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Ok, I admit that I've failed somewhere before. But anyway welcome. Just a brief intro on what you should expect here:
1. Football. Not gonna post much of that any soon since season is over. :S
2. Anime, Games, etc. Just abt anything conceivable under the Japanese radar barring anything and everything Rule 34. Now that's illegal. Period. -.-;
3. Music. Everything to do with it is listed under the tab.
5. Unacceptable humour: Anything and everything is fair game here. As long as I don't get rounded up by the ISA. -.-'

6.
The Known World=Fantasy world building in process. I: Used to be glossary, now devoted to random rambling; II: Character Concepts; III: Lore.
7. der Wolf=my Fictionpress account under the moniker Tsumujikaze no Soujutsu. A Ranger's Tale is hosted under this page. :)
8. New section now upped. Maybe I should also gun for upping A Ranger's Tale here since I do have this funny feeling that traffic coming to here is way more than whatever I'll get in FP.

Statement of intent: Everything said here is a figment of personal opinion, be it me or anybody commenting. I try to be responsible, but my parents=/=parents of the world.

@Druid of Luhn: Crap. Should have remembered far earlier to give you the credit for your CSS text box code. :(

A/N: But sadly, it seems that your CSS text box code has now been halved efficiency wise. :(

That most important note I should have added: Any images posted in this blog are NOT my own stuff. I got them from Google image search, I don't earn any shit by being a thief and liar. Those responsible for the pictures, rest assured that you all are great artists in your own regards. Sadly, we all know what limited space means in terms of posting.

Latest Note: Changed alignment for my page widgets due to my worry that I can't centre align the thing.

Note on A Ranger's Tale: In case any complaining fella wants to have a legal case with me, let this be known that A Ranger's Tale is rated M by default. I've upped the swearing and somewhat a bit on the dark/gritty factor. You all have been warned, let no little boy and girl enter the forbidden realm.

Latest on ART: A Ranger's Tale now starting to kick back in gear. But I really hate the insanely fluctuating climate here in S'pore.

P.S: Oh, and one more thing. Vid below is yet another ideal OP for A Ranger's Tale.

Sunday, 3 February 2013

A Prelude To All Things To Come

No one will take heed of a bastard when they see one, the world itself will never remember one as you. Therefore, arm yourself with every ridicule spat at your face by forging the sharpest blade from coldest steel. Only then can you surely slice apart everything and everyone denying your worth and your life.
~Ziron, Lord of the Lancers

Ideal OP

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A Ranger's Tale

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The heavy breathing was sensed by every nocturnal life, their sights staying clear from that running fodder. For a while they knew not all that transpired even though the escapee's fear was all too tell-tale. Mayhap the sole fact preventing any attack from predators lurking within the foliage was merely down to an absolute reality decreeing none were on the prowl.

Utterly shaken by all coming to pass, the lone Orc only could recall an infant joy born from the womb called success. The merchant caravan hours earlier were doomed to a certain voyage one way straight, its very destination pointing to the maws of imminent rape, murder and despair. Protected by an ironic reasoning, total knowledge written in theory became the highest price demanded from foolish pride. A screaming sea of blood, heads, limbs and enslaved maids no longer chaste proved to be the only Orcish pride sufficient.

All believed this foulest race was notorious for raiding tactics, yet rendered helpless once having nothing else to live for. Cowardice the only trait rivalling merit of superior strength, failings in hearsay shunned the truth. A rally in numbers would always work, but not with their numbers accounted for lesser.

The virtue of unity had never been deemed unacceptable before eyes of the sane unless a hapless soul was forced to bear witness their burning lust and madness justified by baleful leers. To these green shaggy brutes, this is the only way to survive and feel alive.

Fate did have a way of evening out a certain balance though via events most unfathomable, the only sliver of Orcish pride mocked without mercy. That daring entity stumbling into their sight managed to create an assumption, the particular Raidband saw this opportunity as a plaything for leisure, pleasure and nothing more.

Weapons flashed and blood spilt on the nightly earth, there could be only a victorious party standing strong. Forty tusked rabble versus one perceived fodder, the former ate the dust before the latter's scarlet blood orbs. Brimming with unbridled chaos and absolute power, the crazed killer etched inside a living prey an understanding on defining a wrong target. Corrosive fear tantamount to affirmation, the sole survivor took his flight with nary an afterthought.

Endless abyss of red masked within jewels of crimson red, image of a hooded being was branded into the depths of fading sanity like one's name engraved onto an ornate tomb. Despair, like gluttony insatiable, devoured whatever little left behind as a demon's darkest visage played a score composed by death.

With Orcish stamina caving in at last, he paused to take a breather. The coast should be clear already, distance covered far enough for comfort.

Daynjer pass, daynjer pass now oredee, reasoned the Orc by himself.

Consoled by his own words spoken from terror, vulgar curses were subsequently unleashed. Squat features instantly warped, a face of futile anger surfaced naturally. Surely that unknown beast had already rammed fear down his throat, silent rounds of laughter justifying a massacre most insane. Voluntary retreat to a false prison with self-comfort being the walls, concrete evidence proving a fallible nature mocked would always be one's downfall. Just as no sane mortal would be glad to see the slightest of affront went unpaid, thus a storm of swords wreaked by that devil was nowhere different in the Orc's bloodshot view.

With resolution made firm, the brutish craven glanced furtively all round. A presence of rising smoke leading north could only mean one thing: not any foolhardy traveller's camp, but an encampment fortified by his ethnic peers. Tales of a monstrous loner crazed would swiftly spread like wildfire, blessings from embellished speech equivalent to a tiny spark started in the middle of a grove. Yet he cared not for whatever results come the end, another case of mass casualties the final thing on his mind. Of course such an intent's worth was to be nothing more than absurdity, the monster would verily have left for good before a decent Warband rallied fore.

However, every being birthed with tusks and green tough hide together with thick layers of fur was never renowned to think coherently upon receiving a taunt. In factual truth, prospects of a painful death via any and every means imaginable was totally non-existent, a volatile repute rightfully earned ironically lost to one of their own. Idiocy was the sole reason behind this fallen race's inability to conduct a mass raiding attempt, lurid rumours had it that every Orc is born a male through any womb belonging to any other race much fairer.

A rustling sound suddenly heard from foliage densest, panic exposed snared a brutishly fragile heart. Intangible chill seeping into his spine, the only sight greeting his swivelling form being a hare chased by a fox.

Stoolpit rabitses, stoolpit foxes. Nau me wan sum preetee elfee beyotchees.

Five parts annoyance and five parts feeling hard, the Orc stormed away with sexual cravings for any unfortunate Elven maid possibly stranded nearby. Lack of alertness proving soon to be his final action done, oblivion became an intruder from the doorsteps of surrounding shadows...

Yea, the inevitable marked its arrival. Orbs still tainted wholly in blood and murder staring back, a single bite from a frigid steel silenced eternally every statement authored by despair. The quarry's throat ripped apart with no hesitation, a lone silhouette ghosted away underneath a dark blanket adorned by countless stars. No one would ever remember the lunar cloak, no one would remember the dead mocked and drunk with their own lifeblood.

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Lindel... a modest city most famed in the eyes of bounty hunters. Rooted within the Eagle Horn and protected by the much respected Red Lions, folly of underestimation might seem a tempting offer at first. Yet payment would surely be demanded from every fool, core values in the Kalaran Empire known better as the Kalaran dream being this militia's solid rock. They said that meritocracy is fair, meritocracy is flawless, meritocracy is why the Kalarans are so prosperous. Alas, The Known World had never been fair to any and all, such was the sole law of equality. If humanity should be seen as merely a slave unto itself, then mayhap every mortal’s life was to be nothing more than a paradox assuming flesh.

Mid-summer was always a season to cheer about. Children were frolicking within shallow fountains, the womenfolk in turn indulged themselves in idle gossips as they kept a watchful eye on their charges. Dwarven requiem of yore rang loudly true with anvils struck, none could understand the looney obsession behind the Goblins' never-ending quest of peddling their haphazard technology. Verbal spats erupting from grocery stores lined at either side, evidence indicating a normal bustling life was proven amply by flustered female Halfling clerks on the verge of strangling every male Kobold runners alive pertaining to sexual harassment. Occasional sightings of the enigmatic Elves went unquestioned by prudent folks harbouring a reckless urge, long eared warriors fiercely aloof were seen lounging inside random taverns whilst awaiting the highest bidder for their martial service.

As the crowd continued pulsating throughout the streets, an odd sight indeed was seen standing out like a lone wolf amidst a humane pack. Clad in forest green and a leather cuirass grey, a hooded sable cloak was draped over an athletic frame. With right hand slinging an unknown bundle over the shoulder, the other left rested itself onto the pommel of a longsword sheathed. This was no traveller accustomed to a settled life, those taking notice dared not ask any question, let alone some innocuous greeting.

As said foreign alien continued a silent walk, any expression relating to being treated as a walking showpiece was kept shrouded under a covered head slightly bowed with a single storey building looming into view. Chiming bells announcing a badly maintained door opened wide, a visual facade was finally shed with the door slammed shut. An indomitable wolf's aura emanating from a well proportioned frame, what truly defined him as unique was his visage. Sharp Elven features contrasting with a medium shade of brown, this was to be nothing less than an exotic sight. Most strikingly of all however, was the colour of his shortly kept hair swept towards one side.

One of purest frost and a feel most intangibly unnatural.

Seated at the desk was a bespectacled man deserving of retirement, the dark warrior remained impassive against an acting poorly staged. Barely surprised before the sight of one person leafing through records of targets still at large, this aloof individual had no qualms in turning a blind eye towards people enjoying to act important.

Because one bummer means too much free time to burn.

"Taking or ending?" glared the old man after having his glasses pushed up straight by the other party's hand. As the answer was about to be disclosed, a sudden flash of thought raced across the stranger's mind. He understood perfectly what he’s capable of, a predator cared not what it hunts, but rather what it kills. However...

Hmph, count himself lucky. No signs of that bastard's Geis...

"Ending," he answered with an expressionless face and a bored tone.

"Evidence? Target?" retorted the crusty coot.

"Max Henry. Here's the booty," shrugged the foreigner, his gruesome package flung unceremoniously onto the desk. A decapitated head with blood utterly drained, an expression combining shock and horror stayed unchanged even in death.

"That's the cunt we're after alright," grinned the old man wryly, an impressed whistle blown paying final respects to a dead man’s head rolling off the surface, "But then again, I thought that pretty boy is said to be extremely dangerous. Strangling has been his way of killing, but rumours have it that he's even better in fighting at close quarters… bah, fuck them all! You're a Ranger, no? Unpredictable, yes. Satisfaction guaranteed, damned hell yeah."

"Count himself unlucky then. I don't have to waste three blinking of an eye to end a shitty butterfly. That sweet young thing's a bummer though," sighed the rugged warrior while absently scratching the back of his head, "Guess being a nearly sucker truly sucks if you can't enjoy what justice feels like."

"You've got a warped sense of jest here, black stud," chortled the old man with yellowed teeth revealed, "Reminds me of my younger days decades ago. Mark my words, you're not gonna be popular with all the rich missus, but Holy Quintet be damned if you're no wench bait. What's your name by the way, sonny?"

"Aeranath," yawned the Ranger unsightly, "Congratulations for killing a few moments of my precious life."

"Well, everyone hates the SOP, everyone knows the meaning," shrugged the geezer nonchalantly, "With all being said, you're unnatural. What I'm looking at is an Elf grown horribly wrongly. Or maybe this is my first time seeing a charred Elf with a weird hair dye although your complexion does remind me of a Tamurian. A bastard Elf?"

"Money or your life please," answered Aeranath flatly, his index finger engaging in a tracing game with the mortar wall, "You're boring the shit out of me and I'm proven correct. Case in point: my ass is currently facing against you."

"Okie dokie, I know. Don't be such a grouch. You’re still young, you're in serious need of getting laid," the clerk puffed out his cheeks in reply as Aeranath caught a leather pouch brimming with crowns tossed towards him, "Here's your moolah. That one's a jackpot. Bugger's a son of oil."

Without answering a single word, Aeranath stashed his well-earned keep away as he closed the door with a single flick from the wrist. A resultant boom reverberating down his spine, the old man nevertheless snorted with a good humoured smile in tow as the person he would never see again manage to score major points in his book.

"Whatever happened to his manners... didn't say a word of thanks," huffed the clerk with slight frustration soon giving way to a resigned whistle, "Ah well, guess that's the story of youth: get busy living rather than get easy dying. Bites to see that stupid repair bill soon again..."

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Never caring much for dwelling at places in which people abound, Aeranath at least enjoyed a hearty meal of grilled beef and creamy corn soup as the waiting boy's enthusiasm was rewarded with a generous tip. Apparently, a glower exposed would more than suffice to deem perfect in curing persistent fools. Even a single night’s stay at a luxurious inn was a no-go territory due to a history of intolerance directed against unwitting clowns. This was his height of standard for at least nine out of every ten people encountered. One amongst all, that's his logical definition.

Upon stepping out of the oaken door, commotion from a crowd nearby greeted his sharp hearing. Statements spoken from mere busybodies relaying to him a certain message, Aeranath cared not the word "murderers" being bandied about. Wailing cries of grief touching none, the fate of children now orphaned failed to tear down a wall of ice reinforcing his uncaring look. Never one granting any care to events regarded as trouble, Aeranath resumed his casual stroll. With back still turned towards the front, a chorus boorishly loud dismantled whatever surviving patience in him piece by piece.

"Whatcha lookin' at? Ne'er seen some'un killin' befah’? We fahkin’ dung a old biatch an’ sen’ ah’ stoopit tard to jail! Wee god ahawy cuz’ wee da very best in de business an’ sekuritee ferz uz! Servz dis bitch rite for spillin' al'on us!"

Drunken slurs only serving to force Aeranath's hand, it's either killing them all or just heck damning them all. The latter option would always be a preferable route so long as trouble did not try courting him first. Yet, he's more than happy to return any favour should things start going awry. To a Ranger, the only path found was that of a soldiering wayfarer in the wilderness whilst pursuing an endless hunt otherwise called the moment of life. Aeranath was nowhere special in comparison, going out of his way in making life miserable for others never playing a part where personal leisure is concerned. That was only prior to having a hard vice gripping his shoulder.

"Hay 'u! A'm talkin' to yer, farkah!" Aeranath never even bothered to steal a single glance, a flicker of annoyance worn and unaware to the speaker. Alas, one verbal spark managed to ignite one entire bonfire.

"What the fuck do you want?"

"Yer got gutz, 'uh? Lemme tell ye wat 'appen to peepz like ye. See dat beyotch o'er dere?" hollered a burly man, wild gestures pointing to a direction where the crowd had parted out of cowering fear. Lifeless eyes of a bloodied woman dressed in black and a white apron dirtied didn't score any marks for his emotions, let alone a couple of bawling kids.

"See dat, 'uh? dat kan bee 'u nex!"

Aeranath chose not to betray a single shred of reaction, for why should there be any? Even a reeking alcoholic stench invading his nostrils couldn't move his heart forged from icy steel. Glaring at an insolent drunk never realising that he's barking up the wrong tree all the time, an answer most desirable by none was promptly gifted with a clucking of his tongue.

"I don't give a rat's ass to you, what you've done or whatever dead drunk bullshitting here. Go find something else to wank on and you’ll have your life as a reward," hissed the Ranger as he lifted his head in full view, a pair of azure jewels living and volatile staring back frigidly.

With formalities done together with a finger shown, Aeranath forced the dishevelled knave's grip away and continued walking off.

"U dar too turn 'ur bac' on mee? Dy lik'ah dawg!" roared an outraged burly hulk, a tense standoff moments earlier now exploding in full force. A massive axe was raised above his shiny pate, any determination bent on putting to end the disrespectful gnat destined as an outright farce.

A dirge sung by heaven's fury shocking onlookers unto their very core, a smile brought fore his inner world. The executioner now proclaiming his judgment, an edge utmost deadly and swift left its scabbard.

None could discern the manner of speed travelled by a single bluish streak tearing straight into the heart, but the bulky drunk was now surely sharing his victim's end. Aeranath booted the stuck body callously away, his sword fluidly freed from a dead man's chest. The remaining four gripped their weapons tight with snarls and nerves, a common posture adopted hinting at intoxication not undone. An unfeeling smile accompanying sharp observation, a blade still crackling in azure blue was flipped around like a casual toy.

"Why would a decent being raise his junk against me? He's a fuzzy ape with a fuzzier brain after all," smirked Aeranath, a free hand casually brushed across his snowy fringe, "I don't always kill people, but when I do, I'll make sure they stay dead. So answer me then: any volunteers to join your best friend forever?"

"Yar basterd! Yev gott'us on'to u nao!"

Goaded by cocky sniping, the foremost thug lunged towards him with half-muddled anger filling his bloodshot eyes. A bardiche intercepted by an arcing slash, his throat was sliced cleanly apart in a stunning show of break-and-counter seemingly simple. As another victim was left wallowing in his own pooling blood, Aeranath merely murmured a few sneering words in reply.

Two down, three to go...

Circling behind undetected in spite of an unsteady gait, a broadsword began its descent against Aeranath's exposed back. Swift was the forceful wrath none could ever hope to escape, tables unexpectedly turned would merely mean one surviving victor and nothing more. Attack blocked by an open hand, the only sensation the ruffian felt was a numbing impact akin to a toy hammer smashed against a mountain rock.

"A simple trick and you can call this skin turning to stone," taunted Aeranath, "A shame to see an idiot's mug though"

With a lash lethal and striking true, a final hand was dealt in the form of an edge biting into his third kill already confirmed.

A killing blow speeding like the wind... shit is getting too fast and boring.

As if in reaction to his inner words, the supernatural phenomena abolished itself. Pausing for a while even if it’s merely a gesture outright arrogant, adjusting his gloves of muted grey only served to agitate every surviving foe. Aeranath was not a fool despite a whimsical persona now proven. He was toying with his prey, to break them down mentally rather than fighting them head on. Years of warfare and solitary duels in every hard terrain viable had created a tactical aspect in this certified pariah, yet the remaining two were never the type of hardened soldiers posing a far better challenge otherwise.

Apparently shaken, seeing a monstrous wolf loosed upon them only served to heighten a given fear in front of consequences undeniable. An atmosphere suffocating lasted only for a few minutes, a terrifying air of silence bore witness to a chaotic hell crushing the survivors slowly. Final judgment then arrived abruptly, its glory most macabre hinted subtly via Aeranath pulling his embedded blade from the pavement of clay.

The surrounding air soon turned violent, a waltzing movement past the wide eyed fodder paying scant attention to each jaw gaping wide. Invisible blades materialised by turbulent air ripping his prey apart, trauma irreversible baptised all innocent bystanders equally guilty due to apathy. With a crimson shower of blood and mangled remains drawn to close, a blaring horn soon echoed through every nook and alley.

"Red Lions! The Red Lions are coming!"

Thundering boots making tremors known, the shattered crowd were promptly evacuated efficiently. Greeting Aeranath was an impressive sight of hardened ranks amounting to a phalanx formation, their strongest statement of intent now sent across. With halberds lowered for battle at the forefront rank, steel helmets and coats of glittering scales complimented their white surcoats emblazoned with a red lion half standing. Responding lazily to stoicism reinforced by a taken oath unknown to him, Aeranath only drew up a single conclusion.

What a half-assed comedy...

Murderous whims opening up a can of worms, the Ranger never deemed it a serious fact. Retaining a vicious grin as he set about doing what should be corrected, Aeranath paid mock attention in the face of some pompous speaker by digging an ear with his little finger. The dark Ranger had perceived everything to be set in stone, his judgment justified by those final words.

No action, talk only.

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Redknapp Haars could barely recall any details pertaining to whatever capabilities the madman moments prior possessed. Leaning against a nearby wall crimson smeared, his only vision looping endlessly was one of every fellow Lion either slain or critically down. A knowledge obtained without spoken words, delirium soon offered to be his companion. One departed figure painting a diabolical image darkest yet, descent to nothingness uttered a despairing sentence from quavering lips.

Motherfucker... ain't mortal... an absolute monster...

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Background notes:


Son of oil: An informal equivalent to someone being "slippery as an eel"


SOP: Can be interpreted as Standard Of Procedures, Standard Of Process or Steps Of Processing. A derogatory equivalent of any red tape process/culture.


Wench bait: Informal praise for a lady charmer. Used within the male context where girls of lower standing are concerned.

After a much detailed processing, it's been decided that minutes and moments within The Known World are actually interchangeable in reality. Simply put, any short instances of time can be applicable to such. Relevant changes will be made in the future chapters' edits.

The Orcs in The Known World are actually based off a combination of the Warhammer Fantasy version and those from the Dungeons and Dragons settings. More specifically that of the Forgotten Realms world since I'm far more familiar with that end. Simply put, any influences coming from the late great J.R.R Tolkien is pretty much minimal at most.

Geis is basically what one will call Satan's pact. I'll have to be frank in saying that this is a direct usage of the Old Irish term along a similar meaning. Basically it's a contract where the maker is the only banker.


Upgrading notice: The previous draft stated Geis to be a Demon specific ability, but it seems that I've written myself into a mini crater. 


At the same time, my Orcs are now upgraded to a bunch of horny extremists.


Yes, I'm a Singaporean, I must learn how to upgrade my chosen art.


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Ideal ED