A Song Of Silence And Chaos

I killed somebody, no big deal. I've seen people killing animals, I don't see any difference. We will all die one fine day, so why not kill an animal or two?
~Aeranath

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A Ranger's Tale

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"So here are my terms, Lukas," stated Eliador de Lioncourt's ultimatum, a serpent's slender form retaining his relaxed posture, "Take it or leave it."

"And you’ll promise me Yeras’ safety?" questioned a suspicious Lukas Brun, his narrowing glare cast towards the unpredictable Elf he knew so well all these years.

Silence the only greeting heard by the brunette boy, a beguiling contrast was struck between golden hair elegantly spiked back and grey Elven orbs telling of merciless storms. Being an individual schooled in the darker arts of society, the androgynous Human understood everything much better than daily civilians narrow minded.

"Do not bargain with the Serpent when you meet him, Lukas. Knowledge of things far harmless than just folly will be one's greatest peril..."

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"So what have the rabble done for us after all, huh?"

The female bartender breathed out a frustrated sigh as her customer continued ranting over local politics. The Empire had experienced political upheaval before when Emperor Lesyoch X disregarded protests coming from his vassals’ lips, a ruling of tax increment causing the people to revolt. There’s nothing wrong with arresting the crumbling of an Empire, it would always be the people suffering most either way.

If not for his heir apparent, Emperor Franstasis I, appointing a council comprising of all surviving dissidents after Lesyoch’s freak death under a wild stag’s antlers, the Empire would have disintegrated entirely. A dissolving economy spelling catastrophe ten out of ten chances, intellectuals experiencing jail and mayhap a fate worse than death were to be his only mean. His risky political gamble paid off handsomely, every smallborne’s wellbeing soaring considerably.

At least I don’t need selling myself in public nudity. Pretty Hazel, you’re a lucky bastard bitch.

"Seems that people uninterested in real life do exist, huh?" grinned a darkly handsome Elf mirthlessly.

"That's Mad Shot for you," grumbled Hazel, "The People's Council doesn't have any authority to make or approve anything apart from suggestions."

"A lame lie then," replied the stranger in a sing song tone, a gloved hand brushing across his side swept fringe.

"But their forefathers slapped the foolish regime awake!" snapped Hazel, her past as a mercenary’s understudy recognising his identity.

"In exchange for the power to talk?" shrugged the Ranger, yet another shot of brandy downed, "At least no one has to start shitting gold. As a Ranger, I can assure you that an assassin worth his salt can cost you half a warehouse of gold."

"You know nothing, Ranger," growled the buxom brunette, “I could have used far harsher words if not for you being my patron.”

"Never imagined someone having such luck with Half Elven whores," reacted the stranger in mock surprise, "Why always me?"

"All you full blooded..." snarled Hazel.

"Elves are bastards, right?" a smug reply completing Hazel's words for herself, the best had yet deliver, "I don't give a damn to the Homm'Nua, I prefer shagging any number of their bitches. How much do you cost by the way?"

An insult too much to swallow, the pretty Half Elven bartender grabbed a glass half full of his preferred drink from a startled patron, the contents splashed onto his face. Wiping away the liquid stinging his azure eyes, the Ranger stood up in full height.

“Have you heard of the True Apostles? I truly doubt so,” a hand resting upon his longsword’s pommel, Hazel finally developed an inkling of relevant idea. Staring him down despite verdict of life and death not for her to decide, she understood such a fear to be not a lie.

“You see this cudgel I’m holding right now? It’s either you use your mouth on me first or I’ll use it on your ass!”

“Name’s Aeranath,” smirked the True Apostle as her defiance finally paid off, but not in dividends. Death did not welcome Hazel, a single flick from his blade cutting open her tight fit top and red lacy undergarment. Her ample breasts exposed, instant mayhem erupted swiftly like the dreaded Mount Vesvas. Bulky bouncers waded into a commotion gone crazy, their only goal protecting her from lechers young and old. Mad Shot was part of the crowd, Mad Shot rushed at the forefront of the crowd.

A floating shadow then went passing by, a single chill crept up Mad Shot’s spine. Mad Shot barked no longer more, for Mad Shot was frozen alive and trampled dead.

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"So you're telling me to shag her?" quipped Aeranath, the back of a wolf pup's ear scratched fondly.

"The fact that Half Elven girls all look roughly the same doesn’t mean anything here," sighed Ziron, "What I'm trying to say is this. The Church has always been protecting your ass and you know very damn well why."

"You mean the Church's bitch?" huffed Aeranath, "Give me that Pretty Hazel anytime. She’s more wholesome."

“You might as well thank me for killing her abusive master three decades ago,” frowned the elderly Human ghost.

“But I thought you’re only responsible for the info,” replied Aeranath in feigned shock, “Are you trying to claim credit for a crime you’ve never committed, O’ Lord of the Lancers?”

"I'd like to add in the fact that her master was an impotent scoundrel, but I know your tongue only too well,” retorted Ziron, his tone betraying annoyance and patience wearing thin, “Get this clear in your head, Aeranath. I couldn't protect you before and now, but that doesn't mean I won't give a flying damn."

As the phantom Lancer spat out his lecture, Aeranath nearly envisioned pangs of a hurting heart welling forth a bloody lake. A Ranger’s vow sworn staying unchanged, centuries he had forgotten failed to erase a memory from the past.

Upon this empty grave I swear an oath. To become one forsaken by Heaven, to become one burdened by Hell.

Akin to empathy's tendrils reaching out to overflowing thoughts of a past long gone, the cub licked Aeranath's gloved hand. That was his sword hand, an executioner’s hand. The executioner gave not any dime in front of a carnage shed minutes before, he cared not whatever excuses offered by a hunting group together with a now departed Ziron as well. Mayhap killing wild beasts untamed was right from the start, no sane man would ever desire his children falling foul to claws and fangs.

Yet, no Ranger would ever care for a life weak enough to murder a weaker life, murder was always different from killing in order to survive.

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Alestrial Eliaden could not believe her dark gentle eyes, she would not believe her ears. She heard a lying dare hours ago, she was currently witnessing the boldest claim coming true.

I, Guy Cody, hereby stake my life on the tourney. I will fight with nothing bar a spear, may guilt of my blood shed be upon myself. If I am declared victor in the Soldier’s name, grant me my request of having Wes Olford’s head.

Approval granted for the tourney melee was one thing, beholding an astounding show of martial flair being quite another. Wes Olford was not being rude to his smallborne victim, he was guilty of callous murder. The poor waiting boy who never offered his name was intellectually handicapped, his murderer was nothing bar spoilt and ill tempered. Coupled with money and power no less, Alestrial wondered if she was still right in holding Guy back while Wes continued slamming the boy’s head against the floor.

“Why do you kill him?”

“Are you my keeper?”

“Is it only because he knocked you over?”

“Hey, you understand me?”

“Why did no one stop you? Is it because the rest never dared and never cared?”

“Because I’m Wes Olford! That’s why!”

“Good. See my two middle fingers here? Fuck you, Wes Olford.”

"A prudent strategy," spoke a voice softly clear, its owner fair and tall.

Hair of gold let down till his slender shoulders strong, a Human lad sat beside the Cinha lass.

"A fort built up by one single spear against their errant blows, there is no need for Guy to advance...” whispered Alestrial.

“And?” questioned the handsome youth, his blond mane flowing along an abrupt gale.

“He’s waiting for the correct moment to strike,” continued Alestrial intently.

“Seems like a folly to me until I start seeing him reaping his gains,” smiled her counterpart.

“With more than half the numbers whittled down," answered the fair foreign beauty, loose curls of raven black following the dying wind not lost to his amethyst orbs.

Alestrial Eliaden never stole back a glance even once, she knew the sight of the blond boy’s face. Memories three years back mocking at her ever present weakness, her steely resolve ended up further reinforced.

Naran... Naran Lloris...

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"Are you alright?" inquired the kindly Nurmai as Yeras sipped her smelly bowl of medicine, "I do wish at times that Tonkart isn’t really bitter."

"It's indeed bitter and smelly, Nan," complained the auburn lass, her tongue stuck out in a comical grimace, "And your joke is lame!"

"Good for you then. A bitter stew curing a bitter heart!" beamed the matronly healer in spite of her patient’s verbal slight, "Promising signs ahead. May you recover faster than a speeding arrow!"

“Huh?” Yeras cocked her head curiously, “Am I hearing ghosts singing or are you really invoking a Kalaran idiom?”

“Ghosts do not exist anywhere, my child,” smiled Nurmai painfully, “More often than not, Demons do exist in their stead.”

Yeah, yeah, I know ghosts and Demons both exist… hey, what's all that noise below? A brawl? Hell yeah, I'm gonna watch it by hook or by crook!

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Alestrial Eliaden stared on in sheer horror, never before had she witnessed a father slaughtering his own flesh and blood. House Olford was merely a title and pittance of land bestowed unto a political fugitive fleeing across the Teutonian border, failure to question dubious orders deemed not a sin. It was a miracle for the Cinha maid to keep her wits intact, seeing a middle aged man around forty winters lopping off his conceived son's head verily not. Seated beside was the unknown youth maintaining his calm, an intruding thought invading Alestrial’s mind.

‘Tis an expression unreadable at best, a heart unpredictable at worst.

"Why did you kill him?" queried Guy, his weapon lowered and ready.

"Wes has failed the family's name," growled the red bearded man thick in girth.

"Your family's name or yours?" asked the sandy blond, sapphire flames flaring bright, “Even a retard can see the difference.”

"Both."

"Then I don’t see any difference," smiled Guy with nary a shred of emotion, "I guess a friend of my enemy is my enemy."

"Pointless prattle, boy," snarled the giant, his red whiskers bristling in humiliation, "You have won the melee fair and square, but do not forget that as the organiser, I still call the shots."

"Selective honour, shit happens," muttered Guy Cody absently while scratching his head, a lion unleashed from its cage, "Your kid lost the fight, he footed the bill. You failed to teach him some manners, allow me to correct the mistake."

Roaring aloud, the senior Olford swung his axe forward ferociously. Guy could barely intercept the hit, the tip of his staff glancing off its edge. Metallic piercing ring never deafened him, blood and fury coursing through his veins.

The giant of a man kept his momentum going, speed and ground gaining with every swing. He was good. An oaf on the outside, a veteran in reality, everything was all about physicality and speed. Had not his footwork insinuating a lack in tasting combat for years, Guy’s situation would be direr.

Alestrial could only look on blankly, yet she knew neither fear nor dread. An anguished cry uttered was to be expected, an inner fire chose to hold its stand. Alestrial Eliaden had always upheld tenets devised from her First Patriarch, herein was the moment everything would change for good. It was then where she remembered whatever being talked about between her and a newfound friend.

“You have a sharp eye for combat, Milady.”

“I… I was…”

“I was only commenting on a whim. Is that what you want to say?”

“Why yes, fairest youth.”

“Fairest youth… surely you have a good sense of jest. Name’s Hugue Lloris. An honour to meet the fairest lady seated at my right.”

“Name’s Alestrial Eliaden, fairest Hugue. I believe your sense of jest should be better than mine.”

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Yeras Wynda could hardly breathe easy, trauma was the last thing she registered. Exhilaration currently her only friend, her gaze fixated against a silent lad. His eyes were the coldest flames, cropped blond hair spiked akin to a lion’s growing mane. She saw before such a sight. It has to be, a whisper resonating in her pounding heart. Yea, here was a young lion, his fangs and claws bared. A kindred soul ensnaring her heart, was it countless years ago? Quest for answers a momentary flash, Yeras Wynda only sighted another Guy Cody.

A raven haired soldier on the edge of thirty first winter, this was one man hailing from the enemy camp. Destined to be her only desire as a freshly flowered Teutonian maiden, she was no older than fifteen summers. Yeras Wynda never expected any return, she merely asked meekly for his name…

“They call me the Northern Lion, but you can call me Moggray.”

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Memph Olford barely believed his eyes, the most incredible had befallen upon him. A single blow suffered should have knocked him out cold, at worst it would crack his skull. He deemed a lad's valour worthy of mercy, a blond youth reminded the much older redhead of years abandoned behind. Flat of his axe shown as sufficient proof of needless mercy, Memph finally understood he should have split open that impudent lad like cleaver against a ripe melon.

Sapphire jewels of ice affirmed a decision wrongly forged, that one spear wrought in purest gold mocking House Olford unreservedly. The linen cloth binding a forbidden barb was no longer around, Gae Buidhe representing mortality wrecked would be the only end. Guy Cody knew the fight was done even prior to the duel. So long as he remained a Lancer, he would never bother asking himself whether Gae Buidhe was responsible.

"Don’t be shocked, Ser Olford," commented Guy, silent breeze ruffling his white unkempt shirt, "In your own words, I am nothing but a trifling whelp."

Orbs tempered with combative intent lazy to conceal their hunger, a thirst for death flowed throughout a lion’s body, heart, and soul. Casting down a challenge, Guy's final words before making his move shook an arrogant soul till his Teutonian roots.

"Ready yourself, Ser. Do you have enough fury in hand to match my own?"

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"So it now begins..." muttered Sarel Aphros, sensual lips of scarlet sipping a flute of white wine.

"Indeed, Milady. As stated true from your holy lips, Guy Cody is now together with Alestrial Eliaden without signs of movement otherwise. It seems that he has forgotten the hellfire of vengeance," reported a masked servant girl.

"Only for now," answered the Grand Damsel of the Quintet Church, her servant being eyed hungrily, "Relay my orders telling your sisters not to strike unless I say so. The Ranger is now also at Seaside. Everything will surely fall into plan."

"As you wish, Milady."

"Gail, I want you to take off your mask, your everything."

A beautiful visage with jet black hair and luscious figure was exposed before Sarel Aphros, a naked mistress tasting her servant full on the lips. This was nowhere the same as obligation, once an ewe, forever an ewe. Gail only remembered her current name and nothing more, it was one shared by her fellow sisters. A servant girl no older than eighteen winters held no emotions before the Grand Damsel, she allowed herself to be ravished. As for Sarel Aphros, her crimson orbs could only see in her Gail an image the past can only bring.

That of someone alone with back turned against her.

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"Curse you! Curse you, curse you, curse you!"

Axe against spear, rage versus a martial storm. Strength alone could have severed Gae Buidhe into splinters, the Golden Barb of Mortality kept the furious beast at bay. Slender blade deflecting every single hit, the shaft by merit of skill saw no contact. Every interception was timed to perfection, coordination of limbs uncannily accurate.

Footwork executed within a limited radius, Guy merely opted for a frontal defence. If not for him wielding a pole arm, Memph Olford might have found a way to fashion a breakthrough.

Slowly but surely, fatigue started seeping in. With a single roar, Memph Olford went for broke. One mighty blow to turn the tide, one single blow to win the fight. It was never a desperate throw of die from the start, Memph’s attack was craftily plotted. A slight gap opening himself up for an attack, the opponent’s reaction went according to plan. Forceful hit arcing horizontally, Gae Buidhe was knocked aside with minimal movement.

One step forward and the fight would end, a desired moment of fatality however never came to the fore. The gigantic man abruptly fell down on his knees, every drop of strength fleeing his sturdy limbs. He only ended up stepping forward, he failed to make his venture count. He realized the battle's crux, it was never down to inferior offence against a superior defence.

A wound pierced at the hip where Guy managed to draw first blood, whatever impetus Memph had was only there for delay. No man could survive without blood, such was the greatest proof of life. No blood sighted from a laceration utterly parched, a living man’s dead flesh was left rotting without pain.

Olford was a name of shame, a name reserved for a knave like him. There was no fixed origin, his newfound name being merely a symbol of empty gesture. This was a Teutonian questioning orders of rape beyond bestial, he got chastised by his leader. He issued a challenge, defeat left him in a broken heap. He wasted eighteen years cursing his own people, he wasted eighteen years living like a dog.

"You reminded me of a beardless wolf, boy," snarled the older warrior, "Beriad So..."

Ser Memph Olford's words fell unto deaf ears, Guy fulfilled his death wish at his own leisure. A bloodless wound, a golden flash, House Olford’s hearth was utterly snuffed out. A life too arrogant for his own good, no one ever cared why this man chose to turn his pride. Yet, numbing silence lasted for an eternity, its duration unknown perhaps even to the Holy Quintet.

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"A Known World defined by four known Elements," commented the Human blond, a casual tone conflicting against his serious grey orbs, “One will never know the wonders of life until said wonders appear before him.”

Alestrial Eliaden tried tearing away her gentle brown gaze, the lad smiled as his statement became Alestrial’s greatest challenge.

Blade akin to Air; a Fencer. Earth as highest ground; an Archer. Strength and fury is Fire; a Berserker. And lastly...

"Flow akin to Water; a Lancer."

Words spoken with courage gone, truth mentioned with an empty breath. Alestrial Eliaden did not know why she is able to complete Hugue’s sentence, a tightening feel constricted her spirit.

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Background notes:

Ser is actually taken straight from A Song of Ice and Fire with that quirky twist called an existent term. Don't believe me, go check the Oxford English Dictionary. I only found that out recently. -.-'

Mount Vesvan is a famous volcano known to be active. Despite the presence of other active volcanoes, Mount Vesvan is arguably the most destructive due its unique location straddling between Teutonia and the Kalaran Empire. Because of its geographical connection from the mountainous Tamuria, this may be the reason why Kalarans have an innate dislike for Tamurians out of every non-Causacean ethnicity. Teutonians, on the other hand, have nothing but wary respect for the Tamurians.

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