A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

A thorny stalk shot up out of the immaterial. Leaves ran from it desperately, as if it could not grow fast enough. Then petals came, black, and silver, and green and blue and grey and gold. So many different colours that it seemed to change just depending on where one stood.

This beautiful, reaching flower, in the centre of this impossible storm that tore apart the world around it. A complexity to it. A love evident in it, along with the danger. And above it all, a want. One that once more dragged together the involvement of the world around it. That took from the dust and soil swirling in the storm, and gave that flower an embankment of the richest earth. That saw a tree shoot up along with it, high, and thick, and with a terrible sense of ancientness, as if it had been growing for thousands of years.

There was this overwhelming want for growth. For all the destruction that had occurred, and the void that had been left behind with it, there was that alone. Inside the storm, there was a little microcosm. A forest, with that flower at its centre, and with creatures running free through it. A kingdom in a wasteland, growing with an impossible speed, so much so that the eye could no longer track it.

It was almost as frightening as the destruction that had come before it. Almost. And for all that was added to it, deep and complex, with every tree and blade of grass seeming to carry the weight of immense knowledge, it was evident to all that looked upon it who the ruler of that mighty forest was. That tiny, thorny flower, at the centre of it all, hidden at times under the grass. Arrogant, and certain, a nameless king.

Oliver Patrick's eyes found the smallest degree of light.

He did not know from whence he had come, or how he had found his current position. Nor did he even know when it was that he had dismounted his horse, and found himself on foot. The embroiling of some sort of battle, one could suppose, but there was no interest in that for him. For there was a man to his front, with anger in his eyes, and a spear lowered at his hip, the full weight of his charge behind it, as he beat forward with relentless speed.

One step, and he flattened the only remaining patch of untouched snow under him. Another step, and he sent slush and ice kicking up from the back of his boot, into the face of the man that ran behind him. Another step, and the saliva ran from his chin, from his prolonged, mouth wide open battle-cry.

Another step, and the man that he had targeted, he that ought to have been the most prized head on that battlefield in Oliver Patrick, was no longer to his front, but to his side. The spear point that ought to have been pointed at his chest ran through nothing but empty air. By the side of the man's wooden spear shaft, Oliver had time enough to glance, and see the slickness of his leather gloves, as he let the spear run through them, falling from his hands, daring to reach for his sword instead.

The rhythm of combat. The thumping. The meaning. The slowness of his enemy. The desperate fumbling for the weapon at his hip. The difference between training, and actuality. So much to study, from just one man in front of him. So many ideas that he had not dwelled on properly before. They ran through his mind, cold and fresh, reinvigorating. It felt like living, as if there was a boundlessness to the world in front of him that he would never be able to quench the thirst of.

He waited all the way until the last second, until his enemy's sword came for his neck. He allowed him the chance, for all his fumbling. He did not wish to cut down an unarmed foe, but he could not remember anymore his reasons why. It was a simple want of his heart. An instinct, like hunger. Just as it was instinct to drift his head off to the side, allowing the sword barely to slip away from him, before he delivered that single, merciful thrust, to the spearman's heart, piercing through his chainmail in the process.

The man fell. Nourishment for the soil. Light fading from the eyes. That was it again, death. The sheer weight of it. And what significance it lent to the living. The finality of it invoked the very opposite in the world around Oliver.

Another spearman came from his side. Oliver saw him, and tilted his head. He waited again, just a moment too long, making it more dangerous than it ought to have been, walking this fine thread that he barely had a sense for.

He could not help himself. He laughed for the joy of it. Madness? Perhaps. Or was it purity? There was the innocence, and none of the malice. That dangerous game that they all played, with the cruelest of consequences. Men racing through the woods, animals in their hearts, knowing that if they did not make this kill, they would die of hunger for it. And still not resenting the world. Knowing the cruelty of nature to be thus.

A slash, across that surcoat, slashing through the High King's sigil, making use of the momentum he'd already wrought in dodging. A beautiful dance, a steady rhythm. The urge to keep this impossible balance, on that thread that he didn't truly understand. A wading into the danger further, not understanding it entirely, and its consequences, but knowing that there was no place in the world that he would rather be.

Boundless interest. Colour beyond comparison. Completely surrounded now. Shouts of warning. He had not enough interest yet to decipher what they meant. Too focused on that which was in front of him. From all angles, he'd allowed them to attack all at once. To track that which he could not even lay his eyes on. That perfect balance, a riddle to be solved, all in perfect flow and timing.