L'République Otters: The Calm Before The Storm, The Eye Of The Storm

"Some things are meant to be lost, others meant to be gained. Then there are those waiting to be retrieved in a place and time no one knows."

~Claudea von Stormhearth

Source

)0(

It was a fire invading her right eye socket, a pain countless times worse than the hell her tormentors subjected her to. Yet, Weisslynn chose to persist. Someone must pay for his crimes. He slaughtered those she called sisters, he destroyed her hope for a new life. Even though that kind and brave boy nearly pulled her away from the pit of despair and vengeance, his innocent chivalry wasn’t enough. Perhaps she did harbour feelings for him, but all were for naught. That smile of his… Gael deserves someone much better than her now that she made her choice. Lolyx’s fire would surely rein him in. Adine’s kindness would make him more considerate of his actions. As for Seelia, it seemed that she would always be amused by his misdeeds in a way no other man could.

)0(

“This is retarded. Why must I sit here with you just because you did something dumb again?”

Catterm Leen is clearly unamused by yet another act of stupidity committed by Gael Kodr. Hamm Berker wasn’t the most pleasant person alive in the world. In fact, the redhead is convinced that imbecile of an intellectual’s son is still a living jackass, the key word being living. Always boasting about his sexual conquests, he ended up playing with fire and got himself burnt. It was one thing talking about willing parties, an absolute disaster when it came to penetration forced. The punishment was extremely violent, no one could have imagined the day where Gael would play the judge.

The wrathful fury was beyond control, no one dared to hold him back. Even Catterm felt a chill travelling along the spine and into his heart. A single punch across the skull was to be the beginning of Gael’s verdict. Despite being half a head shorter, the sandy blond choked his quarry while a knee pinned the victim onto the ground. With nary a shred of pity, Gael balled his right hand into a vicious fist. The resultant assault wasn’t a fast barrage of hits. Every punch was like a stroke of an executioner’s axe, deliberate and forceful was every blow. It took the timely intervention of Garev Southgate and another officer to restrain the avatar of raging righteousness. Even then, Gael’s chilling roar forced Garev to knock him out. Hamm Berker was lucky. Any other lad of a smaller build could have been killed. As for Gael’s expression, it was nothing less than the twisted visage of a monstrous beast. This was what truly seized Catterm’s nerves, not the assailant’s deed itself.

“Gael, she’s back.”

“Huh?”

The sandy blond’s stupefied expression amuses Seelia to no end. When was the last time she felt like a normal girl living a normal life? Who was the last person making it possible? A brief moment and the only answer she can come up with is none. Someone like him deserves a good life. After all, she still believes in one good turn deserving another, that a good person will, in the end, live a good life. Even though it is more about chances gifted in a world where reality is nothing more than a cruel man’s game. As for Weisslynn… her haunted look reminded the redhead of someone close to her yet remaining so distant. Ever since Lolyx’s father took her in, Arondight was nowhere to be seen. It now seems that a past defined by rape and a saviour guarding her hence after is no more than a page in her story. And to think her dream was to be a teller of stories where children would crowd around eager to hear the latest work. Perhaps it’s not yet over, that there’s still a story waiting to be told. Not a story of a defiled maiden reclaiming her life in the end, but rather the tale of how a boy one day becomes a lion amongst men. Less than a month passed since she arrived to this place, but it’s as if she managed to see more than a year’s worth of Gael Kodr. Such is the extent of one man’s honesty compared to the rest, mayhap even the world itself. And to think it started from a farcical episode which nearly got her accidentally groped.

“Weisslynn is back. And she wants to see you.”

Before Seelia’s reply, Gael and Catterm can only look at each other like two kids hauled up for something they never did. Then Gael’s forehead receives a rap.

“Hey, what’s that for, Catts?”

“Whack me, Gael. Prove to me that I’m not smoking something weird.”

“Okay, Catts. If you said so.”

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A place for carousing and whoring, such is the venue chosen by a sellsword. While most brothels are found in the nether regions of the Empire, exceptions do exist. The White Spilling Mead is not one of them. The daily scenario is nothing short of chaotic, one woman shared by three men a common sight here and there. Morals are fine not so long people are not offended, but so long people never care. This is the kind of world Aeravor lives in, the very world he is meant to be an enemy of. The irony is never more evident, like a gleaming sword under the sun it has always revealed the truth. He is never the judge but the accuser, not the sword but the mirror. And no monster would ever want to look at its own reflection, a reflection cast by Contra Mundum.

“There you are, arsehole.”

Such a greeting would have been answered with a stab in the gut from the Vánagandr. But not for Brynhilda’s case. The leader of the famed Valkyries knows this lone wolf. Far better than the judgmental fakes she’s used to seeing, regardless of man or woman. The mockery put forth by reality isn’t lost to her. Why should it be a man with whom she’s comfortable? Every member of the Valkyries used to be nothing more than a woman mercilessly used as a toy. Hence all choose to be merciless mercenaries in a reality justifying their lot in life, be it the past, present, or the future. Not to prove they’re more righteous or even more powerful, but to be free in a world no different from an ever-burning crucible. There’s nothing more liberating than earning their keep with might and steel, nothing more worthwhile than a reputation both men and women fear and hold in awe. This is why she’s so comfortable with Aeravor. His mannerism reflects both her subordinates and herself despite being a whoremonger, his blatant mockery reserved for every person’s facade is nothing less than a trait she appreciates. Not in a lover, for tales of love are to be damned in the Seven Hells. That is if such a thing exist. But an ideal comrade in times of war and peace Brynhilda sees in this deplorable scoundrel. A pity that Aeravor is a man, not a woman. Indeed the world is never fair.

“All hail the mad bitch of mad bitches,” smirks the ranger, his back slightly reclined despite sitting on a stool instead of a chair.

“Stop showing off your great sense of balance,” scoffs the raven-haired woman dressed in a simple garb of tunic, pants, and boots, “I won’t be surprised if those elves can do equally good, if not better.”

“You didn’t remove your eyepatch.”

“Bandage.”

“Eyepatch, bandage, or dishcloth… makes no difference,” shrugs Aeravor dismissively, “That’s why every mad bitch looks the same.”

“You’re madder than me, Aeravor. So stop acting like a judge,” snaps Brynhilda.

“I never say I’m less mad than you. Because that’d be like saying I’m more righteous than some man of the gods,” grins the shameless sellsword, “Let alone a judge.”

Brynhilda can only give a throaty laugh, the loudness of her mirth nonetheless drowned out by moans from those dishing it out and screams from those taking it. Never once has this wolf of a man failed to humour her, this was why she faked her displeasure.

“Anyway, sorry for asking you out here. Should have been somewhere else.”

“Sorry? You being a gentleman? The nobility got shafted,” snorts the athletic warrior in derision. Then a pair of wandering hands grabbed her breasts. Much to Aeravor’s amusement.

Rising from her seat, Brynhilda already dislocated the fool’s right elbow. Not allowing him to hit the floor, a rough hand held him by the shoulder and a violent grip latched onto his crotch. The ruffian’s gaping look of wide-eyed shock and pain is too much for Aeravor to handle, his booming laughter silencing everybody else in the whorehouse.

“Look at every fellow whoremonger and his whore, cretin. Look at them and tell me their faces.”

The offensive man can only shake his head violently, his pants visibly wet. Brynhilda is able to differentiate between the warmth of blood and that of urine. He’s definitely oozing piss.

“Let go. We are not here to castrate men.”

Brynhilda promptly releases her vice-like grip as Aeravor’s humour warps into a frown. A hooded man saunters into the brothel, every step resulting in people backing off. His cloak and cowl are of cobalt blue, a chainmail shirt visible underneath. The rest of his clothing is green and olive, his knee-high boots leather and grey. With fluid grace, he grabs a nearby stool with nary a heed paid to a patron’s glowering stare. A hand grabs him by the edge of his cloak, an angry look demanding either an apology, compensation, or most likely both. A bandaged hand takes down the hood, it belongs to him and not the aggressor. A fair elven visage stares back, his emerald eyes devoid of emotions. Anger soon melted into quaking fear, for a deathly chill invades a wrathful man’s innermost being. ‘Tis like staring at a dead person who happened to be death itself, its cold invisible fingers wrapped around the neck. In the end, the patron has no other options. Like a dog running off with its tail tucked between the legs, he hurries away.

“A good thing I don’t have to stain my blade,” sighs the flaxen-haired elf, his elven sabre sheathed placed on the table.

“This is the one who told me to meet him here,” pointing an accusing finger at the elf, Aeravor’s gaze never strayed beyond the emotionless Homm’Nua, “So blame him for this embarrassing moment, Yvian Lews.”

Annoyance sinks its teeth into Brynhilda, for every leader of the Valkyries is named as such for a reason. Like every Brynhilda, she is not to even whisper her own name once she assumed this very mantle. Then again, Yvian Lews is an unwanted reminder of the life she’s had. But Aeravor isn’t one to test her temper when it comes to this. Why he’s never insane enough to do so despite capable of unpredictable deeds, she will never know. But whatever knowledge she has is good enough. After all, sellswords are meant to be pragmatic for a reason. And besides, this may well be just another way of expressing unpredictability.

“Can you tell me why, Roin?”

Choosing not to answer Brynhilda, Roin de Bladefort opts to ask a question of his own towards Aeravor.

“You stabbed a beggar three days ago. Why?”

“Because I felt like it? I think I really did it, though.”

“Think? You think?”

The atmosphere becomes a state of tension. Even though patrons and harlots alike have already gone back to their activities, Brynhilda’s instinct as a hardened warrior told her the actual situation is never that simple. And now, this. She is no stranger to Aeravor’s savagery in battle. As for the leader of Elfstein, she saw him in combat only once when negotiations went poorly between them and some Teutonian baron. She was there as the Valkyries preferred these elves and half-elves to those lecherous drunks known as the Men of Redmarch. A single stroke was all he needed to sever the life from his opponent, a champion decked in full plate armour chosen by his liege. The fluidity wasn’t something a living being should be capable of, the slicing motion not just a case of keenness of an elven sword. Roin de Bladefort is a monster. End of argument.

“I assume you were hidden under the Shroud of Hati,” says Roin, his arms folded, “Otherwise, the locals would be talking about your looks.”

“Did it matter? No?”

“If a Vanir was around, then yes.”

Turning to face Brynhilda, Aeravor sends a wry smile in her direction as his reply to Roin’s statement. He knows what a Vanir can do under circumstances like this. The Shroud of Hati is able to fool many with its illusion, but that is due to many are those normal. A Vanir is anything but that, for a normal person is unable to do what is beyond natural. The Vanir are the closest people to the Age of Renown when magic used to be a common sight, individuals capable of thaumaturgy and metallurgy like elves and dwarves. And Brynhilda happens to be one. As for whether another can be found nearby, the Vánagandr cares not.

“There’s an entrance leading to the cult’s headquarters,” abruptly changing the subject, Roin sees no need to engage in a pointless war of words, “A temple, in their words.”

Eyes of azure blue narrowed, Aeravor decides not to pick a fight. At least not right here and now. Unlike Edeaux de Serpentwine, there’s no reason for any deal to be done between Elfstein and Utnapishtim. Apart from his reasoning, that one thing honed by years of living out his inner world is the cause of why something doesn’t feel right. Intuition may not be the best choice for others, but it has served Aeravor well in circumstances involving people. Perhaps Erik was right after all, that his greatest gift is the kind of sixth sense only a lone beast untamed can truly have.

You better not be behind this, Ineis.

)0(

Left speechless before Weisslynn, the sandy blond’s inner self wages war against a blank state of mind. He tried finding something to say, alas not a single word turned up. In terms of appearance, the only notable change is a bandage covering her right eye and the surrounding area. Her left eye visible is the reason why Gael detects something terribly amiss. It’s like seeing a person robbed of her soul, yet still wanting to live on with dignity. Even though he never came across anyone in this situation before, something in him asserts that Weisslynn has become this kind of person. For a brief moment, her emptiness feels like a mirror before him. Then that feeling of beholding a reflection is gone.

Must be Catts using too much force on me. Good thing I paid him back good.

“So anything to say?”

The moment those words came off his tongue, Gael realises he deserves to be slapped. Here is a girl whose circumstances are obviously bad, if not likelier worse than somebody dead due to self-idiocy. How could he say such a thing?

“No,” shaking her head, Weisslynn gives a wistful smile, “I just want to make sure you’re still alive.”

“Of course, I’m still alive!” exclaims Gael, “Did you see a bear chewing me up? No?”

“That moron!” hisses Catterm as he together with some others remain hidden at a corner, “If he’s not my bud, I’d have flayed him like a dead cat.”

“You’ve been saying that for years,” retorts Lolyx, her chagrin reflecting that of Catterm, “Let me help you. That idiot is your bud, but Weisslynn’s my sister.”

“No need for that,” Seelia’s reply throws everyone else off guard, Adine included, “Weisslynn would have screamed at him if she’s offended.”

Adine knows the accuracy of Seelia’s observation, for predicting a person’s reaction can be easy at times. A surge of jealousy flows inside her despite rationality denying its legitimacy, for how can one, man or woman, so easily resist an emotional onslaught?

“Apologies, Weisslynn. I’m late.”

A stranger’s voice alerts those present, Weisslynn giving a nod in reply. The woman is tall and athletic, her features neither unsightly nor comely. Her raven black hair is tied in a short ponytail, the bandage covering part of her face is the exact same as Weisslynn’s. Her throaty voice is a tone of authority, a short sword belted at the waist. Beside her, a girl around Weislynn’s age carries a long pole wrapped in grey cloth. As one accustomed to wielding weapons, Gael recognises the form of a spear. Yet, the cloth isn’t affected by the fact that it is covering the blade.

“I have to go now. Thanks for meeting me. We won’t face each other again,” smiles Weisslynn, her visage one of regret, “At least I hope not.”

“What’s going on here?” demanding answers from a woman never bothering to introduce herself, Gael finds himself restrained by Catterm.

“Let it go, Gael!” snaps the redhead as the rest look on with the same worry, “Just let her go, will ya?”

For a moment, Catterm believed his words worked against a friend infamous for his foolhardiness. Then a grip of iron closes around his neck, a violent force tossing him onto a table. The resultant force knocked the breath from his lungs, its impact breaking the furniture of wood.

The chains are now shattered, a beast unleashed against the target of his wrath. Making strides towards the one-eyed woman, Gael lashes out with a vicious punch. Only to have his attack intercepted in the most brutal manner.

The boy has a good look, for his eyes are simmering with an impressive rage. Brynhilda takes an instant liking to that sandy blond, she knows at least a bit why Weisslynn insisted on saying her final farewell to an ordinary lad. Never before has she seen a man willing to commit murder for a woman he barely knew, never mind the fact this brash youth has yet to do so. As one who has taken countless lives to survive and thrive in a world bereft of mercy and grace, she’s able to differentiate on the merit of instinct alone whether someone is a person of the sword. That’s where all good things end. The boy behaved like a man, but he’s nothing more than a cub acting like a lion baring its fangs.

A sickening crunch enters the ears of every listener, even Catterm is reduced to a person overtaken by horror. One hand grabbed the fist, the other shattered Gael’s attacking arm. Blinding pain sears his senses, like white-hot iron branding his mind it empties his soul.

An eternity… an eternity of nothingness. Something within Gael tells him this is what death feels like. Yet, the very same feeling also tells him this is what life feels like. Life and death… death and life… which one comes first and which one comes last? He sees a scene, a damning scene. The girl looks like Seelia, but with longer hair. Wicked men are raping her. Then one of them brandishes a sword. Gael screams out, but the loud voice so oft-ridiculed by Catterm and Lolyx fails him. Off goes her head, down goes her naked body, and out from their lips twisted praises of perverse zeal. Then an animal roars inside him. He can hear it clearly. Gael Kodr can hear it perfectly clear. ‘Tis a raging lion tearing against its bonds, incessant fury demanding to be uncaged.

If one arm is broken, then use the other. If both arms are broken, then kick out like a raging steed. Even if one leg is left, even if he is to be killed, Gael Kodr will die with his dignity unbroken. Because it is not right, it is not right for him to die like a dog. To the Seven Hells with logic! To the Seven Hells with danger! To the Seven Hells with death!

)0(

Aeravor feels a tight grip around his heart, the force threatening to wring out every last drop of blood from it. Incessant swearing erupts from his mouth. This is not good. And to think he managed to bed the best whore for a long time. Swatting away the comely harlot’s pawing hand as he put back on his clothes, the Vánagandr can only cuss aloud at his luck. After all, he did pay her for three days’ worth of pleasure, not less than one.

Redcart and that kid… I shouldn’t have saved that little pain in the arse.

)0(

“Hey, pervert! Tanee and I are getting married soon. Hey, pervert! You hear me?”

Before Flaive’s hollering voice, Lars Alterfate pays no attention. Something is tingling inside him. And he knows the source. Years have passed since the tragedy at Redcart and no one involved would ever want to be haunted by its spectre again. Alas, fate decided to deal a card from its hand, its name called mockery. Aeravor did save the child, but Lars still holds himself accountable for a reason.

This doesn’t feel good. And to think I told that cowardly bloke to get the boy a new home.

“Hey, perv…”

Lars Alterfate disappears abruptly, the demon hunter disintegrating himself into a murder of crows. Flaive is left dumbfounded, his expression gaping at empty air. Tanee is just behind him, her eyes exposing nothing bar shock. As for Hannya, he can only place a palm on his face in frustration. Once again, he has to hypnotise people again.

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“That traitor! He finally arrives,” growls Arondight as he gets up from his seat of mossy rock. The glee he never felt for so long is back, at last Seelia will be avenged and protected. That thrice damned turncoat must pay for his sin, a crime no different from the highest treason.

“Sorry, you’re getting nowhere.”

Only Tristan Aias stands between a mad knight and something happening within the city walls of Tenseas. He has been keeping an eye on this raging force of nature for a reason. Events from the past surrounding Redcart intrigued the Sudhlit to no end, his sharp ears always picking up random information sending him on errands for no reason beyond boredom. Assumptions were made, mayhap accuracy favours one conjecture or the other. But no conclusion can ever be done without enough evidence. Hence, the military genius known as the Southern Fox remains interested in whatever fateful events transpired on that day.

“Get lost, black man,” growls the hulking force of physical rage.

“No blacker than your armour and wrath wedded, good Ser,” bows Tristan, his smile taunting Arondight’s words. If insults are common to those without rights, then Tristan has heard the worst and mocked the speakers.

Well, this is getting more fun than just trying to save the nobility.

)0(

The crudely made figurine abruptly reveals a crack, overwhelming unease erupting inside Alestrial Eliaden. While an absurd attempt at art has resulted in a poorly done caricature, the Cinha nevertheless treasures it. Gael is never a man of arts and craft, his drawings can only be described as doodling. Yet, this was his final gift to her, a present expressing his sincere desire for the best in an arranged marriage not of her own prayer.

Then a commotion is heard outside. Looking out from the window, Alestrial recognises the source as the tavern run by Adine’s father, the clearest proof of Gael’s future.

Dear Father above, let no ill fortune befall Gael. For a good and righteous man is he.

)0(

Brynhilda’s eyes widen, not in shock but with surprise. The boy’s eyes retain their sapphire blue, but the fire of berserk wrath burns unmistakably true. The right arm was broken, his left fist nearly crashes against her temple. With one hand hindering a broken limb, the leader of the Valkyries released her grip and dodged. A poor decision, for she should have thrown him onto the ground instead. That would have won the fight. However, victories are never secured by errors forced or unforced, but through the number of those rectified on time.

Then the same fist closes in again, this time aiming for her nose. A deft flick brings forth shiny steel, a short sword embeds itself into the assailant’s wrist. Buried to the hilt, Brynhilda declares the fight won. Then a foot is firmly planted onto her leather boot. Eyes narrowed against a raging beast, Brynhilda cannot allow the surprise element to supplant her calm. If she must be struck, let no weakness be shown. Then again, which part of the body can he use? If it’s the leg, her free hand can restrain him and stage a counter-throw.

Gael Kodr snaps his head forward, the collision sending reverberations into the skull. His focus never dulled by the invasion, the sandy blond attempts another vicious head-butt. Then a sharp pain enters his gut. Gritting his teeth, the sandy blond tears himself away from the battle. Blood is now flowing freely from a gaping wound, a crimson flood rather than a trickle of red.

Incensed beyond measure, Brynhilda gnashes her teeth. While she appreciated the lad’s show of unbridled fury, that respect is now usurped by humiliation. While she still has more than enough to take down the boy in mere moments, taking a hit from some lowly brawler is always a blasphemy rather than an insult. Laying hold on a weapon masked by linen, she decides the end is nigh.

As her hand grips the shaft, a rippling force pulsates inside her. From flesh to bones and from the heart to the mind, this feeling is not an illusion. Brynhilda is struck by a stroke of bewilderment. The message is clear: That lad is the desired wielder of a Grail known as the Golden Thorn of Mortality and Crimson Barb of Fatality, a spear which is like a coin with two different sides.

Damn it… damn that boy’s shitty dumb luck!

Then a flash of silver streaks forth, a chain piercing Gael through the shoulder. A spike is attached at the end, the cause of injury pinned onto the ground. Crows flock past a flabbergasted Brynhilda, the cawing birds converging to form a handsome man blessed with the complexion of ivory. The sight is a familiar one to Lolyx. It’s that perverted man whose choice of clothing reflected his loose morals.

“Rapist!” screams Lolyx, her outburst leaving everyone save Brynhilda, Gael, and Lars Alterfate with a perplexed face.

“No, I’m not,” answers the demon hunter, his visage akin to a grim warrior than the light-hearted scoundrel Lolyx is used to, “Let the boy live or I’ll kill you.”

“I have a Grail,” sneers Brynhilda, “One of gold and red.”

“So do I. It’s called the Chains of Judgement.”

“Prove to me you’re not lying. How can a mortal, Vanir or otherwise, afford to wield this monstrous tool?”

Before Brynhilda’s retort, Lars Alterfate can only give a sigh. Why must his hand be forced against a woman instead of a man? Extending his right arm with index and middle fingers extended, his eyes warp into those of a cat or reptile.

“LARS!”

“Ah, Ji’s hero arrives,” smiles Lars as he breaks off the duel. Eyes of gold revert to normal, a sorrowful man revealing himself, “Acceleration thaumaturgy, I see.”

Weisslynn’s eyes widened in a union of anger and terror, her teeth gritted in the name of vengeance. Here he is, the bastard who is the cause of her misfortune and tragedy. That unforgivable monster finally shows up. At last, her moment of justice!

Before Aeravor can answer Lars, a maniacal scream pierces the sky. Brynhilda is able to restrain her subordinate whose hand is gripping tightly a gleaming dagger. That girl is young. Young enough to be an apprentice whore, but definitely not young enough to fight a battle. Then she breaks down sobbing in her commander’s arms. As Brynhilda gives Aeravor a dirty glare, the ranger gives a nonchalant shrug.

Don’t give me that look because I don’t know what’s going on. But that little pain in the arse… I guess he’s the pissed off one chained by Lars.

)0(

Glossary:

The nobility got shafted: A slang which is the equivalent of the expression "blow me down". Inspiration wise, nothing to do with Crazy Rich Asians.

Tenseas: One of the three main cities of Teslaide, the other two being Saltsea and Cleftland. It is also where the seat of the governor is situated. Inspired by the state of Tennessee naming wise.

Additional notes:

1. Hamm Berker was the result of my dark humour acting up. The reason why being some distressing stuff I've come across recently. It's never fun to be reminded why Emiya Kiritsugu was so obsessed with justice unto the extreme and most bitter end.

2. Originally, I intended Brynhilda to be a mere sideshow character. Somehow or another, I accidentally pulled off a Sacchin/Illya. Type-Moon fans should understand what I'm saying. For the rest, let's just say I gave her so much more than just a show of force.

3. The self-critical part in me can't help but wonder if the feminists will cry foul over how the female gender is "portrayed" in this chapter. The politically incorrect foreigner in me ended up giving the correct answer. In other words, why should I care? This is one of those moments where I'm thankful for being a Singaporean.

4. Arondight calling Tristan Aias "black man" was indeed racist. As for the source of inspiration, it's called taking the Americaporean subway.

5. Initially, Yvian Lews was named Dany Lews. Then I realised that sounds way too patronising. So I decided to do a Total Recall. Took me quite a while.

6. The traumatic part on Gael's vision wasn't inspired by any religion. Rather, it's inspired by ISIS. End of story, zero conspiracy theories.

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