Beyond the Rapids

It was not especially unusual that a letter was sent from the heads of the Cossack households to another noble in the world. There was a tradition among them to uphold, after all, that those nobles they felt deserved their mockery were to have it made known to them. However, in these days it was quite rare that such a circumstance was ever presented to them. As such, when it was made clear to the patriarchs that the time had finally come once more, a summit was called. An ancient drafting table was brought to its rightful place, at the center of their camp, and they at once got to work.

Vodka flowed freely, and so too did their words. Though it began with merely the patriarchs, every man, woman, and child soon came to accompany them for this historic moment. A message of challenge from the Cossacks, in this day and age? It was worthy of all of their time. Of course...there was a single voice of dissent. Hetman Isaenko, for her part, did her very best to insist that there were other ways to better spend their time.

The patriarchs did not agree, and the letter was finished within a day. It was placed into its envelope, sealed with the seals of each family, and sent along to the only man it could ever have been sent to.

Earth's Cossacks to the Man With No Spear!

O young man, African lord and invader of most fertile Ukrainian valleys! Devil upon you, that you feel so confident as to lay your claim! We assure you, smooth-faced infant, that we Christian sons shall not fear your assault! Your pike could not pierce even the thinnest hauberk, and we might think to defend against your attack would that we worried you could ever lay good seed!

In short, should you feel as a true lord over the land, we invite you, idiot under our toilet and impotent swineherd, to show otherwise! Now we conclude, that the sun burns above, the Lord bless us, and you may kiss our ass!

Signed,
Kazachy Polkovnik Nazariy Volodyslav Yevheniyvich Isaenko

It was rare that Atlas had much to do in these days, he was a venerated war hero of Vastime and could pretty much do whatever he wished for his days. But when a letter which smelled of Vodka and smoke arrived to his estate, he could easily guess as to the organization which would send something like this. As he sat upon his desk drinking his morning coffee, opening the letter a rare smile crossed his face. A smile which soon grew into a chuckle, and finally a full throat laugh hardly becoming of a gentlemen.

It seemed that the men of the Cossacks had deemed him worthy of a letter expressing their opinion on his relationship with their leader. In truth he knew their customs would call for such a thing, even though years had passed the Wolf of the Cossacks remembered fondly his time. This called for a reply, and one which could only be answered in pen and presence. In no time he would have pen and paper to begin writing.

Only to stop.

Instead he stood up, grabbing his cloak from the door as he began to exit. Simply speaking to his batman: "Clearly my schedule for the month. I'll be outta town." With those words he would begin a journey which would take him over land and sea, to find the location of the Cossacks. It wouldn't take much, or long, with the resources at his disposal. But it would mean their messages would go unanswered for some time, as if there would be no reply.

One might imagine their surprise as a figure emerged over the horizon on horseback, riding a wild stallion whom began to trot their way through the camp. The relaxed swagger of the rider wearing not his uniform, but merely a pair of traditional trousers and shoes of the Cossacks. His bare scarred torso displayed with the subtle fall of snow, and in his hand an obscenely large spear made from wood with a stone tip. Before anyone could stop him, the spear would be hiked up and planted firmly in the ground at the tent of Katya Isaenko as the horse rear'd up.

"Let it be known, I, Atlas D'al Decter, The Wolf of the Cossacks, The African Invader, Conqueror of Ukrainian Valleys, has planted my spear! Let the challenge be answered, ye' horse asses!"

Though the letter had been sent prior, the drafting table had remained firmly in place, for after all, they would need to be prepared to create a response. What the men of the clan had not anticipated, however, was immediate verbal response. Even so, if they were surprised in any capacity, they certainly did not show it. Instead, they simply laughed at the claims by the loud young man, his shaven face so at odds with his brazen demeanor.

"You answer the challenge, boy? It has been quite many years since you stepped into these lands! Though you may be kin, this hardly saves you from our expectations, eh?"

Though all of the patriarchs laughed alongside this, only one of them stood, slipping off the thick fur coat he wore to reveal an undeniably impressive musculature for his age. He wore a confident smile, and patted one bicep as he rolled an arm carefully.

"If you wish to take the Hetman, then I, Gregor Oleksandr Vasiliyevich Isaenko will naturally stand to protect her purity."

Admittedly, he could not entirely deliver those last few words without a chuckle escaping his lips. This was all formality, of course, tradition. But tradition was the heart of this people, and whether or not he believed in such a sentence, he reveled in saying it nonetheless.

"You are the challenger, boy. It is your right to deliver the first blow."

There was an old familiarity to the air, as if one was visiting a home they had not been to for some time. With it came a freshness and freedom that one could not properly put into words. But it was something none the less which brought him immense joy, even if his restrained features hid it well. His eyes falling upon old acquaintances who had one time been his superiors, and eventually his equals, now temporarily his rivals for the hand of his beloved.

Such was the life of Atlas, a bastard boy whom has changed much over the years. Once believed to be tied by fate, now free to define the future ahead of him. It was the words of Katya which rang in his ears, a man so shackled by his purpose he could not seen past it. But he was free now, and he could see clearly, that whatever path lay ahead of him was one forged by his choices and his beliefs. Not the arbitrary design of destiny, that his suffering was both meaningless and meaningful.

"It has been some time Gregor, I trust all is well with the family?"

The man commented as he stepped down from his steed, despite the formalities he maintain an air of civility. He was of two cultures, perhaps even three. An outsider and kin whom did not try to impersonate them. His gait, his stride, and his mannerism was the collection of years spent outside and in the tribe. It would be supremely disrespect to attempt to mask who he was, as he rotated his arms.

The lithe body was not overly muscular but held power. A frame of muscle and skin pulled tight over bones, a body coiled like a viper ready to spring. The body of soldier whom was deadly with weapon and without. The only noticeable difference was the slightly less tan left arm. But it was time to answer the challenge, and he would.

As he arrived in front of Gregor he felt the inner chi inside of him begin to well up, slowlying from every point in his body to his hands. In a smooth motion he'd place his hand in the knife hand fashion towards the center of Gregor chest. His heterochromatic eyes lifting to meet his own, before in a blur of motion he condensed his physical power into his fist. His entire body shifted transferring that energy into his fist, as it closed into a fist with explosive power enough to send a shockwave throughout the area, and most likely behind the man. The ground beneath their feet cratering ever so much.

Once performed his entire body would jerk into position, adoption a fighting position. That attack was by no means held back, if they wanted him at his best then they would receive it. His body pulsating with raw energy, enhancing his physical form.

"Ah, certainly. My daughter is to be married soon, though I must confess I might be a touch happier had you been her suitor, eh?"

Gregor laughed once more, the loud, unrestrained laugh of a man who lived with pride. He knew perfectly well that the young man before him would end this bout before it even began; that was simply inevitable. But it would have been outright boring if Gregor did not stand in defense, as was his right.

As the blow struck the old patriarch, he naturally was pushed back a great deal. He was, after all, but human. To his credit, he took the blow well, hitting the ground but hardly seeming deathly wounded. Out of breath, certainly, and very sore in the moment. But he would live.

"Ah, a tragedy... Hey, kinsmen, you know this young man will crush you, yes?"

A hardy "aye!" was heard from the drafting table, but it did not seem as if they were particularly worried at the prospect. Instead, three of them simply stood, moving to surround their challenger with a clear lightheartedness to it. The lone remaining patriarch at the table, the eldest of them all, simply laughed quietly to himself. Nazariy Isaenko, brother of the former Hetman and uncle to the current, watched on with amusement, and called out softly to Atlas.

"I must thank you for entertaining our traditions. We don't often get to do this, you know."

"I remember her to be a great woman, unfortunately, I am promised to another."

The man would reply with a muted chuckle as he saw the aftermath of his quick bout. He knew the people of these lands to be sturdy, after all they hadn't survived the countless strifes on earth for no reason. Atlas would roll back his shoulders, bringing a hand to his shoulder rotating it once more. He hadn't been in a fight for some time, not since the war ended. But all these people knew here he was nothing less than a soldier, deadly in mind and body.

So it was a testament to their traditions, and his respect, that he showed up here intent on throwing back any who stood in 'defense' of Katya.

"Ah you think too much of me Patriarch. She would never allow me to marry her otherwise. I take it she protested greatly the letter." He'd laugh, before removing his hand from his shoulder instead look at the three men.

"Don't hold back, kinsmen. I won't."

Old Nazariy laughed quietly at Atlas' reply. It was quite true, he knew all too well. His niece, no matter how she might have felt about this young man, would not ever have allowed herself to marry him if the old ways were not followed. Still, he knew that the vast majority of this was all formality. His cousins could not face Atlas any more than a pup might face down a cliff.

"I believe, young man, that the first blow is once more your right as challenger. I would only ask you not squander it on a meaningless blow, yes?"

The meaning was obvious, of course. It would be unforgiveable were Atlas to show these elders anything less than his best. To defeat them in a single blow was wholly within his capability-- and, to that end, it was exactly what was expected of him.

"You know, I would never disrespect you like that."

The man commented as he assumed a real fighting stance once more, as his body pulsed and tensed. In a show of supreme physical ability, and skill, the man would be upon his opponent as a high kick would greet their face. The snap his his heel would be enough to render most men asleep, not deadly mind you, but certainly to send them to a black void. His head would turn going to the next man, his leg having not touched the ground as he followed up with a powerful closed fist backhand.

He'd just be letting his leg touch the ground as he attacked the two men, his eyes going to the third one as he brought his hand near them in an open palm strike. For the first time display a real supernatural ability, as fire erupted from his palm smashing into the man's chest like a high speed baseball. Enough force to send any man off his feet, and singe their chest. As he maintained his stance, he'd look around for the next challenges if any.

"Long ago, I once took an oath to protect Katya with my life. That I would never fail in the duties my predecessor did." The smooth tenor of Atlas would falter for a moment, his eyes closing as his jaw tightened. Only for his eyes to open resolved, the fiery look in his eyes once more ignited.

"I know you're watching! I am coming, Katya!"

A much louder laugh echoed from the drafting table as Atlas incapacitated the other elders. Nazariy had expected every bit as much, and he was thoroughly glad to see it. Of course, that did not mean he intended to let this young man through so easily. The eldest man stood from the table, his age relatively apparent even through the thick cloak he wore.

"Atlas, my boy, your passion is a virtue. I think I have not seen you like this in all the time I have known you."

He smiled, then, the faint smile of a man who was all too happy to impart new knowledge.

"I suppose it is only right that I allow you to see me in a new light, as well."

With a deep breath, Nazariy stood straight, the hunch of the elderly slowly replaced with the confident stance of a warrior. Though his bones did creak and his joints cracked, it did not seem as though he were bothered by this. Rather, it was more akin to the rust of an old machine being forced off through motion. He rolled his neck once, a slow and methodical action, and then finally allowed his cloak to fall to the ground. Beneath was not the whithered frame of the elderly, but a defined musculature which belied all years. The blades at his hip shone brightly in the sunlight, though he did not draw them just yet.

"You face me now, boy. I quite assure you, I am first among equals for a reason. Now, to the challenger goes the first blow."

While the other elders had seemed resigned to the outcome of that tradition, it was not so with Nazariy. Even with his expression, eyes still closed as if half-awake, it was clear in its intentions:

A challenge.

Atlas had fought his entire life on the back foot, at one disadvantage or another. It wasn't until he truly distinguished himself among these people that he came into his own. Even then he was shackled to an unknown destiny, one which he now forges for himself with each passing moment. Standing here among compatriots and old friends, now temporarily turned his rivals, he could only smile to the new challenger. It seemed things had certainly ramped up to a degree which he would need to exert himself, if not the full capabilities of his person.

"Many things have changed, Patriarch. But I can see the time for words have passed."

The edge to his words seemed to indicate the shift in the mood. The wind seemed to grow dead in this moment, as the miscolored eyes of Atlas laid upon the older warrior. Perhaps a man whom held more raw power than himself. But no such thing would deny him this victory, for he had waited hundreds of nights for this day. The only noise he could hear was the soft roar of his own heartbeat, thrumming with untold power and belief in himself.

He lifted his hand to stare at it for a moment, each scar and callous forged from a lifetime of war. The worst and best of humanity having been seen, and even made, by himself. That hand closed into a fist, white knuckles showing as his entire arm began to emit heat. The air around it becoming distorted as steam rose from it, before embers would catch on the skin growing into a slow flame which swallowed his arm. Atlas was one of the few people of Vastime who had utterly embraced the powers given to him. Unlike his leader, who's power was at their maximum before undertaking the powers, Atlas's aspect of power was more emotional. The flames of pride where strong in him, stronger than ever before.

That pride was made manifest as he brought his arm backward, his entire body turning into the strike. The air combusting around his fist and the impact; an explosion ringing outward with enough force to char the area immediately around the two. He could feel the bones cracking in his right hand, hairline fractures forming across his fingers and knuckles as he struck the man. Knowing full well not to waste the chance to handicap him early. The strike, aimed just at their chin as Atlas pulled his arm back adopting a fighting stance fully prepared for a rebuff.

Flames licked at his own body, embers flying off of him in every way as flames seemed to manifest from within. He had no intention of backing down.