Mission Attack the Village Camps. Variable Rank:

I mean really, why would anyone protect the village invaders anyway? Or, that was the thought of the merchants that hired them. A few scraggly men, barely older than boys; likely the last of their caravan, leftover from the invasion and pillaging of the sands. So many like them in these tumultuous times. Bloodlines millenia old scorched from the earth in a wave of senseless violence not sense since the last great World War. So much death, so much wasted potential. So much treasure lost to the looting and biting sands. Not gold, or exotic materials, or anything like that; no, the knowledge of the sands and the ancient times preserved so perfectly for so many generations completely erased thanks to a bunch of outlanders that thought they were better than anyone else.

He hated it. He hated every bit of it. But he couldn’t allow himself to fall into that hate; that wasn’t the way of the Sage, even less so the way of the Thunder Dragons. He wasn’t the most perfect of the thunder dragon sages, but he was still one of them; even if he was leaning toward another for his Sage Guide. He’d seen his dragon ancestor, communed with the adults and juveniles before they vanished; but lately he’d seen a new guide; one that felt… right. Proper. He was happy with the dragons he’d spoken to, he would have happily given himself to them; but this new beast, this new guide… maybe. Maybe he would follow this path as well. Dragons were nothing if not flexible and accepting of change. They had to be. It was a trait shared with their cousins, and to an extend the Fennec as well. Although more… stable, and far more assured of themselves; they still moved and flowed like the waters of their oasis homeland. It made this situation tenable; otherwise the influx of salamander and dragon into the fennec world would cause destruction upon them all. That wasn’t what anyone wanted.

They just wanted to be free.

Finally, truly, properly free.

It had been so very long. So very, very long. They didn’t properly remember freedom; only the bounds of the mountains and the caves they called home. It was just pure luck that of the ancient Sages, the Salamander and Dragons had been so close for so long; to be able to be gifted a new homeland when their own fell into ruin… the bonds forged allowed them to withstand the pressures of integration and forces to homogenize with the outlanders that dared to claim their home as their own. It was infuriating. It was degrading.

They’d reached their limit.

They would retreat for now; but they would return one day. They would reclaim their homelands, and they would drive the bastards out.

That it would bring about the end of this knew ‘Holy Empire’ bullshit was just icing on the cake. Yes, that was the worst; this new Raikage that fancied himself a deity on high. Preposterous. He had seen his Gods, communed with them directly; could trace the blood in his veins directly to one. As could the Salamander cousins. They had direct access to their Gods; or had, before they vanished. Still, they had tangible access to proof of their Gods; these fucks did not, outside of the word of a very mortal man that was nothing more than a narcissist with a god-complex. Disgusting.

Standing on the ridge above the camp; he couldn’t be bothered to care about what the village banners were. It could have been Konoha, or Iwa, or whatever. Hell, it was probably Kumo; given his ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude about ‘his people’ [not that he felt they were his; he didn’t hate the average citizen, merely the institution that ruled them], he was more than happy to undermine their efforts to corrupt the locals to their cause. It just didn’t matter to him what they were doing; all that mattered was that they were turning the peoples of the desert from their natural path, and that was unacceptable.

Why would anyone ever want to forgo their proper nature; their proper heritage? He knew he was hidden well where he was, so he was able to allow the bubbling memories to come to him; the first and only other time he’d been to the sands before this clusterfuck of ruin started. A memory of his father, of campfires and laughter and family. A better time…


Laughter. Merriment. Bonfires and dancers and shadows. The Court of Miracles was in full swing, the one night of the years everyone was invited into the world of the gypsies and outcasts. In the years since their expulsion of their former Court, a new one had been established within the underground of the desert jewel, the glittering city of dreams and freedom that had tolerated their exodus and influx much as they had any other immigration wave over the years. This maybe less so, outcasts they where, and no matter how hard they tried, a bad reputation followed them. The campaigns of lies and deceit years before had done a number on their already bad name, and the recovery was slow; even with the discoveries made about the people that was smeared their names and burned their people to ashes.

No matter. The past was the past, and would forever remain as such. That didn't mean, however, that they would forget. No; the way of the outcast was steeped in the past, traditions and lore and history where all they had many times, and they did all they could to preserve that. It was these stories and songs and dances and talents lost to the rest of the world that where the stars of this night; the entire population of the Court was adorned in their best and brightest, showing off all the talents they could muster.

Even the outsiders among the outsiders where showing off; really. Everyone was welcome on this night, and the locals artists had brought their own wares and talents to show.

A grand party, one that would last well into the night and until sunrise; when the natives would stumble back to their homes to sleep off hangovers and dream of brilliant colors and fanciful fun.

The gypsies would clean up their home, and sit around the remaining fires sharing a meal and their own little party. Tales of the elders, the songs of the youth; it was their time to celebrate in their own way. The best of their wines and their special foods where passed around, children danced and sang, puppet masters entertained the babes, the elder men told stories of glorious ancient times beyond history itself; the oral traditions of their people ran so far back that the time frames themselves created paradoxes that no one could understand.

Around one of these fires, a man like all the rest, young and strong and brilliantly colored just as everyone else; but with eyes that where both happy and sad at the same time. A history full of tales that numbered more than most men three times his age intrigued the younglings that state around asking for more stories and tales. One of their own, yet not; a half-blood that had spent so much of his life away from home, returned for a visit on this the greatest night of the year for them. He brought so much for them all, and took so much with his each time the blistering desert winds brought him calling.

"Elder Brother! Tell us more!"

"Young Brothers, I have nothing more to tell!"

"Elder Brother! Tell us of the old Court!"

"My brothers, that is a story you have heard often. Why, I would bet that you could recite the tale perfectly, each in your own way!"

"Elder Brother! Tell us your story!"

"Young Brothers! My Tale is sad. It would ruin this festive night!"

"Nonsense, Elder Brother! Tell us!"

"Yes, Elder Brother! Tell us!"

"Tell us!"

"Are you sure, my brothers? Sisters! Do you wish to hear my Tale?"

"Yes, Elder Brother! Your Sisters wish to hear your Tale!"

"Very well, my family! I will tell you the story of this humble Brother! The Tales of the last Court, and our exodus from the Sky Lands! All of this and more; the history of those years long ago. This and more I will regale!~"

The elder male rose to his feet, his entire demeanor had changed; this was a show to him, in the way the telling of history was to all of them. Tales of the past where to be celebrated, even those that where sad and dark. History was full of those stories, and if they told every story in a way that was dark and gloomy, they'd be one depressive people. No, learning to celebrate the bad with the good was part of how they had lasted as long as they had; they could remember their history and never forget the lessons they had learned, without letting it drag them down into the darkness.

"Gather around, one and all. Tonight I will tell you a tale; the tale of the old world, of times long passed. Come, listen to the words of this humble Brother, as I recount the lessons learned and the memories made once: of a world of Sky and Sea, Young and Old, Poor and Rich beyond measure. In the Years Before, our Family had a different home, a different Court of Miracles. We lived in that land of wonder and myth for many generations uncounted and always remembered; until the black day that the peoples turned us away, as they have a million times before and will a million time again. This the Tale of the Land of Heavens, the Port of Dreams, and this Humble Brother. This, is the Tale of Raijin, of Hyakurai, of the Dancer and Singer and Ninja all together. This, is the Tale of the Black Court...~"

"Remember, my Family, the Courts of old; of the Court of the Sun, the Court of Dreams, the Court of Joy, the Court of Fools, and here, the Court of Jewels. All our homes, our lost lands of mirth and wonder; each lost to time until none remain but this Miracle, this Court of Jewels. Our lost homeland, the Court of the Sun, buried by the sands and the folly of mad magicians. The frozen Court of Dreams, snowbound and overrun by nightmares of darkness and pain. Court of Joy, barred from us by the tricksters and skeptical minds. The Court of Fools, of which this tale will be told. The Black Court, our lost treasure.

For generation untold, legends as long as our time in our forever home in the far sands, we have held court in the Port of Dreams. Since time before that name, before the sea itself; when the Port was called differently, a name in our tongue and still a bustling place of riches and wealth and dreams, but a place on a river and not on the great wide sea. In the times then, the times of sand and homeland and power, we ruled the Port of Dream with fairness and love; everyone was one and one was everyone. It was a good time, it was a beautiful time.

Then, as so many times before and since and will happen again; the people grew fearful. We where outsiders, they claimed; and how could an outsider ever rule their land. The delusion of fear; we where of them, we had always been of the same blood and flesh, yet they still turned us away. Only our Court survived; hidden deep in the dark underworld, a bastion from which we lived and loved and lost much as we had before. A secret within the larger tapestry of secrets from which the world of the Port was woven. Generations passed, and the other Courts withered and died; our peoples returned from the far lands to the desert that gave us birth, and we found new joy in them as they brought new stories and new life to our thinning blood. A rebirth, a resurgence; born within the Port and the Desert Jewel; new times and new peoples that had forgotten the times of old. Outsiders always forget, and that is our strength; we never forget the lessons of the past, while the outside world forgets anything and everything of their world.

We sought not power, merely acceptance. Our bloodlines where pure, we where of their people and had always been. We went to their powers that be with proof beyond contest of this, we asked merely that we be given the same rights and protections as the other natives born in this these times; the people of the Floating City that claimed ownership of the Old Port held their noses high in contempt of anyone not of 'their kind'; the rich and the powerful and the nobility born. They set down laws and restrictions that left those in the lands below destitute and powerless, unless they could prove some arbitrary nobility of blood; which our people could; we the descendants of the ancient Sun Emperors; we asked only for what was ours by their own rules.

They did not grant this.

It would seem that by proving our worth by their own laws, they saw the 'folly' of them entirely; and because we played their games using their own rules and dared to win a singular battle; the rules would be changed. No longer could anyone but whom they chose become anything but a street urchin. We where denied what was ours, and while we took this blow with grace and civility, the nobility of the Sky Lands frothed with rage and self-righteous indignation that any peasant people of thieves and beggars would dare to claim royal blood. Even more so, because we could prove our claims better than they; it scared them and disturbed their happy little world.

This time lasted for generations long and many; until the Great Sadness occurred. The proclamation from the Sky People that the Port of Dreams be 'cleansed' of darkness and sin. They sent the soldiers, they sent their ninja, they used the darkness itself to cleanse the darkness they didn't like. The dens of everything, the slums and the neighborhoods, the poor and the powerless; rounded up like cattle for the slaughter, and that was what they where to the High Born. Our people where warned far in advance, we where able to evacuate in numbers before the worst atrocities happened; my dear father, one of the High Born of the Sky Lands saw the depravity that they had fallen to, and gave my Beloved Mother the warning to get us free.

In the days that followed, the ports and roads and underground ways where closed and locked down; the streets ran red with the blood of the people while the Nobility sat on their gilded thrones. We lost so many, yet so many where saved. From the high places, the few of us that had found safety in the Sky Land, our Brothers and Sisters in the rocky mountains and far out to sea; they watched the trails of smoke and heard the screams of our Lost; the memory haunts us still.

Heed my story well, my Family; the folly of the 'Mighty' comes to call; I lived among them for many years, I took a Wife from their people, I gave them a daughter. For all of my sacrifice and loss, my sweat and blood and tears; they gave me nothing. They tormented my beloved; nearly stole my own flesh from me, treated me as a dog to be used and abused. Their leaders, these horrid men of power and wealth; vice fueled and rotten in ways that made my stomach turn; I ended their reign in the way that all should be ended.

I gave the people knowledge. I gave them understanding. I brought them down and made them pay for what they did on that Black Night; the days they killed us and ours and the others around us and turned our beautiful Court of Fools into the Black Court; the Court of Death and Strife.

I left their world, and now I work to make sure that none such will ever happen again.

My Family, that is my story: the story of a Humble Brother that has seen much and done more, that wants nothing more than any of us do; a safe place to sleep, a roaring fire, good wine and better company, a chance to tell my tales and dance my songs. I am Romani, I am Shinobi, I am Hyakurai and Raijin, I am all this and more. My path takes me to places long forgotten, even to our long memories. My path will lead me to cleanse the world of the people that Blackened our hearts, and ruin the lives of the others."

The elder male ended his tale with a bow and a flourish of smoke and light; an old trick, a favorite trick. When it faded, he was gone, but not really. He was merely sitting in his former spot, a fresh mug of good strong wine and a plate of stew his reward for his tale; as it should be. All around their little fire, his Family cheered as they always would when any of them told a tale, danced a song, or anything of the sort; it was their way, and it was good.

Better times…

Sad, he would have to contribute to ending the good times; but only for a short while. He would help bring peace back to the desert; but without the taint and ruin of the outlanders. He would act for and by the hands of the true desert sand dweller; even if it meant putting himself in dire dangers. Afterall, his father would expect nothing less of him; and he was nothing if not a daddy’s boy.

Now was the time to plan. Pen to paper, sketches of the camps; plots of maps… he would prepare, and he would strike. That was his only option, here and now.

These village ninja would pay for their trespass and blasphemy.

And in the deepest corner of his mind he wandered; was he any better than them?



WC 3108