Roping the Wind

Introduction
Three Paths…
“All roads may lead to Rome, but what if Rome is not your destination?
Or worse, what if your destination has changed?”
Anonymous

The golden plain stretched out below, shrouded in the shadows and darkness of night, the harvest moon peeked out occasionally from behind the sporadic clouds, ghosts of rain that threatened to fall but overall had been nothing but empty promises. The farmer that tended the maize field of wheat would be happy for the rain, no doubt. The small group of travelers that were gathered in the camp, encircled by their wagons, however, would undoubtedly prefer the clouds remain silent with their empty threats.

From a rise in the distance a rider sat atop his chestnut stallion, a large horse, obviously intended for battle but still small enough to provide the rider with the necessary mobility and speed. A cavalry mount, no doubt, the supple muscles moved incessantly betraying the seeming calm of the powerful steed. The rider sat atop it easily; clothed in shadows he observed the group carefully with a watchful eye. Few would know where to look for the warrior and fewer still would be able to do anything to stop him. He sat completely still, gray eyes watched from a hooded shadow, always just out of sight his identity always kept.

The warrior was not a big man, not the type that would stick out in a crowd, and if you were looking for a blade for hire he would not be your first choice. He was not that very imposing but he was wiry, fast and tenacious. What he lacked in brawn he more than compensated for in determination, intelligence and speed. Gray eyes revealed much about the man depending on the situation. In battle a surreal rage would take over and the most formidable of enemies could not stand beneath its smoldering flame or the rapid dance of flashing blades. In moments like this, however, lost in the shadows and in the pain of memories past the warrior’s eyes reflected experience and wisdom beyond his years and borne of pain and loss.

Another dark figure lurked not far away, still and deadly amidst the softly waving fields of grain, also watching the group of travelers with calculated disdain. Though he could not see the warrior, he knew the warrior well enough to know that he was not far away. Unlike the warrior, this man was built and trained in the arts of stealth and death, an assassin by trade and a rogue by status he was, however, a dark mirror image of the warrior. The two men, if stood side by side, were, as it were, indistinguishable. The body build was the same for both, unimposing but wiry, fast and the eyes were also gray as the smoke of a consuming flame. The similarities ended there. The rogue, adept at the art of death by means of deception, lived in the shadows, not out of pain or anger or even necessity, but rather because it was where he belonged, his gray eyes were cold as a winter’s eve in the remotest of deserts and just as heartless and uncaring. The scars of the warriors spoke of courageous combat, badges of honor borne with pride. The scars of the rogue, eerily similar, born in deception and darkness, bespoke of lessons learned that honed his skills to a fine art.

The warrior and rogue watched the gathering of travelers. Each knew the other was out there, indeed the warrior had been hired because the rogue had been suspected to be trailing them and the indelible connection between the two left few choices and little doubt on who should be contracted to protect them in their journey, especially a journey of such great importance.

The group, a travelling band of tinkerers, dark skinned and mysterious, was far from helpless or unable to defend themselves and under any other circumstances they would have never considered hiring a guard or an escort. Their people had, for centuries travelled, generation after generation, without need of guards or escorts. They were largely a misunderstood group, partially from their nomadic nature and partially from their intentional fostering of the idea that they were skilled in the supernatural arts, some even said that they were well versed in the dark arts. This rumor, generating over time into a mythos that surrounded them everywhere they went and served two purposes. First, it was a means of income for them. People that wanted to speak to their family members that had passed on to the mysterious after life, people that wanted to make some poor unfortunate soul fall in love, place a curse on an enemy, and an assorted number of dark curses and supernatural quests would come to them, for a price of course. The second, more practical reason is that magic, even the illusion of magic, is a powerful and demoralizing defense. Bandits rarely dared to approach them, townspeople might get mad, might not be happy and might have their own preconceived ideas about them but rarely did the townspeople dare to stage an attack on people that, to their imaginative thoughts, could incinerate them with words or turn their minds one against another and force the town to implode on itself.

To be fair, the travelling group, known as Moors to some and Gypsies to others, manage to maintain a mystery shrouded around them. They were darker skinned than most of the townspeople they met in the small villages and towns they passed through. Dark eyes, tanned skin, and black hair only furthered the mysterious myths surrounding them.

Delving deeper into the group, its heritage and its mystery, the more discerning mind would discover that there was more to this group of gypsies than met the eye and that not all of the mythos was myth. Myth is often founded in truth, though a kernel of truth it may be.
Destiny is designed by the action of people, be it the many or the few. It was this truth that turned out to be the biggest secret and mystery held by these people and it was as the three paths of these participants, the warrior, the assassin and the prey that it became clear that destiny is written on water rather than a stone, and all it takes is a single wave, a single breeze or a stone skipped across the face of the page of destiny that could change its entire direction.

A Single Stone
Chapter 1
“Destiny is not a matter of chance; but a matter of choice.
It is not a thing to be waited for. It is a thing to be achieved.”
William Jennings Bryan

The stone began to skip across the page of destiny decades, even centuries before, only nobody realized it at that time. That is how it often goes, the most momentous events occur when nobody is expecting them, when the world is looking away at other grander and louder events. A small breeze through the ripples of time make changes that, in their fruition, develop into tidal waves that can change the course of time, change the course of the world, waves that bring down kings and raises orphans.

It started in a time of war and destruction, as is also often the case. The strongest metals are purified by fire and the unbreakable diamond is formed under the heat of pressure. The world was in a time of upheaval as petty lords and kings jockeyed about for power and wealth. The wars and bloodshed of the powerful and wealthy did nothing for those less fortunate as it grinded out the blood, pain and bones of the helpless and poor leaving mothers childless and children orphans and families homeless and destitute. Amidst such pain, suffering and loss many lost their sanity, their minds lost to the overwhelming pain, joining the insanity of the world around them.
Such a mind was locked away, its victim an elderly man who had lost most of his family to the devastating war surrounding him. One dark wintry night a band of soldiers marched through his defenseless village burning it to the ground as they ransacked it for whatever supplies they could gather. The poor villagers of this unnamed hamlet never had a chance as they were trampled underfoot. The old man lost everything that night his home, his fields but most of all his family, a wife and three children, and when before the night was through, the poor man, buried under grief and desolation crawled into a dark corner of his mind and was lost forever. After that night he would scavenge through neighboring villages refuse, surviving on the limited charity of people just as desperate and desolate as he. All avoided him at all costs, for in his vacant eyes they saw the dangerous path their world could lead them down and what men fear they avoid, or destroy.

It was only a matter of time before the inevitable occurred for it is a story that seems to repeat itself over and over in human events. A terrible crime was committed, a woman, carrying a child was murdered in the night and the villagers consumed by fear and needing answers placed the blame on the obvious target that could not defend itself. The man lost in his mind was too incoherent and afraid to understand what happened as the villagers gathered and chased him down. The man died amidst the screams of anger and hate that drowned out his own cries of confusion and pain.

Some villagers, making some token attempt at fairness and justice, determined that it would be necessary to locate the lair of the horrible villain and thus find at least the remains of the woman in order to properly bury them and thus send her soul onto paradise and eternal rest. After some searching they found the place where the old man slept and sheltered himself from the cold and rain. There they found no traces of hostility or violence and no blood or remains could be found. All they found were the tattered remains of cloths the old man used to cover himself on the cold nights and little broken pieces of the refuse that the villagers threw away. They were stowed in a corner of the cave under a care worn and tenderly, if rudely, drawn portrait of a woman and three kids.

What the villagers ignored and failed to see was the scribbling on the walls. Up and down the stone walls of the cave were the scribbling and ramblings of a madman. They had always known he went around muttering to himself in senseless. Self absorbed conversation, ramblings that did nothing but prove, at least to them, that he was mad. Scribbled along the wall, they assumed were more of these ramblings so they did not waste their time with the scribbling. Fortunately, the most important things in life have a way of preserving themselves and these scribbling had been made with natural paints, ink from lead and coals that would stand the decay of time and the forces of nature itself.

A legend began, as will often happen in these cases, stories of dark happenings and haunting evil spirits; stories whispered by parents to scare their children into obedience, and retold around camp fires in hushed tones to create fear or a chill down the spines of innocent minds. The story told of a man, violent and mad, that brutally butchered anybody that wandered near his haunted cave, his evil spirit causing bodily harm to almost all, except (of course) a few unlucky souls that were touched by his madness and returned, never to be the same. Of course, these stories just fuel the courage of young boys eager to prove that they are a man and that they have no lack of courage.

One such boy, Deitrych by name, or Deet to his friends, challenged by his peers, approached the cave, to find it not dissimilar to how the villagers had left it that day long ago. He, unlike them, was fascinated by the scribbling that covered the walls. Deet was one of the few boys in the small village that had taken an interest in reading and learning how to write. Fate, it seems, has a sense of intelligence about it and directed the right person to the abandoned and rejected cave. Having never met the madman who wrote them, to him they were a story to be told, rather than senseless ramblings. When he returned to his friends unscathed, they claimed he never went into the cave but he never forgot the cave. As he grew older he would often go back to the cave, drawn to it by some invisible force, the forces of fate at work, the stone still skipping the motions of time and the actions of individuals shaping destiny as this little boy, grown to be a man, would play his part in the play of history, whether a tragedy or a comedy, was yet to be seen.

With time, Deet began to write down the scribbling, as they were, transferring them to a more readable and mobile medium. He was, for some reason that he could not explain, convinced that there was some mystery locked in them and he could not get away from the feeling that it was important. As he wrote down the words he began to make a pattern of them even though there was no discernible pattern to the gibberish. He began to realize with an eerie understanding that this was a tale of things to come as some of the things had actually occurred after the death of the mad man. Not big significant things but things that had happened, and somehow, the mad man had known of it before it happened.

It was the accuracy of the small events that began to bring fear in the heart of the Deet. If the mad prophet had been correct on the little, insignificant things than did one dare ignore the bigger, more monumental things that were beginning to shape together? To do so would seem fool hardy and reckless. One statement in particular seemed to keep drawing his worried attention:

“A ripple across the waves, and a choice made in a moment of time
A child’s path will save or make an end of all mankind.
The mirror imaged blades will skip across the child’s page
And as three paths intertwine, the fate of all they will decide.
A group of mystery shall his path guard and guide
But in the end the child, alone in darkness, shall decide.”

The ominous words echoed in the young Deet’s mind. What may have been confused for senseless ramblings of a disturbed man took on a more serious tone when considered that other events predicted, though seemingly harmless, had in actuality occurred as predicted. Furthermore, even those seemingly innocuous events now took on a more important note of interest. What if they too were part of the river of time and each event played a part in the preparation for far more reaching events of the future?

The situation was even more problematic because the cave was just outside of a meaningless village, a miniscule hamlet barely even recognized by the king’s high court and to draw attention to such a small place out in the middle of nowhere when the villagers themselves treated him as though he were mad too for taking the ravening madness of an ostensibly violent lunatic serious.
Deciding that something must be done
 
List of Characters and brief biographies:

The Vidhori-The Vidhori, known by many as the Horse People, were a nomadic people that covered a large swath of land across the plain area of their land mass. The Vidhori had one central city, a place of government where their king, The Horse Lord, ruled. The palace roofs were plated in copper giving a reddish tinge to the city every sunrise and sunset which led it to be known, especially by its enemies, as the Citak AkulaVita, or the Blood Citadel. This name was earned, not only for the copper roofs, but also because of the nature of the Vidhori. The Vidhori were a warlike people, descended from warlike people. The nomadic lifestyle was a tradition that forced their youth to grow strong quickly, roots were eschewed as something that brought weakness, with the exception of the ruling city, since it was necessary to have a seat of power. The Horse Lord had been chosen amongst his brothers for his character, his strong will and prowess in battle. Among the Vidhori, blood did not guarantee right to rule. The ability to lead and the ability to fight were weighted much more and any warrior could challenge the Horse Lord without retribution. Such a challenge would lead to a fight to the death. A warrior must lead warriors. If the Horse Lord reached an age where an heir was needed, the heir would have to prove himself worthy.
Two things were held to such a high value that they were, quite literally, spiritual and religious. First was the horse of the Vidhori warrior. Warriors were both male and female and you would not want to cross a female Vidhori warrior any less than you would a male. The Vidhori learned early on how to ride a horse and the chief Goddess of the Vidhori was, Sentek Dyos, the Horse Goddess. A child was raised being taught how to treat, ride and care for a horse. The Vidhori coming of age was the day an official ceremony would take place where the child, now an adult, would be chosen by the Horse. A binding ceremony, very similar to a marriage, and just as sacred, would ensue. This ceremony the Sentekika, or Horse Binding, would bind them for life. The Vidhori horses were classed by size, strength and speed,

Adryck Malkaveck-The Warrior-Born a twin he and his brother were born into royalty. Unfortunately it was a royal family soon to be disposed and part of a people soon to be massacred and all but destroyed. Of his brothers, he was considered the oldest and therefore the crown prince.

Vyktor Malkaveck-Brother
Kamealorn Malkaveck-The Assassin
Amelia Malkaveck-Sister
Vidanya Malkaveck-Mother
Gustav Malkaveck-Father
Gypsies
Milantia
Febrari
Pinuela
Rasia
Miliani
Cantiel