A Requiem From Winter Past: Chapter 3

AGE WARNING:

This work is one of dark nature. If you're below the age of 16, then you're better off reading something else. I don't profess to follow the rules of my country where only foreigners like G.R.R Martin and Miura Kentaro can write dark fiction.

A Requiem From Winter Past

~The Wolf, Lion, And Maiden Fair~

(Written by Cocteau L'Enfant Naturel)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3: The Maiden Fair And Her Prince

"There are only three princes in this world: The fool, the righteous, and the sellsword."

~Anonymous

)0(

Beneath the morning sun stands a manor, its foundation surrounded by a wall spanning miles. Perched atop a fertile plateau overlooking the region of Saltsea, this is the seat of House Eliaden. Given to its first patriarch Erasmere Gaias Eliaden, Lancershire is a place named after the finest spearmen the Hallenian Empire has ever seen. Despite countless years passing by, these fearsome fighters were never displaced from their home. Like his father and forefathers before him, Leonus Gaias Eliaden is tasked with the duty of overseeing law and order while defending Imperial coastlands against marauders attacking from the Endless Straits. With its back facing the Rock Coast and Eagle's Horn to the south, Fort Caern is ever ready as the watchtower. Despite Histalonia’s claims of being nothing more than a mercantile nation neutral and fair, questions have been asked concerning an alliance forged between Histalonian buccaneers and Yaguryo pirates from the Southern Archipelago of the Furthest East.

“Young Mistress, someone seeks your audience.”

With a formal bow, Treva Fench announces the arrival of a person he’d rather die than acknowledge. His object of reverence is nothing less than a beautiful maiden of eighteen winters, her wavy hair of raven black reaching to the waist. The fairness of her complexion is different from that of a Causacean, facial features belonging to an adopted daughter of Hallenian nobility undeniably proving her a Yaguryo. Dressed in a light blue gown, a shelf full of books faces her with a tome opened before almond-shaped eyes.

“Let me guess,” snickers a portly middle-aged man, his garb one of finery with chainmail shirt underneath. “It’s our brave little lion, no?”

“Yes, you’re right. Happy now, Yiovil Lyos?”

His wiry frame tensing up, Treva took Yiovil’s bait with a snapping reply.

“Let him in, Treva.”

With a tone gentle but firm, Irlia Eliaden rises from a chair of oaken wood.

)0(

“Getting married? Guess we’re at least a couple of years too late.”

Expecting disappointment from the man pledging himself to her as a bond to House Eliaden, Irlia is unable to mask her surprise at Cale Ryvers’ composure. Surely there has to be a sliver of sadness in his words, for this is a lad known for stupidity and foolhardiness than traits worth a maiden's glance.

“I know I should have been disappointed. Acting dumb does have a wonderful effect and that's why boys will become men. What a self-deceiving load of shit.”

The sandy blond betrays a rueful smile. When they were twelve, a promise was made in the name of love. Children will always be children regardless of boys or girls, those are the words his sole family member always says even to this day. Marvas Creek called him a cretin and hopeless loon, such has been an absurd dream of being both hero and Irlia’s wedded beloved. Lukas Broun, on the other hand, encouraged him to take that leap of faith, for this was nothing less than his own life. Choices are defined by the maker, this remains Lukas’ logic after so long. Those were words pleasing to every dreamer's ears, be they for better or worse. Adarl first proposed to him when they were thirteen, Cale had no idea what she's thinking. She was called an ugly little wench by a group of boys, an episode in life told in the form of fisticuffs which Cale unfortunately lost. She disappeared from his view after he mentioned the promise made with Irlia, her father deciding to do something about it afterwards. She worked as a serving girl under Chard's watchful eyes, within that period she blossomed into a beautiful lass. In the words of a children's tale, the ugly duckling has always been a baby swan. And now Cale has to announce a decision, one made with much effort from two fatherly men wanting only the best for their charges.

“You’re not the only one getting married. I and Adarl will be getting married. Next spring to be exact. Which means I'll be sending you off first.”

With a shrug, Cale erects a wall of steel separating fatalistic acceptance from anguished denial. As for the Yaguryo daughter of Causacean nobility, she can only arm herself with an imperturbable facade as her sword. Eyes of hazel never straying from his gaze, Irlia recalls the very day when a person of false nobility first beheld a lion’s cub.

)0(

“Iry…”

“Don’t worry, Ermia. I’m here.”

Squeezing her friend’s arm, Irlia could only watch in awe and shock at an unruly boy savaging their tormentor. No one knew where the wild child hailed from, neither could any discern how a smallborne was able to enter a school only for the rich and nobility. Sneaking a glance towards Cressandra Tanias, the Yaguryo realised she’s wearing an expression no different from the rest. Only Ermia Nantes was terrified stiff, yet who could blame her for being the victim instead of a bystander?

The three were close to each other since their eighth winter, Ermia admiring Irlia's honesty while Cressandra wanted a friend who would not judge. It was the untimely death of Eirlania Ulst-Eliaden, beloved wife of Leonus Gaius Eliaden and sole daughter of House Ulst, bringing them closer still, a blessing arrived at an obvious cost. Ermia detested her family watching her every move, the less spoken about Cressandra’s father the better. The gaze Calcos Tibald Tanias directed at Irlia the previous spring during a confrontation with her father remained a nightmare, perhaps this was why gentle Cressandra would have nothing good to say about him.

As for that raging smallborne boy, no one discovered how he could evade the security. What the Yaguryo knew, however, was that the bully had gone too far by ripping off Ermia’s skirt, his arrogance pelting Irlia with lewd slurs and profanities. Where he got his knife from, only the Holy Quintet knew. Then the offensive object was knocked away, a violent fist breaking his wrist.

“Kill you! Kill you, kill you, I’ll kill you!”

Those were the words unleashed from the stranger’s lungs, his voice resembling a lion’s roar. Blessed with an upright soul and wrath against evil, was this how a real man should be like? When she was still alive, Irlia’s only mother brought her to the Imperial Zoo. She remembered two animals captivating her sight, one was a lion and the other a wolf.

“Iry, stop him! We’ll get implicated if Frais dies!”

The Yaguryo stared blankly at Cressandra’s pleading look, Ermia shaking her head vehemently in response.

“No! Let that bastard die!”

“Ermia!”

Promptly interrupting Cressandra's rebuke, a crippled man laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Your father is worse than a snivelling coward but you’re nothing like him, Your Grace. Lady Cressandra of House Tanias, I give you my word that I’ll stop this child. And besides, Cale is always synonymous with trouble.”

Calling out his son’s name, the kindly man with a limp seemed to have fulfilled his promise. A moment more shocking than the violence done arrived, the boy’s question an animal’s growl. His words repeated an obscene boast, each syllable slowly spoken and causing every girl's blushes. As for the boys, they could only remain speechless for whatever reason in each one's head.

“How many whores in this place have you shafted? Ten? Hundred?

“Pilaes Ryvers! Tell your boy to shut up before I terminate your service!”

“No wonder he looks familiar…” sniffled Ermia, her school principal and Pilaes Ryvers engaging in a staring duel. “His vegetable loaf is the best we’ve ever tasted.”

“None…" snivelled Frais Arnter. "Please, no more…”

Without a single word, Pilaes’ son turned his back on a vanquished foe.

“Watch out!”

Irlia’s warning was a fleeting moment too slow, Cressandra and Ermia could only stare with horror seeping out from the heart. A rock smashed across the boy knight’s head, Freis’ look was one of a vicious animal bearing a humane visage.

Cale offered a laugh in reply, he survived a hit that could have killed someone his age. What kind of being is he? More than just a boy, he seemed more like a beast. With a twisted grin, the smallborne picked the rock dropped by a panicking son of nobility. His right hand holding it firmly, Cale licked the blood off a weapon claimed for himself. Spitting it out like a tavern brawler with a leer worn and shoulders dropped like a lion waiting to pounce, a vicious pursuit was now on the cards.

“Hu… huh… hah!”

Frais Arnter ran away as fast as possible, every girl especially Ermia laughing at his plight. The boys, on the other hand, started whispering among themselves, bewilderment clouding their senses. Convinced that one of them was a god, the sight of a smallborne mortal making him wet himself was a revelation. As for Irlia, she kept her eyes on a being of righteous anger, that which made the firstborn son of House Arnter flee like a craven knave.

The saviour’s eyes and smile… nobody noticed his mundane features. The Yaguryo knew another person of a similar bearing, a fateful meeting during that frigid autumn haunting her. Cale Ryvers should have been just one person out of countless souls, his anger reminiscent of a Relentless One she met under that blue full moon a year ago.

Extending her arm, she gripped Cale’s hand. Before she realised it, jewels of sapphire blue made contact with her hazel gaze. For the rest of the day, Irlia Eliaden was as silent as a mute.

)0(

Summer enters its final portion, the bluebirds performing a symphony of joy and hope. A garden resembling the most captivating meadow surrounds the seat of House Eliaden, grand is the building made with stones of alabaster and granite. Six lions stand erect, statues of dwarven craft a head taller than the average Causacean male. Three on each side flank the porch, the reach ten spans in length. Such is a father's love given to a daughter, one who is neither his own nor his deceased wife's.

“Hey, wake up. Wake up, Iry.”

A bleary-eyed Irlia wakes up to Ermia’s incessant calls, her fingers running through slightly tangled locks. How long has the slumber lasted, she doesn't care. The sole daughter of House Nantes chooses not to share her best friend’s sentiments, a peeress wearing a pout and sun-kissed complexion pointing a thumb at the evening sky.

“Guess how long you’ve been enjoying life, sleeping beauty?”

“I desire not to know, Ermia,” responds Irlia, her giggling goading a fellow noblewoman whom she knows since they were no older than seven.

“By the Holy Quintet and Seven Hells, Irlia of House Eliaden never fails to annoy Ermia of House Nantes. And please cut out that language. We're not at some dumb ballroom full of finely dressed cretins.”

The two good friends indulge themselves in a bout of laughter. Never the kind which members of the nobility are known for, this is of joyful children running about. The last time they enjoyed such a moment was before Ermia’s marriage to Lysas Gloreas, a day before she was to be called Lady Ermia Nantes-Gloreas. To think both Ermia and Cressandra were convinced Irlia would be the first to get married, Yaguryo or no Yaguryo.

“One beautiful lady off the rack like the finest wine, two more to go,” grins a prideful Ermia.

“But it's still unthinkable you're the first to enter a chapel’s gates.”

Putting up a mock frown, Ermia taunts Cressandra with an impudent gesture. The daughter of House Tanias has no choice, she can only shake her head and laugh. A year of married life matters not, Lysas can’t contain his wife's belligerence. It is often quoted time changes people, for the natural flow of things travels along a single path. From the past to the present, after which the future awaits. But not to someone whose behaviour mirrors a daring boy, a lady clearly less than a demure girl.

“Hey, Iry and Cress. Don’t you wish we’re smallborne rather than the highborne?”

“How amazing to hear Ermia Nantes-Gloreas using an obscenity to end her question.”

“Shut up, Cress. You should be getting married earlier than me given your looks and… well, pretty arse.”

Left speechless by Ermia’s vulgar praise, Cressandra can only afford an embarrassed lady’s frown while an amused Irlia looks on. Cressandra Tanias may be an eloquent speaker, yet comments on her most prominent body part would always force her to a corner. Ermia knows it much to her delight, a knowledge always giving her a gambit and victory in any argument.

“Word came to me that Cale Ryvers paid you a visit.”

Cressandra’s attempt to put her embarrassment to the sword results in greater awkwardness, for Cale’s relationship with Irlia is information never privy to a chosen few. Eternity journeys past the three ladies fair, Irlia setting her sight on two butterflies fluttering by.

“If only one can prove the existence of gods so that their blessings are shown to be true.”

Cressandra and Ermia leave themselves stupefied, Irlia’s answer revealing the melancholic truth. They know she is about to be married, just that Cale Ryvers is not the groom. Why would a highborne desire ridicule by marrying herself down, an act proving as if she is nothing more than a harlot? Nevertheless, the cold hard truth sinks its blade into each listener’s heart, Irlia’s inner world bleeding inside. They say it is a blessing to be a highborne, but those who curse such a life are the ones living it. A commoner's daughter is given more freedom to choose her lot in life, a woman of the peerage would be lucky if it takes eighteen winters to cage her in. Fifteen, if not sixteen, has always been the favourite age for every patriarch of nobility when it comes to producing a male heir, Leonus' decision to delay two more years is a blessing. She was allowed to ride a horse at thirteen, never mind it was a pony rather than a mare. She was given the free will to learn swordplay come her sixteenth winter, her skill nothing more than fanciful strokes bereft of function. Many are those of senior status calling her beyond control, few are those her age admiring the false noble for that inner fire revealed.

“You’re scaring me, Iry. Can you tell us plainly what in the Holy Quintet and Seven Hells actually happened?”

“Cale is getting married. To Adarl Tayne.”

“Well, there goes the happy ending. Those minstrels should be hanged, drawn, and quartered for singing out their lies. So what about the bond that idiot swore before the Holy Quintet? Are you going to release him from that oath?”

“Yes.”

“A hard decision, Irlia,” says Cressandra, her visage sombre. “One akin to sending a loved one into exile without other choices.”

“Cale was my shield against insults, the sword against scoundrels, a knight when it comes to defending my honour. Even my father has nothing but good words to say about him. It was his duty as my bond and I have discharged him from his oath complete with my blessing.”

The sorrow in Irlia’s reply is evident, trembling tone showing cracks across a wall separating the heart from the mind. The only thing left undone is the shedding of tears, she promised herself she would never cry. Neither in front of Cale nor anyone else, this is her only way to send him off and the best farewell present. Two years ago, she was convinced he was her prince. Two years later, she has no choice but to accept the real princess is never destined to be her. Has the boy ever noticed a girl’s feelings for him? There are times when she doubted his stupidity despite reactions of buffoonery reciprocating her feelings, her instincts whispering he's more intelligent than he appeared to be.

Then a hand seizes the book held tightly in her grip, Irlia’s wide-eyed shock greeted by Ermia’s impish smile. She tries to snatch it back, Ermia’s back facing her instead. Understanding her good friend’s personality fails to clear her senses, Irlia manages to wrestle Ermia Nantes onto the ground. Rolling over with the grass tickling her face, there is no way Irlia Eliaden can secure victory. She can only afford to let Ermia have her way, one more attempt to retrieve the book by force and the risk of ripped pages would be too real to be dismissed.

“Fine, Ermia. I declare you the victor.”

Laughing loudly at victory rightfully and vigorously earned, the strawberry blonde peeress begins flipping through the pages. Her eyes soon widened in amazement, the occasional glance towards her Yaguryo friend betraying incredulity. Curiosity overtaking her, Cressandra walks over to have a look at what Irlia wrote. Twirling her straight locks around the finger, Cressandra can only fixate her eyes on a blushing Irlia, wavy hair of raven black dancing along a tune whistled by the wind.

“Unbelievable!” exclaims Ermia, her tone booming in Cressandra’s ears. “I know you can draw, Iry. But this good? You might as well draw for little children!”

“I hope you will fall over senseless, Ermia.”

Surprised by a snappish attitude abruptly released, Irlia is not the only one taken aback. Why did she feel annoyed moments ago? The images drawn belong to the past, there is no way she will meet him again, that very him. Why did she lose herself in this situation, a scenario mockingly beyond her control?

“Well, he’s handsome. A right shame not as handsome as my beloved husband Lysas Gloreas.”

“Always boasting of the only man insane enough to sleep beside you every night? You never change even for a single day, Ermia.”

“So how about you, Cressandra? Lys may not be that right in his head, but are you crazy enough to swoon over Iry’s comely elven prince?”

“Well… I prefer a man who is less brooding.”

“You mean as bright as the dawn and not as dark as the night?”

“If you want to say it this way, then I have no choice but to agree.”

Baffled and utterly flustered, Irlia musters every bit of fortitude to suppress a storm inside her. Struggling to subjugate a revolt staged by emotions, the authority of her mind struggles to contain a raging force refusing to be chained. Then her lungs suddenly empty themselves, starvation of air too much for her to bear. It is not as if she drew him while under a trance, yet there is something about him pulling her into a maelstrom of want. Darkness conquers her senses, the last thing discerned being Ermia’s incredibly loud voice and Cressandra’s hand covering her mouth in shock.

)0(

I watch my past seven years ago unfolding, myself seated as the lone audience. Everything is surreal, this is not the way to spend one's eighteenth birthday. Leers exposing my fears back then, my kidnappers spared no effort unmasking their hopeless lives. Why would men want to commit their lust unto a girl of eleven winters is a question I will never know the answer to. Ermia pointed out outlaws like them only desire money and ransom, Cressandra asking why both. This was two years ago, I still remember a sombre Cressandra nodding in response to Ermia’s answer.

“Only ransom if you’re a son. If you’re a daughter, then ransom exacted plus getting sold to a bordello.”

They claimed to be after my father's gold, said gold was nothing to these ravenous animals. Two things they aimed to get: To take their undeserved reward and my body. One end was all they wanted: To renege on their word and sell me like what Ermia mentioned. I knew what they were thinking, for each man spoke aloud out his mind.

Should sins and all things evil from the heart hold a higher authority than the simplest dignity everyone deserves?

I asked myself this question every now and then, there has to be a difference between man and beast. Is no one is ever safe regardless of birth and status?

“No honour there is in feeding the fire of evil with waters of wickedness, 'tis why the gods are also sinners if they truly live. For we are their image in the same way they are of ours.”

My mother not from birth taught me this much when she reasoned with an arrogant preacher, this is why I abhor such a life. What purpose does the promise of power serve if your soul knows not what it is living for? What gods are appeased by heinous people committing heinous acts?

My father is no stranger to people performing deplorable deeds, this is how I know certain things without being cursed with the luck to see them. My mother instructed me not to follow gods I do not know, my father echoed her sentiments. They say husband and wife are the greatest minds that think alike, but there were moments where I was left wondering whether she did love her husband despite his love unreservedly given.

Then he entered the act abruptly, the only words my inner self can conjure Chaos Incarnate. Twenty bandits bereft of remorse were hacked down, no reprieve and mercy shown. His movements were alluring, beauty beheld in the form of flitting images and flashes of steel. It remains so whenever I think about it, seeing my saviour weaving to and fro robbed me of my breath,. Those living my life shunned me, they correctly claimed a Yaguryo is no Causacean. As for him, his eyes betrayed a life ten times worse whenever I look back at them. I know not how, but I know for sure.

His eyes of crimson red... should I be fearing him?

Was he a demon many smallborne have whispered about in fear?

Or mayhap this was someone forced to be an avatar of death?

Could this man be chaos itself assuming flesh? After all, both the heart and head did proclaim the same words: Chaos Incarnate.

Questions without answers I force away, I know with nary a doubt this dream is not the end. It is but only the beginning of something I cannot foresee. My heart reaches out to the hero brandishing a bloodstained sword, I stand up from my seat with a hand extending towards the stage. Intuition tells me he is a living symbol of conflict, my mother used to say true indeed are a woman's instincts. He is not the type Ermia or Cressandra would fancy but is he handsome?

He is the rugged type comfortable with charming smallborne girls serving in taverns or even in a bordello, Treva once commented such men were only good enough for whores. My father was unimpressed by this bluntest jest, a stinging slap and words equally harsh ensured history would not repeat itself again.

I see the full moon gradually laying down its cards, the lunar sky invaded by a captivating sea of blue. The resultant clarity ensnares my soul, this has to be someone from that enigmatic race called the Relentless Ones. Silent acknowledgement greets the hooded figure as he turns around after a pause, his back the most poignant portrait. Mother has spoken before beings fair and powerful, their long ears and hair of wintry snow setting themselves apart from the elves.

A violent gale assaults both the stage and below, this is the kind of frigid blast arriving every eleventh month at autumn's end. Its force resembles a blizzard during the month of winter, his cloak billows wildly left and right. With his hood blown off, the wind directs the course according to its whims.

I never expected a complexion bronzed like a Tamurian, but I would never call his stark white hair and distinct features a lie. Eyes met each other for the first time, that of a little girl and an enigmatic prince. Burning jewels of crimson red supplanted by the most beautiful blue never seen before, he pulled his left hand away from her longing grasp.

It belonged to an azure moon hanging above, the never-ending blanket of clearest blue…

There is no difference between the past and present, may the future be like this as well.

Why am I having such a thought?

If only I could tell him that night my name is Irlia Eliaden.

)0(

Glossary

Saltsea: A port city serving as the main economic hub for Teslaide.

Rock Coast: A rocky coastal strip serving as a buffer zone against any marine invasion against the northern regions.

Lancershire: One of the three major cities of Teslaide, the other two being Saltsea and Lindel. Also the regional capital of Teslaide.

Histalonia: An island state northeast of the Hallenian Empire.

Endless Straits: A narrow strip of sea separating Histalonia from the northern continent of Caucasea. Imagine it as a slight curve between an island and its mainland counterpart.

Furthest East: The story's equivalent of East Asia.

Southern Archipelago: The Causacean's way of referring to the cluster of islands south of the Furthest East mainland. Shaped like a ball and named Nanshu by the Yaguryo. Inspired by the Ryukyu Kingdom and Japanese piracy.

Yaguryo: The story's equivalent of East Asian.

Causacean: The story's equivalent of Caucasian.

Seven Hells: Hell according to the doctrine of the Holy Quintet faith, the predominant religion in the continent of Causacea.

Highborne: Members of the nobility or the nobility in its entirety. Also loosely associated with the rich.

Smallborne: The social opposite of highborne.

Bond: A willing bondservant to any member of the nobility who swore an oath to do so in the name of the Holy Quintet.

A Requiem From Winter Past: Chapter 2

AGE WARNING:

This work is one of dark nature. If you're below the age of 16, then you're better off reading something else. I don't profess to follow the rules of my country where only foreigners like G.R.R Martin and Miura Kentaro can write dark fiction.

A Requiem From Winter Past

~The Wolf, Lion, And Maiden Fair~

(Written by Cocteau L'Enfant Naturel)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2-The Lion And His Dream

"A dream is made of two things: The sweetest nectar and the most bitter truth."
~Araea eos Clochneid

)0(

Rhian Morris is clearly annoyed, a shout as loud as a lion's roar sending a jolt through his heart and into the head. Just when everybody was sound asleep, the greatest idiot alive shattered their peace. A forceful grip pulls the dreamer off his bed, his object of wrath sprawled face-first on the wooden floor. Greeted by sapphire eyes wide open, every recruit sends his glowering regard to a sandy blond of average looks.

“Erm... it's a dream, no?”

Cale Ryvers gives a sheepish grin, his brown shorts and a white collarless shirt mirroring what the rest are wearing.

“You're obviously having a nightmare,” snaps his closest friend with a growl and grimace, his fiery hair a reflection of anger. “To be straight, I don't give a flying shit on why you're screaming like someone shafted by a ten-foot pole. But for the love of the entire Holy Quintet, don’t wake us up!”

“Did I really scream that loud, Marv?”

Running a hand through his cropped blond hair, Cale’s question becomes the fuel feeding a simmering fire of annoyance.

“If a mutt can't bark, it’s not one.” snarls Marvas Creek, his hands seizing Cale by the front of his shirt, “You better pray our bunk officers won't end up hearing a stuck pig screaming. Ever wondered how the gods judge an annoying moron?”

For the first time in his life, Cale feels like a swine ready for slaughter. An image conjured itself into his mind, countless knives stuck in his body playing a macabre game. For some reason, castration feels like a better option.

“I get the picture.”

“The picture of a stuck pig.”

With a retort, the redhead cursed with a history of being an accomplice in every misdemeanour silently prays for a miracle. Despite being one to scoff at the idea of divine intervention, Marvas already accepted this to be the only solution to Cale’s buffoonery.

“Why are all of you standing here?”

A question hollered cuts swiftly into every listener’s ears, its impact a beacon of warning. Fifteen lads hastily stand in ranks of three before their bunk officer, his sturdy frame decked in padded armour.

“Marvas Creek and Cale Ryvers! Why are you not standing at attention?”

“Sorry, Sir! We’re way too engrossed in teaching our friend a lesson on how civilisation works.”

Grett Mains shakes his head in amusement, taking charge of the infamous Fifth Unit is either the greatest joke or cruellest jest. Granted troublemakers belong to the minority, but seasons in the military taught the brunette fighter how to be a pragmatist. A few rotten apples are enough to spoil a crateful, let alone a unit of living absurdities among an army.

“You're crazy beyond cure, Marv! Why mention civi...”

A slap across the head cuts short Cale’s response, Marvas is in no mood for mercy.

“Shut up! You'll get us all shafted.”

Delivering a wry smile conceived by well-humoured nature, Grett Mains doesn’t have to be a genius to know the answer. Cale Ryvers has developed a notorious reputation ever since he assaulted a judge and an acquitted rapist on the same day, an iron stick his weapon of choice.

“It’s only natural for people to have nightmares.”

Exaggeratedly clearing his throat, Grett continues his speech.

“But no more heroics! The Fifth Unit’s reputation isn't everybody’s fault, but I also know any member of the minority has a tendency to beat up rapists and figures of authority. Understand me, laddie bucks?”

The youths under his charge sing a song of relief inside, the jaws of Seven Hells finally giving up the chase. They could have easily been done in ten times over, each individual making a mental note to buy himself a carving knife in case an idiot decides to do something shocking again.

“Listen up! With all things said, prepare yourselves for the roll call. Dawn is nearing, may the roar be with us! Understand?”

With his proclamation done, a grinning Grett Mains sweeps a right hand dramatically across.

“Yes, Sir!”

Grett leaves the bunk as vigour makes its premature entrance, every resident’s need for slumber lost. Random chatter soon supplants every pair of bleary eyes, no exception is seen.

“It's a good thing to have nice bloke Grett as our bunk chief. Definitely luckier than me playing buff poker with those idiots from Wearsor.”

“You hypocrite. When was the last time a cretin beat up an intelligent person from Wearsor or Tynis?”

“Last week? Or was that last month? You need to tell me, Marv.”

“Cale Ryvers, I swear you’re asking for…”

Before Marvas can finish voicing his thoughts, the morning bell tolls. Anticipation washes over Cale, his passionate grin worn like a badge of pride. The sandy blond cracks his knuckles, inner fire coursing inside. He spent four rigorous seasons in the Mersey academy, the life he badly wanted begins to unfold. This is the prologue to a hero's tale, the beginning of a story. The bathhouse is to be his next destination, the banner of Lionian Brethren emblazoned inside mind and heart.

)0(

Breakfast is a fare of eggs and toasted bread, the weekly addition of bacon something all anticipate the next day. Officers and recruits dine alike, their seats placed side by side. Regulars steer clear from such practice, for this is an act earning scorn. They call it a rarity, an insult to the military. The Lionian Brethren would have none of it, their penchant for causing the occasional trouble always appreciated by the smallborne. Arrests beget only confinement worth a week or two, things used to be worse before new laws prohibiting vigilantism were enforced. They belong to the smallborne more than any other Hallenian, status and rank can burn in the Seven Hells for all they care. Peddlers of rumours whisper at times the Emperor is unwilling to rein them in, a laughable tale since Antios III is known as the Iron Yew for a reason. Their motto would always stay unchanged, an obnoxious insult to the rich and elite: Never the merit of blood, only the merit of pride.

“Not bad at all given that I've tasted shit before.”

With a quip and an off-tune whistle, Cale’s plate is cleared and returned.

“This isn’t Tynis where not even the Holy Quintet know what their cooks are smoking before lighting the stove,” chuckles Marvas, his foul mood dissipated. “There's a bit of time before we gear up, so why not a little bant?”

“I agree. Beater and...”

Cale Ryvers promptly receives his due for outspoken enthusiasm, a punch across the back of the skull his reward.

)0(

“Are you thinking with your arse?” snaps a wrathful Marvas, his red hair ruffled in frustration. “Who told you to out ourselves? Do you even know what that nickname means?”

“Calm down, Marv!”

“I suspect the only way for me to do that is to roast you alive. I know Cale Ryvers is Beater, but are you so obsessed with letting the entire Teslaide know my nickname?”

"Erm… yes? You’re good at pleasing girls and Elys is one."

“You should've accepted Adarl's request for marriage when you got the chance. Shaft her and at least you won’t leave this world pathetically. A right shame she made that offer when we’re too young to beat people up.”

“Adarl?”

“Yes, Adarl. Anything wrong with my cold hard truth?”

With eyebrows raised and a question asked, Marves’ annoyance increases an irate tone.

“That pretty serving girl at Uncle Chard's inn?”

“Not just an ordinary idiot, huh?” sighs the redhead, exasperation wearing him down like an insatiable lover. “You blind arsehole, which Adarl are we talking about? Yes, I did see that beautiful girl. Slim and surely a looker. A pity she got a small stack.”

“Well, that’s Adarl.”

"Are we talking about the same person, you retarded bastard? You better don't tell me a different Adarl took your virginity."

No sooner a sardonic barb left his lips, shock dawns upon Marvas Creek. Realisation seizes him, a gaping look revealing something he'd rather die than admit to. If there's a unique trait in Adarl everyone knows, it'd be a mole below her eye as if it's more of a teardrop than a birthmark.

“Wait a holy moment, please don’t tell me…”

“I was about to tell you I saw her last month during our final trench leave!" grins Cale with a victor’s look, his mischievous smile feeding the redhead a massive slice of humiliation. “Can you believe she recognised me first?”

I must be hearing things... I must be hearing things. Seriously, that stick-thin ugly duckling Adarl?

“Oh and one more thing, Marv. I didn't shaft her. Not in the past and not recently.”

)0(

The Empire’s underbelly is never for the weak and ignorant, there are always more than a few dark corners and alleys. Ominousness cast itself over every lane, many robbers lie in wait. Smugglers haggle brazenly with buyers, no tavern is a stranger to the darkest sins. Fittingly so, such a place is known as a nether district. This is where money and power speak the loudest, a place where ruthlessness reign.

“So how’s the business?”

No woman should ever be comfortable before lecherous leers, yet not a finger is laid on Adarl Tayne. Unlike its counterparts, the Coral Sea would not hesitate to throw out patrons guilty of starting fights or worse. Tales of barmaids raped are common, its keeper not interested in adding one more name to an unwanted list.

“Closing by autumn. It's a good thing I was informed before you decided to risk your body.”

Why Lukas Broun would ever wind down a successful business is anyone's guess, for the Coral Sea's intolerance towards lawlessness is always the most attractive draw. Not every patron has the hobby of strangling his neighbour, violence is only enjoyable to those not at the receiving end.

“Tell me what you know about Cale,” says Adarl as she sips her drink, an offer of hospitality on the house. This is no ordinary brandy, her experience in discerning taste recognising it to be of Histalonian craft. Assuming Lukas was being truthful, only the gods know how he manages to secure his stock constantly. Not all things expensive is good, but at least a good drink is bound to cost significantly more.

“Me? Why always me? You should be asking those more righteous than a knave.”

“I just need to know what happened between the two of you four seasons ago.”

“Let me assure you Cale is my friend,” answers Lukas, a smirk and wagging finger taunting Adarl. “Unless he desires it, I'm not going to get him into trouble. Let alone myself.”

“I heard that place was where the village of Redcart used to be. He could have asked Marv along, but he didn't.”

Adarl’s reply and expression tell the same tale, there are things the willowy brunette has to know. She witnessed before another Cale Ryvers, someone resembling an animal of justice instead of that clueless boy holding her heart captive long ago.

Lukas starts laughing aloud, the attractive lad courting more frustration from an equally attractive lass.

“Which means he trusts me more than his best friend? A good thing Marvas Creek isn't around to hear you say that. He’s a decent brawler. Unfortunately, he’s too honourable to understand fights are mostly won through a knife in the gut."

“Marv injured himself.”

Her composure fraying faster than an arrow loosed, Adarl is in no mood for pointless talk.

“An amusing accident involving a tree. He shouldn't have done something stupid to impress Elys,” replies Lukas, his mirth the answer to Adarl’s retort. “She'd still warm his bed willingly for the night, stupidity or no stupidity.”

Tell me what's going on back then for the Holy Quintet's sake!

“Cale wanted to confront his past. A past which he has no idea about.”

His visage turning sombre with a sigh, Lukas leans against a shelf of liquor bottles.

“But if he can't...”

Dismissive wave cutting off words of concern, Lukas caresses Adarl's chin much to her disgust. She has never taken a liking to Lukas Broun, her disdain nothing to do with his preference towards men. He is always one step ahead of the rest, his hand never revealed until the time comes. The owner of Coral Sea is a master plotter, Adarl holding no love for tricksters and swindlers after the manner of her cousin's suicide.

“Everyone has a past. You too as well, Adarl Tayne. Remember how you're taunted for being too stick thin and ugly? You have truly blossomed. Apart from your breasts, of course. That's a compliment, not an insult. There's no such thing as perfect beauty."

“I don't see the relevance,” says Adarl, her frustration snapping at its target.

“Yes, there is. Some choose to forget and others choose not to let go. We're all like that. This is why you choose to love a man regardless of whether he loves you back or not.”

Chagrin consumes Adarl, her palm ready to strike. Before the slap begins its attack, however, Lukas grips her wrist, his deceptive strength forcing her to give up.

“Then there's our common friend forced to forget and cursed with the urge not to let go.”

Lukas releases Adarl's hand as he finishes his statement, his confidence in her not striking out justified.

“Did you two discover anything?”

With a curt reply, Adarl concedes defeat. Then her eyes stray towards a male patron, a grinning sober man attempting to force himself on one of the serving girls.

“Nothing.”

Without warning, Lukas strides towards the offender with a dagger drawn. A left-hand grip grabs the fool by his face, a knife swiftly buried into the neck.

“My work is never done. Can someone please take out the rubbish?”

Returning back to Adarl’s view, Lukas tosses another knife upwards and catches it by the tip.

“I have nothing against excited men, but not in my own backyard. So where did we stop?”

With those words, he plunges the blade against the counter table.

“You didn't ask why I'm interested in Cale's past.”

A question posed masking the intent to test, Adarl’s move is nevertheless detected by Lukas.

“That's because I don't care who he marries so long she can keep an eye on him. I owe him a debt, but I don't expect myself to be worthy of repaying that lion of a man.”

“What debt?”

“Does it really matter? We don't share the same bed, but I know the two of you will. Mind you, my informants are everywhere.”

)0(

“You can’t touch me! I am under protection!”

Cale didn’t blink in front of someone clearly in hysteria, whether or not an acquitted rapist should be protected wasn't his business. The sandy blond went to the Imperial Zoo once, maybe someone should feed a dastardly dog to a hungry beast.

“Stop it, Cale. Bastard’s not worth your time.”

"Well, he's not worth yours as well, Brouno."

If there’s anything he understood, it would be those murmured words. If he wanted something done, he’d get it done. If someone could get away with rape and branding a witness a lying whoreson, this very witness could also get away with what he’s about to do.

“Cale, you hear me? Do it and the law will go after you!”

Getting sick and tired of people telling him about the law, the being of wrath wondered how the good old days were like before he was born. Changes to the law could not be denied, but it didn’t mean people shouldn’t be tossed into the River Tes so long no one stepped forward. Marvas was yelling for nothing, Lukas’ advice wouldn’t work on him. Cale took down a self-righteous judge less than a day ago, the worth of integrity was never something to the arrogant.

“I am protected by the law!”

This was surely the most laughable statement Cale had heard, was it the law of the gods or the law of men? Perhaps both were one and the same? Cale Ryvers was never the religious sort, maybe even someone who never believed in higher powers in the first place. Questioning the existence of deities was always a pain in the arse, the sandy blond concluding no time should be wasted on something without an answer.

“Tell me... tell me how many girls you have shafted.”

The scoundrel’s face froze on the spot, a sight worth more than a sea of precious gems.

“How many?”

Anger boiled inside Cale as he interrogated a criminal, the enforcer understood only the rights and wrongs in the purest form. If that fellow believed what he did is funny, it meant he’s waiting to be shown a real comedy. Letting go of the iron rod, Cale’s gesture was not one of mercy. Given a choice, he’d prefer murder. But there’s a promise waiting to be fulfilled with Irlia, he couldn’t risk it all for the sake of injustice served.

“Well, you know what people say about retribution?”

If Cale must recall any lesson learnt from his uncle, it’d be that righteousness is a god who always wins. He rued not making a wager with Marvas Creek and Lukas Broun, he was absolutely sure this person would be rendered impotent by the end of everything.

“No!”

Seeing an arsehole scream was one thing, seeing him blacking out was something priceless. This was the best part of his life and given a choice, Cale Ryvers wouldn’t trade this moment for anything else apart from Irlia's hand in marriage.

“Oh my gods! Parkyns’ lad killed him!”

“Pah, that bastard! Who cares?”

Even though there was no way to prove it, maybe the gods were real after all. Cale did not know these two old men, but he knew the meaning behind an approving grin. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, relief overtaking Cale upon knowing who.

“Moron! What if you killed him? Trading a scum for jail, who’s your classroom teacher by the way?”

“It’s not as if he's dead. So keep calm, Marv.”

It’s not the end, it’s not over. Either Cale would throw that lawbreaker down a well or he’d just keep on beating him, that's why an iron stick was pilfered from his uncle’s forge.

“No, Cale. That’s enough! More of it and he will really die.”

Lukas’ sharp tone held Cale in his place, perhaps it’s down to the ability to reason and winning as a result. Marvas was far less an idiot than Cale, a fact they acknowledged. But if there could be someone convincing another what’s dead was actually alive and what’s alive was actually dead, no one did it like Lukas Broun. Then the brunette smiled, it was as if something good was happening or it already happened.

“Guess he lost control of his bladder.”

“So how are you going to clear up our retarded friend’s mess, Luk?" queried Marves, his question marked by a shrug. "First the judge, now him. I don’t mean the pissing part by the way.”

“I’ll make sure he lives. And while I’m at it, staying noiseless as well.”

)0(

“So how fared your source of information?”

There is no difference between days ago and now, the attractive elf still has his silvery blond hair slicked back and tied. Caressing his elongated ears flippantly, this is a figure of unflappable confidence and eerie calm. His maroon doublet worn over a white shirt is secured by a silken sash, trousers and leather shoes completing the look.

If there is anyone Adarl detests most in dealing with, it's never Lukas Broun. At least there is a predictable factor in him, namely his friendship with Cale. This other individual is a different kind of monster altogether, for his emerald eyes never betray a trace of emotions while smiling like a cunning rogue. Before their first meeting, Adarl already knew how elves looked. Hauntingly fair and aloof, each always places a hand on the handle of a weapon as a show of force. No one tried asking them the manner of their business, such has been the fear they command. More often than not, a passing banter involving elven women would result in a life mysteriously gone. The speaker's tongue was never to be seen again, a dagger wedged between the victim's shoulder blades.

“I have a request for you, my fair lady. In return, I will tell you something you want.”

Edeaux eos Nimhein seized the initiative, his style of negotiation unbecoming of the Homm'Nua. For they are a people preferring the direct approach, their pride a stumbling block. He introduced himself as a seafaring merchant from Histalonia, his words not entirely false. For where he hails from is a land of money, status, and power, a place of skulduggery with no reprieve for the weak and tardy.

“I know you desire a certain man. I also feel the same for another. My informant told me both parties know each other as friends. I need you to check on him. Ask away any questions in your mind before him and I shall see to it that you will be well rewarded for your efforts.”

“He's fine,” says Adarl, her wary brown eyes focusing on the surroundings. Knowing anyone capable of preventing deplorable men from doing their worst can easily be the same kind of brute, the fact this Histalonian kept his end of the bargain holds no meaning. Her safety was indeed guaranteed, but she didn’t expect Lukas to wait for her a few miles away from the nether region. Something wasn’t right with the situation, Lukas warned her not to trust a snake while escorting her to the Coral Sea. When questioned, he merely murmured something about choosing between an adder’s venom and a viper’s poison.

“Why should I give you a new home in one of my many bordellos? You are a fine maiden, but I have a better one in mind. Here in Teslaide, no less. No offence intended towards your bosom.”

Edeaux’s smirk never loses its curve, his relaxed posture is one of a feline waiting to pounce.

“Fine then. As promised…”

Laughter from the elf interrupts Adarl’s words, his reply cutting short her statement.

“There is a hidden orphanage in the ruins of Redcart. Hidden because a forest now stands upon where a boy’s lost childhood used to live. A small patch of land from my best of knowledge, no more than a few acres by my estimation.”

“They say it's haunted.”

The speaker is not Adarl, the voice all too familiar to both listeners. A slim figure dressed in bartender's garb greets them both, his androgynous features bringing slow applause from Edeaux.

“Ah, all hail the one whom I brought up.”

“Spare me your pompous greeting, Serpent. Adarl, please leave here at once.”

Lukas’ blue eyes of anger catch a quavering Adarl off guard, the daughter of Chard Tayne knows trouble is nearing. As she turns her back on the two, Edeaux's message manages to reach her ears, the clarity akin to a king's herald announcing his liege's coming.

“If you see either a red-haired maiden or her dark brooding knight, it means you are on the right path. Make sure the damsel is Ciras and her guardian Kain.”

)0(

What the Seven Hells?

This dream again?

How many times I’ve been through this?

I'm standing in the middle of this blizzard again. Everyone... everyone is dead. Some of them look familiar, but I don't know who they are. The rest are just strangers. There's this girl with her head cut off, the colour of her hair is like the reddish snow.

Do I know her?

“Can you keep up with me?”

I hate that voice without knowing why. His emotionless tone makes me feel like punching him.

Part of myself says this fellow is responsible, but the greater half of me denies it. Like always, he's dressed in dark green and a brown leather vest. Grey gloves reach below his elbows and his boots are knee-high. Then there's this bloodstained sword in his hand and a grey cloak flapping wildly towards one side.

My legs are numbed even though I don't feel the cold. My vision is blurred without the pain. My joints are already stiff, but my fists remain clenched.

“Can you keep up with me?”

Same old question from the same old arsehole. A fire flares up inside and its warmth rouses me. Its presence reminds me of something... something which I can't remember. Bloody Seven Hells, going back to Redcart really made me and Brouno looked like a pair of running idiots going after a prize that wasn't there.

Sky blue eyes, long ears, and brown skin… that’s a look I'll never forget. His hair is fairly short and parted to the side, but the rest of his face remains a blur. You better try keeping up with me instead, bastard!

I start running after him. There’s no way I will lose. There’s no way I can lose to him! Surely I can keep up with him. Definitely, I will…

)0(

Glossary

Holy Quintet: The collective name of the gods of the Causaceans' official religion. There are five of them in total. Namely, the Father, the Planter, the Warrior, the Learner, and the Juror.

Wearsor, Tynis, Mersey, Teslaide: Four of the ten northern regions of the Hallenian Empire.

Lionian Brethren: The only militia officially recognised by the Empire's central government. Based in the northern regions and restricted within the boundaries as well.

Bant: An informal word for banter.

Shaft: An informal term for having sex.

Trench leave: Any period of leave given to members of the military.

Imperial Zoo: One of the numerous parks in the Hallenian Empire where animals and birds are held in captivity for the people's viewing purpose.

River Tes: A major river in the northern regions irrigating the lands of Teslaide, Tynis, and Wearsor.

A Requiem From Winter Past: Chapter 1

AGE WARNING:

This work is one of dark nature. If you're below the age of 16, then you're better off reading something else. I don't profess to follow the rules of my country where only foreigners like G.R.R Martin and Miura Kentaro can write dark fiction.

A Requiem From Winter Past

~The Wolf, Lion, And Maiden Fair~

(Written by Cocteau L'Enfant Naturel)

Chapter 1-The Wolf And His Answer

“A wolf knows best every man.”

~A common sellsword saying

)0(

The merchant caravan attacked hours earlier was doomed to a certain voyage, its journey pointing towards rape, murder, and despair. Fools were meant to be fodder for the strong, a sea of blood with severed heads, torn limbs, and enslaved women defiled.

All knew this foulest race to be notorious for their raids, they called his people cursed without value. Cowardice was the only trait rivalling their merit of strength, such a statement was nothing more than slander. A rally in numbers always worked, but only if they're sorely pressed. Such was the orcish pride, surely this misperception had to be the greatest insult given to the Homm’Ogr. For they were the first of the Second Races, not the Homm'Terr.

If baleful leers and lustful loins were his people’s finest weapons, this was because these damned Terrans deserved it. Their ancestors were tricked, their forefathers were driven from an inheritance belonging solely to them. Eye for eye and tooth for tooth, it’s a cowardly deed and an act tantamount to treason to leave their whores untouched. Orcs were never short on pure-blooded females, yet nothing satisfied the males more than slavery and breaking their captives' resolve. Force a swig of childsbane down the throat and they'd sell for good money, for the black ones from the south were never too greedy for profit. As for the womenfolk, staying silent wasn’t an option when it came to showing support.

Then that thrice-damned demon appeared before him and his brothers, a plaything and a sheep wandering towards the doors of an abattoir. Flay him, roast him, feed him to the beasts, and give his entrails to the birds.

Those were their final words, weapons were flashed. Blood was spilt, a storm accompanying the slaughter. Forty orcs went against a lone intruder, only one victor was left standing tall. Eyes of scarlet red revealed a living deity called Death, this was a monster hailing from the Great Conqueror's realm. It had to be so, for why else would he be capable of terrifying feats befitting of a god?

The unbridled power and absolute chaos was the true meaning of terror, a rampaging force leaving in its wake a trail of blood and guts. Fear annihilated Bork’s mind, only one question remained as plain as life and death.

Flight or fight?

Bork chose flight.

)0(

Petals of white swirl above, a lone figure seated on a rock cast his cerulean gaze onto the sight below. In his hand is an elven sabre, the blade sheathed and rested upon his shoulder. An everlasting breeze caresses his long hair of unblemished snow, a long coat dark and blue hugs his torso. Lean in form yet muscular, his fair elven features contradicts the fact he is not. The full moon is a portrait worthy of astonishment, a sphere of azure blue hanging on the evening wall. A placid lake is ever before it, a mirror below a hillock of green. It is a world beyond that which the living tread, a realm where Order holds absolute sway.

From men to beasts and back again.

A place both primal and tamed.

Ruins rebuilt and ruined again.

From one end to the other, the cycle stays.

This is the verdict Aor proclaimed to a world he is looking at, poetry pronounced without disdain or judgemental glee. This is a crucible of dross burnt and metals forged, alas gold and silver do not last. Even the finest steel shall be melted, what is destroyed will never return. What is waiting to be created would always be conceived, the fate of living mortals no different from unliving ore. As for the watcher, he is uninterested in these things.

Only one is his object of observation, the Lake of Swords showing what he wants to see and know. The orcs are nothing more than hulking green creatures, each one’s visage two-thirds a man and one-third a beast. A scene of slaughter and rape is unveiled, neither righteous repulse nor sadistic joy enters his heart.

Then the moon takes on a crimson shade. From lighter red, it swiftly deepens into a bloody hue. He is coming, surely the cub will arrive. Aor counts the current victims lucky, for there are always those who lived long enough to see evils greater than the first.

)0(

Every nocturnal life senses the heavy breathing, their sights staying clear from the running orc. Beasts and birds alike ignore panic and fear, for life is worth more than running things. Utterly shaken by a monster, the lone orc curses the day he did something stupid.

Why did he take the dare? Why did he attempt the first strike?

“Daynjer pas, daynjer pas nau oraydee…”

As his stamina collapses, Bork pauses to draw a breath. It’s one of relief, a moment of respite. The monstrous spectre still looms large in his mind, but at least part of himself has returned. Safety should be sure by now, whatever distance covered far enough for comfort.

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

Bork knows there’s a time for curses, a time for seeking allies. Peering to his left, a trail of red smoke reaching the sky means one thing: This is no travellers' camp but an encampment fortified by his other brothers. Bork will tell them what happened. Surely Bork's brothers 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 the Infernal's realm with elven sorcery!

A rustling sound sows terror inside Bork, his heart racing like that wrug he first rode during his rite of passage. Chilling fear seeps into his spine, it is countless times worse than the excruciating laceration left behind by that unamused animal. In the end, the only sight greeting him is a fox pursuing its prey.

“Stoopit rabitses, stoopit fuxes...”

Five parts annoyed and five parts inflamed with lust, Bork makes up his mind to vent his anger on any unfortunate elven whore within eyeshot. If one cannot be found, a hapless Terran bitch will suffice. Drinking, killing, and shafting, such is the life of every powerful individual. Self-revelry abruptly gives way to fear, its grip a wolf sinking its fangs into an unlucky prey's jugular.

Bork slowly turns around, his heart galloping faster than its previous race. The inevitable heralds its arrival, a hooded figure in full view. Crimson eyes tainted with murderous intent reciprocate a horrified stare, merciless steel slicing into his chest. Tendrils of blue coursing along the blade, a searing pain explodes from within. Darkness reigns as king, a blanket of black consuming Bork's final spark of life.

)0(

Modest to many but famous in every bounty hunter’s eyes, this is the reputation given to the city of Lindel. Situated at the tip of a peninsula known as Eagle's Horn, it is protected in part by the much-respected Lionian Brethren. Much respected not because of capability but due to their smallborne status, they are called heroes by many and lowly dreamers by others. The land is shaped like a head belonging to a bird of prey, yet its hook does not curve downward. An eagle or falcon soaring above would perceive something else shaped like a horn, hence its name.  The Hallenian Empire is not without external enemies, the continent of Causacea has seen its fair share of bloodshed. While peace has prevailed for countless years since the Treaty of Deis brokered by the Holy City's founder, raids from orcish bands still occur every now and then. Brigands disgruntled with authority launch attacks against settlements resting at the more secluded corners, their provocation invoking the wrath of an organised military. There are whispered rumours of demons ravaging innocent folk, their only sin trying to earn a simple living. Despite undercurrents of chaos or perhaps because of them, the Hallenian dream has always been a solid rock for society. In times of fortune, meritocracy is both the motivation and right every citizen deserves. Should the woe of conflict arrive, this is a bastion of hope and an altar of prayers seeking a hero. It is said such an ideal is fair and flawless, this is how the Hallenians prosper. Thus their riches surpass that of Teutonia to the west, their dignity never inferior to the Slarvs riding their steeds in the north.

Midsummer sends its greetings, a month’s worth of fest and zest reaches the halfway mark. To the folks of now, it is summer. To those of the past, its name is Samh. To Aeravor, it is nothing more than a page in his drifting years. Children frolicking in shallow pools means nothing to him, the same goes for womenfolk indulging in idle gossip. Dwarven songs ring aloud with every hammer’s swing, he pays no heed to the sound of anvils struck. Occasional sightings of the enigmatic elves go unquestioned by prudent folks, he suppresses the urge to cause trouble. He sees a Histalonian merchant peddling guns and gunpowder, past dealings with an unpleasant schemer comes to mind. How something potentially dangerous like this is allowed unchecked, Aeravor answers with a derisive snort. After all, it’s none of his business if someone receives a pellet between the eyes.

His hand rests upon the pommel of a longsword sheathed, the Edge of Answerer is his solace. He despises a settled life, innocuous words are nothing but a nuisance. All he wants is a bulging purse and enjoyment, be they whores or a nice warm meal complete with ale as fine as a dwarven brew. Slung over the shoulder is a bundle of white, this is his prize and a trophy. He had to lie in wait three days for it, a still form shielded by the trees.

Continuing his silent walk, the sellsword ignores numerous glances cast in his direction. Attention straying neither to the left nor right, a single-storey building finally comes into sight. Bells of copper announce news of a visitor, a mould-plastered wooden door creaks its message. Shedding his cowl and giving a nod, Aeravor gains the attention of a bespectacled old man. As a reward, the mercenary receives a gaping yawn.

“Taking or ending?”

The old man glares at Aeravor, every bounty hunter understands his question. Satisfaction warms Aeravor’s heart, for pushing up another person’s glasses has served its purpose well. As he is about to disclose his answer, a whim enters Aeravor’s mind. Knowing himself better than the rest of the world, the predator within is promptly restrained. The old useless donkey is lucky, for Aeravor chooses not to stab someone whose face matches a mule.

“Ending.”

“Evidence? Target?”

“Marks Hanry.”

Flinging the gruesome package unceremoniously onto the desk, an embalmed head bearing shock and terror greets the astounded clerk.

“That's our man alright,” grins the old man, a wry face and an impressed whistle paying final respects. His retorted question is now forgotten, compliments playing the usurper. “I thought that pretty boy was extremely dangerous even though he still looks like the bitches he shafted.”

“Heard of the Wildebrand and what we do best?”

Not in the mood for prolonged banter, Aeravor nevertheless gives a smirk. Even though he’s doing something for the sake of nothing, he owes no one an explanation.

“Hunting random prey, striking from behind, and killing them in the sneakiest way possible. Can I assume that’s what you did?”

“With his pants down. A pity I failed to impress that pretty young thing.” quips the rugged warrior with an emotionless sigh, the back of his head scratched absently. “Ample stack, but no ample compensation. A shame she ran off before she was impressed.”

“Nice jest, brown man. Reminds me of my youth. You're not going to be popular with the ladies, but the Holy Quintet be damned if you're no whore bait.”

The old man chortles with yellowed teeth bared, his sincere praise ignored.

“What's your name by the way?”

Asking for names is never part of the protocol in the bounty hunting business, this is the unspoken rule. Doing so is asking to die, this is the absolute commandment. Injury and death do have a way of happening, a life by the sword is living in a suit of armour.

“Aeravor. Thanks for wasting my time.”

“You don’t look natural. Aeravor.”

“Money or your life.”

Aeravor starts tracing vulgar words on the desk, his scowl staring at the person seated. Far from being offended by flippant words, the sellsword just wants to get out from an annoying situation involving an equally annoying man.

“You don’t have to be a grumbler like the rest. You’re still young. And I believe you're in serious need of a whore. Maybe one who looks like the pretty little thing you saved from that Marks.”

Puffing his cheeks, the clerk tosses onto Aeravor’s opened palm a leather pouch brimming with crowns. Stashing away his well-earned keep, Aeravor slams the door shut. The resultant boom reverberates in the old man’s ears, a good-humoured smile is nevertheless shown.

Brown skin, long ears, sharp features… guess his elven father did shaft a Tamurian. Doesn’t seem right with that white hair, though.

)0(

Devouring a hearty meal of grilled beef and creamy corn soup, Aeravor casually tosses a golden coin at a waiting boy's feet. Ignoring persistent thanks coming from someone no different from a dog, the Wildebrand continues enjoying his meal. Either weeks or months had passed since Aeravor last savoured a decent fare, the handsome bounty was worth the excruciating wait. How long did he have to lie in ambush? Three days felt like three years to him, this was despite his identity as a Relentless One. He recalls that annoying bitch of a mentor, her lectures telling him how members of the pack should live. No need for good food, great ale, and fine whores to survive, but no one mentioned the merits of hedonism. Alandra was a prude, most likely certain things will never change. Remembering the moment he claimed his kill, Aeravor revels in the most pleasing image: His prey's final look. The more others understand what it means to die, the more they would try escaping from it. There is a sort of humour seen in death when it comes to people, this act of denial is what tickles the sellsword.

“Never a hero and never will be. You remind me of a friend.”

Aeravor’s appetite vanishes, anger engulfing him. Ignoring judgmental glares from patrons and passers-by alike, the ranger turns his back on incessant swearing caused by a wooden stool exiting from the window. Lost to death and time, the man who taught him how to be a Wildebrand remains an undesired phantom appearing at unwanted moments.

)0(

A life defined by the sword and purse is never good, but at least it's nothing compared to the ignominy of being eaten by a bear while fatigued. When it comes to the Relentless Ones, what is due to nurture becomes a matter of nature. All are blessed with physical fortitude beyond measure, but a mind of steel has been that one thing separating him from the rest. Unpleasant memories banished immediately after leaving the tavern, a sullen mood was bartered for a whistling tune. Smiling in public has its disadvantages, but no one would be insane enough to challenge a person armed with a sword. If only the Men of Redmarch could be like them, life would be better. Three-tenths of the reward for whatever information provided was never the best deal, but a bad deal remained better than no deal. In an industry prizing reliability over might, reversing the order is known to get many idiots killed. Intelligence is their strength, the reason behind their status as one-third of the Confederation of Swords.

“At least they told me where that arsehole might strike.”

No sooner than Aeravor’s lips uttering his plaudits, the back of a woman greets his mind. Today is not a good one, the soldier of fortune has seen plenty of better yesterdays. Her song echoes inside a lone wolf’s heart, its lyrics driving a sharp wedge into his mind.

“First day, the children all are dancing.”

“The seed in every womb begetting innocence soon to fade.”

Damning past searing him like a withered tree ignited by lightning, Aeravor lashes out in anger. A yelp is followed by a whimper, his anger satiated through a kick across a stray dog’s jaw. Had that thing tried biting back, the alley wall would be painted red and with splattered parts. Misfortune never discriminates, people and animals are equal in its eyes. A commotion greets his ears, the noise irritating him.

“Whatcha lookin' at? Ne'er see som'un killin' befah’?”

“Murderers, all these people!”

“Do something!”

“You do so then!”

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

Treating the scene with contempt, Aeravor knows no one is better than the other. Apathy is no different from taking a life, cowardice and murder are two scoundrels of the same kind. If quarrels can be resolved with cheap words, he’d like to be everybody’s friend. Sauntering past children wailing over a dead woman, something latches itself onto his shoulder.

“Hay 'u! Talkin' tu u!”

“Want to swallow a sword?”

Vexation briefly replaced by smug satisfaction, Aeravor savours his triumph of venomous wit. The mongrel is barking at a wolf, there can only be one ending for idiocy.

“U got gutz, 'uh? Lemme tell u wat 'appen tu peepez lik' u. See dat byotch o'er dere?”

Bellowing like a frothing swine, a burly man’s wild gestures managed to part a crowd seized by fear. The dead never bothered Aeravor ever since he learnt how to kill, let alone a couple of bawling runts.

“See dat, 'uh? Dat kan bee 'u nex!”

Proving himself to be an annoying son of a bitch barking at the wrong enemy, Aeravor chooses not to betray a spark of burning wrath against an intoxicated whoreson. Why should he concern himself with pointless things? People die, let alone this reeking drunk. Invasive stench unable to repulse him, the Relentless One’s life is destined to be one of icy steel.

“I don't give a damn about you, what you've done, or what whore you prefer. Just drop your pants and pleasure yourself in front of them instead,” growls Aeravor, a snarling visage exposed by a reckless hand pulling down his hood. Formalities done with an obscene gesture shown, he shoves the dishevelled scoundrel with a forceful hand.

“U dar tu tern 'ur bak on mee? Dy lik' ah dawg!”

A dirge sings its tune reserved for the living dead, Aeravor's inner world sends its regards to him. It is a realm of the fiercest blizzard and a frozen lake, its wintry sky punctuated by a howl accompanying the full azure moon.

The Edge of Answerer leaves its scabbard, tendrils of blue reaching from the crosspiece to the tip. Revelling in the sight of crimson red staining his victim's shirt, the Relentless One dealt his first card of the day. All it took was a simple thrust, there's no need to extend his arm all the way. An impaled man booted to the ground, Aeravor spits his scorn onto a fallen foe. Twirling his weapon, its weight, balance, and crackling sound reinvigorate the gleeful beast inside.

“Fuzzy ape.”

A gloved finger beckoning, Aeravor taunts the remaining quartet.

“I don't always kill shit. But when I do, I make sure the job is done.”

“U basterd! U gott'us on'tu u nao!”

Keeping his sight open to the surroundings, the lunging thug is to be Aeravor’s second target. Muddled anger possessing his bloodshot eyes, the swing of an axe is answered by a flick of steel. Stepping to the side, Aeravor's parry was nothing more than an arrogant show. With the enemy’s attack deflected, a wide slash cuts across his throat. Both hands holding the Edge of Answerer after the deed is done, the ranger prepares to raise his momentum with two dead and three alive. Eyes of azure blue narrow against two of them, Aeravor’s back is exposed to a broadsword swung by a deceptively wiry man.

Two glyphs are etched inside the mind, an unseen force triggers. His left hand extended, the Wildebrand reaches out for a quarry’s blade. Blunt force akin to a rock hitting sodden ground greets Aeravor, a shocked fool gapes wide-eyed at a gloved hand stopping his metal blade like a wooden stick.

“A simple trick. A hard left hand.”

One stride forward, a brutal kick against the knee floors a worthless prey. Aeravor senses his accomplices circling behind, a hunter’s sixth sense is never a myth. Contemplating another pointless show of thaumaturgy, the ranger decides against it. Getting bored with a game of blood, the Relentless One whispers to himself enough is enough. Windpipe severed by a mortal blow, his fluid stroke is as swift as the wind. Aeravor turns around sharply, the remaining duo root themselves to the ground. It is not some manner of magic holding them still, it is a maniacal glint burning bright within sky-blue eyes. The suffocating aura is clearly felt, its grip a predator fastening its jaws against a person's neck. Seizing an advantage proffered by fear, Aeravor casually lops off his victims' heads. Two kills for the price of a single slash.

“Lions! The Lionians are coming!”

Leather boots thundering forth, Aeravor finds it amusing no one is left behind to watch the show. Busybodies are made for the living, dead bodies are meant for reality. A phalanx of clowns greets his view, spears lowered for the fight drawing a sneer from him. He fought alongside the finest in this tactic before, they are clearly little boys to the grown-up women of the Ionchis.

Murderous whims have created more trouble, Aeravor expects this much. He could have used the Shroud to mask his form, this is how his kind moves about. Not undetected but under the guise of illusion. Most choose to look human, few others the mask of an elf provided history won’t play the stumbling stone. Aeravor has always scoffed the idea of using it, pragmatism be damned. He is his own man, let others call him an arrogant bastard if they want. Wildebrands value what is practical over all else, for they are meant to be masters of survival. The Relentless Ones do not concern themselves with pointless whims, for their lives revolve only around hunting demons. As for Aeravor, he is both and neither.

Retaining a vicious grin as he prepares to correct his mistake, the Wildebrand pays no heed as a pompous idiot opens his mouth. Once again two glyphs appear in his mind, the second rune identical to that previously used. A gentle breeze touches the soldiers, then a whirlwind roars. Fury tears into every man clad in mail, a force of nature uprooting them from the cobblestone soil. Wails of terror and words of cursing are the music to Aeravor’s ears, laughter resembling the howling of a wolf haunts the violent sky.

The storm finally ceases its rampage, every man’s broken frame a beggar for mercy. Then one of them stands up. Be it his body seen many battles or his god's name Luck, it doesn't matter. The former means said deity has finally deserted its worshipper. the latter would truly prove no gods exist in this world.

“Any last wishes and last words?”

With a question asked and mockery said, the Edge of Answerer begins its descent.

)0(

“Not human... you monster…”

Recalling these final words, Aeravor finds it amusing to agree with the fodder. What’s his name, he asks for no reason. Regardless of the answer, there can be only one ending for stupid people baring their arms against someone like him. Rightfully called the Wolves of Gastony after the Teutonian fief Gastony granted to them, they are called Monsters of the Gods despite being hailed as friends of High King Edmore. The least amongst them can easily slaughter a fully armoured knight, the better ones within a pack can take on two scores of mercenaries. No goat deserves the right to lower its horns and paw the ground, no prey should ever see a predator as anything less than an executioner.

Looking up from beneath the sky cloaked in black, Aeravor knows this as the most beautiful scenery. The crickets are his bards, the mournful howl from a wolf resonates across the vast uncovered plateau. This is a song of solitude, an aria of solace. Perching nearby is a couple of owls, morsels of roasted game tossed at them. Aeravor closes his eyes, a temporary reprieve beckons.

The night is lovely and full of glimmering stars, the moon both crimson and blue in his dream. Sleep is something never considered by his brethren, slumber to him means so much more. Darkness claims him like a mother embracing her child, an inner peace washes over him like an infant kept warm during winter’s harshest hour.

)0(

Glossary

Homm’Ogr: The formal racial title referring to the orcs. This term was more commonly used during the first era of civilisation called the Age of Renown.

Second Races: A term used for humans and orcs. The counterpart term First Races refers to the elves and dwarves.

Homm'Terr: The formal racial term used for humans during the Age of Renown. However, it's no longer in use after the First Races retreated from the current world.

Terrans: A derogatory word by other races used for humans who were known as Homm’Terr during the long-gone Age of Renown.

Childsbane: A poisonous plant in which leaves are used to make potions for abortion purposes while at the same time making the imbiber barren. A common tactic for slavers to sell female captives for a higher price.

Great Children: The self-bestowed racial title of the orcs.

Great Conqueror: One of the two deities worshipped by the orcs, the other being the Infernal. The Great Conqueror deals with every aspect of the orcish culture.

Infernal: The other god in the orcish culture associated with judgement for the unworthy. More often feared than being worshipped.

Smallborne: A term referring to commoners.

Stack: Slang referring to a woman’s breasts.

Brown man: A racist term referring to a person’s skin colour. Variations of this term include black man/woman and yellow man/woman.

Crowns: The highest of the three-tiered Hallenian currency. Crowns are coins made from a gold-based alloy. The other two would be quarts (made from a silver-based alloy) and pence (made from copper).

Tamurian: A race of human beings where physical features include black hair and brown complexion.

Gastony: A fief in Teutonia bordering the Hallenian Empire to the east and Slarvea to the north.