Role

Chapter 4

Djetmai sat on the floor of his hut, compulsively tying a series of knots into
a long strand of rope. His mind wandered to the passing of Commander Akedeh
and he immediately felt a familiar flare of rage burning within his chest.

Strange things had been happening as of late, things he could not explain.

He would feel compelled to steal things, often things of little value. And
then once he held them, he no longer wanted them. He was compelled toward
kindness and compassion at one moment, and shortly after would find himself
enraged by the slightest glimpse of the illness. Pure warriors carrying
potions and tainted weapons, the Tribunal swarming to protect the sick ones,
magi running around the lands as if they were kings. It was often a real
challenge for Djetmai to remain faithful to the policies of the Village, to
not strike out at all of them. At times he would lose his focus in the
flames of rage and bloodthirst.

The death of Commander Akedeh had set something off inside of him, no doubt
stirring memories of his fathers death at the hands of the magi. He began to
see the sickness all around him, in the very nature of this society which
seemed to proliferate illness (the Island and the Chasm), protect the sick
and weak (the Tribunal), and empower those who deserved nothing (the Empire).
Warriors and thieves, nearly all outside the Village walls would carry the
taint. Even the Fortress itself would follow behind the leadership of the
infected. It was as if the world were a great conspiracy that was unbearable
and disgusting, as if this world itself was a declaration of war.

Something inside him felt as though he was constantly being torn apart. A
sense of focus on his hatred for the magi, followed by rage and reckless
destruction against those who were in any way associated with the illness.
Moments of clarity, pure focus and determination, and then in a moments
notice all focus was lost and suddenly he was acting out of pure intuition. A
dream of flames.

In that moment, tying knots on the floor of his hut, a memory emerged from
deep within his mind.

His father had once told him, The art of war is in the balance of patience-
and pure spontaneity. Djetmai, your blade should dance like the flames from
the fire!

It was then that Djetmai realized something that now seemed so obvious, yet
that had eluded him for so long- that this focus that he had been seeking, he
had been assuming all along that it was a state of calm awareness, and yet it
now occurred to him that this elusive focus that he was after, the essence of
such was to be found in the chaotic flames of rage itself.

The world was a declaration of war all around him. His mind was a reflection
of warfare. And if it was war they wanted...