~The Historium: Book of Erasmus Eliaden
)0(
Their journey was supposed to reach Seaside,
everything halted to an abrupt end. Tragedy greeting Karen Tenias, she could
only shut her mind away from this terrifying scene. Many a smallborne had
called her father a Demon, she merely believed this word to be a figure of
speech. After all, who would believe in horrific tales tantamount to debauchery
and depravity enacted? Yet, here she stood, her naked form bounded by some cold
watery form. She felt no pain, surely that means she would just be the last one
savoured. Her protectors sacrificed to unspeakable entities raping them to
death, the only daughter of Granad Tenias could only shut her eyes hoping for an
unlikely swift death.
“Not
now, O’ death. Not this day nor ever…”
It was a calm voice meant to pacify her, a prolonged
tension ended up seizing her naked sweating body instead. Screams greeted her
throbbing mind once again, she knew death had claimed another soul…
)0(
“Oh,
you mean poor little Harri? Poor boy that one. I used to be his teacher and I
just can’t find a way to guide him properly…”
“Can’t find a way or can’t find the time?” mouthed
Lars silently, sardonic venom subtly evident in his expression, “This world is
spiralling into slaughter and whorehouses.”
He couldn’t afford a piece of land for Harri’s
burial spot, the meadow beyond Tangrin’s gates was his only alternative. Either
that or poor Harri’s carcass would be fed to the crows. He always believed in
paying a price for everything, he also knew there was one such thing called an
unfair deal. If only every person can get his rightful due, mused the Demon
Hunter.
Nah,
I would have far better chances of fucking a noble’s daughter. Rest well and in
peace, adorable Harri. I can only do this much for you.
With those final words lamented in his heart, Lars
turned his back away. A casual wave of his arm was all it took for a miracle to
be born. Glowing wisps accompanied the evening sky, those were not of fireflies
weeping for the dead. Mayhap only Lars Alterfate himself understood how this
was done, every haunting light soon exploded into flowers of flash and pomp.
Then he heard the sound of rolling wagons, his sight
directed towards a couple of carriages brimming with goods. Any other person
would assume this to be a merchant’s entourage, but not at this point. Conflict
now at hand, this was no time for traders enjoying the buying crowd. A quirky
smile creasing his handsome features, Lars Alterfate decided to pull a prank or
two.
And
besides, there are quite a few lookers and beauties. Lars Alterfate, you’re one
lucky scoundrel.
)0(
Arondight watched on impassively as other patrons
cheered and whooped in joy, the owners leering with joy. Ceres once told him
something about the horrors in seeing her friends raped, that was after he
rescued her from the Dwarven raid. Ironically, he’s now out to liberate that
place.
War
brings out the worst in us, calm before the storm only marks the start.
Those were words not from his mouth, but rather
Fionn of Cumhaill. Many a fearful whisper was muttered, his battle prowess deemed
unrivalled. When one had enough of battles, surely he would remember only pain.
This whorehouse was nowhere more special. Blood trickling from her crotch told
him the victim was a virgin mere moments ago, he wouldn’t have tried touching
this place with a ten foot pole if not for meeting someone here. Apparently,
punctuality was never meant to be a universal trait.
A hand balled into a fist, Arondight tried reining
in his anger. Even though he was a Berserker, the hulking knight could still
retain a strong hold on his sanity. That was until the poor lass’ eyes suddenly
went dead, a patron’s fist shoved up into her vagina the cause of death. It was
at the request from that man which
forced him staying his hand, woe be to all incurring an evening of murderous wrath.
Ceres,
thy beauty hast truthfully becomest death’s herb…
A crimson light then streaked past him, its intent
targeting that young lad who delivered his suffering victim the final blow. A
shower of blood and scattered brains splattered the walls, the girl now
deceased was painted in her tormentor’s warm red fluid. He’s supposed to be mine to kill, raged Arondight as oblivion
clouded his awareness. At last losing himself to murderous instinct, a mortal man
finally became a hungry lion in disguise.
“BE NOT UNTO THEE!”
A baleful roar shook the establishment to its very
roots, a maelstrom wrought from the maddest of men took instant flight. Not
away from the chaos induced, but wading through a crowd ruled by stampede.
Arondight cared not for what will happen next, consequences be damned. All he
craved currently was merely blood, spilling guts, and broken heads.
)0(
Raucous guffaws and lustful moaning ran amok, a
brothel was every man’s only mean of comfort. After all, every combat fit male would
be doomed to kill or to be killed. At least sex costing only money and nothing
else should be able to cloud every soldier’s fears. Aeranath forgot the
establishment’s name, but he cared not regardless of whatever flamboyant words
written. At least the quality of every wench was above decent, that’s all he
asked for. Wondering for a flashing moment whether this was the same whorehouse
which got him into trouble, the Ranger snorted dismissively.
Goldwanker’s
taste in whores have taken a tumble, I see. Hyo’Ah would have castrated him
after an almighty bitch slap anyway.
Fondling a comely lass’ shapely breasts, the comely
blonde mayhap no older than seventeen winters was his favourite whore. Never
before had the True Apostle spent so long and splurged so much on a single
girl, it seemed like a surreal comedy playing in the back of his mind. Then he
heard a ruckus outside as a drunken Sudhlit got himself into a scuffle.
“Fucking moron,” grunted a smiling Aeranath as he
downed yet another tankard, a gloved hand wiping away the lingering foam, “This
should be fun though.”
Then in a single motion fluid as a meandering
stream, the obnoxious alcoholic managed to duck under and swivelled away. The two
ruffians picking a fight with him managed to knock each other out cold. Silence
permeated the porch at first like an invisible victor, then erupted cheers voiced
their appreciation for the winner declared. Aeranath, however, did not seemed
amused.
This
is no ordinary drunk, he’s just faking it. Aesir? Or Vanir?
Sauntering into the crowd, the Sudhlit immersed
himself into the moment of adulation. Aeranath’s keen vision finally affirmed
what he wanted to know, there were no visible signs of intoxication in that
handsome Sudhlit. Shabbily dressed, his face was partially covered by stubble
with shoulder length black hair swept to one side. Unmistakably however was a weathered
Teutonian longbow gripped firmly, the Ranger recognising it as one wielded by
the famed Aegil Orden.
Smirking like a rascal impossible to dislike, he
gave a cheeky shrug before Aeranath’s wary gaze. As the True Apostle
contemplated what to do with this seemingly unpredictable individual, his
counterpart first spoke out.
“Ah, a Tamurian,” grinned the bowman, “Nice to see a
fellow native from the south.”
“Native enemy, you mean.”
“Oh no, that’s so bloody hell wrong!” the Sudhlit
stranger wagged both fingers comically, “Even men hailing from the south needs
bitches providing warmth and comfort.”
“Holes and tits, you mean,” smirked the Ranger, “Sorry
to say that I don’t give a rat’s ass damn to who’s who of racial history. I
suck at reading cumbersome textbooks.”
“So do I,” beamed the cheerful youth, a finger
scratching his chin, “Rarely would someone accustomed to survival read plenty
of books. Too busy living and trying not die.”
“You’re an interesting man, Sudhlit. I suppose you
don’t know anything about the Church?”
“I happen to hear of some great white bitch,” the
Sudhlit’s smile soon took a wry turn, “Heard she’s good in everything and that
includes bossing Those Who Strike Alone.”
Unto those damning words heard, Aeranath stood up
violently. His pretty companion was promptly flung onto the hard wooden floor
reeking with vomit, her expression betraying only fear. Staring at each other eye
to eye, both men refused to back down. Whatever joyous atmosphere promptly dissipated,
a hushed ambience invaded the establishment. Then the silence was swiftly
broken by one unexpected gesture.
“I’d like to fuck that white haired bitch if the
Unholy Quintet permits,” winked the knavish lad, “Heard many things about her,
most of them seems too good to be true.”
Roaring out in laughter, patrons and wenches alike
joined in Aeranath’s mirth. This was truly an interesting proposition coming
from someone he did not know, Nanaya no Geun’Jin died countless years ago. That
foolish girl could have turned back in time, yet she betrayed her most beloved
ah’na.
If
someone betrays Hyo’Ah, it means that idiot is tired of living.
“Hey, lady boss!” hollered the Sudhlit, his loud
clear voice rising above the harmless rabble, “Mind if I get one bitch for
free?”
“Go ahead!” called out matronly redhead in a
boisterous manner, “You’ve helped me out with those two cretins bothering my
girls for weeks, so just take your pick!”
“Three nights?”
“One night, drunken jackass!”
A nonchalant shrug accompanied an ensuing chorus of catcalls,
Aeranath hoisted up his playmate from the floor. Reciprocating the favour, a
curvy brunette was promptly seized. Merry shouting reaching a crescendo, the
Sudhlit had no need to maintain his mask. Hushing the crowd with a finger on
his lips, he stroked the giggling wench’s upper lip with his thumb.
“I prefer one on one, so don’t expect me to accommodate
anything warped. By the way, name’s Tristan Ajax, one of the Six Who Strike Alone.”
)0(
The balmy sea breeze caressed Guy’s spiky blond hair,
Joenne Nances discovered his newfound to be somewhat alluring. The Guy Cody she
knew so well was known to be an idiot, yet he had matured into a beast of a
man. His shoulders seemed to have gotten slightly broader, definitely he put on
maybe a stone or two. In the past, she couldn’t understand why Alestrial and
Karen were attracted to such a dolt. Now she finally knew.
“Hey, Guya!!!!”
If there was anything staying the same, it would be
Guy Cody’s weakness towards women. Or more specifically in this case a filly
bubbling with jovialness. Standing nearby, Lara was seen snickering while Bigan
seemed rather miffed for no supposed reason. Moggray was down below overseeing
preparation of lunch while Southgate’s look was brimming with sudden chagrin.
“Joyce! Get away from that boy!”
Sticking out her tongue in defiance, Joyce whispered
a few words into Guy’s ear. His countenance straightaway turned flaming red,
the impudent brunette lass ushered him down the deck. For one entire next hour,
the Sea Wench’s crew had to put up with constant expletives rattling off like
Bigan’s latest invention.
“Well, even the seagulls approved of their little
tryst it seems,” quipped Lara von Dirkwind, her hungry stare roaming over any
lad desirable enough, “Lady Nances, it seems that we still have two more little
boys unaccounted for, hmm?”
“You better stop being horny,” glared Joenne, “One
belongs to Ales and the other is the only son of Brynn Steele.”
“Oh my,” gasped Lara in mock surprise, her hands
clasped over a pair of luscious lips, “I never knew your friend is so well
learned!”
Sucking in her breath, Joenne raised a hand to slap
that awful smugness away. Only to find herself getting groped from behind,
Joenne attempted to break free unto no avail. This was the fifth time she got
sexually assaulted by this obnoxious Half-Elf, how much longer did she have to
endure this humiliation? Even though people mocked her for not being ladylike
enough, at least she still remains the only daughter Cruax Nances has. Knowing
which part of the female anatomy was pressing hard against her back,
circumstances could never be any more embarrassing.
“Ever wonder why I can be anywhere nearby in a
blinking of an eye?” cooed the seductive sellsword, “Someone taught me a lot of
things, I can impart you some if you want to.”
Tingling with anger and flushing with embarrassment,
Joenne mustered every ounce of strength in her willowy frame. Consequences be
damned, she could not care less whether she’ll be feeding the sharks with herself.
Suddenly losing balance, her delicate lips yelped out in pain.
A
sprained ankle and a ship mostly of freaks… O’ Father above, I promise not to
consume too much of the pantry if I manage to survive this.
)0(
“A good game of chess...”
Alestrial Eliaden detested that slippery smile
belonging to her enemy, the Serpent of Histalonia ignoring her glare in return.
Whenever he felt bored, Eliador de Lioncourt would always summon her. Like a
female whelp doomed to be mated one fine day, the Cinha lady now no more had to
play her cards carefully.
“Only because you won, Serpent.”
Surveying her surroundings with momentary glances,
the daughter of Louthes Eliaden had long ceased her amazement directed towards
her adversary’s room. Neither caring for exquisite portraits hanged on the
walls nor whatever growling exiting from exotic beasts caged, her dark hard
eyes nevertheless drank in the sight. Seemingly mocking her predicament, the
late morning sun showered its rays upon her shoulder length hair raven dark.
“Fairest Alestrial Eliaden, do you still perceive
yourself as a harlot meant to please kingdoms of men?” asked the Elven rogue,
his repulsive knavery upping its ante every minute, “Surely not.”
“Spare me your lies, for hungry Dwarves under your
gold had devoured my chastity with glee.”
No sooner truthful words departed from her dainty
lips, a sharp pain greeted her right cheek. Flashing a sneering visage, Alestrial
stood up in front of Eliador. Defiant gaze reaching upwards against a pair of
storm grey orbs, there was nothing to fear. Alestrial Eliaden has lost
everything.
Pride, love, chastity… what else is left, mused the
Cinha fighter within her soulful depth.
Detecting nary a shred of anger, Alestrial braced
herself for the worst. Yet, that thieving Elf helped her up instead. Utterly
stunned by his show of abrupt gentleness, she half expected a rough pull at her
hair.
So
be it then…
Caressing the back of her head instead, the Serpent
of Histalonia whispered his damning assessment. With a statement of frigid
clarity coursing from ear to mind, Alestrial couldn’t bear herself listening to
those words spoken half in jest. If what he said was true, why then must many
suffer for her sake? Why then must she suffer herself?
“But
not your inner fire, not your unique talent waiting to be freed. I have two
keen eyes for capable people instead of one, mind you...”
)0(
“House Tenias will surely give us a big fat purse,”
grinned a boyish youth, his pair of long pointed ears bobbing in anticipation, “Then
again, ‘tis not every day you get to see a human girl decently desirable.”
“Stop being horny, Conwer,” a sharp blow to his ears
vanquished his enthusiasm, a brunette girl with similar features frowning her
disapproval.
“Hey! You assaulted me!” hollered an indignant Conwer,
his sight directed to a cowled figure seemingly asleep, “Gramps, busty Hazel doesn’t
like me! She wants to rape me!”
“Enough whining, Conwer,” muttered the hooded man
darkly, “Everyone including our Wraith Lord is trying to get as much sleep possible
before reaching our hitting point.”
Glowering at Hazel, Conwer had to admit she’s rather
pretty. At least that’s the only good thing about her, mused the roguish
Half-Elf. Hopefully Kerstein would consider her for the sake of peaceful times
ahead. The sound of rolling wheels then dominated the remaining time, Conwer
managing to sneak a glimpse before falling into slumber.
‘Tis
our banner of midnight black, an Elven sabre ghostly white the only light.
)0(
A/N-Nothing new lingo wise, but I've managed to tear up whatever timetable for all things plot and characters. I'm indeed born to be a gardener, not some architect. Not to mention I'm also born to be an obsessive jerkass bordering on Vincent van Gogh minus the talent.
)0(
Credit: Antti Martikainen
