~The Wise Lass and Slavering Bear
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A Ranger's Tale
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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?
)0(
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.
)0(
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.
)0(
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.”
)0(
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.
)0(
“What?”
“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.
)0(
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?
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