Kekoa Iei O Moano

FORGED BY TURMOIL

THE PATH OF A WARRIOR

The West of Creation is an endless expanse of glittering ocean dotted with countless islands. Further out lie the skerry-islands of the Neck, and even further still to the very brink where creation starts to frey into the wyld this is where I began or so I was told on a speck of land along a trading route that was constantly ravaged by pirates.

As the tale goes my mother was a mystic beauty constantly pursued by all who crossed her path; that is until one day a sailor under the guise of establishing a safe dock in an area controlled by my mothers village decided that one of the conditions to the deal was going to be the use of my mother for his cardinal pleasures. From what I would come to gather was that her refusal was not well received and he decided to take what he wanted anyway and after a particularly brutal encounter he left my mothers spirit and body so broken that even the acknowledgement of the creation of a new life could not mend her. She bore me as long as she could stand it but overcome by shame and disparity she ended her life after carving me from her body!

I wasn't supposed to survive. I was never meant for this world and the tribe that "raised" me never let me forget those two simple facts. When I was old enough to fend for myself I was sold to the same group of sailors that my father traveled with though I don't believe I ever met him face to face. Slave traders are what they did, absolute soulless individuals are who they were. I don't quite know how old I was or am for that matter as that wasn't pertinent information that I needed.

After months aboard a ship being forced to do all varieties of meaningless and demoralizing tasks it became clear that the hated, hurt and anger that coursed through my veins allowed me to disregard sanity and self preservation. Having to overcome a language barrier with no help I began to teach myself by copying….the beatings I took for what was perceived as mocking served as a second teacher allowing me to absorb blows as well as techniques.

It wasn't long before I could no longer sit idly and let these sorry excuses for humans continue. I was still a boy the first time I actually threw a punch. Although that was the only time that distinction was ever made. At first I was beaten mercilessly over and over until one day many many moons after I was sold I beat the cook and not just beat him but ended his existence. The cook turns out was a notorious pirate cutthroat evading the law by posing as a cook on a semi-legitimate “trading” ship.

Why the cook? He out of all the men aboard that ship was my greatest tormentor, consistently refusing to feed me or purposely spitting, urinating, just generally defiling my food at every turn. He was my first instructor in the art of pain. As if the food torment wasn't enough he had a particular fondness for causing me pain as well. Like many other it started with kicks to the shins as I was walking by, kidney shots as I'm just standing around or the one move most favorited above all else was an open palm slap across the face even to simply punctuate a sentence while speaking at me.

As I said the cook took it to another level. With every beating I could feel the anger build and boil. One night after being made a spectacle for the crew's entertainment I crawled to my bowl for the gruel aching and bleeding. I snatched it up not caring what was in it and began to shovel it in. Mid bite a slap to the back of my head caused the wooden spoon to snap and almost choke me to death. His laughter still echoes in the deepest part of my hate.

I felt the black fade in as I spit up bits of broken spoon. The rest is a blur. I don't really remember it all. I do however recall being pulled from his body and seeing what was my spoon lodged into his neck, blood spewing like a geyser. My arms are heavy and my hands are numb. It took me looking down to register that I was still clutching the lower half of his jaw in my left hand and an ear in my right.

Before that could be fully processed by all, I was wished away and brought to the “PITS” a gladiatorial proving ground of sorts. And it's here I was honed into this blade of punishment I am today. From slave to fighting slave under the tutelage of the Master, Aoife. While my time here was only marginally better that my time on the ship I was educated in all worldly things so that I wasn't a to quote Aoife, “Thick skulled smooth brain brute who can do nothing but react and get an erection!”

My anger and rage was channeled into a fighting style that was called hero style which I found ironic as nothing I planned to do with this knowledge was going to classify as heroic. I guess I had an aptitude for fighting the style quickly becoming second nature. Trial by fire was the preferred teaching method so I participated in a multitude of fights per day with barely enough time to catch my breath in-between. When I lost, I was whipped to the cadence of every mistake I made. When I won, I was pummeled by Aoife to ensure I didn't let my ego grow.

I spent years as her “champion”. Years destroying, years exacting punishment on those who were placed in front of me. And then one day I was presented with an offer for my freedom. A gauntlet. Fighters, murderers, assassins, soldiers, anyone with a compunction for violence was for a 24 hour period step up and if at the end of the time I was still standing I could walk away, free.

Battered and broken I boarded a ship headed east. No plan except to one day restore the honor that was stolen from my mother and elevate my bloodline to one people will come to respect.

A lesson I faithfully have regretted to learn is just how deep evil runs in people's cores. Even before I was fully recovered the crew of said ship decided they were going to tempt their fates and force me again into a life of servitude. Being attacked in the middle of slumber set me into another black out rage and when I came to the ship was burning and headed for a rocky alcove of land, and I was in absolutely no condition to sail nor having the faintest idea of how, crashed.

After the villagers pulled me from the wreckage they began searching for others and found the carnage that lay behind the reminiscence of the broken ship, promptly reported me to some authority and now I'm being chased through lands that are as strange to me as I am to them. As I evade, I feel pulled to a place known to those in the parts as the wyld. Figuring it's my best chance of survival I move toward them.

As I blunder my way deeper looking for a good spot to camp out and hide from my pursuers, I come across a woman being tormented by by a group of savages who have her pinned to the ground taking turns poking an prodding screaming that she's a demon and needs to be cleansed from this place. Something strikes me as I watch what is transpiring and I fall to my knees as the unknown woman transforms into a vision of my mother. White hot furry erupts through my veins, my vision blackens, it feels as though I explode like a piece of iron on a blacksmith's anvil being hammered into a blade. The last thing I remember is a guttural scream echoing off the trees as my body blurs into movement.

And then I wake covered in gore. Disgusted I drag myself to the closest body of water I can find and begin to clean myself off. As the gore slops away a faint glow radiates off my skin. I stare at my reflection seeing intricate symbols trace my body reminiscent of the tattoos the warriors in my tribe used to wear. Only I'm covered as far as I can tell they're everywhere. I hear a snickering from behind me I whirl, only to see the woman standing at the edge of the water, eyes set intently upon mine and time seems to just stop!