The Wolf And Its Answer

"A wolf knows best every man."

~A common sellsword saying

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The merchant caravan attacked hours earlier was doomed to a certain voyage, its one-way journey pointing towards rape, murder, and despair. Fools are meant to be fodder for the strong, a sea of blood completed with severed heads, limbs torn asunder, and enslaved maids no longer chaste.

All know this foulest race to be notorious for their raiding tactics, they say his people are cursed with nothing else of value. Cowardice the only trait rivalling the merit of superior strength, this is nothing more than a lie. A rally in numbers will always work, but only when they're sorely pressed. Such is the orcish pride, surely this has to be the greatest insult known to the Homm’Ogr.

If baleful leers and lustful loins are to be his people’s finest weapons, this is because those damned terrans deserve it. Driven from their inheritance, the only thing unnatural would be letting their wenches be. While the orcs have never been short of pure blooded females born from their seed, nothing satisfies the male half more than outright slavery and breaking their captives' resolve. As for their womenfolk, silence is never an option when it comes to a show of support.

Then that thrice-damned demon stumbled before him and his brudders. A plaything dumb like a sheep was their perception. Flay him, roast him, feed him to the beasts, and give his entrails to the birds.

In an instant, weapons were flashed and blood was spilt with the victor standing tall. Forty brudders against a single lamb, eyes of scarlet red shockingly unveiled a ravenous wolf. A monster hailing from Azrael's realm must be him. Otherwise, why would he be capable of terrifying feats only the Great Abyss himself is able to?

Unbridled power and absolute chaos became the real meaning of fear, a rampaging force leaving blood and guts in its wake. His mind destroyed by terror, only one question remained for Bork.

Flight or fight?

Bork chose flight.

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The heavy breathing is sensed by the nocturnal life, their sights staying clear from the runner. Both beasts and birds know not the reason, the escapee's fear they can nevertheless sense. Returning to their foraging, nary an attention is paid.

Utterly shaken by a spectre of blood and steel, the lone orc curses the day he did something stupid. Why did he take the dare? Why did he attempt the first strike?

“Daynjer past, daynjer past nau oraydee…”

His stamina collapsed, Bork pauses to draw a breath. A breath of respite, a moment of reprieve. The coast should be clear by now, whatever distance covered is already far enough for comfort.

Unleashing a barrage of curses, Bork’s lethargy warps into anger. How dare this hooded bastard smears the orcish pride! How dare this hooded bastard raises his sword against the Great Children! How dare him! How dare him! Such is a mockery on the highest level, the greatest blasphemy!

There is a time for curses, a time for seeking allies. Glancing to his left, a rising trail of red smoke means only one thing: This is no travellers' camp, but an encampment fortified by his other brudders. Bork will tell them what happened, surely Bork's brudders will take up arms. If a raidband numbering forty strong wasn’t enough, then surely at least a hundred more will do the job. This is why warbands exist. To defend the orcish pride once push comes to shove.

A sudden rustling sound sows panic in Bork, his heart racing like a running wrug. Chilling fear seeps into his spine, the only sight greeting him is a fox pursuing its prey.

“Stoolpit rabitses, stoolpit fuxes...”

Five parts annoyed and five parts inflamed with lust, Bork makes up his mind to vent his anger on any unfortunate elven lass within eyeshot. Even if one cannot be found, surely some hapless terran wench will suffice. For now, that is. Then fear grips him like the jaws of a wolf sinking into an unlucky prey.

Bork slowly turns around, the inevitable heralding its arrival. Crimson eyes tainted with murderous intent reciprocate a horrified stare as the monster's merciless steel laced with azure blue slices into his chest. Searing pain exploding from inside, Bork’s world goes abruptly black.

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Lindel, a modest city famed in the eyes of bounty hunters near and far. Situated in the Eagle's Horn, the place has been protected by the much respected Lionhearts all the while. The folly of underestimating militiamen may seem tempting at first, for who would ever pay respect to the smallborne unless he is one himself? Yet, every fool would still have to pay his rightful due. The Kalaran dream has always been a solid rock for the Kalaran society, its fortress in times of both fortune and woe. They say that meritocracy is fair and flawless, this is why the Kalarans are so prosperous. Alas, the world has never been fair to any and all. If every mortal is born in slavery, who then is the slaver?

Midsummer is always a season to cheer about. To Aeravor, it is merely part and parcel of his drifting years. Children frolicking within shallow pools means nothing to him, the same goes for womenfolk indulging in idle gossip. Dwarven songs of yore ring aloud, he pays no heed to the sound of anvils struck. Every now and then, he recognises a Histalonian merchant peddling guns and gunpowder due to past dealings with an unpleasant schemer. How something potentially dangerous like this is allowed unchecked, Aeravor merely gives a derisive snort. Occasional sightings of the enigmatic elves go unquestioned by prudent folks, he suppresses an urge to cause trouble.

A bundle slung over the shoulder, this is to be his prize. His left hand resting upon the pommel of a longsword sheathed, this is to be his solace. A settled life is one he despises, innocuous greetings he desires not. All he wants is a bulging purse and some entertainment. Whores and drinks would top his list if not for a growling stomach.

And to think I have to wait three days without taking a piss or shit.

Continuing his silent walk, the sellsword ignores the numerous glances cast in his direction. Attention neither straying to the left or right, a single storey building looms into view. Bells of copper sound their greeting, the mercenary pushes open a wooden door plastered with mould. Shedding his cowl, the indomitable wolf greets a bespectacled old man with the briefest nod.

Lazy bastard trying to act hardworking…

"Taking or ending?" glares the old man much to his satisfaction. Apparently, pushing up his glasses has achieved its purpose. As the bounty hunter is about to disclose his answer, a sudden thought enters his mind. Understanding what he himself is capable of, the predator within is promptly restrained.

Count himself lucky. I'm not interested in stirring up shit for now.

“Ending.”

"Evidence? Target?" retorts the crusty coot.

"Marx Hanry. The evidence here."

Flinging the gruesome package unceremoniously onto the desk, a decapitated head adorned with shock and terror greets the astounded clerk.

"That's our man alright," grins the old man wryly, an impressed whistle paying final respects to a dead man’s head, "Then again, I thought that pretty boy was extremely dangerous.”

“Rape, strangling, and all that bullshit,” a derisive snort concluding a verdict equally mocking, Aeravor is not in the mood for banter, “Heard of rangers and what we do best?”

“Hunting random prey, striking from behind, killing them in the sneakiest way possible. Guess you did just that.”

"With his pants down. A pity I failed to impress his pretty young thing," sighs the rugged warrior while absently scratching the back of his head, "I swear that'd be some ample compensation especially given her stack."

"You got a warped sense of jest here, black stud," chortles the old man, his yellowed teeth bared, "Reminds me of my youth. Mark my words, you're not gonna be popular with all the rich missus. Holy Quintet be damned if you're no whore bait. What's your name, sonny?"

"Aeravor," yawns the ranger unsightly, "Congratulations for wasting three seconds of my life."

“You don’t look natural, though…”

"Money or your life," clearly annoyed, Aeravor starts tracing random patterns on the desk with a scowl staring down at its owner.

"Okay, okay, I know. Don't be such a grouch. You’re still young, you're in serious need of getting laid," puffing his cheeks, the clerk tosses into Aeravor’s hand a leather pouch brimming with crowns, "Here's your moolah. Marx Hanry's a jackpot and a real son of an eel."

Stashing away a keep well earned, Aeravor slams the door shut. A resultant boom reverberating in the old man’s ears, a good-humoured smile is nonetheless shown.

Brown skin, long ears, sharp features… half-elf with Tamurian blood, eh? Doesn’t seem right with that white hair…

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Enjoying a hearty meal of grilled beef and creamy corn soup, Aeravor casually tosses a crown at a waiting boy's feet. Ignoring persistent thanks coming from a lad treated like a dog, the ranger continues savouring his meal. It has been quite a while since Aeravor had a decent meal, the handsome prize earned is worth every excruciating minute. How long did he have to lie in wait within the shadow of clustered trees? A day or three? Perhaps even a cycle and beyond. It matters not to him now, for the only sight more pleasing than whores, ale, and a nice meal combined is beholding his prey's final moment.

“Remember this, Aeravor. Once the hunter becomes the hunted, only death awaits. You now wield the Answerer, there is no turning back. Never a hero and never will be. I find it quite amusing that the current wielder is far more honest than its previous master.”

Losing appetite in a moment, Aeravor stands up in full ire. Ignoring the judgmental glares from bystanders and passers-by, the ranger cares not about the swearing caused by a wooden stool flying through the window.

And to think I'll have to give Deios three tenth of my money. Those arseholes from Redmarch.

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Lesser individuals would have gone hungry in no time. Living by the sword and purse is never good, yet Aeravor has always been a mocker. His years and identity as part of the Vánagandr taught him the importance of physical tolerance, the only thing surpassing physical fortitude is a mind of steel. Unpleasant memories at last banished, the ranger can finally cast off his sullen mood. Bearing a wry grin in public has its disadvantages, but at least no one would be insane enough to challenge a person armed with a sword.

“Every one of us is fated to wear a mask. What about yours, Aera?”

A damning past sears him like a lightning igniting a withered tree, Aeravor lashes out in anger. A yelp is followed by a whimper, kicking a stray dog has served its purpose. Then a loud commotion greets his ears pointed and keen.

"Whatcha lookin' at? Ne'er seen some'un killin' befah’?"

Great. I feel like killing something now...

“Murderers, all these people!”

“Do something!”

“You do so then!”

“O’ Father above, smite these bloodthirsty men in Your anger!”

Okay, plus morons too retarded to do a thing.

Turning his back on the commotion, Aeravor understands too clearly that he's nowhere better, Apathy is no different from taking a life. Hence, it makes him a murderer. At the same time, if every quarrel can be resolved by talking cheap, then he’d like to be everybody’s friend. A casual stroll dismissing children grieving over their mother dead, it takes one idiotic ox to stoke a simmering fire.

"Hay 'u! A'm talkin' to yer!"

Good grip and some loud voice. Let's get busy killing.

"Want to swallow a sword?"

Vexation briefly giving way to smug satisfaction, Aeravor savours his moment of acid wit.

"Yer got gutz, 'uh? Lemme tell ye wat 'appen to peepz like ye. See dat beyotch o'er dere?" bellows a burly man, his wild gestures pointing towards a crowd parted in the name of cowering fear. Lifeless eyes of a bloodied woman never tugged at the ranger’s heartstrings, let alone a couple of bawling brats.

"See dat, 'uh? dat kan bee 'u nex!"

Annoying son of a bitch…

Choosing not to betray a single spark of burning wrath, why should Aeravor concern himself with those either dead or waiting to die? People will die one day, even this reeking drunk. Invasive stench unable to move his heart, Aeravor’s life has always been one forged from icy steel.

Tough luck. You’re barking up the wrong tree.

"I don't care about you, what you've done, or what kind of whore you prefer. Go do a good deed and give a little girl some money for her service," hisses Aeravor, his visage lifted in full view, "Maybe that'll make you a better man."

Formalities promptly done with a vulgar gesture shown, he shoves away the dishevelled scoundrel with a forceful hand.

"U dar too turn 'ur bac' on mee? Dy lik'ah dawg!"

An overpowering dirge playing its tune only for him, Aeravor brings forth his inner world. Judgment has been proclaimed, an azure edge utmost deadly and swift leaving its scabbard.

Revelling in the sight of crimson stain invading his victim's shirt, the former Vánagandr scores his first kill of the day. Booting the skewered dead off his blade, Aeravor spits his contempt onto his fallen foe. Twirling the Answerer about, its weight, balance, and crackling sound reinvigorating the wolf in him.

“Fuzzy ape with an equally fuzzy brain.”

His statement running its course, Aeravor beckons the remaining quartet.

“I don't always kill people. But when I do, I make sure they stay dead.”

"Yar basterd! Yev gott'us on'to u nao!"

And so begins the hunt…

Keeping his sights open to the surroundings, the lunging thug is to be Aeravor’s second target. With muddled anger filling his bloodshot eyes, an intoxicated swing of the bardiche is paid back with a parry and wide arcing slash. His quarry’s throat cleanly sliced open, the wolf decides to up the momentum.

Two down, three to go...

Getting circled behind in spite of superior technique honed, Aeravor exposes his back to a swinging broadsword wielded by a deceptively wiry man.

Boring like a frigid whore. Die.

Two glyphs etched in the mind, an unseen force is triggered. With his left hand, the ranger reaches out for the enemy’s blade. Blunt force tantamount to a rock hitting the ground greets Aeravor, his third kill’s expression is anything but cheap.

"A simple trick. A hard left hand."

One stride forward and a brutal kick against an exposed knee floors the worthless lowlife, Aeravor detects two more coming from behind. Contemplating a flashier reply, the ranger nonetheless decides against it. A killing blow as swift as the wind severing the windpipe, Aeravor turns around sharply. The final two suddenly rooted themselves to the ground, it is not some manner of magic holding them still.

The maniacal glint in a pair of azure eyes... an aura of rampaging madness released like a ravenous beast loosed from its cell...

Seizing an advantage proffered by the element of shock, Aeravor casually lops off his victims' lives.

One swing, two dead. If only my life is that easy.

"Lionhearts! The Lionhearts are coming!"

Thundering boots making their tremors known, Aeravor finds it faintly amusing that nobody is left watching the show. As expected, the seemingly righteous is no different from an honest knave. An impressive sight of battle-hardened clowns adopting a phalanx formation greets his view, spears lowered for battle complimenting the show.

Murderous whims opening up a can of worms, Aeravor expects this much. Retaining a vicious grin as he prepares to correct his mistake, the ranger pays nary a heed before a pompous idiot opening his mouth.

No action, talk only. Talk to my sword.

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...ain't mortal... absolute monster...

Recalling these final words, the former Vánagandr finds it amusing that the fodder is right after all. What’s his name? The leader’s name? No matter what the answer is, there can be only one ending for stupid people baring their teeth against him. Aeravor knows he's born a wolf, that no prey deserves the right to lower its horns and paw the ground. No elk should ever see a wolf as anything but an absolute monster. Let alone whatever trash tossed up into the air by a tornado conjured, their lives doomed as they laid there waiting to be culled.

At least he lasted a bit longer than the rest.

Beneath a sky cloaked in black, Aeravor knows this as the most beautiful scene in his lonely life. The sound of crickets chirping is music to his ears, the mournful howl of a wolf resonates across the vast uncovered plateau. This is a symphony of solitude, an aria of solace. Perching nearby is a couple of owls, no qualms are given as he feeds them some roasted game. A young fox nearby feasts on a partridge's carcass half-eaten, Aeravor soon closes his eyes for a temporary reprieve.

For the night is lovely and full of glimmering stars, the lunar moon both crimson and blue.

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Author's Gab (i.e. AG. But not this AG)

Okay, I'm gonna clean up this entire section. Basically, you won't be seeing this section from now on. The reason why being that I talked too much crap at times. Also, my brain is nearing sleep mode atm.

Glossary:

Azrael: The god of the orcs. Unlike the conventional notion towards deities in general, the orcs saw Azrael as both their sole master and a being synonymous with destruction. And that includes their own as well. Hence, it can be surmised that Azrael is both their creator and destroyer (the former being literal, the latter being an actual possibility).

Brudder: Basically the way any orc addresses a fellow orc. Only usable between males.

Crown: The highest tier of currency in the Great North (i.e. the northern continent comprising of the Kalaran Empire, the High Realm of Teutonia, and the Free Confederation of Slarvea). Crowns are coins made of alloy mixed with gold with quarters (coins made of alloy mixed with silver) and pence (coins made of bronze) being of subsequent value.

Great Abyss: While this refers to the realm where Azrael resides, Great Abyss can also be used as an alternative name for Azrael. (no, I'm not about to answer whether gods do exist in this world of mine. Go figure)

Great Children: Self-proclaimed title used by the orcs. Quite obviously they're a race of racists (not that racial superiority should be a matter of one single race anyway).

Homm'Ogr: Formal term for orcs. To set the record straight, this is NOT a self-proclaimed title.

Jackpot: A difficult but rewarding task. A slang used mostly by sellswords and those associated with bounty hunting.

Moolah: Slang for bounty.

Raidband: A band of orcs numbering from ten to any number less than a hundred. Once it reaches the hundred mark, however...

Warband; Remember what I said about a raidband? Well, this is the upgraded version I mentioned above. Traditionally, warbands are used for larger scale conflict while raidbands are used for small scale skirmishes.

Eagle's Horn: A coastal area in the northeast of the Kalaran Empire. Primarily consisting of rocky terrain, any form of settlement is either situated in a valley or at the few hillocks surrounded by mountains. Lindel is incidentally situated at the junction connecting Eagle's Horn to the Empire's mainland. The area is shaped like an eagle's beak pointing upwards, hence the name.

Jackpot: A huge paying job or a bounty worth a sizeable reward.

Son of an eel: Someone who is particularly hard to catch.

Tamurian: My very own version of the Malay ethnicity. Known and prized as exceptional mercenaries due to their skill in arms and savagery in battle, they hailed from their ancestral home of Tamuria in the southern continent.

Terran: A derogatory term reserved for human beings quite literally (when you create a dark fantasy world, it means you can't go back after you go black).

Wrug: Wolf-like creatures used as mounts for orcs. Zoologists (i.e. scholars specialising in animal science) believed that wrugs are not wolves at all since they possess certain feline features like the tail and rounded ears. At the same time, an actual wolf will not hesitate to kill a wrug upon seeing one. Period.

Redmarch: A fief in Teutonia famous for the wine produced.

P.S: To those still in the dark, Vánagandr is the Old Norse for "the monster of the river Ván". In case you don't know where I got this from, it's basically just another name for the wolf son of Loki (not to be confused with Taylor Swift's latest ex/axe). Also, I've got no intention of doing a U-turn for Alestrial Eliaden. In short, SHynCorp can rejoice over my decision to retain their idol's status as the real-life blueprint.

Add P.S: If you think Aeravor's character seems eerily like yours truly, it means you know me more than I initially thought. To quote Minister Tan Chuan-Jin, "I would like to be your friend".

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