Unknown And Left Behind

"We're merely the ore, the world itself is a crucible."

~A Tamurian saying

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"Erm, Sir…"

"What is it, Garev? Spit it out before I do it for you."

"I think you need to learn how to relax more often."

"I believe I need to learn how to kill those jokers from the Third Company. Do you want to talk? If not, then please get the…"

"It’s Gael Kodr again. He lost it big time against the lads from Wearsor and Tynis. Buff poker."

"What did he do?"

"Floored the entire lot with only his underwear on. And in public view, no less. Permission to summon, Sir?"

"THAT’S IT! Get him here! I’m gonna bray him till he's dead!"

Torve Mowbray grins ruefully before a not-so-distant past. A season has passed by swiftly, the inevitable stoking his inner fire. The Northern Lion has known Garyth Parkins for many years with Garev Southgate the only other soldier of the same generation close to him. A knock makes its presence heard, the guest none other than Garev himself.

"Announcing combat readiness, Sir! Permission to…"

"Don’t ask for permission over simple matters, Garev," chortles the war veteran, a friendly slap knocking the breath from Garev’s lungs. As his number two laughs in resignation, the grizzled soldier sneaks a glimpse towards a banner of white emblazoned with a lion’s head coloured red. The past revisiting him like one mass deluge, the Northern Lion recalls only too well Garyth Parkins' shocking revelation.

"He ain't my nephew. Can you believe it? I know this sounds absurd, but please keep this a secret between us. That boy… I mean Gael… he's my only shot at redemption."

"Parky, you retarded moron," growls Torve as he steps out of the door, "If that boy ain’t your kin, why did you lie by telling him your brother’s name ends at Kodr?"

Futile questions uttered beget a bugle blared, Torve Mowbray can only settle for something crystal clear from the start. Stepping out from the door, he mutters the very words he spoke to Louthes Gaius Eliaden six years ago.

"That boy may not have any share in Garyth Parkins' blood, but he’s truly his sole heir."

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The morning sky is uncharacteristically warm, the blazing sun above wringing sweat out of everyone. One season's worth of orientation finally reaping a profit deserved, only a rich man’s pampered son would protest against the Father’s will. They say boys are meant to enjoy, but men are made to fight. The journey for every boy has ended, ‘tis up to the men to decide whether to be mere mortals or a pride of lions.

Thrill and anticipation playing vanguard on his first day of duty, Gael Kodr is decked in a suit of leather scales. Like the members of every Support Command, fervent pride burns in him as he takes note of his green tunic. Donning a spangenhelm, the feel of his spear’s oaken shaft ignites a wave of passion. The time is now at hand, bugles announcing the gaffer’s coming. Knowing not what is to come, the lad nevertheless hopes his first mission will be a major one. And a successful one at that.

"Stand guard! Attention!"

Formal atmosphere permeates the Teslaide division, excitement giving way to tension threatening to overspill. Torve Mowbray makes his entrance with nary a pomp, this is a seasoned veteran used to braving the fires of war. Eyes of iron-grey dare all comers to challenge his stand, an old soldier’s features scarred revealing an old lion yet to fall. His shining shirt of mail compliments an aura of steel, his helm bearing the visage of a snarling lion.

"Is everything okay, Garev? You better don’t..."

"All is fine and dandy, Sir," replies Garev, his respectful salute defying the manner of his words.

"Alright then," mutters Torve curtly, his inner reaction nonetheless that of amusement before Garev’s expression, "As the division gaffer of Teslaide, I welcome you all to the Leonum Flammeus. I'm not good with words and far less skilled in tolerating morons.  Hence, I may as well allocate your duties until any of you happens to get promoted. Or killed in action for that matter."

Despite the nature of that last sentence uttered, the recruits try their best to stifle their laughter. As soldiers, they have shared many a jape on dying like a hero after pleasing women like a man. As boys, they would always make boastful claims about conquests and accomplishments achieved beneath the sheets. Catterm Leen still recalls with a muffled laugh on what his best friend did last time around despite the insanity involved.

"I told these mad cats from Wearsor and Tynis to shut up. After all, I took the buff poker loss like a man!"

"Just tell me what they did, said, or both."

"A lewd song about Lolyx. Goes like…"

"Okay, I changed my mind. I’m not interested in the size of her stack or how attractive her arse is. Did her dad say anything?"

"Good job. But don’t sin again."

"Spoken like a true parish. We’re blessed to have the old Barn down the Straight Street."

"Enough of your sniggers and retarded thoughts! Look at me!" his voice cutting through the mirth like a hot knife slicing through butter, Torve inhales deeply and exhales slowly. A stoic facade erected is his only solution, declaring war on the actual unease his only way out.

The Support Command is there for a reason and everyone knows why. Recent events happening at Lindel have escalated into a skirmish of sorts. Bounty hunters were sent out, only to have their severed heads tossed at the gates of any nearby settlement. Already, the divisions at Wearsor and Tynis have seen casualties piling up like accounts long overdue. For now, the Viceroy of Yorke has declared a cease in pursuit instead of a state of emergency. Should word break out, the fire would burn all the way to Romus. Simply put, a crisis involving a barking mad brown fellow would have embarrassed the entire Kalaran people. Not to mention the northern part of the Empire.

Don’t like politicians, never like them in the first place. But at least it’s a good call from one of them.

"More importantly, take serious note of this," hollers Torve, the Northern Lion realising how harsh his tone was just now, "All you people are part of the entire Support Command. Hence, direct engagement should only be done with orders given. It's either you learn to obey or prepare to be brayed. Understand?"

They’re merely boys embarking on the path of men.

The gaffer of Teslaide now has to take that inevitable plunge, his thoughts mirroring the dire circumstances at hand.

"As you all have known by now, there’s a case of someone causing trouble at Lindel. Don't ask me how that brownie managed to kill and bail, but at least I'm pretty sure the description is spot on," Torve feels his throat going dry, yet the leader has to keep battling away till his fears are banished, "Refer to the info issued to you an hour ago unless you all want to die. Garev, elaborate further please."

"It’s been rumoured that a suspicious figure was seen in our county three days ago," scratching his head absently, Garev Southgate continues, "Just don’t ask me whether a parish's pretty lass down the Straight Street is more than capable of fibbing. We all know the prettier the lass, the better the liar."

Laughter abruptly invading the square, Torve heaves a silent word of gratitude towards his second in command.

"Right now, your immediate task is to scout the surrounding areas. Every single inch of ground belonging to our beloved Teslaide, that is."

"The Third Support Command is already mobilised together with the Eighth Engagement Command,” interrupting Garev’s speech, Torve displays nary a remorse over seizing back the initiative, "As for the Second Support Command, necessary deployment will be on the cards if there's a need for additional back-up. Until then, stay red!"

"Erm, Sir?" raising up his hand, Gael Kodr wears a nervous look, "What about the lads at Mancher? I thought they are supposed to be best of the best."

"Sound opinion voiced out here. Others call you a moron, but you're quite obviously not too shabby in the humour department. Good try in sarcasm here, Gael Kodr," answers Torve, his inner mirth blooming underneath a visage hard like flint, "Learn from him, lads."

"Sir... it's not too good to say things like that," whispers Garev, "The lad has a proven knack for starting fights. Remember why you got angry at him in the first place?"

"Well, I'm just stating the cold hard truth. If I can earn a quarter for every problem people got with me, I'd be living a high life in a manor perched on a majestic high ground." 

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The forest’s eerie calm brings forth a sense of serenity, the stark contradiction not gone unnoticed by the two travellers. Years have passed since the sack of Redcart, a brazen group of bandits blamed for the tragedy. In a span of few hours, men were slaughtered, their children enslaved, and the women ravished. Then demons appeared from rifts below, every monstrous form savaging all in their path. Both the guilty and innocent were not spared, there was only this much the Holy Quintet Church could do. When the Imperatum arrived, the tragedy was already a deal signed and sealed.

"I hope you know what you’re doing, Adine," sighs a dusky brunette, her petite frame shivering, "It’s already summer, but why is this forest so cold?"

"You’re not the only one feeling cold, Lolyx. And don’t worry, I know what I’m doing."

"Let’s hope so. Adine, did you hear that?"

The willowy brunette knows what her companion is talking about. From the moment they stepped into the outskirts of the current Redcart, faint whispers were already heard. If not for Lolyx’s strong faith in the Holy Quintet, she would have retreated. As it turned out, there are indeed some similarities between Gael and Lolyx regardless of any denial from either one of them.

Foolhardy at times and the willingness to sacrifice more than just a limb for a friend.

She cannot back away now, there is no leeway for her to regret her choice. That elven merchant told her all the information required in the first place, none of them was withheld from Lolyx. Adine Tayne starts cursing that nosey Rhyan under her breath, her vocabulary acquired as a serving girl emptied swiftly. If only he is half as brave as that sandy blond who gave her the confidence to be strong all those years ago.

Stick thin and ugly? Sorry, I don’t give a shit. Guess that’s why they call me retarded, huh?

Belligerence is one thing, the ability to start a fight quite another. Win, lose, or draw, Gael Kodr is never one to take back his words. No matter how logically absurd or morally right, this is a man of impetuous chivalry who dreams to be a hero one fine day.

I swear the current Viceroy of Yorke is more retarded than me. As for Ser Brus of Yorke, he will always be a hero I want to be. Just watch, all of you.  Just watch.

Ser Brus of Yorke, the stuff of legend every northern boy aspires to be. Never one to back down from a challenge, he was nevertheless not someone known to fight battles at the forefront. A tactically gifted leader of men, his reputation as both a humble person and a ladies’ man was well known throughout the Empire. His courtship of the feisty Stavea of House Layne has been immortalised in the form of songs and plays, the most notable one being the much embellished Taming of the Lioness. As for his humble birth as the prodigal firstborn son to a smallborne family mired in poverty, quite likely this was the reason behind the existence of the Leonum Flammeus.

"You still remember the day where Gael took on a bear?"

All that is eerie and sombre evaporate in an instant, Lolyx being the source of comfort. Adine understands what she means, a giggle escaping from her lips. For the sake of a dare, Gael agreed to take on a bear which was terrorising little children playing in the fields. That was two years ago when Gael was a mere lad of sixteen winters. Yet, he defeated the odds. Not to mention death as well. Then she starts humming a song composed by Cheril, a friend boasting a talent for music.

"Send the next!"
"Send the next!"

Said the bear and moaned the bear.

"For delicious were the previous ones."

Joining in the fun, Lolyx's lower pitch compliments perfectly Adine's higher tone.

Then he saw our hero bold.

Armed with fists, but not with wits.

Our hero bold broke his arm.

Armed with fists, but not with wits.

Our hero broke its teeth.
Not with wits, but with a rock.

There’s no next one, no next one.

For not delicious is the final one.

Both maidens break out in peals of laughter, the comedic nature of Gael’s most insane feat not lost on them. When he stumbled upon Lolyx’s doorstep, he was badly injured. Within hours, he recovered swiftly by wolfing down more than five helpings of food in a sitting. An event biting off a massive chunk of her family’s budget for the next cycle. Within days, he was called that lion amongst men as word of his beastly appetite started spreading like wildfire. Despite the sarcasm belying a seeming accolade, Gael wore it as a badge of honour as if he’s really one.

Then a haunting song is sung in reply. It is not the singers sending a chill down the spine, but the lyrics. Adine and Lolyx know the words all too well, for this is the introduction to the greatest legend the Empire’s north has ever seen. It is a song of ambition, the source of Gael’s unattainable dream.

Ser Brus of Yorke, a lion of yore.

A prodigal son, a useless brat.

Wanted to be a hero, mocked as a fool.

His retainer was Laen the Fire-haired, both armour bearer and best of friends.

His spear was Brionac, a cold steel at times and bursting aflame in times of need.

He beheld the beauty of Stavea Layne,

He tamed her fire and made her shrewdness his.

Dark and brooding, full of laughter.

Is there ever a man true like him?

A group of children singing loud, they encircle their visitors like enthusiastic children given the freedom to play. Their spectral form instilling neither fear nor intrigue, Adine and Lolyx nevertheless remain stupefied. They know the manner of emotion which should be there, yet they feel nothing apart from that of regret. Then one of them, a little girl wearing her hair down, waved in their direction.

"Seelia! We have guests here!"

The girl is nothing short of beautiful, her red hair trimmed at the shoulders. Wearing a smile, it is one of lamentations and regret. Her hazel brown eyes are the direct opposite of Gael’s sapphire irises of passion, a testament to a beauty housing an icy soul.

"So you’re Seelia?" asks Adine, slight jealousy stinging her heart. There stands a beauty unattainable. Not in terms of the outward, but rather the inward. Nevertheless, she suppresses that feeling with full knowledge that such an emotion is not right.

"Yes," bows Seelia, a hand placed on her chest.

"You’re a Teutonian," says Adine as Lolyx stays her tongue, "I hear that this is the manner of a smallborne’s greeting there."

"You are right. I was born in poverty, my mother gave me up for adoption in hopes that I could have a better life. However, my local parish betrayed me. To settle his debts, that scoundrel sold me to slavers from the south. They said I will live like a queen among the Sudhlits, but I knew better than to trust them. I may have been adopted by a wicked man, but at least he never deprived me of the right to seek knowledge, no matter how irrelevant."

At the mention of such a clergyman, Lolyx trembles with rage. Men of moral reproach exist no matter the denial from truly ignorant folks, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing they always are. Her father has always lived an upright life. Even when his beloved wife was on her deathbed, his convictions never wavered once.

"What happened then?"

Much to Adine’s surprise, it is Lolyx's turn to ask a question. It is never the nature of the deed catching her unaware, but a tone of animosity undisguised.

"I slaughtered both bidders and sellers like dogs, for they were born in this manner. Does that answer your question, my fair ladies?"

It is not Seelia who replied, for the answer is spoken in a harsh tone low and composed. Turning around, Adine and Lolyx behold a hulking man. Dressed in a simple garb of tunic, pants, and boots, a single gauntlet of steel is strapped to his right hand covered by a long sleeve. His eyes reflect that of Seelia's. Unlike her, however, volatile wrath churns within his hard unyielding gaze. The top half of his face is covered with burns, the disfigurement stopping at the hairline. Wearing a dark brooding visage with matted black hair reaching his shoulders, the stranger points towards a random direction after striding past them.

"Go. This is no place for damsels, fillies, and little boys. If I am no knight binding self to an oath, the two of you would be feeding the crows."

"Wait!" exclaims Adine, "I need to know…"

"That boy at Redcart. I need to know whether he’s alive."

The speaker is another person, this time around a white-haired elf with a dusky complexion not dissimilar to that of Lolyx’s. The adopted daughter of Barnes Asher saw him days ago, it was during one of her errands where she’s forced to take a detour passing by a brothel. She has nothing but sympathy towards women sold to the worst form of slavery. At the same time, it also means she has nothing but contempt for men who abuse them in the name of correct values. He wasn’t like those dastardly scoundrels dressed either in finery or shabby clothes, though. There was a smugness in him, a cold exterior mocking every shred of her faith. It's as if he merely treated every person, good or evil, as dross meant to be consumed in a furnace. Yet, no logical reason could be found where her observation was concerned. It was like nothing more than a conclusion conceived by instincts. And nothing less so as well.

Great. Just the kind of man I hate most.

"Who are you?" growled the unnamed guardian.

"Arondight!"

Before Seelia’s attempt to reign him in. the hulking knight pays no heed. With a roar shaking the foundations of heavens above, a woodsman axe materialises out of nowhere in his left hand. It is a fine work of craftsmanship, the standard contradicting its rugged wielder.

With fluid grace belying his massive frame, Arondight attempts to cut down the smirking elf with a single flick. Teleporting away, the opponent appears just behind Seelia.

"Let her go, you demon!" shouts Lolyx, "If not…"

"Name is Aeravor. Ranger by trade, a bastard by birth, a wolf above all."

Ignoring Lolyx’s ire, Aeravor takes a single stride as he unsheathes his sword with equal grace.

"I’m not gonna foot the bill if you die. But that excludes your pretty whores."

In the blink of an eye, the ranger appears behind Arondight. With a single turn, the hulking warrior positions his weapon diagonally downward as Aeravor swipes the Edge of Answerer upwards. Arondight takes the hit with nary a wince, his right hand lashing out as the only form of defence against an attack changing direction at the last minute. The opponent is a good one, muses Aeravor. The circular nature of his movement was deceptively fluid and fast, the positioning allowing him to swing that gauntleted hand of his.

Then without taking a step forward, the knight lashes out with an awesome force no mortal is ever capable of. A tree is cut down much to the watchers' shock, the quarry nowhere to be seen. Any fear of Seelia being taken hostage is vanquished as Aeravor closes in from the rear, a vicious smile drawn.

Slash versus slash, the occasional forceful thrust repelled by a technique honed and refined. This is a visual feast for the strong, not for the weak in heart. The air of aggression displayed by both combatants assails the spectators, the tension behind what may come the next moment forcing their breaths into rapid bursts.

"Such a beautiful sight... a pity it lasts only for a moment."

Those were the words from Kagetsu no Ji'Yeon countless years ago, Aeravor recalling clearly his answer.

"We’re going to die anyway. Might as well create our own sparks and lit our own pyre."

Every moment of the fight and the possibility of death comes the next move, such is the beauty Aeravor has beheld since he learnt how to wield a sword. It's the spark of life, the immense effort taken to sustain a bonfire. Every tale about love and dreams is nothing bar a lie, what matters truly is a momentary flash called a lifetime. He doesn't need friends, for he has the Edge of Answerer. There is no point in having love, for he's never short of whores. There is no one righteous, not even one. Therefore, holding tightly on pointless values and a life equally so is pure drivel.

Then the end appears out of nowhere, an abrupt conclusion arriving in the form of blades attached to silver chains. Burning pain lances into both combatants, Aeravor’s reaction being the direct opposite of Arondight’s passive look. Impaled from various directions, Aeravor and Arondight are miraculously immobilised instead of being slaughtered on the spot.

"Ji loves you, not me. Promise me that you’ll take care of her."

The former Vánagandr snarls his wrath against a handsome youth with golden eyes, his raven black hair cut short contrasting against a complexion fair like ivory. While Seelia manages to retain her composure, Adine and Lolyx begin blushing furiously. Like any traveller, he is wearing a pair of trousers with leather boots. Yet, his athletic torso is partially naked with an open shirt offering a scant semblance of male modesty.

"Stop it. There’s no point fighting like little boys at the playground."

Turning towards Seelia, Adine, and Lolyx, the youth curtsies with a courtly grace.

"Lars Alterfate, at your service."

"What? What do you mean by ‘at your service’, you rapist?"

Before a flustered Lolyx, Lars merely shrugs and gives a mischievous grin.

"Rapist? Oh no, please don’t get the wrong idea. Real men respect women. The act of rape belongs to animals walking on two legs instead of four. I can assure you that I’ve never committed such an act. And neither will I do so. But I did commit stupid acts before…"

"Free me, Lars" snaps Aeravor, "Free me and I'll expose your stupid act!"

"It seems some people never change," answers Lars, his face becoming that of a wounded soul, "I’m here to tell these two beautiful princesses that the Serpent has bluffed them. There’s no information waiting to be found. Not from anywhere six feet underground."

As the hauntingly handsome man speaks those words, Lolyx senses something in him. For a moment, she is unable to discern exactly what. Then an image flashes before her.

It is the same person, yet he is now impaled by the weapons used by himself. Encircling above him is a large murder of crows, their incessant cawing sending shivers down her spine. Yet, there is a beauty within this morbid portrait painted atop a mountain of dead people. For some reason, Lolyx is willing to acknowledge Lars as a figure who deserves nothing less than sympathy.

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Glossary:

Bray: Basically my version of the hairdryer.

Gaffer: The official title for any chief commander of any Leonum Flammeus division (ten in all).

Parish: My equivalent of a church priest/pastor.

Romus: My equivalent of Rome. And yes, Rome did catch fire once before during the reign of Nero.

Brownie: Racist term reserved for people of dusky complexion (note: please do not try using this word against your neighbour even though my work is reserved for mature people).

Kill and bail: Killing people and running away afterwards. Can also mean the act of cut and run.

Stay red: Remain on full alert (I blame Command and Conquer)

The Imperatum: The military arm of the Holy Quintet Church. There are two roles of the Imperatum. Namely, dealing with demons and maintaining peace in any event of conflict. The former is a case of independent authority exercised by the Church while the latter can only be done at the request of any party involved. Imperatum is the Latin word for command and order.

Viceroy: An overseer of governors within a specific stretch of land (read: each governor is in charge of a county).

Yorke: The combined territories of Wearsor, Tynis, and Teslaide.

Taming of the Lioness: A play/song extolling Ser Brus' feat of earning the hand of Lady Stavea Layne. Quite obviously, ninety percent of the content is either nonsense or exaggerated. Title inspired by William Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew. 

Teutonian: One of the three factions/kingdoms of the northern continent. It lies to the west of the Kalaran Empire (the other one being Slarvea which encompasses the entire northern half of the continent). Inspired by a combination of the Celtic, Teutonic, and Anglo-Saxon people.

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P.S: Something is wrong with my internet connection for the past few days. Weird...

Add P.S: They say my department got talent, so I decide to tag some relevant people on this. And yes, I know the title is crap. Can you blame me for being a late sleeper?