War and Tricksters

“War is the finest form of art ever known to man, its author irony itself. Able to slaughter tens of thousands, yet capable of saving millions.”

~Erasmus Eliaden

)0(

A Ranger’s Tale

“War is nigh, the crows both its heralds and guard,” sighs Joes Mouriz, steely gaze intensifying as a familiar figure graces his presence.

“Ever a poet I see,” smirks Tristan Ajax, “My boss sends her apologies for her inability to say hi.”

“A silent apology no doubt,” quips Joes, stoicism masking his chagrin, “Let’s talk, Sudhlit.”

“Just the two of us?”

“Yes. Just the two of us.”

“A little wonder you didn’t choose a whorehouse instead,” whistles the Sudhlit in mock disappointment.

“Wouldn’t want my wife to catch me with my pants down,” grunts the Gaffer of Stamford, “Don’t worry. Drinks are on me.”

“Now we’re truly talking.”

)0(

Nary a joy is present, Edwood remains a fortress and glory dead. Gone are the bloodied stumps of men, screams of women being ravished muted. The Homm’Eot have proclaimed themselves kings over every maiden, even girls young as twelve winters or ten. A pride now broken, never shall clear blue skies visit the island boasting cedar and fir.

Mink stares impassively towards a scene otherwise commonly seen in Histalonia, he finds it nevertheless amusing to see a stunted ruler ploughing a filly much to his vassals’ boisterous glee. The lass is quite pretty, dark brown hair dishevelled failing to obscure her beauty. If not for Eliador’s orders, the girl would have found herself in the best whorehouse Histalonia has to offer.

Remember, my foul little ferret. Do not disturb a stunty while he’s fucking.

This was another of the Serpent’s warning, how Mink wishes it to be otherwise. Blocking himself away from the revelry, Mink loses count of time until a rough shove pushes him onto the ground.

Horny stunties… I’d have castrated you all and see for myself whether there’s any woman wearing a beard. Fuck you and your orders, gay Elf.

With mental greetings finished, Mink dusts his pants. Smiling with a glowering face, Eliador’s urchin messenger nevertheless enjoys every Dwarven glare. No matter how barbaric, any race blessed with common sense would be cursed with trappings of protocol. There’s no chance in hell these stunties will try a knife on him even though they know perfectly well what the Serpent has done to spite them.

Even if they dare, I’ll slice off their cocks, balls and all.

“Relay us your master’s message and scram like a mangy whelp you are, dog.”

Caarl Ironstone isn’t one for niceties, Mink is fine with it. He cares not whatever damning assessment a slippery snake reserved for some ruler’s undeserving next of kin, all this feral urchin wants is to kill off this diplomatic prattle soon as possible. After all, assassins are not meant to play politics.

Unless he happens to be that asshole paying me.

)0(

“What?” hollers an irate Ian Holls, his side failing to act up, “Are you mad, black cur?”

Joes Mouriz curses that day where the Grand Damsel healed his brethren in arms, which happens to be the previous morn. Apparently, he’d never taken into account the nature of magic. As he looks on in irritation, the Gaffer of Stamford can only acknowledge Tristan Ajax’s stoicism erected against Ian’s verbal siege.

This is not a jester or mere soldier, but someone ten times greater and more dangerous.

Wearied patience at last ceding ground to nerves akin to a rope held taut above a candle flame, Joes Mouriz bangs his callused fist against the wooden table. His show of anger reverberating throughout the bar, only a fool would dare mock an older man’s impatience.

“Impatient, aren’t we?” shrugs the Sudhlit with a flippant tone, his expression retaining its dour visage nonetheless. In a momentary loss in composure, Joes Mouriz feels like throttling Tristan Ajax on the spot. Quintet Church or no Quintet Church, it doesn’t matter.

“This is no time for theatrics, so save it for your whores.”

Recognising the speaker all too well, the situation promptly becomes a case of three Red Lions versus one Sudhlit of unknown calibre. If there is anything Joes feared the most, it would be Fergie Malom’s arrogance combined with Ian Holls’ volatility. He has seen plenty of characters within the past two decades or so, be they dangerous fools or talented men equally so. This Sudhlit before him certainly acts like the former, the latter he hides behind a crafty mask.

“Let’s get down to business then, shall we?”

Tone suddenly merging with expression, Tristan Ajax knows what it means to force every opponent on his back foot. And to think idiots tend to call this an act of war without understanding the meaning behind that damning word. Fingering his longbow like a lover caressing the loved, the Sudhlit snaps his fingers audibly. A map materialises abruptly on the table, every boundary and fort illuminated in cyan ink.

“Wha…”

“What kind of sorcery is this?” says Tristan, bemusement briefly supplanting a sombre visage true, “You don’t have to ask, Ian Seasider. And neither Fergie Manchester nor Joes Stamford needs to as well.”

Understanding the manner of irony behind the Sudhlit’s words, the trio chooses to stay silent. If only this annoying bugger isn’t here in the name of the Church, they whisper in their hearts. And hopefully the entire bar doesn’t erupt into hysteria, notes a sardonic Joes Mouriz.

“Within a year of reclamation, Edwood ended up back in the stunties’ hands…”

“Shut the fuck up, you black shit! Tell us what’s important,” retorts Ian, guttural growls accompanying his unravelling patience.

“I’m getting to that,” replies Tristan, Ian Holls’ insult unable to wound his pride, “The reason why Blomfeld is in full alert is because…”

“WHY YOU LITTLE…”

His fury at last unleashed, the Gaffer of Seaside cares not for self-image or etiquette. Rising to his feet, the towering Kalaran places his hammy hands around Tristan’s neck. What happens next turns out to be a blur for both strangler and victim, but not to Fergie and Joes.

Vision finally clearing up, Tristan massages his neck after a coughing fit. If looks can kill, Ian Holls will be it. Yet, he has gone through worse and survived the worst. From his homeland down south till Slarvea at uppermost north, from Teutonia all the way to Napishtim.

Not to mention the only person I called teacher, the only friend I called brother.

Waiting not for whatever damning statement made in Ian’s defence, Tristan Ajax goes for the jugular.

“Defend first, then parley.”

“Parley? Us and them?” snaps Fergie Malom, his snarl akin to a rabid beast, “You better hope there’s no girl waiting at your home, no matter where the shithole is.”

“Don’t worry,” assures Joes Mouriz, the strategic brain of Red Lions managing to reduce the tempest into a mere rainstorm, “He means them, not us.”

“Fuck it, Joes Mouriz,” spits Ian, “Hold fort first, and then take back what’s ours in one fell swoop.”

“And risk every man’s life in front of a defence stubbornly mounted? Don’t be stupid. If the Imperial Parliament says no, it means no.”

Joes’ answer cutting Ian’s fire down by half, all three know only Tristan has the solution no matter what may be said otherwise.

“If Ian Holls’ idea is workable, why then was Crag Isles able to reclaim Edwood?” asks Tristan, his strategic acumen starting to unveil its hand, “I’d rather stubborn pride staying dead than to see actual innocents dying.”

A knife appearing in his hands, its tip promptly anchored at one spot. Namely Histalonia. Ignoring the shock and gasps hailing from his fairer counterparts, the Sniper proceeds with his analysis.

“If you think Teutonia is guilty of instigating the annexation of Edwood, allow me to say that Edwood still remains a part of Crag Isles.”

“Any difference?” queries Fergie Malom, derision barely disguised, “It’s like spelling a word backwards only to discover you’ve obtained the same word come end of the day.

“There’s also a difference between meanings when it comes to the same word,” comes the prompt reply, derision vanquished by an answer equally derisive, “Teutonia cannot afford any excuse to bail, therefore the Bastard King couldn’t have ordered any military hostility in the first place.”

“Bollocks,” scoffs Ian Holls.

“War itself is the greatest bollocks to be exact.”

No verbal reprisal given unto Tristan’s unexpected riposte, the veteran trio choose to let him continue.

“I can assure you that once we repel the invaders, they’ll be forced to accept our terms.”

“But what if ‘tis true Histalonia has foot in this? It’s like gambling with death, you won’t win a shit,” muses Joes, thumb stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“If the Serpent desires dominion over Edwood, he wouldn’t have let the Homm’Eot doing the job for him. Scoff if you must, but I’m the only person capable of matching him wit for wit.”

Deathly silence pervades their minds, the noisy establishment otherwise maintaining its clamour. There is no mirth in this Sudhlit’s tone, no jest apparent within his slight rueful grin. Only a gut feeling that this man might just be the one winning the battle for them, his visage betraying a commander’s aura rather than a soldier’s want.

“Tell us your plan then,” whispers Joes Mouriz, the veteran in him at last piqued.

“First, we defend the Gemini. No matter the cost, the Eternal Bulwark must never be breached.”

“Bullshit,” snorts Ian Holls, Fergie Malom following in like.

“Not so much of a bullshit if I am to defend the high ground westbound,” clucking his tongue, Tristan reverts to his languid mood, “Word has it that this is a haunted place more than hundred miles off the coast.”

“Indeed so. Nobody enjoys the notion of visiting a stretch of outposts abandoned,” nods Joes Mouriz, the discussion doing nothing to resolve whatever contempt shown by his other two comrades, “Barrowup, after all, is a place where soldiers slaughtered each other in fits of madness many years ago.”

“Let this graveyard be an ode to those fallen then.”

Tristan’s reply invokes mirth from both Fergie and Ian, the Sniper amongst Those Who Strike Alone turning his back against them.

“You don’t fucking know you’re doing, coward!” chortles Ian despite the grim circumstances surrounding every man, woman and child.

“Oh yes I do. In fact, I’m more than glad to face my ass towards a laughing jackass or two.”

With his parting shot fired, Tristan does not need to know the extent of effectiveness behind his words. All he sees is one single word.

Victory.

)0(

The wind of war is nigh, quiet calm before the storm rising high. Beneath the balmy sky sits a citadel made from the finest stones cut. Built by the famed stonemason known as Pulis the Black, Felios is the first line of defence situated behind the Gemini. Both imposing and a reminder of unwavering strength, its position at the right has proven to be a deception for invaders and cover for Blomfeld’s fearsome Sword Trouts.

Aeranath cast a lazy look at the maiden’s flirtatious glance, the Ranger seeing it as a staring war of attrition. Paying heed to the hourglass near the window sill, at least an hour passing by. He was promised an audience, he receives a girl desperate for men. If not for Sarel Aphros doing him a favour, the True Apostle would rather turn Fragarach against himself than to bend over backwards.

Remember how you got yourself into trouble despite the Boon of Grace bestowed in the Holy Quintet’s name.

“A little wonder why I hate religion and bullshit,” mutters Aeranath under his breath, a dark visage inviting an unwanted move.

“Say, why are you so silent?” smiles the statuesque blond, her slender finger twirling a golden lock like a playful girl younger than ten.

“Because I don’t know anything apart from banging whores. I’d like to demonstrate to you the finer arts of brawling, but Teutonia will surely issue a mark on my ass.”

Sardonic statement invoking peals of laughter from the Teutonian beauty, Aeranath finds nothing funny.

Shagging her wouldn’t even be funny. Fuck this arrangement and that great white bitch.

“Oh no, I’m not the same as them,” huffs the fair lady, her mock indignation already telling Aeranath what she wants most, “They opened up their legs for money and payment.”

“Money and payment, both the same.”

“It’s different in Teutonia because they don’t work for Kalaran clients.”

“Or themselves,” replies Aeranath, his lower lip chewed in frustration, “Tell me what you want. If there’s nothing, forgive me.”

Her strides are effortless, shapely legs well-toned exposing a feminine charm. Aeranath can feel himself hardened somewhere below, it is not every day to have some flat chested lass teasing him with great success.

“No one rejects the Swift Lady,” whispers the sultry beauty, “Lady Caylon, blood sister to King Bastien.”

“Relay my thanks to your bastard brother then,” a stinging hand slapping Caylon’s advance aside, “Even though the last High Lord I saw was your father.”

“Do you desire information on what is to come?”

Aeranath freezes on the spot, Caylon the Swift at last seeing a checkmate. Then the unexpected happens.

“Sorry, I don’t give a fuck. You can say I’m forced to play this stupid war game.”

With a middle finger complimenting his back turned against the princess, Aeranath manages to conceal his victorious mirth. As the Ranger slams the door shut, Caylon can only gaze before an empty room. No one has ever rejected her come hither flirting, Aeranath is the first. A lady scorned begets ire born, woe be unto those crossing her path for the remaining day.

)0(

Incessant screaming is music to the True Apostle’s ears, Caylon the Swift reminds him too much of Sarel Aphros. Lars once commented that Nanaya no Geun’Jin might have loved him twice as much compared to how he loved Hyo’Ah. Aeranath merely laughed back then, but there is nothing laughable over this exact topic many years after. If only Lars will pop up suddenly…

So that I can kill him and every shit to do with the past.

A stench of blood abruptly tingles his nerves, images of a recent past assailing him. Aeranath understands too well the source, his frosty hair billowing in tandem with another individual’s golden locks. Smiling to himself, the True Apostle gives no heed to entertain any notion of pursuit.

)0(

Kerstein de Bladefort can hear Caylon’s screams ringing in his pointed ears even before he reaches the staircase, the Sniper’s calculation was anything but inaccurate. Only mere seconds passed when he crossed paths with an old acquaintance, chances are that he’ll only have mere minutes before fulfilling the contract. Fire rubies are known for scarcity and astronomical value, a little wonder why the Grand Damsel and her underling used them as a deposit.

To think the Brotherhood’s demand was only less than a quarter before then.

Elven feet hastening their stride, the Wraith Lord races up the stairs like the finest steed galloping upon barren plains. Hs target’s screams staying audible, such information is all he needs. Sellswords will always feign remorse should a contract signed results in failure, but not to him. Definitely not the Shadow Brotherhood, such is the sole reason why this band of Homm’Nua and halfbloods combined are to be respected with fear.

)0(

Her anguish finally quenched, Caylon feels guilty over her temper. Swift is she when it comes to fighting and men, equally swift she has always been in temper. Tara has been her personal maid since both were seven summers, close friends they are as well. Boasting plenty of friends from every nobility level, Tara’s existence is somewhat inexplicable to all. Mayhap Bastien was right when he pointed out how empty Caylon’s life is all the while.

Then someone break down the door. Caylon and Tara have their hearts missing a beat, a lone Elf greeting their shock. Clinging tightly against her mistress’ arm, Tara can only look to Caylon for help. Then it happens in a blinking flash.

Momentary speed gives way to a rough grip pinning Caylon against the nearby wall, all the Princess of Anglsax perceives is despair and death. The emotionless Elf has silences her by closing a slender hand over her jaw, fear seizing her like a hapless doe captured by a hungry predator.

“Do not move!”

The Teutonian can only nod her head slightly, her captor’s slight slim frame masking his strength until now. His hand reaching for her hips, Caylon screams out in her mind for Tara to do something. How can she lose her maidenhead just like that? If flirting is truly a sin, why then must she suffer now? What if she survives the rape? What will her half-brother say? How will his people react?

Then the pressure let itself go, the prisoner at last liberated.

His target now assumes another form. With pace and momentum as ally, a grip equally strong covered her mouth. Flinging the maidservant onto the lacquered floor, a knee crushed her jaw brutally. Bereft of mercy, he plunges her mistress’ hidden dirk against her ample chest.

)0(

“Second accident of the day…”

Zylph Styes swallows his own saliva as he relays news of failure. Surely the Serpent will never forgive slights and errors, for both are one in front of the judge. Yet, Eliador de Lioncourt gives a serene smile in return. Such an expression only heightens Zylph’s inner terror, mortifying images of a single flayed corpse feeding the birds send their regards.

“We all commit mistakes, for no one is a god.”

Storm grey orbs chilling his attractive frame, there is no knowing what’ll be his master’s next move. Gliding fluidly like a viper closing in, Eliador de Lioncourt tilts Zylph’s chin gently.

“Not every man has to die for his mistake.”

Whispered words finishing its course, Eliador promptly leaves Zylph Styes behind. Unexpected mercy baptising his heart like a timely merchant vessel to aid, it takes the Histalonian youth mere minutes afterwards to realise a tiny parchment stuck in his doublet pocket. Eyes of baby blue widening, the attractive lad can only afford to enroot himself on the spot.

Let the servant supplant his master, for he is never the one guilty of failure. Eliador de Lioncourt has spoken.

~ordained by Asesino

)0(

Night has gathered, the stars are bright. The lunar moon is their king, a cloak of darkness being their royal court. Torches lit up a massive room, its beauty signified by marble walls and towering shelves of birch. Nowhere can any entity escape from the light, such is the majesty belonging to the Lexicon.

Nowhere in her captor’s residence can rival the solace gleaned from the Serpent’s library. Inexplicably, she was granted permission to browse through whichever books and tomes catching her fancy. From heroic songs compiled to romantic tales she used to enjoy, this is indeed a treasure trove. Her father has always frowned upon her scholarly inclination, yet he relented in the end. The Cinha lass has always desired to be free and she understands knowledge to be the fastest, if not the only way.

“Let us make a wager. What says you if Eliador ordered me to have my way with you?”

That incident days ago seems too surreal before her, the threat of being raped again hailing from the Serpent’s right hand man.

“You give your love to men, not women.”

Where did she obtain the courage to ask such a damning question, Alestrial Eliaden does not know.

“Eliador is truly right about you. Your heart remains as a lady, but up here…”

Lukas Brun’s statement remains too harsh to be true, yet she’s unable to shake off those words reverberating like an aria of conflict.

 “…in your head resides a slumbering beast. An intelligent animal blessed with foresight and leadership.”

Closing her eyes briefly, Alestrial Eliaden attempts to banish these taunting thoughts via whatever she enjoyed reading in the Lexicon. Alas, only one title stands out. The book currently in her hands.

Art of War: The Way of Peace

~Heihou no Tae’Geuk

)0(

Tremors Before Blood

"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

)0(

A Ranger’s Tale

)0(

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.

)0(

Relevant URL

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/Asspull

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ShrugOfGod

)0(

Chaos Before Conflict

"Order is a haven, Chaos is everything which is not. One is the strongest scabbard, the other a sword always dealing its fatal hand."
~The Sunken Text

)0(

A Ranger’s Tale

The city of Blomfeld had always been a byword for prosperity and bustle, a success story inked by prudence and hard work. The soldiers stationed were strong, their discipline untested yet. Soaring seagulls used to frequent above its fortified walls, alas for their status usurped by cawing crows. An ill omen are these carrion birds, whispered the common folks amongst themselves. Surely they are ready to feast upon our children’s flesh and our fallen selves, wailed the smallborne unto each other.

“No please! I beg you!”

If there was to be any response from her lover’s assailants, Tina received nary a word for an answer. And why should they? Taunted by an inner voice dripping with sarcasm, Tina could only try shutting herself away. The harsh reality greeting her lover prone on the ground, the cold hard truth dictating life was never fair… everything about this world was merely a mockery and lie worshiped by the naïve. And Tina Wells indeed belonged to those girls fully grown, yet unwilling to mature.

“What did Bren do? He only wanted to return your lost pouch!”

“Shut up, bitch! Something important went missing. We’re just wanting to teach this thief a lesson unless you’re willing to offer yourself on his behalf.”

“O… o… oh shit,” stammered one of the thugs in fear, “Sean, bugger’s not moving…”

If a murderer was capable of guilt, Sean Reon chose not to make his shown. Scratching his finely-groomed face nonchalantly, the wiry ringleader shrugged with apathy. Tina then started fearing for the worst, ravens perched making their restlessness heard.

No… Bren… don’t leave me behind. O’ Holy Father above, let Your miracle show, please deliver me and Bren from evil men…

“Okay, let’s grab the girl and go run somewhere.”

Tina’s world swiftly came crashing down, romantic ideals gleaned from written books and minstrels’ songs at last caving in. Her heart utterly crushed, she could only sense her empty soul cruelly raped as her body numbed was roughly groped.

)0(

“Damn, she’s a tight one,” sneered a hulking brute, “Bitch’s gonna fetch a handsome price, no?”

“I’ve got fine taste in maids meant to be whores,” snorted Sean, “Me and my fellas have enjoyed enough. Rest is up to you.”

A violent gale promptly launched its attack on the trees, their swaying limbs akin to dead people demanding redress. Sean knew that feeling, but he nevertheless dismissed that chill penetrating his spine. Many a time, his gang had committed the same act. Many a time, he was the only one playing scoffer.

Retribution my sorry ass. As if tonight I will die.

There were plenty of ways for justice served, underneath the shadows an assassin lurked. One could never predict when and where a Ranger will strike, let alone whether or not. Sean Reon might have picked a wonderful victim for his senseless assault and a perfect prey, but nobody ever told him a wolf was ready to lop his head off.

Flashing silver and ice blue orbs hailed his horrified stare, gushing fountain red and headless stump supplanted a living man. Fear seized every individual save for one wholly broken, a monster dark and fearsome had his back facing them. A longsword was baptised in blood, his hood let down. Beneath the twinkling stars exposed his hair of purest frost, an act no better than brutal rape complimented the night time sky.

“So how?” mocked the brazen butcher with shoulders shrugged, his visage still facing the opposite end, “Are you lot gonna let pass this chance to run?”

At last breaking down, the craven quartet fled the scene. Two arcing slashes and one forceful thrust later, the fertile soil finally drank its fill of freshest blood. All were dead except one, the whore dealer quavering in terror with his pants soiled.

“Tell me where is he,” snarled the dusky Elf, his features now contorted, “Either I show you mercy or living hell once I’m done.”

“I… I… don…”

“You don’t know? You don’t fucking know who?”

Maniacal laughter torn asunder the silent night, a wolf’s baleful howl heard from afar. It was then when Marh Fres beheld a crimson stare burning bright, its promise of agony and murder beckoning a sinful sheep.

)0(

Dawn had raised its fiery banner, the morning larks serving as heralds. A cloudless sky greeted the walls of Blomfeld, the ever loyal Red Lions keeping their vigil. At last hearing the tolling bell ringing from a tower strong and tall, a squad of six arrived to assume their shift. Bumping fists with their fellow fighters, only a fool would say all is well.

“How’s…”

“Mad Ian’s alright,” snorted Joes Mouriz, his expression that of amusement, “The only thing he can’t do is to take a swig or two. If Moggray didn’t bail out, that emotional bastard would have been much quieter. So what brings you here, geezer?”

If there was anyone capable of riling Fergie Malom, surely that person could only be the Gaffer of Stamford Division. As head of the Red Lions, he was definitely the oldest of the lot. The Red Lions comprised of aspiring smallborne youths, all ten Gaffers were veterans choosing retreat over glory and honours. None of them had ever said much to each other pertaining to their shrouded past, Moggray was right in stating every hero’s demons are himself.

“The reason why I am here is very simple: to keep watch over some problematic assholes.”

“I hope you don’t mean me, Fergie.”

“Bullshit, Joes. I know the law equally well compared to whatever those bastards in the Church profess to know. The Church’s writ is merely there to prevent shit from happening, not disabling the local enforcers’ right to diffuse major shit.”

Laughing with his much younger counterpart in spite of dire circumstances, the Gaffer of Manchester Division felt a momentary surge of rejuvenation coursing through his aging veins. This wasn’t some mystical art at work, but rather the defiance of mirth displayed before looming shadows. He had never feared death, but a brief reflection or two at his iron grey hair cropped and wrinkles lining a beardless chin would always fill his heart with lamentations. He’s a soldier and soldiers should be used to losses by now. Yet, memory of his family fractured due to duty was all too fresh despite three decades passing by. The Red Lions were his only family left now, a soldier’s worst death lies in departing with hopes unfulfilled.

How I yearn to hear Tanee calling me gramps once again…

)0(

“Have you ever wondered what lies ahead of death?”

I look blankly at the girl, the hot summer wind relaying her flowery scent.

“No.”

Her resultant laughter filled my heart with a feeling all too unfamiliar, something my inner sense is trying to warn me about. Or is it?

“Listen up, neku. The Wild One does not grant life without a purpose, death is merely there to appraise the value of our actions.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

No sooner I gave my reply, a dainty finger poked my forehead hard. I hate it when people do that. My father always does that after having me on the ground during training.

“Don’t worry, you’ll understand sooner or later.”

)0(

“Fuck this dream. Why am I seeing this over and over again?”

Mocked by images belonging to the past, Aeranath casually vented his frustration by spitting. His antic caught the eye of a slumbering prisoner, the sole cellmate yammering away. Caring not for incessant curses hailing from an incarcerated mutt, the Ranger’s anger was only further compounded by a pointless question gnawing him away inside.

Shit… what was her name?

Then he felt a rough grip shaking him like some worthless cur, the True Apostle’s patience finally fraying rapidly like rope above fire.

“Yar larkee yer nut sum brown bitch! A’ll fark ye mouth, kunt and ass all ar’t once!”

Bestial fury promptly seized Aeranath like a wolf pouncing onto an unsuspecting lamb, its jaws clamping down hard on his spine. Painless flare consumed his mind, the only scene greeting a fiery pair of azure orbs being tragedy itself.

That of a Demon raping the nameless girl with insatiable lust, her naked body barely alive and spirited eyes days before already dead.

)0(

“WHAT?!”

Never before had Fergie Malom experienced such raging anger, blazing ire unbridled coursing throughout pulsating veins.  This was not only a challenge to the law, but a mockery directed against his convictions. Bravery of arms and wit in battle was to be the only way to victory, not some bloody sorcery unproven! Yet there it was, the cold hard truth shattering his world.

“Imposs…”

“Describe the scene once again, Coles Ashe. Don’t you dare miss even a stitch, get me?”

If Fergie Malom was a picture of fluster, Joes Mouriz managed to paint himself a portrait of stoicism and composure. Young Coles only knew too well what his Gaffer’s face means, it took a silent string of long prayers to calm him down.

“Entire cell got burnt. Only one person dead, but that’s because he’s the only one apart from him in the cell.”

“Anything else? Tell me more, boy!”

“Stop, boss!” snapped Joes, his strong hand stopping Fergie’s iron grip from exacting more damage unto Coles Ashe’s crumbling fortitude, “You’re only dishing out retribution undue and chagrin unwarranted.”

“And can you tell me the answer?” retorted Fergie.

“Conflagration without apparent cause, you happy? Want a fight, don’t you dare fucking try duelling any of my lads.”

Detecting accurately that dangerous tilt in Joes’ stance, Fergie could only let go and let live.

“Glad that you managed to get my message. Sorry for being crude, boss.”

)0(

The crows were unusually placid, the cawing of hunger muted and sporadic. Before the vast sea erected two giant statues, a harbour fortified and more than sufficiently manned situated in between. Oft it was sung that two warriors unnamed and blessed by the Soldier kept their vigil spanning many a year, their souls remained lingering still. This was Gemini, the sea port famed by merchants and daunting to invaders.

“Ah, that’s some fine wine you’ve got here,” beamed Lars, a rascally grin betraying his mirth, “Tell me, my maddest Ser. Who’s the fine girl giving you her pledge?”

“You like it, you take it. ‘Tis no pledge and neither is it from a lady.”

Being no stranger to awkward ambience, the Demon Hunter whistled a merry tune as a gentle breeze caressed his golden bangs. Moments soon materialised into brief eternity, Arondight’s stoic silence forming a vast contrast complimenting Lars Alterfate’s mysterious optimism.

“Say, have you got any girl in mind, most honourable Ser?”

“Shut up.”

“Aww… don’t be shy,” smirked the mischievous man-child, his teasing grating on Arondight’s calm, “Tell me more about her. Like is she feisty? I happen to know a girl like that and her name’s Lol… hey, that’s mine!”

If Aeranath had any qualms in taunting an old friend turned foe, the True Apostle only flashed nary an expression. Taking a deep swig, he trotted off back to the gates.

“He doesn’t seem happy, that Aera Darko,” mused a genuinely curious Lars, “One thing being granted total immunity from the law, quite another…”

No regards were given to Lars’ stinging jape, Arondight’s stiffened posture insinuated a hostile intent. The carrion birds abruptly stayed silent, their feast subsequently exchanging for flight. As the hulking knight strode past a dead cat half-eaten, Lars made his move.

“Don’t even try.”

The air swiftly became stifling, balmy sea breeze mere seconds ago reduced to death’s whisper. Pausing his steps, Arondight nevertheless chose not to return a glance.

“He’s a danger to all…”

“Not to us, foolish Ser.”

“I can sense something in him which shouldn’t even exist,” snarled the glowering youth, Lars Alterfate refusing to back down nonetheless.

“And why should you care? I know I don’t,” shaking his head, the Demon Hunter betrayed a brief visage no one never seen before.

“Piss off, Demon Hunter. I’m being kind here.”

“Stay down then,” shrugged a frowning Lars Alterfate, “That is unless you’re truly all alone in this world since a lonely person won’t mind dying once or a thousand time.”

If only this world is able to understand empathy…

Damning words from a damning past rocked Arondight, a beautiful lady blessed with auburn locks and most innocent smile at last forcing his hand.

Beastly roar tearing through the clearest sky, a vengeful bellow calling for blood shocking all the nearby guards. A lethal swipe of steel met its rising match, a silver chain topped by keenest blade sending it flying and shattered.

“That’s a deadly sword, Ser Arondight,” commented Lars, a fighter’s gaze incompatible with a jester’s words, “I’m pretty sure your life isn’t just about one single weapon.”

Suffocating force then grabbed both Arondight and the watchers in entirety, the latter audience passing out. Surely this is indeed the finest of knights and maddest of men, noted the wary Demon Hunter. Any consideration given to the unconscious thrown to the wind, all Lars Alterfate desired now was to prevent Arondight from marching straight into the square and tearing up Blomfeld. If Sarel Aphros gave the trio total freedom to act within self-discretion, it meant the Church was content to be knowingly ignorant.

Then came the moment where Lars Alterfate had to make his call, momentary tardiness otherwise shall definitely spell utter destruction and chaos. Volatile force unseen rippled through the walls of Gemini, its stifling pressure ten times worse than the wake of a violent earthquake.

Crackling sound and golden sparks the only signs, a sudden blast ruptured altogether the surroundings and loftiest sky.

)0(

“This is an act of murder, O’ Grand Damsel.”

“No less heinous than auctioning off innocent girls like cattle to slaughter, O’ Gaffer of Stamford.”

“Unfortunately, that manner of victim you speak so fervently about is now dead. Butchered by your man, I suppose.”

“That is reality,” smiled a white haired girl, her beautiful features attracting lustful eyes till no end.

“Hey, pretty lass!” accosted a fit young lad, his features well chiselled and comely, “You alone?”

“So what if I am?”

“Care for a night? How much do you charge?”

Sarel Aphros chuckled softly, the opportunist in her counterpart taking the cue.

“Excuse me, I am looking for a certain Sally the Fair Haired. Is she around?”

“Huh? What the fuck you’re babbling about?”

Quite obviously riled by interruption unwanted, the youth grabbed a young boy of olive complexion and who happened to have bad teeth by his collar. Shaking his quarry like some rag doll without value, the bully finally threw his victim down.

“Wow, his breath stinks like latrine,” mocked the arrogant lad, a derisive wave of the hand in front of his nose bringing forth laughter and cheering, “Moral of the story: If someone is stronger than you, it means you should just either ignore or shut up.”

“Are you okay?” smiled Sarel as she handed the hapless boy a silken handkerchief, a finger placed upon her dainty lips, “The fool is never defined by strength, for cowardice to them means power.”

Then it all happened in a blink of an eye, a flare of crimson red begetting a dead man whose corpse retained whole. Silence and terror gripped every watcher’s heart, this was the same boaster bereft of naught save for his life.

“Witch!” blabbered the bartender, “A witch killed somebody! Help! Guards, guards!”

“QUIET!”

The speaker’s voice hailed not from a girl, but a man fully grown. A Sudhlit stood lazily before the patrons’ widened gaze, his visage wearing nary but a frown.

“Let me get this clear across to you all unless you’re not retarded enough,” gesturing to his audience first, the dark handsome youth then pointed to a smirking Sarel Aphros, “If a witch desires to kill someone, that person would have been dead. Understand me?”

“Is that a threat?!” squeaked a timid serving wench, her fearful eyes betraying only a fervent wish to survive.

“Thankfully not,” beamed the Sudlhit abruptly, after which he turned towards the boy no longer shaken, “Little boy, the next time anybody says you deserve to get it, gut him alive. Get me?”

Horrified gasps unveiling disbelief disrupted the deathly silence enforced mere seconds ago, the Sudhlit clucked his tongue in reply.

“What I spoke just now is a threat, the other statement a fact.”

)0(

“Don’t worry, Milady,” sighed Tristan Ajax while wearing a relaxed grin, “The Ranger is currently confirmed alive and fighting fit, our other two friends as well.”

“You do not have to tell me that, Sniper,” reciprocated Sarel in like, “I know enough to tell me all this.”

“What about that kid then?”

“Give no pursuit,” answered a sombre Grand Damsel, “To stage a hunt for an assassin under the Serpent’s gold is folly, for Eliador de Lioncourt understands best those he bought.”

“Ah well, at least we didn’t get a gutted swine,” whistled Tristan casually.

“That pretty boy is too handsome to be from some sow’s womb.”

“A gutted dog then,” shrugged the Sudhlit bowman nonchalantly, “Men and dogs switching places has always been a common sight.”

)0(

Gazing impassively at the mirror of a lake before him, the First True Apostle betrayed a knowing smile. Here he was witnessing a scene taken place somewhere within the waters of time, the crackling blade that was Fragarach penetrating both hostage and taker alike.

“One more step and the bitch dies! You see my knife against her throat?”

“Tell me who sealed the Geis with you.”

“You don’t understand what I’m saying?”

“Fine then. Go fuck her in hell and don’t ever come back again.”

“Wait… we ca…”

“Negotiate? I don’t do that with dead people or those who are going to anyway.”

Exact sequence of images looping endlessly, Aor finally decided enough was enough. Not because of the innocent dead but rather an understanding on what he had done. With a whisper, the master of Avalon walked away with swirling white petals following his trail.

“How the Alpha yearns to see the Omega once again, yet the cub still remains as one. Little wonder why mere mortals will always choose to grasp the heel belonging to themselves.”

)0(

Background notes

Miss(ing) a stitch: The act of missing out any detail, no matter how minor.

Alpha: A wolf with its own marked territory.

Omega: A homeless wolf spending its entire life seeking out any Alpha wolf's territory.

A/N-Omega wolves are not to be confused with normal wolves (otherwise known as a Gamma) which seek out any unclaimed territory as the top priority.