Dry Sea
a fictional story about a mongolian warrior during the rule of genghis khan. just the first bit
The golden orb climbing the horizon penetrated to cool still air. Tömörbaatar gazed out from the ridge into the wide valley, scanning the endless flood of tents. His eyes trailed off to the far dune, watching the sand blowing lazily across it. Blood would be shed this day, in great quantities. But this he did not yet know. All he knew was the direction to which he must go and his almost certain fate.
The blade that swung by the hilt from his belt had killed many, hundreds even. Made from the finest steel with a carved handle of polished human bone, it had become his soul, a sign of his great acceptance. Genghis himself had ordered him to Japan to learn the bushido creed, a rare occurrence for an outsider. Tömörbaatar had spent his entire life up until the past three years training; he was elite among the camp, though this ability had grown the list of his enemies.
As dawn grew he began descending the steep dune, using his leather-wrapped hands to steady himself. Taking his time he finally reached the camp after several long minutes of sliding. A home for an armada of men, the camp consisted of hundreds of large round tents. Made from hides and posts they were capable of holding at least ten soldiers with gear and all. However Tömörbaatar’s tent was slightly larger and held only him.
He stopped at the entrance, slipping the rough, coarse, red cloth through his thumb and forefinger. It reminded him of home, the home he dreamt every night while staring at the mannequin dawned in his armor, His katana resting lightly in the mix of sand and cloth. the six foot long spear resting against the wall. It all looked rather ominous to him, it was only at this time he could truly reflect, and study himself.
His buttocks imprinted into his cot, many a night had he sat there, watching the glimmer of the nearby fire dance across his arms. Tattoos covering his flesh, I sign of his prowess in battle. He had stopped existing as a man, no pulse, no sense of touch. A rare thing had occurred; he was truly one with his weapon. Rumors in the camp claimed he slept with his unsheathed sword pressed tightly to his chest, or that every night he went into a world of demons. Even though rumors grew he ignored them. The truth was he would spend his time in his tent, practicing his swordsmanship, preparing for his fate. Tömörbaatar hoped that by spending every moment he had training he could transform his trade into perfection.
After walking into his tent he looked over his bed at the large banner hanging above it. The ragged, torn, and bloodstained cloth swayed gently, the insignia of his clan marked upon it. He walked over and firmly yet softly grabbed the wooden post from which it hung, feeling the gashes from fallen enemies of long ago. As he began to drift off into his mind a runner burst through the hides hanging over the doorway.
The blade that swung by the hilt from his belt had killed many, hundreds even. Made from the finest steel with a carved handle of polished human bone, it had become his soul, a sign of his great acceptance. Genghis himself had ordered him to Japan to learn the bushido creed, a rare occurrence for an outsider. Tömörbaatar had spent his entire life up until the past three years training; he was elite among the camp, though this ability had grown the list of his enemies.
As dawn grew he began descending the steep dune, using his leather-wrapped hands to steady himself. Taking his time he finally reached the camp after several long minutes of sliding. A home for an armada of men, the camp consisted of hundreds of large round tents. Made from hides and posts they were capable of holding at least ten soldiers with gear and all. However Tömörbaatar’s tent was slightly larger and held only him.
He stopped at the entrance, slipping the rough, coarse, red cloth through his thumb and forefinger. It reminded him of home, the home he dreamt every night while staring at the mannequin dawned in his armor, His katana resting lightly in the mix of sand and cloth. the six foot long spear resting against the wall. It all looked rather ominous to him, it was only at this time he could truly reflect, and study himself.
His buttocks imprinted into his cot, many a night had he sat there, watching the glimmer of the nearby fire dance across his arms. Tattoos covering his flesh, I sign of his prowess in battle. He had stopped existing as a man, no pulse, no sense of touch. A rare thing had occurred; he was truly one with his weapon. Rumors in the camp claimed he slept with his unsheathed sword pressed tightly to his chest, or that every night he went into a world of demons. Even though rumors grew he ignored them. The truth was he would spend his time in his tent, practicing his swordsmanship, preparing for his fate. Tömörbaatar hoped that by spending every moment he had training he could transform his trade into perfection.
After walking into his tent he looked over his bed at the large banner hanging above it. The ragged, torn, and bloodstained cloth swayed gently, the insignia of his clan marked upon it. He walked over and firmly yet softly grabbed the wooden post from which it hung, feeling the gashes from fallen enemies of long ago. As he began to drift off into his mind a runner burst through the hides hanging over the doorway.
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