Tuesday, August 03, 2004

Prologue to "The Blood Ronin Saga"



The Monk's Tale



The arid wind chants through the atmosphere of North-Eastern Tibetan highlands as they accompany an old Shaolin monk who has been travelling for 3 days without rest. He felt his backpack going lighter in his journey, making him conclude that searching for food and water will come sooner than he expected.

As he continued on walking his journey, he smelled something that disturbed his senses. Covering his nose and searching the foul stench's source, he finally came to a heap of carcass, seemingly from dead horses as their mangled skins and skeletons showed that a group of carnivorous beasts just feasted on them probably the past night.

As he walked closer, and closer to the rotting heap of dead animals' remains, he saw a blood writing on a side of a very huge boulder of rock nearby...

The monk stares at the writing, and it took him a while to conclude that it is written in ancient Japanese texts.

"Hah!!! Japs have no reason of venturing here in our lands," exclaims the monk, as he reached for the rock and studied the writing, believing that he can read it.

"Gotta try this crap... Bah, I'm no Monk if I cannot read the language of Oriental Empires!!!"

As he looked on every character as guided by his twitching, soiled and aging hands, he utters his initial reading;

"From the ashes... of the fallen empire..."

" ...they bacame..."

"...wanderers..."

"...waiting... "

He tried to analyze the last two characters as he examined them closer and tried to stroke, as if tracing the way the characters have been written. Then he finally able to connect its meaning to the former reading;

"...waiting to be awaken... "

"...again. "

He read it again, saying the whole phrase;

"From the ashes of the fallen empire, they became wanderers..."

"...waiting to be awaken, again."

Standing up and scratching his head, he still cannot understand what it all means. Sure, the Tokugawa Empire has been destroyed, but it still thrives to his day. Though he can only hear news about that island and it's humble empire in the East coast, they are more of rumors than facts to be taken seriously from the Arab traders who usually pass near the Temples during Spring.

He was still trying to think about it, when he heard a condor's cry from above.

A thick liquid substance fell and hit him right smack in his face.

Given by its color, texture and more importantly the smell; the monk knows what really hit him.

It's NO bird shit.

It's blood.
...







posted by Narj @ 3:30 AM 

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