Blades of Hollow

Sweat, sweat.

Drop, drop.

Like nimble fingers tickling your countenance, you feel perspiration escape your youthfulness, heat suffocating you.

You are a Templar knight.

For God. For Country. For Jerusalem.

You personify excellence and mental purity of the highest form. These virtues are characteristically imbued, never to set exterior foot. The seeds of stability have been sewn into your kind for generations. Why then, does this barbarian breach these ideas, contradicting the teachings of the syndicate?

You proceed forth yet again, determined to strike with apt resiliency. He is ready however, mocking you. That distasteful, wicked smile flickers across corrupt lips while beckoning for you to join him again in his despicable art of savagery.

You heave for personal assurance and take the bait—your spotless blade gleaming from reflecting rays bouncing off honest sand as it edges towards its target. Steel strikes steel, relaying messages of certain sophistication not wholly appropriate for most. The brief encounter gives way to numerous shards of tiny white innocence.

Your eyes meet his, enigmatic in their nature. His exotic irises reflect residual resentment towards some familiar party.  For the briefest of moments, the warmth abandons you as fear takes grip and uncertainty creeps forth through your armored garments, enveloping your shaky confidence. Feeling infracted, you call forth the sole thought successful in recoiling qualm. You remember once more.

You are a Templar knight.

Another blocked blow against the force of the impervious scimitar rocks you to the core, shaking your viscera while inviting cruel reality. You stagger back, dazed. With honed instincts you regroup as he charges unapologetically, poised and ready. The spotless scimitar travels forth with stunning blurriness that can only be detected by the highest ranks as it slithers towards your neck. With exhaustive effort, you deflect the piercing strike, only to be forced into reacting swiftly against its descent toward your legs. Again you parry, brushing off surfacing debility as well. Your arms suffer, singing melodies discontent while perspiring fingers burn from the blade’s vibrations.

Yet again your dizzying assailant leaps forth, the crown of his blade set for your most prized possession in your heart. Your sword laboriously works to absorb the shock of the reverberating blow. The impact sends you rearing yet again before you crash onto one knee. You are not ready. Not yet. He is however. Always set. Always fast. Too fast. He is simply too fast and unmatchable in his alien quickness. For every thought dedicated to striking, he is eager to acquiesce, always three steps ahead, anticipating the multiple courses of action undique. The amount of variables one must consider when conjuring such a convoluted defensive matrix is boggling.

You absorb his scorn and miraculously evade another rapacious swing of his harbinger while adding separation. With your blade extended and your weighty shoulders rocking rhythmically, you breathe with ferocious temperament and watch. He stands erect, arms by his side—a few visible chords of his squalid hair escape the confinement of his head cloth—with a supercilious smile devoid of emotion, fear, urgency, sweat or exertion. Much unlike you: grounded, bloodied and weary. While he remains untainted and vigorous, deriving pleasure from his actions, you sense the weight of your chains anchoring your decrepit spirit, reminding you that the desert is his domain.

For a moment, you are uncertain. For a moment you hesitate… and twitch.

But then, like the welcome adrenaline nourishing a warrior, a soothing perspective of comfort gravitates back and you feel complete again, cleansed from your insecurities.