Translate

Something about this bloggie

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.

Tuesday, 18 June 2013

Frigid Autumn, Fledgling Spring

"I don't tempt my fate, I curse it. I could have cursed whatever gods staying up there also, a pity they don't exist..."
~Aeranath



)0(

A Ranger's Tale

)0(

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(