The Legend of Zelda: Forgotten Goddess

By N Felts

A Fan-Fiction novel based on the video game series. Chronologically following the events of Twilight Princess, Forgotten Goddess tells of a young boy on a familiar journey. Through forests and deserts, into temples of fire and shadow he must overcome obstacles never imagined. Every evil ever faced through the darkest moments of Hyrule's history cannot compare to the grand plot now manifesting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N Felts
• Release date: Nov 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301839650

Book preview

Prologue

The lingering sun of late afternoon cooks the flat stone walkways of Hyrule Castle Town. A visible wave of heat waves lazily, streaming up and out of the worn grooves of a thousand horse-drawn carriages. The town itself appears critically ill. Symptoms of a deteriorating civilization are everywhere. Overgrown grass consumes vacant alleyways. Fallen leaves crowd the south side of every building, the consistent breeze from Lake Hylia ending here after its long journey north across Hyrule Field. The lively music and bustling crowds are a distant memory. Now the shop keepers rest lazily in their stalls, praying tomorrow brings more sales. Brings any sales at all. The days of townspeople fighting over the latest trend, the rupees flowing like Zora's River, are long gone. Children used to fill their pockets with sweets from spare change accidentally dropped into pots or thrown into the fountain at the heart of the market, but now they scamper through shadows, stealing when they've grown hungry enough. The town has known neither order nor wealth for as long as most can remember. The single remaining haven of hope is the church on the east side of town. Stained glass shimmering above the massive, wooden double doors depicts mighty Hylia with her goddess sword in hand. Inside the pews are rarely empty. Even at this odd hour, several of the townspeople remain seated, their hands clasped in hope of their savior delivering them from this depression. There is no dark force to be slain this time around. No reemergence of evil to be suppressed. A blade, no matter how divine, cannot pull crops from their parched seeds, nor rain from the cloudless sky. The people give offering, and they pray, but for months their prayers have gone unanswered.

Resting in a dark corner behind the organ, a young boy named Rift spins a small, wooden box between his thumb and index finger. Watching the shanty piece of craftsmanship slowly turn in his grasp, his mind remains blank, simply waiting for yet another day to pass. His emotionless face is shrouded beneath an old, damaged cowl. Hanging from his shoulders is a black cloak donning the royal crest on both the front and back in faded gold stitching. Resting lightly on his chest and back, it ends in a short, triangular point in his lap. Given to him by the priest, the cloak is really only worn to conceal the gaping holes and deteriorating cloth in his cheap outfit of faded cotton. Taken in as a toddler, Rift remembers little of his parents. The priest has told the story many times, casualties of the plague of darkness brought about by the dark lord Ganondorf years ago. Now his time is spent waiting. Not waiting for anything in particular, just endlessly waiting for the night to fall, and the dawn to break. A general uneasiness sounds from the pews as a group of children enter the building.

Rift, you in here? The leader of the gang calls out, glancing around the massive room. Making no effort to conceal or reveal him, the tired old priest simply stares at the troublemakers dumbly. The boy’s words echo in the profoundly silent room, disturbing the peaceful ambiance.

Don’t cause trouble, a gruff voice sounds from beside the doors. One of the few town guards have been posted at the church to keep the peace. Scowling lazily from beneath his traditional helm, he briefly stamps his spear on the wooden floor before cocking his head toward the door. Go on, he commands, not especially eager to incite a confrontation.

We’re gonna find you! A young girl in the group calls as they collectively march out of the structure with an air of superiority. Hobbling over to Rift’s hiding place, the priest simply isn’t spirited enough to protect the boy any longer. Years of fear and hiding have made the church a target of vandalism, the children practically running the town with no one particularly willing to discipline them.

Rift, the chubby old man sighs, palming the dusty organ for balance. You know you’re like a son to me, but this can’t go on any longer. I won’t always be here to protect you. Please, he continues, coughing briefly. You’ve got to stand up for yourself. Look to the sky, and she will protect you. Watching the old man with sad eyes, Rift climbs to his feet and pockets his treasured box. The wooden boards beneath the decorative rug creak with every step as he slowly exits the church. Peeking through the single opened door, a rapid series of anxious breaths are halted when the sentry breaks the silence.

They headed north toward the castle, the guard points out, caring little for the boy’s fate, but offering the information all the same.

Thanks, Rift smirks, aiming to sound genuine, but coming off as abrasively sarcastic. Without another word he quickly trots through the lifeless, stone streets toward the massive drawbridge at the southern gate. He has decided he will spend the brief portion of the day remaining outside the confines of town. In the distance, the gang of children passes from alley to alley near the twisting path leading up to the castle. The mighty, stone citadel dwarfs even the large town at its base, visible from nearly every corner of the kingdom, it stands a testament to Hylian ingenuity. Once a symbol of hope and unity, its many spires seem to hang their heads in shame at the current state of the kingdom.

Pacing near the balcony of his room, King Harkinian has never looked less healthy. A thick, white beard hangs heavily from his wrinkled face. Once the visage of a hardened warrior, time has done what it does to men of any status. The darkest of days has come and gone. The king of thieves made attempt on his very throne, but just as the prophecy foretold, the hero of time thwarted his treacherous schemes. He had seen the tinge of deceit in the Gerudo’s eyes so long ago, but never expected such an uprising in his own kingdom. Between the civil war and Ganondorf's treachery, Hyrule has enjoyed very little peace during his time on the throne. Now, the distant land of Arcadia would dare move to threaten Gamelon, assuming Hyrule in a state of weakness. Duke Onkled received the might of Hyrule's army without question, but the cost has proven far greater than assumed. The time of darkness was averted, but the drought continues. The able bodied men march to war, and now the land is trapped in a veil of decay. The people of Castle Town remain disparaged, and the further one travels from the castle gate, the more uneasy the inhabitants of the kingdom become. A period of prosperity is long overdue to them, but with the hand the king has been dealt, it is simply not in the cards. His lovely princess has shied away from a life of politics, and he has never needed her beauty and natural charm more than now. The people need a symbol of hope more than ever, and his tired old face is far from reassuring these days. The light continues to fade, the beams piercing through the tall windows lining the hallways growing longer by the minute. Another thick bead of sweat crawls from beneath his crown as his perpetual angst refuses to relent.

A raven soars past the balcony, continuing over the church’s steeple, and into the open air of Hyrule Field. No matter how unproductive and desolate it becomes, the landscape remains a gargantuan display of beauty. Gradual hills stretch out as far as the eye can see as the setting sun dances on the golden grass. Resting listlessly in the only place he can feel at ease, Rift watches the rolling puffs of dust twinkle in the last of the days light. Resting against a particular rock face near the river pouring down from Zora's Domain to the north, he listens to the subtle music, only discernible when the wind is just right. The reeds on the small plateau overhead seem to hum an odd melody while the cattails beside the bridge knock on the dry wood rhythmically. Reaching into his pocket, he produces his wooden cube. A metallic protrusion on the side is twisted, the soft clang of thin metal sounding between turns. Finally letting his palm rest on the dry grass next to his thigh, the box plays his favorite song, and memories of his mother invade his thoughts. The only thing he can recall clearly is darkness. A blanket of shadow enveloping everything around him. However, the feeling of a profound warmth against his cheek kept the fear at bay. The sensation of impossible comfort only offered by a mother’s embrace. The feeling he lost so very long ago. The current times promote selfishness and survival of the fittest. Lacking these traits is certain to lead him to an early grave.

Found him! A girl yells from above. Shaken from his trance, Rift scrambles to his feet to find familiar faces arriving from multiple directions. Failing to hang on to his spikey black hair, his hood collapses onto his back. The leader arrives after the rest of the group has congregated on the ledge, parting them to look down upon his prey. An athletic boy named Rho, always carrying the wooden sword his father gave him before leaving to join the defense of Gamelon. An aggressive child destined for an authoritative position, however small the extent of his reign may be. The other children obey him without question, knowing his potential violence is much more than a mere threat.

I told you not to hide from us, Rho shrugs, his stoic face especially intimidating in the fading light. The only child with a respectable ensemble, his baggy, brown overalls end in a pair of boots no one could afford these days. His surprisingly clean, white shirt has only one long sleeve, the other removed to imitate the elite soldiers his father had joined. You think you can stay in our town without paying up?

We're not in, the girl on his right starts, clamping her hands over her mouth as Rho shifts his glance to her. A bit of a know-it-all for Rho’s taste, Ona has a difficult time keeping her mouth shut. A year or two younger than Rift, she can be even more aggressive than Rho at times, knowing her fearless leader will back up any threat she can conjure. Waiting hopelessly, Rift grips his music box tightly behind his back, afraid sliding it back into his pocket would be noticed.

I don't want to see your face around here anymore, Rho continues, hopping off the small plateau and forcibly prodding Rift in the chest with his sword. Remaining silent, Rift grimaces painfully, but continues to carefully conceal his treasure. Stumbling away, he is denied a chance to run as the rest of the group quickly encircles him. Looking back to Rho, he sees the jig is up. What's that? He demands, prodding Rift with the sword once again. Oblivious to his approach, Rift is taken by surprise when one of the boys sneaks up behind him and snatches the music box away. Dahn, a human from Ordon Village, is the original member of Rho’s posse. Always eager to pick a fight, he couldn’t have been happier to help Rho take over.

Got it! He shouts excitedly, turning it over in his hands. It's some kind of toy. Looks stupid.

Give it here, Rho commands, prompting the boy to toss it over Rift's head. Gripped with panic, Rift watches in horror as his only possession of value is idly inspected by his worst enemy. A much stronger breeze pushes through the field as the sun has nearly set. Unable to find the courage to speak, Rift utters a weak whine, grabbing Rho's attention.

Oh, does the baby want his toy back? Rho teases, tossing it to another kid.

Over here! Another calls as they continue to toss the box to each other, just out of his reach. Straining to catch a wayward throw, Rift fails over and over again as the children continue to taunt and tease him. Stumbling after a missed catch that just grazes his fingertips, he is on his back looking up before the sting of pain is registered. A heavy swing landed on the bridge of his nose as Rho nearly managed to knock him out with his trusty sword. Tears of pain welling up in his eyes, Rift weakly grabs at his face while Rho dangles his music box over him.

Awwww, is the baby gonna cry now? He continues to mock.

Rho, Ona calls, afraid to interrupt, but clearly wanting to point something out.

Shut up, he absently responds, poking Rift mercilessly as he is denied the chance to get back to his feet.

But, the sun, Ona pleads. Pointing at the sparse light, dipping into the desert beyond the canyon to the west.

I said shut up! He demands, enjoying the power too much to be distracted. Without another word, she flees back toward the bridge, still down for the time being. The pain and humiliation is too much for Rift to handle, curling into a fetal position and waiting for the children to lose interest. As the yellow glow of the sun fades into the dim, blue glow of the moon, a Wolfos howls somewhere in the distance. It is only now that Rho realizes the danger he is in. A rumble of earth to the group's left is all it takes to incite a panic. The remaining children begin to run for the bridge, only to be cut off by a bony hand springing from the earth. They’ve strayed from the safety of the castle walls, and now the Stalchildren are upon them. Scrambling to his feet, Rift finds Rho gripping his sword tensely, unsure if he should fight or run. Making a move to take back his music box ends in disaster as Rho’s quick reflexes allow him to dodge Rift’s advance and trip him back to the ground effortlessly. Pssh! Take it, Rho shrugs, tossing the box toward the small bridge leading to Kakariko Village. Thoughtlessly chasing after his most prized possession, Rift is unaware of Rho’s plot to save his gang at Rift’s expense. Charging toward the multiple tiny skeletons, clumsily marching after the kids with glowing orange eyes, Rho beats them down with a rapid succession of strikes. Beckoning the group to join him he continues to knock the weak apparitions aside as they close the distance to the bridge. The endless parade of fleshless anatomy continues to emerge, their jawless mouths seeming to grin at the easy prey.

Finally locating his box, Rift turns back toward Castle Town to find the bridge is already beginning its ascent, the chains connected to the old wood loudly cranking while the children’s hearts collectively sink. The dry grass crunches beneath his sandals as Rift sprints toward the group of hoodlums, desperate for some level of security as the Kakariko bridge is overrun by the teeming skeletons. Enemy or not, he needs Rho’s protection if he intends to survive the night. Rho cracks yet another Stalchild’s head open, the collection of bones collapsing like a house of cards and slowly seeping back into the ground like quicksand. The persistent demons seem to be defeated for the moment, the endless spawning of fresh enemies pausing for a time. Seconds from reaching the group, Rift is thrown off his feet when yet another deformed, skeletal head blasts upward from the earth. This Stalchild is much larger than its predecessors, and proportionally aggressive. Slowly crawling away on his back, Rift can’t help but utter a squeak of fear, unintentionally grabbing the ghoul’s attention. Its large, soulless eyes lock on the helpless boy as it gracelessly turns to claim his life. Scrambling to his feet once again, Rift breaks into a sprint in no particular direction. Glancing over his shoulder, he is relieved to find the skeleton is much slower than him, his sights already turned back to the group of screaming kids. Rho attacks courageously, but his wooden blade snaps in half against the monster’s forearm. A wave of defeat washes over the group, cowering above the rushing torrent of water beneath the raised bridge. Turning away and squeezing his eyes shut, Rift does his best to block out the screams of terror as the merciless monster bears down on them. Peeking into the dim night, he realizes his troubles are far from over as yet another Stalchild has surfaced, swinging a bony hand at him. Tripping to the side, he narrowly dodges the attack as more of the undead continue to climb into the haunting blue of the moon. His eyes darting about in search of some kind of safety, he only finds the dark entrance of the Faron province, a dusty trail leading through an opening in the trees. The bouncing orange eyes seem to close in from all directions, and he is left with no alternative. Pulling his hood back onto his head, he flees into the dark forest, a place the Stalchildren will not venture.

A plethora of insects spiral about the lush green landscape, and the chirping of life cascades over him like a coming storm. Unsure what he should do, Rift moves forward slowly, utilizing his dark clothing to fade into the shadows. The eerie glow of the moon pierces through the canopy in sporadic beams, the countless tales he’s heard of the woodland creatures doing nothing to stifle his fear. Without warning, a seemingly harmless plant snaps to life, aggressively latching onto his arm with its hungry mouth. A shriek of pain echoes through the trees as the plant whips him back and forth through the air before launching him into a nearby tree trunk. Writhing in pain, he grabs at his arm, dripping with the nectar salivating from the plant’s carnivorous mouth. The plant itself angrily snaps its toothless, blue jaws, straining to finish off its prey like a dog on a chain. Its long, flexible stem becomes a collar of sorts, Rift’s leg just out of reach as the boy painfully regains his footing. The hostile foliage seems to dare him to come closer as it returns to its passive stance, waiting for a more easily consumed victim.

Another howl cuts through the night, and Rift begins to wonder if he’d be better off facing the Stalchildren. Being thrown through the air robbed him of his bearings, the already difficult to follow path nowhere to be seen. A mammoth, hollow tree trunk serves as a hallway of sorts, its moss covered bark glistening in the moonlight. Proceeding through as carefully as he’s able, Rift holds his throbbing arm, failing to fight the tears of pain away. Somewhere in the distance, past the aggressive plant life and over the buzzing insects, he’d swear he hears music. Another massive tree trunk leads him left, and the song increases in volume. Some sort of flute generating an upbeat melody, a song of dance and celebration. A song of innocence. Yet another hollow passageway of wood and moss, and Rift’s focus returns to reveal he is hopelessly lost. Even if he could summon the courage to return to Hyrule Field in the dark, he couldn’t find his way if he tried. The forest itself seems to spin around him, the chipper music starting to fade as he decides to go right at a small clearing with multiple exits. Suddenly, a large object strikes him, bouncing off his shoulder blade like a wayward fastball. Wincing in pain, he turns to find a deku scrub waddling toward him angrily. Generally known for their passive nature, the tiny, armless creatures shrouded in leaves have grown increasingly hostile as the drought begins to threaten the forest. Its large spout of a mouth retracts, and before Rift can react, another deku nut blasts at him as if fired from a cannon. Striking him in the stomach, the force knocks him off his feet for a breathless moment. Searching for a way out, he feels a rush of air whip past his head and realizes he is being fired upon from multiple directions. The scrubs prove every bit as relentless as the Stalchildren, emerging from seemingly everywhere. Shielding his face, Rift sprints deeper into the forest, stumbling when yet another nut collides with the back of his knee.

Tripping forward, the boy has less than a second to collect the appropriate amount of dread as a massive gorge fills his vision. The cliff he is departing appeared no different than any other random span of forest, but his perception has betrayed him, certain now this fall will be his last. Flailing through the air, a dangling vine catches his leg, and utilizing his momentum it throws him past the shallow pools of water far below. Landing harshly on a loft of roots and earth, he feels as though he may faint, the excessive adrenaline too much for him to take. A haunting mist hangs over the gorge. Caressing the walls of roots and foliage, it masks the path ahead, reflecting the dim glow of the moon like a haunted pass. Giving the prospect very little thought, Rift decides to stay put until morning. Attempting to travel in the night has brought him nothing but pain and misfortune. Through the thinning mist along the wall of his loft, Rift spots a fairy bobbing along an uncertain path. The tiny creature of light moves steadily away from him, but he remains resolute, until yet another Wolfos howl creeps over his shoulders. The beasts are getting closer and closer every time he hears them. Unable to decide what he fears more, Rift scrambles to his feet to chase down the fairy. Rounding a corner along the wall of the colossal gorge, he catches a brief glimpse of the winged creature disappearing overhead. Trotting over to the wall of tangled roots, he realizes he can climb up with little difficulty. Never one for excessive physical activity, the events thus far have left him barely able to continue. Still, fairies are believed to be every bit as lucky as they are rare. He needs any amount of good fortune, however small it may prove to be.

Pulling himself up and out of the gorge with quite a bit of effort, he again spots the fairy dancing through the air, vanishing behind a group of trees to the northeast. Jogging through the valley at a steady, but cautious pace, Rift occasionally loses his footing atop the weaving roots underfoot. The ground itself is nowhere to be found beneath the intricate tangle of branches and vines, holding strong beneath the fine mist pressed against them. The valley has many trees, but they are bunched up in small collections leaving the bulk of the area open for traversing. Growing worried, Rift has failed to spot the fairy for some time and realizes he must be moving too slowly to keep up. Circling another group of trees, his muscles collectively tense with fright to find a deku baba waiting. Its blue, salivating head rests on the ground motionlessly, and upon further inspection, Rift realizes it has been slain. Moving around the corpse as carefully as he would if it were still alive, he soon stumbles upon yet another leafy cadaver. The lofty valley becomes harder to traverse as the mist thickens at every turn, the boy’s way forward just as indiscernible as his progress to this point. Following the path of death tentatively, he spots the fairy once again in the distance.

Veiled in the blue aura of the moonlit mist, a gargantuan temple of grey stone stands among the massive trees. Bitterly beaten by the hands of time, the structure looks as though it could collapse at any moment, the crafted slabs of stone and mighty pillars barely holding the structure upright. Bobbing up the steep staircase at the temple’s base, the fairy is barely perceptible through the dense fog. Delighted to find some degree of civilization, Rift advances forward, stopping short when his foot collides with something warm. A mighty Wolfos, cut down in its prime, rests atop the braid of roots forever. Its yellow eyes stare into space, void of the feral focus they once knew. His heart skipping a beat, Rift is forced to take a moment to find his breath as his panning vision spots yet another downed guardian of the forest. Suddenly unsure of who, or what he is following, the boy debates his best course of action for the moment, finally deciding to proceed much more carefully. Still, whatever it is he may find inside the temple, he is certain it can’t be as bad as the forest itself. Longing to be indoors once again, he climbs the dated stairs leading to the massive doorway of the structure.

Finding no door, only a large archway, Rift apprehensively steps through, baffled when his senses are fundamentally restarted. Passing through some sort of invisible portal, he only realizes how incredibly noisy the forest was now that all sound has ceased. The large room is impossibly quiet, and the interior is equally pristine, the stone floor and walls appearing as if they are immune to decay. Afraid to make a move, Rift feels reassured when he catches a glimpse of a man wearing green proceed through a large doorway on the opposite end of the room. Considering calling out to him, he quickly changes his mind, fearful of both the man’s intentions and what else may hear him. Moving through the room as quietly as he’s able, Rift notices a strange pedestal standing in front of the door. Odd symbols are etched into the stone atop the long, rectangular stand. A disused display for some sort of religious artifact or treasured tribute. Proceeding up the short staircase, he finds the remains of what must have been thought to be an impassable door. Massive chunks of obliterated stone are scattered about the doorway, apparently blasted by some kind of weapon. Carefully stepping between the pieces of debris, Rift stops short when the spectacle within the next room grabs hold of his eyes. A series of torches line the walls of the tremendous room, each resting upon a pillar a short distance from the outer walls. Across the walkway leading between the pillars, hundreds of stairs climb high above the ground level leading to something just out of vision atop the plateau of stone.

A monstrous man moves up the staircase at a steady stride, his long, golden trimmed, purple cape billowing with every step, and concealing his form completely. Shrouding his head is a relic of a helmet with four horn-like protrusions reaching upward from the top. The material is of unknown origin to Rift, a blend of dark colors coated in an array of symbols. Encircling his head, the helm reaches well down to his chest, ending with intricate designs. The upper-left portion of the helm seems to have been recently reconstructed, the section plagued with cracks and crevices. Unsure of where the man he saw moments ago has gone, Rift has no intention of getting the imposing warlord’s attention as he steps back into the shadow of the doorway. An accidental step lands on a piece of rubble, causing a scrape of shifting stone to echo through the silent room. Spinning on his heels with impossible speed, the man on the staircase throws his encompassing cape off his chest, the material sliding around his shoulders within the custom pauldrons and resting on his back. His dark armor does little to deny his probable sinister nature as he rests both hands on the blades sheathed on his thighs. Ready for a fight, the emotionless face carved into his helm triples the already ample intimidation he is generating.

A series of sandals lightly striking stone sound as a small squad of assassins drop from their imperceptible hiding places high above. Obviously Gerudo, their dark skin and fiery, red hair are illuminated as they emerge from the shadows. Dressed in the traditional garb of the Gerudo women, their baggy, silk pants end in a jeweled belt just below the navel. An alluring brassiere matches the red texture of the pants as well as the scarf tied beneath their matching ponytails, concealing everything below their intense eyes. Two of the women brandish large scimitars, while the third skillfully twirls one of her chakra as they search for the source of the noise. Shaking in horror, Rift cannot summon the courage to move as the two subordinates close in on him while the chakra wielding leader waits near the base of the stairs. Descending upon the bad intentioned duo like a spider, an obscure figure suddenly whistles a three-note melody, pulling the attention of the women up to the dancing traces of light from the torches. Obfuscated by the large, cylindrical pillars just inside the doorway, the light and shadow wave to and fro in a black and orange theatre of stone. Finding nothing, the women remain vigilant, scowling past the rubble of the dim doorway. A torrent of needles erupts from their left like a rain storm, impaling one of the warriors countless times. Frozen in place, the unfortunate Gerudo shakes mildly, paralyzed by the metal spikes riddling her form. Stepping over to defend her ally, the warrior is hardly perceptive enough to notice the twisting shadow flip overhead, landing on her shoulders in a handstand. Unable to do anything but stare in horror, her paralyzed companion watches the figure snap her ally’s neck effortlessly, dropping back into the shadows with the briefest glimpse of blond hair. Finally able to work her eyes about, the Gerudo searches between the cast shadows and flickering light furiously, desperately attempting to regain her motor functions. In the instant between heartbeats, the shadow is upon her, staring into her very soul with a single red eye. Frozen in fear himself, Rift clings to a large hunk of rock, remaining concealed for the time being. The shadow’s hand gently takes hold of the Gerudo’s ponytail at the base, and Rift’s eyelids decide they desperately need to replenish moisture. Before the blink of his eye even reaches the halfway mark, they’ve both vanished with a muffled squeak of pain.

Intimately aware of the certain doom moving into the darker places would bring upon her, the remaining warrior tensely grips her circular blades, waiting for the shadow to step into the light. Soon enough, a twirling dagger enters the torchlight from behind a pillar. Spun on an index finger via a loop at the base of the handle, it sheds the last of the blood it has claimed from its most recent victim. An arm wrapped in white cloth follows suit as the figure reluctantly rounds the pillar, and is revealed. A Sheikah, pulled strait from the legends of their almost forgotten race, decides her time in the darkness is up. Her skintight, blue jumpsuit seems to let go of the darkness’s embrace like a pair of lovers forced to part. A splash of blonde bangs conceals what little of her face isn’t masked by the white collar of her cowl, rising up past her nose and hovering just below her single visible eye. The red symbol of the Sheikah, the tear-drop eye, stands out boldly on her tattered, white cloak. Bobbing forward, like a bird approaching a worm, her movements are too refined to be considered simply graceful. Her mannerisms are profoundly odd, but obviously well practiced as she seems to half-skip toward her opponents, a long, tightly wound braid of hair bouncing on her back. Her ninja tabi style boots practically hover across the stone floor, touching the flat slabs briefly and soundlessly. It isn’t a style or grace that defines her, nor is it excessive stealth or skill. It is timing. Utterly perfect timing that allows all of these concepts to radiate from her form like an aura of mastery. Having expected this turn of events, the helmed man upon the staircase prepares to engage the sly assassin.

The subtle twang of a bow string doesn’t catch the man’s attention, but in the instant before the arrow hits its mark, his dark, gauntlet covered hand whips up in a blur, batting the arrow aside like a pesky fly. Even with his senses shrouded by the helm, the man’s reflexes are impossibly acute. Two more arrows scream through the air in rapid succession, fired from some unseen location at the room’s perimeter. The first is slapped aside just as easily as the initial shot, but the second is caught, the dark man’s absurd speed becoming even more obvious. Crushing the feathered bit of wood like an oversized toothpick, the man drops the pieces to the ground tauntingly, prompting their owner to emerge with a throaty war cry. A tunic of a deep, forest green rests upon a simple farmer’s outfit, aside from the leather gauntlets and weaponry. An average Hylian kite shield hangs before him in his right hand while an equally average broadsword skips along the stone in his left. Clearly having seen a hundred battles, the blade appears well past its prime, though dangerous as any weapon in the proper hands. His blonde hair is only partially concealed beneath a long green cap, flapping against the quiver on his back as he rapidly closes the distance to the staircase upon which his nemesis resides. Gliding just ahead of him, the very fairy Rift followed to the temple seems to lead the charge into battle.

A circular blade narrowly misses its target as the Sheikah twists left and continues to stalk the evasive Gerudo. The second chakra flies low along the ground, easily vaulted over by the nimble woman. Seeming to have overplayed her hand, the Gerudo waits for an ideal opportunity before summoning her weapons back to her palms. Taken by surprise, the Sheikah flips forward into a twirling display of athleticism as the blades simultaneously return along their trajectories. Catching the discs with a twirl of her own, the Gerudo advances to engage in combat of a more traditional nature. Meanwhile, the man in green leaps several stairs at a time to close the distance to his waiting antagonist. Faking a low, scooping swing, he suddenly changes into a spinning, vertical backslash, aiming to cleave the man in two. Reacting at the last possible moment, the dark man unsheathes the pair of daggers on his hips, catching the approaching blade between them. His movements are not fast in the typical sense, but appear meditated upon until their execution. His body seems to be moving as if it were submerged in water one second, and the next, a blur of dark purple, impossible to follow with untrained eyes. Throwing the young man’s blade aside with a sudden blast of force, the helmed warrior stares at him curiously for only a moment, a torrent of metal clangs sounding the next as his blades bounce off the kite shield aggressively. Barely able to defend in time, the young man remains resolute, spinning into a whirlwind slash that forces his dark opponent back a step. Two successive slashes are batted aside with fierce, graceless movements, the dark man’s speed and reflexes showing no openings in his guard.

Just below the battling men, the females continue to trade assaults, neither of them quite able to gain the upper hand. The Sheikah’s skill and timing seem impossible to overcome, yet the Gerudo’s tactics prove overwhelming, her ability to keep the ninja at range an invaluable asset in the fight. The bladed discs scream past the Sheikah at varying angles, but fail to find their mark time and time again. Managing to move in close, the assassin slashes diagonally, narrowly missing the Gerudo as she awaits her thrown blades to magnetically return to her empty hands. Seamlessly arching into a scorpion kick, the blonde ninja pulls a sharp groan of pain from her red headed combatant as her foot lands dead center in the Gerudo’s armorless chest. Catching one of her returning blades, she immediately launches it back, missing the Sheikah’s leg by a negligible margin. Spearing into the stone floor, the razor sharp disc remains useful, preventing the assassin’s foot from reestablishing equilibrium. Forced to warble off-balanced for only a moment, the ninja must push her elasticity to its limit as the second chakra is caught and thrown at her head. Watching a small tuft of hair drift away from her, the Sheikah decides this battle has gone on long enough. Twisting impossibly into a prone position on the floor, her red eye narrows as she finds her ideal footing in her spider-like pose. Skipping back a step, the Gerudo doesn’t let her gaze wander, hoping the ninja will make the critical mistake of moving into the path of her returning projectile.

A storm of stabs is consistently deflected by the helmed man’s twisting blades. The suddenness of his movements makes the task of reading ahead unachievable. His every instance of attack or defense seemingly conceived only an instant before it is carried out. Striving for the unorthodox, the young man scoops a low swing, knowing it will be easily deflected and appear to offer an opening. Catching the blade between his own once again, the dark man is taken by surprise for the first time as his spirited opponent throws an overhand right with his shield. Barely able to dodge in time, the shield nicks the man’s helm as his head jerks backward to avoid the collision. Having expected a solid impact, the young man is temporarily off balance, over extending his reach with no assistance recoiling. Spotting his opening, the cloaked man dips forward, his blades ripping through the air at imperceptible speeds as he attempts to cleave the man’s shield arm off at the elbow. Refusing to let panic dull his

Reviews for The Legend of Zelda

[Jonathan · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

i think it was stookie but it needs a sequil