The Holder of the Usurper

Long ago, in the time of the ancients, there lived a certain man. The origin of this man is to this very day shrouded in mystery, but legend has it that on a lonesome night, when the moon shone at its zenith, he climbed to the highest peak in the world. On that clear night, he called out to the Wolves' Moon, "Where may I dare seek the Holder of the Usurper?" Following his request, the stars painting the portrait of the night faded out of the sky, and the Moon began to emit a column of blue light, pale yet brilliant. Encircling the man, the blue light shone upon him, slowly lifting him up to the heavens.

When the man reached the point where the light of the Earth could no longer penetrate the consuming darkness of the night, he began to descend. Gliding so gently from the sky, the man gazed down upon what seemed to be a city below.

This was no ordinary city.

What must have once been a brilliant, glittering jewel in the night had become a gruesome battlefield. Pearl-white buildings stretched on for miles, encompassed by a massive white wall that had crumbled and fallen. At the edges of the once-magnificent city, small straw and wood buildings were set ablaze, the flames scorching the very night itself. Closing in on the center, beautiful structures resembling homes and marketplaces lay in ruins, the rubble unable to attest to their former glory. Finally, in the city's inner ring, high buildings resembling monasteries and schools, libraries and parliament buildings, still stood proud and majestic. Rows of catapults and military installations were perched on these buildings, emplacements whose sole purpose was to suppress the plague of black advancing on the centermost structure. The crown of the city, the pearly white tower rose high into the night, penetrating the veil of darkness which completely enshrouded the massive city. The gargantuan bell tower perched on top rang loud and steadily, echoing through the hollow streets and silent night circling it, calling for help that would never arrive.

People ran amok in the streets, fleeing for their lives from soldiers dressed in black. The cruel black warriors relentlessly maimed and destroyed all in their path, fueled by their hatred for the denizens of the White City. The roads ran red with innocent blood, amplified by the blaze engulfing the streets.

The man began to approach the center tower, the fallen wonder of the city, where the most remarkable battle was taking place. Monks clad in white armor stood sentinel around the temple entrance, ready to fend off the intruders with their white blades.

Feet lightly landing on the battlements of the chapel, the man was approached by the white monks in a very brisk manner. They immediately embraced him, and soon the man found himself clad in the white armor. He was an ally to them, and they could use all the help they could get. These monks appeared to be the city's elite soldiers, for the shining white armor they bore was emblazoned with cryptic insignias, surpassing in every aspect the scraggish armor the other troops wore.

As the battle on the ramparts approached the steps of the chapel, the elite white monks began to unsheathe their weapons. The man knew that this battle may be his last, but he was not unlearned. As the last defender of the chapel fell to an ebony blade, swarms of black troopers advanced towards the group. The elite guards began to charge, hurling themselves at the enemy, running them through without relent, their ivory swords turning crimson with enemy blood. They were clearly overpowering the oncoming waves of black soldiers trying to haul towards the Tower.

But the waves of enemy soldiers did not cease, and soon the white monks began to tire, slowly falling to the wicked black blades of the enemy. Friend after friend began to fall to the evil of the oncoming hordes. Finally, all of the white guards had been eliminated, and the man, tired, injured, and knowing he would soon follow suit, fled for the tower entrance.

Bursting through the gate, the sweaty, tired man beheld a sole figure standing in the middle of the Great Hall. The white monk that awaited him seemed to be the most elite of the allied soldiers. Brandished upon him was a golden-white breastplate, as well as greaves, boots, gloves and a magnificent golden helm. The man could tell as he approached him that he was benevolent, yet burdened. His stance was that of someone who had known battle most of his life. What was most intriguing to the man was the beautiful scabbard that rested on his left hip.

When they met, the figure gave him a slight nod, signaling him to wait behind him. The black troops finally began to swarm the great hall, hungering for the final kill. As the man behind the figure glanced in despair at the oncoming wave, he knew that the lonely soldier ahead of him would stand no chance.

He was wrong. Dead wrong.

As the first ebony blade swung towards the white figure, he reacted. In a feat of inhuman reflexes, the white warrior unsheathed his blade and decapitated the trooper ahead of him and the ten troops behind him before the blade could so much as touch him. The remaining black soldiers were to follow suit, falling to the swift slashes of the ivory blade before they could so much as blink in surprise.

As the last soldier's corpse piled upon those of his comrades, the man knew that this must be the fabled White King. But his glory would not last long, as darkness began to flood the chapel. A lone black figure enter the bloodied chapel. Stepping over the bodies, both the white and black figures locked eyes with each other, hatred seeming to overflow the boundaries of their minds, affecting even the man next to them. This black newcomer seemed to equal the White King in every aspect, save for the sense of pure evil pouring off of his wicked suit of armor. They drew their opposing blades, both soldiers radiating the urge to kill. That was when the man realized:

The Black King...

Their battle was one that lasted the entire night, shaking the very foundations of the city. Sparks soared into the top of the Great Hall, fires starting with every clash of the blades. Matching each other's every move, it seemed as if the battle would last an eternity. But in a feat of incredible strength, the Black King disarmed the White King of his his shining ivory blade, which flew out his hands and was wedged into the wall. Bringing the White King to his knees, The Black King delivered the final blow, burying his blade into the chest of his opponent, sending a massive shockwave in every direction as far as the eye could see. The man went flying into the wall, denting his armor but, by some miracle, not damaging his body. As the Black King looked out of the Great Hall, he released a wicked laugh that would shatter the conscience of any normal man. Too weak to stand, the man watched as the Black King stole the throne of the White King, extinguishing the light of the Great Hall forever. Blood decorated the once pure white marble floor. A sudden darkness overcame the city, leaving only despair in the hearts of the remaining righteous.

It was then that the man gathered the remnants of his fading strength and ran to the corpse of the White King. Wrenching the Black Sword from the chest of the White King, he focused his eyes on the Black King, who began to look at the man in terror. The scene began to blur, and the man fell unconscious. Waking on the mountain top, the man was bruised and beaten to near death, still clenching the Black Blade in his right hand.

The Wicked Blade of the Black King was once Object 45, but since then it has been lost, forever forgotten in myth. Banished for its wicked power, it shall only answer to the Dark One. May it never find him.

Categories: | Featured Stories | Legion's Objects |

Last modified on 2009-12-10 16:27:42Average Rating: 5 / 5 (5 votes)Viewed 12935 times

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