Tuesday, September 05, 2006 @ 1:32 PM


18 December (Chapter 2)

Elite Mercenary

The tavern is witnessing a brawl. A vicious one that shattered windows, damaged pillars, and even smashed a barrel of wine. The tavern keeper could not do anything about it. A young man with a black tricorn hat was in the middle, a dagger in his left hand and a scimitar in the other. He was, so far, the most skilled, and was facing five foes. "Rictor," One of the men said. "Apologise. Now!" He gestured to a nobleman, sitting at a side, blowing smoke from his pipe in calm repose. "I do not think so." Rictor replied with cool, lunging at the poor man, scimitar crossed with dagger. Their edges rested precariously on the man's neck. Another man behind him slash towards him, but Rictor somehow anticipated the attack and moved sideways, evading the blow. His scimitar was released from its cross as its blade plunged hungrily into the man's stomach. With a short slash, he cut open the throat of the man he held captive. Three left, he thought. "Twas will be a bloody night." He commented, and then leapt savagely at the third man, kicking him in the stomach. The man doubled over, dropping his sword. "Drop your blade, and apologise, Rictor," One of the last two men ordered.

"Kill me, and I will apologise." Rictor casually examined his scimitar, and seizing the chance, the man lunged. Rictor tried to parry the blow with his dagger, but the stab was unexpectedly strong, and the blade grazed his side. In anger, he went past the man's blade and stabbed the man in the heart. With a last, tortured sigh, the man collapsed. The last standing bodyguard of the nobleman held the sword with sweaty palms as Rictor walked casually towards him, blades raised in silence. The nobleman, at this point, stood up. "Alright! Freedom for you, Rictor! Let us depart!" He said with terror. The bodyguard then dropped the sword and ran out of the tavern after his master.

Rictor turned around, watching all the rest of the nobleman's bodyguards, some holding their swords with hands that will never move, some staring into space with eyes that will never see. With a mischievous grin, Rictor twirled his dagger in the air several rounds before the small blade settled in its sheath. The scimitar was sheathed briefly after the dagger was.Appollo and Desrade were making a noisy entrance into the tavern, planks creaking dangerously below them, almost unable to take their weight. Appollo threw open the door with his massive hands, expecting to see bards and nomads sitting and eating in silence. Instead, the two saw bodies--dead bodies--scattered about the floor and a tall man with a tricorn hat sitting on a table. "Ah, visitors. Welcome." The man greeted Desrade and Appollo, who stared back with ignorant eyes.

"You....you did this?" Desrade asked. The man nodded sombrely, taking off his tricorn hat. "By the named of the Unamed, you should not have done this," Appollo commented using the name of a God he did not even worship. The Unamed was supposed to be a 'holy' God."Unfortunately," the man said with faked bitterness. "I worship neither the Unamed nor the Undernamed.”

Appollo was at a loss to what to say. This is a smart man, not to be trifled with. "My name is Rictor. Local mercenary, excellent sword and dagger man, always at your service. For some gold." Desrade and Appollo were quite relieved. "You are hired. Is a hundred gold enough?" Appollo offered, handing out a pouch. Interested, Rictor threw on his tricorn hat and opened the pouch to inspect the money. When he was done, he looked up.

"What will you have your mercenary do?" He asked.

******************************

They walked, Appollo in front, Rictor in the middle, and Desrade at the back. Rictor felt like a prisoner, being led to a jail cell, because, here he was, a mercenary, being forced to walk between two Royal Knights, to somewhere which is secluded at the edge of the forest, if what Desrade had told him was even true. He knew that they were Royal Knights because of the insignia of the serpent being grappled on by a lion on their chestplates. They walked through a sandy path.

The night was sending imaginary pictures into the three men's heads, making Desrade turn back his head to look behind him, looking out for the ghosts that his mind created. Even Appollo was feeling uneasy. Rictor was perfectly calm and composed, although his head was flashing with morbid thoughts of the trio being torn apart by phantoms. Not long after, an abandoned hut came into sight.

Desrade pushed the door open with ginger hands, looked around, and when all was well, he stepped inside and beckoned them in. Appollo found it hard to fit through the door with his giant frame, and when he did, Rictor was already half asleep from waiting. Desrade shook him awake, and the mercenary reluctantly left the comforts of the chair to stand with his employers. "Sirs, why are we here? Will you be so kind as to disclose your names? I will not force you, however." Rictor said carefully, shattering the restless silence. Desrade gestured to Appollo, who cleared his throat. "I am Appollo das Fathom, and this Knight here is Desrade ter Edagon. We are here to reach the castle of the Darkranancer and slay the Darkranancer himself before bringing his head to His Majesty, King Tresgonne De Tunge Das Lon, Most Honoured Swordsman, Ruler, and Fighter." Rictor ignored the part of King Tresgonne's ridiculously long name, though he would not dare say it in front of The King himself.

Outside, somewhere in the forest, a wolf howled."There are wolves in the forest, are there not?" Desrade asked, the question being directed at no one in particular. Rictor nodded in silence, slipping off his hat and placing it onto the old table. He set his black cape onto the floor as his bed. "May we wake to a fresh morning, Sir Desrade, Sir Appollo. For now, we need to rest." Desrade nodded. "Aye, Sir Appollo. We must." With that, he unstrapped his chest plate and his equipment, not removing the armour that protected his legs and his arms. He took off his helm and placed it beside him. Appollo sighed when he was addressed as Sir. He did not like to be called a Sir. He took off his helm and placed it onto the table before lying down beside Desrade, not used to sleeping on bare ground. For safety, he kept his full armour on.

"I fervently hope that we will wake to a fresh, new morning," He added quietly, memories of the past hounding his dreams as he slept.

~To be continued...

.::Epee::.
Departure
The poet

Tuesday, September 05, 2006 @ 1:32 PM


18 December (Chapter 2)

Elite Mercenary

The tavern is witnessing a brawl. A vicious one that shattered windows, damaged pillars, and even smashed a barrel of wine. The tavern keeper could not do anything about it. A young man with a black tricorn hat was in the middle, a dagger in his left hand and a scimitar in the other. He was, so far, the most skilled, and was facing five foes. "Rictor," One of the men said. "Apologise. Now!" He gestured to a nobleman, sitting at a side, blowing smoke from his pipe in calm repose. "I do not think so." Rictor replied with cool, lunging at the poor man, scimitar crossed with dagger. Their edges rested precariously on the man's neck. Another man behind him slash towards him, but Rictor somehow anticipated the attack and moved sideways, evading the blow. His scimitar was released from its cross as its blade plunged hungrily into the man's stomach. With a short slash, he cut open the throat of the man he held captive. Three left, he thought. "Twas will be a bloody night." He commented, and then leapt savagely at the third man, kicking him in the stomach. The man doubled over, dropping his sword. "Drop your blade, and apologise, Rictor," One of the last two men ordered.

"Kill me, and I will apologise." Rictor casually examined his scimitar, and seizing the chance, the man lunged. Rictor tried to parry the blow with his dagger, but the stab was unexpectedly strong, and the blade grazed his side. In anger, he went past the man's blade and stabbed the man in the heart. With a last, tortured sigh, the man collapsed. The last standing bodyguard of the nobleman held the sword with sweaty palms as Rictor walked casually towards him, blades raised in silence. The nobleman, at this point, stood up. "Alright! Freedom for you, Rictor! Let us depart!" He said with terror. The bodyguard then dropped the sword and ran out of the tavern after his master.

Rictor turned around, watching all the rest of the nobleman's bodyguards, some holding their swords with hands that will never move, some staring into space with eyes that will never see. With a mischievous grin, Rictor twirled his dagger in the air several rounds before the small blade settled in its sheath. The scimitar was sheathed briefly after the dagger was.Appollo and Desrade were making a noisy entrance into the tavern, planks creaking dangerously below them, almost unable to take their weight. Appollo threw open the door with his massive hands, expecting to see bards and nomads sitting and eating in silence. Instead, the two saw bodies--dead bodies--scattered about the floor and a tall man with a tricorn hat sitting on a table. "Ah, visitors. Welcome." The man greeted Desrade and Appollo, who stared back with ignorant eyes.

"You....you did this?" Desrade asked. The man nodded sombrely, taking off his tricorn hat. "By the named of the Unamed, you should not have done this," Appollo commented using the name of a God he did not even worship. The Unamed was supposed to be a 'holy' God."Unfortunately," the man said with faked bitterness. "I worship neither the Unamed nor the Undernamed.”

Appollo was at a loss to what to say. This is a smart man, not to be trifled with. "My name is Rictor. Local mercenary, excellent sword and dagger man, always at your service. For some gold." Desrade and Appollo were quite relieved. "You are hired. Is a hundred gold enough?" Appollo offered, handing out a pouch. Interested, Rictor threw on his tricorn hat and opened the pouch to inspect the money. When he was done, he looked up.

"What will you have your mercenary do?" He asked.

******************************

They walked, Appollo in front, Rictor in the middle, and Desrade at the back. Rictor felt like a prisoner, being led to a jail cell, because, here he was, a mercenary, being forced to walk between two Royal Knights, to somewhere which is secluded at the edge of the forest, if what Desrade had told him was even true. He knew that they were Royal Knights because of the insignia of the serpent being grappled on by a lion on their chestplates. They walked through a sandy path.

The night was sending imaginary pictures into the three men's heads, making Desrade turn back his head to look behind him, looking out for the ghosts that his mind created. Even Appollo was feeling uneasy. Rictor was perfectly calm and composed, although his head was flashing with morbid thoughts of the trio being torn apart by phantoms. Not long after, an abandoned hut came into sight.

Desrade pushed the door open with ginger hands, looked around, and when all was well, he stepped inside and beckoned them in. Appollo found it hard to fit through the door with his giant frame, and when he did, Rictor was already half asleep from waiting. Desrade shook him awake, and the mercenary reluctantly left the comforts of the chair to stand with his employers. "Sirs, why are we here? Will you be so kind as to disclose your names? I will not force you, however." Rictor said carefully, shattering the restless silence. Desrade gestured to Appollo, who cleared his throat. "I am Appollo das Fathom, and this Knight here is Desrade ter Edagon. We are here to reach the castle of the Darkranancer and slay the Darkranancer himself before bringing his head to His Majesty, King Tresgonne De Tunge Das Lon, Most Honoured Swordsman, Ruler, and Fighter." Rictor ignored the part of King Tresgonne's ridiculously long name, though he would not dare say it in front of The King himself.

Outside, somewhere in the forest, a wolf howled."There are wolves in the forest, are there not?" Desrade asked, the question being directed at no one in particular. Rictor nodded in silence, slipping off his hat and placing it onto the old table. He set his black cape onto the floor as his bed. "May we wake to a fresh morning, Sir Desrade, Sir Appollo. For now, we need to rest." Desrade nodded. "Aye, Sir Appollo. We must." With that, he unstrapped his chest plate and his equipment, not removing the armour that protected his legs and his arms. He took off his helm and placed it beside him. Appollo sighed when he was addressed as Sir. He did not like to be called a Sir. He took off his helm and placed it onto the table before lying down beside Desrade, not used to sleeping on bare ground. For safety, he kept his full armour on.

"I fervently hope that we will wake to a fresh, new morning," He added quietly, memories of the past hounding his dreams as he slept.

~To be continued...

.::Epee::.
Departure
The poet