>
>
> Tiki ti blom… tiki ti blom...
>
> Warm was that summer night, alluring the whispers in the old Shire
>
> Bloody chin ‘n luscious mane over that mesh, reeked o’ falsehood
>
> Cold skin and eh… that porcelain flesh, wrapped in plaguing barbwire!
>
> Two shards of glass fer eyes beneath that raised hood
>
> The slain bride’s lips humming a couplet, to the night’s squire
>
> Break the Vampir’s hold wit wood or fire
>
>
>
> -
>
>
>
> Wood or Fire
>
> (A summer’s night)
>
> Sir Dominique Valwarin,
>
> The Carmine Bard.
>
> Born 45 NC in Jelin, the Crabs (Duchy of Tollor)
>
> – Died 109 NC in Eplas, Altarinport (Duchy of Raoz)
-
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Rhys Vardran
Dar Tulca
Wood or Fire
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
-
image [https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkC6LS1OD4nPsW2d4WsBO_P6OBO_sT0eoS7zWm_lADInusYxFy6VF72lThBctQcrnhpajJupVcCh5kh1SK2Rer4z_ugk3Yyd5z_kDuF9QHhS5kMuw6l7vhKVAhZDOWDCwKcqctVidZ-qNVrQVZZud1FdNO_D7MpcGtXrPtKbH8-Z8IVmfSbWvYS6peD0Q/s2600/Mistland%20%20(known)%20v2.jpg]
Mistland (known territories)
larger image if opened in new page
-
> Doriath O’ Poldorea Nore*
>
> The forested area at the convergence of West Barrier Peaks, Lake Elivorn** and Iser Angren***
>
> The continents of Mistland
>
> A hundred and sixty years before Emperor Ninthalor’s ascension, around 3560 years ago.
>
>
>
> ----------------------------------------
>
> *The strangely-shaped, gargantuan in size peninsulas and land masses hugging the island-continent of Galith beyond the Round Sea. Translated loosely from the Hieratic Aken tongue ‘The cave-lands of the Strong People’. The latter another moniker for the wild Varg race.
>
> **Lake-Black
>
> ***Iron River
>
>
>
> “Whatever lays beyond the peaks?” The solemn Zilan visitor asked the young Aken Zargatoh that stood near him at the edge of the woods. The Aken kept looking at the gently moving tree tops anxiously, the four crude constructs standing twenty meters away and inside the path cut through the woods to secure the perimeter.
>
> And their way back to the large exotic boat.
>
> “The Barren Desert stands beyond the West Barrier Peaks,” Zargatoh replied and Bekare realized they were standing too far into the sun-bathed opening to reach them. The Zilan a difficult to tackle opponent. Unpredictable. Alien. His skills unknown and potentially dangerous for a young Alafern scout. “Empty lands but for the desert spirits and the roaming beasts,” Zargatoh continued, the stitched vertical cuts on his arms leaking fluids and white paint. “But walk a thousand of kilometers times three to the East and you’ll come upon Annas-Kelon, the Long River, and beyond it the demesnes of the Alafern.”
>
> “Ever been there?” The Zilan asked, interest in his voice.
>
> “Dehmaz, Kerbe, Gecataten and Nigbau, o’ Caras-Alafern. The cities of the Undead,” Zargatoh elucidated. “These are not places one visits willingly.”
>
> “Mmm. The fabled portals to the in-between realms are not enough of an incentive for the self-professed most-adept Bonemancer?”
>
> Bekare moved a young branch out of the way to discern his face better, wincing in terrible pain when the strong sun touched her skin. Bubbles forming as it swelled and blackened. She was forced to pull her hurting arm back. Her garbs were fifty meters away, ditched when she leaped to the canopy to avoid detection. Even young or braindead Alafern knew to stay away from the light unless they were shielded sufficiently.
>
> “You can taste and touch them in a vision,” Zargatoh argued with a pained grimace of his own, probably still in agony from the recent demonstration. The fire had alerted Bekare of their presence, as she had been there for a different reason and on a different mission. “To enter fully you must perish first. Lose touch with the realm of the living, who would want to do that? You are as old as the Aken Patriarch but appear healthy enough still. The Bone Magic, you seek to become familiar with, takes care of the rest and provides a decent living without such foolish thoughts.”
>
> What foolish thoughts? Bekare wondered.
>
> Decent living? Your vile automatons are barely aware of themselves!
>
> “A finite resource spells eventual doom for the unevolved practitioner,” the Zilan countered dismissively. “Long-lasting isn’t eternal. Gods reserve that right Zargatoh,” he continued. “The vast majority of creation eventually will end up in Eatoth’s purgatory, unless they know of a way out, or decided to struggle through a sinless unexciting life in order to find their way, into the perceived ‘God of the heavens’ gardens. Trust when I say to you that in my long time here, I’ve delved in many… abnormal practices.”
>
> “You can’t… all things end.”
>
> “Where an entry exists, an exit stands also.”
>
> The Aken stood back shaken. “You can’t fool the gods. Maybe a wyvern once. That’s it. Many have tried. You’ll face the nameless wrath?”
>
> The Zilan shook his head frustrated. “Stop being blinded by backwards superstition and innate spinelessness. I just named your god. I can do it again. Ah, I also spat on your idols paintings and defecated on your monuments yesterday. I did that. Aye. Magic has a system one can learn, if you cut through the added padding. There’s a system in place here also. Each race has a number on it I’m certain, written in its flesh, its cells or bones if you prefer and the soul-threads are easy to count. How many Aken die every year? How many died in a month? How many in a day?”
>
> Bekare furrowed her slim brows.
>
> “We are a resilient species.”
>
> “What a bunch of gibberish. You cheat with magic and so are we. You skirt around death whilst we keep it at arm’s length for as long as we can,” the Zilan admonished him. “What if there was a spike in the number of threads the god must track down? An influx so great it turns into a flood? Something sudden and unnatural?”
>
> “A war? We fight the Alafern all the time, we hunt the Varg and we’ll eventually absorb the humans of Kaletha.”
>
> “A war to make all those rare and easy to count soul-threads difficult to discern from one another,” the Zilan replied and raised his head, his hair cut very-short, as if alarmed. Bekare forced her heart to stop beating completely and felt her cool skin turn even colder. Rubbery and hard to the touch. Then a mighty and drawn-out beastly howling rang over the treeline, reverberated on the mountain sides and made every creature inside the woods flee in panic.
>
> “Curse the Others. A Varg,” Zargatoh rustled ogling his yellow snake-eyes that forked hideous tongue moving nervously across mauve lips. “We need to get back to your boat afore they cut us off!”
>
> The tall Zilan, even while standing next to the imposing long-limbed Aken, turned his head towards the unseen behind the branches Bekare and stared her way for a long moment.
>
> More Varg answered the pack scout’s call in the meantime and their howls rattled the woods, coming ever closer. Bekare needed to move. Her discarded garbs be damned. I’ll travel during nighttime anyway. She glanced right and then left for a good distant shadow, a long sharp nail opening her taut skin like a razor to let some of the gooey blood leak out. The blood’s color dark and smelling of rusted iron. When Bekare looked towards the thirty meters away Zilan again, Zargatoh’s visitor had a disturbing smirk on his long and handsome cultured face.
>
> His words while tranquil, even counseling in their tone, laced with a deviant sadist’s hidden delight and clearly heard as for a single moment all other sounds died around the scared Bekare.
>
> “Noro, Vinya Losse. Noro!”
>
> Run, young dead flower.
>
> Run.
>
>
>
> -
>
>
>
> Four months later, Atraharsis Hall had turned silent as well, after she had finished recounting her tale. The four Doyen waiting for the reaction of the sitting Prince of Dehmaz, who had come to sort out Kerbe’s affairs. Lidagulis’ empty eye-sockets boring holes on the prostrated Bekare’s head. The blood heard whispering inside the silent dark hall, carrying each lord’s questions without the need for them to speak, but for when they needed to debate the answers among themselves.
>
> “But you escaped?” Lidagulis finally queried in his dry voice.
>
> “A Varg helped,” Bekare replied and the relative silence was interrupted by loud murmurs of surprise. “Else the sorcerer would have gotten me.”
>
> “Why?” Prince Lidagulis’ rasping, tomb-like voice asked.
>
> “He hurt the forest, killed it in order to open a path to reach me,” Bekare replied reminiscing of the harrowing chase. “I’ve never seen magic used so destructively. The Varg fell on the Zilan instead.”
>
> “What happened to him?”
>
> “I don’t know but the Varg told me his brothers were killed. The firestorm stopped at the lake’s shores.”
>
> “Hmm,” Lidagulis murmured and stooped his emaciated body forward. “So are all fabled Zilan thusly inclined or as powerful?”
>
> “I wouldn’t know. I only sort of met the one,” Bekare admitted. “I’ve never ventured beyond the desert’s edges nor have any of them ever reached Galith before to the best of my knowledge.”
>
> “A mere happenstance?” The Doyen of Kerbe Serapis queried. “The matter doesn’t affect us Prince Lidagulis. Let the Aken deal with him. Young Bekare shouldn’t have approached them so close without backup but proved her skill surviving the ordeal. Her blood is strong.”
>
> The ‘Eyeless’ noble Alafern beheld the industrious Lord.
>
> “Your admonishment is ambiguous Serapis. Perhaps you wish to delve into the matter more? Or mayhap some other reason is steering your words? More nefarious?”
>
> “The dispute is over. Your side won,” Serapis replied stiffly with a glance at the prostrated Bekare.
>
> “So I should spare this foolish youngling?” Lidagulis asked. “What if she led that ‘sorcerer’ near our lands? How do I know she didn’t do it on purpose or out of spite? Such a threat, needs punishment. Else we will have another Atraharsis. I won’t allow it to happen again. A noble committee rules these lands, no perceived king and no royal bloodline is more worthy than the others.”
>
> “Atraharsis is gone great Prince. The dispute is over.”
>
> “What if he isn’t? How can we have trust in each other again Serapis?”
>
> “I’m a follower. As for your query there was no living thing to possess at the near. Kilometers upon kilometers of barren desert and rocks, where no birds fly or lizards crawl. Princess Abisare said it herself. What was of him is no more, bones missing or not. The blood has grown silent.”
>
> “Hmm.” Lidagulis sat back on the throne that belonged to the rebel Prince Atraharsis thoughtfully. Our Prince, Bekare thought sadly, immediately banishing the thought. “I’m of the opinion the bones were moved by a collaborator’s hand. A Familiar or a reformed traitor.”
>
> “Familiars are brittle and die quickly. A traitor would have revealed himself by now. Even if he made it out of the continent let’s say, neither the humans nor these Zilan would have ever helped him. Why would they? The living would never help the undead and a deer would never stop to assist a lion.”
>
> “One traveler does not ‘all the Zilan’ make. Nor all humans are like our humans. We need to know more perhaps. Your proposal surprisingly gained some traction with the committee,” Lidagulis noted addressing the small audience of Alafern. “As for the youngling, she failed as a scout. She was tainted to begin with. You asked for lenience Serapis, so you’ll be responsible for her. You’ll watch over Bekare away from here though. Far away. All of you. You request is granted but the great council wishes all of Prince Atraharsis’ supporters to follow you as well. For their own good.”
>
> Bekare raised her head to look at the throne shivering from the shock.
>
> “As this Hall will empty when I depart,” Lidagulis continued in his timeworn voice. “So will Kerbe. The prince’s city shall have his fate and shall be returned to the sands of time. Thus the Lords of the Alafern have decreed.”
-
Present day
20th of Secundus
The year of the new Calendar 195 NC
(Imperial year 3401)
Cartaport
Greater Regia
The continent of Jelin
“The good King Lucius, much praised be his grace, has decreed Baron Sissena Brakis is to be stripped of all his titles and lands,” the enthusiastic, rather resembling the former Duke in girth, herald bellowed to the market’s audience. “Thank you for your service, King Lucius told old Stan, but we don’t appreciate rebel scum in this court. Aye. To the dungeons with you! Ha-hah,” the herald eyed the civilians listening to his words, some of them for a second time, and added with a shrug of his shoulders, sweaty face red alike the innards of a watermelon. “Rumor is they had to bring a large cart in to haul Stan out of the King’s hall. Yep. In other news, people are dropping dead or go missing in Novesium, but not in alarming numbers, the city’s new Governor declared the other day. I suppose, Lord Nattas knows a thing or two about missing people…” the herald eyed his laughing audience all serious. “Rumor is and let me preface it with disclosing before all of you that Titus Bacillus isn’t suicidal. No sirs. No man carrying as much lard as I am is! Anyways, these filthy tongues whisper that they are still looking for those missing from Aegium or Alden… Asturia, Cartagen… but hey, wait a god darn minute… folk get lost in Cartagen all the bloody time! The mayor’s city plan sucks. Right?”
“An octopus?” Selussa asked the tavern wench curious, whilst Rhys shook his head and turned his attention to their table. “How do you prepare it?”
“With white wine over hot coals miss. In a big plate,” the wench replied sounding terribly bored. “With added oiled broccoli and a coat of fresh lemon.”
“Olive oil?” Selussa asked.
“Sure,” the wench replied with a glance at Flix’s orange and blue scarf. “We do small portions as well.”
“We wish to see the whole octopus,” Flix told her with a grin. “Offering tentacles has long been considered a sexual proposition in certain circles.”
“Is that so honey? Where are those circles? Might be interested in joining.” The wench asked more interested than Rhys had seen her since they have entered the tavern. The assassin’s head was still hurting and having two of his molars, who he’d made into a bracelet as a gift for Selussa, returned to him by the difficult to please at times fellow assassin, hadn’t helped him at all.
“Nureria,” Flix replied with a wink.
“It even sounds nice,” the wench replied and returned the wink to him. “Anything for you handsome?” She asked the scowling Rhys that just had another flare up of the migraine he carried for the last days.
Rhys stared at her not in the mood for conversation. “I’ll have some water.”
“Are you on a diet?”
What?
“I am, so he’ll have some of my portion,” Selussa intervened seeing Rhys’ stare turning into a mean glare.
“Two special large octopuses, plus oiled broccoli, with a touch of lemon! A fruit salad and a bottle of white Flauegran!” The wench yelled at the cook and sauntered off to the next table.
“You ordered wine?” Rhys grunted and grimaced turning this way and that on the chair to find a comfortable position.
“Why not? The Baron paid us nicely.” Selussa replied with a grin. “Oops, the Governor. He’s indebted to us, we’re fine.”
“Now you trust him?”
“He’s polite and remorseful? He did cancel the contract to do the right thing.”
For fuck’s sake, Nattas probably run out of all other options first!
“I want to see his signature on the property papers before I even consider turning my back on that ruffian,” Rhys hissed and blinked seeing Flix walking to one of the couches, taking a large pillow and carrying it to his chair. He placed it there carefully, climbed up and then crossed his legs, pulling at his short tunic some to show a lot of skin –up to the hips- to those sitting at the other tables of this seashore tavern.
Several perverts eyeballing the masqueraded Gish with barely concealed interest. Two of them were out with their spouses.
Gods damn it! Rhys thought furious, his headache flaring up even more and clenched his fist tightly.
“What’s wrong with you?” Selussa asked calmly. “You are all wound up for days now.”
“I didn’t sleep that well,” Rhys retorted and stared in her comely face. “Not because of you.”
“Wow, thanks so much dear,” Selussa snapped bitterly and kicked him under the table, right at the left ankle.
“Fucking hells!”
“Keep your voice down,” she warned him narrowing her eyes. “Else I’ll stab you in the knee.”
“Argh, shut up. You’re too fond of me to do it. Aren’t you?”
Selussa rolled her eyes. “Dear gods, the arrogance. You won’t make me do—”
“It’s too late now!” Rhys snapped and Flix almost pissed down his legs chuckling. “Just get it out of yer system!”
“I’m very fond of Rhys,” the female assassin whispered blushing fiercely. “Fucking prick.”
“Me too.” Rhys grunted and puffed out, his head just about to explode. “I’m too stressed out.” He added in a murmur.
“By what?” Selussa griped and Flix turned his red-rimmed, painted green eyes on him. The Gish loves all colors, Rhys’ thought.
“The Alafern,” Flix said and chuckled. “Rare to see one. You’re very lucky mister Rhys. A female no less.”
“I don’t feel blessed,” Rhys growled eyeing the Gish warningly and pursed his mouth. Despite carefully taking one of Ael’s potions, the two red marks were still visible on his cheek. Rhys could accept having a scar or two given his profession, but grown men strolling about with holes on their face look ridiculous for pity’s sake!
Or red crayon.
Flix winked at him lewdly. Rhys frowned, the Gish chortled looking slightly off center and when the perturbed assassin turned around, chair creaking ominously, he caught sight of a well-dressed haughty-looking native sitting at the table behind them, flirting shamelessly with their naughty companion.
“Apologies,” the dandy Lorian of about thirty years said at the scowling Rhys. “I couldn’t help but notice you are a fellow man of culture and exceptionally diverse tastes.”
“Aha. So you’re angling for a shot at both then?” Rhys grunted irate despite the effort not to lash out in a public place. There was a reason Rhys had worked solo for decades. He never had to worry about anyone else but himself.
He apparently was an easily-concerned person about his companions.
“If the ladies are available aye, for certain,” the Lorian replied in the meantime with a confident smile. “We must all do everything at least once is the motto of our little society.” He stooped near their table with a knowing expression. “It’s a gentlemen’s club.”
“Everything.”
“At least once my friend.”
Mule-fucker.
“How about dying? Have ye got it on the fucking list?” Rhys retorted aggressively and watched the man’s stupid grin fade on his lips.
“Ah,” he started unsure how to handle the wiry assassin’s hostility.
Come tonight, a voice said and Rhys blinked, his head snapping right and then left abruptly. Eyes gawking maniacally afore returning on the annoying customer. “What did you say?” Rhys asked half-getting up from his chair.
“I didn’t say… it was an exclamation of real shock,” the customer protested civilly but clearly worried he’d stepped into a beehive.
After the wedding.
“Shut yer mouth!” Rhys growled hearing another whisper he missed and got up pushing the chair back to examine the nearby tables for the culprit with hostility.
“Rhys,” Selussa was heard. “Just sit down.”
What the fuck is going on? Rhys thought with a deep scowl, tongue lodged in the fresh gap between his teeth.
I loved the teeth, the voice said and it was a female voice this unmistakably.
“Fuck.”
“Rhys?” Selussa asked now worried.
“The dead chick is talking,” Rhys grunted and grimaced in annoyance realizing he was making a scene.
“Seriously?” Selussa protested. She glared at Flix. “Is this a curse or something? Did it happen to you?”
“The other one wasn’t an Alafern,” Flix replied sadly and turned serious. “Came along in your walk you said?”
“No,” Rhys replied. “I think she was lurking in there.”
“Very few have encountered Alafern,” Flix said. “You need to talk either with Elas or Nym about them. Not easy at this point.”
“Will she talk? Or the other dude?”
“No.”
“Why is that?” Rhys grunted antagonistically. “We can at least make an effort!”
“One is dead, the other in Wetull?” The Gish grinned and added. “You are Ralnor’s pupil?”
Shit.
“You find it funny?” Rhys snapped at the small mirthful creature. “I want her out of my head!”
“Did she say something useful?” Selussa probed patiently with a glance at the tavern patrons looking at them curiously. “In your head?”
“Something about a wedding?” Rhys glared at the flushed Lorian that was listening in to their conversation. “What’s your problem? Do you want your ears cut off?”
“Eh, there’s a big wedding today. The whole city is invited technically,” the man explained with a grimace of distress. “You’re too tense mister. I was the same a couple of years back but I found a remedy as I said. All you need is a change of scenery.”
“Ugh? What are you, a blooming dottore or a fucking shaman out proselytizing?”
“Here are your octopuses. You guys are a lively bunch. The chef has made the tentacles extra crunchy he-he,” the wench said at that point, holding a large platter with their order. She had sneaked up on the distracted Rhys.
“Give them to the fake professor over there,” Rhys snapped and signaled for his partners to get up. “He can fuck his face with them blasted things! Mayhap discover a new sensation!”
Flix found his suggestion hilarious and was still half-chuckling half-snorting when Rhys marched out of the tavern, then went straight for the stable to get his horse. Selussa had stayed behind to pay for their meal.
“Cut back on the giggles Flix.”
“No,” Flix replied stubbornly and giggled some more.
“The Mayor is marrying his daughter,” Rhys explained with a sigh of despair. “I also heard it from the herald earlier.”
“Just leave it be.”
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
“Don’t you want to get rid of the god darn vampire? She attacked us!”
“She attacked you. Maybe she had legitimate reason?”
“Because of that motherfucker you killed!” Rhys blasted the Gish and Selussa entered the stable munching on a tentacle wrapped in a piece of flatbread she guided with oiled fingers.
“What? I’m famished dear and we paid for the whole darn thing!” The female assassin protested, her chin covered in grease. She wiped it with the back of her hand. “Anyone wants to take a bite of that?” Selussa asked next with a teasing smile and the Gish volunteered with a happy yelp.
-
----------------------------------------
Messor family estate
(Also referred to as the ‘Mayor’s Palace’ from the locals, since the Messor family had lost only one election in two centuries. The single loss was to Nestor Salonius in the distant 67 NC)
Lady Anastasia Messor’s wedding ceremony to Manius Ovidus, the honorable judge Nullius Ovidus’ son.
The rigid Grand Disciple of Tyeus Aulus Ventor, blinked either disturbed by the prominent belly of the young bride or because he’d imbibed one too many glasses of the smiling Mayor’s wine. The Mayor –Paulus Messor- himself flanked by the also honorable Master of Justice, Baron of Two Rivers Castle Curtius Vendor and the King’s Shield High Baron Montague Valens, the latter having the Mayor’s son Sir Mauro Messor right behind him, with Lord Treasurer Robart Holt standing next to the young knight. Sir Mauro was of course Anastasia’s brother.
“It’s a lovely dress,” Selussa commented from the far end of the reception hall –the plebs 'stands' since all the front seats were reserved in advance- talking with the Gish, the latter having trouble seeing the details.
“Roomy given what she carries,” Rhys murmured. “That must be one big ole kid in there, or a couple of smaller ones!”
“Just stop griping for a moment,” Selussa admonished him.
Eh.
Rhys puffed out, feeling too crowded inside the packed hall and glanced at the hooded priestess pressed against his right shoulder. Her profession was an easy guess for Rhys as he could see the goddess’ pendant hanging from the woman’s graceful neck, right down the cavernous front opening of her red tunic.
That’s a lot of blooming soft flesh on display!
“In the presence of the Five, the mighty Tyeus’ gaze and the prominent lords and ladies inside this hall, we recognize the union of the chaste maiden Anastasia and the gallant Manius. Join hands and stand now as husband and wife.”
Chaste? Are you blind or drunk? The darn standards are pretty low in the blasted capital!
Some of the guests standing further away from the newlyweds murmured similar gossip at the priest’s words –who had kept it very short at the very least- and Rhys found himself staring in the priestess’ moist eyes.
“I needed something to cheer me up,” the woman explained with a sniffle, eager to make small talk with the discomforted for a different reason assassin.
“Ah, I don’t know about that ma’am. I feel way worse now than how I did afore I arrived,” Rhys grunted trying to move about but failed and an unseen woman fanning herself smacked him a couple of times on the back.
“You are a merchant guard?” The bountiful priestess asked with a side-glance at Rhy’s light leather armour vest under his long coat and parts of his weapons harness that were visible.
“For a moon,” Rhys grunted snapping his arm back blindly to snatch the fan out of the annoying woman’s hands.
Success.
“That’s an Eplas accent,” the fast-recovered priestess pointed out with a smile. A pleasant one, the kind you wanted to greet you after a hard day at work. Unless your work had a lot of night hours and few respites in between, then all you want is to drop like a rock on a soft mattress.
“That’s not a Lorian accent,” Rhys retorted.
“It is. Just a tad older,” she replied a hint of flirting in her voice. “I grew up in Valeria.”
Even a tired man would have found that worth of note.
“We have a nice meal prepared in the adjoining hall,” Mayor Messor announced from the head of the aisle. “Fear not friends and fellow civilians! We’ll accept wishes and gifts there as well!”
“Friend of the groom?” The mature but very pleasant to the eye priestess asked as they turned to head outside.
Rhys hadn’t brought a gift for the Mayor.
Because fuck him.
That darn bastard lives in a blasted palace!
“Eh, I’m here on business.”
“Uhm, it’s not a bad venue to spread your wings, I suppose.”
Rhys nodded and stopped upon reaching the corridor to wait for the others. The priestess bid him farewell with a small curtsy and sauntered away drawing a lot of stares from the guests.
“You know Augusta Flavia?” Selussa asked coming to stand next to him, followed by the Gish. They were holding hands which Rhys thought that it was plenty weird.
“Ugh?”
“You were talking with her?”
“Woman, I had no say in that!” Rhys grunted. “I was sardined next to her!” He glared at Flix that had tapped his left knee once. “What do you want?”
“Can I have the fan?” The Gish asked with a pleading grin. Rhys pursed his mouth and realized he was still holding the woman’s cooling tool.
“Just take the darn thing!” Rhys hissed and stared up and down the corridor confused. “Anyone has any blasted idea where she might be? Afore anyone asks any damn queries, I’m talking about the vampire wench!”
“Can you lower your voice? Gods. And I don’t know. Anyone looking suspicious?” Selussa asked.
“How about you tell me?” Rhys retorted all fired up.
“I was watching the ceremony?” Selussa protested and Rhys snarled a curse that headache returning tenfold.
“Great! You better focus—”
“The groom looked disinterested. Very strange vibes,” Flix cut in before Rhys could finish his sentence. The Gish was fanning himself energetically.
“There’s no way you could have seen the groom from where you were standing Gish! You’re just over four feet in fucking heels for pity’s sake!” Rhys all but growled irate and the affronted Flix pointed angrily his wooden fan towards a fancy dressed young man walking away from them.
Rhys narrowed his eyes frustrated. “Alright. Who’s that?”
“The groom,” Selussa chuckled. “Where is he going? The dinner party is the other way.”
“Whatever,” Rhys hissed and rubbed at his face tiredly.
“So you never once looked at him?” Selussa asked thoughtfully. “Were your eyes too preoccupied to even bother Rhys?”
The assassin stared at his partner and lover numbly. It was only for a brief moment, as he immediately unleashed on her. “Are you serious with that weak bullshit? I was standing next to a blasted priestess! Your words! An inch closer and it would’ve been a massage involving a lot of plaguing tit and not a social occasion! Gods damn it. Argh! Stop fanning your face!” He snapped at the giggling Gish. “We’ll go after the groom.”
“Why?” An also angry Selussa asked behind him and Rhys pointed a thumb back towards the hopping about the corridor, teal-colored dress wearing, Flix.
“Ask him. It’s his blasted theory!”
“I wish to be addressed as a she, Mister Rhys,” Flix protested civilly, stopping to look at him in silent judgement.
“Keep hopping you little bitch,” Rhys barked a retort, having run completely out of patience and marched down the corridor fuming.
----------------------------------------
The groom, Manius Ovidus, crossed the yard walking fast and headed towards the large square buildings that were part of the estate’s stables and were situated to the east at the start of Messor or Mayor’s Vines, a massive plot of fertile land that reached as far as Cartagen’s North Walls.
Rhys hurried after him, the nicely sunny winter day illuminating the large two-story buildings that stood adjoined to each other. Manius entered the first stable from the open double doors and Rhys signaled for Flix and Selussa to guard the entrance, whilst he followed the dressed in a light-blue redingote young man inside.
The assassin didn’t have a plan, still fighting with that strange disorientation and fog in his head, but had a strong feeling that the Alafern was near. Either he was right, or he was about to make a fool of himself, not to mention surprising the newly wedded Manius who had probably rushed here for a quick roll in the hay with the help.
Or the stable hand.
“I don’t wish to continue this charade,” Manius said to someone inside the stable’s aisle, half of it lit up from the sun that came from the open doors, the rest of it concealed in darkness. “I can only think of you.”
Well, the stable hand is the odds favorite at this point with the hint of a last minute surprise looming. If this turns out to be a dud, I’ll call Flix in here to deal with this shite, Rhys decided, pausing five meters behind the judge’s son, almost missing the whispery voice’s words.
“You had my blood,” the Alafern said.
“Aye, willingly.” Came Manius reply just as Rhys thought sourly, mistakenly believing the voice had addressed him inside his head.
It was a fucking accident. I wanted to spit but swallowed.
Eh.
Wait…
“You can hear her too?” A surprised Rhys asked the groom, who yelped in panic, pirouetted on his feet and almost went down covering that fine garb he had on in horse dung. The stable was cleaned up, but no stable is ever that clean.
“Who… are you? This is private property!” Manius croaked, trying to recover from the shock.
“Congrats on yer wedding,” Rhys replied, searching about the darkness behind the groom. Two small ladders were leading on the upper half-floor that was used to store fodder and tools, but Rhys couldn’t make out anything else. “I was there. Lovely ceremony. Brief—”
“I have no idea who you are!” Manius cut him off aggressively. “Just get out of here.”
“I’m not here for you,” Rhys explained and unbuttoned his long coat, it was the best article of clothing he possessed, but for his used light leather armour and pants. Manius frowned seeing the number of weapons revealed when the coat parted. “Start walking towards the doors and don’t stop until you reach your wife.”
Then he noticed the look on Manius face. The young man took a step forward clenching his fists. “Bekare is mine.”
Rhys smacked his lips, a vein throbbing in the middle of his forehead, his mouth dry and the gums in his mouth hurting.
“Don’t do it,” he warned the unfaithful groom, but Manius took another two quick steps forward and swung a fist at Rhys’ face. Well, quick steps was what Manius thought, but he wasn’t that fast really, the punch telegraphed and amateurish. Rhys pulled the scimitar he kept sheathed on his left side upside down, allowed it to travel in his loose fingers and snatched the blade to use like a club to smack Manius fingers with the pommel. He broke two and ruined his fist, afore moving it aside. Then Rhys reached abruptly forward with his right arm and backhanded the yelping groom in the face with an open hand. Once, twice. Rhys caught the stunned man from the right shoulder, when the latter almost went down and then slapped him a couple of more times, not as hard.
“Gah, stop!” Manius pleaded and Rhys let him go, flipping the scimitar and resting the blade on his shoulder.
“Where is she?” He asked patiently.
“I won’t tell you.” A wincing, sweaty Manius retorted stubbornly, whilst clasping his broken fingers with his good hand.
“You are an idiot,” Rhys grunted and caught movement on the south half-floor. Something climbing rapidly down the ladder. He made to shove Manius out of the way but in an instant, Bekare’s lithe arms and legs had wrapped around the startled young man from behind. The Alafern’s pale-white face appeared over Manius’ left shoulder. Despite the attractive looks, the girl carried huge amounts of creepiness in her. “No,” Rhys roared hoarsely but Bekare grabbed the paralyzed man from the chin, turned his head to the side exposing the neck and opening her jaws sunk those long fangs in Manius’ neck.
Bekare was staring at the tensed Rhys tauntingly. The sound of blood getting sucked out of the leaking wound disturbing the animals inside the stalls.
You can join me, her voice whispered inside Rhys’ cranium. I’ll give more of my blood. Make your mind stronger. Let us walk together in the nameless Desolate Vales.
“You think that’s tempting?” Rhys snapped heatedly, clenching his jaw. “Are you cracked in the head?”
The need will only grow. Come closer. Into the dark.
“How about you let him go first?” Rhys countered with a grunt and realized the Alafern was standing just beyond the light coming from the open doors.
I need to heal first. Then she added accusingly. You hurt me so much.
“You deserved it!” Rhys snapped looking about him for a way to draw Bekare away from the unresponsive Manius. With a slurping sound Bekare let go of the groom and walked backwards into the darker part of the stable. Her bead-net dress was dirty, torn up and covered in gore at the ribs but she had no visible injuries anymore.
“Rhys?” Selussa asked from the doors.
“Stay back there!” A tensed Rhys yelled at her.
Come to me Rhys. Bekare purred seductively. Be forever. You all want it. I’ll show you the world beyond darkness’ dark veil.
“What about him?” Rhys asked locating a protruding pickaxe in a barrel with other tools by the north side ladder. “If he dies, the whole city will hunt you down like a dog.”
You’re much more intriguing. Where did you learn to fight like that? With no fear but great skill?
“I had a proper monster for a tutor. Son of a bitch, runs a zero fails policy,” Rhys taunted with a snort and stepped forward to reach the barrel. The moment he did Bekare moved as well, closing the distance between them. The assassin coolly stepped back into the sunlit portion of the stable. It was growing on one side as the light moved to the west. “You don’t give a damn about Abatis.”
Not my pupil. Not the mission. But you are so skilled. The blood is fascinated.
“What’s the mission?”
I can wait Rhys. Soon the light will go away.
“Not soon enough, it’ll be a hard wait if ye can’t move out of here,” Rhys retorted and licked his lips. He felt that buzz in his head growing and his eyes lowered to the unresponsive Manius. The blood trickling from his torn neck had completely dried up but whatever was left there was mesmerizing. “The fuck did you do to him?”
All I wanted was the blood. Let animals have the rest. The moment you injured me, his fate was sealed. You just happened to arrive at the same time. Luthos likes to play games.
“How did you reach so far?” Rhys kept talking to her in order find a way to make a surprise attack, even walking the shades, but that first blow should be devastating mate. “It is kilometers away from the city’s gates.”
The realms, Bekare replied ominously, are full of shortcuts.
“Flix is at the back entrance,” Selussa needlessly said from the open doors, but Rhys didn’t dare take his eyes from the stirring from one leg to another Alafern, waiting his decision about four meters away.
Break the Vampir’s hold wit wood or fire my arse, Rhys thought angrily. That boisterous fool of a bard left some important stuff out!
The moment he felt the witch’s quality dry incense –shaped into balls- igniting around his fingers now dipped inside the satchel’s sheath, Rhys leaped in the south walls’ shadows cast by the half-floor. The assassin felt the air changing on his skin, the stable’s foul odors gone instantly and replaced by the acrid smell of burned ash and brimstone. He followed the lit up in some unseen moon’s light path with the desert rousing right and left of him. Far beyond the slowly cracking open bright door leading to his predetermined exit point, what looked like a barrier of black peaks stood ominously over the flat empty terrain and under the dark red barely discernible sky.
Rhys hurried the few meters, boots shuffling in soft powder like sand and the misleadingly, obviously not empty, desert expanding on both sides of him, came alive. First with whispers in many tongues. Then shrieks begging for help and distant laments of despair.
Finally shapes started forming just beyond the illuminated narrow path the assassin was following. Some looked like regular people, others were grotesquely misshapen or had more limbs than a centipede attached to their elongated torsos.
Fiends.
MOVE! He urged himself, seeing the distance to the bright opening not decreasing at all.
The yells and shrieks turning to incoherent words, as the spirits imprisoned inside the in-between realms started running alongside Rhys, constantly reaching out to grab hold of him. The assassin weaved and dodged, the whole ordeal lasting way longer than he had anticipated, given the pitiful distance Rhys had intended to travel initially.
The whole ordeal a sneaky misdirection and not a blasted stroll in the Desolate Vales or whatever the all-hells this was!
Five plaguing meters left. In order to reach the other side of the barn and grab the pickaxe. As many as they were half a minute ago.
Fuck.
> “What did the Elderblood thief out of Coal Isle asked?” A young Rhys probed and Ralnor paused his work on the shortsword’s handle. The old imperial steel now encased in a cruder custom grip. It was for the girls, Ralnor had already finished working on Rhys’ blade.
>
> “A fiend might step in your way. Or lurk to catch you on the return.” Dar Eherdir reminisced what had happened when he was young but still much older than Rhys.
>
> “What was your reply?”
>
> “I said that in order to do it they must turn solid,” Ralnor sucked at his teeth. Some blood still on his chin from earlier. “So I hurt them a lot. After a couple of times they leave you alone.”
>
> “A boast?” Young Rhys queried and Dar Eherdir furrowed his now-grown back washed out blue eyebrows. His tutor would probably shave everything away before retiring for the night.
>
> “To boast is to taunt the gods to put yer words to the test,” Ralnor rustled and started working the wood with the rasp again, as the conversation was over.
>
> Rhys missed having that fine blade. Losing it had hurt him and while he relished in Selussa’s company, the assassin didn’t really yearn his time with Ralnor at all.
>
> Eh.
>
>
The darn path was leading him nowhere.
With a furious curse Rhys sidestepped to the left, crossing over the blindly lit portion of the terrain and into the darkness beyond its edges. He snapped his head right and then left, whilst on the move, then again back and to the front, in order to locate another lit up path.
The real one.
Stumbling on soft sand and small pebbles, dust clouds rising to his waist, a grunting Rhys spotted a second smaller bright trail –veiled earlier from the bigger path’s sheen- some distance away. Another open door at the end of it popping out of the blackness. The assassin headed there cutting across the terrain and leaving the path he had been following behind him. Looking back as he moved fast towards the –perceived- correct path, Rhys noticed that the old brightly illuminated road had been leading him towards the distant base of the mountain range. Hundreds of kilometers away.
Curse your trickery!
Rhys groaned irate at being duped again by some kind of weird spell and stubbornly turned his snarling face forward. A long stride and the bed of sand rose up to meet him, the dark ash-like powder falling to reveal a massive tubular body. Then a piercing, nigh unnerving and prolonged hissing shriek came at him from above.
The assassin dived into a roll, picking a side in the blind, went under a random tentacle of sorts that came out of nowhere and heard the earth shake with a mighty roar, where the Hydra-shaped fiend’s gigantic head had crashed missing him. He landed in a clear space and jumped to his feet alike a coil, ducked under a four-armed Orc’s double backhand and buried his scimitar into the face of a… faceless abomination. The blade hit something that felt like an egg’s shell and cracked it, a foul smell erupting as Rhys danced left and then right to get out of the sizzling acid’s way.
A rugged breath, lost in the cacophony of many creatures screaming all about him and he saw an otherworldly, gargantuan shape standing over the distant mountain range. In the god-like titan’s extended fist, a rod of glowing gold and silver shown like the rising sun. It wasn’t a rod in reality, Rhys gathered, but myriads of bunched up tiny glowing filaments that cascaded down the mountain range, the titan was standing behind. They then spread out like the spokes from a wheel’s center or a bizarre net, and reached everywhere. Even right where Rhys twirled maniacally in his struggle to cut through the gathered spirits and fiends. Each strand seemingly connected to one of the stirring forms or figures. Fiends and Spirits. Not every thread was solid or had the same glow to it.
Rhys wasn’t sure whether he had something similar dangling from him or that every single creature had one. Not everything was hostile, but enough of them were especially the nastier ones.
So Rhys just stabbed, cut, slashed, kicked and even punched anything appearing in front of him even if it just asked for help.
Or water.
Ugh?
The pandemonium increased with each passing second. Rhys lost the scimitar inside a gelatinous blob that decided to turn solid –mercifully the assassin had the presence of mind to yank his arm back- and then decapitated a zombie-like kid trying to dig itself out of the sands with a brutal kick.
Rhys caught it mid-stride and he ripped the small head out of the decaying flesh along part of the spine, then went through a curtain of foul gore, remembering to keep his mouth shut for once.
“Mortal,” a tall, sinewy figure’s voice said wearing a werewolf’s rotting body, split open down the front –the pelt, skin and bones still there- just as Rhys reached the path. “Next time bring the Wyvern’s Tongue with you.”
A bewildered Rhys snapped his head towards the camouflaged freak, the latter’s face partially visible at the open beast’s gory neck, and bellowed with a snarl.
“Come again?”
“The dagger,” the unhinged creature elucidated and the assassin tossed him a small grip-less blade just as his boot hit the illuminated pathway again. It wasn’t charity, Rhys had aimed for the human-looking creature’s forehead but buried that throwing blade in the still moving werewolf’s snout instead.
The beast had been sliced open alive and then worn as a coat but was still conscious.
Gored out while dead but still aware?
The whole affair incredibly confusing.
What manner of disturbing crap is this?
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Bekare was waiting for Rhys before the glowing portal. She smiled as he faltered, still rattled by the last encounter and certain his knife had finished off the horrifically tortured werewolf.
“You went out on your own,” the Alafern scolded him in a motherly voice.
Rhys wiped some of the grime off of his face, a large piece of skin also detaching from his left cheek, the one with the holes but he wasn’t that worried about them anymore, and eyed the female somberly.
“I’m going out but yer welcomed to stay,” he rustled and reached for the scimitar kept over his right shoulder. Rhys had lost a good number of fine weaponry in the debacle. Some of them he had for years, but going back to pick them up or dig them out of dead fiends wasn’t exactly a priority at this point.
Or ever.
“I’ll come along. You’ll need me to offer guidance.”
Rhys nodded. “Sure lass. Now step aside. I’m pretty certain there’s an angry dead Hydra coming this way.”
Bekare furrowed her brows and then moved out of Rhys’ way, keeping out of reach of his sword.
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Rhys came out of the shades inside the stables, took note of the sun now almost completely out of the aisle and dived for the barrel. He grabbed the pickaxe, slotted the metallic head at the ladder’s steps to use as lever and then broke it, leaving a foot long piece of the shaft behind.
The assassin turned hearing the Alafern emerging from the shades as well and as Bekare came at him still wearing that cold smile, he savagely run her through the chest with the shaft. Black blood splashed his forearm, lukewarm and watery to the touch and Bekare gasped hoarsely with an open mouth, her whole body shuddering.
She then lowered her eyes on the protruding from her chest gore-covered broken shaft still in Rhys’ hand, with a grimace of pain and mild annoyance.
“Ouch.” The Alafern griped unhappy and her glassy eyes returned on the sneering Rhys. The smug sneer quickly vanishing from the assassin’s face.
Ahm… well then.
He’d expected a bit more oomph than that. Fucking crooked troglodyte of a bard!
Rhys shoulder twitched as he changed plans and went for his scimitar, but Bekare raised her right arm first, pressed an open palm on his chest and then shoved him violently away with an angry hiss. The assassin lost the handle on his sword, the broken piece of shaft slipping from his fingers as well and he travelled briefly backwards, arms and legs flaying at the air.
He landed awkwardly on his back seven meters away, coughed out a lung, rolled in yesterday’s horse manure and stopped on a bent knee. It felt like a mule had just kicked him.
“Argh,” Rhys groaned, a number of his ribs shifting under the skin weirdly and watched Bekare extracting the wood from her chest. She tossed it away and glared at the grimacing and trying to get up assassin. The double doors about a meter away to his left and back, but by the time he was lucid enough to make a run for the exit, the Alafern had covered the distance rapidly, moving like a blur and cut off his retreat.
“You’re not leaving me Rhys. Never have I been so offended by a lesser creature,” an insulted Bekare hissed, some of her anger spilling out, ruining that veneer of lifeless composure she had managed to maintain up to this point. “A miserable human should be begging for my attentions. Why aren’t you?”
Rhys stood up with his face contorting and a wobbly right knee. “I’m an odd solitary soul that lucked out lately,” he admitted with a rustle and a groan. “Rather not dabble wit another whiny snatch right now lass.”
Bekare blinked trying to decipher his rustic reply and Rhys took the opportunity to put his weigh on that bad knee, raised the other sharply and delivered a solid kick on the Alafern’s torso. It wasn’t brutal enough to damage Bekare but it had enough momentum behind it to plunge the weighting considerably less female backwards.
The vampir was hurled out of the open doors, twirling like a mad grasshopper, stopped with a startled gasp and then started towards the hobbling about holding his knee Rhys. She managed one stride in a blur bathed in the afternoon’s strong winter sun, but then the smoke covering her movement dissolved and evaporated.
Bekare faltered towards the stable doors, her hair combusting, large blisters forming on her exposed arms and distorting her comely face. A limping Rhys moved out to prevent her from reaching safety, but Bekare just dropped to a knee a meter from him and two from the open doors. She let out a desperate, prolonged cry of pain, and Rhys spotted two bolts buried in her already that weren’t there a moment afore. One in the right thigh and another in her ravaged sternum.
The lurking Gish landed next to the numb Rhys, probably from the stable’s roof and calmly reloaded his small metallic crossbow.
“You… little...” The Alafern croaked hoarsely, pieces of melting flesh falling off of the stretched out to reach him hands, leaving the strangely white finger bones exposed.
“Shush,” Flix ordered callously and shot another bolt from almost point blank range. It punctured Bekare’s smoking forehead and plunged in her brain. The Alafern shuddered one final time and collapsed on her back, the exposed parts slowly burning away.
“Whiny snatch?” Selussa griped irate, hobbling towards them from the east side of the barn, Ralnor’s custom shortsword in her hand. “I almost broke my legs to reach your stupid arse! Where have you been?”
“It’s a fucking endearment!” Rhys blasted her, grabbing at his hurt dislocated knee that was now swelling with alarming speed.
“Cut her out of the garbs to burn fully,” Flix ordered the two limping assassins that were staring daggers at each other. “Chop-chop. We need to bury the bones.”
“Why?” Rhys grunted staring at the blackened and charred face of Bekare. “Wench looks deader than last month’s roadkill!”
“She was dead to begin with in a sense,” the Gish elucidated. “You were missing for two hours by the way.”
“Ah,” Rhys gasped and cast another glance at the corpse of Bekare. “Wood doesn’t work and by fire that idiot meant the sun.”
“Dominique wasn’t an idiot,” Flix said stooped over the Alafern with a small cutting knife. “Fire does harm them immensely in a pitch and a wood to the heart drops them. You just missed.”
“Kills them?” A sweaty, dirty and generally disheveled Rhys asked and found the frame of the stable’s door to rest his protesting back and take the weight off of his ballooned right knee.
“No.” Flix replied calmly, then flashed the scowling assassin a toothy grin. “But it gives time to work on a more permanent solution.”
“I don’t like where you’re going with this Gish,” Rhys rustled pursing his mouth and Selussa gave him a soft punch of frustration on the shoulder to make him move so she can rest also.
“We need to bury the bones. Hide them. I’ll do it so you don’t know where they are,” Flix replied and got up holding parts of Bekare’s bead-net dress. “Burn first. Bury later.”
“Why would I bother with her bones?” Rhys snapped aggressively and paused with a violent shudder, feeling a strange numbness spreading on his nape. The soft breeze of the approaching night reaching them from the Scalding Sea.
Rhys? Bekare whispered in his ear. Don’t let him hide the bones.
“Are you alright?” Selussa asked worried and Rhys sucked a deep breath in afore letting it all out in a reassuring reply.
“Don’t worry about a thing kitty.” Rhys forced a half-smile half-snarl on his sweaty, pale face. His gold incisors gleaming in the dying light. “I’ll just sip some of Ael’s wonder medicine and be back on my feet in a couple of day’s tops!”
Rhys? Bekare griped sadly.
Just keep yer mouth shut gods damn it!
-
Days later, the road to Novesium.
I could tell you things. Things that happened many years before the first Zilan King came to be, Bekare insisted, constantly not giving him a moment of respite but for when Rhys was sharing a bed with Selussa. Most of the times that is.
Do I look like a guy that takes history classes?
You’re selling yourself short.
Nah, I’m just telling it like it is. Rhys’ furrowed his brows. Who was that freak wearing a bloody werewolf like a coat?
Eh, I didn’t see that.
What good are ye then? Rhys sucked at his cheeks, the gap where the molars had been bothering him immensely. He was standing right there!
Do you wish to know whose plan the rebel Aken followed? Bekare tried again after some time of blissfully quiet riding. Take a guess. Or maybe my mission?
Rhys smacked a gold fly away with his gloved hand and then glanced at the half-asleep on the saddle Selussa. Flix was smoking blissfully on his other side, but you couldn’t see the Gish’s face as he had that ridiculously large hat on again.
I don’t give a copper Dinar about the Aken or your mission, came Rhys’s retort after a short moment of contemplation and the Alafern’s ancient quest came to an abrupt pause.
For a while.
-
> Before the stable’s front doors only a large dark, blackened patch of land remained as an elusive hint of a more sinister event. When the alarmed Mayor’s people found the judge son’s’ completely emaciated corpse inside the stable, nobody could figure out what had happened. An accident seemed the obvious reason as the groom’s neck had been broken probably from a fall while attempting to climb on a horse. Why would he visit the stables though with a young bride expecting him inside the estate? The tragic event spun strange rumors immediately with some tales speaking of other shady people allegedly present at the empty –during the festivities- stables, or the wrinkled, deflated state the body of Manius Ovidus was discovered. The judge’s son was missing almost all of his blood.
>
> Lady Anastasia would eventually give birth to a son she named Manius a year later and would remarry two years after that to a better prospect. A prominent knight no less and friend of her brother’s.
>
> The case of the judge’s murdered son remained in the years that followed a strange event without an easy answer. In some esoteric circles or in one of the many gentlemen’s clubs where such rumors are discussed ad nauseam, there is a rumor circulating that one of the first responders inside the haunted building discovered a number of semi-precious, but strangely-shaped sunstone beads on one of the half-floors. They were half-buried in old dried up gore and animal excrement. The man took them, the exotic blood-colored translucent beads then found their way into a merchant’s stand in Storm’s Rest after some years and a foreign-looking gentleman bought them for an exorbitant price. Especially considering that the merchant had obtained them for free almost.
>
> While this story is not really worthy of a retelling, the reason why the man decided to get rid of the beads in the first place and not make a pendant for his wife for example or get some more coin out of the deal, is a bit more disturbing. The man was plagued by dreams and strange voices constantly after that. These bizarre voices weren’t incoherent or without meaning, far from it. They instead urged the hapless man to find Bekare’s bones.
>
> The gentlemen upon learning of the unnamed man’s plight thus developed a novel and more sinister theory about the late Manius Ovidus’ final moments. They spoke of a troubled young man forced into a marriage by his family, while his heart wasn’t in it because it belonged to another more exotic woman. Unable to have him, this mysterious Bekare killed herself… the current working theory is, and our Manius discovered her fate –probably upon receiving the strange beads- and threw himself in his despair over the stable’s ledge to his death. He landed on a barrel filled with tools out of all places, broke his neck first, then got pierced through the same neck by a pickaxe’s sharpened blade, and eventually bled out.
>
> His blood somehow faded away like the veracity of this story.
>
> Given the just over two meters height in question, this author must add a note here that Manius probably had to attempt the complicated feat a couple of times at least in order to succeed, or he was exceptionally unlucky and nailed it on the first try.
>
> Governor Storm Nattas who happened to hear of this tale about a year after the events gave a rather sarcastic but conceivably more insightful reply in his always eloquent manner. ‘Far from me to comment on the absurdities coming out of the capital these days, but if those perfumed cock-loving rich buffoons stretch the truth out a bit more, then they might come the full blasted circle and decide it was a plaguing vampire cunt all along! Everything else points to that for pity’s sake!”
>
>
>
> -
>
>
>
> Lord Sirio Veturius
>
> Circa 206 NC
>
> The Fall of Heroes
>
> Chapter XLI (41)
>
> The Tiger’s Rule
>
> Addendum
>
> Lady Anastasia Messor’s brief first wedding
>
> & the curious tale of Bekare’s beads
>
>
>
> ----------------------------------------
>
> Part of Sirio Veturius series of chapters cataloguing anecdotal stories, events and random peculiarities, usually involving less prominent lords or personalities. Chronologically this chapter stands just before Marcus-Antonius Merenda’s ‘Die twice in a week’ chapter, despite Sirio’s being the less detailed or favorable entry of all historians that wrote about it (with the first-hand witness Caius-Metilus Plautus’ in his fabled Par Ocreis giving by far the best depiction of what happened) & Prince Radin’s equally infamous plunge beyond Boar’s Horn River.