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~
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.
