Boot and Rally

Posted on Thu 17th Nov, 2022 @ 3:04am by Commodore H'tek

1,527 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: A Fresh Perspective
Location: Scattered across Alpha/Beta Quadrant
Timeline: MD2 2200

-Start-

Has the brine of your madness soured your talents into senility?

Do not speak to me of madness H'tek, you are the fool who does not learn.

Then it is best you stay to your side of the divide, lest my madness turn its eyes to you dear brother.

{Southern Alkamat Temple of the Four Winds- Boreth}

Within the folds of gray, worn robes a light came from within the pockets. Red for the live connection, fading to soothing purple for a message received. The small device was forbidden on Boreth, but for some, such as Partha y'Bodstava, this place was not home. This link to an old life remained in his possession as it was his brother who held the only other one. Piled within a small fold of simple shifts, the owner stood a few meters away, oblivious to the call from so far away.

A cloak of sultry smoke curled around the giant Klingon figure on the path rising from the glowing ash heaps. A long day of work over the vast forge, ringed by monks who trained their acolytes in the ancient ways. None would be the first to yield without the nights howling winds demanding it, even then the first to break felt a shame at ending the flagellation by whipping wind. The truth was in the work, so long as the Forge was hot, those in its glow could hold the temperature at bay. So even in the frozen wastes, elevated to the point of thinning air, Partha was sweating into his work, bleeding and wincing under the burns. Callouses allowed his hands to grasp cloth and metal to bind, and his long hair with bushy beard insulated a craggy face already beaten by time.

Astride a mountaintop formed from the destroyed remnants of previous forges they worked endlessly. Thousands of years were told in chronicles, with each carved step to the peak. Each generations forge was maintained and pumped out an endless stream of weapons to be borne by the finest warriors over the whole Quadrant. The sigils and runes, the legendary origins and blessings of Boreth elevated these metalworks specifically as adorned by the blood and sweat of the holiest of men. Four Temples, master forges each elevated by the destroyed plinths of their forebears. Each of them faced to the four winds so the fires were fed by the planet itself. A new Temple was made when the previous one could no longer function to produce the weapons and armor for their Empire. Dashing the old Forge to pieces after its final conflagration by stoking it far beyond the glowing hearth sealed its life of service. Rituals formed over the white hot solar incandescent heat chants and songs follow the pyre to apogee as it crumbles to dust. This was the heat ancient Klingons used to kill their gods. The ashes are mixed into the foundation of the next and the steps are raised one more level.

This mountain of their own making arose from a plain of high winds and rising ice. No cover from the elements, only the plinth marking the present level of the Temples mounts. The mighty Temple was arrayed the tools and stations for working with the metals, for practical purposes of course, and a place for the Acolytes to hone their skills. The icy deluge carried enough force to lift them from their path if caution wasnt taken, the fire maintained a level beneath the Forge and its Firemaster who stood in the smoke to stay warm when those winds blew their hardest. The fire must be maintained by a stream of adherents who are pledging their worth to the monastery. It is the first trial of a newcomer, to haul wood to the temple peaks and keep the fires strong.

The solitary stairs, carved from the stone face of the small mount underneath the plinth had become worn into being over time and constant feet shuffling through. Partha, in smoke and flame, powered mighty strikes hammering, plying, bending, forging.The familiar curves to the Bat’leth were forming under the tools at work. Grips and oil cloths allowed the calloused hands to squeeze willpower and rage into every mound. Bare hands gripped the steel with only a wrapped cloth soaked in oils, winding a lock of his hair, to honor Kahless within the bindings he held so tight. In only a simple cloth draping, less than even a robe, the solitary Priest continued his internal dialogues, a prayer to the freezing cold to do its job well, and rob the blade of its heat evenly without the immersion to water. This method, and this place, with the prayers to the heart of all Klingons is what made the steel unbreakable.

The chiming comm pulsed its gentle light away, continuing to clink against the rocks of the simple hut that housed the monasteries possessions.

Elevated under the star, the forge was meant to provide the only warmth, and it was the dead of night. Temperatures within the wind would kill many living creatures outright. Even bound in skins, the acolytes who attended to the Forge had hit their physical limits. They limped, set things down too heavily, sucked air and gritted teeth at every effort. Ordinarily the forge would have a constant presence but tonight’s winds drove most of the populations indoors. His presence made it mandatory for the others to supply the fire, and each weapon was to be made with perfection.

Stopping for a moment he looked to the brother at his right, whose junior status was not in question. Even for an old warrior, she had reached her limit, but silently kept handing him tools and following his orders. Locking eyes offered a moment for them to converse.

“The day has ended Partha… sire” Her short statements were necessary over the howling winds. Even the torches lighting the path wouldn’t stay lit.

Looking at his hands, the burns of the last days work had left them in rough shape. Partha felt the cold creeping in as his presence of mind returned. The Acolytes were slacking on their jobs. Nighttime was no time to relax, the cold was at its worst. He felt an anger deep inside, which the monastery had fostered into a usable energy for application to problems.

He took on an angry affect, saying nothing but tossing his oil cloths to the work table in disgust. Crossing to the small hut, he motioned her to go on. She didn’t argue as he left the Plinth and the ceremonial work ended without the usual final touches. Tonight he was the first to break, despite the boundless shame in doing so.

The comm sat in standby, a subtle purple strobe lighting. Approachin and unwitting, Partha felt the length of the days spent here in his bones and felt it was time to return to the monastery for the night.

Keen eyes from the old man cued anything not in place, a purple beacon, subtle amongst the soot and snow. Purple could only mean it was sent with the special encryption his twin used.

H’tek…My brother lives!

An eagerness from within overtook his aching joints, and nimble fingers lifted the small flip edged communicator.

A long string of useless text fed into the device, and for a split second a phrase formed.

{HRM)!%$Boot&Rally)$^%*$($}

The code phrase made sense, it was a rally after retreat command, to the stronghold, a place they took over long ago truly hidden from the galaxy. H’tek’s absence this last year has caused much of his personal part of things to fall apart. Despite much effort Partha hadn’t known where his brother was.

The reply was sent, and he awaited reply for only a moment before the rage took him back to his work. Partha did concede to the cold by dressing in his full robes, but that was all. Flinging the door open, his voice commanded over the winds in an echo heard in the other temples as thunder.

“More wood! There is no rest tonight. The Klingons soul knows no peace in the quiet night, but howls at the raging winds which tear. Grab what you must to combat the night, but you will light the pyre. Alight! NOW! ALIGHT!”

By the morning, several of the order lay in the sick ward with missing digits, deadly injuries, or terminal cases of hypothermia. Partha had finally succumbed just as the final piece was wrought and placed in his final blade to be made ever. The Ebony Blade was his finest work, the product of many years of imagination now brought to life. It was to be his gift, and apology to H’tek for doubting his brother after they had lost so much. Having even a vague sense of returning to space fulfilled his souls desire in an instant. Suddenly, Boreth was not any place he wanted to be, it was just so boring

So Partha left, taking only those pieces he cherished with him.

-End-

 

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