The sword never slept. It reverberated its rage, rattling the sheath about it violently, but Doctor Cruz ignored it – or did his best to. He knew of it’s unquenchable thirst. He knew it wasn’t particularly picky about the source, either, but as long as it was in his possession it would do his – and only his – bidding. It had been ‘owned’ many time – fleeting relationships at best, as far as Cruz had discovered – but they didn’t have his background. His expertise.

  Legend had it that the blade had been forged in the mountains far to the east, tempered there amidst the burning flames and laid to rest atop the peak to cool. Crissaegrim the craftsmen had dubbed it. They told faerie tales to their young ones describing how the wind God Fūjin, after a long and tiresome day blowing crops hither and thither, had soared to the aerie and decided to rest within the cooled surface of their sword and become trapped there within its crystalline walls.

  They had a habit of explaining things in this fashion when faced with power they could not understand. Still, Doctor Cruz thought, perhaps such an occurrence took place. Sometimes convenience can lead to straight-up enlightenment. He didn’t trouble himself with such unanswerable queries. The village elders – astounded by its power and God-like properties – had called it Blessed Wind. They revered its strange hunger, blinding speed and unparalleled might. Nothing thought Cruz, nothing so deadly should ever be worshipped. He called it Valmanway and was done with it.

Dedicated to a friend who is down on his luck. Keep trying bro, it will come. I promise.


~ by Joseph Blame on April 28, 2011.

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