~Aeranath
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A Ranger's Tale
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NE 239, Autumn
Why… why am I cold?
Why am I feeling a burning pain?
Is it my flesh, my heart, or my spirit?
Their leers… their bare hairy chests...
Blood… I can smell its metallic stench.
A commotion blaring in my soul, that's the only truth currently
bleeding from my pores.
This man… a blurring sight, a fair visage looking so surely vile
and truly foul.
And his words so haunting, melodic, alluringly bitter.
Like a serpent's venom able to murder or heal.
"I knew a certain man three months back…"
His voice… Naran?
"Called himself a man. A man drunk with pride, his pride
as one bottle of drink after another."
No, that's not him! Naran doesn't have ears long and pointed.
"I killed him."
Naran is never that bold!
"Ran my rapier through his craven guts just after his
arrogant feast."
No, not him! Please, Father, anyone but him!
"Got a couple of friends. Mayhap three or four."
Everything is a lie!
"The girl survived as barely a shell when I saw her last,
but I care not about that wench anymore."
Hugue… I know that name! Hugue Lloris! He who is never Naran!
"Yet, I
gutted those mongrels on the spot where they last enjoyed merry heat and wine.
You Stunties are worthy enough for a knife thrown across your faces. See this buried
to the hilt in his drooling skull?"
An Elf. He now resembles a being leagues fairer than Hugue. How
can this be?
"I could have done ten thousand times worse. You all for
now are not under Teutonia's gold. Every single one of you, crew and captives
alike, are under my gold. The gold of Histalonia. That blood red gold
coin belonging to Eliador de Lioncourt."
Winter… I feel winter coming too soon upon my naked breasts.
)0(
NE 240, Spring
Aeranath was lapping up every minute of
the show. Acquaintances with the local old hen, the First Shag had always been
his favourite haunt whenever he stopped over in Seaside. Granted he never got
the chance to initiate any Entrance Rites, but at least satisfaction would be
guaranteed. So much for customers being always right, the customer would always
be like a god. So long for quality service above all, the gods would always
lord their pleasure over mortal goddesses.
He was lucky this evening, he got
himself in time for the annual Flower Bid. First Shag was an extremely posh
brothel boasting of the finest girls. The True Apostle had seen them all, he
tried them all also. Half Elven, Tamurian, and of course Sudhlits as well, but
only a farmer’s son would deny the charms offered by their best Cinha.
“Bah, even eighty year old peasants
wanted that,” sneered the Ranger at such thought, his azure eyes wandering
around. The rafts were of best timber, the pillars made from alabaster. The
marble fountain remained before its porch, flooring tiles were made from same material.
If there’s any fare better than those harlots on display, it would be the food.
Specifically roasted boar hunted from the wilds and laden with gravy.
“A hundred silver from this customer! Going once, going twice…
thrice and deal unsealed! Uncut Gem Number Seventeen is now sold to this
kindest sir!”
“A hundred silver? I’d pay half the amount instead, sucker,”
snickered the Ranger, his words went unheard by disappointed faces around him.
“And now we have the final one!”
Raucous cheers and whistles voiced their appreciation for a red
haired Cinha lass forced out naked in the open, her blushing face streaked with
tears. She tried putting up a front, her clenching fists betrayed an intent to
hurt all future clients.
“Hey, whore! Nice tits and cunt!”
For the first time, silent Aeranath felt something stirring. Not
under his pants, but within his heart. The girls all before her, they’re fakers
posing as virgins. If virginity was a prized commodity, then every poor parent
would gladly sell their daughters before turning twelve. But this one was
different, the eternal wolf could sense it true. People tend to say wolves are
capable of smelling fear, all of that was bullshit. Wolves were born as lone
hunters, their instincts going five yards further than merely that. A wolf
could smell its victim’s fear, its mind able to discern anomaly otherwise
normal. That’s why wolves are capable survivors, for hunters only lasted this
long.
“Uncut Gem Number Eighteen!”
“Yeah, still a virgin and eighteen at that,” scoffed the Ranger,
brandy downed in a shot.
“Yes, she’s still a virgin and eighteen at that!”
In spite of his homicidal nature, Aeranath was no stranger to a
self-deprecating jape or two. The high pitched male announcer had already sent
chuckles off his throat, this time round he ended up laughing at himself. There
was neither intent nor purpose behind, only freak coincidence akin to getting
struck by lightning.
Now if
only I can predict my next whore for the next half hour…
“Starting bid is twenty gold pieces!”
The Ranger swiftly lost his mirth, his azure orbs burning with icy
fire. Signalling to a busty brunette, the barmaid obliged promptly. Taking yet
another glass of brandy, Aeranath this time round took his sip slowly.
Oblivious to escalating bids offered from men of finery, the wolf’s steely stare
never strayed away. His eyes were not fixated on anyone else, but that
trembling girl.
You can
try acting tough, but reality’s a bitch…
“Oh! That’s a fine price offered from this gentleman here! Seventy
gold pieces offered!”
The crowd then hushed themselves up. They knew the man who offered
such an absurd bid, for only a cretin dared pitting himself against Fat Erik.
Aeranath blew a breath from his nostrils, his response suddenly placid.
Glancing at the remnants of his drink, the Ranger merely shrugged nonchalantly.
As if one girl’s fate didn’t matter to his dark wry grin.
“Seventy gold pieces from this patron! Going once, going twice…”
“Thrice and deal unsealed!”
whispered Aeranath, a sadistic grin decorating his face. The True Apostle cared
not for whatever mayhem resultant, he was always been Chaos Incarnate. As he
pulled Fragarach from his victim’s gaping maw, a bloody geyser stained the wide
eyed lass.
“Hey, you still alive, whore? Grab my hand if you ain’t dead yet.”
)0(
Aeranath gazed amusingly towards his newfound companion as she
wolfed down her second plate of roast beef. It’s either she never had enough to
eat or she’s plainly a glutton. Either way, she could easily gorge her way to
poverty. If only the Ranger was not the one paying the bill. Noticing
his plate of gravied potatoes and onions left untouched, her greedy hand shot
out. Suddenly yelping in pain, she glowered at her bored looking saviour
glancing somewhere else. Then taking up his plate, he fed himself merrily. A
wolf would always be one, but at least he could try dreaming like a cub once again.
Unattainable
dreams… that’s why living is such a joy, Aera.
“Bitch,” smiled Aeranath, his mirth not unnoticed by his
counterpart.
“Hey! Who are you calling a bitch?” snarled the Cinha lass.
“I thought you’re a whore,” replied the Ranger innocently, “Or
should I call you bitch instead after all?”
“Why you…”
“A whore will always be one, no matter how much your red tresses
resemble you,” a brutal answer knocked the wind off her fiery bravado, the
unnamed girl refusing to surrender.
“Shut up, you brown piece of shit! You have no power over me
because you’ve only bought my freedom!”
“And that means you only belong to me,” reminded Aeranath
pointedly, his turbulent mind revisiting the night of her slumber and mumbling
words.
“Am I right to call you Hye’Na?”
“Yeah, that’s my name alright. Wanna fight?”
Aeranath smirked in the face of Hye’Na’s futile ire, the wolf
ignoring a fawn’s peevish dare, “I don’t like remembering people’s names.
You’re luckily excluded.”
Abruptly tensing up like a skittish doe, Hye’Na suddenly clenched
her fists tightly. Aeranath started wolfing down his meal, the Ranger’s
attention to his prize gone unpaid. His heed went to a group of grim faced men,
the True Apostle recognising only one familiar sight. The Home Guards’ obligation
belonged to their respective Houses, only in the name of duty beyond their
walls would they wear surcoats of their master’s colours.
A shield
of blue with an olive crown of red… first bloke of Eliaden got too much free
time to kill.
“Are you Unmei no Hye’Na?” questioned a thin balding old man
dressed in fine clothes.
“Do I look like a whore to you, old fuck?” Aeranath’s smug quip
brought forth rude guffaws erupting from patronising masses, the elderly man’s
companion tried his hardest not to join in the fun.
“One does not mess with me, knave! I am Twong…”
“…the oldest king of fart,” stood up Aeranath as a curtsy was
mockingly gifted, his second statement bringing further more mockery, “All hail
King Twong, first of his name!”
“Hey, King Twong, cool your royal ass please,” grinned a portly
man around Twong’s age, “Bloke used to be our lord’s most honoured guest after
all.”
“Used to, Yeovil,” snapped Twong, “That’s the key word!”
“And your boss sent you to me or her?” asked the Ranger with a
gloved thumb jerked at Hye’Na’s direction, “Unmei no Hye’Na, you better thank
me for giving you a proper name. Any Cinha name without some funny prefix is a
worthless Cinha’s name.”
“So you’re not following us,” queried Yeovil, his gloved fingers
fiddling with a rapier sheathed, “You’re in some sore need of education.”
“I’m born a bastard, not this girl,” answered Aeranath silently, “Bastards
don’t need any books, only arms and having a life.”
“Wait, what…”
“…is going on here?” retorted the Ranger angrily, “You ask me to
find you a decent job, isn’t a chambermaid better than earning big money
through the biggest cocks?”
“So I assume House Eliaden is now done with you…”
No sooner Twong’s words left his lips, a grey gauntleted fist flew
into his open mouth. A single glance brimming with contempt was Aeranath’s only
answer given, the True Apostle’s back turned from the scene.
“You bastard, you really did something I boasted about years ago!” bellowed an amused Yeovil. Yet, if there was any approval hidden within the Ranger’s dark
beating heart, he returned nary an indication.
Save a middle finger salute raised without turning back even once…
)0(
We all
have a beast in us. It stirs in me and it will stir in you. What will be your animal
revealed when you grip a sword before a victim begging for mercy?
“A good evening here,” grinned Aeranath as he took a huge swig of
liquor, “Hey Erik, you sure you don’t wanna start a brewery? That’s some good
shit.”
“I’m surprised that you can’t be arsed to compliment my cooking
instead,” came the dry reply.
“You’re a fucking woodsman, Erik. That’s why you can roast the
best boar.”
“A fucking Ranger,” smiled a bulky man addressed as Erik, “Please
get your fact right.”
“Well, you look like one,” chortled the True Apostle, “Even though
you fight like one.”
“You try being a Teutonian living as part of a woodsfolk family
first,” snorted Erik in good humour, “That’s how I got myself acquainted with a
woodsman axe rather than some battle axe.”
“Are you talking about your wife?”
“Shut up, you jackass.”
“Ain’t everybody one?”
The lone wolf gave a toothy grin, his victory once again secured
over a hulking bear’s sour comment.
)0(
“So how’s the cub?” asked a phantom figure looming before Erik’s blue
eye view.
“So-so,” smiled the hulking Teutonian, his fiery mane speckled
with grey, “You owe me one for not telling him about you, O’ Lord of the
Lancers.”
“You stand to profit from this as well, O’ Lord of the
Berserkers,” answered a wistful Ziron.
“I don’t expect a shit from you, falcon,” said Erik drily, a
sombre look worn immediately following suit, “You’ve done a lot for him, I’m just
here to make sure cub doesn’t try strangling you.”
“As if it’s possible,” came Ziron’s quirky reply.
“It’s possible, you fuckwit!” growled Erik, “We two are all that’s
left of the Four Lords. Lord of the Fencers and Lord of the Archers have danced
the jig and I’m the only one considered still dancing!”
“Erik, if you’re talking about…”
“If I’m talking about Brionac, everyone knows you’re fucked,”
sighed Erik, “Ziron, listen to me. Someone has found that spear, I don’t know
who.”
“And we shall take one step at a time,” chortled Ziron as he
vanished in gust of wind, “I know you don’t believe in predestination, but
don’t you find it ironic that this might be the sole reason why Aeranath bumped
into you?”
)0(
“Milady!” hollered a ginger lad around fifteen winters, “Are you
fine?”
“Yes, please do not worry about me, young Jase,” smiled an
attractive girl of regal bearing, “You better…”
“Try aiding me? Don’t be stupid, bitch,” huffed a hooded
individual as Orcish blood was cleaned from his still crackling sword of lightning
blue, “You’ve done me a big favour by staying put your pretty ass.”
“Insolence!” snarled Jase, his right hand flying to a sabre’s
ivory hilt, “This is Lady Karen of House Tenias you’re insulting, know your rightful
place, knave!”
Bouts of laughter abruptly torn asunder an otherwise silent dusk, Karen
Tenias swore this was no different from mad howling coming from a wolf brutally
scarred.
“The weak have their rightful place, the same goes for the strong,”
growled the stranger bestially, his hood taken down, “It’s either your noble
broad got banged in the ass or this is what you truly get, little boy. Orcs
only enjoy their breeding stock and word has it that female Orcs are a retarded
myth.”
“Why the boon of deliverance then?” asked Karen Tenias, her
straight flowing raven locks reminding the True Apostle briefly of another
person recently met, “If ‘tis indeed true you do not care…”
“I don’t give a fuck to your pretty ass or small perky tits, O’ noble
lady,” commented her blue eyed saviour rudely, “Just that I don’t like you and
your squire boy less than the Orcs, ‘tis all.”
Lady Karen of House Tenias ceased whatever nerves running rampant in
reply, a sellsword’s brusque demeanour her source of fascination.
Elven features, dark complexion, and a pair of bluest orbs… ‘tis a
wolf, mortal, and the god of storms utmost high.
)0(
The year calendar listed here, NE, stands for Northern Era. It has
been in use ever since the Truce of Fair was reached between the present day
Kalaran Empire, Kingdom of Teutonia, and the Republic of Slarvea. In short, the
current plot took place 239-240 years after the truce.
Stunties is well… erm… undisclosed minor spoiler slur lol! No,
seriously, I’m not joking when I say this is a racial slur.
P.S:
Brionac=BAWMD (read: Bad Ass Weapon of Mass Destruction) owned by that most badass underrated mofo called Lugh. Celtic buffs, rejoice that a n00b brethren has joined your bravest ranks. :)
Shout out
from this orang lagi jahat: Mr Eric Soh, you deserve a correct mention this
time round. Two Eriks, one real Erik.
)0(
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