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.

Monday, 2 December 2013

Turmoil Before Chaos

O' Chaos, what are you that the world cannot do without? O' Turmoil, who are you that mortals cannot survive without?
~Paradox Play; author unknown


A Ranger’s Tale

“How’s it going?” queried a well weathered man, his tiny wrinkles complimented by a shiny pate.

“No good, Mad Ian,” sighed his counterpart who was younger looking and wirier in build, “Dumb ass Stunties refused to take our terms.”

“And that poor lad…” Ian Holls gnashed his teeth as horrendous images greeted his mind.

“They cut off his balls and strangled him alive,” came the casual answer, “Not before they force him to fuck his sister though. I’m sorry about Murry.”

“Sorry?” growled the Gaffer of Seaside Division, “Sorry? Fuck you, Joes Mouriz! I swore…”

A stinging slap disturbed a flock of crows as the Gaffer of Stamford Division grabbed a tearing Ian by the collar. People will always deride him as a merciless leader doomed to grieve alone, only Joes Mouriz understands Joes Mouriz.

“I know why you’re crying, mad fuck,” whispered the handsome leader despite his greying hair and apparent age, “You gave your word to his parents that Murry would be safe from harm. But remember this, my comrade. His parents were already dead, killed and mutilated by those Stunties. His sister is now in their hands, her will utterly broken even prior to Murry’s act. The boy did so to save her, Drenkar Rockpillar never promised anything.”

Ian Holls only knew this man before him too well. The Red Lions were brothers to each other, nine other Gaffers the only reason why Joes could remain strong. That was before Moggray bailed out of his post. Desertion was a crime punishable by death upon public gallows, Southgate chose to follow suit. As light drizzle turned into massive downpour, Joes Mouriz materialised his inner muse with barely a whisper.

Above open plains most fertile, thundering clouds become our prison cell. Encampment brimming with arms and armour, steel and leather no more than stubble and straw


The trio’s journey was fairly uneventful, only motley bands of brigands bothered them. After frequent skirmishes initially, word seemed to spread wide and far. Such was the newfound terror a Ranger, a mad knight, and a Demon Hunter exacted on all comers dare, not even honest folks dared breathing a single word of greeting. If not Lars making himself cosy with some farmer’s eldest daughter, no one would have sent a troublesome trinity on their way.

“Eh, pardon ma fer’interup’tin’, but…”

“We’re sure,” replied Arondight with his eyes closed, “Ask no questions, for a knight has no business with meddlesome peons.”

“Thankfully you include that most important word, kindest Ser,” grinned Lars, his calloused fingers fidgeting with the straw bedding, “Although I won’t be offended otherwise. Can’t say the same for our grumpy wolf. Right, Aera Darko?”

“Shut the fuck up, Goldwanker,” snarled Aeranath, “Disturb my nap one more time and I’ll kill you on the spot,”

“No, you won’t,” answered the partial blond, his expression taking a sombre turn, “Or rather, you…”

“Ah! Der we’ar! Un mile o’de good ol’See’side,” beamed the old farmer, “Soree’, bu…”

“Take this, keep the change,” Arondight tossed forth a leather pouch, his grunt nigh inaudible, “You have performed your only duty well, now depart in peace and with my silent assurance.”

As the lot jumped down from a carriage cart filled with hay, the oxen mooed in unison. Stealing a sour glance at their unwilling coachman one last time, Aeranath suddenly shoved Arondight on the shoulder. If the Ranger exhibited any form of tension, his counterpart merely stayed stoic. Making himself comfortable under a nearby birch, Lars looked on wryly in silence.

“Fucking idiot,” snarled the True Apostle, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Giving him my assurance that the old man won’t be harmed,” hailed the nonchalant answer, “I’m not that stupid to promise anything beyond my word.”

Momentary calm soon warping into prelude of a storm, Lars found the scene ironically humorous. This wasn’t the first time somebody noticed such twisted trait in him, the clear summer sky reminding him of a past long gone by.

“Lars, stop that! I know you’re trying to help the poor, but can’t you do so constructively?”

Constructive is the word, snickered the attractive youth. Kagetsu no Hyo’Ah was a feisty one, her fiery heart always burning with a kindness incapable of expressing itself. Mayhap this is why I loved her like a moron, mused the self-deprecating Demon Hunter. Indeed both he and Aeranath were born to be freaks. If Aeranath was one by birth, then Lars Alterfate was one by destiny.

Breaking off his thoughts, the partial blond set his focus back on the belligerent duo. They were now within sight of whatever defence mounted nearby, either everyone was recklessly brave or having too much free time. Lars Alterfate tried contemplating whether he should halt the confrontation, a flock carrion birds distracted him away from his hobby.

Meadow, clearest dawn, two trees, a bunch of crows… what a scenery, Lars Alterfate.


“That’s a nice tattoo you’ve got,” smirked Lars, “Tell me, do you still have any hidden underneath?”

Unto his flirting, the harlot merely giggled. She was nowhere near attractive with a chipped incisor, yet Lars minded not such glaring flaw. Stroking her flaxen locks, the Demon Hunter snuggled closely to her naked body. What’s her name again? Lars asked himself this question, he could only draw a blank.

“Alright, you have our word. Try anything funny though and each you three are gonna get a spear up yer ass. Get us?”

“How much do you charge?” the client at last whispering that one question every prostitute wanted to hear.

“It depends on how much I’ve offered,” Lars noticed her grin was akin to a tigress, images of his previous kill still haunting him.

We can only kill to survive, Lars. If you think we Demon Hunters are meant to hunt Demons, then you’re only half correct. Once a Tainted, forever one. Remember this after I die, my protégé.

“I gave you three shots, therefore I should give you thrice the payment,” winked Lars, hand reaching out for his purse. This was when trouble courted him like a relentless lover jilted.

Oh shit, load is gone. Lars Alterfate, you’re so horribly screwed.


Little Harri shook his grip as he tried mustering the courage to end everything. Once and for all, the tiny boy whispered. Hey, it’s that retarded kid! After that, no more pain, he assured himself. I’m not gonna take in that wimp for our team! Must… end…

A huge commotion disrupted his suicide attempt as his knife was abruptly snatched away. Screams than ensued, the long suffering lad of thirteen winters unable to discern whether the shrieking rang from those living or dying. Peeking behind the grey bricked wall, Harri beheld a sight he could only dream about.

There he is, big Ars the leader. No, make that his head. That black man holding my dagger... wait! That’s… Raomi?

Pinching his cheeks hard, Harri prayed to the Holy Quintet that what he saw wasn’t true, that illusions should stay just that. An illusion. O’ Father above, please I beg you. Shutting his eyes while promising to be a good boy, timid Harri offered himself a peek.

Only to witness another head already cut off, her eyes betraying terror and nothing else.

Harri’s inner world finally collapsed, denial eradicating his mind blank. He remembered Raomi’s womanly warmth, he cared not what harlot as a word meant to him. Her chipped tooth and plain features was a portrait of beauty, flaxen hair shorn at shoulder height his morning sun. He knew what must be done, he cared not for his newfound weapon’s heaviness. Heart, mind, and soul utterly emptied, excruciating flare guided by silver flash became Harri’s final dream made.


“What? You mad, Joes? We’re talking about a fucking murderer offing not one, not two, but three lives in a sitting!”

Gritting his teeth, a furious Ian Holls at last snapped. A wooden table flung across the room, Joes Mouriz nonetheless kept calm before his brother-in-arms consumed with chagrin. He only lived slightly beyond forty winters since birth, a relatively young age was more than enough to suffer. Three lives snuffed out was nothing compared to thirty lives vanquished by death.

“We’re fighting a war, Moggray. I did what I must, we’re not talking about thirty brave lads under your charge.”

“Fuck you, Joes! Do you have any bloody inkling on the consequences?”

“Dubious repute and notoriety. Frankly speaking, I don’t care.”

“Bastard of martyrdom,” chuckled the Gaffer of Stamford Division in his heart, his ears oblivious to Ian’s enraged rant, “Jape of the century.”

“Gaffer Sir!” gasped a rookie Red Lion, “The suspect… he’s willing to talk now.”

“Good, take…”

“Stem your fire, Mad Ian,” murmured Joes audibly, “There’s something funny here and you know it, Coles. Spit it out. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Well, he demanded an audience with you, Sir,” replied an uncertain Coles as he gestured towards his superior.

Wait, mad scoundrel wants to meet Joes? Seaside is my territory for fuck’s sake!


Ian Holls could only proffer the yawning criminal with animosity barely disguised. He had seen urchins feeding on bread stained with dust, there would always be others worthy of this daily bread. If only I got one stashed inside my pants, noted the emotional Seasider darkly. Nobody ever faulted him for reckless bravery at times, this was a man forged from brittle steel. And to think he still idolise Erasmus Eliaden, he who was hailed the Northern Drake.

“So let me guess,” drawled the dusky killer, a gloved thumb pointing at Ian, “This baldy here is Joes Mouriz.”

“I DARE YOU TO SAY THAT AGAIN!” shouted the Gaffer of Seaside brimming with bitter ire. Before he could draw his broadsword, three rookie Red Lions held him back.

“Coles Ashe, Ins Palus, Stieff Dobbins,” barked Joes sharply, “Drag Ian Holls off my sight.”

The pragmatist of Red Lions offered a wagging finger in front of Ian, his counterpart grudgingly accepted the cue. After all, a man could only have one brain and the Red Lions were indeed a collective entity rather than individuals.

“You’re some hell of a bastard, huh? By the way, name’s Aeranath.”

“It doesn’t matter what your name is,” snorted a derisive Joes, his seat a mere distance away, “Before I entered this room, I already warned Mad Ian of his crazy temper. You’re lucky that I’m special for a reason.”

“Brains of every operation,” Aeranath’s smirk remaining unabated, “Joes Mouriz, boss of Stamford.”

“I don’t like your smile, so wipe it off before I do it for you,” grunted a wearied veteran, his cropped hair peppered with iron not unnoticed by an amused Ranger, “Tell me, did the Quintet Church send you here?”

“You received the letter?” shrugged the True Apostle, “Never knew bitch was that fast.”

“Watch your tongue,” a snapping growl accompanied those warning words, “The Quintet Church will never hold such blasphemy lightly.”

“An insult,” corrected Aeranath, “Don’t forget who saved whatever remains of your men fifteen winters ago.”

“No one survived bar those waiting at death’s door porch. You arrived too damned late.”

“And I don’t find any reason to help unless it’s got something to do with somebody. Fighting against an army of Orcs led by a Tainted, you overestimated yourself. Try blaming your pretty and high mighty gods for once. At least you may actually find an actual purpose afterwards.”

Suffocating atmosphere prevailing over peace all tensed up, the dank interrogation room sparsely furnished only made circumstances worse. Indeed both Joes and Ian had received the Grand Damsel’s message, it felt wholly ironic to see a carrion bird bearing the Church’s secret mandate.

“Gaffer Sir.”

“What?” snapped Joes, his tone startling another recruit from Stamford, “Cut it short and simple, Cahyll Gars.”

“Erm, you remember blacky’s other two best buddies?” a shaky finger was jabbed in Aeranath’s direction, Joes Mouriz noticing that smugness abruptly evaporated, “They managed to obtain a pardon’s writ from the Church and it’s been verified the Grand Damsel’s seal is real.”


“Checkmate,” smiled a wistful Sarel Aphros, “Yet again throwing the round, I see.”

The old chaplain chortled in overflowing mirth, his laughter akin to some sick man’s wheezing. Sarel knew him since she entered this current body, that was fifty winters ago. Drinking in the familiar sights around her, the Grand Damsel realised how hindsight can make a mockery out of time. Surely it now feels less than one decade ago when Nanaya no Geun’Jin was ordained as the Grand Damsel Sarel Aphros, yet she understood how old the chaplain was back then.

And to think all-powerful me has yet to know even an alphabet of oh’pan’s name.

“Geun,” smiled the elderly priest, his tone breaking Sarel’s heart, “Do you see any difference between the current murals and then?”

“Oh’pan, I…”

The unnamed clergyman shook his balding head, apparent joy diminishing to nothing, “Geun, I know your answer. Nothing has changed, only people change. Know this truth and you’ll be immune to that ever-changing animal we called time. Now if you excuse me, I need to attend my flock soon.”

“Can I make myself at home?” this was Nanaya no Geun’Jin speaking out, not Sarel Aphros.

“Sure!” beamed the chaplain’s withered face, “Just don’t take too long. Whole of Napishtim will hold me accountable otherwise.”

“Geun’Jin, this shall be your home from now onwards. Greet your future ah’mou, Hyo’Ah. Geun’Jin will be staying with us forever, so get along nicely.”

“Ah’na, you’re still so fiery as always,” wept Sarel, slender arms hugging herself, “Why is every mural so beautiful, so innocent? No glorious heroes nor is there any heroine, only boundless meadow with children rejoicing under the sun, moon, and the stars.”



I keep asking myself the same question, maybe Guy was right in calling Aeranath a murderer.

Aeranath… nothing has changed, so why does his name sound so distant?

Never looking back at the boy, neither does he care about how he died.

Blood… why do I feel its sickly warmth caressing my face and chest? It hurts my eyes, it really stings. Tears trickling down my burning cheeks, I tried mustering a reaction. Nothing comes out from my shredded heart, only an emptiness making me feel like a sinner.

Retaining his widest grin, Aeranath reminds me of that man. Him and Eliador de Lioncourt, both are the same. Why did I not foresee this earlier?

The little boy’s severed skull haunts my mind, I believe escape is no longer an option. That together with two others already slaughtered.

Then I hear the turbulent wind singing a dirge, ‘tis a wolf howling in pain. A silver streak flashes by, I touch my cheek tenderly.

Blood… this time round my blood…

I have no time for pain, for Aeranath is now pinned against the nearest wall. Mother once told me a story, a tale where the villain died with back against a rushing river.

A finely crafted blade attached to the chain greets my widened gaze, distinct patterns engraved on the flat of the blade. Unable to perceive whence it hailed from, the answer to this nagging question showing himself promptly.

Surely this is a handsome youth worthy to behold, golden bangs forming sharpest contrast with the rest of his raven black hair. He is smiling, but not like Aeranath. Is he carrying some burden capable of crushing any mortal bearer? Am I seeing someone crying for a home, yet receiving nary an answer?

Sneering visage contorted into a hideous snarl, Aeranath becomes another manner of monster. As for his counterpart most alluring, he merely exchanged words with a raging wolf trapped. Do I understand a single sentence spoken? Naught a word am I able to hear despite near proximity.

Then the chain shattered, its piercing ring a battering ram against my ears and head.

“Are you two done?”

Finally hearing another person’s voice, yet another stranger greets my unsteady gaze. An animal of a knight, maddest of men, ‘tis the only image flickering in my head and whispered in my ears.

Silence freezing my soul, everything comes to a standstill. What will either party say? Will I see a duel to the death? Recognise my surroundings, I recalled my final trip with the kindest lady I called mother. This particular city of Seaside seems so different, yet surely unchanged.

Why can’t I recall its name?

Why can’t I recall its warmth?

“Not only are you a good Ser and kindest Ser, but also the strongest Ser thus far. This is the first time someone breaking apart Enkidu.”

There is no malicious intent behind the youth releasing that projectile destroyed moments ago, but what is Enkidu? Was it the chain fired and eradicated or something more than meets the eye?

And what about that mysterious hulk exuding a volatile aura? How did he manage to perform a feat faster than am arrow’s flight?

My tutors used to question my curiosity, they commented snidely that curiosity will kill the cat. I do not care so long as satisfaction brings it back. A loud commotion shocked me back to my senses, Aeranath’s companions suddenly gone. As for the only one left, he merely wore a smile.

Not as a deranged sellsword, but rather someone wearing a mask named Anger and Bravado.

Just like how I first met him, like how I could only watch his departing back…


Waking up in cold sweat, Alestrial Eliaden found herself drenched in emotions. Her heart was of violent tempest storm, her soul akin to turbulent maelstrom. Wholly unnerved by this unexpected dream, she fingered her shoulder length hair now growing back. The defiled Cinha maid could only afford to dream the unattainable, her sight discovering a solace utmost surreal.

“Extraordinary masters have no need for ordinary talents. If I do not know you in the first place, why then would I leave you nearby? Far better for you to satisfy every Homm’Eot’s phallus otherwise.”

“Eliador de Lioncourt, Serpent of Histalonia. How many times have you abdicated a game of chess to my favour?”


Background info:

Load: Slang for money purse.

Stem (the) fire: Informal term for holding back anger.

Pardon’s writ: An official document pardoning any criminal, suspected or convicted, of any given charges. Only rulers and the Quintet Church are authorised to do so.

Oh’pan: Cinha dialect for any man of senior age.



{+} {+} {+} {+} {+} {+} {+}

Extra note ['cuz I feel like it]

This morning @church...

Mr FKM: I heard you now become top pundit for some team already leh!

Me: Huh, where got? Who said one?

Mr FKM: Heard from other people one lah!

Me: Who?

Mr FKM: Don't tell you.

Moral of the story:
It's extremely easy to implant self-delusional thoughts in a problematic individual. Yes, I know Flower Boys Next Door is brimming with dysfunctional characters hitting teh lolz, but there's no point in letting me self-suggest that I was actually the architect behind our 1-0 win over a Bolton side arguably most in-form in away matches. So please, Mr FKM, 날을 주시기 바랍니다

P.S: In case anyone wants to ask me stupid questions, no, this chapter wasn't out to plug any 3rd party works. Just that my life is a story of freak coincidence.

ART's Zombie Apocalypse Team
Team Leader:


Weapons Expert:
Lars Alterfate/

Eliador de Lioncourt

Alestrial Eliaden

Speed Fighter:
Guy Cody


Guy who dies 1st: