)0(
A Ranger’s Tale
)0(
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…”
“GET AWAY,
WHORE!”
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.”
)0(
"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...
)0(
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.
“GUY
CODY!”
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?”
“No?”
“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.”
)0(
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.”
“Wha…”
“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…
)0(
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…”
)0(
