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. -.-'

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, 17 December 2013

A Tale of Beasts and Men

Every mortal is born to be a prison cell, a sword is all it takes to create beasts out of upright folks. If the best key is one which unlocks every gate, what manner of truth shall the daring witness see?
~The Historium: Book of Erasmus Eliaden


Their journey was supposed to reach Seaside, everything halted to an abrupt end. Tragedy greeting Karen Tenias, she could only shut her mind away from this terrifying scene. Many a smallborne had called her father a Demon, she merely believed this word to be a figure of speech. After all, who would believe in horrific tales tantamount to debauchery and depravity enacted? Yet, here she stood, her naked form bounded by some cold watery form. She felt no pain, surely that means she would just be the last one savoured. Her protectors sacrificed to unspeakable entities raping them to death, the only daughter of Granad Tenias could only shut her eyes hoping for an unlikely swift death.

“Not now, O’ death. Not this day nor ever…”

It was a calm voice meant to pacify her, a prolonged tension ended up seizing her naked sweating body instead. Screams greeted her throbbing mind once again, she knew death had claimed another soul…


“Oh, you mean poor little Harri? Poor boy that one. I used to be his teacher and I just can’t find a way to guide him properly…”

“Can’t find a way or can’t find the time?” mouthed Lars silently, sardonic venom subtly evident in his expression, “This world is spiralling into slaughter and whorehouses.”

He couldn’t afford a piece of land for Harri’s burial spot, the meadow beyond Tangrin’s gates was his only alternative. Either that or poor Harri’s carcass would be fed to the crows. He always believed in paying a price for everything, he also knew there was one such thing called an unfair deal. If only every person can get his rightful due, mused the Demon Hunter.

Nah, I would have far better chances of fucking a noble’s daughter. Rest well and in peace, adorable Harri. I can only do this much for you.

With those final words lamented in his heart, Lars turned his back away. A casual wave of his arm was all it took for a miracle to be born. Glowing wisps accompanied the evening sky, those were not of fireflies weeping for the dead. Mayhap only Lars Alterfate himself understood how this was done, every haunting light soon exploded into flowers of flash and pomp.

Then he heard the sound of rolling wagons, his sight directed towards a couple of carriages brimming with goods. Any other person would assume this to be a merchant’s entourage, but not at this point. Conflict now at hand, this was no time for traders enjoying the buying crowd. A quirky smile creasing his handsome features, Lars Alterfate decided to pull a prank or two.

And besides, there are quite a few lookers and beauties. Lars Alterfate, you’re one lucky scoundrel.


Arondight watched on impassively as other patrons cheered and whooped in joy, the owners leering with joy. Ceres once told him something about the horrors in seeing her friends raped, that was after he rescued her from the Dwarven raid. Ironically, he’s now out to liberate that place.

War brings out the worst in us, calm before the storm only marks the start.

Those were words not from his mouth, but rather Fionn of Cumhaill. Many a fearful whisper was muttered, his battle prowess deemed unrivalled. When one had enough of battles, surely he would remember only pain. This whorehouse was nowhere more special. Blood trickling from her crotch told him the victim was a virgin mere moments ago, he wouldn’t have tried touching this place with a ten foot pole if not for meeting someone here. Apparently, punctuality was never meant to be a universal trait.

A hand balled into a fist, Arondight tried reining in his anger. Even though he was a Berserker, the hulking knight could still retain a strong hold on his sanity. That was until the poor lass’ eyes suddenly went dead, a patron’s fist shoved up into her vagina the cause of death. It was at the request from that man which forced him staying his hand, woe be to all incurring an evening of murderous wrath.

Ceres, thy beauty hast truthfully becomest death’s herb…

A crimson light then streaked past him, its intent targeting that young lad who delivered his suffering victim the final blow. A shower of blood and scattered brains splattered the walls, the girl now deceased was painted in her tormentor’s warm red fluid. He’s supposed to be mine to kill, raged Arondight as oblivion clouded his awareness. At last losing himself to murderous instinct, a mortal man finally became a hungry lion in disguise.


A baleful roar shook the establishment to its very roots, a maelstrom wrought from the maddest of men took instant flight. Not away from the chaos induced, but wading through a crowd ruled by stampede. Arondight cared not for what will happen next, consequences be damned. All he craved currently was merely blood, spilling guts, and broken heads.


Raucous guffaws and lustful moaning ran amok, a brothel was every man’s only mean of comfort. After all, every combat fit male would be doomed to kill or to be killed. At least sex costing only money and nothing else should be able to cloud every soldier’s fears. Aeranath forgot the establishment’s name, but he cared not regardless of whatever flamboyant words written. At least the quality of every wench was above decent, that’s all he asked for. Wondering for a flashing moment whether this was the same whorehouse which got him into trouble, the Ranger snorted dismissively.

Goldwanker’s taste in whores have taken a tumble, I see. Hyo’Ah would have castrated him after an almighty bitch slap anyway.

Fondling a comely lass’ shapely breasts, the comely blonde mayhap no older than seventeen winters was his favourite whore. Never before had the True Apostle spent so long and splurged so much on a single girl, it seemed like a surreal comedy playing in the back of his mind. Then he heard a ruckus outside as a drunken Sudhlit got himself into a scuffle.

“Fucking moron,” grunted a smiling Aeranath as he downed yet another tankard, a gloved hand wiping away the lingering foam, “This should be fun though.”

Then in a single motion fluid as a meandering stream, the obnoxious alcoholic managed to duck under and swivelled away. The two ruffians picking a fight with him managed to knock each other out cold. Silence permeated the porch at first like an invisible victor, then erupted cheers voiced their appreciation for the winner declared. Aeranath, however, did not seemed amused.

This is no ordinary drunk, he’s just faking it. Aesir? Or Vanir?

Sauntering into the crowd, the Sudhlit immersed himself into the moment of adulation. Aeranath’s keen vision finally affirmed what he wanted to know, there were no visible signs of intoxication in that handsome Sudhlit. Shabbily dressed, his face was partially covered by stubble with shoulder length black hair swept to one side. Unmistakably however was a weathered Teutonian longbow gripped firmly, the Ranger recognising it as one wielded by the famed Aegil Orden.

Smirking like a rascal impossible to dislike, he gave a cheeky shrug before Aeranath’s wary gaze. As the True Apostle contemplated what to do with this seemingly unpredictable individual, his counterpart first spoke out.

“Ah, a Tamurian,” grinned the bowman, “Nice to see a fellow native from the south.”

“Native enemy, you mean.”

“Oh no, that’s so bloody hell wrong!” the Sudhlit stranger wagged both fingers comically, “Even men hailing from the south needs bitches providing warmth and comfort.”

“Holes and tits, you mean,” smirked the Ranger, “Sorry to say that I don’t give a rat’s ass damn to who’s who of racial history. I suck at reading cumbersome textbooks.”

“So do I,” beamed the cheerful youth, a finger scratching his chin, “Rarely would someone accustomed to survival read plenty of books. Too busy living and trying not die.”

“You’re an interesting man, Sudhlit. I suppose you don’t know anything about the Church?”

“I happen to hear of some great white bitch,” the Sudhlit’s smile soon took a wry turn, “Heard she’s good in everything and that includes bossing Those Who Strike Alone.”

Unto those damning words heard, Aeranath stood up violently. His pretty companion was promptly flung onto the hard wooden floor reeking with vomit, her expression betraying only fear. Staring at each other eye to eye, both men refused to back down. Whatever joyous atmosphere promptly dissipated, a hushed ambience invaded the establishment. Then the silence was swiftly broken by one unexpected gesture.

“I’d like to fuck that white haired bitch if the Unholy Quintet permits,” winked the knavish lad, “Heard many things about her, most of them seems too good to be true.”

Roaring out in laughter, patrons and wenches alike joined in Aeranath’s mirth. This was truly an interesting proposition coming from someone he did not know, Nanaya no Geun’Jin died countless years ago. That foolish girl could have turned back in time, yet she betrayed her most beloved ah’na.

If someone betrays Hyo’Ah, it means that idiot is tired of living.

“Hey, lady boss!” hollered the Sudhlit, his loud clear voice rising above the harmless rabble, “Mind if I get one bitch for free?”

“Go ahead!” called out matronly redhead in a boisterous manner, “You’ve helped me out with those two cretins bothering my girls for weeks, so just take your pick!”

“Three nights?”

“One night, drunken jackass!”

A nonchalant shrug accompanied an ensuing chorus of catcalls, Aeranath hoisted up his playmate from the floor. Reciprocating the favour, a curvy brunette was promptly seized. Merry shouting reaching a crescendo, the Sudhlit had no need to maintain his mask. Hushing the crowd with a finger on his lips, he stroked the giggling wench’s upper lip with his thumb.

“I prefer one on one, so don’t expect me to accommodate anything warped. By the way, name’s Tristan Ajax, one of the Six Who Strike Alone.”


The balmy sea breeze caressed Guy’s spiky blond hair, Joenne Nances discovered his newfound to be somewhat alluring. The Guy Cody she knew so well was known to be an idiot, yet he had matured into a beast of a man. His shoulders seemed to have gotten slightly broader, definitely he put on maybe a stone or two. In the past, she couldn’t understand why Alestrial and Karen were attracted to such a dolt. Now she finally knew.

“Hey, Guya!!!!”

If there was anything staying the same, it would be Guy Cody’s weakness towards women. Or more specifically in this case a filly bubbling with jovialness. Standing nearby, Lara was seen snickering while Bigan seemed rather miffed for no supposed reason. Moggray was down below overseeing preparation of lunch while Southgate’s look was brimming with sudden chagrin.

“Joyce! Get away from that boy!”

Sticking out her tongue in defiance, Joyce whispered a few words into Guy’s ear. His countenance straightaway turned flaming red, the impudent brunette lass ushered him down the deck. For one entire next hour, the Sea Wench’s crew had to put up with constant expletives rattling off like Bigan’s latest invention.

“Well, even the seagulls approved of their little tryst it seems,” quipped Lara von Dirkwind, her hungry stare roaming over any lad desirable enough, “Lady Nances, it seems that we still have two more little boys unaccounted for, hmm?”

“You better stop being horny,” glared Joenne, “One belongs to Ales and the other is the only son of Brynn Steele.”

“Oh my,” gasped Lara in mock surprise, her hands clasped over a pair of luscious lips, “I never knew your friend is so well learned!”

Sucking in her breath, Joenne raised a hand to slap that awful smugness away. Only to find herself getting groped from behind, Joenne attempted to break free unto no avail. This was the fifth time she got sexually assaulted by this obnoxious Half-Elf, how much longer did she have to endure this humiliation? Even though people mocked her for not being ladylike enough, at least she still remains the only daughter Cruax Nances has. Knowing which part of the female anatomy was pressing hard against her back, circumstances could never be any more embarrassing.

“Ever wonder why I can be anywhere nearby in a blinking of an eye?” cooed the seductive sellsword, “Someone taught me a lot of things, I can impart you some if you want to.”

Tingling with anger and flushing with embarrassment, Joenne mustered every ounce of strength in her willowy frame. Consequences be damned, she could not care less whether she’ll be feeding the sharks with herself. Suddenly losing balance, her delicate lips yelped out in pain.

A sprained ankle and a ship mostly of freaks… O’ Father above, I promise not to consume too much of the pantry if I manage to survive this.


“A good game of chess...”

Alestrial Eliaden detested that slippery smile belonging to her enemy, the Serpent of Histalonia ignoring her glare in return. Whenever he felt bored, Eliador de Lioncourt would always summon her. Like a female whelp doomed to be mated one fine day, the Cinha lady now no more had to play her cards carefully.

“Only because you won, Serpent.”

Surveying her surroundings with momentary glances, the daughter of Louthes Eliaden had long ceased her amazement directed towards her adversary’s room. Neither caring for exquisite portraits hanged on the walls nor whatever growling exiting from exotic beasts caged, her dark hard eyes nevertheless drank in the sight. Seemingly mocking her predicament, the late morning sun showered its rays upon her shoulder length hair raven dark.

“Fairest Alestrial Eliaden, do you still perceive yourself as a harlot meant to please kingdoms of men?” asked the Elven rogue, his repulsive knavery upping its ante every minute, “Surely not.”

“Spare me your lies, for hungry Dwarves under your gold had devoured my chastity with glee.”

No sooner truthful words departed from her dainty lips, a sharp pain greeted her right cheek. Flashing a sneering visage, Alestrial stood up in front of Eliador. Defiant gaze reaching upwards against a pair of storm grey orbs, there was nothing to fear. Alestrial Eliaden has lost everything.

Pride, love, chastity… what else is left, mused the Cinha fighter within her soulful depth.

Detecting nary a shred of anger, Alestrial braced herself for the worst. Yet, that thieving Elf helped her up instead. Utterly stunned by his show of abrupt gentleness, she half expected a rough pull at her hair.

So be it then…

Caressing the back of her head instead, the Serpent of Histalonia whispered his damning assessment. With a statement of frigid clarity coursing from ear to mind, Alestrial couldn’t bear herself listening to those words spoken half in jest. If what he said was true, why then must many suffer for her sake? Why then must she suffer herself?

“But not your inner fire, not your unique talent waiting to be freed. I have two keen eyes for capable people instead of one, mind you...”


“House Tenias will surely give us a big fat purse,” grinned a boyish youth, his pair of long pointed ears bobbing in anticipation, “Then again, ‘tis not every day you get to see a human girl decently desirable.”

“Stop being horny, Conwer,” a sharp blow to his ears vanquished his enthusiasm, a brunette girl with similar features frowning her disapproval.

“Hey! You assaulted me!” hollered an indignant Conwer, his sight directed to a cowled figure seemingly asleep, “Gramps, busty Hazel doesn’t like me! She wants to rape me!”

“Enough whining, Conwer,” muttered the hooded man darkly, “Everyone including our Wraith Lord is trying to get as much sleep possible before reaching our hitting point.”

Glowering at Hazel, Conwer had to admit she’s rather pretty. At least that’s the only good thing about her, mused the roguish Half-Elf. Hopefully Kerstein would consider her for the sake of peaceful times ahead. The sound of rolling wheels then dominated the remaining time, Conwer managing to sneak a glimpse before falling into slumber.

‘Tis our banner of midnight black, an Elven sabre ghostly white the only light.


A/N-Nothing new lingo wise, but I've managed to tear up whatever timetable for all things plot and characters. I'm indeed born to be a gardener, not some architect. Not to mention I'm also born to be an obsessive jerkass bordering on Vincent van Gogh minus the talent.