Made in Japan instead of America+some stuff on A Requiem From Winter Past

It's been quite an eventful fortnight or so, isn't it? Here in Singapore, we have events involving guys from both ends of the political divide. Further away from home but closer to the globe, we have the fallout caused by the Barbie movie and 1975 pulling off its very own 1945. Someone mentioned 1975's Oppenheimer as a "white saviour complex". I've already spoken my piece on the messiah complex issue, so I won't repeat myself like a burung kakak tua. However, that moment reminded me of three scenes in FF14 where the Dark Knight job questline is concerned and possibly the most heartbreaking part of Heavensward MSQ.

At the same time, I decided to add some guitarwork done by Soken "he doesn't own SoftBank" Masayoshi since Matty "people are probably calling him a heel now" Healy can play the guitar.

Barbie and A Requiem From Winter Past

It's weird to see what a single blockbuster movie can do for my motivation. So long story short, Barbie has managed to nuke the box office like an Oppenheimer. At the same time, however, criticism came up through the likes of Ben "Jewish, but not from Nebraska" Shapiro and Piers "leftists are probably calling him a piehole now" Morgan. I don't like what I'm seeing here. The attitude displayed reminded me why I was right in saying I'd take my work to Japan if I wanted to get it published. It's not about the argument. It's the attitude. While one may say the other side shouldn't flare up, the question is whether one thing should justify another.

Of course, this comes to the question of storytelling. I didn't watch the movie, and I don't intend to. If there's a movie worth my time in the cinema, it'd be Miyazaki "not from Miyazaki" Hayao's latest work. While it'd only be fair to see The Boy and the Heron to be aired in Singapore, I understand that the world isn't always fair. It's possible the argument of merit would win. But the argument of pragmatism may well be stronger.

Now back to the Barbie (not to be confused with the Malay word for swine). I did go through some of the stuff being said about the portrayal of Ken. For others like me, it can be a legitimate source of depression because it makes one wonder if Alexander Anderson has officially become the monster Alucard is. While I won't recommend Hellsing to others if they can't handle it, the story and characters strongly resemble our world today. To put it in a juvenile manner, it's 404 God Not Found. Thankfully, my mental fortitude is closer to Emiya Kiritsugu than the average Singaporean.

Personally, I don't like the idea of me entering a meltdown. I've seen that happening to others from the left and right. At best, it's not pretty. At worst, it's hypocritical. I don't know how many political pundits can be storytellers, but I know I'm one myself. I mean being a storyteller instead of a political pundit. I don't do the latter because I don't want to die early.

This comes to me looking back at how I did Chapter 2. If others have a problem with what I write, that's because my storytelling brain functions like a Japanese.

It's okay if I'm Japanese. The problem is, I'm not Japanese unless proven otherwise. But facial features-wise, I don't look Chinese. I look more like a Japanese, although I can't say how much. My nose actually looks like a weird mix of Asian and Caucasian if you're to ask me, while my oval facial shape could either resemble a Japanese or Slav. As for my lip volume, I used to think it didn't look Japanese until I noticed it looked similar to a Japanese Youtuber named Shogo. And no, my facial features look nothing like my parents or relatives. My sister is the one who looked the part, not me.

I will only send my work to a local publisher if there's a market for local dark fantasy writers. That genre is exclusively for foreigners. As for the West, I don't want to choose between headbutting the publisher and bending over backwards. The only place for me to go is Japan. But it's not as if my biological dad is a big name in Japan and that he's prepared to acknowledge me in the near future. That'd be weirder than a Japanese guy learning Chinese despite having no use for it in future endeavours (I don't want to speculate whether such a person exists).

Closer to what I'm writing, I'm planning specific naming changes. The places in Hallenia would have a more robust Greek feel. To do this, I had to google Greek city names, both major and minor. Whether I will add a Roman touch remains to be seen due to actual history. As for the characters' names, I may consider whether I can create a closer Anglo-Greek feel. Yes, I know that sounds as weird as the idea of me getting a girlfriend.

The Wolf, The Lion, and The Maiden Fair-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 my country's rules where only foreigners like G.R.R Martin and Miura Kentaro can write dark fiction. At the same time, my responsibility to restrain myself doesn't mean sensitive people won't be offended. I'm a storyteller, but I'm not an activist. For every Meghan Markle, there is a Dazai Osamu.

A Requiem From Winter Past

The Wolf, Lion, And The 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 sure voyage, its journey pointing towards rape, murder, and despair. They were nothing more than fodder for the strong, a sea of blood with severed heads, torn limbs, and enslaved women defiled.

All knew this foulest profession to be notorious for their raids, a people cursed without value. Cowardice was their sole merit, a statement nothing more than slander. A rally in numbers always worked, but only if their backs were against the wall. Such was a brigand's pride.

If baleful leers and lustful loins were his people's finest weapons, this was because these damned ones deserved it. Treachery befell them, an unjust society driving them to be monsters. Eye for eye and tooth for tooth, it's a cowardly deed and an act of treason to leave their whores untouched. Bandits were never short on female companions, yet nothing satisfied the males more than slavery and breaking their captives' resolve. A swig of childsbane forced down the throats of these privileged bitches meant more wealth from the south entering their pockets, for a barren harlot would create fewer problems instead of more.

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.

Weapons flashed with blood spilt, a steely storm accompanying the slaughter. Forty men armed to the teeth against a lone intruder, a victor left standing tall. Eyes of scarlet red revealed a living deity named Death, a monster old wives' tales whispered to be a uladh. It had to be so, for why else would he be capable of terrifying feats befitting a demon?

The unbridled power and absolute chaos were the true meaning of terror, a rampaging force leaving a trail of blood and guts in its wake. Fear annihilated Adril's mind, a question as plain as life and demise asked.

Flight or fight?

Adril chose flight.

)0(

Petals of white swirl above a lone figure seated on a rock, his cerulean gaze cast 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 snow, his coat of dark and blue billowing. He is lean in form yet muscular, and his fair elven features contradict the fact that he is not. The full moon is a portrait worthy of astonishment, a sphere of azure blue hanging on the evening wall. A tranquil 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 were rebuilt and ruined again.

From one end to the other, the cycle stays.

Such is the verdict Iel proclaimed to the world, poetry pronounced without disdain or judgemental glee. The fate of living mortals is no different from unliving ore. It is a crucible of dross burnt and metals forged, where gold and silver last only a while. Even time shall melt even the finest steel, a force ensuring the destroyed never returns. There is no meaning in things, no eternal purpose in this world.

The Lake of Swords reveals what he wants to see and know. A scene of slaughter and rape unveiled, neither righteous repulse nor sadistic joy enters his heart. Each visage is two-thirds a man and one-third a beast, perpetrator or victim. It is not those who are nothing more than bestial husks of their former selves he is interested in, but a monster that is the Chaos Incarnate himself.

The moon takes on a crimson shade, Iel's object of interest entering the scene. Then from lighter red, it swiftly deepens into a bloody hue. Iel counts the current victims lucky, for there are always those who lived long enough to see evils worse than the first.

)0(

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

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

"Danger passed already… danger passed already..."

As his stamina collapses, Adril pauses to draw a breath. It is 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 with whatever distance covered far enough for comfort.

Adril's lethargy warps into anger, a barrage of vulgarities unleashed. Why did he have to suffer this way? First, poverty. Then, ridicule. And now, a uladh which his granny always used as a moral weapon whenever he groped a girl.

Adril knows there's a time for curses and another 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 those like him. Adril will tell them what happened. Surely his brothers and sisters will take up arms. If forty fighters weren't enough, then at least a hundred more can do the job. To the Seven Infernos with uladhs!

A rustling sound sows terror inside Adril, his heart racing like a wild saddleless horse he once rode during a dare. Chilling fear seeps into his spine, an inner excruciation countless times worse than before. Ultimately, the only sight greeting him is a fox pursuing its prey.

"Stupid rabbit and dumb fox. Why don't you make love instead?"

Five parts annoyed and five parts inflamed with lust, Adril makes up his mind to vent his anger on any unfortunate village girl he sees. Drinking, killing, and shafting is the life of every powerful individual. Self-revelry abruptly gives in to fear, its grip a wolf sinking its fangs into an unlucky prey's jugular.

Adril 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 Adril'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 Lindes. Situated at the tip of a peninsula known as Eagle's Horn, it is protected partly by the much-respected Lionian Brethren. Not because of capability but their smallborne status, they are called heroes by many and lowly dreamers by others. The land resembles a raptor's head, but its hook does not curve downward. A falcon soaring above would perceive something else shaped like a horn, hence its name. The Hallenian Empire had seen its fair share of external foes, for the continent of Causacea was not immune to turmoil. While peace has prevailed for countless years since the Treaty of Deis brokered by the Holy City's founder, bandit raids still occur now and then. Disgruntled with authority, attacks against more secluded settlements have invoked an organised military's wrath. There are rumours of demons ravaging innocent folk, whispers rife that their only sin was trying to earn a simple living. The Hallenian dream has always been a solid rock for society despite undercurrents of chaos or perhaps because of them. In times of fortune, meritocracy is the motivation, the right every citizen deserves. Should the woe of conflict arrive, this is a bastion of hope and an altar of prayers seeking a hero. They say such an ideal is fair and flawless, which is how the Hallenians prosper. Their riches surpass that of Teutonia to the west, and their dignity is 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 today, it is summer. Before those of the past, its name was Samh. In Aeravor's eyes, it is nothing more than a page in his drifting years. Children frolicking in shallow pools means nothing to him, womenfolk indulging in idle gossip a mere insignificance. Metallic songs ring aloud from every smith's hammer's swing, no heed paid to the sound of anvils struck. Occasional sightings of the enigmatic elves go unquestioned by prudent folks, his urge to cause trouble nevertheless suppressed. He sees a Histalonian merchant peddling guns and gunpowder, past dealings with an unpleasant schemer coming to mind. How something potentially dangerous like this is allowed unchecked, Aeravor answers with a derisive snort. If someone receives a pellet between the eyes, it's none of his business. Should an idiot try it on him, someone will die. And it won't be Aeravor himself.

His hand rests upon the pommel of a longsword sheathed. The Edge of Answerer is his solace, prayer, and song in a world without gods. He despises a settled life, innocuous greetings a nuisance. All he wants is a bulging purse and enjoyment, be they whores or a nice warm meal with ale as heartening as the finest wine. Slung over the shoulder is a bundle of white. It is his prize, a trophy secured by merit. Three days he spent lying in wait, a still form shielded by the trees.

His silent walk continues as the sellsword ignores glances cast his way. Attention straying neither to the left nor right, a single-storey building finally emerges. Copper bells announce news of a visitor, creaking message uttered from a wooden door plastered with mould. Shedding his cowl, Aeravor gains the attention of a bespectacled elderly man. As a reward, the mercenary receives a gaping yawn.

"Taking or ending?"

The aged clerk glares at Aeravor. Satisfaction warms Aeravor's heart, for pushing up another person's glasses has served its purpose well. Every bounty hunter understands this question: To take is to kill. To end is to get paid. As he is about to disclose his answer, a whim enters Aeravor's mind. Knowing himself, Aeravor promptly leashed the predator inside. The useless old donkey is lucky, for Aeravor chooses not to stab someone whose face matches a mule.

"Ending."

"Evidence? Target?"

"Marks Brekker."

Flinging the gruesome package unceremoniously onto the desk, an embalmed head bearing shock and terror greets the astonished 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. Did you dress as one to stab him?"

"Heard of the Wildebrand and what we do best?"

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

"From the front 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. You remind 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."

Chortling and yellowed teeth bared, the clerk's sincere praise goes to deaf ears.

"By the way, what's your name?"

Asking for names is separate from the protocol in the bounty-hunting business. Doing so is asking to die, for those who live by the sword can quickly feel threatened. Injuries and worse can easily happen, for life by the sword is living in a suit of armour. Such is the unspoken rule.

"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 enraged by flippant remarks, the sellsword merely desires to get out of an annoying situation involving an equally irritating 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 a bemused man's ears, a good-humoured smile displayed.

Guess an elven bloke did shaft a Tamurian. But brown skin, long ears, and sharp features don't seem right with that white hair.

)0(

Devouring a hearty meal of grilled beef and creamy corn soup, Aeravor casually tosses a gold coin at a waiting boy's feet. Ignoring persistent thanks 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 worth the excruciating wait. How long did he have to hide undetected? Despite his identity as a Relentless One, a people no stranger to strength and fortitude, three days felt like three years to him. He recalls that annoying woman of a mentor, her lectures telling him how members of the pack should live. No need for good food, excellent ale, and fine whores to survive. But no one mentioned the merits of hedonism. Alandra was a prude, a fact likely not to 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 will try to escape from oblivion's maw. The humour hailed from an act of denial tickles the sellsword. Why run away from the inevitable if one cannot avoid the truth?

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

Aeravor's appetite vanishes as anger engulfs him. Judgmental glares from patrons and passers-by are nothing as he turns his back, incessant swearing caused by a wooden stool exiting from the window. Lost to the grave and time, the man who taught him how to be a Wildebrand remains an undesirable phantom appearing at unwanted moments.

)0(

A life defined by the sword and purse is never good. Still, it's nothing compared to the ignominy of being eaten by a bear because of fatigue. And Aeravor has heard of such tales to his laughter. To the Relentless Ones, what is due to nurture becomes a matter of nature. Physical fortitude beyond measure is what they possess, but having a natural mind of steel is the one thing separating him from the rest. Aeravor had banished the unpleasant memories immediately after leaving the tavern with a sullen mood traded for a whistling tune. Smiling in public has disadvantages, but no one is insane enough to challenge a person armed with a sword. Life would be better if only the Horde of Redmarsch could be like them. Three-tenths of the reward for whatever information provided was a piss poor deal. A tenth would make more sense. Alas, a terrible deal remained better than no deal. Intelligence is their strength, the reason behind their status as one-third of the Confederation of Swords. In an industry prizing reliability over might, reversing the order is known to get many a moron killed.

"At least they told me where that arsehole might strike."

No sooner than Aeravor's lips murmuring his appreciation, the back of a woman greets his mind. Today is not a good day, and the soldier of fortune is no stranger to a better yesterday. Ji'Yon's song echoes inside a lone wolf's heart, its lyrics driving a sharp wedge within his head.

"First day, the children all are dancing."

"The life in every womb begetting innocence fading."

Damning past sears him like a withered tree ignited. Aeravor lashes out in rage. A whimper follows a bark as he satiates his anger by kicking a stray dog's jaw. Had that thing tried biting back, the alley wall would have been painted red and with splattered parts. Misfortune never discriminates. People and animals are equal before a cosmic force of cruelty. Then 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!"

Apathy is no different from taking a life, for cowards and the murderous are two scoundrels from the same mother. Treating the scene with contempt, Aeravor knows no one is better than the other. He'd like to be everybody's friend if cheap words can solve every evil. Something latches onto his shoulder as the Wildebrand saunters past children wailing over a dead woman.

"Hay 'u! Talkin' tu u!"

"Want to swallow a sword?"

Vexation briefly replaced by smug satisfaction, Aeravor savours a triumph of cutting wit. An inebriated mongrel is barking at a sober 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 since he learnt how to kill, let alone a couple of bawling runts.

“See dat, 'uh? Dat kan bee 'u nex!”

Proving himself an annoying son of a bitch insulting 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 of icy steel. If no one kills that fool today, he will still feed the worms at the appointed hour.

"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 surprising force.

“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 sending its regards to the individual who now owns it. 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, the need to extend his arm never there. Twirling his weapon, its weight, balance, and crackling sound reinvigorate the gleeful beast inside. An impaled man already booted to the ground, the victor's scorn is spat onto his fallen foe.

"Fuzzy ape."

A gloved finger beckoning, Aeravor taunts the remaining quartet.

"I don't always kill shit. But when I do, I ensure it's a job done."

"U basterd! U gott'us on'tu ya nao!"

The Relentless One's senses opened to the surroundings, his next victim a lunging thug. A flick of steel answers muddled anger possessing bloodshot eyes, the swing of an axe deflected. One step aside, Aeravor's parry was only an arrogant show. With the enemy's attack nullified, a broad slash cuts across the throat. Both hands holding the Edge of Answerer after the deed, the Wildebrand prepares to raise his momentum. Jewels of azure blue narrow against two halfwits as Aeravor exposes his back to a broadsword swung by a deceptively wiry man. Two dead, three alive, and five bodies shall adorn the ground.

With two glyphs etched inside the mind, Aeravor triggers an unseen force. His left limb stretched out for a quarry's blade, blunt force akin to a rock hitting sodden ground greets a grinning Aeravor. The shocked fool gapes wide-eyed, 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 helpless prey. Aeravor detects his accomplices circling behind, for never a myth is a hunter's sixth sense. Contemplating another pointless show of thaumaturgy, the Wildebrand decides against it. 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 lightning. Aeravor turns around sharply as the remaining duo root themselves to the ground. It is not some sorcery gripping them but a maniacal glint burning bright within sky-blue eyes. The suffocating aura is all-powerful, a stranglehold akin to 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 one single slash.

"Lions! The Lionians are coming!"

Leather boots thundering forth, Aeravor finds it amusing none is left behind to watch the show. A phalanx of clowns greets his view, lowered spears spoiling for a fight drawing a sneer. These so-called "lions" are nothing more than mewling cats to the grown-up women from the Ionchis. He fought alongside the finest in this tactic before, they being the second third of the Confederation.

Murderous whims begetting more trouble than expected, Aeravor never batted an eyelid. He could have used the Shroud to mask his form, for this is how his kind moves about. Not undetected but under the guise of illusion. Most choose the visage of a Homm'Terr due to their vast numbers from the west to east and south. The fewer rest wear the mask of a Homm'Nua, the Relentless Ones' history with the elves a potential stumbling stone. Aeravor has always scoffed at the notion of using it. Let pragmatism be damned, for he is his own man. Let others call him an arrogant bastard if they want. Wildebrands value what is practical over all else, the chief reason for a revered status as masters of survival. The Relentless Ones do not concern themselves with pointless things, their lives revolving only around hunting demons. Aeravor is both and neither, a wolf part of his kind but not his pack.

Retaining a vicious grin as he prepares to correct his mistake, the Wildebrand pays no heed as a pompous moron opens his mouth. Two glyphs appear in his mind again, with the second rune identical to the previously used one. 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, his laughter resembling the howling of a wolf haunting the 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 a witness to many battles or his god's name being Luck, neither matters. The former means said deity has finally deserted its worshipper. The latter proves that no gods exist in this world.

"Any last wishes and last words?"

With a question asked and mockery sneered, 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. For no reason, Aeravor attempts to remember his name. 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 granted to them, they are called Monsters of the Gods despite being hailed as friends of High King Edmurd I. 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, for no prey should ever see a predator as anything less than its executioner.

Looking up from beneath the sky cloaked in black, Aeravor knows this as the most beautiful scenery. The crickets are his bards as a wolf's mournful howl wolf resonates across the vast uncovered plateau. It is a song of solitude, a symphony of comfort. Perching nearby are a couple of owls, morsels of roasted game tossed at them. Aeravor closes his eyes, reprieve beckoning in the form of rest.

The night is lovely and full of glimmering stars, the moon crimson and blue in his dream. Sleep is something his brethren scorn as meaningless, but 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

Childsbane: A poisonous plant used to make potions for abortion purposes while at the same time making the imbiber barren. A common tactic for slavers where selling female captives for a higher price is involved as brothel owners viewed pregnancy as an unwanted complication.

Uladh: A wraithlike demon which is said to haunt the forests and slay any life in its path.

Smallborne: A term referring to commoners.

Stack: A slang for 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: These are coins made from a gold-based alloy. In the three-tier Hallenian currency system, crowns are of the highest. The other two would be quarts (made from a silver-based alloy) and pence (made from copper).

Tamurian: A human race with physical features including black hair and brown complexion.

 

Homm'Terr: The standard racial term used for humans during the Age of Renown. However, its usage ceased after the First Races retreated from the current world.

 

Homm'Nua: The standard racial term used for elves. In the current Age of Mortals, elves still primarily use it.

Gastony: The name of a fief in Teutonia bordering the Hallenian Empire to the east and Slarvea to the north.