Part 1
A soft rustling of leaves as they chased each other across the dirt, urged on by the gentle blowing of a wind that carried a hint of cold to it. A cold that warned of winter's soon arrival and nature's stillness that was soon to be drawn forth. The leaves skirted a nearby tree, it's branches still dotted here and there with a late harvest of apples as red as the early morning dawn.
A soft metallic clanking of echoed footfalls shifted into the still morning, and the leaves seemed almost to pause before gliding both right and left out of the way of the dull gleaming limbs. Their owners paused, seeming as if by some instinct or habit to face slightly away from each other. One stood a step before the other, or perhaps the other waited a step behind the first.
The winter wind danced around the pair, lifting the half cape that each wore just enough to make it billow ever so slightly. A creak of leather could be heard as one of the pair shifted weight from one leg to the other but no other sound seemed to resonate from them. The stillness lasted for several heartbeats before the first of the pair, the one that stood forward of the other, reached upward and with efficient movements plucked a brace of nearly over ripened apples from the branches of the tree that the pair stood under.
The two wore similar yet not quite identical seeming clothing, perhaps a uniform or simply a choice made by the pair to dress alike. Dressed in stark white leather from head to knee, for from the knee down was protected by a boot made of what appeared to be polished steel. But not the stark whiteness of their clothing nor the metallic tinge of their foot covers were what drew one's eyes. First to draw a passer by's attention was the sword that each carried sheathed at the shoulder, the blade nearly as long as the owner who carried it. Only the hilt could be easily seen, as it was wrapped in some sort of soft blue colored fiber.
The whisper softness of leather could again be heard as the first shifted a gloved hand toward the second, releasing the red orb in the direction of the second. The gloved hand of the second, snatched the spheroid from the air with ease, lifting it to lips nearly as red as the fruit that was drawn to it. A soft crunch as a single bite was exorcised from the morsel and care was taken to ingest, as if to savor the tasty morsel.
The second was clearly a woman, with hair as silver as the light which reflected off of a lake which lay half a day journey behind them. The wind stirred the silver locks ever so slightly, lifting then returning them to rest between her shoulder blades. It went no further below, and eyes as silver as the hair which crowned her head seemed to miss nothing, scanning every leaf and speck of grass before them. A darkened piece of cloth seemed to be fastened at the neck and seemed to serve as ornamentation, curved so that it was barely large enough to display the strange image it bore upon it. It was of two lines running up and down next to each other and set slightly apart with a third line passing through the center of both yet drawn out on each side as well.
Her companion, with equally silver eyes but yet with hair cut so short that it barely passed the ears in length, passed the second apple from right hand to left then lifted the fruit to partake a bite of it. Her companion was a male, dressed in the same manner as her, but yet with the sword sheathed upon his left shoulder rather than his right. The darkened cloth about his neck bore a symbol of a backwards letter “C” with a second “C” joined at the middle, creating a simple yet elegant image.
They were an odd seeming pair, waiting in this most unusual of places. But the world had a name for them, a name that was not their own: Claymore.
The woman turned toward her companion as he spoke to her, his melodious voice breaking into the harmony of the early morning placidity. She was a beauty in both form and face, with full red lips and eyelashes just long enough to be appealing. Her companion was of comparable quality, possessing a grace and strength that belied the not quite and no longer humanity.
“It's not like him to be late.” His voice was of a soft baritone, soothing and whisper quiet.
“He would not be late without a good reason.” She seemed to be reminding her companion of something known only between the two of them.
The first gave a barely perceptible nod, taking another bite from the apple that he still held in his left hand. Both seemed content to let the silence be broken only by the soft crunching sounds as they consumed their breakfast.
It was the male who seemed to finish first, stopping when the apple was barely more than half eaten. He weighed the sphere he held for several seconds before tossing it up and slightly outward from himself. His left hand flashed to the hilt of the sword he wore, his movements clearly divining the no longer human nature he possessed. The sword flashed into motion, only the glimmer of light catching off of the huge blade as he neatly dissected the half eaten fruit into over a dozen fragments in less time that it took for one to blink. Before the sections could land on the bare ground at his feet, the sword had already been returned to the place it had been drawn from with a soft hiss and a subtle clinking sound as it settled into place.
The woman tossed her own half eaten apple off to the side, where a rabbit hopped from the undergrowth long enough to sniff at it before disappearing into whatever concealment it had appeared from. She appeared to barely take notice of her companion's action, as if such a test was normal for him.
Without a sound, a dark robed figure seemed to step out from the same underbrush that the rabbit had disappeared into. Dressed entirely in black and with a scarf wrapped around his mouth to block out the early morning cold. A deep cowl masked the rest of the head, leaving only a set of dark goggles covering the eyes. A shuffle of footsteps and the figure stepped around the same tree that the two had been waiting under to stand before them.
The figure pushed back the hood of the black robes that concealed the body and removed the scarf from his face, revealing sharply male features beneath. He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe as if the slight wind was discomforting to him.
“You never did like the cold, Azmear.” The woman spoke to the new arrival as one would greet a long time acquaintance. Her voice danced on the edge of a light soprano, yet there was only a hint of warmth to it nonetheless.
“Fortunately, this will be your last hunt before the winter calm.” The one called Azmear replied. To the rest of the world, and to the pair before him, he was a Black Robe. A messenger, envoy, watcher, and spy all rolled into one. “And it is good to see you too, Isyllia.”
The woman inclined her head toward Azmear, favoring him with a faint smile. It seemed tinged with a genuine warmth, remaining only several heartbeats before disappearing. “It will be good to be home again.”
Azmear looked toward Isyllia's companion, giving him a nod which the other returned. “You look well, Hagan.” He said in greeting, drawing the others attention to him.
“As do you, Azmear.” The male Claymore replied, glancing away then tilting his head as if listening to something.
The Black Robe's gaze seemed to settle on the male hunter, as if evaluating the other by some unknown standard or measure. Silence seemed to linger for a dozen heartbeats and even as Azmear opened his mouth to speak again, Hagan's right hand shot upward toward the other to gesture for silence. Azmear complied without protest, tucking his chin into the invisible warmth of his scarf.
In that instant, a transformation took place. Both pairs of eyes flashed from silver to gold, something that only occurred when the enemy they had been created to hunt was near.
Yoma.
Before another breath could be taken, Hagan seemed to vanish from sight, leaving the sudden rushing of air and the sharp ringing of his sword hanging in the air behind him. Isyllia followed after her companion, stepping in what must have been the same direction that he had traveled. Dutifully, Azmear followed the woman who was his charge.
A clearly inhuman scream of agony was abruptly cut short nearby. It took Azmear several hurried seconds to cross the distance that Hagan had traveled in only an instant. Isyllia had remained several steps before him and when he arrived Azmear found that Hagan had neatly decapitated the yoma. A flick of the wrist cleared the sword of purple stain upon it before disappearing into the customary resting place.
“How many?” Hagan asked after Azmear's attention drifted away from the corpse at his feet. It wasn't difficult for any of them to determine why the two hunters had been called to this place.
“I have reason to believe that there are over a dozen yoma hiding in the nearby village.” Azmear returned his hands into his sleeves. “Word reached the Organization early last week and you two are the closest. As such, I was to go send you.” The black robes rose then fell in a small shrug. The goggles drifted from one face to the other, drawing a shake of the head from both. “Very well, I'll see you in a couple of weeks.” The Black Robe turned and walked away with the same eerie silence that he'd arrived, leaving the two to their duties.
A small fire had been built in the hearth, yet it's warmth was unnoticed by the gathered crowd of men and women who filled what one took to be a small inn. Tables and chairs had be set in a haphazard arrangement in one corner, with the singular exception of a small dining table and a single chair. A soft murmur seemed to hang in the air, as if the reason for the gathering had yet to be determined. Or perhaps it was just a general unease. The occupant of the chair was a man, his shoulders slumped even as he sat as if he carried a weight about with him constantly. A burden that remained unseen but was present nonetheless.
A man near the front leaned over and banged a closed fist on the table, stilling the conversation in the room and drawing all attention to him. “Two more people were found dead last night. Butchered, like animals.” The man seated at the table grew grim and drew back slightly from the table toward the invisible safety of the wall behind him. Something must have made him as afraid as the others appeared to be. “How much longer must we suffer under this plague? Will we all be killed before they leave?”
The man in the chair leaned back forward in the silence that followed, folding his slightly trembling hands together as if in prayer. It was a long moment before he finally spoke in the silence filled only with the soft sound of the fire crackling. “I feel that we have no choice,” he began quietly, his eyes fixed on his clasped hands. “I've sent for 'them', the only ones who can rid of us of this curse.”
“Them? Them who?” A man near the middle of the crowd demanded.
“Claymore.” He looked up from his clasped hands and scanned the front row of the crowd. “I felt that I had to do something.” His eyes finished scanning then returned to his hands. “And that meant calling upon a Claymore.”
The murmuring of the crowd redoubled what it had been before the impromptu meeting started, filling the air with more questions and no real answers. The conversation halted abruptly as the twin doors at the front of the room banged open and a young man no older than ten stood in the doorway. “They're here: The Claymores.” He panted.
It was easy for the two hunters to tell when they'd entered the village that they'd been sent to cleanse, for a crowd began to gather around them. It was hard to miss the looks of both awe and hope on the faces of the villagers as they huddled close yet dared not to touch, lest they dispel some sort of magic that seemed to follow a Claymore wherever he or she went.
The two hunters walked with an unnatural grace and fluidity, seeming to do more than stroll but rather glide from place to place. As if they were ghosts or some sort of supernatural presence, making the threat of the yoma nearby fade into insignificance of these most lethal yet most human of predators. Yet it was only yoma who feared these predators so, outdrawn and overmatched as they were. No Claymore desired to harm the humans who were their wards and their mentors both.
“It is a very lovely village.” Isyllia said quietly to her partner, so quietly in fact that someone standing more than a few feet away would have had to strain their ears to make out what she'd just said. It would have surprised no one to know that the vixenous beauty was already searching out the yoma that were their prey.
Hagan nodded minutely in agreement, again a motion barely perceptible to the humans around him but obvious enough to his companion. As always, he walked at her side, close enough to touch yet not close enough to accidentally bump against her. Not that such a bump would be accidental, given the enhanced nature of their abilities.
The crowd began to part, drawing away from them as they drew closer to a small cluster of people who seemed to be awaiting them. The two Claymores adjusted their path until they drew near to the small cluster, coming to a stop just outside of their reach. The man in the front of the small cluster of people had been nervously wringing his hands at their approach, clenching both hands into a ball before him. He roughly cleared his throat as if to speak.
Yet before he could do so, something both miraculous yet quite ordinary happened. Two pairs of silver eyes flashed to gold and one of the hunters moved with inhuman swiftness. Her sword rang loudly as she nearly dissected the individual standing next to the man who would yet identify himself as the mayor of this village. She sprang past, purple icor splashing the cobblestones beneath their feet; yet before the two halves of the yoma's body could collapse, she'd already moved onward. Leaping high into the air, she cleared the heads of the gathered crowd, landing with a grace that a feline would envy before closing on what her senses told her was also a yoma in disguise.
The target of her pursuit barely had time to turn to run before the unbreakable blade of her sword neatly sheered his head from the rest of his body with a second but not nearly as impressive spray of purple. Her body was motionless, the huge sword still fully outstretched at the end of the swing, and stained with the same purple that puddled on the cobblestones. The head of the now revealed yoma seemed to hang in the air for a slow heartbeat before suddenly landing with a wet sounding splat. The second yoma's body landed in an untidy heap, partially curled up in a ball as it found it's final resting place.
The other Claymore had remained motionless aside from reaching up to clasp his sword hilt at the same instant that his companion sprang into action. His hand returned to his side only when the second yoma was fully dealt with, as several of the gathered villagers applauded hesitantly at the display of prowess that they'd just seen. With exaggerated slowness, Isyllia flickered her wrist to clear her blade of yoma blood before returning it to the customary place across her back. The crowd parted as she walked back to where her companion still stood, nodding in acknowledgment to several people who reached out to touch her arm.
The man who had been about to speak stared at the neatly dissected yoma body next to him, having been spared from being splashed with so much as a drop of the purple icor now pooling the depressions in the cobblestone pavement beneath his feet. Hagan cleared his throat to draw the man's attention away from the body next to him and back to the Claymore that stood before him. The man's brown eyes jerked back upward, filled with a combination of awe and fear at what had just happened, to meet the silver eyes of the hunter before him.
“My name is Hagan and my companion is Isyllia.” The male Claymore introduced himself then gestured to his companion who had returned to his side only that instant. Rankings would have meant nothing to anyone not in the Organization so he didn't give them. He gave a small smile which lingered as he continued to speak. “We are the ones that have been sent to cleanse your village.”
“Cleanse, right.” The man cleared his throat then offered his hand with a bit of hesitation to the two before him. “Welcome to Dalmor, my name is Vincent. I'm the mayor.” The mayor's eyes returned to the yoma body next to him for a moment.
The male Claymore took his hand and shook it, the small smile fading slowly from his expression. Wearing his normal calm expression, Hagan waited for the mayor to continue. Isyllia stood patiently next to him, with no yoma nearby there was nothing pressing for either of them to do. The two simply waited for the conversation to continue, as this was hardly the first time that they'd been in a similar situation.
The mayor's eyes returned to the two Claymore before him and he gestured hesitantly for them to follow him. “If you'll follow me...” For whatever reason, he chose to lapse into silence rather than continue. Perhaps the presence of a yoma so close to him had unnerved him for he recalled that the very body next to him had been the same person who'd demanded so vehemently that something be done.
The two Claymores followed the mayor to the inn nearby, finding the room nearly cleared except for a table near the front with a chair behind it. The mayor settled into the chair, clasping his hands together before him. He looked up at the two before him and began speaking again. “We're grateful that you've come,” he began. As he continued to speak, he seemed to regain his composure. “I've already assembled the fee for your services and I've prepared a room on the second floor that you can use during your stay. If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask.”
Hagan inclined his head gracefully, offering a smile of thanks. “A man in black will come to collect the fee once we've completed our work. We're not allowed to collect the fee ourselves.” Isyllia shifted her weight from one leg to the other as he paused before continuing. Hagan looked toward her out of the corner of his eye but found her as unreadable as ever. “As for the room, we'll gladly accept your hospitality. We'll need to take a look around your village before we can fully accept your gracious offer, but a small meal of bread and cheese would certainly be appreciated upon our return. If you'll excuse us, the sooner we begin then the sooner your village will be free of yoma.”
The mayor nodded in a jerky, even exaggerated fashion. The two hunters turned and left the inn, walking back out into the warm daytime air. The crowd had slowly begun to disperse and Hagan couldn't help but notice that the yoma bodies had already been removed in the short interval that the two had been indoors.
Hagan turned toward the well that stood in the middle of the square, approaching a middle aged woman accompanied by a girl that couldn't have been more than six and was most likely her daughter. Hagan was aware of Isyllia walking next to him, watching his back as surely as he watched hers. The woman and her daughter turned to them as the two hunters drew near, pausing in the act of drawing water from the well.
The male Claymore put on his most charming smile and crouched next to the little girl. “Hello, little one. My name is Hagan.” He offered her his hand, which the girl took after a moment. She smiled shyly, looking up at her mother for approval before both taking his hand and speaking to him.
“I'm Anna.” The little girl said, trying to give him a very grown up handshake.
“Do you know why we are here, Anna?” Hagan asked the little girl as she let go of his hand. The only bad thing about kneeling was that it tended to overemphasize the size of the sword he wore.
“Nuh uh.” The little girl withdrew a bit behind her mother's skirts but bravely held her ground. Mostly.
“We're here to make all the monsters go away.” Hagan told the little girl, resting his now free hand on his knee. “If you see any monsters, you come find us and we'll scare them away.”
“Okay, I will.” The little girl finally retreated behind the safety of her mother but continued to peer out at him nonetheless.