“What is it that you want, lady?” the beggar retorted, his voice tinged with bitterness as he caught the glint of the copper mark hurled at him. His gaze, weathered and worn, met mine with a mixture of weariness and curiosity. I inquired, my tone measured yet tinged with urgency, “Looking for Aron of the south. Know where can I find him?”
He withdrew his weather-beaten hands from the folds of his brown, rugged fabric, revealing fingers gnarled with time. His bushy gray beard twitched as he pondered, the weight of years etched into every crease of his face. “Tavern,” he replied finally, his voice a hoarse whisper laced with resignation. “Where else could he find his clients?”
“And what are these clients?”
“People who want someone to die real bad,” he answered solemnly, his words hanging heavy in the air like a shroud of darkness descending upon us.
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In the dimly lit tavern, amidst the raucous clamour of men indulging in cheap gin and reckless card games, a pungent odour of vomit hung heavy in the air, assaulting the senses and drawing my attention like a foul spectre. Men, their faces weathered by life’s hardships, lounged upon barrels turned makeshift seats, their laughter echoing off the walls as they gambled away their troubles.
“Always had a thing for blondes, you know,” the long-nosed man continued, his gaze lingering on me with undisguised interest. “Dresses in a strange fashion, quite manly,” his mate added, his words laced with subtle intrigue. “That brown vest goes well with her white-loose shirt and that cleavage gives a glimpse of her magnificent tits”
But amidst their crude observations, a voice pierced through the din, cutting through the haze of drunken banter like a knife. A woman, stood against a weathered wall, her eyes flashing with defiance. “My Tits are good too, and you can afford them,” she taunted. “How about borrowing my mouth for 20 copper marks?” she propositioned, her lips curled in a provocative smirk.
Undeterred by the crude jests and lascivious gazes, I turned my attention to the man behind the counter,“Aron. Is he around?” I inquired, my voice steady despite the tension crackling in the air. “No,” came the reply, delivered in a voice dripping with thinly veiled innuendo, I sighed, the weight of disappointment settling over me like a shroud. “When will he show up?” I pressed, my patience wearing thin. “When I am done fucking you. No free questions, pretty lady,” came the brazen response, a smirk playing upon the tavern keeper’s lips.“Halt, you’re going to regret it,” I warned, my voice sharp as a blade.
But his laughter, coarse and mocking, filled the room like a bitter tonic. “It’s more fun when they resist,” he sneered, his arrogance a testament to his folly. I was not being taken seriously, So with a swift and decisive motion, I retrieved a dagger from the confines of my vest, its cold steel glinting ominously in the dim light of the tavern.
Without hesitation, I lunged forward with savage intent, the blade slicing through the stale air with a sinister hiss. With a guttural cry, I drove the dagger into his hand, not stopping until it met bone with a sickening crunch. Blood erupted in a crimson fountain, splattering across the worn wooden floorboards in grotesque patterns.
“You fucking whore!” he roared, his pain a symphony of retribution as he clutched his wounded hand, blood pooling beneath his fingers like a crimson tide. But before the chaos could escalate further, a voice cut through the tumult like a beacon of reason, its timbre commanding attention amidst the chaos. “Gentlemen, calm down in the heat of the moment,” it urged, a voice of reason in a sea of madness. “We should not forget that the woman is perhaps Aron’s guest. I don’t think such a clever being as you are would like to anger the southern death himself.”
And as if summoned by the words of reason, a figure emerged from the shadows, his presence commanding attention despite his understated demeanour. A pale, black-haired man, his features soft and delicate, his eyes alight with a glimmer of intrigue as he regarded me with a curious gaze. “William Buck,” he introduced himself, his voice a low rumble that resonated with authority. “And you?” he inquired, his gaze piercing through the veil of uncertainty that shrouded us. “Gwen Hughes,” I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil that churned within me, my resolve unyielding in the face of adversity.
“Looking for Aron? Are you?”
“I’d appreciate some information,”
“Then grab some ale and wait,”
“Guess I’ll have to serve myself,” I remarked, my eyes lingering on the tavern keeper.
“Not the first time, the last person to shove a dagger in his arm was coincidently from your homeland”
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Consciousness returned to me like a slow sunrise, the world gradually coming into focus through the haze of confusion. Blinking against the glare of snow-dusted trees overhead, I soon realized the chilling truth: my limbs were bound, rendering me helpless amidst a scene of chilling depravity. Around a flickering campfire, five shadowy figures loomed, their faces etched in the eerie dance of firelight. “Hey, Branson, give me my cut,” bellowed a corpulent man with bushy mutton chops, his voice carrying the weight of greed. With a sinister grin, he demanded his share, his eyes glinting with avarice as he eyed the spoils.
Branson, marked by a jagged scar and stained teeth, produced a fistful of stolen gold, a cruel smirk playing upon his lips as he distributed the ill-gotten gains among his comrades. Their eyes turned towards me, their gazes predatory as they contemplated their next move. In the flickering light of the campfire, Branson’s voice cut through the night air like a knife. “Well, Skinny Pete, look at what we’ve stumbled upon. Ain’t she a beauty?” His eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger as they fixated on me, casting eerie shadows across his face.
Peering at me with a twisted smirk, Skinny Pete’s gaze bore into my soul. “Yeah, she’s a looker, alright. That fiery hair of hers is something else.” His tone held a sinister edge, sending a chill down my spine despite the warmth of the flames. Chuckling softly, Branson’s laughter seemed to dance with the crackling of the fire. “You got that right. And did you notice those eyes? Like a couple of sparkling gemstones.” His words were laced with a macabre fascination, as if he were captivated by a rare and dangerous creature. Nodding in agreement, Skinny Pete’s expression remained menacing. “Green or blue, hard to tell in this light. But they sure draw you in.” His voice was low and gravelly, filled with an unsettling intensity that made my skin crawl. As Branson circled me, his movements were like those of a predator stalking its prey. “And that innocent face of hers. Soft cheeks, delicate nose… she looks like a porcelain doll.” His words dripped with malice, painting me as nothing more than a fragile object to be toyed with and discarded.
Leaning in closer to me, Skinny Pete’s breath was hot against my ear. “Hey there, sweetheart. You know, you’re causing quite a stir around here with your charm.” His voice was laced with menace, sending a shiver down my spine as I realized the true danger of my situation.
Wide-eyed and trembling with fear, I pleaded desperately for mercy. “Please, let me go! I haven’t done anything wrong.” My voice wavered with terror, the flames of the fire casting grotesque shadows across my terrified face. Smirking cruelly, Branson’s features twisted into a sinister grin. “Oh, but you have, darling. You’ve caught our attention, and that’s a mistake you’ll soon regret.” His words hung in the air like a death sentence, sealing my fate in this nightmarish encounter amidst the darkness of the wilderness. “What about her?” one of them sneered, a glint of malice in his eyes.“She’s mine first. What else?” Branson declared callously, his words dripping with malice and entitlement.
“But I nearly got killed by the old man while you snuck in and stole,”
“Fine. Skinny Pete, you’re up. He provided a good enough distraction, won’t last long anyway” Branson conceded, his tone dismissive as he delegated his depravity to another.
Skinny Pete, a grotesque caricature of humanity, advanced towards me with a leer, his intentions clear as he began his assault. He downed his trousers, And pinned me down under his weight “Please, Don’t I beg you” I pleaded. But his crude advances were met with unexpected resistance, laughter erupting as his premature climax halted his assault before it truly began.
Amidst the laughter, a sudden interruption shattered the tense tableau, the distant sound of a horse’s neigh heralding the arrival of a figure cloaked in shadows and mystery. With wavy brown hair tousled by the wind and piercing green eyes ablaze with determination, the newcomer cut a striking figure against the backdrop of darkness. light stubble enhancing his angular face.
“Which of you is Branson Straw?” he demanded, his voice carrying the weight of authority. Fear gripped Branson’s heart like a vice as recognition dawned upon him, his trembling voice betraying his terror “I…. I… I am”.
In the blink of an eye, the stranger’s hand moved with the swiftness of a striking serpent, drawing forth his wheel lock pistol with lethal intent. With deadly precision, he unleashed its fury, the gunshot shattering the stillness of the scene.Branson’s world erupted into chaos as the bullet tore through his skull with brutal force. The impact was devastating, a cataclysmic explosion of bone and tissue that rent his head asunder. A ugly symphony of violence ensued as a chunk of his head was obliterated, fragments of his shattered skull scattering in the air.
In the ghastly aftermath, Branson’s left eye, torn from its moorings, flew from its socket, a grotesque testament to the ferocity of the assault. It arced through the air in a ballet of horror before plummeting to the ground, a lifeless orb amidst the chaos.With a sickening thud, Branson’s once-vital form collapsed, his body crumpling unceremoniously over the dying embers of the campfire. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning wood and the coppery tang of blood, a palpable reminder of the carnage that had transpired.
“What a warm welcome” Stranger remarked. As Branson’s lifeblood stained the snow crimson, the rest of his gang stood frozen in shock, their defiance crumbling in the face of overwhelming force. “The price on your heads is not flattering enough to justify your deaths,” the stranger declared, his words a grim promise of mercy tinged with menace. But mercy was a luxury reserved for the deserving, and as Skinny Pete lunged forth in a futile bid for vengeance, his fate was sealed with a single stroke of the stranger’s blade, his life snuffed out like a candle in the wind as he severed his head in one clean cut with his sabre. Time seemed to slow as Pete’s head tumbled through the frigid air, a grim puppet severed from its strings. It landed upon the pristine blanket of snow below with a sickening thud, the crimson spray of arterial blood painting the pristine white landscape in red.
A geyser of blood erupted from Pete’s severed neck with a horrifying hiss, a macabre fountain of life’s essence gushing forth in a crimson torrent. The scarlet tide stained the snow, transforming it into a hellish canvas of death.
With every savage motion, the stranger’s ferocity tore through the air, a tempest of brutality unleashed upon his hapless adversaries. His prowess dripped with the crimson of his victims, their bodies contorted in grotesque agony as he carved through them with unforgiving precision. The stench of blood and fear thickened the air.
As the final echoes of Branson’s lackeys’ screams pierced the night, their shredded forms retreating in a futile bid for survival, One stood and Threw his barbarian sword away “Lets end this without toys” and gestured stranger for an unarmed combat. Stranger raised his fists till his face. As the last bandit closed in on the stranger, he drew out another pistol from the back of his boot and shoved it in his opponents lower jaw and pulled the trigger with a smirk. the shot penetrated through his head, making an exit from his right ear. “Yes I am the one who brings guns to fist fights”.
The stranger’s eyes, ablaze with an unholy fervour, locked onto mine. In their depths lay a chilling blend of dominance and ruthlessness. “What is your name, love?” he inquired, his voice a soothing balm amidst the chaos that surrounded us. “Solveig,” I replied, relief flooding through me like a rushing tide. “Aron” He introduced himself. “Let’s get you home, Solveig,” And as we rode into the night, the weight of fear and uncertainty lifted from my shoulders, replaced by a newfound sense of hope and gratitude. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice barely above a whisper as I clung to him like a lifeline in the storm.
“It’s my pleasure to help,” he replied, his words a gentle reassurance amidst the tumult of the night. “I do enjoy helping women
“So, My Grandpa hired you?” “Well it’s charity, Asger couldn’t pay for it. and nonetheless, Bran had a handsome reward on his head” “Let’s go then” “Wait by the horse while I collect his head”
After chopping the leader’s head and securing it in a sack he helped me mount the horse. I looked at his rapier’s beautifully crafted handle and said “You wield a beautiful blade” “Certainly not prettier than you are” he replied.
As we manoeuvred through the city streets, the rhythmic purr of the horse beneath me provided a fitting soundtrack to the adrenaline coursing through my veins. In front of me sat Aron, his presence adding a touch of intrigue to the night. He was unlike anyone I’d ever met—intelligent, confident, and undeniably alluring.
Glancing over at me, He flashed a grin, allowing just a hint of mischief to dance in his eyes. “Enjoying the ride so far?” My lips curved into a smile, His gaze meeting mine. “Ah.. ye… yes”. He chuckled softly, a rush of satisfaction coursing through him. “Well, I aim to please. Seems It’s thrilling. And speaking of thrills, I wonder what had you racing through those alleyways like a woman on a mission The other weekend.” “You were there?… Let’s just say I had an unexpected encounter with some rather unsavoury characters. I don’t meet knight in shining armour everyday.”
He shot me a playful wink,“Ah, well, what can I say? I couldn’t resist the opportunity to play the hero.”
As we continued our banter, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of exhilaration bubble up within me. There was something undeniably thrilling about Aron.
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“So, William, where is this friend of yours?” Gwen inquired, her voice carrying a note of impatience as she delicately sipped from her cup, her gaze sharp with expectation.“He should’ve returned by now,” I responded, a tinge of frustration creeping into my tone as I scanned the dimly lit tavern for any sign of our elusive acquaintance. Her blonde curls framed her face like a golden halo, accentuating her blue eyes filled with mischief. “You would regret wasting my time,” Gwen remarked, her words tinged with a hint of playful sarcasm as she met my gaze with a knowing smirk. Her sun-kissed tan hinted at adventurous days spent outdoors, further enhancing her vibrant presence. “Believe me, your company is no fun for me either,” I retorted, a wry smile quirking the corners of my lips as I returned her jest with one of my own.
But just as the tension threatened to escalate, the heavy wooden door of the tavern swung open with a creak, admitting a figure cloaked in shadows. With a grace that belied his rugged exterior, Aron strode into the room, his presence commanding attention as he took his place beside me with an air of casual confidence.
“Where were you? The lady has been waiting for you,” I questioned, my curiosity piqued by his tardiness.
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He glanced at Gwen, his gaze lingering for a moment before returning to me with a knowing smile. “I beg your pardon. Solvieg insisted I stayed a while longer,” he explained, “Say no more,” I interjected, a knowing smirk playing upon my lips as I caught Gwen’s eye. “The lady who goes by the name Gwen wished to meet you.”
Aron’s smile widened, a glint of amusement dancing in his emerald eyes as he turned his attention to Gwen. “I was unaware of my popularity among women,” he remarked, his tone teasing yet tinged with genuine curiosity. “I am Gwen Hughes, daughter of George Hughes,”“George doesn’t look that old,”“I am not his blood-related daughter,” “An interesting story, it seems. I am all ears,” Aron replied, his interest clearly piqued as he leaned in slightly, eager to unravel the enigma that was Gwen Hughes.
Aron signalled to the tavern keeper for some ale, the clatter of the dropped mug echoing in the sudden hush that fell over the room. A playful giggle escaped Gwen’s lips as she teased, “Hurry up, mate, ain’t got the day to waste,” her tone laced with mischief as she urged the flustered tavern keeper to serve Aron without further delay. With practised ease, the keeper swiftly poured the ale, his hands, one of which was wrapped in a white cloth stained with blood, trembling slightly as he hurried back to his post behind the counter. Taking a long draught from his mug, Aron leaned back in his chair, the flickering firelight casting dancing shadows across his rugged features. “So, you are not his blood-related daughter. Continue,” he prompted, his voice low and steady as he encouraged Gwen to share her story. “They saved me from being sold to a brothel, it was about nine years ago,” Gwen revealed, her gaze steady as she met Aron’s probing stare. A flicker of curiosity sparked in his emerald eyes as he questioned, “This question might sound weird, but what part of the year exactly?” “Early 713, 10 years ago” Gwen replied, her brow furrowing in confusion at Aron’s seemingly random inquiry. “You are Florish?” Aron pressed, his voice taking on a note of urgency as he sought clarification. “Yes… I… I am,” Gwen confirmed, a hint of apprehension creeping into her voice as she wondered how her origins is known to Aron. “So what brings you here?” “I’ve been sent by my father to deliver his message to you,” “And what might it be?” Aron prodded, his interest keen as he awaited Gwen’s revelation. “You must return and lead the rebels against Harlane. You can’t keep doing that from here,” Gwen declared, her voice firm with conviction as she relayed her father’s urgent plea. “I can’t, at least not now,” “May I know the reason?” “You don’t know?” “I am told what I should know,” “Then you should leave,” “I can’t go back without you,” Gwen protested, her voice trembling with emotion as she pleaded with Aron to reconsider. “I am afraid you’ll have to,” Aron insisted, his resolve unwavering as he drained the last of his ale, the bitterness of his decision weighing heavily upon him. “People are dying for you, and you’re here sleeping around with wenches,”“Well, apart from sleeping with wenches, I have been strategizing our survival and victory,” Aron retorted, his words tinged with bitterness as he defended his actions. “And one such matter that concerns our victory is holding me back.” Gwen sighed “Can I tag along till then?” she asked, her voice softer now, tinged with hope. “Well, can’t think of a reason to deny, eh, Will?” “No, I don’t mind either,” I replied, a sense of camaraderie warming my heart as I stood by my friend’s side. But our brief respite was soon shattered by the unexpected arrival of Novi, his face etched with desperation as he pleaded for Aron’s assistance. As the grim details of his wife’s mysterious death unfolded, a heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the sombre tone of Aron’s voice as he vowed to uncover the truth.
“That certainly is an interesting case, but I have to leave for Mirgrad, and for that matter, I have to visit someone,” Aron explained, his words tinged with regret as he reluctantly declined Novi’s plea for help.
With a heavy heart, Novi departed, his hopes dashed against the cold reality of Aron’s obligations. And as the tavern emptied, we too made our leave, each lost in our own thoughts as we ventured into the night, the weight of unspoken burdens hanging heavy upon our shoulders.
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I had the honour of fighting alongside some of the most valiant warriors the world has ever seen during the bitterly cold winters of the North. Dabenhame Castle was under siege. It hasn’t seen one since the year 661, fifty one years ago.
Emerging from the confines of my tent, I found myself greeted by the hushed stillness of the winter night, where the pale glow of the moon cast a silvery sheen upon the snow-covered landscape. In the darkness, the flickering flames of our campfires danced like restless spirits, their warmth a welcome reprieve from the biting cold that clung to the air like a shroud. Around these beacons of light and heat, my comrades gathered, seeking solace in the company of their brothers-in-arms as they shared tales of valour and camaraderie, their voices rising and falling in the crisp night air.
Among them sat Lord Edward Earle’s firstborn, Royce, His presence commanded attention without him needing to utter a single word. At twenty-five, he possessed a physique that spoke of strength and agility, his stature exuding a quiet confidence that drew eyes toward him. His brown wavy hair cascaded effortlessly around his sharp angular face, framing his features with an air of rugged allure.
Royce’s piercing green eyes held a depth that seemed to reflect the mysteries of his soul, gleaming with intelligence. They scanned the surroundings with a keen awareness, taking in every detail with a sharpness that betrayed his astute nature. But it was the full beard that added a rugged masculinity to his otherwise refined appearance. It framed his face with a sense of maturity, lending him an air of authority that demanded respect. With a sense of urgency weighing heavy upon my heart, I approached him, my footsteps muffled by the blanket of snow beneath my boots.
“My lord, may I have a word with you?”
“Sure,”
As Royce rose from his seat, his squire, Hildred, turned to attend to his master’s needs with a deference befitting his station. “Do you want me to oil your sabre, my lord?” Hildred inquired dutifully.
“Yes, Hildred, please,” Royce answered, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before he beckoned me to follow.
And so, with a sense of purpose driving us forward, Royce led the way to The Camp, where the Sergeant Major Generals Sawyer Hightower, Dalton Westcott, and Gibson Birde awaited our arrival. “Good evening,” Royce greeted them, his voice a solemn echo in the frosty air.
The generals returned the greeting, their expressions a mix of anticipation and resolve as they awaited Royce’s instructions. Pouring himself a glass of Chardonnay, Royce took a moment to collect his thoughts, his eyes scanning the room with a steely determination.
“As you instructed, we focused all our firepower on the western wall,” I reported dutifully, my words punctuated by the clink of Royce’s glass as he took a sip of wine.
“Good,” Royce replied, his voice tinged with satisfaction. “Our enemy’s blood will run cold when they see the most dangerous bald man in Aurreville riding next to me.”
“I am just an old man, old and crotchety,”
Hightower’s laughter filled the room, a hearty sound that echoed off the walls like thunder. “Well, you certainly are grumpy, Sir Axton,” he teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“I don’t think I come even close to my mate, Larry Hightower,” I retorted, in a tone playful yet tinged with a hint of nostalgia.
“And as for the intel from our spy, the enemy is short on men as well as grains. We would easily conquer Dabenhame castle,” Hightower continued,
Royce nodded in agreement, his expression grave as he considered the implications of our enemy’s weaknesses. “So far, there has been no sign of reinforcement from Wylewood. Though bastard Lyndon shares his father’s affection as much as Henry and Edith,” he mused, his mind already racing ahead to the challenges that lay ahead.
“Are you implying that they can stand against us, my lord?”
“I would not rule out that possibility,”
“Our spies are some of the best in Epherus,”
“And their torture methods are some of the cruellest in Epherus,”
“Will you let that stop you from taking revenge and bringing justice to Braith?”
“I’ll never be able to if I let my anger take over my rationality,” Royce replied, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions that raged within him.
Birde fell silent, his expression reflecting the weight of Royce’s words as they hung in the air like a solemn vow.
Before departing, Royce issued one final command, his voice cutting through the tension like a clarion call. “And make sure every man carries a black powder bag with a fuse,” he instructed, his words a stark reminder of the dangers that awaited us on the battlefield.
And as we dispersed into the night, the firelight casting long shadows upon the snow-covered ground, I knew that our path forward would be fraught with peril. But with Royce at the helm, leading us with courage and conviction, I had faith that we would emerge victorious, no matter the cost.
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The next morning arrived like a harbinger of doom, the air heavy with the scent of impending battle. The soldiers, their faces etched with grim determination, ignited the fuses of the cannons that lined the castle walls, unleashing a barrage of fiery destruction upon the stronghold. The once formidable Western wall crumbled to dust within the span of a mere half-hour, leaving the path to victory open before us.
I marched forward alongside Sir Axton, our hearts heavy with the weight of our mission, yet bolstered by the resolve to see it through to the end. But as we breached the castle gates, we were met with a sight that chilled us to the bone: an army of forty thousand stood ready to defend their home, their ranks a testament to their unity and strength.
The Wylewood Army, formidable in their coordination and strategy, had arranged themselves with deadly precision in the narrow alleyways, their formation a maze of death and destruction. With eighty-one men arrayed in a grid of nine rows and nine columns, they unleashed a relentless barrage of gunfire upon our ranks, their bullets tearing through flesh and bone with merciless efficiency.
Our men fell like leaves in a storm, their screams echoing through the chaos as their bodies were rent asunder by the relentless onslaught. Blood stained the snow crimson as the fires of battle raged on, each explosion a symphony of death and destruction that threatened to consume us all.
“Use the black powder!” I shouted above the din, my voice a desperate plea amidst the carnage. With grim determination, our men hurled their bags of explosives into the heart of the enemy formation, the resulting detonations tearing through their ranks like a force of nature unleashed.
As the smoke cleared and the dust settled, we pressed forward, our remaining forces rallying to seize control of the castle. The tide of battle turned in our favour, our swords cutting through the enemy ranks like a scythe through wheat as we fought tooth and nail for every inch of ground.
But amidst the chaos of battle, my thoughts turned to a singular purpose: to find Lyndon before he could escape. Parting ways with Sir Axton, I made my way through the castle gardens, the scent of red roses mingling with the tang of blood in the air.
“The castle has a tunnel,” Cydin Egar’s words echoed in my mind as I searched for the hidden entrance. And there, concealed beneath the surface of the fountain, I found it—a metal loop hidden in the water, its discovery a beacon of hope amidst the darkness that surrounded us.
Following the tunnel into the depths of the castle, I emerged into the kitchen, my senses alert for any sign of my elusive quarry. And there, standing before me like a spectre from the past, was Sir Arthur, the General of Wylewood, his presence a harbinger of impending doom.
“You’ve come to the wrong place at the right time,” he declared, his voice cold and menacing as he drew his gleaming sabre, the silver blade flashing in the dim light of the kitchen.
“Let’s see what Sir Axton has taught you, boy,” he taunted, his eyes glinting with sadistic amusement as he prepared to unleash his deadly skill upon me.
With swords drawn, we faced off against each other, the air thick with tension as we circled each other like predators stalking their prey. And then, in a blur of motion, the battle was joined—a deadly dance of steel and blood that would decide the fate of nations.
But even as our blades clashed in a flurry of blows, I knew that victory would not come easily. Sir Arthur was a formidable opponent, his skill matched only by his ruthless determination to see me fall.
With every strike and parry, I felt the weight of his experience bearing down upon me, his every move a calculated assault designed to break my defences and leave me vulnerable to his killing blow.
But I refused to yield, drawing upon every ounce of strength and skill at my disposal as I fought tooth and nail to survive. And then, in a moment of desperation, I saw my opportunity—a chance to turn the tide of battle in my favour and emerge victorious against all odds.
With a swift and decisive strike, I severed Sir Arthur’s arm from his body, his blood staining the floor as he staggered back in shock and pain. And then, with a final, fatal blow, I ended his life, his body crumpling to the ground in a heap of broken flesh and shattered dreams.
With Sir Arthur defeated, I made my way to the castle hall, where a group of noblewomen awaited their fate with bated breath. Assuring them of their safety, I ordered my men to stand down, their lust for violence tempered by the weight of my authority.
And then, turning to the women, I sought the information I so desperately needed. “Where is Lyndon?” I demanded, my voice a steely rasp as I searched for any clue that might lead me to my elusive quarry.
“He deserted to the northern forest, my lord,” one of the women replied, her voice trembling with fear as she spoke.
“Sir Axton, I’ll be back,” I declared, my resolve unshakable as I prepared to embark on the next leg of my journey
As the dense canopy of the northern forest enveloped us in shadow, the fading light of evening cast eerie shadows upon the snow-covered ground. Our pursuit of the elusive Lyndon and his band of renegades had led us deep into the heart of this forbidding wilderness, where every step seemed to echo with the whisper of unseen dangers.
“We’re chasing ghosts,” muttered Hildred, his voice tinged with frustration as we struggled to find any trace of our quarry amidst the tangled under brush.
But then, a glimmer of hope—a trail of crimson droplets staining the pristine snow, a grim testament to the violence that had unfolded in these unforgiving woods. A wounded horse, perhaps, or a careless misstep in the heat of pursuit.
Following the trail deeper into the forest, we came upon a strange sight—a soft, ethereal glow pulsating in the darkness, casting an otherworldly light upon the surrounding trees. “Ghost!” cried Hildred, his voice tinged with fear as he stumbled backwards.
But I paid no heed to his panicked cries, my senses honed on the source of the light as I sprinted forward, the crunch of snow beneath my boots drowned out by the pounding of my heart.
And there, amidst the swirling mist and flickering shadows, I found them—Lyndon and his band of miscreants, gathered around a makeshift campfire that burned with an otherworldly blue flame. There were five men staring at me as if they’d rip my guts out if left free and one woman sitting on a log with one of the best poker face I had ever seen. The air was thick with tension as they watched me approach, their eyes filled with a mixture of defiance and desperation.
“Surrender, Lyndon,” I demanded, my voice a low growl as I gripped the hilt of my sword, its steel glinting in the pale moonlight. “You are dying either way.”
But Lyndon only laughed, his laughter a harsh echo in the stillness of the night as he drew his cutlass with a flourish. “Let’s see what you’re made of, boy,” he taunted, his words laced with venom as he signalled his men to attack.
And attack they did, their movements swift and deadly as they lunged towards me with murder in their eyes. But I was ready, my blade a blur of motion as I parried their blows and struck back with lethal precision.
The first man fell with a guttural cry, his stomach slashed open to spill his entrails upon the frozen ground. The second met a similar fate, his head cleaved in two with a sickening crunch of bone and sinew. The third lost his leg in a spray of crimson, his screams echoing through the silent forest as he collapsed in a pool of his own blood.
But still they came, their numbers dwindling with each passing moment as I fought with a fury born of desperation and rage. The woman, her eyes as cold as ice, watched from the sidelines, her presence a silent spectre amidst the chaos of battle.
“Son of a whore,” cursed Lyndon as he made his final stand, his cutlass slashing through the air with deadly intent. But I was quicker, my blade finding its mark with unerring accuracy as it sliced through flesh and bone alike.
With a gurgling gasp, Lyndon fell to the ground, his lifeblood staining the snow crimson as his life slipped away into the darkness. And as his body lay still and cold upon the forest floor, I knew that justice had been served, and that my quest was finally at an end.
I gazed upon the woman, a lone figure amidst the chaos, her demeanour a stark contrast to the violence that raged around her. Her poise spoke volumes, a silent testament to an inner strength that seemed to transcend the turmoil.
Raven moved with a silent grace, her lean physique cutting through the shadows like a sleek predator. Her figure, though slender, spoke of strength and agility, each movement purposeful and precise.
Long, straight strands of black hair cascaded down her back like a midnight waterfall, framing her sharp, angular face. Her piercing green eyes, reminiscent of emerald jewels, glinted with a quiet intensity, betraying depths of knowledge and wisdom beyond her years.
Draped in a black cloak that billowed softly around her form, Raven moved with an air of mystery and intrigue. The cloak obscured much of her figure, adding to the enigmatic aura that surrounded her.
Despite the darkness of her attire, there was a striking beauty to Raven that could not be denied. Her features, though sharp and angular, held a captivating allure, drawing the eye with their stark contrast against the pale canvas of her skin.
With a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, I approached her, my voice a hesitant whisper in the cacophony of unrest.
“Madame, may I inquire as to your purpose amidst this chaos?” I ventured, my words tinged with a blend of curiosity and concern.
She regarded me with a steady gaze, her eyes betraying no hint of fear or uncertainty. Seating herself gracefully upon a weathered log, she seemed almost indifferent to the mayhem unfolding before us.
“Would you believe,” she began, her voice carrying a weight of ancient knowledge and hidden truths, “that I was attempting to bestow upon him the gift of immortality?”
I could scarcely conceal my astonishment at her revelation. Immortality, a concept both revered and feared, held within its grasp the promise of eternal existence, yet also the burden of endless solitude.
“Forgive my impertinence, but may I inquire as to your name?” I asked, a newfound curiosity piqued within me.
“Raven Dawson,” she replied simply, her words resonating with a sense of enigmatic mystery. “Folks like me are often called mages.”
I offered my own introduction in return, the weight of my lineage imparting a sense of responsibility to our exchange. “Royce Earle, Firstborn of Lord Earle of Norweth.” ”I know”
“Why bestow upon him the gift of immortality, if such a thing truly exists?” I inquired, unable to suppress a wry smirk.
“He promised me freedom,” Raven confessed, her voice tinged with a hint of resignation. “Freedom to pursue my endeavours in the northern hemisphere without fear of reprisal, without the looming threat of public execution. They burnt an 11 year old for taking interest in alchemy”
“Now that Lyndon is no more, what course do you intend to chart?” I asked, my curiosity piqued by the prospect of what lay ahead.
Raven’s response was as enigmatic as ever, her words carrying the weight of a lifetime’s worth of wanderlust and wanderings. “To wander, as I always have, and perhaps ply my trade as a purveyor of medicinal potions.”
“Seems like you are in luck, our royal medic died of old age a couple of week ago. So, that position is vacant” “Evaluating my other option, I don’t see a harm in that”
As we made our way back to Norweth, the echoes of our conversation lingered in the air, a testament to the bonds forged amidst the chaos of a world in flux. In Raven, I had found a kindred spirit, a soul unbound by the constraints of tradition and expectation. And in her company, I sensed the stirrings of adventure, the promise of a future yet unwritten.