Hall of Fame and Honour

1. This will be a separate blog dedicated to A Ranger's Tale and every related stuff.
2. Once this blog is 100% up and running, I'll transfer everything here.
3. Anything to do with fanwork will NOT be here, but rather remaining in That Random Blade.
4. Any songs/clips shown are solely the works of other individuals ten times more talented than yours truly. In short, respect those who made everything possible.

Honour to the worthy



Thursday, 11 December 2014

Lore of the Known World: Rangers

Suddenly realized that Rangers in Neverwinter are quintessentially the same as their Baldur's Gate/Icewind Dale counterparts. For those who have played some old school D&D PC goodness, you all should know. Ironically, human opponents enjoy marking my Hunter Ranger for death. Either I'm a liability 10 out of 10 times or they actually know how dangerous the likes of Messi and Ronaldo are. Either way, Domination PvP is not for those who cannot handle tough situations in life due to external forces at work. To quote a certain somebody still alive...

"One of the most important things I learnt from Bobby Robson is that when you win, you shouldn't assume you are the team, and when you lose, you shouldn't think you are rubbish."
~José Mário dos Santos Mourinho Félix aka José Mourinho

"Where the untamed wilds rule, there we shall be."
~a common Ranger's motto

The Wild Men.
Those Who Hunt.
Individuals known as Rangers.

Making their home in the wilds, they will never lift a finger for the innocent in need. Their life is to hunt or be hunted, to be the predator or prey. Most capable in their respective Expertise, these killers nurtured by nature are known as the most dangerous opponent one can ever hope to meet. Incapable of Magic, yet their skill in martial prowess is surely without peer.

Indeed what is truly important to them is this: an oath sworn to protect their niche against any intruders. Be one mortal or a Demon, no Ranger would ever ask needless questions before striking from behind or the flank.

"If 'tis a Ranger's gold, then 'tis a Ranger's keep."
~a common bounty hunter's saying

In spite of a tendency to shun any semblance of settlement, understanding civilisation has form a major part of their lives. As bounty hunters, they always select the most dangerous tasks available.

Gold and silver means nothing to them, for the thrill of a challenging hunt is all that matters. Where the Rangers are, only death awaits.

"If you see a Ranger's blade, please run away.
If you see his face, please pray yourself away.
If she's a lass, please pass away."
~"Those dangin' Rangers"
(a common song sung by minstrels in taverns)

Moments of friction to any Ranger is a must, those of nobility in particular tend to resent their presence. To these high class individuals, disdain for low-lives is a trait barely disguised. Yet, only a fool would ignore the valuable martial service offered by sellswords. On the other hand, Rangers always despise the rich and powerful due to their pleasure in hunting animals as trophies.

For the commoners who have to hunt in order to provide, a Ranger is one's best friend. Frequent deaths attributed to such warriors is a common occurrence, many a brash noble youth has discovered death a little too late. Man or woman, the vindictive fury of a Ranger understands no difference. Nigh untouchable bar their equals in combat, lending aid to them is nothing more than a convenient choice.

While they're always hired as sellswords in any event of war, there would be exception cases where one may pledge his service in arms due to personal debt owed.

"Man against man, beast against beast, my weapon versus your armour."
~statement of duel announced by a Ranger

Conflict against the frivolous and greedy is merely a tip of the iceberg, there's no difference between hunting and combat before a Ranger's eyes. As if guided by instinct, they would always be drawn to any battle once the scent of blood greeted them. Thrill of the hunt is no different from the thrill of shedding blood, beast and mortal are merely prey. Indeed they say beasts can only be beasts, mutual intent of devouring the only way. In particularly, they will be drawn to the presence of Demons like packs of hounds to a bleeding prey where only one party can only survive.

"My weapon is a space of steel, my only armour a shadow true."
~truth behind a Ranger's words

Rangers are renowned as the greatest masters of arms the Known World has ever seen. The path of weaponmastery should never be a question asked, dedication to one's chosen style is all that matters. Where they learn their trade, no one knows the key. Their command in Magic is negligible at best, nonexistent at worst. Yet, this does not mean they are incapable of killing Demons. The definition and standard of Magic still remains a topic of debate unresolved, let alone whether any Ranger should be considered an Aesir despite boasting no allegiance to the independent city of Napishtim.

Dueling wise, what truly made Rangers rightfully feared is down to an uncanny ability to teleport. Anywhere within an eleven feet radius is counted as dangerous territory, radial range of seven feet or less is deemed both fatal and inescapable.

Tactically wise, they're regarded as more fearsome than even the finest assassin. Utilising different manner of terrain, Rangers tend serve as scouts and skirmishers. Hiding in the shadows has never been a problem, both beyond the walls of civilisation and within. More oft than not, Rangers are more than able to weave in and out of enemy ranks.

It has been said that none engaging a Huntsband (i.e. any band of skirmishers led by a Ranger or a pure band of Rangers) can ever survive or at least know what hit them. To a Ranger, wiping out the enemy force should never be considered. Inducing chaos within the enemy ranks is the only way to go, many a time men numbering hundreds have destroyed themselves. Is it any wonder that commanders living on both sides of conflict would always confer upon Rangers this nickname?

Hounds of Silence and the Dark

Wednesday, 26 November 2014

Who Let The Gods Out?

"We are all gods, boy. Gods calling ourselves mortals. Gods wielding the sword and fire. Gods who enjoy nothing more than rape, plunder, and murder. We are all gods. Gods who worship apathy. Gods who are verily the Demons we fear and hate."
~Saadin el' Ishmae, Lord of Fencers


A Ranger’s Tale


The sky is blue, the banners are red. Beneath the morning sun lies Napishtim. Nestled at the centre of the Greater North, this mighty bastion of faith, politics, and military is the only reason why the entire continent has yet to revisit the War of Three Kings. The Free Lands of Slarvea ceded Mount Olymph unto the Holy Quintet Church, every manner of finery hailing from the Kalaran Empire. All the best of armour and arms, the High Realm of Teutonia supply them all. This is city unto itself, a nation bowing down to none. A country serving as both the blade and shield against the threat of Demons…

“What do you mean by this?”

If Cardinal Moreos believes he can get an answer out his opposite number, said counterpart merely offers anything but that. Moreos Benc has been a Cardinal through merit hard earned, his years of youth dotted with moments of Demon slaying. Yet there she is, acting as if the entire Napishtim actually owe her a big favour.

Harlot… by what right of deeds and status do you deserve to be made the Grand Damsel?

“Please do not tell me your thoughts,” sighed the white haired maiden, her gown revealing generous amount of cleavage, “Your expression says it all, Your Excellency.”

“My apologies for not being able to lie, Your Ladyship.”

Before Moreos’ derision, a shadow starts to stir. The Cardinal of Romus tenses up, but only ever slightly. The Grand Damsel, however, betrays a mischievous grin as she places a finger on her scarlet lips. The shadow promptly ceases its threatening weave, Moreos Benc at last feeling assured.

“Your breathing betrayed you, Your Excellency,” curtsied Sarel Aphros.

“Spare me your brazen courtesy!” snapped the elderly man, his towering frame urging him to snap that impudent woman’s neck, “You should know what happened over there!”

“In your vicinity of jurisdiction?” pursing her lips, Sarel reclines on the couch, her legs crossed in a modest manner, “Why yes, I have heard of it. Parish Cloms Biaz. A good man who used to be a poultist if my memory serves me well.”

“Yes, a good man who deserves to continue living in honest penance. I presume you know what has happened, no?”

“Please, Your Excellency,” purred the seductress, an abrupt change in attitude catching the Cardinal off guard, “Romus is the capital of the Kalaran Empire. As Napishitim’s ambassador to the Empire, you are entitled to the right to know and discern.”

“Ambassador of the Holy Quintet Faith,” corrected Moreos.

“Even the finest steed is to be called a mount.”

Not wanting to play against his verbal adversary at her own game of words, Moreos decides to see the Grand Damsel’s statement as a compliment.

“Am I mistaken in assuming this case of murder has something to do with me?”

Her sudden question throwing Cardinal Moreos off his feet, Sarel Aphros purposely betrays a smirk. The Grand Damsel is no foolish little girl, for Nanaya no Geun’Jin was already dead countless years ago.

Betrayed and raped, murdered and revived in another victim of rape.

Thoughts pertaining to a damning past briefly entertained, Sarel nevertheless dismiss them all in a manner utmost outrageous. Striding towards her quarry, the look on her counterpart is nothing less than priceless. Years belonging to a living toy has taught her that finest art called womanhood, the coolness of surrounding air caressing her naked crotch shaved.

“I like my men grizzled,” whispered Sarel as her luscious lips blew some air into the embattled Cardinal’s ear, a dainty finger stroking his chin like a cat, “Strength, stubble, and all…”


Breathing profusely, Moreos Benc realises to his dismay that something in between his legs has gotten itself hard.

“A stroke or two and who knows what manner of substance will I feel?”

Cursing his decision made prior, the Cardinal of Romus knows there’s no escape. Why did the Great Chaplain agree to take her in? What was his intent? As head of the Holy Quintet Church, His Holy Righteousness has always been without flaw. An attribute inherited from the entire line of Great Chaplains. Why then must His Holy Righteousness decided to exalt a prostitute like her?

That accursed Cardinal of Anglsax. May the Seven Hells claim your crown, Cramer Davies.

“Did the Cardinal of Anglsax tell you all these?”

The Grand Damsel’s question numbing his senses, Moreos Benc can only feel an unbearable fire stoking within.

What manner of foul Magic is this? Never before…

“I can assure you that what I am able to do is something no Aesir can ever hope to replicate. Therefore, I beseech Your Excellency to come clean.”

“You dare?” snarled Moreos, “I am the Cardinal of Ro…”

A flash of red begets a crimson flare, the bonfire dissipating in an instance. There is nary a scream, neither bone nor ashes taking the place of an otherwise living man.

“Yet another pyre of life assuming a dead man’s form,” frowned the Grand Damsel, a snap of her fingers summoning a maidservant masked and armed.

“Gail, heed the orders of your mistress.”

“Your Sacred Highness’ wish is my mission.”

“There’s nothing to dispose of here,” commanded Sarel Aphros, her ruby red orbs taking count of crows perching nearby, “But I want you to bring me someone. Alive, not dead.”

“Unto whom do Your Scared Highness wish to have an audience with?”

“The Cardinal of Anglsax.”


"Come in!"

"You asked for me, Gaffer Sir?" inquired Guy Cody, tentative steps emerging from the mahogany door with walls of white mortar completing the subtle cage.

A cage… that’s where we are right now.

Certain things have to be said, certain people will have to be hurt. The Northern Lion can only imagine how this sandy blond will react behind his back, not even forgiveness from his old comrade can save him from whatever living hell that awaits.

You better punch me hard across the face by tomorrow dusk, Garyth Parkins.

“You don’t have to give that look!” chortled Moggray in spite of himself, “I’m not gonna give you a braying session since it’s been quite some time when you've floored those sad bastards from Tyneside and Wearside.”

Impending moment of dread hovering over the battle scarred lion, every second seems to Moggray a game of chess where all pieces on the board are living and breathing. His blood curdling against the prospect of breaking news belonging to ill tiding, resultant creaking from his office door cackle like some omniscient crone. Sipping slowly his brown mug of tea, steely resolve within Moggray's heart of flint waver momentarily. Before this innocent Red Lion doomed, an endless maelstrom lashes out against his very soul.

At least I’m capable feeling gutted after that thrice damned war eighteen years back. Life is so full of bullshit, ol’Brynn.

Knowing what must be done from the beginning, Moggray Tonn sees himself as a hapless ram lording over a lost lion cub. What is to come will come soon enough, they all tend to say. And that’s exactly why the Division Gaffer of Teesside despises religion for what it really is. Ironically, this very lie proves to be prophetic.

"Yes, you're summoned here for a very good reason,” interrupted Southgate Garrat from one side, his seated form stiffening up on the leather couch nearby, "Before the Gaffer speaks, however, we three need to agree on a consensus."

"Erm, what will that be?"

Moggray's heart started bleeding upon hearing Guy's clueless reply, his inner rage directed against himself and nobody else.

"Very simple,” rang Southgate’s reply like a sombre knell, “Whatever things be said, you must promise us to remain calm. Not just only the news itself, but above all, do not commit any rash act pertaining to this matter."

We’re banking too much on the lad... way to go, Northern Lion. Moggray Tonn, you bloody helpless bastard...

"Okay. Guess it's no choice, suck thumb here..." agreed a baffled Guy with shoulders shrugged, Moggray's inner words condemning himself, "so just shoot, Gaffer Sir. I can handle anything."

"Arrow nocked: Pallister Scholes is confirmed dead and killed in action," if Moggray has any second afterthoughts on a tone overly curt, he shows them not to his charge.

"Huh?" Guy’s reaction would have seemed a comedy to any stranger otherwise, but not before the Gaffer of Teesside.

"Don't you dare give me this face and tone, Guy Cody. That is unless you don't remember that damned ginger grooming you back then!" snapped Moggray Tonn in a burst of senseless rage, the speaker promptly stung like a slave lashed by a slaver’s whip.

"Ki... killed? Dead? Confirmed?" quavered a trembling Guy. Banging a fist onto the desk, Moggray's attempt to rouse the cub ultimately failed.

"Kill in action? Dude, you sure know how to joke, Sir. He's the best fighter in all of Manchester! No, make that whole of the rest! No way damned way in Seven Hells will he eve..."

"Guy, listen to me," explained the exasperated veteran, his patience wearing thin like a rope held taut above a burning candle’s flame, "It's true that Scholes is an extremely good fighter, let alone a leader. But let it be known that shit happens in war. I've been through one too many before my arse was warming this seat!"

His tone undeniably strained, this isn't the first time people have pointed out his stubbornness. Too oft than not, the Northern Lion has held himself accountable in things he should have done better. Ditto for this time round as well. Like a total stranger telling a twelve year old that he’s now an orphan, the wearied soldier can only convince himself of a better tomorrow. At least that was what the Parish many years ago preached from the pulpit.

"Fake news! I don’t give a damn about bullshit, but I know a fucking lie when I see one!" bellowed Guy in disbelief, denial's fire branding a mark onto his sapphire orbs before Moggray, "You said Scholes is a leader-rank! That means no bloody way he would wade..."

"Guy Cody!"

Everyone has his first time in losing himself and Moggray Tonn, no matter how experienced, is no exception. A stinging knuckle sails across Guy Cody’s face, the Northern Lion’s anger dissipating from his steel grey orbs. Realisation dawning upon him, this was an act committed in a folly verily futile.

"Have I boxed you well? Good,” sighed the tired Gaffer, “I'm sorry to break this to you in person since Pallister Scholes is indeed a great teacher, but he's not the Soldier for crying out loud."

"And it’s some arsehole greater than a god who murdered a perfectly good man? Don't give me this kiddypop!" snarled the cub, a speechless Moggray Tonn suddenly sensing a young lion caged within the sandy blond. Cursing himself, the Northern Lion can only surmise the entire situation in one sentence.

So much for pride, honour and greater family preached.

Minutes drifting away before a silent wake, trickling sand within an hourglass matters not. The cub doesn't know how to roar, the leader of his pride knows not the route to consolation. The veteran scarred should have foreseen such circumstances coming ahead, yet he’s only able to place his faith in a soldier’s pragmatism. Atrocities committed by his own ilk was the only story belonging to his youth, those were the darkest age in Moggray's life.

Please help me!

I don’t want to die!

C’mon! Let’s fuck those bitches and let them burn!

That fiery one is one hell of a finest whore. Why not let her go down to the Seven Hells?

Traumatic past baptising the Northern Lion once again, Moggray Tonn can only bottle every single monster inside his heart. One fine day, mayhap his heart will give out. But not this day, not today. He could have joined Yriss Rahm, she would surely be glad to see that man who both gave her joy and destroyed everything.

We all are the Holy Quintet before our victims, yet nothing more than lambs to slaughter once our turn comes...


The Drowning Bear, an establishment earning a repute more than decent. Within the dark underbelly belonging to the Kalaran Empire, respect is all that matters. With power comes fear, those blessed sharpest wit always commanding admiration. The androgynous brunette surely doesn’t belong to the former, yet belying a slender frame is a mind far more agile than the most experienced alley cat.

"How many mugs have you already downed, bro?" asked Catterm, a wooden stool dragged towards his best friend, "Hopefully nowhere beyond the standard quota of five."

"Don't worry, Catts. This is just the second mug. And no, I'm not drunk. Not even by a long shot because I'm not that useless. So don't worry about me going nut drunk loco here. For now at least," replied Guy morosely, another mug of mead swiftly drained.

"Semi-liar. You sober enough to know the meaning? Yeah, you're still talking coherently, but you’re starting to talk too much and out of sense as well," Catterm sighed as he lit a cigarette, “And please don’t ask one from me. This is my last joint, cretin.”

“Our bravest cub doesn’t give a fuck, Catts,” sighed Lukas Brun, his apathetic expression hiding an astute mind, “Let him drown himself in the name of sorrow.”

“Hopefully not in his own piss,” muttered the fiery redhead darkly.

“Don’t worry,” smiled the androgynous lad wryly, “I’ve promised Adine not to let Guy drown in his own blood. In case you’re wondering, she looked me up around an hour ago.”

“Lucky bastard,” snorted Catterm, his expression softening for once.

“More likely you’re a dumbass bastard for calling her ‘that dark ugly duckling’ without understanding how baby swans look like.”

“Shut the fuck up, you gay.”

“Hey guys… can you both…”

Before the sandy blond lad can finish his statement, a shrill scream disrupts the banter. Given the manner of local social norms, everybody merely cast a glance or two at most. For Lukas Brun, however, this is nothing less than a form of territorial invasion. Flipping a knife like a master of legerdemain, the proprietor cum sole bartender of the Drowning Bear decides that some manner of law enforcement is now a must.

Not that this ain’t the first horny bastard I’ve castrated anyway. Hopefully he’s no rich bastard living off his merry wonderful kingdom.

Before he even starts closing down on the offenders, however, a roar spirals the entire tavern into silence. A swift punch instantly floored the first ruffian, a broken nose decorating his otherwise comely features. Not satisfied with just one, the berserk youth snaps his head forward. Receiving a headbutt cleanly against the forehead, the second victim suffers a knockout. Yet, it is the third and final thug who has it the worst. A knee to the crotch results in that expression no money can ever buy, his ordeal meeting its end via a toss into the well just outside.


If there is anyone worthy of slapping some sense into that sandy blond lion, surely Garyth Parkins will be one of the few. Noting this fact with a composed mind, Lukas Brun knows nevertheless that some real reckoning is on the cards.

Must be that Adine believing some gay boy can’t be trusted.

Sardonic humour forming inside his head, Lukas chooses to stay aside. Contorting in rage, Garyth confronts his ward in the most direct manner possible. A strong grip refusing to let go, he shakes Guy Cody violently. Throughout the whole process, however, the young lion neither betray any hint of fear nor guilt.

Upon seeing this, Catterm Leen decides that enough is enough. That is until a hand both slender and strong hold him back. Shaking his head, Lukas Brun wears an expression which the redhead only understands too well.

“Have enough?” growled Garyth Parkins, his chagrin all too blatant like a bonfire in the darkest night, “If so, then go home.”

“With who?”

Guy’s answer doesn’t shock Garyth so much as his expression. Catterm Leen sucks in his breath while Lukas’ frown is all too evident. This is a man now bereft of a soul, someone who can verily well derive pleasure from beating up others and nothing else. Garyth has seen many losses suffered. Lives both lost and crippled due to unbridled youth and a staunch rejection of pragmatism.

“Life ain’t fair because it has never been. Either we suck it up and die or we do nothing and die.”

Words from a man he has always respected returns to haunt Garyth, not many know who the Northern Lion is bar a chosen few. And he himself is one of them.

“Garyth Parkins!”

His shout at last getting Garyth Parkins’ attention, Lukas makes a simple sequence of hand signs. Garyth is no fool even though he has left the military world behind years ago. Knowing too well that the militia will arrive soon, the man they once dubbed “Crazy Park” dragged his charge away from the scene.

“Okay, so what we’re gonna do now, gay boy?” asked Catterm, a finger picking his teeth casually.

“Stop that,” snapped Lukas, his irritation all too apparent, “You know I hate the sight of people doing this in front of me. Don’t tell me Elys doesn’t mind.”

“Actually she doesn’t,” grinned the redhead, the mention of his lover’s name perking him up.

“Alright, I don’t have to know whatever details relevant,” sighed the androgynous brunette, his knife twirling around, “I need to do something about those losers. I recognise one of them because I happen to see his parents before. A bunch of fucking snobs.”

“With money and status?”

“Catts, please answer me this question truthfully,” shrugged Lukas, “Have you ever seen a piss poor snob without status?”


“Then let’s get going then,” grinned Lukas Brun, his knife now at work.

“”Doncha forget da las’un!”

With a thud, a hulking man fat and bald dumps Guy Cody’s final victim unceremoniously. Lukas doesn’t know his name, but surely he’s a local with a mind like for like. After all, there are plenty of fellow Kalarans the brunette doesn’t know.

“You’re really bad, Lukas,” sighed Catterm Leen, the act of fully grown men shaved wholly clean sending tingles of humour down his spine, “What will you tell their parents?”

“If they want to tell me something, I’ll be glad to be their host.”

“A little wonder why so many people hate gays,” quipped Catterm, his mirth now bursting through the seams.

“Save your laughs for a later time, Catts. Just find that poor girl a new skirt to wear.”


The hour is dusk, a Parish giving his sermon before an attentive audience. With ravens flocking by outside, there is nothing uplifting about the message preached. Yet, his words are full of encouragement and the promise of a better life so long faith is not called into question. Munching an apple green and sour is a hooded figure, his hair of frost visible at the fringe.

“Fuck the gods, fuck the promise, fuck your words.”

Blatant vulgarity catching everyone’s attention, the preacher is nevertheless filled with anger. Here he is, nearing the end of his sermon. How dare this knave intrude into a holy house! Letting his hood down, the gasp resultant is all too audible. This isn’t an Elf sung by minstrels and mothers alike. His ear are elongated, but his complexion is anything but fair. Orbs of azure blue proclaiming a message of cynical contempt, this is a man sending instinctive warnings of danger to the Parish.

“Someone drive this madman out!”

Aeranath doesn’t know who that daring soul is, but he knows how to deal with such a person. His left hand brushing past the edge of a cloak weather worn, the hilt belonging to Fragarach is more than enough to hush the sheep. What to do with this stupid preacher is the last thing in his mind, the Ranger merely wants an answer.

“Tell me where’s that great white bitch.”


“You heard me.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” exclaimed the Parish, his panic amusing the True Apostle till no end, “Begone before the Holy Quintet shower their holy wrath!”

Laughter ensues, the tone resembling the haunting howling of a wolf. If there is anything Aeranath perceives as a laughing matter, surely the concept of retribution has to be top of the list. Then he ceases laughing, the sellsword drawing from his scabbard the Answerer’s blade.

“Let me tell you what is a holy wrath,” whispered Aeranath, a grip harsh and strong closing onto his frantic victim’s jaw, “A holy wrath is something met out by gods. It is something created by men like you.”

With a great force, Aeranath tosses the Parish aside. The impact might have fractured his spine, but the Ranger does not give a damn. The attendees can see it clearly in his ice blue eyes. The fury is there, blasphemy and unbelief both are ever present.

“Can you still walk?” mocked Aeranath. The Parish can only weakly nod.

“Good. Listen to me, all you people and sheep!” hollered the True Apostle, euphoria unrivalled pulsating in his veins, “When you declare a holy wrath on another person, upon whose name are you invoking? The name of your holy ones? That’s bullshit spoken from your lips!”

Noting with satisfaction that his words have boasted a heavier impact, Aeranath continues his own sermon made up on the go.

“When a woman gets raped, it’s holy wrath. When a child starves to death, it’s also holy wrath. When I kill another man, it means I’ve courted holy wrath. Let me tell you what is holy wrath.”

A swing of from the Answerer and off comes half the preacher’s head. The dead man slumps, his dead brains spilled. A geyser of blood has courted hysteria, chaos reigns supreme from thereon. The chapel swiftly abandoned, the Ranger cares not for whatever fury coming from the Aesir as he sits at the front row.

Let them come, I don’t give a fuck.

“Don’t worry, no one will come.”

Assuring words bringing anything but assurance, the True Apostle cast his ire against a beautiful maiden blessed with an equally beautiful figure. Eyes of ruby red remind him of a damning past, stark white hair reaching unto her shoulders mocking his life as an eternal hunter.

“Tell me what you want,” retorted Aeranath, “I bet I’ll be more interested in banging the oldest whore than to fuck you straight.”

“Please do not degrade yourself, ah’ni,” smiled Sarel Aphros, “I know you’d rather marry my ah’na.”

Gnashing his teeth in rage, Aeranath knows an insult when he hears one. Hyo’Ah deserves a better man, not some murderer forced to end her life. To suggest the only love of his life is deserving of his affection is tantamount to idiots saying an innocent man should die for his actions.

One more word of bullshit and you’ll get it from me…

“I’m not out to goad you, however,” sighed the Grand Damsel, her seductive frame seated beside the seething Ranger, “You see, I need some help.”

“To take off your clothes?” scoffed the True Apostle, his gloved hand slapping away her brazen advances.

“To help me destroy a troublesome band of bandits.”

“Give me one good reason why I must bend over backwards for you, bitch.”

“Because they claim to fight for their new found gods. Apparently, their leader is suffering from the grandest form of delusion.”

“Maybe he will stop calling himself a holy man after fucking you to death,” snarled Aeranath, a middle finger shown unable to perturb his object of anger, “Don’t bother me with this nonsense!”

“What if I say Aor has given Hraam his rightful Geis?”

The wolf stiffens much to Sarel’s delight, surely things are going according plan.

“I don’t know this Ham…”

“Hraam,” corrected Sarel, “Ham is form of edible meat.”

“I don’t fucking care whether he’s ham or Hraam,” growled Aeranath, the wolf in him calling for his next target’s blood, “Just tell me where he is, so that I can use him for target practice.”

“Such a direct one,” chuckled Sarel, images from a past long gone tearing up her insides, “A pity we’re not meant for each other.”

“Don’t tes…”

“The town of Chard, fifty miles from the North Coast. You can try asking for directions,” smiled the Grand Damsel, her flickering form now shrouded in crimson red, “I’m pretty sure the locals will tell you the correct way so long they’re convinced you’ll be dying alone.”

As he becomes the sole witness to Sarel’s minor show of power, Aeranath notices something.

Getting hard just because that bitch offered to let me fuck her? Indeed there’s no cure for this world…


Again, this is another dream. Another dream, but the same person. That maiden bloodied and dead… who is she?

Why am I feeling jealous?

Is it because she is more beautiful than me?

Or mayhap it is due to…

Shaking my head, I try clearing this preposterous thought. Yet, my feeble attempt merely feeds that very monster. Alestrial Eliaden… what is wrong with you? ‘Tis only a dream, a figment of the past surely!

“There is no saviour…”

His words suddenly catches me off guard, there is nothing bar a sorrow utmost bitter in him. Staying my silence, my heart starts beating rapidly like a doe running for its dearest life. Why does he say such words? If no saviour can be found, why then is everyone able to have the right to live?

“…because the world doesn’t need one anyway. And neither do I.”

My heart freezes for a moment, unwanted questions start pouring in.

“Kagetus no Hyo’Ah, you are a stupid woman to trust someone like me. Not even the loosest whore would ever trust a wolf, you moron…”


Thursday, 25 September 2014


Apparently, I don't need to elaborate further on Ranger Tactics since smartphone interface gaming-wise is basically idiot-proof.

Choose your character
Before departing from any Settlement, you'll be prompted to select a character from your party to control until the moment your party enter another Settlement. During any given combat, you can only control that character, no matter what.

Formation can only be decided before departing from any Settlement. Once your party start exploring/fighting, formation cannot be altered. Take note that you can allocate your character in any of the position listed below.

Character strikes first, no matter what. In the event where two vanguard characters fight each other, the one with higher Air stat always attack first.
Vanguard characters gain +40% movement speed.

Character gains +1 to either Fire, Earth, or Air (will be prompted upon deployment).
You must allocate one at the right and another at the left.

Character gains +1 to Water.
Rest of the party gain +1 to Mind.

Character gains additional Adrenaline.
Rearguard characters gain Protection by default.

Note: Game will be over if either any of your key character or your central character is defeated in combat.

Combat Focus
In battle, pressure can come from anywhere where the enemy is concerned. Combat Focus enables the player to detect where the fighting is at its fiercest.

When controlling your character, the camera angle may suddenly shift to another party member. In this case, it means the enemy has launched a sudden attack against that party member.

Exploration and Combat
Exploration is all about exiting the Settlement in order to earn much needed XP via combat and quests. Exploration is categorized under two types: Terrain and Dungeon.

Terrain allows you to explore everything beyond the Settlement itself. Dungeon allows you to explore hidden areas within the Settlement. Take note, however, that some Dungeons may be hidden OUTSIDE the Settlement.

Combat will happen at random, as in the manner of enemies. An enemy is classified under 3 types: Normal, Strong, Elite, and Champion.

Normal enemies will always band together. They are outlined in white.
Strong enemies can either be seen together with Normal enemies or form their own group. They are outlined in green.
Elite enemies are leaders by their own right. They will always be leaders of any given group. They are outlined in blue.
Champions will either act alone or in a group comprising of Normal, Strong, and Elite enemies. Champions who act alone are definitely much tougher than those  taking charge of a group. They are outlined in yellow.

At the same time, bosses are also available to fight. A boss will fall under either of 3 categories, named after the color which one is outlined: Bronze, Silver, and Gold.

Bronze level bosses are basically souped up version of Champions. They tend to appear in Terrain and Dungeon where the lack of Silver/Gold level bosses is apparent.
Silver level bosses are basically side-bosses. Will either appear in quests or in-plot battles.
Gold level bosses are the ones whom your party has to defeat in order to progress in-plot.

XP and progressing
While XP can be gained via combat, quests are basically your chief source of XP farming. By completing the quest at hand, your party will gain the listed amount of XP. Difficulty and nature of any given quest varies, sometimes widely. However, only via a certain party level can you truly progress in the Story mode. In short, quests have nothing to do with the plot at hand despite being available during Story mode.

Party level does NOT denote the average level of your party members. Rather, party level indicates the level of the least experienced character (e.g. Guy Cody's current level is 13, which is the lowest out of the entire party. Therefore, your party level is counted as 13).

At the same time, the character you control will earn 3 x the offered XP upon quest completion.

Maximum level cap for both characters and party is 60.

Equipment slot
There are two types of equipment slot, namely personal and stash. Any character can only have 7 personal slots while stash slots can total up till 40. Understand though that stash slots are for the entire party, not just any one member.

You can access to both stash and personal slots via pressing the Start button (for PS4 & Wii U) or Menu button (for XBox One). A menu will pop up, indicating the names of your party members (for personal slots) and the stash option. Upon pressing the Select (for PS4 & Wii U) or View (XBox One) button on the relevant option, you can allocate whatever items and equipment to the characters.

Stash slots can carry any type of equipment while personal slots are specific. At the same time, whatever relevant items can be slotted into the Item slots from here.

Personal slots are classified into Weapon (slot 1), Armor (slot 2), Gloves (slot 3), Footwear (slot 4), Helmet/Artifact (slot 5), Ring (slot 6), and Individual (slot 7).

Offensive, Defensive, Utility
Every equipment serves a different property. Offensive equipment affect the character's attacking power while Defensive equipment affects damage resistance. As for Utility equipment, they will have varying effect(s).

Offensive slots: 1 and 3
Defensive slots: 2 and 5 (only for Helmet)
Utility slots: 4 and 5 (only for Artifact)

Ring and Individual slots can fall into any of the three categories depending on the actual equipment and character.
Individual slot, in particular, is character specific.

To be cont'd...

But before I sign off...
...allow me to prove below that only a weird gal can unlock my inner cell.
Steve, your damning (?) assessment on my weirdness is justified lol!

Friday, 12 September 2014

Feral Pain

"A wolf knows best the sinful man."
~A common sellswords idiom



A Ranger’s Tale


"Young Mistress, high tea is now ready," announces the Houseman, a greeting grimly voiced contrasting starkly against a lavish room full of paintings and leather bounded books. Through a window sill mahogany made, the vibrant sun pours its radiance onto a bed covered in silky white.

"A thousand gratitude, Twong."

A seated noble lady of different lineage notices a butterfly fluttering forward its flight following two dragonflies ahead. A middle aged maidservant is about to finish the final touches on her mistress’ loose raven curls, Alestrial Eliaden deciding otherwise.

"Mother Ross, you don't have to include the flowers."

"But Young Miss..."

"No buts," smiles the beautiful maiden, "Your knowledge on Alestrial Eliaden is nowhere inferior to the rest. After all, 'tis merely a high tea session arranged not by my own will."

The winsome Cinha beauty gives a cheeky wink as she gets up from her oaken chair, flowing locks of jet black lustre resting against her bare flawless back.

"And with Young Master Dukes, no less!" clearing his throat, Twong continues his curt statement, "Surely that brash litt..."

"Please stop complaining, Twong," sighs Alestrial, soft eyes of darkest brown flashing before Twong a hidden steel tempered true, "I know you are distressed by gossips abound, but Guy Cody is my bond.”


“He has pledged himself under me in the name of honour and I have given him my promise via merit. It is that simple, do you still understand me not?"

Upon proclamation heard, the elderly Houseman can only eat his own dish of crow. Forty years of servitude and here is. A social anomaly never before seen, a daughter of noble upbringing associating herself with a smallborne boy. His mistress sneered in secret behind her back, Twong is nevertheless sharp enough to detect delighted troublemakers exchanging malicious japes. If not for Yeovil imposing thinly veiled threats with rapier half exposed, things would have gotten out of hand.

Hate to say this, Yeovil, but you’re one hell of a good scoundrel.

The adopted daughter of House Eliaden is never an individual far removed from the First House Patriarch himself. The Kalarans lauded Erasmus Eliaden as the greatest thinker of all times, a philosopher advocating perfect balance between idealism and realism. As for his beloved Young Mistress, she has always been like a gentle sword most regal, a blade which somehow got unsheathed by someone most unexpected. 

As Alestrial looks out into the clear blue sky, her thoughts reaches out to another person nobody else has known.

Will we meet again, True Apostle?


“So where will mortality take itself? What is the manner of debt demanded from things doomed to pass?”

Before that visage fairer than all, the silent Lord of Lancers stares blankly at the First True Apostle’s back. Locks of wintry snow teased by gentle breeze, petals of white invade the azure sky. Avalon is indeed a sight to behold, this ethereal kingdom verily every creation’s final destination. From Yggdrasil hails chaos and life, Avalon conceives order and the truth behind eternity.

“Which is the head, wherein lies the tail? Who are we to assume the first and last?”

Diverting his gaze away from the Azure Moon never-fading, Aor offers a quaint smile towards his counterpart. Ziron is no fool. Once a mortal, forever one. What does the future hold for those like him, he wonders. Unlike the Tree, the Lake is governed by an absolute law.

The Last Law.

As the phrase echoes in Aor’s head, his curved Elven blade sheathed rattles by itself slightly. Standing up, he glides past Ziron as words neither a parting taunt nor intended barb resonate throughout the entire realm.

"Come then, boy. Show me the path our Kind should have taken. Perhaps dreams of what-if will bring about rewards never begged for."


“I may have done in some children because I can’t be fucking bothered with checking my potions. But hey, I already paid penance by pledging my remaining life as a Parish! If others have a problem with their kids buried six feet below, let them fuck each other like rabbits again so that more kids will come!”

Those were the words arousing the killer in the last True Apostle, drunken or not. Aeranath would rather turn the Answerer against himself than to call himself a good man. There’s no rationale justifying his murderous whims, he’s not about to hide himself behind the wall of righteousness and hypocrisy. A hunter will not rest till his quarry lies dead before him, the cause of death decided by the predator and not the prey. If good people are good at walking down the street with nary a fear, then insidious men are capable of hiding behind shadows.

“I am a Parish! You can’t kill me! I’m a good man! I repented a long time ago and…”

"Show me a sinless man and I will gift you a stainless blade."

Such is Aeranath’s answer issued forth, his sword stained blood.

The Ranger has claimed another victim's head, his impunity this time round displayed within confines of a chapel's walls.

The last True Apostle is never an idiot. No one is guilty of seeing him as wholly sane, yet the Ranger is more righteous than the rest. Unto all who fear and judge, they are doomed for condemnation. Not by the hands of others, but words of their own. No one can ever understand Chaos like Chaos Incarnate himself, for a wolf knows best the sinful man.

A casual punt granted, the sound of severed skull ricocheting is nothing less than music to the Ranger’s ears. Then comes a scream of hysteria and a quavering little boy reduced on his knees. His grin melting away, Aeranath strides towards the bot who is now crying and begging for mercy.

One step… two steps… then come the third. With deft flick of his hand, Aeranath ignites the building. But not before allowing the frightened boy to escape unscathed.


Dusk has arrived, the sky coloured red. Beneath oaken pillars strong and proud, foxes and bears prowl alike. Underneath the setting sun, a skein of geese sound their call. Ravens caw, a wolf is heard howling afar. Day is nearing an end, verily soon night shall bring forth its own hunting host. A female grizzly approaches a man strong in shoulders and girth, excited cubs indulging in a game of romp around him. Uttering a guttural growl, her brood cease their play. Following their mother’s lead, the cubs obediently follow her back home.

“Hail, Erik Bearfriend.”

The Lord of Berserkers gives no acknowledgement, for his comrade needs nothing of that. How many years have passed since the Age of Renown, Erik cares not. Out of the Peerless Four, only he is left. The Lord of Fencers has passed away, the same goes for the Lord of Archers. As for the Lord of Lancers, however…

“All hail Ziron Deadman.”

“That’s some unpleasant title, comrade Erik.”

Sitting down next to his hulking friend, Ziron cast a sideward glance. Nothing has changed for the sole survivor of the Peerless Four, be it his looks or orbs of amber. Curly black hair cropped accompanied by stubble, the only unique thing about Erik’s rugged look is the wear and tear conferred by the wheel of time itself.

“Don’t you find it mocking, Ziron? Even the most savage of beasts have their den, but what about us?”

Knowing what Erik is hinting at, Ziron can only look upwards towards the sky. It is indeed a beautiful sight with birds flying west. As a falcon manage to catch its quarry in mid-flight, Erik offers Ziron a bottle of wine.

“Did you drink it from the bottle?”

“Why, yes. Does that make us gay if we happen to share a bottle? I’ve seen siblings done that before, so we can’t obviously accuse people of permitting incest, no?”

“Son of a bitch,” chortles Ziron as he takes a swig, after which he spits out the contents in disgust.

“Why, Ziron? Too sweet for you?” smirks the rugged woodsman.

“Erik, you bloody bastard,” laughs the Lord of Lancers despite his prior reaction, “You know I like my drink to be dry.”

“My bad then,” shrugs Erik, his towering frame stretching itself as he stand up tall, “I enjoy me wine to be a bit sweeter.”

“Much sweeter,” corrects Ziron, a thumb stroking his goatee thoughtfully.



“You still remember Jin’s final moments? That very battle which drew the Age of Renown to an eternal close? He’s not one of us, but he surely fought better than all four of us combined.”

“Never a hero, never will be…” muses Erik as painful memories start taunting him like a sadistic victor before the vanquished, “Do you think Aeranath deserves to be a hero should life deal him a different hand?”

“I’m just mentioning a past unrelated to that boy, but it seems I’ve chosen the wrong time to bring it up.”

“Wrong type of past as well, arsehole with a goatee.”

In spite of the words used, Ziron can see from three miles off that Erik has never harboured any bitterness. And it merely makes the Lord of Lancers feeling worse, for it was his belief that Aeranath would do far better in following Erik. A pause then start permeating the atmosphere between two brothers in arms, the Lord of Berserkers folding his arms across the chest.

“You don’t believe me? That I’ve fucked at least five sluts in the past three days?”

“C’mon, yer a fib! Yer daddy and mummy are so bloody rich. Why’d they allow you to force fuck them if you can bribe them?”

“Because there are two different types of sluts. The willing ones and those who fake themselves.”

Erik only remembers too well that very event in the tavern. He also recalls equally well the unbridled fury boiling in him. He could have easily lopped off a scoundrel’s head with his trusted woodsman axe, yet someone he’s too familiar with got himself one step ahead.

“Shit! Head’s gone! Someone fucking murdered him!”

It wasn’t that unnamed arsehole’s friend who sounded the alarm, but rather the nearest serving wench blessed a sweet look belying a vulgar tongue. Surely that kind of girl Aeranath would enjoy shagging, notes a sardonic Erik. As it turned out…

“What have you done, Aeranath? Warping behind that fucker and taking off his head?”

“You forgot to mention that I warped away immediately after doing so. And besides, you’ve verified him as a fucker, no?”

“You’ll put yourself into trouble!”

“Me? Why always me? Why not us instead?”

“Look, boy…”

“A boy does not simply cut off a man’s head with a sword, let alone wielding the Answerer.”

That was countless years back, this was a time where Erik still held out hope that whatever being taught could have a positive effect on the last True Apostle. They say a boy will always become a man after his own heart. If so, what manner of heart was Aeranath’s all the while? A hardened heart or a bleeding one? Mayhap both added together, who knows?

“I saw that exchange between you and Aeranath.”

Shocking him back to his senses, Erik narrows his eyes towards a wistful Ziron.

“You linked your conscience with some bloody animal, am I right?”

“What if my answer is yes?”


If Ziron is truly made of flesh, blood, and bones, Erik’s fist would have connected cleanly. Alas for the truth otherwise, Erik growling like a bear robbed of its kill.

“I know the nature of my existence better than you, O’ Lord of Berserkers.”

“Does that mean the great and might Lord of Lancers should abuse whatever left of him in any way? I may not know the whole picture, but at least I understand what it takes to have you evaporated! Do you know the danger behind your action?”

“I’m sorry, Erik,” smiles an apologetic Ziron, knowledge of what Erik said only forcing forth an iron mask forged from bravado, “It seems that my presence have opened up wounds more grievous than a mere gash across the arm. Farewell.”

A familiar figure turning incorporeal and vanishing altogether, Erik can only vent his frustration with a roar brimming with helpless rage.


The woods betrays an eerie feel, bestial growls uttering behind the shadows of death. All have warned Cari not to venture alone into the woods, for hungry beasts are always out to hunt a morsel or two. Yet how can she look on as her only kin wastes away like a withering tree? The only good thing she’s had was a fiancé, but even he was brutally taken away when the War of Mourners’ Ford erupted. Then her life ends abruptly before beings fouler than mere animals hungry for living flesh.

Let the hunt begin, such are the words bringing euphoria within the Ranger’s soul. There is no logic behind his decision, only a desire to feel alive rather than merely surviving.

“Only animals are content with survival, not those blessed with emotions and so much more.”

Ziron’s advice spurring him on, Aeranath at least isn’t pig-headed enough to deny credit whenever due. He recounts his first kill, that moron was no different from the beings he’s now hunting. How many animals created from elements alone have he slain?

Ten? Hundred? Thousand? Bah, it doesn’t matter how many they are.

Losing count of time and the number of kills, Aeranath at last senses the last batch of elemental scum closing in. Unearthly shrieks failing to unnerve him, a deft stroke slices apart a serpent made of water.

A wolf of solid ice greets him next, the Ranger warping himself unto several positions. Seven steps in all, seven wolves vanquished and dissipating in furious howls. Aeranath has expected more, Aeranath in the end is not impressed.

An ape of fire leapt at him, Aeranath realises too late the attack. For the animal has done so behind the cover of the trees, the last True Apostle on the other hand getting himself consumed by a hunter’s throes. Hungry roaring hailing from a pride of lions raised from the earth, the wolf in Aeranath merely mocks them all.

A lightning bolt begins its descent, the Ranger himself being marked for collateral causality. Whatever created by the mind will always be materialised, nature itself the only limit. Such is the true face of Magic.

The bluish arrow consumes both the ape and lions, the latter utterly shattered to pieces. The primate, however, remains alive.

“A pierce from the Answerer and ‘tis forever goodbye.”

Fragrarach crackles in delight, tendrils of purple energy detonating Aeranath’s prey from its insides.

Then his movement pauses, the momentum halted. The True Apostles are specialists in hunting Demons of all extent, their keen senses of otherworldly nature earning them the self-title called Hounds of Arashynn. The Ranger might be a bastard born, but he’s no mongrel when it comes to understanding the Seed of Yggdrasil.

“No identity, no unique individuality,” snarls the Ranger, the damning scene taunting him like a nightmare undefeatable.

“This girl… her lips, cunt, and arse… you still remember that Tamurian whore without a name…”

“You’re fucking begging for a horrible death,” retorts Aeranath, his every single word laced with pulsating wrath, “That is if you can truly reach Avalon in the first place.”

With a hiss capable of deafening even the hard in hearing, the serpent of steel bolts towards its insolent enemy. Yet, the Ranger chooses to take the hit cleanly across the shoulder. Stepping past the final enemy, Aeranath merely raises a middle finger with back facing that thrice damned worm.

“Poor little girl. You may have been raped like a whore, but I will grant you a death deserving of a lady.”

With a sigh from the wielder, Fragarach claims its first non-Demonic kill of the day. Then with a shrug, Aeranath starts mocking the snake even though there is no mirth evident.

“What’s wrong? Not willing to stab me from behind?”

Hissing in anger, the serpent lashes out. It is said that any Aesir may have a hard time fighting a Demon of higher level, but no self-respecting Hound belonging to Arashynn would ever subject himself into such circumstances. And Aeranath is the son of Rowein, the most feared Hound ever conceived by Avalon.

The serpent is indeed a cut above its cohorts, blurring slashes in courtesy of a razor tipped tail opening wounds faster than wild feline’s claws. The last True Apostle shouldn’t have been so weak, yet Aeranath knows the reason why.

Fuck Corruption Impulse, fuck that arsehole saying I’m the only one immune to this stinking pile of shit.

Ironically, the unnamed individual remains only half correct. There is a reason behind Aeranath’s power below even the most mediocre of his kind. And the Corruption Impulse isn’t that.

Fool… idiot… retarded mutt… a curse to every maiden professing her love for you… die… die… die…

Aeranath’s heart then remains still, his soul railing against death.

Not today, not tomorrow, not until I reach my final destination.

The Ranger becomes a witness to his own past. Not of that unnamed Tamurian maiden so brutally raped and killed, but that only lass able to conquer him. She has nothing of note apart from beauty complete with a flair for song and dance. No little girl should ever boast of taming a wolf, yet Kagetsu no Hyo’Ah defied such a thought with gentle ease. Then comes the most damning moment of his life, that very point of time where the lone wolf becomes forever alone.

Blood… her blood on my hands… her blood staining Fragarach… a lie… you fucking liar… you promised me! FUCK YOU, LARS ALTERFATE!

His mind can only recall a tune, a song Hyo’Ah always enjoyed singing. She sang it with joy and a longing heart, Aeranath sings it with the blackest hate directed against some unknown entity he knows nothing about.

The steel serpent receives a violent slash across the jaw, the Answerer’s blade humming in silent rage.  As a being bereft of emotions defining the best and worst of mortals, it nevertheless feels fear tingling down the spine. Every lashing of the tail can only hit open air, its fangs missing the target by more than mere inches.

The battle is now clear for both combatants, for one is only a beast beneath even an animal whilst the other has now assumed the role of a violent dancer. Amidst the trance, Aeranath can still discern his movement and his enemy’s futile resistance.

Standing firm on his right foot, the Ranger executes pirouette after pirouette. This is no lady’s dance, but a swordsman’s waltz. Stride after stride, step after step. Slash after slash, thrust after thrust. The serpent is now brutally pierced in numerous places, vicious wounds in courtesy of cutting rage marking its inevitable downfall.

His laughter echoes throughout the starless sky, repeated curses wishing death tearing through the silent night. Then the song stops its tune, Aeranath at last starting to breathe normally. Gone is the adrenaline, for his hated adversary is dead. Shards of metal melting away, vapour of grey accompanying the word demise. Casting one last glance to the dead girl doomed to feed the birds, Aeranath turns his back without looking back.


“Wow! Is that Magic?”

“Fuck off, boy.”

“Erm… what’s a fuck off, kind sir?”

“You dumb fuck, what makes you think I am a kind person?”

“What’s a dumb fuck?”

“Alright, never mind the questions and answers. Just tell me your name, so I know who exactly to leave alone.”

“Cody. The name’s Guy Cody!”