In Eclipsara, meat is a delicacy. In a city of stone, the food that sustains its people is imported much from the surrounding farms, none closer than 100 kilometers in proximity. Bread is common, beans and cabbage make hearty dinners, and on those all-so-special occasions, egg and pork reward the bodies of those who think they deserve it. Chickens and pigs are rare, and cows—cows are a legend among my people. Today I confront this legend. It's called a steak, I heard it can be eaten cooked or raw. Such is the food of the rich, previously beyond my comprehension but now sizzling on my stove floating in pork fat, alongside 2 freshly cracked eggs. The air is so quiet.
The Shaman festival means peace—hours of it—as everyone flocks to the festivities. Cheap meat caravans from the north, the infamous band wrestling tournament, and the Governor's grand appearance fill the city with noise. But for me, it's perfect: my single day of the year. Peace.
The pork fat smell fills the air, an indulgence that makes my stone walls feel almost regal. My fork stabs center mass as my knife hovers over the steak, juices pooling the plate as I cut the perfect slice. Just as the muscle touches my skin, my vision shifts, and my lungs empty.
It starts as a soft haze in the corners of my eyes but quickly transforms into a tremor, like heat rising off stone. The once regal walls bend to candle wax, its colors washing into monochrome tones of gray. The momentum of my fork continues but my hand is frozen, as a crack of something other rippled through me. A noise—not from my ears, but rather inside my mind. Faint whispers, overlapping distance, pulling at the edges of my sanity in colors of rotating hues. Like being thrown out a window the world begins to shatter and shift into a mental dimension. My fork disappears, soon the walls, and then it's all colored a darkened void that stretches out endless from my vision, broken only by faint glimmers of silver. Shattered mirrors hang in the air, in one of those mirrors, I see a vision of myself. My breathing shutters and my hand stretches as I reach for the image, and it rippled into life. I am back in my house. The table is turned, the chair lies pieces across the room, and most unforgivable, my plate of steak is resting in a pile of dirt and splinters. Footsteps echo from stone tiles–two of them, no, three–closing in fast. The image flickered, and for a second I saw their faces. Men cloaked in shadow, their features distorted as if looking through warped glass. One holds a Hemlock, its edge gleams in the dim light. Another holds a blunt pipe shadowed in rust. The last is empty-handed yet he shines the brightest, their faces hold no malice–just cold, calculated intent. They weren't here to threaten or send a message.
My breath returns as the mirror shifts, pulling me deeper. Time unravels in fragments, the first man breaches the door, the second vaulting my table. I see my hand, reacting–too slow, too late. Once again my vision shatters, my view reappears and my eyes leave a soft haze in the corners of my eyes as I bite down on that perfect slice that had just entered my mouth. The sound of sizzling fat had returned, grounding me, and with a sigh, I crack my neck and grip the edge of my table. The warm glow of the stove now feeling oppressive, too exposed. The whispers had stopped, but the air hung heavy with unnatural silence. Just as it had played out previously, up to the fading nanosecond, the men come to attack me.
The door bursts inwards, splintering into jagged shards as two figures storm in, I see them before they move. The first lunged onto me with his Hemlock, aiming at my neck. No luck. I throw the table I held in my hands, my body moving faster than my thoughts. His knife cuts empty air as I grab his arm with monstrous force, twisted, driving my knee into his stomach. He crumples to the ground, knife slipping from his grasp.
The Second man is faster, but I see the angle of his strike before his blade reaches the set point. A narrow slash aimed at my ribs, I sidestepped and catch his wrist mid-swing, twisting it so hard the knife clattered on the wood floor. Before he can catch his breath my elbow connects with his jaw, sending him staggering backward. I feel lightweight. Every part of my near 300-pound body moving as smooth as butter, every moment perfectly timed, every strike precise. They did not fight me–they fought their own futures, already decided before they acted. A view encaptures my eyes into something truly fearful.
The air grew heavy, tinged with a metallic tang. I turned to a flowing silhouette reaching my door, taller, broader, and radiating power. His red-tinted eyes locked on mine, paler than the limit of men, his steps deliberate. He isn't like the others, his movements hold more forethought. A nuisance, future sight becomes less straightforward. These nuisances are called Shaman.
He murmurs something in a low and almost amused voice, I didn't care to listen. A smug smile rules his face. His arms lift, and around him ripples crimson energy. I see before he does–a jagged spear formed of his blood, flung directly towards my chest. I dodge, barely, moving in time. The spear whistled past me and embeds itself in my wall, cracking the stone. The blood from the spear seeps and spreads throughout the cracks of the stone around me.
"You're fast" I laugh, fidgeting on my itchy nose. "But not fast enough."
I see a blade form on his arm, the wide diagonal swing aimed at my torso. I prepare, leaning back, the edge missing me by inches. His attacks come in a flurry, faster, more aggressive, but I moved with an eerie fluidity. Each strike missing the most minimal of margins as if dancing between his attacks. My fork cuts him as he converges on me, humiliating him, and throwing through his solar plexes. He doesn't give but his smirk leaves his face, replaced by anger.
"I'm not even that quick" I instigate. "Truly disrespectful the fodder they suggest can combat me. You are far too shortmind, and far too late."
This Shaman growled, his aura flaring. The blood from the cracks forms a massive sweeping arc of energy. I saw it–the wide attack, too large to evade completely. My mind screams the warning even as I move. I faze forward, taking the brunt of the damage head-on, eyes on my enemy. I close my eyes for protection, I already saw where he was. He is in arms reach, and for a man my stature, not even Shamans can resist the force to break a man's skull.
"You've got fight in you," the Shaman cries, stumbling back, his would dripping crimson. "But you're not invincible."
It suddenly hits, at once.
The air shifted again, a sound growing from the heavens–a roaring, whistling scream that make both me and this Shaman stuck in our steps. We look up, and my vision hits just seconds before reality follows.
The roof explodes inward as a meteor slams into my stone floor. The force sends a shockwave through the room, sending me colliding with the wall. Dust and debris fill the air, choking the room in chaos. My ears ring, my vision blurs, and through the haze, I can feel it. The meteor, now a man, radiated with power–raw, overwhelming, and unlike anything I have ever felt. He lays on top of one of the other men, now split in two as his guts welcome this unknown. The blast wakes up the other and last of my enemies from his sleep. The Shaman, coughing and disoriented, turns toward the crater, his eyes widen, aura flickering weakly and wild.
"What the hell… is that?" we part out words together.
I didn't know. But as I pull myself to my feet, blood dripping from my side, only one thing was promised: the fight wasn't over. Not yet.