"Like a beast or bird sensing disaster sent from the gods five days ahead, so is he who understands why a knife has to be hidden behind a smile."
~Heihou no Tae'Gyuk
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A
Ranger’s Tale
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Gentle
warmth washing over the bustling island, cities and towns alike busked under
the high noon sun. Merchants were everywhere, attractive women accosting
themselves with willing men. No man was spotted dressing in drab, every lass
worth her price flaunting her goods. Winter was nearly unheard of, only spring
and summer prevailed nine seasons out of ten. Welcome to Histalonia, every
local would surely say. There you shall find your finest pleasure and dearest
indulgence, they promised.
“Master Lukas, the osprey has arrived,” bowed an
attractive girl no older than sixteen seasons, her tanned complexion somewhat
different from the local harlots plying their trade.
Lukas Brun uttered nary a reply, his only answer
only a beckoning hand. The unnamed girl strode forward and entrusted unto him a
tiny parchment, she was duly dismissed afterwards. Hazel green eyes browsed
through the contents, a quaint smile creasing his face. Then he lit up the
parchment with nothing bar a sudden combustion.
Eliador
was right. Mink is now heading to Edwood to negotiate terms with Jarl
Ironstone. There goes victory for the Homm’Eot, so much for rapers trusting a
knave.
)0(
A massive crack resounded the evening sky, horrified
onlookers could only stay their silence. Here before them was a fight between
two men, a brawl with one dishing out punishment and the other gladly accepting
it. Tanee was part of the spectators, her heart remaining in her mouth as the
third blow ceased its fury. This was a brutal man wielding fists equally relentless,
she loathed imagining what would happen if such a gauntleted hand connected
with her abdomen.
O’Father
above, please don’t let this be murder…
“Oi, why are you still here?”
Before Tanee could utter any statement of reply, she
felt a sharp pain stinging her forehead. Guided by instinct, she planted a foot
down firmly against the offending man’s foot. Blind aim proving true after all,
the fairly tanned lass could only look at who the culprit was with her jaw
gaping wide.
This
is a lie… I must be drinking too much last night! Wait, I never drank any wine
or brandy!
“Get out,” a gruff voice snapping her out of
thoughts akin to a rushing river, Tanee felt like some helpless hamster in
front of a hulking man dark and handsome.
“That’s not the correct way to treat a lady, most
honourable Ser,” grinned the victim of the public assault moments ago, a brief hacking
bout shocking Tanee, “I survived three punches per promised. So no more going
after Aera Darko.”
His unnamed counterpart merely frowned, an armoured
fist clenched crackling with volatile power. Moments earlier, the two of them
were engaging in a fight. If not for that Demon Hunter offering an alternative,
the Berserker would have given chase. As it turned out however…
“Why
are you doing this for someone who hates you?”
“Because
we are all sinners and this person you’re out to go after is the least of them
all. I know this doesn’t make much sense, but rest assured that I’ll be the
first one to kill him if shit goes horribly wrong.”
Arondight wasn’t a fool, his status as a Berserker
serving up naught when it comes to clouding judgment. Surely there was
something about the Ranger unsettling enough, yet sensibility had dictated him
not to pursue. Why then did he choose to start an unwanted fight in the first
place?
“It’s only natural for Aesir and Vanir alike to do
the same thing as you,” called out an impassive Lars Alterfate, an unconscious
girl in his arms, “Contra Mundum and Chaos Incarnate will always attract those
of likeminded nature.”
Before the conversation could go anywhere further,
Arondight narrowed his glowering stare. In front of him stood a smirking lass
no older than twenty winters, her ruby orbs latching themselves onto the duo.
Raising a finger on her scarlet lips, she walked towards Lars with a gliding
grace akin to fluid currents of a stream.
“What do you want?”
Her intended target’s sudden question slightly threw
Sarel Aphros aback, yet she would be a fool to underestimate someone both blessed
and cursed with the identity of a Storm Crow.
To
think I am also one.
“Ah’na should have taught you proper manners when it
comes to basic courtesy,” quipped the Grand Damsel, the impact of her words not
lost unto herself, “Lars Alterfate, don’t make me face your back.”
Brief silence announcing its triumph, a sudden gale
assailed the three. With a smile creeping up her sensual visage, two pairs of
crimson eyes gaze at each other. Reaching out a delicate hand for the comatose
lass in Lars’ protective grasp, Sarel Aphros finally received her reward in the
form of a snarling Demon Hunter and her outreached hand pierced.
“Don’t,”
warned a defensive Lars Alterfate, blatant ire earning only mocking laughter as
its keep.
“You think I’ll do to her what I’ve done to those
innocent folks working in that eatery? I’m not that evil, rest assured.”
“You killed them all the same.”
“And I heard they’re relatives to a certain young
lion.”
Realisation of whatever dire possibilities forcing
open Lars’ emotions like a gaping wound, the Demon Hunter failed to spot a
shadowy figure taking aim with a longbow firmly held. A flashing streak was all
it took to snap the partial blond back to his senses, alas too late it was for
him.
A gauntleted hand reached out for the fatal missile,
a bestial roar accompanying an arcing slash. Another speeding arrow connected
itself with Arondight’s newly crafted sword, the outcome deemed his victory
even though the weapon got shattered.
“Sniper, hold your hand!”
Sarel’s command was absolute before her servant,
simple was the relationship between one of Those Who Strike Alone and the Grand
Damsel of Napishtim. Grinning like a confident rogue in spite of an iron grip
threatening to snap his neck by half, Tristan Ajax let go of a knife hidden
seconds ago.
“Can you let me go for the sake of that fine wine I
gave you earlier?”
“I don’t remember someone so dishonourable giving me
such a fine gift,” growled Arondight, his anger unabated and tightening hand
unrelenting.
“Unfortunately ‘tis easier for one to swear by honour
rather than through deeds,” shrugged the obnoxious Sudlhit.
“Shit, that idiot is courting death!” exclaimed an
agitated Lars.
A bellow tore asunder the stranglehold enforced by
silent tension, the Berserker withdrew his hand and took three steps back. His
fury now directed towards a white haired maiden still maimed, not even burgeoning
rage could force a reckless move out of him.
“You hold the power of life and death.”
“Only the key, not the gate,” smiled a winsome
Sarel, the deceptive nature behind whatever intent barely disguised, “I hope
you enjoy the fire of Muspelheim.”
Before Sarel’s mockery, Arondight could only stay
his murderous urge. The burning sensation was all too real, yet his gauntlet
remained whole and untouched. The Grand Damsel of the Holy Quintet Church was
toying with him, this was a game between cat and mouse. How the knight detested
being the latter instead of the former, whatever knowledge hinting at a
possible outright death boiling in his mind.
“There’s no point starting a fight between those
with something in common.”
Turning to the speaker, Lars betrayed a rare smile
of genuine nature.
“Finely spoken, my Sudhlit brother.”
)0(
“That’s a lie!”
Against denial put forth by Karen, an Elf hauntingly
fair merely sipped his wine with languidness. The wind caressed his flaxen hair
now let loose, golden tendrils billowing like pennants aloft. Casting a frigid
gaze against her defiant fort, the daughter of House Tenias felt courage
freezing instantly and promptly shattered.
“A
dead man’s due is his to keep. For every one finger laid on this lesser girl, I
shall invoke once the swiftness of death.”
Profuse
breathing abruptly seized her soul, images of lustful men brutally eviscerated
making their visit once again. No one had ever told her about this Shadow
Brotherhood, any rumoured word on Kerstein de Bladefort proven through actions.
This was someone denying all she had dreamt about Elves, this was a slaughterer
cold and cruel.
“You
are ours to keep till I meet your father.”
What will they do, Karen asked herself in silence.
“I
promise you my word and our honour that chastity shall remain untainted, no
matter what.”
Will these Elves keep to their word, Karen
questioned her heart.
“Oh
shit, that lady busted us.”
What was the name of that offensive Elf again? Was
Coner or Conwer? Regardless whether her guess was accurate, that damning scene
could never lie to itself.
“Those
not part of us have no right to partake and neither the freedom to question or
judge.”
Shuddering to imagine what will happen should being
a captive counts, Karen Tenias was nevertheless thankful to the Father for
escaping a hedonistic show of mass orgy. Yet one person stood out from the
rest: Kerstein de Bladefort.
“Why di…”
Before Karen could finish her words, a wizened Elf
entered their room with nary a courtesy shown. His face wearing a frown, this
was the only other Elf absent from that theatre of debauchery mere hours ago.
“They’re here, Kerstein,” informed Huan de Weon
curtly, “Sorry for my tone.”
Uttering naught for reply, the Wraith Lord tied his
hair up in a low ponytail. Elven sabre sheathed readied at hand, Kerstein de
Bladefort departed from his room with fluid grace akin to a spectre living
under the daytime light.
)0(
“You sure?” asked a bored Tristan Ajax, a frowning
visage facing his hand.
“Yeah,” yawned Lars in an equally bored manner,
fingers fiddling with his cards, “You can trust that kindest Ser to do his
job.”
“Duty you mean,” grinned the Sudhlit Archer as he
dealt a four card sequence, “Two Princes, one Queen and a King.”
“Royal House,” whistled the Demon Hunter,
“Impressive… unfortunately though…”
Wearing a triumph upon his beaming face, Lars
Alterfate dealt a five card sequence before a smirking Sarel Aphros.
Three
Soldiers and two Generals… a Grand Assault. You’re good in playing cards, Lars
ah’ni. A pity you’re up against a master…
“Can I deal one more card before you take my innings?”
quipped Tristan Ajax with his hand upraised.
“You only got two cards left,” shrugged a cocky
Lars, “C’mon, all the watchers are waiting for me to win.”
Upon such statement of intent, every patron and
barmaid alike roared their approval. The comely Sudhlit abruptly snapped his
fingers, the resultant sound reverberating through a crowd staying quiet
seconds earlier.
“That’s your problem, not mine,” the Archer was
surely grinning like greedy knave preparing to take his share of spoils. Then
he slowly drew out his remaining hand.
“Look carefully, loser. I’ve got a Fool… and one
Assassin.”
Gasps of outrage resonated throughout the tavern,
the spectators hardly believing their eyes. If Sarel Aphros was wearing a
chuckling face, Lars Alterfate only gave a frown. With one corner of his lips
turned downwards, the Grand Damsel knew what it means.
Dealing
with a crushing defeat.
“Argh!” screamed a frustrated Demon Hunter, his
hands throwing up a blustery show, “I fucking give up, you asshole!”
“You must have been cheating!” exclaimed an outraged
lady dressed in a low cut gown, “Tell me your secret, black dog.”
“It’s not nice calling me a black dog since I might
end up being your next customer,” replied Tristan in a harmless manner, “It’s
perfectly fine for a whore to fuck a Sudlhit, quite another for her to actually
fuck a dog.”
Raucuous laughter punished the harlot for her
reckless tongue, a blushing face betraying an innocence yet to be breached.
“That was devious, despicable scoundrel,” whispered
Lars against Tristan’s ear, feigned ire giving way to unbridled mirth, “Using a
Fool to nullify my final hand and sending an Assassin to rape my Queen.”
“I’d rather sleep with a princess,” shrugged the
impudent Archer, his rascally visage showing nary a remorse, “Heard the Bastard
King’s half-sister is truly a stunner. Tall, beautiful, blond… a pity I heard
she’s a bit flat at the front.”
“Talking about Lady Caylon the Swift, I presume.”
Reacting with a slight nod, Tristan Ajax diverted
his sight towards an Elf dressed in white and blue. His eyes were of sparkling
emeralds, long flaxen hair braided neatly at the nape. Held casually was an
Elven sabre sheathed, its weight resting upon his slender shoulder. A cloak
woven from midnight black was draped across his athletic frame, every detail
about him seemed eerily without flaw.
“Wraith Lord of the Shadow Brotherhood, Kerstein de
Bladefort,” greeted the Elf with nary a bow, his tone nevertheless polite, “Pardon
my bluntness, for I am not good in formalities other well learned folks are
used to.”
“Forgive my straightforward nature as well, Wraith
Lord,” replied Tristan, a vagabond’s smile giving way to a soldier’s visage,
“Let’s get down to business.”
If Kerstein was listening, he merely held out a
beckoning hand. A pouch made from softest leather fell into his outstretched
palm, the irony behind such a gesture not lost onto Lars who happened to wear
his wryest grin.
A
beggar asking for charity against a sellsword asking for his rightful keep. No
wonder why people like us are born to be despised.
“Fire rubies cut to perfection,” replied Kerstein
with a sigh, soulless emerald orbs boring into his paymaster, “This is not what
the Brotherhood demanded.”
“Neither did you demand any deposit as well,” smiled
the Grand Damsel, her voice tinged with a seductive edge. No sooner Sarel
Aphros started attempting a guess on Kerstein’s imminent reaction, roaring heat
and sudden flare assailed the uneasy peace.
“It has been quite a while ever since I saw a
stampede taking place,” commented a cynical Sarel, her counterpart retaining
his inhumane frigid calm. Then he spoke out, but not towards anyone seated.
“Huan, you’ve committed a decision contrary to your
nature.”
“My apologies, Kerstein,” sighed the wizened Elf, an
annoyed gaze making his partner squirm, "I know equally well as you when it comes to the likes of the Grand Damsel."
Getting up on his feet, Kerstein strode over towards
a half drunk slob oblivious to what is to come. With a single swipe, the
drunkard fell on his rear as cusses rang out to Karen’s embarrassment.
“Sit,” motioned Kerstein in a commanding tone, his
posture making things no less easy for the daughter of Granad Tenias.
“YA FARKA! GONNA FARK YER HOE!”
It all happened too fast, Kerstein de Bladefort’s
very movement undiscerned by all. One minute ago, that unnamed boor attempted
to grab a terrified Karen. A minute later, an invisible force ripped the
offending ruffian nearly into half. Turning away from a gruesome sight, the
young noble lady nevertheless had her stomach turning against her.
“That’s not cool,” pointed out Lars with feigned
outrage, “You made a lady throw up in front of a gutted corpse!”
“And would you prefer him castrated before his
innards start falling out?”
Unable to devise a witty riposte against a sense of
humour quite brutal, Lars could only laugh in spite of circumstances. This was
an interesting meeting taking place in a hauntingly quiet establishment, only
one person would be incapable of appreciating it and she wasn’t around.
Tamee…
what a sweet name. Wait a sec. Is she called Tanee?
Realising the futility behind a stupid question
asked towards himself, Lars smiled like a self-deprecating little boy. After
all, the only other fellow not around had given his word that the lass will
never encounter harm. Truly a knight blessed with honour worth his weight, such
was the Berserker Arondight.
)0(
The
bar was boisterous as usual, plenty a patron expressing their approval and
booing. Times of war always brought forth the noblest in men and worst of
humanity. Under the wooden roof unfolded a scene not so dissimilar. Beyond the
windows perched languid crows cawing lazily, within the mortar walls a fight
took place.
Tanee could not bear to look on any longer, yet she
was unable to convince her protector to do the same. The hulking man stared
impassively, apathy displayed stirring up the fire in her. She still recalled
lessons in life imparted by her grandfather, the name of Fergie Malom bringing
pride into her otherwise bland life. For this reason alone, she fell out with
her only family. Her father died shortly after her fourteenth birthday, her
mother always flying into a fury whenever the Gaffer of Manchester was mentioned.
You
stupid half hulk, do something!
“That Ranger will be perfectly fine the way he is,”
claimed Arondight, his reply catching Tanee off guard.
That’s
a lie! He knows my thoughts! Tanee Malom, wake the fuc…
“Only fools and jesters betray their innermost being
through words spoken,” answered the Berserker, his rippling muscles remaining flexed
and taut. Before such a sight, Tanee suddenly discovered her heart skipping
like a skittish doe.
The battle will soon be won, reminded Arondight unto
himself.
Indeed his assumption materialised, the dark Ranger managing
to evade a blindsiding attack. With a cruel feline’s grace, he executed a wide sidestep
and shove a foot onto the back of his unlucky assailant’s knee. A trip was all
it needed to snuff out a life, a fumbling man impaling a standing one.
As blood spurted out in a crimson stream, the
unwitting killer also met his end at the hands of he who made this possible. A
hand gripped his head roughly, a hunting knife concealed in a cloak releasing a
tide of red from the victim’s severed neck.
The crowd hushed up immediately, this play had gruesomely
ended. Never turning back to face his audience, the dark murderer cut off his
two quarries’ heads nonchalantly. Feeling queasy before macabre theatrics,
Tanee blacked out.
Seeing his charge rendered comatose, Arondight chose
to stay his hand. As if having eyes on the back, the sellsword turned around briefly.
With a slight nod and most sardonic grin, he walked away with two heads weeping blood
in tow. Bounty hunting was always about violence and blood, for this was an
industry dictating kill or to be killed.
Then the Berserker witnessed a scenario never before
seen flashing by, the portrait painting a broken warrior standing tall. His
form was majestic, his sword stainless and bright. In the middle of a tundra he
remained alone, his back facing an icy fort. Three sets of questions were asked
from heaven above, a poetic chant forged from conflict ringing true.
Unto
whom did Aeranath admire? Was it that nameless girl betrothed to her dream?
Unto
whom have Chaos Incarnate love? Was it not a maiden given to tragic death?
Unto
whom will Contra Mundum guard? Is it not both a fiery dragon and defiled maid?
Wind
blaring from winter's horn, an army of denizens I know not of.
Howling
for my blood and mine alone, I mock them as beings I fear nothing from.
Elves,
Dwarves, Humans, and all... every Demon comes to fore.
They
are as violent waves shattering themselves against a laughing rock.
As
wayfarers unschooled in terrain of endless plains and most treacherous woods.
Hence
beckons my only friend forever gripped, Fragarach...
Let
the Answerer's blade unleash my unrivalled wrath.
)0(
Background notes
Innings: Slang for stakes placed or winnings earned.
The card game played between Lars and Tristan is called Era where winner is the one securing victory after emptying his/her hand. Cards used in this game represent individuals of varying standings during war and politics.
A/N [1]-Jester is used to grant the gamer an extra card played while the Assassin can render any given card useless, i.e. "killing" the target.
A/N [2]-Era is NOT about history lessons, but rather the Spanish term for war.
During times like what Blomfeld is facing currently, entering/exiting the relevant settlement is possible since conflict has yet to be confirmed. However, stringent checks amounting to strip searching would be enforced with a fixed quota of those departing until the situation has been resolved.
A/N [3]-Okay, I'm technically attempting a bailout that will make even the Greeks go "wtf man???!!!" in their mother tongue.
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Relevant URL
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