I never wished for anything, a lion becomes my dream.
I never expected anything, a wolf becomes my yearning.
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A Ranger's Tale
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"You can't kill me! Milord Louthes, stop this knave!"
Denial crisply shrill identical to music resonating in his long sharp ears, Aeranath's sadistic grin betrayed a looming act, a final act. Every smallborne deemed Steubas Ouser as a bragging knave, extolling himself in raping little boys and girls alike comforted not a single person sane. It was indeed true that war would always be victory's only law, losers had no place in any pantheon. Thus no self-respecting person was willing to eat a fatal mouthful of the humble pie, dubious legitimacy surrounding Steubas' birth went unanswered.
Louthes Eliaden, on the other hand, was a leader far more concerned with one bigger goal rather than hundreds of petty flaws. Given the tactical intent behind the Teutonians' raid however, gaping at a cloaked stranger armed and hooded could only spell catastrophe. Peerless art in assimilation and assassination extolled by old wives' tales, no witness had seen before what a Ranger is truly capable of. As a Vanguard Commander under the Empire's law, Louthes finally convinced himself nothing ever whispered was a lie. Indulging this dark stranger's whim held no reason at all, thoughts of a mongrel's blood stained by another person's sword still consoled him nevertheless.
"Do you know who I am? I am..."
Before arrogance utmost desperate could fulfill an empty plea, a single flash became an instantaneous omen. With skull severed from a bloody fountain, Steubas Ouser was now surely dead. Rapist, murderer, slanderer and above all, an able field leader.
Louthes looked on impassively as Command Guards were rallied swiftly upon his armoured hand raised. While the Ranger was promptly captured and led away, the patriarch of House Eliaden ended up chewing his lower lip.
This intruder has the gall to enter and the gall to kill, he has the gall not to raise up any resistance armed.
Those were dry words mouthed from his lips parched by war, five days of fighting unexpectedly bogging him down. Come the sixth night of battle, Teutonia ended up discovering a familiar face turning his pride. The War of Mourners' Ford finally seen to its end, only pittance of the Empire's vanguard survived. Yea, the Kalarans had lost the war, Aries Eliaden was sacrificed to a fool's orders the day before. Teutonia had won the war, death could well afford its wait for the elder Eliaden.
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Louthes Eliaden remembered clearly why his only son got killed. Merely a lad of eighteen winters, Aries exuded a strong charisma unseen in his fellow peers. He was a cocky lad since birth, his cockiness justified by ability in leadership. As a leader blessed with capability but nothing else, Steubas Ouser caused his death with unsound orders as the hidden knife. Should Louthes then hate his own man? Or maybe it was that damned war.
Those damned barbarians.
If not for a debt owed to Aeranath, Louthes Eliaden would never agree to whatever terms laid on the table. The Ranger killed he who was responsible, the senior Eliaden in turn freed him in spite of risks far more perilous. An offer to fight alongside the Kalaran Empire was nothing bar a chaotic wish, his proud immunity to riches more valuable than life would explain why. Mirthless chortle sneering at himself, Aeranath's words eighteen years ago still haunted Louthes' mind.
It takes a good deal of courage to make hard decisions and a harder deal of balls to trust an enemy. Nobody loves a bastard, but what if said bastard has something to offer? So deal or no deal?
Howling wind ruffled his greying locks, a sharp pain creeping from an old wound stung his mind. Louthes was a crippled man, his movement impaired for life. He bore no gratitude towards a fool's errand lasting for a mere six days, voluntary demotion as a result was to be his only spite against all approving this military motion. Geran might be a disputed land, but the Quintet Church had installed a good man in the form of Leric Rahm. A decision reached eighteen years ago amounting to total madness, Aital was indeed a powerful adversary capable of shaming a full grown man. Until Aital ended up getting exposed as a literal woman, that is.
"And that's when stupid people started making stupid decisions after the Slarveans brought their own warrior doll home. Still thinking about the debt, no?"
Louthes never bothered peering over his back, past events gone informed him accurately who the biting speaker is. A tempest most wilful continuing its play, Aeranath's snowy hair billowed along every beck and call. The swirling air then died down gradually, briefest courtesies were exchanged. Louthes gave a slight nod, an expressionless mask decorating his visage. Aeranath drew his sword, a slight smile adorning his face.
"Do I owe you anything more apart from that moment where you saved my life, Aeranath?"
"You don't look like a cretin, but you now sound like one. The debt was done when you bailed me out of jail earlier."
"Yet you still desire a duel?"
"That's the key word to our deal eighteen years ago. A duel and not some half assed bribery attempt."
"And you won't unleash your sword's mighty fury on me?"
"I don't remember saying I'm born a winner."
A bystander would never be able to decipher the Ranger's words, but Louthes knew him better than that. This was an entity as unpredictable as a chaotic tide, not even he himself could truly say whether he's insane or not.
A single leaf dropped from a nearby tree, a fallen page of gold touching the dead men's soil. The Ranger abruptly appeared before a noble pair of sapphire eyes, a stoic stance staying true before an unflappable air.
Never flinching from a lethal force blocked, Louthes dug one lame foot into the sodden ground. His sensation of pain that of loss, there was nothing to lose here. The retired knight could not move freely his crippled left leg, this was why adapting is still highly prized. Every combat technique was merely in name, a living mind should not be enslaved. Erasmus Eliaden might be a shining beacon for philosophy, yet every male born under House Eliaden's bloodline had seen war firstly and foremost.
As Aeranath circled to his right, Louthes lashed out before the opposition could grab the initiative again. Armour or no armour, Louthes Eliaden was still a master of his craft. A quick draw of the blade forcing Aeranath to block a horizontal slash, the True Apostle was no idiot. A Knight Lord would always be one, honour or no honour.
One step to the fore with his good right foot, a forceful step made. Disadvantage in movement would merely point to liability in war, dueling was all about personal skill and finesse.
And battles are never won by just duel of arms alone, thought a bitter Louthes with a cynical smile.
Aeranath hopped back as he realised Louthes had effectively increased his attacking reach with a simple move.
Sucks to see I've fucked it, grinned an excited Aeranath.
The Knight Lord's sword already sheathed planted firmly on the ground, the elderly Lord's response told Aeranath that a damned-either-way situation is now at hand. Either he could dive in for a kill and risk a swift counter attack or adopting a defensive stance as his sole other option.
A smirk more than enough a warning to Louthes, nothing of a shock was betrayed in response to a single slash slicing across empty air. Warping himself just behind his opponent's back, the True Apostle prepared his killing blow...
Only to experience defeat as the elder Eliaden flipped his sword into a reverse grip and stabbing back. Louthes' timing was flawless, his defensive awareness birthing from a handicap for life. And all of which were executed seconds after an empty scabbard jammed against the Ranger's gut, the naked sword itself being a visual distraction. The True Apostle managed to jump back in time and beyond his opponent's attacking range.
Foiled by yet another counter-preemption, Aeranath deduced the only path to victory was to nail that decisive hit. The only catch?
Louthes can't be easily fucked around because he's a Fencer just like me, murmured Aeranath, his reaction to an array of skills adept in creating a weapon shield being a whistle barely audible.
His short thrust swiftly parried by a sharp swing of the crosspiece, Aeranath paid the price for such a reckless decision as Louthes swiftly unleashed his sword and nicked a wound below the ribs.
Silent wind suddenly regaining its roar, both Fencers continued their deadly dance. Occasional blinking proven to be futile, swift footwork ensured a delicate balance kept. Aeranath couldn't find a way through a wall fortified by sheer technique, Louthes Eliaden had yet to spot any gap in between a fluid sequence of lightning quick attacks sniping at him.
"I can't tell you 'their' location since I know nothing, but at least I know they're preparing to burn the camp this coming midnight."
Louthes never regretted his decision reached back then. The Fianna had indeed burnt the Kalaran camp, he managed to rally his men beforehand.
"It's either you get roasted or you get an ambush. Take it or leave it."
Successful retreat was merely a myth, vast majority of his men got themselves killed in action. Even till now, Louthes could only rail on helplessly against tactics only capable by soldiers not fearing the spectre of death.
"Unfortunately, I don't play anybody's game."
Was this the reason why he agreed to free Aeranath back then? He had asked the Ranger why he was such a shameless turnpride, he wasn't ashamed to declare his answer. Only one Fianna ended up killed and that was down to no one foreseeing Aeranath turning his pride. This should be Louthes' moment of reprieve back then, yet not even the likes of Aeranath could predict how the Fianna will react.
That's some real shit coming from those who never fear death. I've never seen the Fianna before, now I believe whatever being bullshitted about. So how's that arrow to the knee?
Fearless charging from hooded cavalry exacted a price of disability, a sudden lapse caused an arrow to be lodged deeply in his steel greaves' seam behind the kneecap.
Oblivious to turmoil unseen not of his own, Aeranath swiped an aim towards Louthes' good limb as his mind materialised a certain plan. By creating a false indication of focus in the enemy, an abrupt switch would easily throw a lesser opponent back to the chasm of defeat. A Fencer without a pair of feet equivalent to a peasant soldier without life, this was a rule understood by both.
'Tis a tactical intent in shifting the defence onto my torso, mused the elderly Knight Lord with an expression blank as a void.
Barely able to react in a timely fashion, Louthes knew Aeranath was just messing around. But so was he also, a Vanir well versed in defensive technique based on simple movement within a simple range.
If he aims for the good leg, block it.
Aeranath's attack was indeed blocked, the Ranger's sudden teleportation not sufficient in costing the House Patriarch his much desired brief reprieve.
If it's the dead one, use the good one.
Another blow was aimed against his crippled limb, an accurate prediction heralding fore the final checkmate. Louthes instinctively split his focus into two, a mental perfection honed at paramount highest. The Knight Lord swivelled away from danger, a sheathed sword in gripped with both hands assuming the fulcrum.
A near miss was all it took for that final chance, that final climax. An azure blade held high versus a noble sword aimed against the throat, a single hit dealt from each coming hand and both would be either injured or dead. Aeranath was not to be that mad.
A single warp reaching to his left, Louthes countered with a fluid turn and an empty scabbard pivoted. The fight was at last done, a mere smile and glistening blood trickled from Aeranath's lips.
"You pull off a fast one, fogey."
"So do you, young knave."
It ended in a draw. Louthes Eliaden tricked Aeranath by not sheathing his sword moments prior, the Ranger's abdomen was perforated. The True Apostle's blade failed to stay crackling blue, a line of red was drawn against the Knight Lord's neck.
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"Do you think your life sucks? I don't think so."
Alestrial Eliaden tried fighting back her tears, Guy Cody's battered wounds blessed her with the necessary strength. To declare the sandy blond as victor was easy enough, to rein in a lion truly fierce was to be ten times difficulty. Will he be a rabid beast if this goes on? Alestrial was never a fan of asking what-ifs, yet this was the first time she's asking herself such a question.
Someone braved through a bunch of thugs just to protect her honour, she should feel happy. If he would gladly pull off a repeat anytime soon, why should she feel empty?
The Red Ape was merely a bully of the same colour, but without guidance. She knew not what life had done to this hooligan, Guy wasn't nice enough to ask. At the least however, he was decent enough to try correcting something verily wrong even though overwhelming defeat failed to cleanse the unrepentant heart. No point calling a spade something altogether different, this was the answer given with a shrug before the sandy blond started bashing faces senseless.
"You nearly got yourself killed," she griped accusingly, "And don't you dare say the rest ended up worse."
"We'll all die one day, no?" winked a foolish Guy, "So why not live life once at a time, once at a day? Let tomorrow worry for tomorrow, I say."
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"Young Mistress, the carriage is ready," bowed a reverent maidservant. Alestrial loathed her speaking tone, for it was a forced tone without joy, without a choice, and without any freedom's voice. Three days passed, Guy was still missing with nary a word. Eye witnesses self proclaimed testified a horrific gang rape man against man, she knew a liar when one was heard. The supposedly dead still remaining unaccounted for, every speaker's tone betrayed a certain fear before her persistent asking.
They are not fearful of something already happened, but rather fearful of something waiting to happen.
But yet here she was, coerced to a marriage arranged while nothing could be heard from the sandy blond thus far. Should this be her lot in life? Finally forced to acknowledged a mutual promise made six years ago as a sham, the fair Cinha beauty had always regarded this plain Causacean lad to be a far swifter mover than her. A lion would one day fend for itself, such a majestic presence needed not a human mate but only the freedom to prowl.
And that person as well, for she had yet to call him by his actual name.
Aeranath...
Her peach pink lips calling out to this stranger, she did not know why.
Why does it sound so heartwarming, yet so far away?
She could only afford whispering that True Apostle's name once again, but nothing more. Farewell greetings bade personally hours ago brought forth unfathomable words on a debt paid fully, a Ranger's distant back became the only tale read out before her ears.
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Should your standard be mine?
Were they all deserving fools worthy of a deserving fate?
I have killed not so many lives now...
Or mayhap even those knowing what should be true and good were part of the dead as well?
Because many more had died whilst I was alive many a decade ago.
She remembered the First True Apostle's words said since ages untold of.
Or mayhap you have just forgotten how many years lived till this very era...
"Fools love a fool, for they know not acceptance towards another fool," smiled her host, "Sarel Aphros, my dearest girl... please pray tell whether murderous words are proof of bloodshed true."
"Aeranath should know better, Aor," replied the snowy haired beauty, contempt unhidden staying its hand, "For you know why he's forced to kill his own people."
"Because they've killed him before then," answered Ziron in lieu of Aor, his sombre visage looming into view, "No convict should owe any love unto people passing down the death sentence."
"Well, what do we have here? A dead wolf's bitch," sneered the Grand Damsel, "What have you taught Aeranath as his rightful teacher apart from survival?"
"Nothing?" sighed Ziron without mockery's intent, "You're equally craven for not having the courage to try. Had you tried telling Aeranath your feelings as Nanaya no Geun'Jin, he might have been healed."
Tension rising up, Sarel Aphros' shoulder length white hair billowed against the sudden swirling breeze. Flowing petals of white borne by the wind withered to ashes, a savage pair of crimson orbs glared against Ziron's blankest stare.
"I don't remember a little get-together in my backyard," sighed Aor in apathy, "Stop your petulance, little girl, or I'll do it for you."
"Maybe you'll like to see for yourself what thi..."
Before the Grand Damsel of the Quintet Church could finish her threat, three flashes of steel severed her head, abdomen, and a single arm across the elbow joint. Sarel Aphros would have been dead if not for an illusion created by Aor's mercy.
"You have seen it and felt it, don't you? This Elven sabre has yet to depart from my scabbard," smiled the True Apostle coldly, an undying fire simmering in a pair of azure jewels, " Just as you are testing my patience, you are also suffering my testing as well. A figment of my thirst for blood should suffice for fools like you."
Neither for the first time nor would this be the last, Sarel Aphros understood Aor's unspoken meaning behind his spoken words. Only little amongst countless millions could know Magic for what it is, she was verily one of the condemned few. Ziron was also one like her, but Aor might possibly be the only master.
A relevant force can only make true by the relevant will, for the evil of mortals is a shapeless beast materialised.
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Darren Bann would never forget that moment where he was rightfully convicted for family violence, he would never forgive his ex-wife for ratting him out. Gnashing his teeth together with hateful glare, a lavish mansion hailed his envious gaze. He cursed Bitty Bann's fine fortune, for Bitty Bann was now Bitty Vynn's lawful wife.
"Yer 'Onar! I hav' only too much to drink!"
"All the more you should have acceded to your wife's lawful plea for divorce. This is a civilised society and uncivilised men have no right to call themselves Kalaran citizens."
Darren indeed had a drop or two too much that night. That was why he had to spend two years behind bars accompanying inmates beneath him. Not to mention pails of shit and piss of an equal value as well.
Yer 'cuse me of fuckin' yer forcefully years 'go, me gonna fuck yer silly 'dis time round.
A better sense of law abiding abandoned to the dogs, a bitter sense of law breaking became his god. All he lusted after right now was to humiliate her in every manner possible, their sole daughter was to be promised to his other three drinking buddies armed with knives. Never mind if Anie Bann was merely twelve before he got jailed, he still remembered neighbouring boys gawking at her breasts.
At least Anie'll fetch some handsome price if little bitch can handle three cocks at a minute.
An athletic figure then cut across Darren's bloodshot view, his thoughts interrupted by words tantamount to interrogation.
"Word has reached to Alden Vynn that a group of rapers will be encroaching his house."
"So? Wat yer gonna do 'bout four rapers waitin' to rape yer corpse?"
Dressed plainly in a white collared sleeveless shirt completed with black trousers belted and brown leather shoes, the sandy blond lad pointed a pole wrapped in white at Darren Bann.
"Dead man walking... the Red Lions enjoy using this phrase on those awaiting their correct punishment."
He then removed the linen cloth, a golden spear gripped firmly in hand. Squinting his bloodshot eyes before a languid stance somehow well prepared, the blond unshaven hulk suddenly tensed up fearfully as he managed to recognise the boy...
"Oi! Dis much?"
"A pittance to the Church, but more than enough to keep you happy till you die."
"Dun fuck 'round wif me, great white biatch!"
"I am perfectly sad to tell you that I prefer fucking a lion."
"Yer sick fuck!"
"I may be a sick little girl, but your intelligence is diseased beyond cure."
"An' I'll 'spose yer lie! I'll 'spose wha'ever fake yer force me sayin'! I'll fuckin' strip yer! I'll fuckin' fuck yer silly!"
"Well, do try me then. Dog stew is a fine tonic for males if spoken words alone are to be trusted. Oh, please do not give me your dirty look."
"Fuck yer..."
"Do cool yourself down then with a glass of wine prepared for an honoured guest. Your one unsavoury word is offending that boy walking past you just now. In fact, he is the lion I was mentioning earlier."
Darren Bann started quavering on the spot, he failed to notice an ever expanding wetness soaking his pants. Displaying a ferocious aura waiting to be freed, a lion was already roused minutes ago.
"Heya boya! Watcha doin..."
"Shit! Dun..."
A golden streak was the only answer gifted in the face of warning doomed, Darren Bann went dead before hitting the gravelly soil. A single wound pierced the heart without a drop of blood wept, Guy Cody could have easily chosen Darren's friend first.
Kill the biggest rooster and watch the chickens run. Kill a chicken and the biggest rooster will prevent their run.
Guy knew he would be safe under the Church's guardianship, any ruckus unwanted could end up bringing more harm than good. Giving no pursuit to a fleeing pack of barking dogs, one drunkard's death was enough for him. He might have left Alestrial Eliaden behind, but the Cinha maid had already left in him an indelible mark akin to how Gae Buidhe herein has shackled his life forever.
So here's my weapon... never considered myself an accomplished fighter and yet I end up being a Lancer? My life's a celestial comedy now...
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Background notes:
Lancer: Any individual who have reached the pinnacle of spear mastery. They will always either fight in light or no armour.
Knight Lord: The highest rank within the knightly hierarchy throughout the entire Kalaran Empire.
Vanir: Can’t disclose anything for now due to in-plot issues. I think I might have mentioned this briefly though in my Quintet Church blog post.
Vanguard Commander: A formal military rank bestowed to one assuming absolute control of any army's vanguard forces in times of war.
A/N: I might end up doing a Lore article on the relevant topic.
Command Guards: Personal guards responsible for the safety of any Commander in times of war.
A/N: Yes, Vanguard Commander ain't the only Commander available. Which is why I mention the Lore article part just now.
Turning (one’s) pride/turnpride: Formal term used on a traitor/turncoat.
A/N: Tis a term inspired by the definition of turncloak in G.R.R Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire although I suspect this to be an existent word.
The F-name in this chapter is literally the Fianna from the Fenian Cycle. Yes, you're seeing a somewhat massive invasion of Old Irish culture lol!
A/N: I’ve already got a certain idea on these shadowy buggers mainly in terms of field tactics utilised.
Note 1: Celestial comedy is a slang first mentioned in Chapter 4: Reveals Forth Turmoil's Hand.
Note 2: Louthes' fighting style was something pulled off from my imagination's ass with the concept of Iaijustu being the core inspiration.
Note 2: Some things here in the glossary are heavy influenced by the Nasuverse itself, i.e. works done by Nasu Kinoko. If anyone thinks he's seeing the Fate series all over again somehow, I can understand.
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