Titus began the story of Ryven's father, which is here somewhat abridged in order to be more concise, and to remove any unnecessary pauses that occurred in the actual discussion between Ryven and Titus, which, though possibly interesting in a sentimental way, are of little relevance in the larger scheme of things.
"Kalus Haijikioten was always the more hot-tempered of us two brothers. We were consummate Civire children. There was never a task we couldn't rise up to meet, and to be honest, we were very close for the majority of our lives, until he met Seelah, which I will get to in a little bit. I was the younger brother, but, I had a better head for business, and I convinced him to join me in starting a mercenary corporation, which we named Haijikioten Security Group (HSG). We started with two frigates full of what can only be called semi-reformed pirates, and a lot of violent tendencies. Over a period of about ten years, our fleet expanded to nearly fifteen ships, from frigates of different variations on up to the flagship, the Tovil-Toba,my Rokh-class battleship currently docked in this station. Kalus was always discontent, and hating my business acumen, ran off to form his own group, appropriately named Firebrand Security Corp. We didn't really compete for contracts since I had all of our old connections still, and he took contracts from the most unscrupulous of individuals. Our paths crossed in the case of your mother, Seelah. Kalus and I were both hired separately in the matter of a Guristas pilot named Ynnas Makalen. She had betrayed certain influential members to the Caldari authorities in Lonetrek, and naturally, the Guristas were pissed. Who can blame them? If any of my crew betrayed me, I'd come back from the fucking dead and piss on their ashes when I was through roasting them over a cool fire. That's not the point. Kalus was hired by the Guristas to board her ship, and take her prisoner, to most likely be executed at a later date, probably unpleasantly. I was hired by Ynnas to help her fake her demise, so she could start over fresh, free of the Guristas and all the likely fatal baggage that they entailed. I won't bore you with all the logistics of this, but, as such things happen, I arrived first and began the extremely real attack on her Moa class cruiser, Fugue. She meanwhile escaped in a small escape pod before her ship was utterly destroyed. Kalus arrived in a Caracal class cruiser right as her ship exploded. I did not recognize the ship as his, and he quickly engaged me, despite my ship being a larger Ferox-class battlecruiser, Lyssa. The battle was over quickly, and thankfully he survived. I took him prisoner, and quickly recognized him. I did not tell him of the survival of Ynnas, who already had taken on her new persona of Seelah Rekkollo. The few days of laying low in a pocket of deadspace sowed the seeds of the end of amicability between me and my brother. Seelah paid me generously, but, not just in ISK. She spent those nights in my cabin, but, little did I know, she spent the days with Kalus. The jealousy and sense of betrayal from this love triangle ended our communication. I never saw Kalus again. He left my ship with Seelah and only around three years later, he was dead, with Seelah, and you were left here. The story of Kalus's death, however, is one it took me quite some time to unravel."
"Kalus's last contract was from a Jin-Mei member of a mining corporation that operated in Sinq Laison, but traded in the markets of Caldari space. A group of Caldari miners were operating independently in the Ibura system, where they had found an asteroid belt of immense wealth in a hidden pocket of deadspace. The Jin-Mei, a rotund asshole named Jai Kindo, wanted this independent mining group to fail. So, he paid Kalus a modest sum to make it happen. Kalus did not know the head miner was endorsed secretly by the Kalaakiota Corporation. Caldari business is a labyrinth of these sorts of connections, but, generally, if a megacorp isn't paying you to do so, you don't attack Caldari properties. Kalus never really understood that rule. So, in his usual way, he attacked the colony brazenly, and CONCORD responded in their usual fashion. Your father was not a capsuleer, and as such, was killed nearly instantaneously when his ship was destroyed, along with your mother. The state convicted Kalus of war crimes, even though he was already deceased, thanks to CONCORD, and your future was immediately imperiled. I was present in the court when your father was sentenced, and immediately called in some favors. The Sisters agreed to take you in, largely because I had helped them in the past as security for a convoy of refugees. The State agreed largely because I have done numerous contract jobs for them in the past as well. I have been kept informed of your welfare here since you first arrived. I specifically requested that your parentage not be revealed to you until you were already old enough to not let it effect your choices in life. I was thrilled when Baillieu Crennelle, the man who gave me the information necessary to hunt down and kill Jai Kindo, took you under his wing. He was a good friend, and a constant broker of information useful to me. I, too, wept when he passed. And now I am here to offer you a choice."
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The Fires of Familial Fervor
Titus stepped through the door, a cloud of bluish pipe smoke billowing in front of him. He was not exceptionally tall, but his dark cobalt pants, black tunic, and full-length cobalt coat, adorned with a Caldari Captain's rank insignia, created a very formidable image. To any observer, a family resemblance was apparent. Ryven analysed this man, and was unmoved.
"So, you're Kalus and Seelah's little welp?" Titus grinned. "I gotta admit, I never would've thought my asshole brother had it in him."
Ryven raised an eyebrow but betrayed no emotion. Titus liked this young man already.
"I am Titus Haijikioten. I am your uncle on your father's side."
Haunted
Last night, I decided to break my seclusion and continued my reading in the public hall of the Keep. I was shocked when I encountered an old acquaintance, Rin Kaelestria. We talked some about her tenure in my old corporation, J. D. Gaffa, Inc. I lamented the fact that at the time of my holding the office of CEO, I was quite withdrawn, and never really got to know her well. This is one of my lesser guilts, but the subject of past sins came up. Our reverie was broken by Cass, who interrupted to deliver an account of her sordid past as a member of our enemies. I likened sin to slavery, and managed to upset nearby Sister Matelo. She had been discussing something with Esna a few tables away. We were also visited by a holder I had never met before, who weighed in on the subject of sin. I was thoroughly interested, as I am now thirsty for knowledge of this faith, but it was getting very late, so I made my goodnights and left.
I am haunted by the guilt of my past transgressions and the senseless violence I have engaged in. Is it so wrong that I now search for redemption in the God of the Amarr? I am not yet a believer, but much that I have read rings true to me. I find that with each page I turn, my faith grows.
I am haunted by the guilt of my past transgressions and the senseless violence I have engaged in. Is it so wrong that I now search for redemption in the God of the Amarr? I am not yet a believer, but much that I have read rings true to me. I find that with each page I turn, my faith grows.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
A Dove Falls, a Dragon Cometh
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The funeral passed, as did the following weeks, and Ryven withdrew into himself. Little did he know, his last remaining family member was already on his way to take him to a new life. This new life would not be the soft, gentle, loving one of Baillieu Crennelle. Ryven's new life would be one of intense labor and previously unimaginable violence on the fringes of civilized space.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Titus Haijikioten, a stout man of at least fifty years of age, cut a striking figure on the bridge of his Rokh-class battleship. His hair was streaked at the edges with silver, but was otherwise black as night. His eyes were deep blue, and spoke of decades of harsh living in constant combat. His nose was pronounced from numerous breaks. He had a long scar on his right cheek from a Khumaak wielded by an enraged Brutor mercenary. He always wore a coat, regardless of the temperature, and despite being seriously outdated, he smoked a sweet-smelling herb from a long-stemmed pipe nearly continuously every day of his life. He was a striking figure, and an even more striking personality. His younger brother, Kalus, had dishonored the family name, but Titus's reputation was so solidly the stuff of legend, that business never faltered. Titus was a mercenary that never failed to complete a contract, and always seemed to choose the most profitable side in a bidding war, which was usually the Caldari State, by virtue of his long-standing relationship with them.
Titus watched as the Sisters of Eve station in Airaken grew closer. He had received a message from the Sisters only two weeks prior, informing him it was time for him to take Ryven off their hands. He had always known the boy's whereabouts, but, had never had the lifestyle that would have allowed him to care for a child. Ryven was no longer a child, though. He had reached the crucial age of sixteen, and even more impressively, won the Forge Regional competition in unarmed combat. Titus was quite impressed, considering he himself had not succeeded when he competed forty years ago. He was even more impressed when he learned about Ahrima Kaito. The boy was properly blooded, and Titus had a place for that sort of talent on his crew. He would give the boy a choice, and he hoped he accepted the right one. First, though, he would have to tell the boy of his father.
Taking a Life
The tournament was over, Ryven the victor, and both he and Baillieu were on the return voyage back to Airaken on-board a refit Badger Mk. I. The boy sat, obviously confused, his close-shaven head illuminated by the overhead lighting. He wore the blue and silver sash of the victor. The losers received nothing, except the knowledge that they were beaten and they submitted. Ahrima was on Ryven's mind.
"Should I feel something?" Ryven asked. "I killed him. Should I feel something?"
His eyes displayed only the sincere desire for an answer to this question. Baillieu wished he knew how to answer. From his own Gallentean upbringing, the answer was certainly yes, but this was not a Gallentean child. This was a young Caldari, and the rules were different.
"You should feel respect." He finally responded. "Respect for the skill and honor of the fallen warrior."
"What if I face someone without skill or honor?"
"Then respect the fact that they died on the end of your fists, feet, or whatever weapons you used." He paused for a moment before continuing. "You should also always strive to be worthy of respect as well. Fighting honorably is just as important as fighting skillfully."
"If you say so." Ryven seemed less than convinced.
"You don't agree?"
"If I fight honorably without skill, then I will die." Ryven said, matter-of-factly. "Honor is of little use to a corpse."
"True." Baillieu acquiesced. "But, you will die only a brigand. Legends are born of those who fight with honor."
Ryven didn't know this was the last time he would ever speak to Baillieu Crennelle, the man who became his surrogate father. The ship shuddered as the pilot activated the stargate to Airaken.
"Should I feel something?" Ryven asked. "I killed him. Should I feel something?"
His eyes displayed only the sincere desire for an answer to this question. Baillieu wished he knew how to answer. From his own Gallentean upbringing, the answer was certainly yes, but this was not a Gallentean child. This was a young Caldari, and the rules were different.
"You should feel respect." He finally responded. "Respect for the skill and honor of the fallen warrior."
"What if I face someone without skill or honor?"
"Then respect the fact that they died on the end of your fists, feet, or whatever weapons you used." He paused for a moment before continuing. "You should also always strive to be worthy of respect as well. Fighting honorably is just as important as fighting skillfully."
"If you say so." Ryven seemed less than convinced.
"You don't agree?"
"If I fight honorably without skill, then I will die." Ryven said, matter-of-factly. "Honor is of little use to a corpse."
"True." Baillieu acquiesced. "But, you will die only a brigand. Legends are born of those who fight with honor."
Ryven didn't know this was the last time he would ever speak to Baillieu Crennelle, the man who became his surrogate father. The ship shuddered as the pilot activated the stargate to Airaken.
Friday, February 25, 2011
The Tournament
It was the first time Ryven had left the orphanage since arriving. He was adorned in a simple white tunic and sandals, the garb of a competitor in the Forge Regional Fighting Tournament. He left his home at the Sisters of Eve station in Airaken, and had travelled nine jumps to Jita, at the heart of Caldari space. He was competing against at least a hundred other Caldari children who had reached age 15, when they were finally allowed to compete in what may have been the bloodiest sport children were allowed to participate in. Some of the competitors would not be making the trip back to wherever they came from. Killing one's opponent was not exactly encouraged, but neither was it forbidden, and in some cases, it was the inevitable result of a mismatched set of opponents.
The competitors fought, four at a time, with only one victor. It was a brawl, by any sense of the word, but also highly strategic. Temporary alliances were made, but, quickly broken as there could be only one victor. The fights took place on a dirt floor within a circle approximately ten meters in diameter. Fighters were allowed to yield when beaten, or to fight to the death. It was the choice of individual fighters. If a fighter felt himself beaten, he need only give the sign, and his defeat would be recorded. Some fighters chose not to submit, and instead forfeited their lives. While not a victory, this was generally more honorable.
Ryven had fought his way through to the finals, and was awaiting the last semi-final match to end before entering and either walking away a champion, or just another meat-bag. Baillieu stood beside him, his surrogate father, pride obvious in his demeanor. Ryven could see that Baillieu was getting older, the lines in his face etched deeper and much more cruelly than before. It startled him, sometimes, how much he had come to care for this man. Ryven was almost sixteen years old, and by that right, nearly an adult. The State didn't recognize adulthood officially at 16, but, it was an age at which certain rights were granted, namely emancipation, citizenship, and official working status. He could choose a life. He still did not know what that life would be, but, he was anxious to be able to make such a choice.
The match was winding down. There were only two fighters left, and both were looking fairly beaten. Blood dripped from wounds inflicted with fists and feet. Weapons were strictly forbidden, but, many fighters wore rings, and some of these were sharpened. Ryven did not. He felt it would cheapen whatever victory he might attain. Honorable fights were better than dishonorable ones, in his mind. At least, this was what Baillieu had instructed him. He looked up to the old man, who must be in his seventies by Ryven's reckoning, and thus followed his instruction dutifully.
The match ended when the winner, a boy named Ahrima, snapped the leg of the loser, Ventrio. Ryven credited the loser for not screaming out in pain. He gave the sign of missio, and was allowed to crawl out of the circle alive.
Ryven approached the circle, his every muscle fiber taut with anticipation. He calmed himself, funneling all of his drive and rage into a reservoir within. I am a weapon, a tool of death and destruction. Victory awaits me. Defeat awaits those who stand against me. This is for honor, my father, and the proper respect they are due. I cannot fail.
There was the sound of a gong being struck, and the other three began advancing toward Ryven. Ah, so I have been singled out to be the first one down. I wouldn't count on it, guys. Ryven ducked under the first attack, a vicious roundhouse thrown by a stocky boy named Kanue, who was easily twenty pounds heavier than him. He quickly dealt a sharp blow to the boy's ribs with his right elbow and swept his legs out before turning to block the kick thrown by Ahrima. He grabbed the boy's foot and shot a quick jab into the boy's knee, shattering it. The third attacker, Dehrin, a Deteis of smaller stature, but quickness on his side, dealt him a sharp punch to the jaw, which momentarily interrupted Ryven's rhythm. Rhythmn was very important for Ryven's style of martial arts, but, not as important as sheer force delivered in intense, short, lightning blows. Ryven quickly recovered and dealt Dehrin a vicious blow to the temple, before spinning to meet Ahrima with a kick to the chin, launching him at least two feet into the air. Kanue, hurting from three cracked ribs, had gotten up slowly and bellowed as he charged Ryven. Ryven grinned at his belligerence and dug in his heel for a powerful roundhouse kick that spun Kanue around fully before he dropped to the dust, which was now a slurry of sweat, blood, and mucus. He barely gave Kanue a passing glance as he raised the missio sign and crawled from the arena. Ahrima, surprised Ryven with a sharp kick to the chest, which knocked the wind out of him and sent him back two feet. Ryven was pleased with the distance this gave him to work with and immediately responded with a short charge and a two-fisted punch to Ahrima's chest, returning the favor, but better capitalizing on it by immediately following it with a jaw-breaking uppercut. Ahrima was bleeding from the mouth, and spat out the large piece of tongue he had just bitten off. Dehrin took this opportunity to strike, not realizing Ryven was aware of him creeping up from behind. When he was within reach, Ryven spun and put Dehrin into a choke hold, meanwhile keeping Dehrin as a shield from the blows of Ahrima. Three of Ahrima's kicks to the face and chest later, Dehrin gave the sign and Ryven dropped him and jumped back. It was just the two of them now.
"I won't submit, you know." Ahrima seethed.
"Don't be an ass, Ahrima." Ryven spoke softly. "I don't want to kill you."
"That's because you're a soft orphan pussy."
"I will kill you if I have to."
"I ain't got all day, chickenshit." Ahrima taunted him.
The smile on Ahrima's face was just a bit too much for Ryven. His rage got the better of him. Unfortunately for Ahrima, Ryven's rage got the better of him too. Ahrima couldn't defend against the flurry of staccato strikes that followed Ryven's lightning fast charge. Blow after blow after blow all found the targets. Ryven savored every strike, his vision narrowed to just him and Ahrima, and the world faded away. His fists kept landing, each one bringing the delightful feel of flesh being pounded and bone cracking. The fight ended when he drove his fist into Ahrima's face so hard that his skull caved in, a mass of broken bone shards and brains on the end of Ryven's arm. This was the last of Ryven's energy, and he fell to the dirt floor and the world swirled away into blackness.
It was Ryven's first kill. It would not be his last.
The competitors fought, four at a time, with only one victor. It was a brawl, by any sense of the word, but also highly strategic. Temporary alliances were made, but, quickly broken as there could be only one victor. The fights took place on a dirt floor within a circle approximately ten meters in diameter. Fighters were allowed to yield when beaten, or to fight to the death. It was the choice of individual fighters. If a fighter felt himself beaten, he need only give the sign, and his defeat would be recorded. Some fighters chose not to submit, and instead forfeited their lives. While not a victory, this was generally more honorable.
Ryven had fought his way through to the finals, and was awaiting the last semi-final match to end before entering and either walking away a champion, or just another meat-bag. Baillieu stood beside him, his surrogate father, pride obvious in his demeanor. Ryven could see that Baillieu was getting older, the lines in his face etched deeper and much more cruelly than before. It startled him, sometimes, how much he had come to care for this man. Ryven was almost sixteen years old, and by that right, nearly an adult. The State didn't recognize adulthood officially at 16, but, it was an age at which certain rights were granted, namely emancipation, citizenship, and official working status. He could choose a life. He still did not know what that life would be, but, he was anxious to be able to make such a choice.
The match was winding down. There were only two fighters left, and both were looking fairly beaten. Blood dripped from wounds inflicted with fists and feet. Weapons were strictly forbidden, but, many fighters wore rings, and some of these were sharpened. Ryven did not. He felt it would cheapen whatever victory he might attain. Honorable fights were better than dishonorable ones, in his mind. At least, this was what Baillieu had instructed him. He looked up to the old man, who must be in his seventies by Ryven's reckoning, and thus followed his instruction dutifully.
The match ended when the winner, a boy named Ahrima, snapped the leg of the loser, Ventrio. Ryven credited the loser for not screaming out in pain. He gave the sign of missio, and was allowed to crawl out of the circle alive.
Ryven approached the circle, his every muscle fiber taut with anticipation. He calmed himself, funneling all of his drive and rage into a reservoir within. I am a weapon, a tool of death and destruction. Victory awaits me. Defeat awaits those who stand against me. This is for honor, my father, and the proper respect they are due. I cannot fail.
There was the sound of a gong being struck, and the other three began advancing toward Ryven. Ah, so I have been singled out to be the first one down. I wouldn't count on it, guys. Ryven ducked under the first attack, a vicious roundhouse thrown by a stocky boy named Kanue, who was easily twenty pounds heavier than him. He quickly dealt a sharp blow to the boy's ribs with his right elbow and swept his legs out before turning to block the kick thrown by Ahrima. He grabbed the boy's foot and shot a quick jab into the boy's knee, shattering it. The third attacker, Dehrin, a Deteis of smaller stature, but quickness on his side, dealt him a sharp punch to the jaw, which momentarily interrupted Ryven's rhythm. Rhythmn was very important for Ryven's style of martial arts, but, not as important as sheer force delivered in intense, short, lightning blows. Ryven quickly recovered and dealt Dehrin a vicious blow to the temple, before spinning to meet Ahrima with a kick to the chin, launching him at least two feet into the air. Kanue, hurting from three cracked ribs, had gotten up slowly and bellowed as he charged Ryven. Ryven grinned at his belligerence and dug in his heel for a powerful roundhouse kick that spun Kanue around fully before he dropped to the dust, which was now a slurry of sweat, blood, and mucus. He barely gave Kanue a passing glance as he raised the missio sign and crawled from the arena. Ahrima, surprised Ryven with a sharp kick to the chest, which knocked the wind out of him and sent him back two feet. Ryven was pleased with the distance this gave him to work with and immediately responded with a short charge and a two-fisted punch to Ahrima's chest, returning the favor, but better capitalizing on it by immediately following it with a jaw-breaking uppercut. Ahrima was bleeding from the mouth, and spat out the large piece of tongue he had just bitten off. Dehrin took this opportunity to strike, not realizing Ryven was aware of him creeping up from behind. When he was within reach, Ryven spun and put Dehrin into a choke hold, meanwhile keeping Dehrin as a shield from the blows of Ahrima. Three of Ahrima's kicks to the face and chest later, Dehrin gave the sign and Ryven dropped him and jumped back. It was just the two of them now.
"I won't submit, you know." Ahrima seethed.
"Don't be an ass, Ahrima." Ryven spoke softly. "I don't want to kill you."
"That's because you're a soft orphan pussy."
"I will kill you if I have to."
"I ain't got all day, chickenshit." Ahrima taunted him.
The smile on Ahrima's face was just a bit too much for Ryven. His rage got the better of him. Unfortunately for Ahrima, Ryven's rage got the better of him too. Ahrima couldn't defend against the flurry of staccato strikes that followed Ryven's lightning fast charge. Blow after blow after blow all found the targets. Ryven savored every strike, his vision narrowed to just him and Ahrima, and the world faded away. His fists kept landing, each one bringing the delightful feel of flesh being pounded and bone cracking. The fight ended when he drove his fist into Ahrima's face so hard that his skull caved in, a mass of broken bone shards and brains on the end of Ryven's arm. This was the last of Ryven's energy, and he fell to the dirt floor and the world swirled away into blackness.
It was Ryven's first kill. It would not be his last.
The Tiger and the Dove
The boy had come a long way in the last year since he began his martial arts training. Honing the body into a weapon, as a necessity, involves controlling oneself and instilling intense discipline. These are both things that Ryven had little of in the beginning. The boy in front of him now was another matter altogether. His eyes were still aflame with intensity, but the boys stocky frame and muscular build, on the verge of his peak teenage years, were perfectly relaxed, but coiled and ready for anything. He was pure physical potentiality. A snake, ready to strike. He was a tiger.
"Sir, what should I do when I leave this orphanage?"
Baillieu really didn't know how to answer. The State likely had little use for him, being of dubious heritage, and having little or no socialization in the labyrinth of Caldari social custom. He wouldn't fit in, and the life of a Civire at the bottom rungs of Caldari society was dim. Conversely, life for a Civire in the Federation could be decent, but, still, the same prejudices would apply. The Amarr would never accept him as an equal, but, the Khanid could certainly appreciate him. The Minmatar? They would be loath to accept the work of a man whose race was scarcely better than the Amarrians in their eyes. No, he was a boy without a home. Still, as much as it pained Baillieu, he knew only two things the boy would ever really excel at. Warfare, as part of a reputable armed force, or piracy. He prayed Ryven would choose the former over the latter.
"You will have to find your way. No one will give you what you want. You must earn it, or take it."
"Sir, what should I do when I leave this orphanage?"
Baillieu really didn't know how to answer. The State likely had little use for him, being of dubious heritage, and having little or no socialization in the labyrinth of Caldari social custom. He wouldn't fit in, and the life of a Civire at the bottom rungs of Caldari society was dim. Conversely, life for a Civire in the Federation could be decent, but, still, the same prejudices would apply. The Amarr would never accept him as an equal, but, the Khanid could certainly appreciate him. The Minmatar? They would be loath to accept the work of a man whose race was scarcely better than the Amarrians in their eyes. No, he was a boy without a home. Still, as much as it pained Baillieu, he knew only two things the boy would ever really excel at. Warfare, as part of a reputable armed force, or piracy. He prayed Ryven would choose the former over the latter.
"You will have to find your way. No one will give you what you want. You must earn it, or take it."
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Smooth Skin
We gave the Minmatar a good pounding tonight. My Omen-class cruiser performed extremely well. I got cocky, however and in an effort to do some reconnaisance, lost my manticore to a recurring pest, Dagren. Now, I inhabit this new clone, and I am still amazed at the shiny smoothness of the skin. New clones always have an unnatural lustre. It seems I've again shown my immortality. This is the life of a capsuleer.
I am going to have to make another trip to Domain. This clone is painfully devoid of implants, and I have to keep my edge. Onwards and upwards.
I am going to have to make another trip to Domain. This clone is painfully devoid of implants, and I have to keep my edge. Onwards and upwards.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Paladin?
The concept of holy warriors, knights of faith, of singular devotion to one's deity and the martial prowess to defend the faith, strikes a chord within me. These are men and women of a cause. They live lives guided by a purpose. I would be lying if I said I wasn't inspired by such a romantic concept. Truly, I envy them their faith, their acceptance of principles without the burden of proof. Moreso, I envy their ability to act and know why they are acting in such a way. In effect, I envy them their clarity.
The question that then follows is: Do I have what it takes to take steps onto the Paladin's path? Could I conceive of a god? If such a god exists, surely he is hardly merciful. Then again, this god of the Amarr is merciful to the Amarr. It is the infidels, the heathens, the unbelievers, tainted by their sinful ancestral blood, that do not recieve mercy. Then again, from a novice view of Amarrian scripture, those that die in service to God, do gain entrance into paradise. Surely my service to this God would not go unrewarded. Then again, serving God solely for my own salvation is a selfish act, and as such, not service to God, but rather service to me. Fuck. I've been here at Mercy's Keep less than a week, and already I've spent more time contemplating the divine than I have in my entire life until now. I spend my spare hours in the library, reading the scriptures and smatterings of Amarrian historical texts. Perhaps someday soon I will be ready to embrace this noble tradition. There's nothing left for me in the State. The Federation would as soon kill me as welcome me. The Republic...well, we just won't even go there. The Empire is my new home, the Knighthood my new life. What do I have left?
The question that then follows is: Do I have what it takes to take steps onto the Paladin's path? Could I conceive of a god? If such a god exists, surely he is hardly merciful. Then again, this god of the Amarr is merciful to the Amarr. It is the infidels, the heathens, the unbelievers, tainted by their sinful ancestral blood, that do not recieve mercy. Then again, from a novice view of Amarrian scripture, those that die in service to God, do gain entrance into paradise. Surely my service to this God would not go unrewarded. Then again, serving God solely for my own salvation is a selfish act, and as such, not service to God, but rather service to me. Fuck. I've been here at Mercy's Keep less than a week, and already I've spent more time contemplating the divine than I have in my entire life until now. I spend my spare hours in the library, reading the scriptures and smatterings of Amarrian historical texts. Perhaps someday soon I will be ready to embrace this noble tradition. There's nothing left for me in the State. The Federation would as soon kill me as welcome me. The Republic...well, we just won't even go there. The Empire is my new home, the Knighthood my new life. What do I have left?
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Enemy Mine
I have met the enemy and found him wanting. Sure, they were victorious, but only tgrough their superior numbers. The Amarr may be right. Perhaps God is on our side. Then again, I am down one ship, and have learned to respect the Minmatar when they are amassed, and even more when organized. I may have finally found my enemy. Now, to find a cause.
A Maelstrom Contained
"What is your purpose?" Baillieu asked the boy.
"To fight."
"To fight?" Baillieu asked, with a tinge of mock surprise in his voice. "But for what?"
"For the protection of those who need it."
"That is a noble reason, but hardly honest, now is it?"
"Then what should I fight for?" The boy was beginning to get frustrated.
"Fight for your survival. Fight for your friends. Fight for your family. Fight because you should fight, not because you wish to fight."
"But, sir, I have no family."
This response stung Baillieu a little. They had been meeting now every few months for three years. He had begun to care strongly for this strange child, so awkward socially, but so moving and charismatic at others. He had the Civire traits through and through: singular purpose, drive, and fierce tenacity, even to his own ruin, if need be.
"You have me." Baillieu spoke softly.
"Yes, I do. You are the closest thing I have to family. You're also my only friend." Ryven paused. "Should I fight for you, then?"
"If I'm ever in need, then, yes."
"So, I should fight for those in need, then?"
"Yes." Baillieu replied.
"That doesn't do me a lot of good right now, with no one in need of a fighter."
Baillieu sighed. The kid had a point. Try as he might, he couldn't imagine Ryven as anything other than a warrior. He certainly wasn't a poet. He wasn't a philosopher. He wasn't a mathematician, and politics would serve only to bore him. His only interest in any of those was how they applied to warfare. This is where he excelled. This also proved to be the secret to containing the maelstrom of fire and rage inside him. The idea had occurred to him when he came for a visit and found Ryven in a state of deep concentration in the garden. He watched the child for nearly an hour without seeing him so much as move. He couldn't believe the strict focus and discipline the child exhibited. It clashed strongly with the undisciplined hellion he was everywhere else. So, he broke Ryven's concentration.
"Ryven, I think I have a way for you to channel your fire."
Ryven turned around on the bench and looked at him. His eyes were those of a tranquil soul. He had been reliving a past fight, feeling the harsh thud of his fist striking flesh, the taste of blood in his mouth, the sounds of feet on hard steel. These were his music.
"Have you ever taken any training in the martial arts?"
The boy's eyes brightened, but he shook his head.
"I think that may be the answer."
Ryven trained in a traditional form of Caldari martial arts, a fierce form of fighting that focused one's rage and hatred into each and every blow, and could be extremely deadly if used by a master. Ryven took to it immediately. He found an outlet for his fire. He found a way to channel his wrath into a single punch or kick. He spent hours every day, sometimes as much as twenty hours in a day training. The beginning of a purpose was forming.
"To fight."
"To fight?" Baillieu asked, with a tinge of mock surprise in his voice. "But for what?"
"For the protection of those who need it."
"That is a noble reason, but hardly honest, now is it?"
"Then what should I fight for?" The boy was beginning to get frustrated.
"Fight for your survival. Fight for your friends. Fight for your family. Fight because you should fight, not because you wish to fight."
"But, sir, I have no family."
This response stung Baillieu a little. They had been meeting now every few months for three years. He had begun to care strongly for this strange child, so awkward socially, but so moving and charismatic at others. He had the Civire traits through and through: singular purpose, drive, and fierce tenacity, even to his own ruin, if need be.
"You have me." Baillieu spoke softly.
"Yes, I do. You are the closest thing I have to family. You're also my only friend." Ryven paused. "Should I fight for you, then?"
"If I'm ever in need, then, yes."
"So, I should fight for those in need, then?"
"Yes." Baillieu replied.
"That doesn't do me a lot of good right now, with no one in need of a fighter."
Baillieu sighed. The kid had a point. Try as he might, he couldn't imagine Ryven as anything other than a warrior. He certainly wasn't a poet. He wasn't a philosopher. He wasn't a mathematician, and politics would serve only to bore him. His only interest in any of those was how they applied to warfare. This is where he excelled. This also proved to be the secret to containing the maelstrom of fire and rage inside him. The idea had occurred to him when he came for a visit and found Ryven in a state of deep concentration in the garden. He watched the child for nearly an hour without seeing him so much as move. He couldn't believe the strict focus and discipline the child exhibited. It clashed strongly with the undisciplined hellion he was everywhere else. So, he broke Ryven's concentration.
"Ryven, I think I have a way for you to channel your fire."
Ryven turned around on the bench and looked at him. His eyes were those of a tranquil soul. He had been reliving a past fight, feeling the harsh thud of his fist striking flesh, the taste of blood in his mouth, the sounds of feet on hard steel. These were his music.
"Have you ever taken any training in the martial arts?"
The boy's eyes brightened, but he shook his head.
"I think that may be the answer."
Ryven trained in a traditional form of Caldari martial arts, a fierce form of fighting that focused one's rage and hatred into each and every blow, and could be extremely deadly if used by a master. Ryven took to it immediately. He found an outlet for his fire. He found a way to channel his wrath into a single punch or kick. He spent hours every day, sometimes as much as twenty hours in a day training. The beginning of a purpose was forming.
The Gallente Gentleman
Ryven's father, Kalus Haijikioten, was a mercenary almost from birth. Hist father before him, and the one before that, and the one before that, had all plied a similar trade. At some point, most likely the Caldari-Gallente War, the Haijikiotens had had an honorable ancestor who fought as a member of the State Navy, and had done so with some distinction. Unfortunately, that family line enjoyed the taste of conflict so much, they engaged in it every chance that came along, regardless of who was sponsoring it. The Caldari State had uses for such talents, and often employed them, especially when they didn't want the blame coming back to them. However, the trouble for Kalus Haijikioten and his lover, an ex-Gurista named Seelah, came when they were hired by a somewhat shady Jin-Mei who hired them to attack a mining colony in the Ibura system. The Caldari State, notably the Suukevestra Corporation, who owned, via a network of smaller companies, the colony, was enraged. Though both Kalus and Seelah died in the raid, due to a catastrophic hull breach, they were both tried and convicted posthumously as war criminals and pirates. This left some question as to what to do with their two year old child, Ryven Haijikioten.
The State wanted to leave the child to his fate on the streets rather than take on the spawn of pirates as a ward of the State, but, the Sisters of Eve intervened and took him into their care. They suppressed his parentage to free him of the stain of his family. However, it seemed to Baillieu that some things are genetic. He had been in the corridor when this child attacked and critically injured the red-haired boy. He was shocked and appalled, and so he asked a few others about this strange child. They all replied similarly, "It's that damn Haijikioten boy."
He went to speak with the headmistress about the matter, and learned that they were considering doing what the State had not, and leaving the boy to his fate on the streets of some Caldari city. He made an offer that shocked Sister Caille. He offered to sponsor the child, and to pay for his continued education. He offered to all but adopt Ryven, and promised to stop in to visit the child whenever he was able. Mr. Crennelle was a travelling low-level diplomat, and an Intaki by lineage. It took some persuading, but, Sister Caille finally relented, pending and solely if Ryven agreed.
"Ryven, I have something I want to ask you."
Ryven stood silently.
"My name is Baillieu Crennelle."
Ryven showed no response.
"You have two choices." Baillieu paused a moment before going on. "You can either take your chances out there in the world, an unpleasant place, by any reckoning, or, you can accept me as your sponsor and guardian."
Ryven's left eyebrow shot up. This was obviously not something the child expected, and for once he spoke. "Why the fuck would a Gallente want to sponsor a Caldari child? Especially one like me? Are you trying to fuck with me?"
"I suppose you deserve an answer to that. The truth is, I don't really know. You've got spirit, perhaps?" He lied. "If you accept, I promise to look in on you when I am able. I can't outright adopt you, or I might. My wife died a decade ago, and I have no children of my own. However, I travel far too much, and you'd lose out on education you'll need. I do promise, though, I will help you to put that fire inside you to a purpose. Left without purpose, your life will always be filled with troubles. Channel that rage to a purpose, a cause, and you will excell beyond expectation."
Ryven stood there in silence for but a moment. He didn't know what this Gallente's game was, and he worried there was something really wrong with him, but, the offer to help with his rage, and the prospect of a chance to finally have someone in his life to try to understand him, and maybe even guide him, was compelling. He took a leap.
"I accept."
Orphan, pt. 2
Ryven sat, motionless, staring at the blue water of the garden's pool, watching the ripples from the fake raindrops striking its surface. His knuckles were busted open, and he had a bleeding gash on his forehead from when one of the overzealous security personnel banged Ryven's forehead into a bulkhead on the way to the office of Sister Caille. Blood dripped from these slowly, and left little red streaks in the rainwater that was collecting on the earthen floor of the garden. He pondered life outside of the orphanage, as an orphan on the streets of some Caldari city, or worse, as a bilge rat on some backwater Caldari station, or the sex slave of one of the State's higher-level aristocrats. He wondered if he would even be able to control the fire within.
"Why am I this way? Why am I only happy when I have something to fight?"
His concentration was broken by the sound of the station's announcement system.
"Ryven, report to compartment 1-204-3-L"
"What the fuck do they want now?" Ryven said aloud, to the garden. The silence answered him, as only it could.
He stood and left through the cold steel hatch to the corridor outside the garden. He was on the 3rd deck, so he made his way to the lift at the middle of the passageway's length and selected deck 1. He was alone on the lift, but didn't have much time to think before the doors hissed open and he found himself on deck 1, where the guests of the Sisters stayed. Compartment 1-204-3-L was a living compartment, at frame 204, on the 1st deck, near the starboard side of the station. How they managed to decide which side of the nearly circular station was the starboard was a mystery to him, but he knew which it was solely from practice. He arrived at a door marked 1-204-3-L. He rang the electronic buzzer on the outside of the door and was greeted by the hiss of the door opening.
"Come in." Came the voice from within.
Ryven did as he was bidden, and crossed the threshold to what would be the next chapter of his life.
"Why am I this way? Why am I only happy when I have something to fight?"
His concentration was broken by the sound of the station's announcement system.
"Ryven, report to compartment 1-204-3-L"
"What the fuck do they want now?" Ryven said aloud, to the garden. The silence answered him, as only it could.
He stood and left through the cold steel hatch to the corridor outside the garden. He was on the 3rd deck, so he made his way to the lift at the middle of the passageway's length and selected deck 1. He was alone on the lift, but didn't have much time to think before the doors hissed open and he found himself on deck 1, where the guests of the Sisters stayed. Compartment 1-204-3-L was a living compartment, at frame 204, on the 1st deck, near the starboard side of the station. How they managed to decide which side of the nearly circular station was the starboard was a mystery to him, but he knew which it was solely from practice. He arrived at a door marked 1-204-3-L. He rang the electronic buzzer on the outside of the door and was greeted by the hiss of the door opening.
"Come in." Came the voice from within.
Ryven did as he was bidden, and crossed the threshold to what would be the next chapter of his life.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Orphan pt. 1
The garden was well tended, though Ryven did not know by whom. The Sisters of Eve station was a large one, and though he had lived there as long as he could remember (granted, not too long, he was only 10 years old), he hadn't really learned much beyond the section of the station that was the orphanage and primary school. He was an orphan, a Caldari of the Civire bloodline. This he knew simply because everyone had told him so. He was one of about forty children from age 4 to 17 under the care of the Sisters of Eve. However, aside from his name, age, and race, he knew absolutely nothing of where he came from.
The great mystery of who he was and where he came from was constantly on his mind. He pestered the Sisters for a while about it, and he knew they knew something. It was evident in the way the Sisters exchanged glances when he asked. He always received the same answer, "You are Ryven. The past is unimportant." They would caution him to not pry and to accept the freedom to be his own person, unfettered by his parentage. So, no matter how much Ryven would protest and fume and sulk, the Sisters kept mum. This really only served to stoke a burning rage within him.
Ryven came to the garden often. It was a small room, only 10 meters by 10 meters, and filled with greenery. The plants were real, but the sky and horizons were not. Neither was the rain that happened every 48 hours or so. Ryven sat on the lone bench next to a small pool. The rain began less than 5 minutes after he sat down. That's how he preferred it. It helped to calm him. He was bleeding again. He let the sound of raindrops striking the pool lull him into a near trance. He remembered the fight.
The other boy didn't really deserve it. They usually didn't. His name was Tankran. He had reddish hair. He was an idiot. That's really all it took for Ryven these days. It happened in one of the corridors of the orphanage. Tankran had a look on his face, some sort of smirk or a grin; Ryven didn't know for sure, really. He waited for Tankran to pass within arm's reach of him, and quickly spun and struck him in the face with the heel of his hand, feeling the crunch of the cartilage collapsing, and the warmth of the blood on his hand. His world slowed, the sounds faded, and only he and his opponent existed. This is why he fought all the time. To Ryven, the only peace came from fighting, or replaying the fights in his mind in the garden. He fluidly followed his palm-strike with a knee strike to the abdomen, and a leg sweep. Tankran landed hard on the metal floor, his head smacking with a harsh thud. Ryven followed up with one last strike, an elbow to the sternum, which effectively knocked the wind out of Tankran. Ryven would've gotten in another hit, but one of the Sisters Security members pulled him forcibly from the now bleeding, injured, and unconscious victim.
The headmistress of the orphanage, a mid-fifties Gallente woman, Sister Caille, sat him down in her office. It might as well have been a closet, and it smelled of mold and steel. The only furnishings were her spartan desk and chair, and the small steel chair he was sitting in. She also had a framed artistic depiction of the Eve Gate, the central focus of the religion of the Servant Sisters of Eve. She was obviously upset, but didn't raise her voice. She went on and on about moral codes and ethics. She talked about how he was a ward of the Sisters of Eve, and that they were willing to help those in need, but that such magnanimity had limits. That's when she said that they were at the end of their rope, and that one more fight would mean the end of his stay, and that he would be dropped off at the nearest Caldari outpost to fend for himself. When she finally finished, all he could say was, "Yes, Sister Caille. May I go?"
"Yes, very well." She sighed. "But, Ryven, don't throw away a chance at a peaceful life."
The Sisters didn't understand, fighting was the only thing that brought him peace.
To be continued...
The great mystery of who he was and where he came from was constantly on his mind. He pestered the Sisters for a while about it, and he knew they knew something. It was evident in the way the Sisters exchanged glances when he asked. He always received the same answer, "You are Ryven. The past is unimportant." They would caution him to not pry and to accept the freedom to be his own person, unfettered by his parentage. So, no matter how much Ryven would protest and fume and sulk, the Sisters kept mum. This really only served to stoke a burning rage within him.
Ryven came to the garden often. It was a small room, only 10 meters by 10 meters, and filled with greenery. The plants were real, but the sky and horizons were not. Neither was the rain that happened every 48 hours or so. Ryven sat on the lone bench next to a small pool. The rain began less than 5 minutes after he sat down. That's how he preferred it. It helped to calm him. He was bleeding again. He let the sound of raindrops striking the pool lull him into a near trance. He remembered the fight.
The other boy didn't really deserve it. They usually didn't. His name was Tankran. He had reddish hair. He was an idiot. That's really all it took for Ryven these days. It happened in one of the corridors of the orphanage. Tankran had a look on his face, some sort of smirk or a grin; Ryven didn't know for sure, really. He waited for Tankran to pass within arm's reach of him, and quickly spun and struck him in the face with the heel of his hand, feeling the crunch of the cartilage collapsing, and the warmth of the blood on his hand. His world slowed, the sounds faded, and only he and his opponent existed. This is why he fought all the time. To Ryven, the only peace came from fighting, or replaying the fights in his mind in the garden. He fluidly followed his palm-strike with a knee strike to the abdomen, and a leg sweep. Tankran landed hard on the metal floor, his head smacking with a harsh thud. Ryven followed up with one last strike, an elbow to the sternum, which effectively knocked the wind out of Tankran. Ryven would've gotten in another hit, but one of the Sisters Security members pulled him forcibly from the now bleeding, injured, and unconscious victim.
The headmistress of the orphanage, a mid-fifties Gallente woman, Sister Caille, sat him down in her office. It might as well have been a closet, and it smelled of mold and steel. The only furnishings were her spartan desk and chair, and the small steel chair he was sitting in. She also had a framed artistic depiction of the Eve Gate, the central focus of the religion of the Servant Sisters of Eve. She was obviously upset, but didn't raise her voice. She went on and on about moral codes and ethics. She talked about how he was a ward of the Sisters of Eve, and that they were willing to help those in need, but that such magnanimity had limits. That's when she said that they were at the end of their rope, and that one more fight would mean the end of his stay, and that he would be dropped off at the nearest Caldari outpost to fend for himself. When she finally finished, all he could say was, "Yes, Sister Caille. May I go?"
"Yes, very well." She sighed. "But, Ryven, don't throw away a chance at a peaceful life."
The Sisters didn't understand, fighting was the only thing that brought him peace.
To be continued...
The Present Cloud
With naught but a name, a man can rise. I have not always been Ryven Krennel, nor have I always been so callously unmoved by the sea of death that is New Eden. Warring States, Companies, brothers, friends. Everywhere war. And always, like a moth to flame, I am drawn to it. I have danced this dance with death for my whole adult life. This was not always so.
How did I get here? How did a murderous Caldari merc-spawn find himself a member of an Amarr religious and martial order? I would say a man reaches a point where he must choose to either break the levees and give in to his inner demons, or seek some pure cause through which to channel that raging beast toward some higher good. The story of my journey on this path of conflict, both without and within, is one for another time. For now, only the proximate cause is of concern. That cause is a need to end the reckless cycle of blind violence and replace it with a purpose.
That being said, the others in the Knighthood have treated me well, and seem to accept me as one of them. I am not certain I am right for this religion of thiers. Perhaps I will read up on it in the rare downtime war affords. Perhaps that can make sense of this tangled contradiction that is my bloodthirst. Perhaps I can find peace somewhere other than the heat of the battlefield.
How did I get here? How did a murderous Caldari merc-spawn find himself a member of an Amarr religious and martial order? I would say a man reaches a point where he must choose to either break the levees and give in to his inner demons, or seek some pure cause through which to channel that raging beast toward some higher good. The story of my journey on this path of conflict, both without and within, is one for another time. For now, only the proximate cause is of concern. That cause is a need to end the reckless cycle of blind violence and replace it with a purpose.
That being said, the others in the Knighthood have treated me well, and seem to accept me as one of them. I am not certain I am right for this religion of thiers. Perhaps I will read up on it in the rare downtime war affords. Perhaps that can make sense of this tangled contradiction that is my bloodthirst. Perhaps I can find peace somewhere other than the heat of the battlefield.
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