pay for the memory of his son.
With the same emotionless stare that had masked his feelings for centuries, he held the coat out toward the boy, who simply stared back. Finally, the kid slowly took the coat, then broke into an ear-to-ear grin.
"WOW! THANKS MISTER SHIMATO! LOOK EVERYONE, THE CHAMPION GAVE ME HIS COAT!"
In the moment of distraction with the boy's excitement, Nishaio disappeared. He had business to attend to with a V'alcan Warrior.
On the big screen in the corner of a run-down resturaunt outside of Esperanza, that same clip was showing for what had to be the millionth time. The announcer had just pronounced him the number one fighter in all Dragonia, which elicited no response from the man whatsoever. Then came the official carrying the load of money for which warriors had gone to such lengths to obtain, and handed it to Nishaio Shimata...
Who looked at the bag, slowly pulled out one bill, and wiped the sweat from his face with it. After a few more seconds staring at the money, amid the cheers of an adoring crowd, he put the bag down, turned, and walked down from the platform, across the open stadium ground, and out of the arena, without so much as a look to the fans.
Now he sat quietly in the darkened corner of the tavern, staring at the screen and keeping whatever thoughts he may have had to himself, as he had from the moment he arrived on Dragonia. The place's usual patrons hadn't noticed him, which was exactly what he wanted. All he hoped to gain from watching the display was information on one man:
Falkan Reval.
There had been a few decent warriors in the tournament, even one or two who had surprised him. But after 975 years, since the defeat of the Lord Valeen, nobody - NOBODY had been a challenge to the Falcome. Not in Civea, not anywhere else in the galaxy, not anywhere, until Dragonia and that first battle with the one who called himself a V'alcan. The dark little man had actually survived a direct hit from not one, but several crystal arrows, lived to tell about it, AND come back fighting. But there was something beyond physical skill or power. Other fighters had shown that during the tournament as well. Something about the man's attitude, the way he conducted himself. Nishaio had come to the conclusion that deep down, where it really mattered - in the heart - Falkan Reval was a warrior of the rarest caliber. And that was what made him a worthy opponent.
He hadn't battled a truly worthy opponent in nearly a thousand years.
But the fight had been ended. Stopped at the most crucial of points by the meddling rules of a tournament. A cheap show where men with no honor paid to watch others fight. TO make matters worse, after having to endure several opponents too cowardly to even show up, by some incredible twist of fate, Reval had ended up in the second division - not even in his league to fight with. It was simply unbearable. He had to find this man, fight him again, and truly test his skills...even to the death.
Finally he realized he was not going to get any help from the ever changing display screen. Evidently the whole world was busy watching footage of him, not Reval. He hated it. Slowly, he stood up, yanked a knife free from the table where he had embedded it hours ago, and threw it in frustration at the TV screen. It exploded in a shower of sparks and crystal, drawing shouts of panic from the nearby customers, and angry stares from others. The stares and shouts changed, however, as he emerged from the shadows.
"Look, it's HIM!"
"The Champion!"
"Nishaio Shimato!"
"He's dreamy!"
"Can I have your autograph?"
Nshaio simply walked through the crowd with absolute disinterest, and they parted for him in spite of themselves. Just as he reached the door, he felt a tug at his sleeve. Enraged at the audacity of someone touching him, Nishaio gripped the hilt of his sword and whirled, then stopped in surprise.
A little boy, about seven years of age, stood looking up at him, hope etched on his face.
"Mr. Nishaio? You're my favorite! It was so awesome the way you..."
Nishaio didn't hear the rest. The boy's face had awakened a flood of memories within the Falcome. He looked so familiar...the same as his son had looked all those years ago...
Just before his death.
"...and it would be sooo cool if you would just sign this!"
The boy was eagerly holding out a notepad and pencil, while the crowd around looked on in suspense-filled silence. Nishaio had become a hero overnight, but the kind of hero one looked at from a distance, and definitely not an approachable one. Nobody breathed for the longest time. Then, to the shock of the entire room, Nishaio stooped down and looked the boy right in the eye.
"Kakusha?"
It was the first word he had spoken since his arrival, and he had no intention of saying anything more. Instead, he stood and, still watching the boy, and removed his coat. The garment was valuable beyond reckoning, made of a woven alloy, completely unbreakable and impervious to energy of any kind. It was what had kept him alive for all these years. But it was a small price to pay for the memory of his son.
With the same emotionless stare that had masked his feelings for centuries, he held the coat out toward the boy, who simply stared back. Finally, the kid slowly took the coat, then broke into an ear-to-ear grin.
"WOW! THANKS MISTER SHIMATO! LOOK EVERYONE, THE CHAMPION GAVE ME HIS COAT!"
In the moment of distraction with the boy's excitement, Nishaio disappeared. He had business to attend to with a V'alcan Warrior.
