Escaflowne Movie: Pre movie. Chesta, Dilandau and Dragonslayers (some gore, explosions and portents of doom)
This is my Escaflowne Secret Santa for @drkstars. You wanted movie Chesta so tadaaaa!!! Sweet creepy mystical cinnamon bun!
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He was floating weightless in the darkness, suspended in the nothingness which was the Other. All around him, the starlight pierced the surrounding void with a cold cruel light, daring him to draw closer, to touch… He knew better than to give in. They were the false paths, seeking to lead him astray, to cast his mind into oblivion leaving his body a vulnerable empty shell.
There were so many forces alive in this world that most never knew about, and fewer truly respected. He’d seen what happened to those foolish enough to not respect the wild and capricious power which surrounded him. Several of his peers had been reduced to drooling bags of meat, devoid of mind and soul, their minds burned out from their mental wanderings. Those were the lucky ones.
Other’s… well, their empty shells had become host to other forces, other beings. There were rumours whispered in the deepest depths of the Dragon temples that this was what had happened to Lord Folken. That he and his Seer had pushed themselves too far, taken one too many chances and been consumed by something that lurked in the darkness.
Wearing their flesh, it had risen in power within the Black Dragon Clan, dominating tribe after tribe, conquering kingdoms and villages alike, leaving nothing of their enemies but scorched earth and bleaching bone.
“Show me their leader.” A voice purred in his ear. Youthful and hungry for battle, it was the voice of a dark spirit given flesh and Chesta couldn’t help but draw a mental comparison to his own lot in life. Bound to an impure dragon, their fates intertwined upon the wings of destiny. The will of his master guided his mind, casting it forth like a net towards the enemy camp nestled safely in the gulley a mile away, hidden from all but the sharpest-eyed scout.
As if his eyes had been given flight, his vision sped across the forest, through the thick brush which disguised the tents of the camp. He saw men and women gathered around the campfire finishing their thin meal of watery stew and sour wine. They were tired and battle worn, but their spirits still high. They’d been harassing the flank of the 45th regiment mercilessly, striking soundlessly in the night without warning or mercy.
The past week alone, they’d killed Colonel Gilles and Major Raythe. Both had been formidable warriors and rather valuable to the war effort. Worse, they’d dared to burn the supplies needed on the front lines and freed nearly a hundred prisoners! They’d done it all and disappeared without a trace, leaving the Black Dragon Army in chaos and looking like fools!
“A camp within the trees.” He heard his own voice whisper in a distant monotone, as if something was speaking through him. “A hundred men and women gather, warriors all. They bear the banner of Restalos and vengeance is in their hearts.”
“Restalos? I had no idea there were any survivors. Hmph, Lord Folken is getting sloppy in his old age.” The voice dripped with bitter scorn and he could feel the ambition burning behind the words, the predatory nature seeking any hint of weakness, ready to strike if given the slightest opportunity. “What of the prisoners?”
“No sign.” He breathed, studying the weapons of those gathered around the fires, seeking some meager warmth from the coming fall night. Some distant part of his soul wished them what comfort they could glean from the flames, knowing that the icy finger of death would claim them all soon enough. Even as he watched, he could feel the dark specter of death pressing down on them. The fates twisting about the camp, every minute he watched, every minute they rested cutting off more paths of survival. Death was watching, and he was hungry for blood.
“Give me a target Chesta.” The voice growled, eager for violence, feeling the inevitability of a kill within his grasp. The young seer couldn’t help but shudder slightly as his vision focussed on a tent hidden beneath the boughs of an ancient tree. Within he could see two men and a woman, battle-scarred and strong, their eyes burning with the fierce will of the defiant. The will of those who have lost everything but their desire for vengeance.
The men were large and swarthy skinned. Brothers in blood as well as arms, one sported an axe, the other a sword and shield. He could feel the weight of the many lives the two had claimed darkening the air around them, but it was the woman who drew his attention.
She was pale, her hair black as night and her eyes as blue as the midday sky. Muscles stood out on her arms and two well worn swords hung on her hips. A thick fur, taken from a bear draped over her back and its claws hung from her throat. When she spoke, the men listened attentively, and he could feel her spirit burn like icy fire across his mind’s eye.
“Hidden within the shadows of the ancient oak lies the heart and soul of the enemy. A great bear wearing the form of a woman. Strike her down and break the back of our foe. Miss your strike and she will become twice as fierce.”
“Oooh, she sounds fun.” Blood dripped from those words and Chesta could feel more paths of escape fade away as the trap began to close. “Do you think she’ll actually fight back? Or will she die like the useless rebel filth she is?” The Seer didn’t bother to answer. One wasn’t expected. Instead, he pulled his mind back into his skull, shivering at the bone deep cold which always filled him after his Visions.
His body felt heavy, awkward and tired, but he knew better than to give voice to any complaint. Weakness wasn’t tolerated in the Black Dragon Clan, even less so in the Dragonslayers.
Blinking his eyes rapidly to settle his vision, he watched the albino in the blood red armour wheel his horse around to face the rest of their unit, a wide vulpine grin split his youthful face, twisting it into something demonic. Crimson eyes, pitiless and cold glittered with undisguised malice as he tapped the bared blade of his sword against his shoulder. The reflection of his face made his smile more of a rictus grin. The reaper preparing to sow the lives of those gathered down below. The soldiers, his unit… Gaea itself… Chesta knew deep in his heart that he followed on the heels of Death like a faithful hound, but it was better to follow at Death’s heels than run before Him.
“Let’s go and say hello.” Captain Dilandau grinned, those inhuman eyes of his fixed on the hidden camp, power beginning to build around him. His cruel laughter was echoed by those of his men… no, his boys. They were all so young, painfully young, but Chesta could see the blood running over their hands, dripping onto the ground below and killing everything it touched. “No survivors.” The captain added, licking his pale lips in anticipation, already tasting victory.
“Sir, Lord Folken will want prisoners to interrogate.” Gatti dared to speak up, his voice ever cautious. Dilandau’s hand tightened on his sword and the second in command drew back, unable to meet that terrible gaze.
“Did I stutter?” The pale leader sneered, leaning forward in his saddle, ready to spill the blood of his own team if they dared to question him. “If Folken wants toys to play with, he can get them his damn self!”
“Of course sir!” The others all replied, knowing what is expected of them. Chesta’s voice is found among them. He’d learned long ago not to fight the storm. It’s far safer to simply allow the winds to blow him where they will. He’s seen enough examples of what happened to those who stood up to the impure dragon and had no desire to be counted among them.
With his place at the front of the pack confirmed without dispute once again, Dilandau led their charge. The wind whipped through Chesta’s hair driving away the last vestiges of his disorientation, leaving only the bloodlust and adrenaline of battle. Like the others, a grin split his face as he drew his sword. The steed beneath him tore through the underbrush without any hint of self preservation or hesitation, infected with their bloodlust.
Young voices rose up in a vicious howl and he could feel the terror filling the minds of those ahead of them. They’ve heard tales of that sound, whispered around the campfires in the dark of the night, stories of a pack of children, of demons, of wolves wearing the flesh of men. He knew well the atrocities attached to his team. Worse, he knew that they barely scratch the truth of it all.
The enemy soldiers learn quickly enough as the Dragonslayers break through the trees, coming in from all sides. The fires are scattered by horse’s hooves, armour is cleaved by swords and the screams of the dying soon overpower the howls of the boys.
Explosions drown out everything as the ground tears itself apart, cutting a lethal trail through several ranks of soldiers attempting to form up and protect their leaders. Limbs fly free from bodies, blood rains from above and the tent, guarded so carefully by the ancient boughs of the oak shatters apart.
Chesta can feel the concussive blast of power from across the camp. He can feel the lives snuffed out instantly, never having seen the face of their killer. Cries of “Dragonborn” echo through the camp, accompanied by Dilandau’s wild laughter. Moral is shattered, the ranks scatter and flee, but the seer can feel their futures snuffed out one by one. No matter how fast they run, their lives are measured in little more than minutes, an hour at most. The army marched behind them after all, a lethal net ready to catch any who seek to slip through the jaws of the Dragonslayers. It’s the lucky ones who die quickly. Lord Folken has never been known for his mercy after all.
The blast which took out the leader’s tent has damaged the roots of the oak, and as Chesta watched, the ancient tree begins to list heavily to the side, the few remaining roots buried deep beneath the earth groan softly in protest, doing their best to keep the tree upright.
There’s nothing he can do but watch it bend beneath its own weight. Enemy soldier’s race by him, within easy reach of his sword, but he pays them no mind. They’re already dead after all. He’s seen their inevitable fate. What do their short and pointless lives matter in the end when compared to the death of this king of the forest. It had stood tall and proud for centuries… perhaps even more, its power inviolate… until now.
Something was changing. He could feel it in the wind, hear it rumble deep within the earth. It wasn’t the tree that was falling, torn apart by its own greatness; it was everything. The world was about to change, the roots cut out from beneath it, and all the little people in its shadow were going to run as it toppled down upon them.
“Chesta.” Ryoun hissed sharply from off to the side. “You’re letting the enemy escape!” The dark haired slayer’s sword dripped wet with blood, so much blood that it formed a river beneath his horses feet. “If Lord Dilandau thinks you’re going soft there’ll be hell to pay!”
“The leaves.” Chesta murmured, holding a hand up as if to touch them as they fell all around them like rain, torn free from their branches. “They look like feathers.” Holding out a hand towards them, he could almost hear a song echoing on the wind, beautiful and heart wrenching, it promised an end of everything.
