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, 27 January 2014

Mortal Demons

"Give me the correct answer and I shall spare you, O' little girl. Get it wrong and I shall make you mine."
~The Wise Lass and Slavering Bear


A Ranger's Tale


Why… why must this happen?

“When I grow up, I want to be a story teller. Never mind the daily life, it’d be good to give others a bit of hope, no?”

Her words echoing deeply in my mind, I tried screaming out against that monster. What does it look like? A snake doing unspeakable things to my friend? Or maybe it feels like something totally different yet so familiar?

No, I don’t have anything to do with that. I don’t have anything to do with its friends committing the same nature of acts against everybody else.

Monsters, all of you. Do you want me to run away? That’s why you chose not to attack me like the rest?

Stay calm, Aeranath. Stay calm, think of a way. If I retreat now, I will die.

Then it all happened slowly. Somebody shouted my name. A person I should know, yet sounding so much like a stranger’s call.

The snake dashed towards me even though it has no legs. Not just that snake, but all its friends as well. Some look vaguely like that monster, others assume different shapes and sizes.

Blood… I’ve tasted my own blood. But why am I still standing? Why do I feel no pain?

No… it wasn’t my blood warming my lips, it was hers.

I’ve forgotten her name, I only remember her face. She said something before about growing up, but I know immediately that she’s already grown up. At least that’s what my eyes told me all the while. She looked a bit like me, her smooth brown skin and slightly wavy hair making me wonder what is she. Father said something about women, is she one of them?

It doesn’t matter now. She’s dead. No, make that already dead. Her naked chest will scar me for life, I’m pretty sure of that. A gaping hole, a lone figure standing tall and strong. A person whom I called Father countless ages ago, but no longer since.

“Why were you staying put? Mercy to the enemy means being cruel to yourself!”

Mercy? Am I showing mercy? No, it shouldn’t be like that. No one deserves to die like that…

Why am I feeling so empty?

Why do I feel something warm down my cheeks?


Aeranath felt nothing as he got up from his bed, the only proof indicating life beyond yesterday being a brunette whore snoring naked and half exposed. What a bitch, snickered the True Apostle. A little wonder why she’s willing to do business cheap in spite of her good looks and technique equally fine.

The cold frigid air assaulted his muscled back bared, his seated position staying unchanged. Whoever giving me this room ought to be offed, mused the Ranger. However, the only thing he enjoyed more than killing those slighting him was a shagging session paid in full. That count alone was enough to offset completely any brewing annoyance tantamount to whimsical want. This plus his decision in letting his entertainer catching a cold.

“Not my problem if she dies,” shrugged a smug Aeranath, his pants firmly buckled. A muffled crash then greeted his keenest ears, azure orbs resting lazily unto the sight below. A brave soul would have shouted loudly, a timid man pretending nothing happened. Aeranath belonged to neither, he leaned against the sill watching a rape scenario unfolding. His smirk was finally gone, replaced by a visage akin to an unfeeling god. It did not matter to him that the victim in question was a girl comely and nubile, boredom the only thing bothering his mind.

Then the lass’ body went limp, her rapists muttering to themselves in frustration. Turning his back onto the dastardly scene, he cared not over the fact that a potential victim of rape had just chosen suicide via biting off her tongue. Then something changed his mind.

“Well, guess we should try fucking a dead girl. Never tried that before, gonna be a pity letting such a whore gone to waste.”

…beauty… lips… cunt… ass… mine…

Damning memories ages back haunted his empty soul, images of that nameless girl ravished till death assaulting his mind. Somewhere afar, Aeranath could hear a wolf howling. Twisted whims warping a captive willing true, the True Apostle betrayed a knowing leer. Without turning back even once, the Ranger grabbed his sword sheathed and ready. As for his whore, she remained snoring and blissfully unaware.

This was a night for the wolf, a lunar night for icy steel and frigid eyes.


Why… why must this happen?

Those were Barl’s final words before fleeing the scene, his companions for three years running abandoned to torture and imminent death. No one knew what manner of beings are they, those who surely understand were most likely dead and mutilated.

Just like your broad, Barley…

“Shut the fuck up!” screamed an anguished Barl, absolute despair playing games with him. He never minded what others said about him so long his beloved Miral stayed beside him.

“Oh shit! You kicked that bitch too hard, Barley! I think you just cracked her skull.”

A statement of action, an act of impulsive murder, this was why he, Miral, and their other two friends ran away. Educated since young not to take a life, Barl could now feel the dead girl’s soul cackling like some vengeful crone. Naked and suffering cuts along the way, he couldn’t care less for Miral’s screams for help. After all, not even a halfwit would be so foolishly willing. As he attempted whispering a prayer inaudible, mocking laughter greeted his inner being with an almighty roar.

Would the gods hear a murderer out if they’re truly good?

Those words were the last thing Barl ever remembered, his vision exploding into blinding numbness as searing fire lanced him through the hind orifice.


Ian Holls huffed and puffed, but all his efforts could not prepare himself for a scene utmost horrific. He’d been to many an execution, he was known as the Hangman of Merseyside. When word reached his ears pertaining to a murderous act, the Gaffer of Seaside knew what the culpable party looks like. If his men were guilty of rape, it should be him wielding the noose. Ironically, Joes Mouriz was right in his moment of jest.

Be careful, lads. You live by force, you better don’t die easy by force.

“Live under the noose, die by the noose”, snorted Ian angrily, “Next asshole saying this to me is gonna get himself gutted.”

Forcing the crowd aside like an almighty force parting a river deep, Ian Holls’ greatest fear seized him like a hungry wolf. Spring was a representative of anything but death, yet this particular season of war only heralded more deaths than expected. Already one of that thrice damned trio had created mayhem beyond belief at a brothel near the eastern rampart, this time round he ended up greeting a familiar face.

Indeed the informant was right. Hanging atop the execution platform were two Red Lions dead and disembowelled, both spotting fatal wounds on the chest. Seated below rotting entrails left dangling was a sellsword dark and handsome, his back crouching like a wary beast guarding its kill. His sword was left unbuckled, but sheathed nevertheless. Gritting his teeth before that offensive weapon leaning against the murderer’s right shoulder, the only sight ten times more obscene was a grinning Ranger naked waist up.

A march upwards deemed an act too demeaning, Ian decided to demand justice on the spot. Why should one like him bother remonstrating in front of knaves wholly unrepentant? As if murderers and rapists can be reasoned with, raged Ian’s heart. If his target harboured even the slightest shred of remorse, however, he merely flashed a middle finger while saying nothing. Wide eyed in outrage, the local Gaffer roared a thousand curses unspoken.

Why you… you scoundrel and bastard born! Come down this instant so that I can cut off your hand!

As if answering Ian Holls’ silent dare, Aeranath got up and stepped down from the public stage. His blade held loosely in one hand, the other ended up running through his snowy hair swept to the right. Finally standing on even ground, the True Apostle at last gripped Fragarach tightly.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t like me,” said the True Apostle, a serious look supplanting his grinning face moments ago, “Then again, I don’t like you either.”

“Good,” spat Ian, “I’m sure no one likes you anyway.”

Inhaling deeply, Ian brandished his trusted axe. This was his only companion throughout decades of warfare, some said even his entire lifetime. While he never mentioned this to anyone, it was true that Biter had always been his sole pillar of strength. If not for losing a drinking bet with a certain closest friend, he would have embraced this secret wholeheartedly down the grave.

Moggray Tonn, you bloody son of a wine barrel… what would you’ve said if you’re seeing this?

Catching his breath sharply, Ian prepared his guard as his half naked adversary casually dipped his weapon downward. Eyes narrowing warily, the sword slide away from its sheath with Ian staying his focus.

The sword… don’t let it escape…

Numbing shock abruptly assaulted his side, burning pain slicing apart his soldier’s calm. Unable to hear his ribs cracking under impact, the Mad Rat of Seaside nonetheless understood a crippling wound when he felt one. The battle… it was surely…

“Over now,” shrugged Aeranath, callous visage justified by his smug countenance, “If you don’t want to die, please don’t get up.”

You thieving asshole… what the fuck is this? I never strayed my sight away, yet you ended up kicking me out of nowhere.

Raging against his object of ire, Ian’s desire to retaliate only met up with a worse reprisal in courtesy of a punctured lung. His own lung, his own blood, his own mortality… Joes Mouriz became the last person surfacing in his mind despite friendship oft rifted by opinions. And there was Moggray Tonn also, a comrade after his own.

“Rule number one,” sighed a derisive Aeranath, one final glance thrown back before walking off, “To fight is to lie and cheat. Hope you learn that unless you die halfway through.”


Charlni could only stare in a mix of terror and fascination. In times of war, no one should be venturing beyond the gates. Unfortunately some unreasonable bullies threatened to expose her best friend’s so-called secret despite claims of attempted rape. So much for being in a state of partial undress, Charlni could only agree to their dare.

If word leaks out, guess who will believe who? If my parents say I’m right, it means I’m right. Get it, dumbass bitch?

She ended up staring at a monstrous being resembling an ape made of fire.

Hopefully Demons don’t eat you up. I heard they enjoy feasting on retarded people so good luck and good riddance. Ha ha ha!

Charlni always possessed this naïve belief that once she closed her eyes, a painful death otherwise would be painless and swift. Yet another individual ended up captivating her attention, sparks and fireworks lighting up the night. If whatever horror shattered seconds ago was supplanted by a living form of fantasy, surely this stunning saviour would be her fascination’s source.

"A fair lady for a fair honour's take. Should it be a given for me to know your fairest name?"

“Cha… Charl…” stammered the flabbergasted lass.

“Charlotte?” mused the handsome youth, “Sounds a bit…”

“Charlin, you idiot!” snapped the irate Kalaran, her reaction invoking peals of laughter from the partial blond. Before she could devise a way to flatten his sudden mirth, he suddenly turned serious.

“Lars Alterfate at your service. Remember all that you’ll be seeing, ‘tis not every day to have a handsome bloke exhibiting his power.”

A baleful cry resembling a vengeful dirge filled Charlin’s ears, her head nigh exploding. Ethereal wisps illuminated the starlit skies, a voracious host converging unto their brethren’s grave. Frozen on the spot, Charlin suddenly recalled how much she suffered under just because her father passed away three years ago. Tormentors akin to the worst off scum, worst off scum akin to those foul beings staring hungrily at her. Keeping her fingers crossed, Charlni desired nothing more than these entities banished back unto hell. That is if there’s such a place, noted the cynical lass.

Placing a finger onto his lips, Lars wagged the other index finger like a street urchin taunting a fat arrogant boy. Mischievous grin begetting an outcome utmost lethal, the Demon Hunter stayed unmoving as he simply snapped his fingers nonchalantly.

Streaks of silver sped lashed out against their prey like unerring arrows fired straight, endless chorus of anguished pain piercing the tranquil air. The silver were glistening chains sparkling under the lunar moon, dual edged blades spearheading the fatal barrage.

There they were, embedded onto the ground and nearby trees. Charlni was left dumbfounded before a spectacular show of power, surely this was the stuff of legends and fairy tales! She tried tracing the source, her soft brown eyes could only discern nothing whence these deadly bolts hailed from. Then it all happened way too fast, yet so seemingly slow.

Stripping off his vest, the strapping lad revealed a swirling tattoo engraved on his back. Glowing red, and blue, a hand was slowly raised. Muttering something in an intelligible language, a scythe materialised out of thin air, its ethereal answering his beck and call. A swing was all it took to revert the impaled Demons back to nothing, a multitude of darkish purple orbs converged into Lars Alterfate himself.

Then Charlin blacked out.



“You heard me, Joes Mouriz,” yawned Tristan Ajax, his boredom evident, “You don’t have to worry…”

“About the killings which have scarred every resident mentally?” snapped the irate veteran, “This isn’t part of the deal!”

“Yes, it is,” replied Tristan nonchalantly while sucking his thumb, an act getting under Joes’ skin, “Part of the deal is to ensure no supernatural occurrence happens, that’s why I said there’s no cause for worries.”

“I find that you cannot be trusted, Tristan Ajax.”

“Not even the noblest of heroes, Tactician of Stamford. We all know what war is like, so no point lying. Leave that to the story tellers.”

Pervasive silence invaded the tense atmosphere, Joes Mouriz wasn’t a fool. The common masses had no need to perceive all things unseen, only those obliged to take up arms year in and year out are required to know. And that includes elite individuals taking orders from none bar the Church, noted the Gaffer of Stamford darkly. However, this only meant answers should be demanded all the same because the only difference between him and this enigmatic Sudhlit lies in a different loyalty.

“I suppose accountability is really a positive trait in doing business,” sighed Tristan, his orbs of darkest blue betraying only a sombre gaze, “Listen well, Joes, since I’ll only say it once. A Demon Hunter saved the trouble for everyone, just don’t ask me for any details.”

“And what makes you think your words are…” before Joes could finish his question, Tristan ended the interrogation for good.

“Go ask a girl named Charlni Waters. I believe she’s now safe and sound at her home sweet home. Find her, ask her. And you shall know the answer. Not that you’ll be impressed with whatever revealed anyway.”

His words finished at last, Tristan Ajax got up with neither a word nor complaint. War had taught him a lot, but necessary silence would always be that most important lesson gleaned. In a show of foolhardy insanity, however, he chose to leap out from Joes’ office window. Yet, his counterpart showed no care or concern. That was until he realised something pilfered from his cabinet nearby the sill.

That’s my finest bottle of wine till date, thieving knave.


I have sailed the seas and seen many gods. Gods made of wood, stone, and precious gold, idols which promised many and delivering far littler. Oh, heal my illness! Save me from poverty, save me from failure! Grant me that maiden whom I desired, grant me riches and success! But do you know that one thing no gods can ever bestow? I have that knowledge. This is why more oft than not, the unholiest of men is wiser than the holiest saint.

Alestrial could not sleep, Eliador de Lioncourt’s words playing out a haunting crescendo in her still racing heart. He talked about his exploits as if every drop of blood shed thus far was no bigger than the smallest lie, the Cinha lass detesting every word and phrase spoken. This wasn’t about self-exaltation. Rather, she’s able to sense whatever sliver of unadulterated truth present. She did not want to structure her thoughts into legitimate statements, for who in her circumstances would be so daring?

She then recalled an incident erupting a week ago or so. She was not a witness, but word remained rife on a bar hostess kicked to death. She knew not the underlying factors, neither did she want to. What provoked her, however, was Eliador’s decision to announce a manhunt only three days after this heinous act. As if taunting her with the Dwarves wasn’t enough, the Elf managed to set aside some free time for entertainment. Coercing her to play countless games of chess was already barely tolerable, asking her for opinions nearly became the last straw.

“What is your view towards their imminent end? Will they live as normal folks or fugitives for life?”

Alestrial could not forget her reply given.

“They will die.”

She could not forget Eliador’s astonishment, a mockery directed against the very little she had left.

“Oh? Do tell me your answer O’ fairest maid, for you shall spend the night here in my room if I hear no answer. Just any answer will do, I do not want to judge your words as correct or wrong.”

“If Eliador de Lioncourt desires a dead criminal, Eliador de Lioncourt would have him flayed alive and screaming. If you O’ Serpent desires a test, my answer is that they will die sooner or later. Histalonians are significantly recognisable, the only sensible person to them is one praying for harm and not reprieve.”

She expected a painful death through a massive gang rape, the devious Elf merely said nothing apart from fulfilling his promise. Yet, who was he to decide which promise to keep and which one to renege? She had never felt so dirty before, but reports on the culprits’ horrendous end cut her alive like a serrated knife. How much of a cruel irony to see herself treated like a queen where in fact she’s quintessentially a harlot now? Sneering remarks from the past reminded her all that was said about her, she never imagined fortune telling to be a profession of great torture.

Why is it that when someone gains a sword, another must perish?