Sorry people. Thought it would look longer than this. I guess this is my first post hear on YS, but I hope to be putting up my first real story soon. If anybody likes this enough I'll consider making a series out of it. If not.......... I can't really be held accountable for what I'll do...... Oh yeah! All characters in this piece are copyright to me, so don't steal them. Ya' little rag-a-muffins you. Nothing too bad in this one, but things may get a little raunchy later on, so go on and get! Freakin' perverted squeakers..... ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When Last We- Danced We dance. As thousands fall around us, We dance. As darkness and hellfire rain down upon us, We dance. The drums, our hearts, our very souls make our beat. And the fallen our floor. Let them wage their petty wars. Let them quench their thirst upon their own blood. We will dance. We will kill them all........... Dancers' Creed: War-prophet Nefaerium, Circa 2159 A.E. Dancer's did not fight, they flowed. Melding with their opponent, mirroring them, becoming them, and then destroying them. A single Dancer could cause entire armies to route, legions of troops to run screaming like children. For even one Dancer could carve a bloody swath through any force, leaving nothing but the dead and dieing behind, and there was never just one Dancer. Dancers did not take prsioners. Dancers did not take mercy. Dancers did not even take money. The Dancers knew no king, no country. They worshipped no gods, for why worship what one already was? Dancers would appear, kill any and all in their path, and then disappear just as quickly. They were ghosts of the battlefield, for when their were no battles, there were no Dancers. It was as though they didn't even exist, but they existed, Oh God, they existed. Just ask any soldier who had seen one, if you could find one. They wished Dancers were nighmares, fairy-tales, monsters from the dreams of the young. No, the Dancers were real. They were ruthless. They were beautiful. They were here! General Tutilus Regalius removed his helm, tucking it into the crook of his arm as he planted his rifle firmly into the ground at his feet. He ran a hand through his headfur, smearing in the grime and blood gathered there from hours of non-stop fighting. His ears twitched nerviously atop his head as his tail made swishing patterns through the air behind him. His leonine face was etched with lines of worry. He could see the entire battlefield from here, and he did not like what he saw. Here, was a sweeping ridge placed high above the warzone. Tutilus and his band of elite guards had climbed it in a momentary reprieve from the fighting, and decided to stay to rest and gain some perspective on the goings on of the fight as a whole. It wasn't good. Their left flank was slowly crumbling as the better equipped, better armored, and better trained enemy pounded into them over and over. The right fared no better. He could already see some of them beginning to turn and flee. He would have shot them on the spot if he didn't know that it would give away their position to every enemy troop in the area. A bass thump ripped the air. A split second later the ground began to shake and rumble as if in an earthquake. Kicking up dust and causing pieces of the ridge to break off and tumble down the steep sides. The first was followed by a second, and then a third. Soon the thumps formed into a quick-tempoed beat. "Woofers......." The word was quickly echoed throughout the group. Tutilus could see them on the horizon now. The giant speakers were appearing all across the edges of the battlefield, and atop each was a fur with a set of large drums. The beat they made was apmlified and broadcast across the field. That could only mean one thing. "Dancers!" Sure enough, small circles began to appear in the crowd like tiny whirlpools in an ocean of men. Areas devoid of life that began to slowly widen as time went on. This was the Dancers' work. It was terrible. It was wonderful. "They say that witnessing a Dancer battle is one of the most beautiful sights in the world..." Tutilus said. More to himself than anyone else. "Would you like to test that theory, Commander?" Came a voice from behind him. Tutilus froze on the spot, trembling like a leaf. For while the un-named voice's tone was warm and friendly, there was an untertone of something cold, callous, all-together unpleasent in it. "Relax, Commander. We're not after you, or your men." The kitsune chuckled, placing a hand onto Tutilus' shoulder. He was pure black, with a dark-red underbelly and eyes the color of dried blood. He dressed in a loose-fitting tunic, and wore a long, wickedly curved katana on his belt. "Then what are you doing here?" Tutilus asked. Dancers did not talk with mere mortals. They simply killed them. At least, that's what he'd heard. "You've heard wrong then." What! He couldn't have heard that! Not unless he could.... "......Read thoughts?" The kitsune smiled. "No, but you're not far off. As I said before, we're not here for you people. My friends and I don't like the way things are currently being run in the Dancers' hierarchy, each for our own reasons. So we're changing that. I trust you can stay out of the way? I can't really say what my men will do should any of you try to hinder our progress...." Tutilus watched as nearly fifty Dancers made their way through where his troops stood rooted to the spot. They moved to the very edge of the precipice, and one by one began to jump off. Stepping right off the end of the cliff and into thin air. "Sir," one young wolf acknowledged as he to hopped off to join his bretherin. As Tutilus watched him go he couldn't help but notice that there had been something different about him. He had seemed younger than the others, and oddly, less shadowed. It was as if the others carried around some malevolent spirit that he lacked for whatever reason. Tutilus shook his head, clearing away the remains of his paralysis, and addressed his men. "My friends, we are about to be witness something the world has not seen in millinia." He turned, toothy smile glinting in the harsh sunlight. "A Dancers' War." *** Marcas ran. Faster than sound, faster than light he ran. The wind stuggled to keep up with his foot-falls. At least, that's what his mind told him must be happening. His years and years of training hammered into his head to tell him that he must be something special. Must be a god. Reality; however, had taught him different. Yes, he was stronger, smarter, faster. Yes, he could wield a blade with twice the dexterity and speed of normal men. Yes, he could even make grown men wet themselves with a single glance. Did that make him a god, though? No, Marcas was mortal as any other, and so was his enemy, whether they knew it or not. He would have fun showing them that fact.... Marcas dodged his way around the field, making no effort to kill any of the thousands of warm bodies that surrounded him. His quarrel was not with them. He stopped, his wolvin muzzle pulling back into a snarling, predatory smile. In front of him was a lone Dancer. A lone cheetah, to be precise. His feet kicking up dust as they moved in complex, but memorized and easily discernable, patterns along the ground. That was the problem with most Dancers. They lacked sublety, and they didn't care. Marcas would show them how wrong arrogance could go. The cheetah was dispached easily, as was the horse and rabbit after him. They had never had to go up against another Dancer before, and when confronted with Marcas, they just froze, dieing with their unbelieving expressions still plastered to their faces. Soon: however, the initial shock wore off, and the real battle began. Marcas drew in a sharp breath as a blade knicked his shoulder. The fight may have just begun, but the war would soon be over, one way or another. *** Tutilus watched on with a mixture of fear, awe, and pity. Survivors from both sides stood around him, differences forgotten as they gaped at the spectacle before them. Tutilus' subconcious mind told him to run, that any second the warring Dancers below would notice they had left some of them alive, and would kill them all before they could even flinch. His concious brain; however, realized that even if they were found, none of the Dancers would have the energy or will to finish them off. His fear and awe was the same that was always there in the presence of Dancers. His pity came from the sheer sadness he felt at what he saw below him. Only a handful of Dancers remained, paired off into twos and threes in the sea of dead and wounded that the field had become. Moans echoed from the ground like some hellish choir. Very few of those that remained standing were still capable of fighting. Some wandered the valley as though lost, others appeared to have passed out or died on their feet, swaying like trees in the wind. Furs that had started the battle with white pelts were now a sickly maroon color, and the dozen or so that did still fight did so only sporadically. There were long pauses between each blow where both would stop to catch his or her breath, and neither of them had enough energy to take advantage of their adversary's moment of weakness. Men were openly sobbing at the sight. It was like watching a mortally wounded beast backed into a corner. Still deadly, but also beautiful and sad. Tutilus himself felt wet tears begin to seep through his fur as he watched another Dancer fall without even being struck, dieing from sheer exhaustion. HIs opponent took three halting steps toward him, and then he too fell. Tutilus turned from the scene, motioning for the others to follow. "There's nothing more to see," he commented somberly when a few protested, " every last one of them is dead, even those that yet fight on". Seeing the truth in this, they began to move off. Not knowing where they would go, but realizing that anywhere was better than here. The Dancers were dead. No longer would they plague the nightmares of men. No longer would they haunt the minds of those going off to war. They existed now only in song and legend. For many a year afterwards would men tell the tale of this battle in their homes and taverns. For many a year would children here of the end on the Dancers, of the self-imposed genocide of a race of gods. *** Marcas' eyes scanned the battlefield. His chest heaved from the effort he was giving just to remain concious. He knew he would never get up if he fell now. Blood ran down his body in rivers, leaking from his very pores. He suddenly realized that he wasn't alone. The sheer mass of bodies littlering the ground caused a shimmering wall of heat to rise from the field, and out of this appeared a lone figure, flickering and wavering like a desert mirage. For a second, Marcas even doubted it was real, but then it passed through the curtain and into his field of vision. "It" was a deer. Actually, it was a doe, judging from the lack of horns, but it wasn't any doe. Micheal squinted to make sure he was seeing correctly. "Arabelle?" he slurred, wincing as he felt a few bones in his muzzle shift. He must have broken something. "Marcas," she stated coldly. She raised her sword into a ready stance. "Wait, It's over!" he exclaimed. "We don't have to fight anymore. There isn't any reason to...." She sighed, "I'm sorry Marcas, truely I am, but we started this fight on opposite sides, and that's how I intend to end it." "But..... But you don't understand!" He stabbed his katana into the ground, intent on showing her he meant no harm. "Don't understand what?" she asked dryly. "Why you attacked your own brothers, killed them in cold blood." She laughed. An empty, barking laugh that seemed to echo for miles. "No, I guess I don't understand. Would you like to explain things to me?" He blinked, searching for the right words. "I.... I never wanted to.... I never thought I'd have to............ I don't know!............ Okay? I just.... I just don't know............" "You can't expect me to believe that," Arabelle said sadly. " I can't beleive you'd just kill your friends, murdered men and women you've known since childhood." His eyes became distant, "I thought I knew them. Then I met Aaron. He told me things, made me see things that I hadn't seen before, things that had been right in front of me the entire time." "Aaron?" she asked. "That heretical kitsune? And you believed him?" "You don't understand!" Marcas shouted, grabbing his sword from its earthen sheath and pointing it accusingly at Arabelle. "You can't understand! You're all being misguided, lead blindly by a council of idiots and fools!" "Is that what he told you? It's you that's been misguided! You've killed our entire race, single-handly wiped out the Dancers." "No I haven't!" he said," There's still me and you, isn't there? We can't start over! Leave this place and rebuild the Dancers ourselves! We can make things right!" "You and I both know that can never happen," she told him solemnly. "There's only one way we can leave here, and that's on the end of the other's sword." She raised her blade, charging towards Marcas with all her remaining strength. There was a thud as they collided, and then everything went black. *** Marcas awoke in a daze. There was a weight on his chest, and a familiar smell in his nostrils. He smiled, chuckling softly as he realized who it was. "Arabelle," he breathed, eyes remaining closed as he nuzzled her affactionately. She felt oddly cold, and there was something warm soaking into his chestfur. That made him giggle even more. What had they been doing last night? He opened his eyes, cocking his head quizically as he found Arabelle staring down at him strangely. He screamed as his memory returned, shoving Arabelle's lifeless corpse off of him as he stumbled to his feet. The hilt of his sword stuck out of her chest, and her blood covered his. Her eyes gazed unblinking at the sky, glassy and frosted. She still wore the shocked grimace that she'd died with. Marcas turned and ran a short way, stopping only after he'd tripped and fell over another body. He looked back to Arabelle, tears beginning to trickle down his face. He got back to his feet an began to move off, salty droplets leaking from his eyes in tiny rivers now. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't really care anymore. He fell to the dirt again, and this time he remained there, sobbing softly to himself with his head cradled in his arms. "Damnit Arabelle!" he yelled, voice resounding in the silence of the valley. Then he screamed, loud. All of his sorrow, his rage, pouring out of him with that single, long shout. He puched the ground, "Why couldn't we..... Why couldn't..... Why......Wh...................." His voice trailed off. His vision went red, then white, and finally it faded to black. He let out a long, sighing breath, lungs emptying themsleves of their last reserves of oxygen, and then became very still. The field was silent, even the wind fell quiet at the sight. The carrion birds did not come, not yet. They would eventually, as they always did, but for now even they knew not to come near. They would never disrespect the dead, only clean them up to make way for the living. Eventually life would return, growing up around and on top of the dead. With years the field would become rolling hills of grass and wildflowers. The only remaining indication that a battle had ever occured would be a blank area in the very center of the valley. On the top of a small hill on the plain was a bare spot where grass would not grow, animals would not tread, and birds even avoided flying over. Locals claimed the place was haunted, gaurded by some spirit or demon. A sword stuck from the ground in its center, and despite the years, it had neither rusted nor lost its lustor. Blood caked the blade, and a single black hand-print could be seen on the hilt. Sometimes the villigers would make the jorney to the spot to pray, and it was a local custom for the family of someone going off to war to leave an offering at the foot of the sword. Carved into a tree on the edge of the clearing were the names "Arabelle and Marcas" which was odd, as no-one in the village had either of those name's, and none could remember anyone who had ever had them in the village. Every year on the anniversary of the battle, a feral wolf with crimson fur would appear, walk up to the shrine, and then disappear just as quickly. Soon after a doe would arrive, bleeding from a mortal would in its side, and fall dead at the foot of the sword. The next day it too would be gone, not even leaving an imprint on the ground. The locals took to calling the wolf Marcas and the doe Arabelle, and oddly enough, the two never met. One would appear, then the other, without fail every year. Then one year the wolf didn't come, and the name Marcas was erased from the tree, as if it had never been there at all. The next day a young wolf boy was seen on the edge of town. He looked around fifteen or sixteen, and his eyes appeared to be fifty or sixty, but that wasn't the odd part about him. His fur was crimson.................. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- So............ That's about it. Pease tell me what you think........... please?