The Lunar of Conflict

Once a bastard, a bastard for good. Fuck the rest, everybody can dine in Heaven and wine in Hell for all I care. Give me a single sword and I'll prove to you what this world is truly all about.

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A Ranger's Tale

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My blood… is it just only mine?

A metallic warmth and taste… I fucking hate this bullshit.

Am I already dead... executed by my own sins?

Hell, do I even understand that word?

My loss, my pain… everything is nothing but a myth.

A bloodied blade… my sole apology… is it my hand gripping its hilt?

That moron whose death has saved me for good… was he merely a dream?

If the answer is yes, then why do this reminder feel so real, yet so far away?

I hear myself mocked without mercy, I can taste destiny’s decree. Death as the only path returning to sanity? The Azure Moon? Avalon? My own people shaped my future, they never know what they are doing. They are the mark of my guilt, their comfort a liar's tongue and words spewing from a knave.

That’s why I’m now lighting my bonfire.

My rage towards the source of all.

To pursue is to stay alive.

Fuck the morals, fuck the present, fuck them all. 

Echoes… echoes playing an endless dirge. I don’t know what it sounds like, but I know it’s a dirge. The face belonging to one now gone for good becomes a real spectre and I know his smile. He’s cutting me apart like a knife without intent, his parting speech… that only person truly understanding me… all awash in a sea of skies... final words fueling my bitter bile mixed in emotions...

"This is my parting gift to you. Live on, Aeranath... even if your life has been nothing more than a mistake."

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Jolting from his slumber, Aeranath found himself baptised in cold sweat. Inner demons licked by frigid air, knowledge on the past brought forth blackest dawn unto his racing heart. The Ranger was doomed to be a dreamer, a dreamer capable of living a nightmare everlasting and nothing more. Aeranath hated this ironic feeling, a feeling depriving his only right to deny any pain. That's reality for him, his only outlet of sanity.

For I know what should be done. To hunt down that wanker even though I killed him ages ago. And this time round, no more second tries in hell.

Guided by omens unseen but felt, Aeranath buckled down on his knees. Ominous woe soon to befall all stripped of good fortune, a galloping heart kept begging for a mercy not granted. Chest tightly clutched with both hands, Aeranath knew the lunar sky would taste blood once again more.

The beast could only break free, there’s no other choice. The wolf forcing its restraining chains till limits unthinkable, its hunger would never be sated.

No guarantee of sanity, no chance of staying intact.

This familiar feeling.

Kill.

Even if only for this very night.

Kill and you'll be verily free.

Skies were broken, the heavens would never weep for him. Persistent laughter despite a resilient will festered like a massive sore, a twisted solace lasting until daybreak of a brand new dawn.

Yea, the killer preparing to dominate, a primal roar projecting forth another victory easily won…

Marked by a full crimson moon shining brightly above the slaughter come...

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Pallister Scholes wasted little time mulling over the scout's tip-off. With nary a question asked, he knew the sort of lurking individuals coming out from their hole once midnight's stroke hits home. Failure amounting to pandemonium prevailing, only a halfwit would put a wager on the local militia dealing with success any consequences at hand. Numbers nothing more than a game of figures, shaping the battlefield was all that matters.

Before every seasoned veteran, such a gulf separating pretenders from all truly strong had always been unbridgeable. A smug grin shown, Pallister could almost visualise images of stunned mugs surfacing onto his mind. Simply put, facing the Red Lions' wrathful brunt was no laughing jape. Those boasting themselves as the Ultra Gang would be in for something, words from the scouting lad looping endlessly in his subordinates' minds.

For the past three weeks, these assholes have been gathering their buddies to stage a mass raid. Citias is no stranger to this shit. Or maybe we should extend the rule throughout and beyond our glorious Empire while we're at it. So, boss... shall we up them bozos?

"Sarge Scholes! All lads on the pitch!" informed an excited runner as Pallister prepared himself to lead this battle.

"Good," came a dry reply without turning to face the informant, "Relay my orders that we'll be moving out after three minutes in ten companies of twenty each. All must stay within a five mile radius from each other. Positioning should be our highest priority, but that's just me talking cock."

Chortling laughter greeted Pallister's sudden show of humour, everybody trained under him before knowing this man to be an able leader understanding his men's psyche.

"Anyway, we will only strike the enemy's camp after consolidating every company," continued the ginger sergeant, his face reverting back to a frown, "At the same time, tell each group to send out a scout every half an hour’s interval starting from our departure. Information of any changes in situation is a must and I shall lead the vanguard hit if the need arises."

"Aye, Sarge!"

Pallister could taste victory like a glass of sweetest wine even before the battle commenced. This wasn't about overconfidence inflated by pride, this was down to faith held in those under his command. Sadly for the leader, he had never understood history. Pitifully for every man, history had always been a subject rife with humane absurdities.

What's gonna happen soon enough… will it mean a total nightmare for me and the lads?

Such questions should not be entertained, such a question flashed across Pallister's mind. Distraction without reasons ignored straightaway, a clear full moon hanging above on a black starry wall would soon provide ample proof that history do happen for a cause.

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"Dude, I can't wait for the fucking fun to start," griped an unshaven man in a chainmail shirt, his sword belted at the waist while he and a few other friends squatted outside their encampment.

"Yeah, you're right on that, stud. Even a ‘tard knows we’ll have tons of fodder under us, so why not hoard some of their finest bitches by then?" replied a ratty lad around sixteen winters, his lazy drawl drawing hoots and catcalls of approval.

"That's a good idea! Why di... hey you see that, Obtsan?"

"Seems to be some random sucker coming our way... oh shit! Fucker's armed! Doubt he wants to bant. Go rat Chief Ben!" gaped Obstan, both hands gripping his spear tightly.

"No need for that, Tanner. It’s only us vs one. Even a hamster can declare the correct winner here," grinned a rotten toothed hulk towering beside Obstan.

Encouraged by a grown up’s drivel, blades and axes were drawn against an intruder looming into view. As all ten sentries prepared to pounce, a lightning arc was unleashed from the stranger's naked sword. Bluish streak slicing across a silent night, Obstan could only feel a shove on his back and agony burning him alive. Blood curdling screams begetting a brief respite, the betrayed boy's terrified friends dared not cast a direct gaze against that monster before them. Crimson red orbs hailing a gathering of knaves, the killer lowered his hood. An unworthy army of mongrels amounting to naught, a lone wolf’s fangs began culling by dozens a toothless pack.

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Reconnaissance halted under Pallister's order an hour ago, every Red Lion company started nearing the intended target inch by inch. Silence unbearable for every man bearing his Lion's pride, a round of good humoured jape first ensued. Alas immature bravado soon evaporated to nothingness, not a single cricket uttered a chirp. Seasoned veterans like Pallister Scholes would not hesitate in staying put, but not any lad reaching twenty winters. Come make or break, pointless decisions should be the last thing ever needed. And to a field leader, staying put on the spot would be just that.

'Tis better to conserve energy for the fight ahead than to subject every lad under selfish standards, for I'm first a Sergeant and a leader foremost, not a brainless taskmaster.

Slivers of doubt extinguished, orders were given and every man bearing arms marched headlong into the bandits' base. The militia stood aghast at bodies of sentries strewn, an incursion initiated by blood and death painting the sturdy gates red. Adopting a cautious approach this time round, the only reality welcoming them eventually was nothing less than a nightmare's keep.

Dozens dismembered and charred, only the dead were visible. A motley group brutally slaughtered, the crimson moon revealed forth a testament inked by Chaos' quill. Hair of purest frost contrasting starkly with fairest features dark, an Elven visage became wholly static in an unholy state. Insane rhythm beating from Pallister's heart was the last thing felt, a predator suddenly ravaging a battalion of sheep helpless and armed.

Oblivion's hand finally revealed, all Pallister Scholes could witness are merely heads detached from his lads and blood spraying from their lifeless bodies. He then felt a burning pain, a searing fire simmering in the belly. He never realised the demon was before him until both were staring eye to eye...

And it all ended here, his body and soul immolated eternally and forever more.

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Stained by blood and haunted by despair, Ronal Cristan could only flee without a direction. He believed at first the Elven poseur as a rabid madman high on drugs until the tables turned, a maelstrom merging sword with powers unworldly leaving a destructive wake. If one was to see things via merit in numbers, ludicrous would be the only word apt. Mere defeat being a myth, Ronal unwittingly mouthed a lingo belonging to the Red Lions.

The Quintet must be crazy...

With blood still pumping and legs working in fear, this phrase was the only thing preventing a wreck inexorably broken. For reasons unknown bar instincts at survival’s disposal, the raven haired Ronal understood that any chance in getting killed by the brown skinned devil would always be deemed one too many. Escape might not offer a glimmering hope, but at least partial self-awareness was still attainable. Because even with sanity unravelling like a garment poorly woven, at least Ronal was doing something.

Always upholding an image of immense arrogance, the lad had gotten used to thumbing up his nose towards any fellow Lions beneath him. He understood merit in terms of actual capability, his knowledge had finally exposed that greatest failing called pride. For who could stand firm against an entity not of humane borne? Definitely not him. Mercilessly ridiculed without a chance to retaliate, here was no place for the arrogant, prideful and egoistical to stake their empty boast. Only scars inflicted remained behind, only scars unseen emerged as lordly victor most brutal.

Comes the moment, comes the surrender. Failing of fragility exacting its rightful toll, Ronal Cristan defeated Ronal Cristan. Inability to run any longer highlighting the truth representing fatalism, yet another victim was waiting to be claimed. They said anybody can achieve victory over fate, man will always be his own master. No one, however, could truly boast to be a survivor when it comes to death in the middle of freak circumstances.

His skull suddenly feeling feather light, Ronal's throbbing head promptly collapsed like a fortress made from cards. Vision brimming full of inexplicable giddiness, incoherent thoughts swam around freely. Sound judgment totally nullified bar a traumatic dream, countless images of the massacre stayed flickering. With nothing sustaining Ronal’s mind, nothing more was felt apart from that one single voice heard before passing out.

Do not fret, boy. You'll survive alright. May that murderer face a wrath rivalling the Holy Quintet scorned…

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Fergie Malom took sip from his wine, his sharp brown eyes browsing the various mission reports submitted the day before. The Gaffer of Manchester had guarded his post for three decades in running like a possessive youth, the Empire's decision to appoint him benefiting the Red Lions to no end. Exceptional leadership ensuring success unbroken, systematic reforms together with an inner fire kept alive his stubborn streak. Hence the sole mantra in his life: real arrogance means able to produce the real goods. Fergie had gained a notorious repute when it comes to his detractors, a penchant in telling off any such individual to shove his own critique up the ass polarising opinions of every nature. In a comedic way, this was Fergie's only key reason motivating his eye for actual talent.

Of course should there be a stain in his glittering career thus far, it would be those slipping away under his hooked nose. Those were the very same soldiers joining other Divisions, the very same people incurring their losses by snubbing a once-in-a-lifetime chance offered. A particular Fabras Cesc did leave behind a bitter aftertaste, his most competitive rival, Arsun Wengas of Highbury stealing a march on him. He had guessed correctly during the same year a certain Ronal Cristan to be a rough gem destined for dizzying heights, yet why stop at one when one can have two?

Another recruit more recent suddenly came to mind. Guy Cody was an interesting prospect trained under one of his former students, him being one of the very few worthy of Pallister Scholes’ praise. Nothing was said from his ex-protege apart from remarks pertaining to combat and passion, the only aspect disparaging was a questionable intelligence at times.

Sadly, Teesside became the final nail in the coffin even though fortune always favoured the pragmatic. Fergie was no fool. Guy was one valuing personal kinship and honour above everything else unless being forced to a compromise. The very fact that his uncle, Garyth Parkins has based his roots there for his entire lifetime should be the most concrete evidence ever. Fergie shook his head slightly in resignation, for indeed Manchester's loss was everybody's loss. Fifty five years of staying alive, this veteran had never felt so much like an ass before.

Frantic knocking cutting off his thoughts, the iron haired Gaffer cleared his throat as an unspoken signal. A lanky fair haired runner wearing an ashen face stumbled through the oaken door, Evan Jonno's reaction surprising the Gaffer. Fergie knew the lad for quite some time as another talent unearthed, the signs seemed nevertheless pessimistic.

"Ronal Cristan was found unconscious by the Headquarters' entrance minutes ago!" blabbered the lad.

"What the fuck?” snapped Fergie, “Ain't he supposed to be under Pallister Scholes’ command for that mission in Citias? You better tell me some answers I want to hear, boy!"

"Aye spot on, Gaffer Sir,” answered Evans with a drawl capable of earning a throttling session, “Actually he has regained his senses. Or whatever that’s left in him anyway. Nothing is mentioned so far apart from senseless ranting still ongoing the last time I left. You know... on some funny red eyed demon killing the shit out of everyone and everything."

"What do you mean?" demanded Fergie, his frown tantamount to an omen of ill, “Don’t fuck me around, get me, boy?"

"Just like what I've mentioned, Sir,” continued the flaxen haired boy, his unchanged attitude seemingly unmindful toward his superior’s thinly veiled threat, “The lads sent over to Citias were butchered until the last man. And that include those bailing the field. I don't know why Ronal managed to be the proverbial last man, but at least he managed to give a detailed description on that nutjob despite the apparent. And you won't believe how the miracle turn out to be, boss."

"Don't fucking test my patience, you get me? Spit out your shit and begone with yourself," snarled the grizzled commander.

"What he said fitted what we've understood about the Lindel anal recently,” gulped Evans, the goofy lad wasn't stupid enough not to detect the danger signs, “Well, you know... that funny sod whom we thought wasn't worth Manchester's trouble?"

On understanding Evans' hinting words, Fergie Malom could only conceive a single statement.

Shit... we’ve fucked it…

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I watch my past seven years ago unfolding like a play, myself seated as the lone audience. Everything is too surreal, this has never been the way to spend my eighteenth birthday. Lecherous leers exposed my fear back then, my kidnappers sparing no efforts in unmasking their hopeless lives lived. Who would ever commit his lust onto an eleven year old girl yet to see maidenhood? They claimed they're after my father's gold, my father’s gold was nothing to these ravenous wolves licking their lips.

Should everything primal overrule all things rational?

I ask myself this question, rumoured tales of potent brew run rampant in my head. Any contents within such a drink should be meant as a whispered warning to every noble virgin truly desirable, yet here I am being the witness.

There's no honour in fuelling your own desires for the sake of anything and everything.

My mother not from birth has taught me this much and this is why I abhor such a life. What purpose does the promise of power serve if your soul knows not what you're living for?

Then he entered the act abruptly and chaotically. All twenty bandits bereft of hope were hacked down without respite, his blinking movement outrageously alluring. Yea, to truly feel my saviour travelling to and fro with impunity is indeed a beauty by itself. I see nothing less than a marvelous sequence of somebody disappearing and reappearing at will, me being both the audience and the little girl saved. They tend to shun me because they say a Cinha is not a Causacean and therefore, a Cinha isn't really normal.

His eyes of crimson red... should I be fearing him?

Is he Death assuming flesh?

Or mayhap only Chaos itself made real?

My mind pays no heed to this question asked since I know without a doubt that this dream will never be the end. 'Tis but only a beginning I can't foresee, my heart reaching out to the owner brandishing his sword.

As the main actress on stage, should he be the main actor?

As the only audience seated below, should I adore him akin to how smallborne girls desire a comely actor on stage?

A living sigil embodying conflicts between what-if and unknown affliction should be more than enough reason for me to ask myself this.

I then see the full moon gradually laying down its cards, I witness a captivating sea of blue invading the lunar sky. The resultant clarity ensnaring my dark brown eyes for life is the obscurity called the True Apostles, I know he is one. Stating wordless greetings most poignant, he stays standing tall. I never expect his complexion bronzed like a Tamurian, I will never accept his starkest white hair and sharpest Elven features as a lie. His orbs of blood is now slowly, but surely being supplanted by that most beautiful shade of blue I have ever seen...

The azure moon hanging above...

The never-ending blanket of clearest blue…

Yes, everything truly represents the True Apostles...

If only I could tell him that night my name is Alestrial Eliaden...

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Background notes:

Bant: mentioned in Chapter 2.

Rat: Slang for informing (somebody)

Up them bozos: An expression along the lines of "fuck you"

Vanguard hit: Tactical jargon meaning a preemptive strike.

Anal: Something/someone truly unpleasant

The concept of time partially given here, i.e. midnight's stroke, is based on the usage of hourglass. By the common standards, it will require half an hour for one bulb to be emptied and two bulbs' worth of emptying will symbolise an hour gone. Hours in The Known World is extremely important as it is the sole standard measurement unit of time. It takes six hours starting from evening to reach midnight's stroke, so it's pretty easy to do the maths here. Any attempts to predict any duration of time however, is at best tentative.

Also a brief mention on the Quintet Faith here: it has nothing to do with the Holy Trinity aspect of Christianity. Rather it is inspired by Faith of the Seven. Okay, I might have lied here somehow because G.R.R Martin actually based the concept off the medieval Catholic Church. -_-

Note on above mention: I have no part on whether G.R.R.M was truly trying to troll back then though. :D

Red Alert!

Apparently, Manchester has joined the merry Red Lions despite any perceived insults possibly felt by any Manchester United fans otherwise. Manchester City on the other hand is Citias lol!

Fergie Malom: Sir Alex Ferguson

Evans Jon: Jon Evans

Arsun Wengas: Arsene Wenger

Fabras Cesc: Cesc Fabregas

Ronal Cristan: Cristiano Ronaldo (I actually started this way back where I was still a brainless CR7 basher)

Garyth Parkins: Gary "Parky" Parkinson. Get well soon, Parky. You're indeed a Boro hero.

Pallister Scholes: A combination word play between Gary Pallister and Paul Scholes. Both truly classy players in their own rights. And yes, Gary Pallister was playing for Middlesbrough like the two other mentioned heroes of 1986 before Sir Alex Ferguson swooped for him.

Final A/N: Some of the fodder cast portrayed throughout the plot thus far are basically inspired by internet trolls in real life so as to speak. Apparently, most of them actually has now managed to start talking major common sense for quite some time ever since I've outed this inspiration of shame. No sarcasm here to be fair. 'Tis gonna be fun toying with trolls and bullies here. Let's kill all the bodoh kambing hitam. 

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