ocean-life Interlude: High Noon
Interlude: High Noon
Interlude: High Noon
“Son of a cat!” the devilkin exclaimed, reaching up a hand to slap the back of his son’s head, but the boy brought his hands up as the older man tapped the back of his hands. “Defending yourself from your father? The youth of this day!”
“You are too old to be striking me now, and I am too old to be struck,” the boy replied, shuffling away beside the other.
“You think you are so old now, you can eat more bread?”
“We will reach the city soon! We can buy more bread, fresh and fluffy, not like the way you cook!”
“Grab him!” the man ordered, though the boy slipped further back. Even as he did, he soon found himself within his father’s arms, the devilkin pinching his son’s cheek.
“When grandmother hears, she will teach you your place!” the boy exclaimed, still struggling against his father, before he was set free once more. “Are we so poor we cannot afford more bread?”
“You think we became this rich by spending all our silver and gold?”
“When I am the Yellow Turban, you will see,” the boy replied, his eyes darting up to his father’s turban, a yellow turban, the same one that denoted him to be the eponymous figure.
“You think you can have my turban?” Yellow Turban replied.
“When I am Yellow Turban, they will say I am the best,” Kalid stated.
“You? You are... five? Six?”
“You are so old you cannot remember I am eleven?” Kalid teased his father, raising his brows. “This is why I should have it now.”
“Eleven is still too young.”
“Eleven is old. I am almost a man.”
“Almost a man, but not a man yet.”
“The women, they love me. If I want to be a man, I will go to the city and find five, six women.”
“Too many women and you will lose all the gold.”
“I will earn so much I can have one hundred women!” the boy declared, flashing the most charming smile, dodging his father’s slow hand.
“You are too young. When you are...” Yellow Turban continued to smile that charming smile that he had inherited from his own father and had passed on to his son. His eyes lowered for a moment, noting the motion Jalal made. He didn’t look, trusting his friend’s instincts.
“You are too old,” Kalid snapped at his father, chewing on his bread. “They say this Kalid is so good! This Kalid, he can sell snow to Noskans, blood to Iyrmen, and fire to the Rai.”
Yellow Turban pulled up his turban, revealing his long hair, tied into a knot, and held out the turban to his son. Kalid smiled even wider, bowing his head, but his smile dropped as his father placed the turban onto his head, his face going from playful mischief to grave concern.
The Reaver listened intently to the figure’s words, trying to understand what he was trying to say.
“I am Jalal. Son of my mother. Father of my daughter.” He spun his blades over his hands, the sun of high noon gleaming across the steel, of blue and red, before pointing his blades downwards.
The silver eyed Reaver’s attention turned to him, smelling how powerful the figure was in comparison to his merchant companion.
“Do not look away,” Basim warned, before willing the magic through his hilt, which formed a blade of wind. “I did not become Yellow Turban because of my good looks, but I still have such good looks, so when you look away it hurts.”
“...”
Jalal stepped forward, and as the silver eyed Reaver stepped forward, it spun to the side to clash against Basim’s Windsabre.
“Ah? Can you feel it?” Basim smirked at the Reaver, whose disappointment quickly washed away as the devilkin filled with the heat of rage, and suddenly forced the being back.
Jalal clashed with one Reaver while the other remained back, but he quickly lunged for the remaining Reaver, who barely managed to deflect the devilkin’s blades.
“Why must you feel so lonely?” Jalal asked. Jalal forced the two back with his great strength, who quickly stepped beside one another, ready to face the Rage Dancer, whose blades hummed with delight.
Basim inhaled deeply as he clashed with the silver eyed Reaver, the pair’s blades singing the kind of song one could only hope for. However, as he fought the silver eyed Reaver, he had already felt it during their first clash, but it was further confirmed. Basim could have fought either one of the other Reavers to victory, but not this silver eyed Reaver.
Jalal beheaded one of the Reavers, its head falling behind him. He heard a struggled cough behind him. “You may go first, Basim. I will follow.”
“Noorshukhur,” Basim replied, and though his body was red hot with rage, and he was stronger than he had ever felt before, the silver eyed Reaver stood tall and unmoving. ‘Kalid! You must avenge this worthless father of yours! I dare to lose your inheritance, and leave your uncle to die alone?’
Jalal heard the light thump, followed by the heavier thump, but as he continued to force the remaining Reaver back, his blows turned light, and the devilkin stopped within his tracks, looming over the remaining Reaver, who almost greeted death. The Reaver remained silent and still, before slowly pulling out of Jalal’s shadow.
The silver eyed Reaver reached down towards Yellow Turban’s chest, inhaling deeply as its entire body glowed, before it picked up the hilt, claiming the prize of its victory. The other Reaver placed a hand on the dead Reaver’s body, gasping lightly before pulling away.
“...”
The silver eyed Reaver reached out to Jalal’s chest, grunting in discomfort, and drew out Jalal’s spirit, before tossing it into the air. While it could not claim it, for they did not earn the victory, at least it would not be claimed by the beasts which would pick at its bones.
As the pair of Reavers left, Basim and the dead Reaver’s bodies turned to dust, while Jalal stood, holding onto his blades still.
The silver eyed Reaver smiled.
These lands were truly full of treats.
It stopped smiling, as across the horizon, a figure approached them. He stepped towards the Reaver pair, striking his cane lightly upon the earth as he walked ever onward. Sitting atop his hat was a large crow.
I wish I had showed Yellow Turban off more!