Of Men and Whores, Lads And Ladies

"The difference between men and lads is that men will always get their whores while lads can never get their ladies. It boils down to who are the gods and who are the mortals."
~Deios Symon, leader of the Men of Redmarch

Source

)0(

"Arondight…"

The berserker can hardly hear the voice of his lady fair, yet a mere whisper of concern is more than enough to give him strength. Even though it is only enough to prop himself up.

"Where is he?"

"That man… he’s gone," sighs Seelia, her eyes glancing skywards, "I have a very bad feeling about this. The ghosts of this place, they broke free and returned no more."

"Because they were never real to start with."

Tensing up, Arondight’s reaction only serves to trigger a searing pain knifing through his body. That monster of a madman had injured him greatly, two crippling wounds and a sword ran through the lungs could have killed anyone. Had he not lashed out with his axe and all his might, Seelia would have met a horrible death. He still can recall a staring duel engaged, the crimson-eyed monstrosity walking away with nary a fear.

"The armour cursing you to madness turns out to be a blessing, I see," smirks a beautiful woman with her long white hair let down. Her visage is that of a maiden no older than twenty summers to Seelia, her robe of scarlet red fastened by a purple sash and with nothing else worn underneath. The front is opened, an intent to flaunt her cleavage flagrantly obvious to both the protector and protected.

"What do you want?" snaps the knight.

"One cut across the calf and the other biting deeply into your forearm. Not to mention a wound which could have killed just about anyone else," ignoring Arondight’s question, the alluring woman traces her finger along the wound on his left arm. Jealousy immediately surges forth inside Seelia, a possessive feeling invading her innermost being and threatening to overspill. As a woman, she knows a temptress when she sees one. As an individual, she is not one to give up without a fight.

"My gratitude for your aid. But you have yet to answer me."

To Seelia’s astonishment, Arondight manages to stand up with his wounds abruptly healed. As for the seductive woman, she retains a wicked smile like that of a harlot who has her prey ensnared.

"At last speaking like a real knight and true gentleman, Kain Lamrec."

At those words, Arondight pins the woman against the nearest tree, an iron grip closed around her neck. His snarling visage reminds Seelia of the moment where he had slaughtered many, that very dusk just after they had finished using her for the day. To the knight gone berserk, Kain Lamrec is never a name any person should mention on a whim. Alas, when was the last time someone called him by his real name?

"Sarel Aphros at your service," bowing deeply, Sarel has no qualms provoking the two as her breasts threaten to spill out, "Remember me lest we cross paths again. Me and you, perhaps even your Teutonian lady fair."

With a crimson flash, the woman in scarlet red disappears. Leaving behind Arondight and Seelia wearing two different expressions, but asking the same question. A question involving someone disappearing in a similar way through a murder of crows instead of an eruption of sparks fiery red.

)0(

The place reeks of sweat and vomit, it is where men of all ages and sizes flock to. The sight of women flirting with their clients is always a daily scene, their livelihood dependent on every patron’s mood. Every now and then, a single harlot would be shared by two men or perhaps more. Not behind closed doors, but either on a table or the floor.

"Alive?"

"Yes, you heard me," smiles the Sudhlit, his playful shrug akin to a boy of twelve. Yet, here Tristan Aias is in a brothel.

"Good," replies Lars Alterfate,  the nature of his smile a show of reciprocation, "Thanks, Tris."

"Just a dumb question from the great military genius Tristan Aias, my dear demon hunting Lars. Why didn’t you ask the Men of Redmarch instead?"

"You've said it, genius. It’s a dumb question. We know how much it costs to secure the aid of anyone under Deios' beck and call."

Before Lars' riposte, Tristan Aias let out a guffaw. The two have plenty in common. Namely, whoring and getting drunk with the occasional act of harmless mischief. The comedy is not lost on both, for they know who are the ones subjected to the leadership of Deios Symon. The Men of Redmarch only value three things above all: Whores, drinks, and money. As for the extent of capabilities, no one does espionage and backstabbing better than them. It is always said that even the least of their ranks can easily slip into a rowdy tavern, wedge a knife between the target's ribs, and get out before the resultant chaos goes out of control.

"I’m interested in meeting that beautiful Teutonian maiden of yours," teases the Sudhlit, a thumb stroking his fuzzy chin, "Any chance that she will fancy a night with this great military genius who is on a par with the Serpent of Histalonia?"

"She's not mine," to Tristan’s incredulous look, Lars’ impish expression abruptly evaporates, "Also, I don't want to be blamed for a Sudhlit struck dead while he's getting hard."

Howling with mirth, Tristan finds the contrast between words spoken and a grave look utterly amusing. If there is anything Lars isn’t good at, it would be expressing himself in the most appropriate manner at times.

"Pretty sure many would want to see that day," chortles the schemer with a dark complexion, his self-deprecating humour expected from a faintly smiling Lars, "I know I was born arrogant, but there’s a good reason why Tristan Aias is the best among the best. Not to mention being a horny bastard like Deios Symon and his Men of Redmarch as well."

"That mad…"

"Yes, I know. That mad and crazy fellow. I discovered some interesting information concerning him and his lady fair. Apparently, you can drive people off their sanity by... well, effectively doing nothing at all. His axe might have slaughtered them all, but it was their sudden loss of mind which made it possible. I have to say it's quite amazing to know his damsel in distress wasn't fazed by all the dead people and whatever unseen force coming out from him."

At Tristan’s revelation. Lars goes silent, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of their surroundings. They know the potential trouble such an entity can bring. As a demon hunter, Lars knows more than just a fair bit concerning the Age of Renown. As an individual more than comfortable in creating a coherent picture through analysis, no matter how few and small the shards of information, Tristan is able to see the truth hidden behind any veil.

"You know what caused…"

"There was one survivor from that slaughter apart from the most obvious. Killed himself by banging his head on the wall. You know how people in the sanatorium tend to behave. Anyway, he went on and on about some black armoured beast holding an axe. I'm not sure why, but…"

"But?" pressing forth, Lars’ curiosity is piqued, a trait always showing its hand more oft than not. Then a commotion punctures what is already a boisterous atmosphere.

"I’ll tell you later. For now, let’s go save some whores," smirks the roguish Sudhlit in a moment of cheeky dare as Lars Alterfate gets up from his seat.

"Lissa and Rheana to be exact."

"Seriously, Lars, you actually remember names?"

"Try my memory some time, Tris."

With a wink and a snap of his fingers, Lars Alterfate signals the start. Tristan, in turn, gives a sequence of hand signals.

Watch out for what I'll say later.

)0(

"Unbelievable," shaking her head in a mixture of resignation and good humour, the brothel madam addresses the troublesome duo seated in front of her, "Then again, should I be stunned? Once a troublemaker, forever one. Let alone two."

"Not my fault, old hen," quips Tristan, "I thought our charming prince here is going to do something outrageous."

"Like?" quizzes Roxanne, the edge in her tone daring Tristan to tell the truth. Or any insane fib for that matter.

"Shooting silver chains connected to shiny blades out of nowhere?" shrugs the Sudhlit with a sheepish grin.

"Nice bullshit, genius," huffs the owner of Vixen’s Hatch, “Also, I’d have roasted any other man on a spit for calling me that."

"Thank you very much, old hen Rox. Your mercy is noted with gratitude," grins Tristan widely.

"Thankfully, no one cares about what happens daily within the underbelly of every great country," continuing her words and ignoring Tristan's, Roxanne’s smile betrays an impressed woman who has seen much, "That was a great shot. Two arrows fired in succession, one to the right and the second to the left. I’ve seen bowmen strutting their stuff like arrogant actors, both the decent ones and shitty ones. But the Holy Quintet be damned to Seven Hells if this wasn’t a daring piece of skill. Threading a shot through the crowd without killing an innocent bum was really an eye-opener."

"You’re speaking as if the rich and affluent won’t come here."

"Tristan Aias, please grow up. I like you, you’re truly a gentleman despite being a crass one. But you always enjoy talking nonsense. You should know what kind of toys those of higher taste desire."

"A woodsman axe of elven craftsmanship?"

Before a seemingly ridiculous reply meant to goad, Lars gets the answer to the last question. However, another question arises as a result.

Someone not of the Homm’Nua wielding a weapon crafted by one of their own? This is absurd.

"The world is full of absurdities anyway," Roxanne’s words snapping Lars back to reality, the nature of timing isn't lost on him, "It’s not every day that a whore would offer her services for free, let alone two. I trust that you two will treat Lissa and Rheana with respect. Now if you excuse me, I need to take care of the local guards. The act of murder can be quite costly at times and I don’t mean the lives gone."

)0(

Naked body stained with blood, Weisslynn can only flee with nary a direction. Believing at first a heroic elf had arrived to save her and her friends, every sliver of hope has sold itself to despair. This is a rabid animal walking on two legs, a demonic maelstrom leaving behind blood and body parts in its wake. Surely he's a bastard child conceived from an unholy union of heroic tales and fiendish myths, the power displayed in full a storm of steel and flitting form. Gone are her only friends, companions making an inevitable fate somewhat bearable.

"Ye’ll fectha’ fine hella’sum! Befer dat, ye’ll need sum educatin’, ya hear us?"

What has she done to deserve all these? He father was an incorrigible gambler, her mother was a hopeless drunk. Tiny shreds of joyful memories matter not, only an eternal nightmare awaits. The image burns deeply in her like a ewe lamb branded, screams and death staying in her mind. The bandits are the ones guilty, not her or others doomed to pleasure men!

"……"

The attacker said nothing, his silence betraying something amiss. Why did she choose to run towards him? If she had never done so, then maybe… just maybe… there will be a happy ending. She will leave behind her past for good. She will find a worthy husband. Her kids will be happy. Her husband will always be cheerful. Perhaps her parents will even one day beg for forgiveness! Who knows?

"It’s your fault… you murderous dog, worthless mongrel…"

Weeping whilst running, Weisslynn curses the monster before her. That monster verily true both in her eyes and heart…

"Save me! Plea…"

Comes the moment, comes the surrender. Damning images devouring her mind for good, Weisslynn’s strength caves in.

No strength to run, no strength to think… no strength to…

Then a hand grabs her from behind, an alien warmth seizing her senses. She tries to scream, only to have a hand covering her mouth. She kicks back against her captor, hoping to nail a blow in between the legs. Giving a hard bite, the grip loosens. If only it isn’t just a hand.  Then a sharp pain greets the back of her skull, her vision surrendering to darkness.

)0(

"Was it my fault that I chose to take a piss near her?"

"My answer is no. But it’s your fault for playing hero, so stop whining about that mark and the fact that you nearly got your balls smashed in."

"I never whine!"

"You keep talking about it as if it’s some big deal."

"Because you call me a cretin!"

"Well, you are. Do you expect me to call myself retarded?"

Weisslynn wakes up to a quarrel happening next door, a dusky girl around her age sleeping beside her bed. Getting up, she unwittingly rouses her slumbering counterpart.

"Oh, I’m sorry!"

If a hasty apology has reached her ears, Lolyx merely puts forth a bleary face and a wide yawn. Tasked with taking care of a naked girl, she had to contend with the occasional bout of screaming and sobs. She feels sorry for the victim, surely some horrendous ordeal had dealt her a terrible hand. While Gael Kodr is always one to create unwanted trouble, his penchant for playing the hero of chivalry is nevertheless an admirable trait. Albeit the only one. He never notices it given his dim-witted nature, but Adine is not the only girl having a crush on him. Not that Lolyx herself is guilty of such stupidity, though.

Hurrying to the room where a slanging match is currently being held, Weisslynn witnesses a staring competition between two youths. There is this fairly handsome redhead with eyes of hazel brown and a fiery countenance. Then there is another lad with sandy blond hair and eyes of sapphire blue, his average looks relaying to her an image of inferiority.

"Oh, the princess is awake."

"Thank you,” Weisslynn takes a slight bow of gratitude before the red-haired youth, such is the only gesture she can come up with.

"Hey, she said that to you, Catts!" grins the blond, "Ha ha ha ha! At least Uncle Parky won’t grill me over this."

"Two things," retorts Catterm Leen with a growling face, "First, don’t thank me, moron. Secondly…"

Weisslynn is no fool, she knows the meaning behind such a look. If it's not the comely redhead, then surely it has to be…

"Thank this idiot for saving you, my fair lady,” grins Catterm as he turns towards Weisslynn suddenly. As for Gael, he starts squirming like an awkward lad stuck in a room full of beautiful women.

Weisslynn can only laugh out loud. When was the last time she had done so? She heard the offensive banter between two friends of the same gender, but there was something in their words making her feel that perhaps not all men are beasts.

)0(

"Leaving her at the care of some parish, aren’t you taking a risk?"

Tossing a quaint smile at the dark brooding hulk of a man, Tristan Aias rests a hand on the pommel of his curved dirk. Many are the men who lost their lives in the name of glory, that very same prize going to kings and the nobility alike. But there are also those surviving many wars and countless battles. Not by bravery lest death pays a visit the following day, neither is it through the verbal bravado many an elite craven has spoken before. It is by wits sharper than the finest sword that he has survived thus far, observation keener than the best blade wrought that he has emerged victorious. If Edeaux de Serpentwine is rightfully known as the Serpent of Histalonia, then Tristan Aias is deservedly called the Southern Fox. One manipulates the situation, the other dismantles circumstances. And both men boast of the same mentor, a legendary man of strategy and tactics named Heihou no Tae'Geuk.

"None of your concern," snaps Arondight, his shoulders tensed betraying animosity and suspicion. Had the Sudhlit not made the first move, the raging knight would have cut that smirking rogue in half. His chin and the area above the lips covered with well-trimmed fuzz, a leather jerkin is all that covers his torso. A curved short sword made in Sudhlit fashion is sheathed and belted on his left with a full quiver hanging from the right. A longbow of yew is holstered and strapped across his back, its make that of Teutonian craftsmanship. His dark curly hair is cut short and parted at the centre, the edges covering his ears. Leather pants held in place by a belt of plated iron, boots of leather grey completes a portrait of knavery.

"Of course it’s my concern," leans back the Sudhlit against a wall, his grinning visage deemed a mocking taunt to the living fortress of rage, "After all, I’m the one responsible for the recommendation, preparation, and accommodation."

"So you’re the one sending that letter without the sender's name."

"Give yourself some credit, will you? At least you did your homework before trusting me."

Then it all happened in an instant. With a single flick of his hand, Tristan draws out his blade. His eyes narrowed, Arondight wills his axe into existence. A gauntleted hand grabs Tristan's weapon by the edge as the Sudhlit daringly does the same to the haft of Arondight's axe. In a single moment, the duel is done. Only inches separate the two. The outcome is a draw, the verdict that of a stalemate.

"Moral of the story: Don’t unleash the Cleaver of Mountains in front of others," admonishes the Sudhlit schemer, a sombre face rebelling against what others perceived in him all the while, "You detected it, didn't you? The Library of War."

"What do you want?"

In response to Arondight’s attempt to interrogate him, Tristan relaxes and gestures to an armoured hand still holding fast his blade. That knight may be insane, but the Sudhlit dare predicts he's not mad enough to risk having his own power turning against him. Tristan is a thief in ways more than one, a stealer of cards firstly and foremost. More importantly, he knows the knight cannot afford to let himself die. At least not here where his lady love will be staying nearby for a while.

"Nothing. I just want to tell you not to expose your cards. The outcome can be very catastrophic."

With those words, Tristan makes good his departure, his athletic form assimilating seamlessly into the crowd.

)0(

"What?"

"You hear me, Lolyx," smiles Barnes Asher, the elderly parish gesturing to an awkward maiden with shoulder length red hair, "Seelia will be staying with us. At least for now."

"Wow, that’s fast," quips a grinning Lolyx, "Never imagined I'm getting a sister."

"I owed someone a debt. He said it's payback time."

"What is he like?"

“A Sudhlit who enjoys dubious hobbies. Please don't ask me to elaborate what he does for leisure."

"Dad, I’m not stupid. Definitely, I'm not stupid compared to those arrogant snobs calling themselves part of the elite."

Shaking his head with a chuckle, Barnes Asher has to admit this daughter unrelated by blood is always his source of joy. While the animosity between Tamurians and Sudhlits is mutual, Lolyx has been largely spared from the bad blood pulsating for countless years. Her mother spent much of her years in the Furthest East as a Tamurian, her father was both a Cinha and a rich merchant's son. At least he used to be one before eloping with her mother.

"So we’re going to have two new employees under Adine’s dad," muses a cheeky Lolyx, her grin growing wider.

"What do you mean by two? I’m sure Seelia will be one of them. But two?"

"Because a certain somebody who is actually a nobody managed to save a naked damsel in distress like some retarded hero."

"I get it. I know who. That’s enough, Lolyx. Promise me you won't start a fight with Gael."

)0(

Joyful music fills the streets, this is the Festival of Lions. Legend has it that Ser Brus of Yorke won the hand of Lady Stavea Layne that day and repelled two armies on the very same day the following year. ‘Tis no feat a mortal can do, minstrels tend to sing. Such was the world during the War of the Three Thrones, so regaled every bard.

"I swear the next time you call me Laen, I’ll flay you like a dead cat!" snaps Catterm Leen, the redhead grabbing his best friend by the collar, "And don’t you dare laugh, Luk!"

"No, I won’t,” struggling to contain his amusement, Lukas Brun decides to watch the comedy unfold, "I’ll only smile and watch. That’s it. End of the tale."

Without a warning given, a fist collides into Catterm’s right eye.

"THAT’S IT! I’M GONNA FLAY YOU LIKE A DEAD CAT! YOU GET ME, GAEL KODR?"

Failing to restrain himself despite attempting a façade of calm, Lukas ends up bursting out into laughter. Even though he fears an unknown destination which a known journey will bring, he can't help but enjoy the moment while it lasts. There used to be days where the androgynous youth desired a mundane life, his tomorrow now beyond the reach of today's promise.

"You got yourself a fine husband, Adine," winking at a willowy brunette behind him, Lukas gives a rueful smile, "While I’d like to see Alestrial Eliaden as well, I figure reality can be a preferable fate to an idealistic lie. He’s all yours."

With those words, the owner of Coral Sea departs from the place he has always called home. His business officially sold, a handsome profit earned is more than enough to last him a lifetime. As for Adine, something in her says something is amiss. As if her instincts as a woman is prophesying life will never be the same very soon, that everything is nothing bar the calm before a tempest readying its arrows. 

)0(

"Quick, loud, and he whips out his fist faster than a crossbow bolt."

"Is he really that bad?" asks an expressionless Seelia as Wiesslynn wears an astounded look.

"I won’t say he’s that bad. Call him retarded, moron, or a cretin instead," smirks Lolyx, "Apart from that, he’s fine. I have to tell the two of you this because he’s going to be your new boss."

"You mean getting married to the sole daughter of the current owner, Lolyx."

Wide-eyed with shock, Lolyx can only wonder why Alestrial Eliaden is standing before them. This is not a dream, yet Joenne Nantes and Karen Tenias are not with her.

"I told them I just want to spend this day by myself," smiles the Cinha as she takes her seat with fluid grace, something which is never a pretentious show.

"Well, let me…"

Dismissing Lolyx’s kind intent with a gentle wave of her hand, Alestrial Eliaden shakes her head. Always sick and tired of venomous barbs aimed behind her back, the Cinha knows much more than what others give her credit for. Having to tolerate patronising comments for the sake of bedding her, the adopted daughter of Louthes Eliaden understands plenty.

The quartet then hears a loud crash, their focus turning into stupefied stares. There they are, Gael Kodr and Catterm Leen with the latter sporting a black eye.

"Quick, loud, and he whips out his fist faster than a crossbow bolt," clucking her tongue, Lolyx can only jab an accusing thumb towards the troublesome duo, "And I’m not referring to the red one."

)0(

Everything abruptly becomes a still portrait to Gael, he can only vaguely register familiar faces. There is Lolyx who always enjoy talking him down. Wiesslynn is present as well. Alestrial, his beloved Ales who represents everything wrong with his dreams. A red-haired girl whom he has never met before is in front of him, a haunting beauty sparking off a strong tingle meandering inside him. Then something overwhelms him like an omnipotent assailant.

The voice of happy children and a gentle girl older than him…

He can’t discern her features apart from her long hair of red.

Then darkness engulfs him once more.

The feeling of being choked alive… the sensation of being strangled with an ominous voice cursing him as a traitor…

Then silence… darkness… emptiness…

)0(

"A thousand gratitude, Seelia," curtsies Alestrial, "Never have I imagined one like you having a poulter’s hands."

"The worse life gets, the more you have to learn," smiles the attractive redhead. Then she notices Lolyx wearing a glower while Adine maintains an awkward visage.

"Seelia, do you know what that moron nearly did to you?"

Trying to resolve the tension, Weisslynn’s attempt proves to be futile as Lolyx explodes into a state of apoplexy.

"He groped you! Erm, I mean... he nearly groped you!"

"Hate to defend this idiotic best friend of mine right here and right now, Seelia. But I swear it was an accident," pleads Catterm Leen on Gael’s behalf, his face exposing worry despite the situation leading to a farcical accident, "Although it’s his fault for punching me."

"Well, Lolyx did mention his fist coming out faster than a crossbow bolt," points out Weisslynn.

"Very funny, the two of you. Catts, I think you better break off with Elys so that Weisslynn will stand a chance," retorts Lolyx, "Thank the Holy Quintet that handsome jerk isn't around! Otherwise, I’d have gone totally crazy and you all have to lock me up in a sanatorium!"

"Handsome jerk?" asks Alestrial, an innocent curiosity adorning her fair visage, "Surely you have lost me, Lolyx."

"Erm… eh… nothing. I’m referring to a jerk in my dreams… WHY ARE YOU ALL LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?"

)0(

I don’t want to die… I don’t want to die here…

A sudden pain in my chest… now it feels like a prick…

Warmth… something flowing through me… inside me…

What did he say… what did he look like… do I know him?

Wait, is that me? That man leading a pride of lions…

To where are they going?

It hurts… it suddenly hurts… a spear set aflame… why… why those words inside me?

A shaft of steel, a blade of fire.

A pride of lions march, a banner unfurled.

A lion amongst men, a boy’s pursuit.

A shepherd of lions, the Roar of Lions’ March.

)0(

Glossary:

Men of Redmarch: Somewhat mentioned in the first chapter, the Men of Redmarch hailed their origin from the Teutonian fief of Redmarch in the aftermath of a failed peasant revolt known as the Bloody Summer. Originally descendants of the vanquished, this mercenary company soon grew into a wide network of spies and saboteurs charging a steep fee for their service. Together with the Valkyries (leader: Brynhilda) and Elfstein (leader: Roin de Bladefort), the three leading sellsword organisations are collectively known as the Confederation.

Sudhlit: Basically my own version of the Tamil ethnicity with some African/Hamite cultural influences.

War of the Three Thrones: A civil war erupting amongst the Causaceans after the death of King Dyrius III (or more commonly known to historians as King Dyrius the Last) and the lack of an heir. Involving three factions which would eventually become the Kalaran Empire, Teutonia, and Slarvea (hence the name of the conflict), the war would last for a hundred years. Ultimately, there was no clear winner with the cause of armistice still hotly debated. Some said it was a group of religious men and women forcing the warring factions to see their wrongs (a view hotly disputed by many due to no records of any third party political power present). Others argued that no clear winner could and would be seen, a fact recognised by all three factions (despite a lack of substantial evidence, this is the most widely accepted view by both intellectuals and otherwise). Then there are whispers that diabolical beings known as demons were the cause of a reluctant peace (a view which, for some reason, would warrant arrest and trial for heresy via laws set down by the Holy Quintet Church). [Note: Before the war broke out, the continent of Nordeas was also the unified kingdom of Causacea. After the war, Causacea ceased to exist apart from being a byword for racial pride.]

)0(

Source

Additional track (because I blame Broskandar)