Off the coast of the lower Dneiper River, 1648...
The smoke swirled low, crushing ash into the narrow cavity of breathable air that clung to the riverbed. Headless corpses and blood muddied the water's shallow into a slush of carnage, luring a legion of carrion birds to dim the midday sun. Fire lept skyward from the smouldering ruin of blackened wagons to escape the horror of the earth, and a ring of pikes circled the surf capped with the gored ivory of skinless skulls...
The squat, rust skinned men moved from the crimson steppe, dragging a hooded, weathered captive. With a jesters glee, they pulled off the hood, revealing the nightmare landscape. As the captive gasped in horror, a long blade slid silently along the front of his neck. To stay his collapse, the men held his flaxen hair taught, stretching the fissure in his throat, widening the gout of scarlet that painted the virgin white of his tunic. From behind, he was lifted by the curvature of short blade sneaking between his lower ribs, halving his lungs before finding home in his swift beating heart. At long last, a hatchet fell between his neck and right collarbone, cleaving down toward his middle sternum. As he exploded upon the the frightened ground, his vision of hades faded into the snow white of passing...
From the crowd of Zaporozhians emerged a tall, sinewy wraith tatooed cap-a-pe with thorns and brambles. His pale blue eyes were as stars against the shadow he cast in every direction. From his sheath he pulled a cleavers blade and gently held it sideways in the blood that raged from the suspended corpse. Peacefully, he raised the crude instrument to his pursed lips and blew softly, caking coagulate in volcanic patterns up and down the cutting edge. Without changing the blade's proximity to his face, he wandered slowly forth with closed eyes into the draw of the river. In one crescent sweep, he swung his weapon through the sullied water, and up over his head, opening his eyes to the mirage created in the mix on his implement...
To his astonishment, he saw the face of the man his cohort had just butchered, along with a host of other mixed folk, staring intently at a woman with some kind of anglo-saxon accent in brown attire. Flat, white walls surrounded them, with one particular section covered in some form of script. Reading their lips, he noticed they insisted upon substituting the sound "and" for "but", and seemed encouraged to speak vaguely so as to avoid any proper conclusion from any exchange. This was leadership? Outside, the outline of buildings that existed nowhere currently lined the sky, and the windows vibrated with the pulsing noise of machines not powered by men. This man seemed happily amused with the whole scene, learning something of what powers drive the human mind!
With the frustration of a tantruming waif, he spun his gaze back toward the beautiful slaughter of the shore.
Zounds!! How could this be!! We have just spillt the blood of a village, and made such incision in this man that his soul watered the earth!! Yet he sits, alive in a time distant, mocking the terrible power of our uprising!!
He returned his glance upward to his blade. His quarry was now in a bizarre dark room, lined with iron bars fitted with circular discs, and filled with men that moved far to daintily for their bulk. Elevated on multicolored platforms, oddly clothed folk with multicolored hair did half committal dances. This Germanic bastard was clearly not pleased with his surroundings in this episode, which brought great delight to the gaunt Zaporozhian. For him to walk so happily, even in a mirage, moments after he had been so gloriously filleted? Not acceptable.
Once again, his glance returned. Only this time, it was met directly by the stare of his once vanquished foe. For the moment, they locked eyes, and knew each other's mind.
Until we meet again...
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