Fantasy Statera, the Land of Stars

[youngmanrhys]

War.

War was the sole concept that flooded each mind in the modern day. It was a taint that spread into every way of life, and forced the world to mold to its influence. Kingdoms waned, the loss of gold and men are but a few of the prices to pay when engaged in a seemingly endless battle. Civilization halts, and both cities and villages alike come to perish entirely, and those that survive are but slaves to the powers above them. War punishes the powerless, and rewards the savage and rich.

Bands of bandits and mercenaries rose up with the sole purpose of profiting off the misery of others. People began to turn away from the stars they once idolized, and believed they were forsaken by their creators. Some even held grudges towards the Stars, and a few doubted their existence entirely. Animosity that only fed into the discourse already growing in the modern world.

The Kingdom of Rherand and the Queendom of Yaelith have been entrapped in a war for over a century. Children of each settlement are raised upon the stories of battle and heroism that their fathers before them took place in. Some would say it was a way of preserving their memory and the sacrifices they made for their countries, while others mocked such tales as a scheme to encourage generational spite for one another. A sick and twisted concept that undeniably held truth.

Yet, with every tale and story fabricated— heroes too were born. Individuals whom’s influence exemplified what it meant to thrive and perform. Each kingdom had its own set of heroes, and for Rherand, theirs was a mere mighty human who turned the tables entirely. A man who was the definition of courage, battle, and what it means to have vigor.

Warsong, the Living Legend.

He was a hero that single-handedly turned the war in favor of the Rherandean Kingdom, and drove the pressing forces of Yaelith from their continent and back to their own. A warrior amongst warriors, and one who liberated many settlements from slavery and poverse environments, and returned stability to a land that was dwindling to mere rot and blood.

His fame transcends that of Rherand. Tales of him reach Veasa, and stories meant to frighten children are told of him in the lands of Yaelith. He defined what it meant to have strength. In his time of action, the war slowed to a stalemate, and for a brief moment the world experienced peace. A peace that was shattered when he retired from the war.

Attacks from the Queendom of Yaelith rose in number again, and battles began to ensue over the seas in an attempt to establish dominance over water. It was common knowledge that those that controlled the waters dictated the outcome of the war.

As for Warsong? He retreated to a neutral settlement near the border of Rherand. Graseltheim, a small village that was once enslaved under Yaelith control before he liberated it. There, he resides, drowning his years away in ale, ignorant of the horrors unfolding around him.

Though, by mere fate or perhaps luck, he would be forced to act again. This time, however, he wouldn’t be alone.

In Graseltheim is where the story of our next legends begin.

____________________________________________

Warsong

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​

The Malkatern Tavern was as busy as it was every day.

Barmaids practically glided from one end of the room to the next, catering to the requests of the clients that sought relaxation there. It was a melting pot of species that chose to waste away on alcohol at the Malkatern Tavern. Immystia and Orcs that would range to Demi-humans and Faeries even. Graseltheim was one of the few villages left in the world of Statera that still held some sort of interconnection between each of the species. That wasn’t to say they always got along. Internal feuds would spark out of influence from the terrible past each and everyone shared. A terrible past birthed from war, and continued by bloody battles.

Though, lately, the tavern was more calm to an extent than it ever had been. Rowdiness was kept to a minimum, in terms of violence, at least, because of his own presence. Warsong always minded his own in these types of establishments, but his fame and record of violence drove fear into those he gave an eye too. Of course, it was rare that he did, but at the first turn of disrespect towards barmaids or those undeserving, he was the first to put them in their place. Alternatively, many aspiring warriors and adventurers would seek him out here and beg for a chance to train with him. Idolization that poked at his nerves, and that he grew to inevitably ignore.

Despite the few inconveniences that came with staying at the tavern, Warsong had come to appreciate it as his second home. The stench of sweat, ale, and sex was etched into his nostrils. He knew most of the barmaids personally at this point— an elf by the name of Tethys, and two short Demi-human twins, Cynthia and Caelus. All were young compared to him, yet, tough enough to carry their own pride and weight amidst all the rough men that also called this tavern their home.

He’d come to know the owner of the establishment well enough too. Valter, who was so kind enough to house him here for free out of appreciation for liberating their town and keeping his tavern safe from harm. Too many arguments were had based on whether he deserved it or not, but inevitably, the crafty swiftborn was able to shake him down to acceptance. Albeit reluctantly.

He was glad Valter was able to. He’d grown accustomed to life here in Graseltheim, especially Malkatern’s Tavern. The interior of the inn, no matter the stench, displayed a homely setting. Rherandean style chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, enchanted through light magic to showcase an amber glow that warmed one’s heart from the mere sight of it. The floors were made from refined basalt, and the walls were of a smokey-colored wood that even he hadn’t recognized. In one corner was a stage, where bards provided entertainment, and completely opposite from it were the stairs that led to the upper floors. It was such a simple design, but simple things were what he truthfully enjoyed.

Warsong sat at the counter, hunched over the wood and taking occasional sips of Behemoth’s Tail— a strong, but rich flavor of beer. His eyes would at times wander around the room, in search for new faces and those familiar. He wasn’t one to get complacent, no matter how comfortable he truly was. After all, he was still a target of the Yaelithian Knights. Retirement never meant the end of danger for men like him.

“Something troubling you?”

A gentle, melodic voice disrupted his ongoing thoughts. Eyes tracked after the one who spoke to him, which he soon realized to be Tethys. A beautiful elf, bronze-skinned with silky, crimson hair tied into a ponytail. Sweat dripped off her brow, and exhaustion was evident in her face. Yet, she still offered a smile, and sat beside him as if she wasn’t remotely tired.

He sat up for a moment, a low chuckle escaping him. “I’m an old man who has nothing but his thoughts. There is always something troubling me.”

Tethys shared a giggle with him, and relaxed her back against the counter. Her legs crossed beneath her skirt, and her eyes shut for a moment. “You’re not that old, you daft man. You’ve only lived for about 50 years. That’s adolescent years still for my kind.”

“You forget that humans age far, far differently than any other species. Once we reach past the age of 35, it becomes a gamble any day for when we might die.”

“Ah! I forgot, humans drew the short stick when it comes to lifespan.”

Another, hoarse chuckle came from him. “Hah! Agreed, though at least we’re not nearly as awful as goblins.”

Tethys brought a hand up to her lips, suppressing her own laugh. “It’s surreal to me. I never thought I’d ever be trading jokes with the infamous Warsong.”

“Believe me, I never thought I’d ever be the one telling jokes.” He’d mutter.

Voices of men shouting for more drinks drowned out his sentence, which prompted Tethys to slide off her seat. “I have to get back to work. If you need anything, just call my name and I’ll find you.” A slight curtsy was offered to him, along with a few more words. “There’s a few, newer individuals here today. A Celestial amongst a few other people. I don’t know if they’re all together, but I know you like to keep an eye out for new individuals. Be careful, alright?”

She parted soon after, and left him to his lonesome again. His head pondered in thought of who the newcomers at this tavern were— it wasn’t often that Graseltheim obtained new visitors as the settlement wasn’t near anything.

He could only hope that none of them held ill intentions towards him, nor any of the individuals present.

Hope was all he was capable of now.

____________________________________________

Lo Mayn Violetti JackRockRiley xthetique​

 

[JackRockRiley]

Apollyon's arrival in Graseltheim was far from an occasion that should've warranted alerting the ever shifting eyes of… anyone, really. Aside from the fact she was a new arrival, on the outside she was no different from any other warrior with the same level of experience that desired the comforting atmosphere of a bar tavern. She ate, slept, and drank like the rest of them so it was no real surprise that she sought the sweet escape of alcohol upon a bar stool beneath the roof of The Malkatern Tavern. However, an extended look at her could easily reveal details that begged both questions and answers.

Her weapons were perhaps the most glaring: an iron longsword sheathed at her hip and a halberd of the same material leaned beside her, against the counter- pommel side up. The blade of her halberd in particular was chipped and considerably smaller than usual, likely due to repeated use that required constant sharpening. Not the most common armaments around for a female warrior- or any warrior in fact.

Her clothing was just as unorthodox. While many tended to stick with the philosophy of "better safe than sorry", Apollyon seemed to have a different approach. With the exception of her forearms and right shoulder, Apollyon didn't bear much armor at all. Just such a decision alone would've set her apart as a fish out of water. And even better, her body was peppered with scars, entertaining the idea that this was her usual attire and not some one-time-gig outfit.
In fact, her entire physical appearance was a far cry from most female warriors in general. She was easily over six feet, hair was long and blonde- flowing freely down past her shoulders, and her resting bitch expression could strip white from rice.



Slow and rhythmic breaths accompanied the subtle rise and fall of Apollyon's shoulders as she stared down at two gold coins laid upon the counter, only occasionally glancing toward the adjacent stairs leading to the second floor, not several meters from her spot. Out of anxiety? Curiosity? Hard to tell what exactly was on the blonde's mind. Yet with a relaxed expression, she waited calmly in deep thought, both elbows pressed upon the wooden surface while her forearms rested perpendicular to each other- fingers rapping against the bar surface in a quiet fashion.

It was only when the bartender attempted eye contact and approached that she moved. Pushing the two coins toward the man, Apollyon then raised her finger to point at a dark red liquid displayed for the public- bottom shelf. Following her direction with quick and experienced eyes, the tender spoke as he pocketed the gold coins and reached for a clean mug,

"The ale? Good choice. Must've heard we have the finest around, eh?"

No words left Apollyon's lips and no change could be discerned in her stoic facial expression. Shrugging to himself, the bartender began to pour but not before speaking once again- perhaps in an attempt to avoid an awkward situation,

"Ah, well don't get your hopes up too high. Ale here tastes like shit dipped in swamp water. Still the finest around, though, and it doubles as a good rat poison. Kill two birds with one stone- perhaps a little more literal than it should be but hey, you can't argue with the results."

Apollyon did her best to hide the crack of a smirk by turning her head away, but soon found it fruitless as the bartender took notice and chuckled under his breath before pushing the ale-filled mug forward, brimming with amber foam. Shaking her head in mocking disapproval, Apollyon spared a glance toward the bartender before nodding in thanks and snatching the wooden mug by its handle.
Throwing her head back, Apollyon absorbs the sweet yet bitter taste for a few gulps before setting the mug back to the table and wiping her upper lip.

 

[Lo Mayn]

A'balith Sylack
'The Celestial Divorcee'

It was the moisture in the dirt that caught A’balith’s attention. Rain, it must have been recent, he thought. The idea comforted him for rain meant life and peace, something that was able to be threatened quickly. Small towns such as Graseltheim may have avoided conflict one way or another in the past, but war was inevitable. It was always, and it would be always. Forever and forever, slurred the drunks. “We’ll all die someday,” they mumbled. A’balith only nodded his head and kept moving. There was a hope, a light, pun-intended for a celestial, that meant there was a token somewhere to be paid that could change everything. And perhaps, it wouldn’t be the token that everyone thought it would be: one of power and control. Maybe, just maybe, it could be… Something nice… And sweet. A’balith sniffed the air. Perhaps the token could be a… Was that… A pork bun?

A’balith’s stomach growled in comical fashion as he wandered through the strange town. He wore a hood that covered his silk shirt which also covered a flimsy piece of leather armor. His boots were heavy enough to make that sickly mush sound with each step, and his vibrantly white hair had been pulled into a short bun of sort. This warrior, he smelled food from somewhere. Ahead was a bar, a tavern, a hooka-hooka, whatever they called these things in these parts. And so, his eyes were set. So much so, he had started to lose a bit of his perception. Perhaps he was imagining things when he heard several footsteps and panting; it didn’t matter as long as man could get to his food.

Oh, and who could forget the pathetic spear attached to his back that poked through a hole in his hood. He was a spearman.

Violetti youngmanrhys xthetique

 

[Violetti]

(I'll edit the format later because I seriously needed to get this out and did not wish to delay any longer)

-Arista-​

It was still midday in the bustling town, where Arista played a fancy chess game with a pirate and his traveling crew at an outdoor bar. It should be worth noting that this particular bar was famous for its juicy pork buns.

Sunlight tickled the nape of Arista's neck. Her hair was tied up into a neat ponytail, as always. After all, if she couldn't be orderly in spirit, the least she could do was look the part of a composed woman...for a few minutes anyway. A nearby waitress sauntered over, sashaying her hips to garner more tips from customers. She placed a plate of piping hot pork buns on the table beside them. The meaty fragrance was almost enough to wash away the disappointment of losing.

"That's game. Pay up, cat girl." The gruff voice of a burley civilian man sounded from across the chess table.

A noticeable twitch of the eye could be witnessed from Arista. "I-is that so? Oh, kind sir, wouldn't you reconsider a rematch? P-perhaps a different game entire-" she was immediately cut off by fists slamming on the table, causing the game pieces to clatter aimlessly onto the ground. A wooden pawn rolled to Arista's feet and tapped her boot. She focused heavily on it, avoiding eye contact with the now furious individual.

"ENOUGH GAMES. We've been rematching for two hours. Do you or do you not have the gold?" A dark shadow crossed over his eyes, and he added in a snicker, "I'd say you could pay with your body, but even that wouldn't be enough."

"Ah! How dare! I'll have you know my body is worth FAR more than you and your entire crew...DOUBLED!" Arista hissed angrily, snatching up the pawn from the ground and threw it right at his face, turning on her heel to make a run for it, not bothering to see if her hit even landed (it didn't). She had also hijacked their plate of pork buns in the process.

"You thieving bitch! Stop her!" Roared the man, indicating for his men to move after her.

Contrary to belief, Arista was after the pork buns the entire time. Sure, gold was lovely, and it bought you more pork buns. However, how could she resist something so tempting when it was practically begging her to rip into its supple flesh. So now she ran in the most focused and precise fashion of her life. For, should she trip or turn too quickly, she risked dropping the entire plate of plump goodness. It was food for the gods. What a sin it would be for them to go to waste. She was already saving them from being consumed by ghastly men. That in itself should earn her a few virtue points, right?

How foolish Arista was. She was anything but careful in reality. Not to mention lacking in monetary value and luck. And so, it should come to no surprise that when she dared to check if she had lost the barbarians behind her, that split second caused her to ram into a black hooded figure. No!!!!!! PORK BUN SAMAS!!

A squeal escaped from the woman as the plate of bunny-shaped buns flew into the air, completely unguarded. Despite her frantic attempts to save one, Arista was left empty-handed. Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to become mini waterfalls. This was it, the end. Everything she had worked so hard for. How could she find her brother in a world where she couldn't even save a plate of pork buns??! She was pathetic. Now, she was fated to be gang banged and not even in the fun way. Goodbye world, I fought long and hard today, but I have suffered far too much loss-wait. Wait.

Balancing so delicately upon a hooded stranger's head was a pork bun?! Hope resurged throughout Arista's body. "Gallant, sir, you have SAVED my pork bun!! Oh, bless! Bless!!" Arista swiped the bun from his head and ripped it in half, handing one to her savior. "You are a true hero! Here I was, about to allow myself to drown in the abyss of misfortune and death. But your efforts have sparked new life into me! Please, take this as my gratitude! My life is forever indebted to you, sir." Arista bowed, her tail flickering from side to side excitedly.

Louder footsteps rang in an ominous choir behind them. Right, Arista was still being followed. "Quick! Absorb the power of the pork bun and smite them with that fancy spear of yours, noble warrior!!" Arista hid behind the hooded man and pointed at the onslaught of aggravated men.

Lo Mayn youngmanrhys xthetique

 

[xthetique]

ZAHRIA
Zahria sits at the counter looking straight down as she leans over the surface. She avoids making eye contact with anyone in fear that she will burst into angry tears. This is weak, I am not like this, I need to get myself together. Frustration fills her mind, and reserved resentment for her mother and brothers. Though, the one most deserving of her anger is none other than her father. That son of a bitch will get what he deserves for dumping us like dirt. She huffs and slams her fists on the wood standing up. She glares and looks around as the crowds turn to look and just as quickly go back to conversing and drinking like fools.
Zahria is a towering, slender, and fit woman that strides with as much pride as any old-fashioned warrior. Whatever or whomever is in her way is promptly removed, especially so if they just so happen to be male. It made her blood boil all the more at the notice of a plump, greasy fuck mishandling one of the women. Zahria heard her cries and complaints of objection before, and finally her anger from the situation formed into action. Rage filled her demeanor as she carried her fist through the air, smacking all of her force straight into his nose. It cracks, and he tumbles over his now broken chair. Though, part of that was by fault of his own weight. Typical.
“What the hell?” He struggles to stand up and rolls over to find his footing. “Listen here, you bitch-“
Zahria grabs his neck and holds him back up against the wall.
“Excuse me?” She cocks her neck. “Leave her alone or I will make sure your hog ass is in the Tavern’s next celebration stew.”
He trips on his words and decides to spit on her, to which she responds by throwing him into a table of drunkards playing a game incorrectly. They begin to throw insults and their cards at her. She steps on the hog’s crotch and twists before stepping out the door. She is so furious she leaves without a word, even to the woman she saved. I cannot believe he had the audacity to speak to me like that. I am three times his size, but because I am a woman he chooses to disrespect me? She turns around stomping and grinding her boots into the rocks and dirt and slams the door open.
“Fuck all of you spineless men. Choke on a-“ she chokes on her spit as she inhales.
The blood drains from her face and her expression falls as she makes direct eye contact with Warsong. Fuck. He goes back to his conversation, and many in the tavern erupt in laughter and yet again throw spirits and garbage at her. She looks down and away, walks out the door and bangs her head against the wall.
Violetti JackRockRiley youngmanrhys Lo Mayn

 

[youngmanrhys]

____________________________________________
Warsong

____________________________________________
​

Tethys had been far more observant than he was in regards to those new to Graseltheim— seemingly new, at least. There were far too many faces he hadn’t recognized. Individuals of which kept their faces shrouded by cloth, and others armed to the teeth. Among Graseltheim’s newcomers stood out a few in particular to Warsong. Each different in their own right, an intrigue to his withering eyes. One of which sat adjacent to him. She was a human woman, with height that rivaled his which was astonishing to him. Most women that he knew barely reached their heads to his shoulder, at least those that were human. He noticed her weapons were worn, like any average warrior’s would be. Notably her halberd that rested against the counter, the blade end hanging dangerously over the wood.

Warsong eyed her for a moment longer, and if he were to be honest with himself, she was familiar. It was only after she had embraced the ale, that he recognized what she truly was. A soldier of the Rherandean Myrmidons, and a fellow retiree as he was. He recognized her by the eyes alone. Eyes of pure fire, fury, and sheer bravery. Eyes that resembled her father, a warrior once enlisted within the Myrmidons before his passing. It only struck him how old he truly was now that that man's daughter was a fully grown woman before him, and one who wielded a halberd at that.

“I never thought I’d meet a Myrmidon this far out from Rherand. Most keep towards the towns closer to the capital, for King Gyrenwalt’s sake.” Warsong indulged in a small chuckle as words flowed naturally from his lips.

She turned to him all but briefly, with a slight eyebrow raised in his acknowledgment before returning to sip on her drink. Warsong thought to leave it at that, but he was a miserable old man with a desire for some form of conversation.

He took a sip of his own mug before persisting, “I assume words aren’t exactly your specialty, or maybe I’m just not one you’ve found any worth in talking to yet.”

Silence, still, even, but Warsong noticed that she at least heard what he said, so he continued.

“Maybe I was wrong about you being a myrmidon, since my position raised I was a little disconnected from newer men and women enlisted into Rherand’s militia. Though, when I was ascending the ranks as a common warrior myself, I knew a man who looked a little like you. He was a respectable and valiant warrior, and spoke often of his family to me whenever we’d cross paths.” A soft smile blossomed upon his face the moment he noticed she finally had given him shared eye contact. “In other words, I’d like to say that man was related to you in some way. Either be it mentor, or family. I suppose he left a mark on me as an individual, and seeing perhaps his spawn in a place like this sparked a little interest in me.”

She still spoke nothing towards him, but his heart was warmed by the fact he’d at least received an ounce of her attention. Their conversation, if one could even call it that, ended rather abruptly however. An argument from beside him began to ensue between a shorter, fatter man and to his surprise, and Immystian woman. She was one of the other characters in the bar he’d noticed. Tall, toned with muscle, with the color of pink meshed with both hair and skin. He’d been too absorbed in talking with Apollyon to notice what had happened, but a simple glance told him all that he had needed. Cynthia, one of the barmaids there, hid behind the stature of the woman barking insults at the rather bulbous man. She was timid, but attractive, which led to unwanted male attention coming her way. Warsong, truthfully, found it refreshing that someone else was standing up for her.

That is, until that same bulbous man was hurled across the room and onto a table.

“.. Shit.” He muttered, and watched as the woman crushed the man’s crotch with contempt before she was barraged with insults by others in the bar. Immystia, despite some having cut relations from Yaelith, were still frowned upon in Rherand. It wasn’t any different in Graseltheim. The badgering from the crowd was enough to drive her out of the tavern, long before he was able to utter words to her. His eyes traveled back towards Cynthia, who looked absolutely mortified at what happened.

Warsong was just about to comfort her, but then murmurs and shouts of “Fight!” throughout the room snagged his attention and directed it towards the entrance. Outside the bar was a growing commotion between a small demi-human and a few of Graseltheim’s famously unsanitary men. Individuals who were notorious for harassment, but smart enough to stray from Warsong’s attention. Until today, that was. Warsong watched through one of the thin windows on the opposite end of the tavern.

“...thieving bitch! Stop her!”

A shout that echoed through the cracks of the bar doors. The demi-human and men soon left his sight, and the commotion only grew further from what Warsong could gather. It was annoying, truthfully, for he was enjoying talk with a fellow soldier weary of Rherand’s shenanigans. More eyes began to divert from the situation to him, the silent pleas for him, an ancient war hero, to intervene. A low sigh escaped his lips, and he stood tall from his seat. Too much had happened in a single instant. Altercations were expected at an establishment full of drunken men and women, but to the gravity of this was rather extreme.

His eyes traced toward the woman he had just spoken to, “You comin’ with to help settle whatever the hell is happening, or would you rather wait here where it’s a little less exciting?”

Warsong noticed her shake her head, but before he could march off, he felt a tap upon his shoulder.

He turned to witness the woman slipping him a note, one that read a single word in fine print.

`Apollyon.`

His eyes widened for a moment, their shared gaze holding a common realization that she was that man’s daughter. That, and she finally had spoken to him. In his mind, that was a worthy feat in itself.

“Warsong.” He spoke in return, and then took a few steps forward, stretching his arms and joints out enough to initiate a few cracks before reaching the tavern’s door. Today he was without any weapons or armor, so he had hoped whatever dispute it was would be settled with his hands alone.

With a light pull, Warsong opened the door to witness the small, cat-girl from before staring wide-eyed at a hooded man with a pork bun atop his head. Caelus was seen in the background, snickering at the sight, and the men of whom the smaller one pissed off before were approaching. One with a dagger cupped in his palm.

With a widened gaze, Warsong reacted damn-near immediately once he saw it. In a mere second, his hand was wrapped tight around the wrist of the thug who sought it fit to deal justice with his own hands.

“And what makes you think stabbing a young woman is the right way to go for any sort of issue?” A sneer followed his words, and the fear was evident in the boring eyes of the demi-human’s aggressor. Though, for everyone else— it was shock. He had moved faster than most of them could see. The only ones that perceived him at all was the one most observant. The man in the hood.

One of the men spoke up, and he recognized it as the man who cursed out the girl to begin with. “She owes me gold. For both the game, and the damned food she stole and spilt all over the floor.”

A couple mutters erupted from the crowd, and the pressure of it all was enough to birth further irritation in Warsong’s visage. With a grumble and sigh, he reached into his tunic and fished for his pouch. Though, today of all days was the worst time for him to leave damn near all of his possessions at his home. He only had enough money for a drink, and nothing else.


He glanced towards the woman pressed against the hooded figure, then back to him.

“I’m sure you have other ways of obtaining your coin without harassing someone smaller than you, and failing at it miserably. Run along now, before anyone here gets hurt.”

Laughter erupted around them, and he faced the duo with hopes of some form of understanding of the oddballs he handles around Graseltheim. He noticed that neither of them, however, were paying attention to him at all. At least, he couldn’t view the visage of the hooded one, and the demi-human was reaching up for the pork bun atop his head. Though, behind them both, he saw the same, Immystian woman from before. She was sulking with her head pressed against a now dented wall.

He thought to speak to her, even if just for a moment, but the sounds of screams traveled from a distance. Warsong watched as something hurled from the air and landed promptly at his feet.

Gasps and screams soon surrounded the others and him too, for it was the severed head of a man before them all. Though, not just any sort of man.

The head of a Yaelithian soldier.

____________________________________________
Emiath Andhera

____________________________________________
​

“Aye, kid. Think they’re still tailin’ us or ya think Graseltheim might be the one place on this shitty continent where we can settle?!”

Emiath’s patience was running thin lately with the lack of any and everything he could ever enjoy about life. A nice, cold glass of wyrith, lovely music, and the company of a voluptuous woman. For over a week, he’d been on the run from both Yaelithian soldiers. Accompanying him was a rookie mage he’d been tasked with watching over, and a man of mystery who was too silent and introverted for him to learn anything about. Two individuals he could hardly call brothers-in-arms, but capable enough to an extent. Though, truthfully, if it wasn’t for the kid’s desire to fuck with everything new to him, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

He received the answer to his question immediately. Magic soared over their heads in the form of an intense orb of flame. Without so much as a word, he jumped towards the right to avoid the fire that now began to spread across the dry grass. The other two had jumped towards the left, dividing and placing them in a rather unfavorable situation.

“Think you got your answer, Emiath!” Thomas, or rather, the kid yelled back over the noise of battle. It would’ve been an amusing response, if it wasn’t for the fact that a group of men were now gaining upon them. They rode upon dunjras, beasts native to the lands of Yaelith and to Emiath, the ultimate pain in his arse. Warriors clad in blacksteel armor sat atop of them, equipped with swords, spears, axes, and of course, magic.

The masked, normally silent one spoke aloud. Emiath thought his voice was the enemy’s, with how little he spoke to the two of them.

“Their formation is formidable, and within a few more minutes they’ll reach us! Sorcerers sit behind the men armed with blades and attempt to pick us off from afar, and if my… sight was correct! A Yaelithian Captain is among them. I’m afraid we’ll have little choice but to fight!”

Another blast of magic aimed towards them, another ball of flame, but it hit nowhere near them this time. Emiath cursed vehemently to himself multiple times at Verys’ words. He was right, they’d be forced into combat beforelong.

“We should draw them towards Graseltheim,” he yelled to the others, “I heard the hero Warsong resides there! With any luck, we can hopefully garner his attention to assist us from being overwhelmed!”

“Sounds like a plan Emiath, I think Graseltheim is just over this hill!”

“It is!” Verys confirmed.

Emiath shared a nod with the other three, and began to pick up his speed. He could hear the galloping of hooves practically thundering in his eardrums. The sun above beaded down upon him too, fueling exhaustion, and acting as one of the many causes for the dampness upon his forehead. Everything about this situation was horrid, but Emiath refused to lose his balance. Even the slightest emotion would descend him lower into his chances for survival. Hope that the hero Warsong still even existed was all he could hold onto, let alone hope that he even resided in the town in the first place.

His fingers dropped to the hilt of his blade, and he kept his eyes focused on what was ahead of him. Occasionally, Emiath would launch himself forward to avoid a blast of magic or avoid a large rock that might’ve caused him to tumble. Second by second, they approached the top of one of the plane’s hills. Graseltheim was just on the other side, they needed to only be near it.

The soldiers were right behind them, but in a final attempt to stray from their weapon’s reach, the two others and he leapt high over the peak of the hill. Emiath landed in a roll to protect himself as he tumbled fast down on the opposite side. In a mere few seconds, he sprang to his feet once he had stopped and searched for the others. They weren’t far off from him. Thomas and Verys soon joined his side. Verys had drawn his bow, and Thomas held his hands at the ready.

Naturally, the enemy had caught up with them and swiftly began to surround them. Emiath kept a headcount for every soldier he saw start to encircle them. Ten… twenty-three… thirty-four. Thirty-four enemies in total that rode around them on dunjras. Including the Captain himself. Verys was a skilled warrior in his own right, and Thomas' gimmick with his spells was incredibly useful. Emiath, too, knew he held a considerable amount of skill. Though, he didn’t think any of them measured to the level that a Yaelithian Captain held. Men and women of that title were forces of war, capable of dismantling entire battalions by their lonesome. Emiath would be overwhelmed in the face of a single company on his own. The men that surrounded the captain weren’t a problem. The captain alone was.

All at once, the soldiers halted and took their positions, and the captain himself spoke.

“You three are a rather tricky bunch to follow, but sloppy. Even human hunters would’ve been able to discover you with the trail of mistakes you left behind. Campfires doused recently and uncovered, blood from animals slain, and witnesses you left behind in some of the towns among these planes.”

Emiath couldn’t help but let a nervous chuckle slip, “I didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to chase after the three of us. Most don’t live after a confrontation.”

“Perhaps not, but you’ve yet to come across any of our skilled warriors. The men we’ve sent so far were mere scouts meant to test the lengths of your skill. Though, personally, I wasn’t impressed.”

“Oh?” Thomas sneered, “Don’t get too confident in yourself. This many men isn’t nearly enough to take any one of us down.”

The captain chuckled, “If my goal was to kill you, you would’ve already been slaughtered the moment you chose to make your stand here. Not a single one of you has exhibited any skill to be able to stand toe-to-toe with me. The men with me are merely insurance, but I alone could slaughter the three of you at once boy.” He clapped his hands together once, and strode his dunjra forth only slightly. “However I’m willing to make a proposition so that there are no deaths today. The only one I seek is Thomas Vorn. Hand him over to the Queendom of Yaelith, and you two will be free to go.”

Before Emiath was able to speak anything in response, an arrow whistled through the air. It spun fast towards the captain, at a damn near blinding speed. Yet, just before the arrow could pierce the bastard’s head— he caught it, then snapped it within his palm. Emiath looked to Verys, and as did Thomas. There was no mistake that he had shot it.

“I suppose there’s your answer,” Thomas smirked, a slight wind traveling downward and lifting a few locks of his glistening white hair. “I’m not going anywhere with the Queendom of Yaelith. I’ve my own mission to complete.”

An audible sigh left the helm of the captain as he discarded the broken arrow. “An unsurprising answer, but still, a disappointing one.” He reached down for his weapon, which happened to be a blacksteel chain of all things. The man of Yaelith gripped it tight in his palms, stretching the metal out as far as he possibly could.

“I am Captain Fros’r. A name you’ll want to remember as the one who caused your deaths.”

His finger pointed forward, “Leave Thomas alive and in one piece. As for the others, slaughter them. I’ve no desire for foo—”

Another arrow soared through the air at Fros’r’s head, and the captain prepared to intercept it again. Yet, something different happened this time. The arrow was replaced by Verys himself, and a solid kick was struck into Fros’r’s head, knocking him off his dunjra. War cries shouted forth, and all at once the enemy began to close in on Emiath and Thomas.

“Tch, what fuckin’ luck I’ve been havin’, eh?!” Emiath shouted, mainly to himself before shifting orders to the kid. “Thomas, stay near me. We cover each other’s back, and we’ll be alright. Copy?!”

Thomas opened the palm of his hands, and sent a surge of gust forward. At least five men were blown away before he could offer a retort. “Fine, just pick up your slack of the work this time!”

“My slack?!” Emiath couldn’t help a grin as he unsheathed his blade. Two men charged at him blindly upon their dunjras, and with two swift strokes, he cut forward. He easily tore through flesh and bone, slicing the heads of the animals and the legs of his assailants. Horrified screams followed of dying men, and Emiath flicked his sword to spray blood upon the grass. “Don’t forget who trained you how to move, kid! I ain’t one to ever slack in a situation like this!”

There was never a time in his life where he didn’t give something his all. Sex, gambling, drinking, and of course, battle. Another man charged him, the dunjra rushing at full speed towards him. In a single instance, Emiath hopped upon the head of the creature. With a single, powerful sucker punch, he slammed his fist into the soldier’s skull. Though, to his surprise, it popped off, and soared high in the air towards Graseltheim.

A small victory for his heart, but the battle itself had just begun.

____________________________________________

Warsong Interacting: Lo Mayn JackRockRiley xthetique Violetti
Emiath Interacting: Verys, Thomas, Captain Fros'r. ​

 

[Lo Mayn]

A'balith Sylack

'The Celestial Divorcee'

The sweeping fragile peace of Graseltheim broke with a shatter, from a force that began small and swelled to dangerous proportions. Quickly, a small force crashed into A’balith during his hazy fog of hunger and shook him awake in the same way one shakes a fruit tree for loose food. It was a small woman, though she could be mistaken for a child from the ways her eyes were bold and wide. And with her and the platter she dropped; food went all over. The platter fell to make a pathetic sound in the drying mud.

By the time A’balith focused, the girl had been attempting to keep her sweet and juicy pork buns from the ground and failed miserably. She immediately bemoaned with no care to his presence, that is until she looked up and saw a bun perched perfectly atop his head. An exciting and hopeful shock came to her face. She swiped the bun, split it in two, and offered half to him. Now she truly had his attention. Free. Fucking. Food.

He swiped it from her and bit into the food. Through a half-filled mouth, he uttered, “I wouldn’t say gallant,” but his words fell quiet compared to the raucous behind the woman as a group of rowdy and despicable men made their presences known. She hid behind A’balith, and he continued chewing. At the same time, Warsong, or to A’balith, some hardened stranger, busted from the establishment. The men brandished their weapons, if you could call what they possessed “weapons,” and A’balith took his final bite. Though before his lazy hand reached for his spear, the black stranger had closed the gap at a speed few could acknowledge, and fewer could use. He would handle it. And so the men lost A’balith’s interest. He turned back to the demi-folk and acknowledged how close she stood next to him.

He stiff-armed her gently and stepped back, saying, with a lazy but curious tone, “You’re pretty lucky to get out of whatever that was in one piece.” He quickly stooped and grabbed two dirty pork buns. Of which he rubbed off the dirt, very clearly intending to eat it. “I mean, pretty nearly no consequence.” He gives her the once over, and does it a few times more, before taking in his surroundings. “I’d suggest avoiding getting in debt with the wrong people going forward,” he said to her.

A’balith noticed the brooding woman not far from them, and then the screaming. His head shot around towards Warsong just as the head rolled to his feet. It was instinctive and mostly automatic when A’balith drew his spear. He pulled down his hood, revealing his hair, and sighed.

there went the peace.

Suddenly, he glanced back at the Neko, “wait, what did you say about indebted?”

youngmanrhys Violetti xthetique

 

[JackRockRiley]

Warsong, ey?

While the name alone brought its own intrigue, it was more the mention of her father that caught Apollyon’s attention. Warsong was a household name, after all, but to hear about her father after all these years… Now that was real fascinating. Still, though, she owed Warsong very little. No matter how rude the cold shoulder was, there was no way Apollyon could bring herself to converse with him, for more than one reason. The least she did was scribble down a crudely written note made of what ale and some rag.

The moment he left to go deal with the kerfuffle outside of the tavern, Apollyon’s built up emotions spilt through her visage. She bit her lip through a faint expression of sadness mixed with frustration and shame. It hardly shone like a black star, but it was there beneath a cold and unyielding guise. How? How could she possibly face someone that held her father in such high esteem and had little else but good things to say about him? How? How? How? How? HOW?!

It wasn’t fair…

Her grip on the tavern mug tightened until her palm was white. The bartender’s eyes glanced Apollyon’s way- from her expression partially hidden behind golden locks, to her hand that was a few seconds from splintering the wooden mug in her grasp. Wisely, he kept his distance this time.

The lip bite turned to grinding teeth laced with ire. Toward who? That could be anyone’s guess. Was it Warsong? Her father? Herself? Even she couldn’t be sure. If only she just hadn’t been so-

“Aaaaaaaahhhhh!!”

The screams from outside prompt her eyes to widen and her expression to seize up. But only for a moment. Soon after, it contorts into blatant irritation as the face returns but no longer out of guilt. No, this was more akin to rage. What in the devil could they possibly be doing out there? The crowd had died down, hadn’t it? Why did they erupt into screams so suddenly? Hell if Apollyon knew, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse than sitting alone with her fucked up thoughts… Yeah, she was done here...

Leaving a quarter of her drink still in its mug, Apollyon quickly pushed it toward the tender before stepping out of her stool and snatching up her halberd. With heavy steps, she meanders her way outside to check out the commotion. Heavy eyes drift across each element- from two individuals gnawing on a pork bun, along Warsong, and toward… a bodiless Yaelithian soldier? No other emotion besides genuine shock crossed her face. A head? Here? Questions provoked her interest, but she soon came to the realization that no answer could be reached until she learned more. Though, she was still in disbelief- so much so, that she couldn’t stop herself from approaching the head, crouching down, snatching a fistful of the man's hair, and turning his face toward hers for a better look- oblivious as to how this action might have portrayed her...

…

Yep, this was a soldier from that wretched place.

While some were panicking and others were fighting their nausea, Apollyon seemed indifferent, as if this was a common thing for her. A few people stared at her; some in disgust and others in shock. Only one person seemed really recognized her, evident from the utterance of the name she was most used to being referred by,

“The Executioner”

Dropping the head to splat on the stone ground, Apollyon stood back up and craned her neck from side to side, looking- searching. Up ahead there seemed to be a bit of commotion. People were pointing toward a hill not too far away, but from where she was standing, a building was obscuring her view.

Worst case scenario, it was an invasion. Best case, a trophy that some buffoon couldn’t keep to himself. An invasion really would suck to get roped into, though. In truth, Apollyon didn’t really care much for Graseltheim. Its ale tasted like shit and its people were very rowdy. Probably not the greatest hill to die on, figuratively and literally. Not even moral obligation could get her to care... Plus, Warsong was here. If there was any trouble, he could handle it by himself if need be. What use would this town have for a mercenary that exclusively works alone? With her off hand, Apollyon scratched her hair in thought. If this really was an invasion, though…

“Tsk”

With a heavy sigh, Apollyon starts a slow lackadaisical walk around the building that obscured the hill. All this hypothetical bullshit is just that; bullshit.

Confirmation is the only way to proceed forward.