The warrior with no clan is despised in the Raata Empire. Viewed by clansmen as a hungry wolf, roaming through the land with no ties nor obligations, no duties nor support, and no respect for the well-being of the anyone, he is bitterly detested. His virtue as a swordsman saves him not from gangs, nor clansmen rearing for a fight. His readiness to die is tested at any time: not in a glorious clash for a lord where he may die a hero immortalized in song, but trifles over a bun, or a sip of kresh. People treat him with the same caution as one would to a wild animal which attacks whenever frightened.Davlos read the passage again. It was from one of the myriad textbooks he had to study from whilst kept in one of the State's many children's creches. This was in a chapter titled, "
Delinquents" and oddly enough, was the only chapter in the book with an underline. As if to underscore the serious importance of its consequences.
Like almost every Caldari child, he had worshipped Admiral Tovil-Toba.
Haakken kilen phr! was a phrase they were instructed to cry out during the daily assembly, before the start of class. There was many a time when he found himself gazing upon idealized portraits of Tovil-Toba, garbed in the impeccably-pressed blue of the Caldari Navy and imagined himself to be an officer worthy of the good Admiral's legend.
The warrior with no clan is despised.Of course, what had transpired in the years since he acquired his capsuleer license was anything but worthy of Tovil-Toba's name. Instead of the sleek blue of the Navy and its affiliates, he had worn uniforms, insignias, ideologies of almost every shade. Each shift part of a struggle to survive. Sometimes it was in pursuit of some kind of meaning to his life. Others, it was he entertaining some kind of notion as a liberator. Other times - most times, really - it was to worship at the altar of the almighty ISK.
His sleeves were streaked with scarlet and obsidian, signature colors of the Serpentis-affiliated masters he now served. He didn't care about being viewed as some kind of criminal. After all, having observed, tasted and fought for so many causes and ideologies, they all mixed into this blur of sameness. But that did nothing to assuage his pain, like that of a limb amputated from a body and yearned to be whole again. He still made sure to keep true to what he reckoned made him Caldari, even if his very existence made a mockery of that practice.
Davlos read the passage again.
Even if that was all the textbook had to say about a delinquent like he, it still felt. Incomplete. He took a deep breath, fingertip shakily reaching for the holoscreen. What he was about to do, the very
thought of doing it disgusted him. Vandalism. Unthinkable.
If only those clansmen could view him without prejudice! They may see that, at the cost of glory, he has gained the rare treasure: freedom. He is free to know the world, free to discover. He can toughen himself in the wilderness; he can study the sword wherever a master is available; he can visit monasteries and practice meditation.
The price he pays for this liberty is an empty stomach, poverty and loneliness. But it is not easy to rid yourself from the henchman's crushing burden.(Some content is adapted from segments of Samurai-Geist by Thomas Preston)
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Topic: The Wayward Warrior (Read 739 times)