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Active Rex of Lonmar

FrostGuardian

FrostGuardian

Lord of Altera
Legend
FrostGuardian
FrostGuardian
Legend
The soft susurrus of the stream bids me welcome as I dismount my horse. Usually frozen, the river begins to awaken as trickles of water slither its way past the melting ice. It’s uncharacteristically mild for lands just south of Stormhold, the surrounding environs suggest as much. But I don’t mind. I am free of the sweltering temperatures of the south, and the piss-freezing blizzards of Frostwood (which I am well used to, but being accustomed to something and liking something are worlds apart). I would call it the best person, place, or thing I’ve encountered in my recent struggles; having water to my right, a secluded house of mine to the left, and Ulrych’s Motte a few leagues west of my location lest I ever require anything. Like I said, I would call it the best person, place, or thing I’ve encountered in my recent struggles, but it lacks a few fools to flay, or people to kill.

People. Yes, it lacks people in general, someone by my side to keep me company, but who? Nwalme never leaves his damn inn. Draco’s dead. The Jarl works away tirelessly, the tenacious lass. If there ever were a moment that she is not occupied, I’d wager she would spend her free time with company other than myself. Edward… he’s a good lad that almost seems to worship me at times, and is quite enjoyable to have around, but he is too ethical for a man of my cruel caliber. It baffles me that he is yet to realize what a malicious, bloodthirsty man I am. Perhaps he chooses to ignore my darker side. Sometimes I think my darker side is my only side.

I head towards the house. A gargantuan tree flanks it. The trunk has a diameter that could serve as a bed for someone of even my proportions. Towering over its neighbor trees, it is at least thrice the height of the house. It casts a shadow that cloaks the area with a cool darkness that stretches just beyond the other side of the stream. Its long, thick branches envelope the slanted roof, as if the tree were holding onto it like a precious jewel. The gray stone of the walls is riddled with moss, and overrun with intertwining vines. If it wasn’t me that built this house, I would almost fancy it an ancient ruin from its appearance. I open the door that is just as organically infested as the rest of the edifice. The wood creaks worse than an old crone, but at least it’s one of the few doorways that doesn’t require me to duck.

“Hmf.”

The wooden floor yields little sign of life. A pleasant surprise, after what I was presented with from the exterior. And unlike the door, the planks beneath my feet make no noise when stepped upon. Thus far, anyway. My weight can take its toll. Whether it’s a wooden floor or an assailant’s head beneath my boot, a mere step of mine is crushing. And there is still the rest of the house to explore. I haven’t seen it since it was midway under construction. I close the door gently while bearing the insufferable creak, and leave my bag by the doorway. I head up the staircase to the right of the entrance, leaving the kitchen, the privy, the drawing and dining room below. I reach the next floor. At the end of the lamely lit corridor is an opening that leads to what I’m assuming to be the bedroom. If I recall correctly, the door just to my left is another privy, and the opening in between the two rooms leads to a vacant one. Above the opening is a sconce where a torch rests. That only leaves me to deduct as to why the Nether is the corridor lit in the first place? Surely the torch could not have burned for over a year. I look at the sconce. The torch that lays there is not ablaze. Glancing to the right reveals to me that there are fucking windows.

“Huh. Travel makes me weary.”

Shaking my head, I proceed to the bedroom. I open the door. Upon entering, the first thing I see is a rather large chair oriented towards me. With a man in it.

“Greetings, traveler,” says the man.

Initially, he has an arrogant grin on his face, but I suppose that is before he comprehends the size of the man before him, as his grin seems rather upside down by now, and his green trousers have a dark spot expanding outward from his crotch. Pissed himself silly. The rest of his attire is green as well, all a dark shade. His clothes fit tightly around him, which only serves to emphasize his round form, round face, pudgy nose, and a bulging belly that is oddly reminiscent to that of a pregnant woman’s. His eyes are close set and brown, with dying brown bangs combed over his bald head, and thick eyebrows that look like caterpillars. A brown belt is buckled about his waist, a few rusted daggers hanging from it, several chains and cuffs, and a shortsword’s scabbard. Laying on his lap is a crossbow that he is about to grab, and its quarrels in a wicker quiver strapped to his back. A bandit. As I predicted, he reaches for his crossbow and aims it at me, but at that point I had already whipped out Riposte (my dagger) and had its cold steel pressed against the uncomely stranger’s throat. Most underestimate my speed, as did this fool who still points his crossbow at my previous location. Does he realize I am already in position to slit his throat?

“You won’t be needing that anymore,” I say as I snatch his weapon away from him, and smash it on the floor. It splinters into a dozen pieces, the rent wood flying off in all directions, but thankfully the string doesn’t snap and flail. I back away from him quickly, withdrawing Riposte from the man’s neck. Chuckling, I let the ugly stranger frantically leap out of the chair and unsheathe his sword. Just for fun.

“Who are you and what are you doing in here?” he asks with surprising composure.
“I was about to ask you the same question. You’re talking quite shamelessly for someone who just pissed their pants. What brings you inside my house?”
He arches his caterpillar eyebrow.
“Your house? I didn’t know. It looked pretty abandoned to me,” he says, fumbling with his sword. That I can’t blame him for.
“I’ll be on my way then.”
“Oh, no you won’t,” I declare in a dark tone.
A look that is somewhere in between shock and terror is laughably blatant on his face.
“What? W-why? I haven’t brought you no trouble.”
I roar in laughter.
“You pointed a crossbow at me, and while my greater self may hardly consider that a bother, you have certainly “brought trouble” to other people, bandit.”
“Bandit? What do you mean? I am no bandit!” yells the ugly stranger, stomping his foot in defiance.
“Oh please, spare me. It’s utterly axiomatic. Anyone with a brain could infer as much, and since you don’t even have half of one, it legitimately surprises me that you would choose apparel that camouflages with the surrounding environment. Judging by the chains hanging from your belt and the gear you carry, you kill, steal, and kidnap for ransom and I am suspicious that you are hiding a captive in my house. Now please. Shut the fuck up.”

His sword clatters to the ground and he fidgets idiotically to pick it up.

“Oh, you’re a smart one big guy. Let’s see if you can walk as much as you talk,” he threatens emptily.
“I was the Commander of the King’s Guard, led an army that outnumbers the trees in this forest, I am nigh unto eight feet tall and around 36 stone packed with muscle, and my greatsword dwarfs earthspawns and must be twice of the size of you, stout sod. Fortunately for you, it remains in its baldric because we’re in a confined space. Now tell me where the captive or captives are, if you want to leave this building with all your limbs attached.”

His right eye twitching, the ugly stranger stares at me with a stupid look on his face.

“I, uh, will show you,” and he places his sword on the ground.

I watch him as he walks past me, stopping at a closet to my rear. He opens it, and steps aside.

“Don’t try anything funny,” I tell him as I approach the closet.

He nods in compliance. Sheathing Riposte, I peer inside. A boy of around twelve years is bound up like a fetus, ropes tying his hands to the knees of his folded legs. Evidently an elf, based on the ears. He has lustrous blonde hair that streams across his forehead, sitting above his blue eyes. A black cloth is tied over half his pale face to gag him… He looks familiar. Is it…? I tear the cloth right off.

“Harper!”
“Rex!” he yelps back.

I hear the ugly stranger run behind me, probably realizing that his captive is a friend of mine, but I ignore him. I yank off the ropes that bound him and pull him to his feet.

“Are you well?” I ask.

He rubs his wrists.

“I-I’m okay. But the r-ropes were almost like t-tourniquets,” he says with a forlorn countenance.
“Good to hear your stuttering voice again, Jonathan, How long were you there?”
“A w-week maybe. Or two. I l-lost track,” he replies with a frown.
“I’ll make the man pay.”

He smiles.

“I-I know you will, Rex.”

I turn around, ready to chase the bandit down, but it seems he likes to make things extraordinarily easy for me. Gods know why, but he is still by the chair, persisting to hold his sword in hand. The man truly is an idiot.

“You’re still here?” I yell incredulously.
“Yes, the boy is mine. I plan to ransom him off,” he says with newfound confidence. From where he derived such confidence, I do not know, but the ugly stranger must be mentally ill to muster any hope to oppose me.

Regardless, after traversing the land for the entire day, I no longer have the patience to converse with the ugly stranger anymore.

“I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan:” I begin with a smirk, “die.”

With that, I withdraw Riposte and bolt forward, blade first. The room is all but a blur, and my target a clear focal point. He’s in my sights. I plunge Riposte into his plump belly. Rivulets of blood crawl down his green shirt, creating a nice contrast. He is in the same position as he was right before I charged at him. Gargling on his own claret, he drops his sword for a final time. Bellicose, I bury my knuckles into his gut. It erupts like a geyser of blood, sending a torrent of blood, flesh, and intestines towards me. I turn my back towards the blast just in time. The once plain walls seem a bit livelier now with a bit of red on them. The ugly stranger falls onto his back. I gaze into what remains of his stomach: a large cavity, with a few bits of flesh and entrails dangling inside. I brush a chunk of meat off my shoulder.

What a lovely turn of events this has turned out to be. Not only have I had someone to kill, but someone to keep me company as well. Fair to say this is the best person, place or thing I’ve encountered in my recent struggles.

“Rex!”

Before I can turn around to face Harper, I feel something cold around my neck. It tugs me backwards. I tumble to the floor, but I break the fall with my arm. Rolling upright, I raise my head. A boot crashes into my face, and my ears ring. For a moment, my breath leaves me, and my vision with it. With a grunt, I fight my way to stand up, struggling like someone standing on a slick frozen lake. Hands grasp my head and the assailant’s knee is about to meet my face. Just as he draws his leg backwards to thrust, I grip his thigh and push him away. I stand up successfully. Past the view of my fists hovering in front of my face I glance at my foe: a man of considerable stature by even my standards. Then he’s in the air, his shadow darkening my face. No time to move. Nowhere to move. He barges me into the wall. We’re too close to punch, so I shove him. As he sends his fist through the air, I move to evade. Sensing it pass me with a little whir, I recover. He sends cross punches at me, but none go farther than my guard. He drives one towards my gut. I move my arms to block, and his hand clatters off. Quickly bringing my fists back up to my face, I press forward. He swipes his leg at mine. The blade of his foot catches me behind the knee. Despite stumbling, I maintain balance. With a loud roar, he launches his rear hand. I slip past his punch, and hook him on the cheek. To follow up, I thrust my palm into his solar plexus. He lurches forward just in time for my knee to smash into his face. His body jerks upward and off the ground slightly, and, like a ragdoll, he falls limp to the floor. In an instant, he’s lifeless and unmoving. Harper’s cries are drowned out by the sound of my own panting. I wipe sweat off my forehead, and shake my arms that now suddenly throb with pain. For the first time I have a good look at my foe: long brown hair, muscular, and over seven feet tall. But that’s all I can accurately discern, his facing being bloody and shattered. On my own face, a pain begins to spread, starting from the brow. The blood feels warm as it slides beneath my eyes and down my cheeks like tears. I’ve got to wash out the wound. But… Where the fuck did that guy come from? Nobody sneaks up on me like that. Especially not a big arse oaf like him. Huh.


*****



“T-thanks Rex.”

Harper clambers onto the back of my horse. Strongspine I had named the reliable steed; he’d need one to carry me. I look back at the house before ordering my horse forward. I had made sure to lock the door and board the windows. The ugly stranger’s corpse sways in the wind, as do the flimsier branches of the tree that his body is suspended to. Hanging upside down and dead, his face appears far uglier than it ever had before. A barricaded building and a corpse suspended by its feet on the branch of a magnificent tree should suffice to ward off even the boldest of bandits.

“W-what’d you come a-all this way out f-for?” asks Harper, clinging onto my shoulder. Poor boy is holding on for dear life. Sitting atop the back of a mountainous horse such as Strongspine is intimidating for most, let alone for a soft elf child who’d just been kidnapped.
“I’ve reiterated many times that the house is my personal retreat,” I reply coolly. “I planned to stay there for a while, but I ultimately decided against it.”
The path ahead lowers abruptly. Sputtering, Strongspine drops down onto the lower part of the dirt trail. I feel Harper’s muffled “Oof” vibrate on my back as his face smashes against it. I have not been wearing armor this entire trip; it’s stored in a bag strapped to Strongspine. Thus, his face did not meet hard, impervious plate, but a tight sleeveless shirt of a dark blue shade. Instead of cuisses, I wear rough, black breaches that reach the heels of my boots, of which are brown and studded.
“D-did the bandit have any p-part in c-changing your mind?”
“Maybe.”

We continue trotting onward, the great tree sliding out of view behind us, gradually blending into the mass of rustling leaves. I had decided to sequester myself in these woods after I deemed myself too furious to work without colleague casualties, so to speak. In truth, the bandit did play a part; killing him relieved me more than taking a piss for the first time in several days with a bellyful of wine. So now, despite all the shit that’s happened to me, I can serve the Jarl without my ire putting anyone at risk. Amazing what burying a dagger in someone’s stomach (and causing it to explode) can do. For me, it quenched my rage. On the other hand, it seems to have permanently scarred those innocent blue eyes of Harper’s. Watching a man’s gut explode is hard to stomach for anyone, particularly for a boy of his age. He’s the type that’s been cooped up in an ivory tower for most of his life, which doesn’t help him in this respect (or anything for the matter). I’ve known him for a while, but I don’t know much about his past. All that he’s told me is that he’s from the North, and that his parents gave him a bit of coin to go on his own adventure. Other than that, who he is, is an enigma to me. I didn’t bother asking him how he ended up being kidnapped, his demeanor suggested he wanted to put the event behind him.

After a while, the sun is almost done creeping below the mountain peaks in the distance. When Strongspine slows to a halt, I dismount first. Grabbing Harper with my right hand, I gently lower him off the horse.
“Y-you handled me like a d-doll,” he comments.
“Did I now?” I respond smirking. “Come, there’s just enough light left to gather kindling for the fire.”
And so we set off with our task.

I return with a large load of firewood, while Harper produces a few twigs and a small log. He looks down at his cache, shame plain on his face.
“Not bad Harper, twigs are important to start a fire. The log wasn’t a good choice though, it’s too thick and it’ll only smother the flames of our small fire.” That seems to brighten him up a bit. He tosses the deadwood he’d collected into a pile where I deposit mine as well. I sit down, and so does Harper. I beckon him to come closer. Even though I have my flint, I tell Harper to observe carefully how I start a fire with only sticks and a bit of dry grass. I arrange the sticks Harper brought with the bark I had ripped off. Grabbing a handful of dry grass, I tell him to hold it while he watches. He does so, letting me plop it into his hands, holding it close to his chest. From the pile, I pick up a few straight twigs, and sit back down. I chafe the sticks together, while Harper chafes his hands. It must be fairly chilly for him. To me, it feels pleasant. A few minutes pass, and a couple sparks start to leap from the sticks.
“Hold the grass close,” I order. He does as much.
Soon enough, a few sparks pop into the tinder. Tendrils of smoke slither their way out between the grass, lingering above. At the center of the bundle is a little orb of heat, ready to burn.
“Now blow on it, gently,” I instruct.
Cradling it in his hands as if he were holding water, Harper raises it up to his face and gives the ember several light puffs. A flame flickers into life, creating a cloud of smoke rather than tendrils.
“Good job, boy. Now place it in firewood I’ve fixed.”
Slowly but surely, Harper lowers the burning grass into the kindling, and withdraws his hands. The flames lick the wood, and already some of the smaller bits are ablaze.
“Well done. Next time you can do it yourself,” I compliment. The elf boy smiles.

The next morning, I wake up to rays of sun beaming down on my face. With a roll and an explosive leap, I am back on my feet. The air smells of grass. A weak wind nibbles at my cheek; the coolness is brisk. It was a good sleep. By good, I mean I didn’t have twenty species of caterpillar crawling in my ear, or hornets buzzing around to keep me alert all night. Having a satisfied stomach helped as well. We gorged down a rabbit I had caught, and I let Harper roast it on a spit. Yawning, I stretch my arms. Harper still rests. Before sleeping, I had given him my cape. It was stored with my armor. A cape for a man of my size works as a blanket for anyone. I give him a light kick into his back to interrupt his slumber.
“Rise and shine, princess.”
Rolling onto his back, he moans. The sun meets his eyes as he opens them. He squints and shields his face with an arm. I lift the cape up off him, and shake the dew off. The cold droplets of water sprinkling on Harpers face should wake him up more.
“Get up now, if you want your share of breakfast.”

For our morning meal, I produce two handfuls of biscuits from the bag of food, along with four skins of water. I divide it up evenly between us. Nipping at his food, Harper doesn’t seem all that excited to eat.
“A few tasteless biscuits isn’t a very exciting prospect,” I say to break the silence.
Harper looks up from staring at the ground. “Do you find the ground more interesting?” I half jest. He shakes his head.
“Will you finish your share?”
This time he nods. “Y-yes. It doesn’t t-taste all that g-great, but I’ll n-need the energy for the j-journey home.”
I smile at him. “Good lad.”

Once we were done suffering breakfast, we pack and mount Strongspine. Harper only clings on with one hand this time, and appears less nervous. The kid’s one step closer to having guts of his own with every passing occurrence on this jaunt.

Strongspine trots along slower than he should be. He’s being complacent again. I jab my heels into his side. Briefly, he boosts ahead but returns to his slow pace. I forgot to feed him, didn’t I? Sighing, I direct Strongspine to the side of the path and bring him to a halt. To unmount Harper, I grasp him by the shoulder and place him on the ground. I remain atop my horse. Stroking Strongspine’s head, I tell Harper to feed him a biscuit or two.
“W-what?” he replies with a look of terror on his face.
I laugh. “Don’t be afraid, he won’t bite. If you withdraw your hand quick enough, that is.” I was only jesting, but the jape doesn’t appear to have been conveyed to him completely, as he still appears terrified.
“It was a jest,” I clarify. “He only bites my foes. If you are a friend of mine, why should you worry?” With that, he grabs two biscuits and shuffles his way to the front of Strongspine. Trembling, Harper holds out a biscuit to his face.
“H-here h-horsie,” he stutters, waving the biscuit.
Harper flinches as Strongspine snatches the food out of his hand. More confidently, he offers the second biscuit and Strongspine is happy to oblige.
“See? Harmless,” I tell him. I laugh. He does as well, although a bit more awkwardly.

Since we’ve stopped anyways, I suppose I should put on my armor now. As soon as I return to Stormhold, I’ll be expected to resume doing my duty, whatever it may be. Armor is required. I grab the large bag of equipment off of Strongspine, and slide off the horse. Carefully, I lay it on the floor, and unbind the leather straps to open it. I rummage through the bag, and find the chainmail gousset folded neatly, much to my satisfaction. Harper watches as I writhe into the damn thing.
“N-need help?” he squeaks.
“It would be appreciated.”
He scuttles over to me. “W-where do we start?”
“Get the cuirass,” I reply. Feebly, he lifts it from the bag. “Now give it to me.” He looks relieved to be alleviated of carrying the torso piece as he hands it over. I lift it above my head and bring my arms together. It slips down me and stops when it’s in place. I pop my arms out. We carry on until there’s nothing left to put on except for the helmet and gorget, both of which I put on now. To test the fit, I twist my back. The articulated folds of metal lame above the hips slide over each other to expand and contract as I rotate. I flex my fingers and tap them rhythmically on my gauntleted palms. Staying in place, I sprint, then dash forward. I stop after twenty yards. Exhaling I kick upward, my knees nearly reaching my face. The armor doesn’t hinder my movement in the least.
“We’re leaving now,” I tell Harper while I cartwheel back to Strongspine.
In my constantly rotating field of vision, I see him put the bag onto the back of the horse. Stopping abruptly, I leap upwards and land on the saddle. Strongspine expresses his dissatisfaction with a whinny.
“Give me your hand,” I command.
Harper raises his arm. I grab it, swing him around to my rear, and plop him behind me onto the saddle. He giggles.
“Let’s be on our way then.” I give Strongspine a little jab to the side. He moves forward, back onto the path. Gradually, Strongspine returns up to speed.
“W-where are we going a-again?” asks Harper.
“Stormhold.”
“H-how long till w-we get there?”
“I reckon we’ll be there before dusk,” I answer.

Hours pass. I kill time by telling Harper a few tales. I tell him the history of the Valerion people, why I came to the Northern Kingdoms. I tell him of my struggles as a King’s Guard, and how I rose up the ranks in Lonmar. I even tell him about a few fights I had and the wars with Grief, both here and in the Valerion Empire. Most of the time I can’t see the reactions on his face, but from the sound of it, he seems enthralled. The few occasions I do glance back, his countenance suggests nothing less than awe. However, my tongue grows dry, so I take a swig of water and tell Harper that I will regale him with more stories later. Further down the path, I feel his face press against my back.
“What’re you doing?” I ask, twisting around.
No response. I hear him breath slowly. He’s fast asleep already, even though it’s only noon. Swinging him to the other side like I did earlier, I place him in front of me. Can’t have this heavy sleeper falling off. A really heavy sleeper at that, somehow he manages to not awaken after I just moved him. Muttering some indecipherable words, Harper leans on my right arm that holds the rein. Still grasping the rein, I nudge him upright with my bicep.

*****

Hiding behind a layer of gray clouds, the afternoon sun struggles to shine down on us. The rest of the sky is like that as well, dark clouds sweeping swiftly across the heavens. That can only mean snow… or rain… or sleet. Hard to say what specifically, but some form of precipitation is to be expected. As we progress further towards Stormhold, the land becomes increasing more bleak and drained of color. The trees to the left look ancient. The grass is a darker, flat green, along with the leaves. It’s darker out, not to mention, and would be darker regardless of a cloud cover or not. Even the dirt is gloomier, being a more slate gray rather than a vibrant beige and brown. But this feels more like home to me, and I prefer it more than vivacious colors. Perhaps because it is more befitting of my character. While ambling on, Harper stirs in front of me.
“Rex…” he says softly.
“What is it?” I turn around to grab a few biscuits from the food bag.
“When we get to Stormhold,” he begins as I yawn, “can I…” he struggles for words.

He grabs my hand. I feel the weight of him tug on my arm. I look forward to see him dangling off the side of the horse. As he hangs there, I catch a glimpse of blood, and an arrow.
“My thigh…” he manages to mutter.

Yelling at Strongspine to stop, I tenderly set Harper on the ground. I jump off the saddle, landing with a loud thump. Ambush. I retrieve Frostraze in its scabbard, dangling where all the other equipment is on the side of the horse. As I unsheathe my sword, a group of men emerge from the trees to the left. I count eleven as they half encompass me. Most of them wear boiled leather armor with patches of green on it. A more prominent figure out of them wears a brigandine and light plate armor. He is perhaps the only comely one of the lot, having sharp features and all and well-kept brown hair. His green eyes meet mine, even though my own are hidden behind a visor. I spot a large maul strapped to his back. Shit. This is going to be tough.

“Rex of Lonmar,” he says.
“Oh, so you know who I am.”
He begins to walk around me. “Of course. Who else could be so tall?” He pauses. “Let’s cut to the chase. We’re here to kill you, since you killed our comrade.”
I guffaw. “You mean caterpillar eyebrows? I did the world a favor by disposing of that garbage. And what of the tall one? Wasn’t he one of yours?”
After examining each of the men carefully, I turn back to face their alleged leader.
“I don’t know of any tall man that’s with us,” he responds. Odd… If it isn’t one of them, who the hell could it be?
I chuckle, although I don't know why. “You bring this cumbersome clusterfuck of cravens to kill me? Pfft. I suppose you were twelve before I got rid of your friend, eh? What did they call you, the Dumbarse Dozen?”
A few of them twitch and fidget, eager to kill me.
“Dastardly Dozen, actually,” replies their leader.
“And now you’re the Egghead Eleven. Touching. After I’m done with you confounded concessionists, they’ll have to come up with a new name for you. How about the Deceased Dolts?”
“This talk has been interesting Rex, but we’re here to kill you, remember?” he says with a hint of frustration.
“Very well.”

In one motion, I slip a dagger off my pauldron and launch it at the archer. It catches him in the jugular. He falls to his knees choking on his own blood. And then they charge. I swing to keep them at bay, the ice that encases my sword howling in the air. The point of Frostraze catches two in their chests, ripping each a long fissure. The others are smart enough to avoid my attack. Again they charge, confining me further. I swing once more. Some duck under the attack or move out of the way, but that buys me enough time. I turn to face a man brandishing an estoc. Swing. He raises his sword to parry. Shattering the estoc, Frostraze continues unhindered, and slices through his hip.

I sprint away. That should string them out, leaving most behind and only the very fast to confront me. Grinding to halt after a considerable distance, I stand ready. Sure enough, only two catch up to me. The one on the right holds a shortsword, and the one on the left a mace. I should deal with the mace first. Even though my armor will almost definitely block his attacks, I can take no chances with blunt blows. I ignore the sword wielder, knowing my armor will take care of him. The mace wielder hacks heftily from the left. Trip. His wild attack sends him forward. Leaving one leg behind, I sidestep, and he falls over my extended limb. Just as I’m about to finish him off, the sword wielder slashes at my hip. I make no effort to parry. Thunk. His blade wedges itself between the folds of my armor.
“Lights out,” I say, looking at him. My elbow caves his face in. Grumbling, I kick the mace wielder in the back of his head before he can get up. He yelps, and lies motionless. Turning around, I knock the sword off my waist.

The others are arriving. Four of them. All of them use swords. This should be easier. Yelling, a steadfast idiot charges my way. He swings. My sword meets his, and as they’re locked together, I slide Frostraze down and thrust it into his face. In a fountain of red, it slides through his skull and I withdraw it quickly. Much to my dismay, a bit of blood and brain matter comes through the slits of my visor. I blink it off. By the time my vision is clear, the other three are already running towards me. The frontrunner holds his wooden buckler up. I chop at his shield with Frostraze. My strike rends the wood, and a large splinter of it impales the wielder’s eye. Falling to the floor, he writhes and howls in agony. He shuts up when my boot meets his mouth. Behind him, his comrade trips on his corpse. I point Frostraze forward. In an almost comical manner, he skewers himself on my sword. While I try to free Frostraze from his gut, the last of them swings for my head. Grab. The blade of his sword lands into my open hand. Unharmed, I crush his sword. The metal screeches as it’s compressed. Finally, I wrench Frostraze free. However, he already produces another weapon, and it’s a mace this time. Closing the gap between us, I stride forward. Feign. He moves to block. My false slash quickly transforms into a jab. He gasps as Frostraze emerges from the other side of his torso. Slithering it out slowly, I withdraw Frostraze and hold it upwards. Blood drips down the glistening ice. I look back at the man to find him still standing, amazingly.
“You… k-killed my friend,” he sputters.
I place Frostraze on the ground, breathing heavily. “Which one? There’s a dozen of you idiots, or have you forgotten?”
Looking at me with sullen eyes, he falls to his knees. “H-his sword got… kof, gotstuck to your… kof armor…”
“Ah, yes, him.”
He clutches where he was stabbed. “You’ll p-pay.”
“Will I now?” I say as I approach him.
Taking a deep breath I grab his left shoulder. “True, I did kill your friend. First I caught him in my trap.” I yank on his arm, tearing it off. “Then I smashed his fucking head in. Like this.” There’s a sickening crunch. My elbow bursts through his noggin, sending blood and bone my way. Only a few spikes of skull remain to represent what was once a head. I drop the body to the ground.

Time for their leader. Keeping Harper’s wound in mind, I pick up Frostraze and rush back to where they surrounded me. I halt before the green eyed man, practically unscathed. His face is a maelstrom of emotions, terror and amusement being the most noticeable. I take off my helmet and place it on the ground. If I were surrounded by enemies as I was before, protection to the head would be needed. Since I’m taking this bastard head on, I much prefer the unobstructed vision.

“I guess the innkeepers weren’t lying when they said you wrestled a group of wild bears and won,” he mutters.
“No, they weren’t.”
The green eyed man shuffles into a fighting stance. “Let’s dance,” he says with a stupid grin.
I snort. “You call it a dance. I call it an execution.”

Just as I finish my sentence he comes storming forward with his Herculean hammer raised. I stand my ground. Parry. Frostraze blocks the hammer’s path. Our weapons locked, I kick at his shins with my right leg. Howling, he hops backwards on one foot. The green eyed man looks up at me while he grasps where he’d been hit, and grimaces. Teeth clenched, he sucks in air. Yelling, he runs at me and swings his hammer. Dodge. I pivot on one foot, and turn away from his futile attack. Slash. He lunges backwards, and my attack misses. I lean out of the way of his counter attack. Jab, jab, jab. Demonstrating some decent footwork, the green eyed man avoids the tip of Frostraze. But it will do him no good, he can only dodge. If he parries, he’s good as dead. Feign. He falls for it. Seizing the moment, I send a half swing. Clang. His handle obstructs the path of Frostraze, and somehow it didn’t shatter… I only went through half the motion of a swing since it followed a feign, yes, but it still should’ve gone right through.

He frees one hand from the grip of his maul as our weapons are stuck to each other post-parry. I see it coming, but in my train of thought, I don’t move. The punch lands just above my nose, squeezing tears out in a stinging sensation. Half dazed, I stumble backwards into an aggressive sword stance. He leaps towards me, bringing his maul down. To block, I hold Frostraze horizontally. The handle of the hammer bounces off, and I kick the green eyed man in the stomach. Gasping for air, he staggers away. A few more breaths and he’s upright once more, charging with his hammer raised. Dropping Frostraze to the ground, I sprint straight towards him. Before he can even move his maul, I crash into him and throw him over my shoulder. I hear him land on the earth behind me, and he yelps. Panting, I turn around to face him. The head of his hammer lays atop his hand. He cries in agony as he picks up his weapon with his free, non-pulverized hand, and gets to his feet. While he recovers, I walk backwards and retrieve Frostraze. Time to finish this bastard off. He struggles to hold his weapon, let alone maintain balance with it. To test his effectiveness, I give him a half arsed swing to block. He misses, but so do I as he slithers out of the way. I only laugh instead of finishing him off, wishing to prolong his suffering. He swings, however it’s an obvious fake. I smack his hip with the flat of my blade to taunt him.
“JUST DIE!” he yells.
“Shouting for my demise won’t render me dead.”
“I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU!”
“Then kill me,” I reply with a smirk.

His face flushes red in anger, and steam rises from his skin. Screaming, he stumbles forward and clumsily moves to bash me. Dodge. As I sidestep, I hear the head of his hammer whisper while it glides past my ear. Recovering before him, I knifehand him in the throat. He coughs out a puff of air, and before he can do anything, my thumb gouges him in the eye. He tries to scream, but only releases an agonized wheeze. After I wriggle it out, I return my hand to the hilt of Frostraze. I plant my left foot in front of him. I spin backwards to the left, Frostraze swinging around towards my target. I feel the sword jar in my hand as it bites through steel. When I stop to look at the green eyed man, I don’t see his namesake. In fact, everything above the collarbone has been hacked off. A fountain of blood gushes from where his neck used to be. Frayed veins sprout from chunky bits of flesh. Some of the meat slides off slowly, revealing the white bone within. I look to the floor, where I see his head and… everything else. Little rivers of blood trickle slowly between the cracks of ice on Frostraze, and a few veins coat the blade. I respire deeply.

With haste, I run over to where Strongspine and Harper are. The horse whinnies and whimpers, trotting around where Harper lays. Kneeling beside him, I examine his wounds. He moans. Not only is there an arrow wound, but multiple stab wounds as well. That green eyed son of a bitch must’ve perforated the shit out of the poor boy. His shirt is mottled and soaked in blood. He’s bled too much. There’s nothing I can do to save him. As gently as I can, I remove the arrow from his thigh. With a half-smile he looks at me. A tear forms on the precipice of his lower eyelid, and rolls down his cheek. He grabs my hand. Slowly, he rolls his head upright. His grip weakens. He closes his eyes but they don’t open again. I no longer hear his breathing, only deafening silence. Raising my head, I look towards the sky, feeling the heat drift off my face and into the heavens above. Enjoy Vallaryn, Harper.
 
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Sankera

Sankera

Lord of Altera
In-Game Tech Staff
Merchant
Staff
Pronouns
He/Him, They/Them
Sea_of_Fog
Sea_of_Fog
LegendMerchant
FrostGuardian said:
The soft susurrus of the stream bids me welcome as I dismount my horse. Usually frozen, the river begins to awaken as trickles of water slither its way past the melting ice. It’s uncharacteristically mild for lands just south of Stormhold, the surrounding environs suggest as much. But I don’t mind. I am free of the sweltering temperatures of the south, and the piss-freezing blizzards of Frostwood (which I am well used to, but being accustomed to something and liking something are worlds apart). I would call it the best person, place, or thing I’ve encountered in my recent struggles; having water to my right, a secluded house of mine to the left, and Ulrych’s Motte a few leagues west of my location lest I ever require anything. Like I said, I would call it the best person, place, or thing I’ve encountered in my recent struggles, but it lacks a few fools to flay, or people to kill.

People. Yes, it lacks people in general, someone by my side to keep me company, but who? Nwalme never leaves his damn inn. Draco’s dead. The Jarl works away tirelessly, the tenacious lass. If there ever were a moment that she is not occupied, I’d wager she would spend her free time with company other than myself. Edward… he’s a good lad that almost seems to worship me at times, and is quite enjoyable to have around, but he is too ethical for a man of my cruel caliber. It baffles me that he is yet to realize what a malicious, bloodthirsty man I am. Perhaps he chooses to ignore my darker side. Sometimes I think my darker side is my only side.

I head towards the house. A gargantuan tree flanks it. The trunk has a diameter that could serve as a bed for someone of even my proportions. Towering over its neighbor trees, it is at least thrice the height of the house. It casts a shadow that cloaks the area with a cool darkness that stretches just beyond the other side of the stream. Its long, thick branches envelope the slanted roof, as if the tree were holding onto it like a precious jewel. The gray stone of the walls is riddled with moss, and overrun with intertwining vines. If it wasn’t me that built this house, I would almost fancy it an ancient ruin from its appearance. I open the door that is just as organically infested as the rest of the edifice. The wood creaks worse than an old crone, but at least it’s one of the few doorways that doesn’t require me to duck.

“Hmf.”

The wooden floor yields little sign of life. A pleasant surprise, after what I was presented with from the exterior. And unlike the door, the planks beneath my feet make no noise when stepped upon. Thus far, anyway. My weight can take its toll. Whether it’s a wooden floor or an assailant’s head beneath my boot, a mere step of mine is crushing. And there is still the rest of the house to explore. I haven’t seen it since it was midway under construction. I close the door gently while bearing the insufferable creak, and leave my bag by the doorway. I head up the staircase to the right of the entrance, leaving the kitchen, the privy, the drawing and dining room below. I reach the next floor. At the end of the lamely lit corridor is an opening that leads to what I’m assuming to be the bedroom. If I recall correctly, the door just to my left is another privy, and the opening in between the two rooms leads to a vacant one. Above the opening is a sconce where a torch rests. That only leaves me to deduct as to why the Nether is the corridor lit in the first place? Surely the torch could not have burned for over a year. I look at the sconce. The torch that lays there is not ablaze. Glancing to the right reveals to me that there are fucking windows.

“Huh. Travel makes me weary.”

Shaking my head, I proceed to the bedroom. I open the door. Upon entering, the first thing I see is a rather large chair oriented towards me. With a man in it.

“Greetings, traveler,” says the man.

Initially, he has an arrogant grin on his face, but I suppose that is before he comprehends the size of the man before him, as his grin seems rather upside down by now, and his green trousers have a dark spot expanding outward from his crotch. Pissed himself silly. The rest of his attire is green as well, all a dark shade. His clothes fit tightly around him, which only serves to emphasize his round form, round face, pudgy nose, and a bulging belly that is oddly reminiscent to that of a pregnant woman’s. His eyes are close set and brown, with dying brown bangs combed over his bald head, and thick eyebrows that look like caterpillars. A brown belt is buckled about his waist, a few rusted daggers hanging from it, several chains and cuffs, and a shortsword’s scabbard. Laying on his lap is a crossbow that he is about to grab, and its quarrels in a wicker quiver strapped to his back. A bandit. As I predicted, he reaches for his crossbow and aims it at me, but at that point I had already whipped out Riposte (my dagger) and had its cold steel pressed against the uncomely stranger’s throat. Most underestimate my speed, as did this fool who still points his crossbow at my previous location. Does he realize I am already in position to slit his throat?

“You won’t be needing that anymore,” I say as I snatch his weapon away from him, and smash it on the floor. It splinters into a dozen pieces, the rent wood flying off in all directions, but thankfully the string doesn’t snap and flail. I back away from him quickly, withdrawing Riposte from the man’s neck. Chuckling, I let the ugly stranger frantically leap out of the chair and unsheathe his sword. Just for fun.

“Who are you and what are you doing in here?” he asks with surprising composure.
“I was about to ask you the same question. You’re talking quite shamelessly for someone who just pissed their pants. What brings you inside my house?”
He arches his caterpillar eyebrow.
“Your house? I didn’t know. It looked pretty abandoned to me,” he says, fumbling with his sword. That I can’t blame him for.
“I’ll be on my way then.”
“Oh, no you won’t,” I declare in a dark tone.
A look that is somewhere in between shock and terror is laughably blatant on his face.
“What? W-why? I haven’t brought you no trouble.”
I roar in laughter.
“You pointed a crossbow at me, and while my greater self may hardly consider that a bother, you have certainly “brought trouble” to other people, bandit.”
“Bandit? What do you mean? I am no bandit!” yells the ugly stranger, stomping his foot in defiance.
“Oh please, spare me. It’s utterly axiomatic. Anyone with a brain could infer as much, and since you don’t even have half of one, it legitimately surprises me that you would choose apparel that camouflages with the surrounding environment. Judging by the chains hanging from your belt and the gear you carry, you kill, steal, and kidnap for ransom and I am suspicious that you are hiding a captive in my house. Now please. Shut the fuck up.”

His sword clatters to the ground and he fidgets idiotically to pick it up.

“Oh, you’re a smart one big guy. Let’s see if you can walk as much as you talk,” he threatens emptily.
“I was the Commander of the King’s Guard, led an army that outnumbers the trees in this forest, I am nigh unto eight feet tall and around 36 stone packed with muscle, and my greatsword dwarfs earthspawns and must be twice of the size of you, stout sod. Fortunately for you, it remains in its baldric because we’re in a confined space. Now tell me where the captive or captives are, if you want to leave this building with all your limbs attached.”

His right eye twitching, the ugly stranger stares at me with a stupid look on his face.

“I, uh, will show you,” and he places his sword on the ground.

I watch him as he walks past me, stopping at a closet to my rear. He opens it, and steps aside.

“Don’t try anything funny,” I tell him as I approach the closet.

He nods in compliance. Sheathing Riposte, I peer inside. A boy of around twelve years is bound up like a fetus, ropes tying his hands to the knees of his folded legs. Evidently an elf, based on the ears. He has lustrous blonde hair that streams across his forehead, sitting above his blue eyes. A black cloth is tied over half his pale face to gag him… He looks familiar. Is it…? I tear the cloth right off.

“Harper!”
“Rex!” he yelps back.

I hear the ugly stranger run behind me, probably realizing that his captive is a friend of mine, but I ignore him. I yank off the ropes that bound him and pull him to his feet.

“Are you well?” I ask.

He rubs his wrists.

“I-I’m okay. But the r-ropes were almost like t-tourniquets,” he says with a forlorn countenance.
“Good to hear your stuttering voice again, Jonathan, How long were you there?”
“A w-week maybe. Or two. I l-lost track,” he replies with a frown.
“I’ll make the man pay.”

He smiles.

“I-I know you will, Rex.”

I turn around, ready to chase the bandit down, but it seems he likes to make things extraordinarily easy for me. Gods know why, but he is still by the chair, persisting to hold his sword in hand. The man truly is an idiot.

“You’re still here?” I yell incredulously.
“Yes, the boy is mine. I plan to ransom him off,” he says with newfound confidence. From where he derived such confidence, I do not know, but the ugly stranger must be mentally ill to muster any hope to oppose me.

Regardless, after traversing the land for the entire day, I no longer have the patience to converse with the ugly stranger anymore.

“I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan:” I begin with a smirk, “die.”

With that, I withdraw Riposte and bolt forward, blade first. The room is all but a blur, and my target a clear focal point. He’s in my sights. I plunge Riposte into his plump belly. Rivulets of blood crawl down his green shirt, creating a nice contrast. He is in the same position as he was right before I charged at him. Gargling on his own claret, he drops his sword for a final time. Bellicose, I bury my knuckles into his gut. It erupts like a geyser of blood, sending a torrent of blood, flesh, and intestines towards me. I turn my back towards the blast just in time. The once plain walls seem a bit livelier now with a bit of red on them. The ugly stranger falls onto his back. I gaze into what remains of his stomach: a large cavity, with a few bits of flesh and entrails dangling inside. I brush a chunk of meat off my shoulder.

What a lovely turn of events this has turned out to be. Not only have I had someone to kill, but someone to keep me company as well. Fair to say this is the best person, place or thing I’ve encountered in my recent struggles.

“Rex!”

Before I can turn around to face Harper, I feel something cold around my neck. It tugs me backwards. I tumble to the floor, but I break the fall with my arm. Rolling upright, I raise my head. A boot crashes into my face, and my ears ring. For a moment, my breath leaves me, and my vision with it. With a grunt, I fight my way to stand up, struggling like someone standing on a slick frozen lake. Hands grasp my head and the assailant’s knee is about to meet my face. Just as he draws his leg backwards to thrust, I grip his thigh and push him away. I stand up successfully. Past the view of my fists hovering in front of my face I glance at my foe: a man of considerable stature by even my standards. Then he’s in the air, his shadow darkening my face. No time to move. Nowhere to move. He barges me into the wall. We’re too close to punch, so I shove him. As he sends his fist through the air, I move to evade. Sensing it pass me with a little whir, I recover. He sends cross punches at me, but none go farther than my guard. He drives one towards my gut. I move my arms to block, and his hand clatters off. Quickly bringing my fists back up to my face, I press forward. He swipes his leg at mine. The blade of his foot catches me behind the knee. Despite stumbling, I maintain balance. With a loud roar, he launches his rear hand. I slip past his punch, and hook him on the cheek. To follow up, I thrust my palm into his solar plexus. He lurches forward just in time for my knee to smash into his face. His body jerks upward and off the ground slightly, and, like a ragdoll, he falls limp to the floor. In an instant, he’s lifeless and unmoving. Harper’s cries are drowned out by the sound of my own panting. I wipe sweat off my forehead, and shake my arms that now suddenly throb with pain. For the first time I have a good look at my foe: long brown hair, muscular, and over seven feet tall. But that’s all I can accurately discern, his facing being bloody and shattered. On my own face, a pain begins to spread, starting from the brow. The blood feels warm as it slides beneath my eyes and down my cheeks like tears. I’ve got to wash out the wound. But… Where the fuck did that guy come from? Nobody sneaks up on me like that. Especially not a big arse oaf like him. Huh.


*****



“T-thanks Rex.”

Harper clambers onto the back of my horse. Strongspine I had named the reliable steed; he’d need one to carry me. I look back at the house before ordering my horse forward. I had made sure to lock the door and board the windows. The ugly stranger’s corpse sways in the wind, as do the flimsier branches of the tree that his body is suspended to. Hanging upside down and dead, his face appears far uglier than it ever had before. A barricaded building and a corpse suspended by its feet on the branch of a magnificent tree should suffice to ward off even the boldest of bandits.

“W-what’d you come a-all this way out f-for?” asks Harper, clinging onto my shoulder. Poor boy is holding on for dear life. Sitting atop the back of a mountainous horse such as Strongspine is intimidating for most, let alone for a soft elf child who’d just been kidnapped.
“I’ve reiterated many times that the house is my personal retreat,” I reply coolly. “I planned to stay there for a while, but I ultimately decided against it.”
The path ahead lowers abruptly. Sputtering, Strongspine drops down onto the lower part of the dirt trail. I feel Harper’s muffled “Oof” vibrate on my back as his face smashes against it. I have not been wearing armor this entire trip; it’s stored in a bag strapped to Strongspine. Thus, his face did not meet hard, impervious plate, but a tight sleeveless shirt of a dark blue shade. Instead of cuisses, I wear rough, black breaches that reach the heels of my boots, of which are brown and studded.
“D-did the bandit have any p-part in c-changing your mind?”
“Maybe.”

We continue trotting onward, the great tree sliding out of view behind us, gradually blending into the mass of rustling leaves. I had decided to sequester myself in these woods after I deemed myself too furious to work without colleague casualties, so to speak. In truth, the bandit did play a part; killing him relieved me more than taking a piss for the first time in several days with a bellyful of wine. So now, despite all the shit that’s happened to me, I can serve the Jarl without my ire putting anyone at risk. Amazing what burying a dagger in someone’s stomach (and causing it to explode) can do. For me, it quenched my rage. On the other hand, it seems to have permanently scarred those innocent blue eyes of Harper’s. Watching a man’s gut explode is hard to stomach for anyone, particularly for a boy of his age. He’s the type that’s been cooped up in an ivory tower for most of his life, which doesn’t help him in this respect (or anything for the matter). I’ve known him for a while, but I don’t know much about his past. All that he’s told me is that he’s from the North, and that his parents gave him a bit of coin to go on his own adventure. Other than that, who he is, is an enigma to me. I didn’t bother asking him how he ended up being kidnapped, his demeanor suggested he wanted to put the event behind him.

After a while, the sun is almost done creeping below the mountain peaks in the distance. When Strongspine slows to a halt, I dismount first. Grabbing Harper with my right hand, I gently lower him off the horse.
“Y-you handled me like a d-doll,” he comments.
“Did I now?” I respond smirking. “Come, there’s just enough light left to gather kindling for the fire.”
And so we set off with our task.

I return with a large load of firewood, while Harper produces a few twigs and a small log. He looks down at his cache, shame plain on his face.
“Not bad Harper, twigs are important to start a fire. The log wasn’t a good choice though, it’s too thick and it’ll only smother the flames of our small fire.” That seems to brighten him up a bit. He tosses the deadwood he’d collected into a pile where I deposit mine as well. I sit down, and so does Harper. I beckon him to come closer. Even though I have my flint, I tell Harper to observe carefully how I start a fire with only sticks and a bit of dry grass. I arrange the sticks Harper brought with the bark I had ripped off. Grabbing a handful of dry grass, I tell him to hold it while he watches. He does so, letting me plop it into his hands, holding it close to his chest. From the pile, I pick up a few straight twigs, and sit back down. I chafe the sticks together, while Harper chafes his hands. It must be fairly chilly for him. To me, it feels pleasant. A few minutes pass, and a couple sparks start to leap from the sticks.
“Hold the grass close,” I order. He does as much.
Soon enough, a few sparks pop into the tinder. Tendrils of smoke slither their way out between the grass, lingering above. At the center of the bundle is a little orb of heat, ready to burn.
“Now blow on it, gently,” I instruct.
Cradling it in his hands as if he were holding water, Harper raises it up to his face and gives the ember several light puffs. A flame flickers into life, creating a cloud of smoke rather than tendrils.
“Good job, boy. Now place it in firewood I’ve fixed.”
Slowly but surely, Harper lowers the burning grass into the kindling, and withdraws his hands. The flames lick the wood, and already some of the smaller bits are ablaze.
“Well done. Next time you can do it yourself,” I compliment. The elf boy smiles.

The next morning, I wake up to rays of sun beaming down on my face. With a roll and an explosive leap, I am back on my feet. The air smells of grass. A weak wind nibbles at my cheek; the coolness is brisk. It was a good sleep. By good, I mean I didn’t have twenty species of caterpillar crawling in my ear, or hornets buzzing around to keep me alert all night. Having a satisfied stomach helped as well. We gorged down a rabbit I had caught, and I let Harper roast it on a spit. Yawning, I stretch my arms. Harper still rests. Before sleeping, I had given him my cape. It was stored with my armor. A cape for a man of my size works as a blanket for anyone. I give him a light kick into his back to interrupt his slumber.
“Rise and shine, princess.”
Rolling onto his back, he moans. The sun meets his eyes as he opens them. He squints and shields his face with an arm. I lift the cape up off him, and shake the dew off. The cold droplets of water sprinkling on Harpers face should wake him up more.
“Get up now, if you want your share of breakfast.”

For our morning meal, I produce two handfuls of biscuits from the bag of food, along with four skins of water. I divide it up evenly between us. Nipping at his food, Harper doesn’t seem all that excited to eat.
“A few tasteless biscuits isn’t a very exciting prospect,” I say to break the silence.
Harper looks up from staring at the ground. “Do you find the ground more interesting?” I half jest. He shakes his head.
“Will you finish your share?”
This time he nods. “Y-yes. It doesn’t t-taste all that g-great, but I’ll n-need the energy for the j-journey home.”
I smile at him. “Good lad.”

Once we were done suffering breakfast, we pack and mount Strongspine. Harper only clings on with one hand this time, and appears less nervous. The kid’s one step closer to having guts of his own with every passing occurrence on this jaunt.

Strongspine trots along slower than he should be. He’s being complacent again. I jab my heels into his side. Briefly, he boosts ahead but returns to his slow pace. I forgot to feed him, didn’t I? Sighing, I direct Strongspine to the side of the path and bring him to a halt. To unmount Harper, I grasp him by the shoulder and place him on the ground. I remain atop my horse. Stroking Strongspine’s head, I tell Harper to feed him a biscuit or two.
“W-what?” he replies with a look of terror on his face.
I laugh. “Don’t be afraid, he won’t bite. If you withdraw your hand quick enough, that is.” I was only jesting, but the jape doesn’t appear to have been conveyed to him completely, as he still appears terrified.
“It was a jest,” I clarify. “He only bites my foes. If you are a friend of mine, why should you worry?” With that, he grabs two biscuits and shuffles his way to the front of Strongspine. Trembling, Harper holds out a biscuit to his face.
“H-here h-horsie,” he stutters, waving the biscuit.
Harper flinches as Strongspine snatches the food out of his hand. More confidently, he offers the second biscuit and Strongspine is happy to oblige.
“See? Harmless,” I tell him. I laugh. He does as well, although a bit more awkwardly.

Since we’ve stopped anyways, I suppose I should put on my armor now. As soon as I return to Stormhold, I’ll be expected to resume doing my duty, whatever it may be. Armor is required. I grab the large bag of equipment off of Strongspine, and slide off the horse. Carefully, I lay it on the floor, and unbind the leather straps to open it. I rummage through the bag, and find the chainmail gousset folded neatly, much to my satisfaction. Harper watches as I writhe into the damn thing.
“N-need help?” he squeaks.
“It would be appreciated.”
He scuttles over to me. “W-where do we start?”
“Get the cuirass,” I reply. Feebly, he lifts it from the bag. “Now give it to me.” He looks relieved to be alleviated of carrying the torso piece as he hands it over. I lift it above my head and bring my arms together. It slips down me and stops when it’s in place. I pop my arms out. We carry on until there’s nothing left to put on except for the helmet and gorget, both of which I put on now. To test the fit, I twist my back. The articulated folds of metal lame above the hips slide over each other to expand and contract as I rotate. I flex my fingers and tap them rhythmically on my gauntleted palms. Staying in place, I sprint, then dash forward. I stop after twenty yards. Exhaling I kick upward, my knees nearly reaching my face. The armor doesn’t hinder my movement in the least.
“We’re leaving now,” I tell Harper while I cartwheel back to Strongspine.
In my constantly rotating field of vision, I see him put the bag onto the back of the horse. Stopping abruptly, I leap upwards and land on the saddle. Strongspine expresses his dissatisfaction with a whinny.
“Give me your hand,” I command.
Harper raises his arm. I grab it, swing him around to my rear, and plop him behind me onto the saddle. He giggles.
“Let’s be on our way then.” I give Strongspine a little jab to the side. He moves forward, back onto the path. Gradually, Strongspine returns up to speed.
“W-where are we going a-again?” asks Harper.
“Stormhold.”
“H-how long till w-we get there?”
“I reckon we’ll be there before dusk,” I answer.

Hours pass. I kill time by telling Harper a few tales. I tell him the history of the Valerion people, why I came to the Northern Kingdoms. I tell him of my struggles as a King’s Guard, and how I rose up the ranks in Lonmar. I even tell him about a few fights I had and the wars with Grief, both here and in the Valerion Empire. Most of the time I can’t see the reactions on his face, but from the sound of it, he seems enthralled. The few occasions I do glance back, his countenance suggests nothing less than awe. However, my tongue grows dry, so I take a swig of water and tell Harper that I will regale him with more stories later. Further down the path, I feel his face press against my back.
“What’re you doing?” I ask, twisting around.
No response. I hear him breath slowly. He’s fast asleep already, even though it’s only noon. Swinging him to the other side like I did earlier, I place him in front of me. Can’t have this heavy sleeper falling off. A really heavy sleeper at that, somehow he manages to not awaken after I just moved him. Muttering some indecipherable words, Harper leans on my right arm that holds the rein. Still grasping the rein, I nudge him upright with my bicep.

*****

Hiding behind a layer of gray clouds, the afternoon sun struggles to shine down on us. The rest of the sky is like that as well, dark clouds sweeping swiftly across the heavens. That can only mean snow… or rain… or sleet. Hard to say what specifically, but some form of precipitation is to be expected. As we progress further towards Stormhold, the land becomes increasing more bleak and drained of color. The trees to the left look ancient. The grass is a darker, flat green, along with the leaves. It’s darker out, not to mention, and would be darker regardless of a cloud cover or not. Even the dirt is gloomier, being a more slate gray rather than a vibrant beige and brown. But this feels more like home to me, and I prefer it more than vivacious colors. Perhaps because it is more befitting of my character. While ambling on, Harper stirs in front of me.
“Rex…” he says softly.
“What is it?” I turn around to grab a few biscuits from the food bag.
“When we get to Stormhold,” he begins as I yawn, “can I…” he struggles for words.

He grabs my hand. I feel the weight of him tug on my arm. I look forward to see him dangling off the side of the horse. As he hangs there, I catch a glimpse of blood, and an arrow.
“My thigh…” he manages to mutter.

Yelling at Strongspine to stop, I tenderly set Harper on the ground. I jump off the saddle, landing with a loud thump. Ambush. I retrieve Frostraze in its scabbard, dangling where all the other equipment is on the side of the horse. As I unsheathe my sword, a group of men emerge from the trees to the left. I count eleven as they half encompass me. Most of them wear boiled leather armor with patches of green on it. A more prominent figure out of them wears a brigandine and light plate armor. He is perhaps the only comely one of the lot, having sharp features and all and well-kept brown hair. His green eyes meet mine, even though my own are hidden behind a visor. I spot a large maul strapped to his back. Shit. This is going to be tough.

“Rex of Lonmar,” he says.
“Oh, so you know who I am.”
He begins to walk around me. “Of course. Who else could be so tall?” He pauses. “Let’s cut to the chase. We’re here to kill you, since you killed our comrade.”
I guffaw. “You mean caterpillar eyebrows? I did the world a favor by disposing of that garbage. And what of the tall one? Wasn’t he one of yours?”
After examining each of the men carefully, I turn back to face their alleged leader.
“I don’t know of any tall man that’s with us,” he responds.
“You bring this cumbersome clusterfuck of cravens to kill me? Pfft. I suppose you were twelve before I got rid of your friend, eh? What did they call you, the Dumbarse Dozen?”
A few of them twitch and fidget, eager to kill me.
“Dastardly Dozen, actually,” replies their leader.
“And now you’re the Egghead Eleven. Touching. After I’m done with you confounded concessionists, they’ll have to come up with a new name for you. How about the Deceased Dolts?”
“This talk has been interesting Rex, but we’re here to kill you, remember?” he says with a hint of frustration.
“Very well.”

In one motion, I slip a dagger off my pauldron and launch it at the archer. It catches him in the jugular. He falls to his knees choking on his own blood. And then they charge. I swing to keep them at bay, the ice that encases my sword howling in the air. The point of Frostraze catches two in their chests, ripping each a long fissure. The others are smart enough to avoid my attack. Again they charge, confining me further. I swing once more. Some duck under the attack or move out of the way, but that buys me enough time. I turn to face a man brandishing an estoc. Swing. He raises his sword to parry. Shattering the estoc, Frostraze continues unhindered, and slices through his hip.

I sprint away. That should string them out, leaving most behind and only the very fast to confront me. Grinding to halt after a considerable distance, I stand ready. Sure enough, only two catch up to me. The one on the right holds a shortsword, and the one on the left a mace. I should deal with the mace first. Even though my armor will almost definitely block his attacks, I can take no chances with blunt blows. I ignore the sword wielder, knowing my armor will take care of him. The mace wielder hacks heftily from the left. Trip. His wild attack sends him forward. Leaving one leg behind, I sidestep, and he falls over my extended limb. Just as I’m about to finish him off, the sword wielder slashes at my hip. I make no effort to parry. Thunk. His blade wedges itself between the folds of my armor.
“Lights out,” I say, looking at him. My elbow caves his face in. Grumbling, I kick the mace wielder in the back of his head before he can get up. He yelps, and lies motionless. Turning around, I knock the sword off my waist.

The others are arriving. Four of them. All of them use swords. This should be easier. Yelling, a steadfast idiot charges my way. He swings. My sword meets his, and as they’re locked together, I slide Frostraze down and thrust it into his face. In a fountain of red, it slides through his skull and I withdraw it quickly. Much to my dismay, a bit of blood and brain matter comes through the slits of my visor. I blink it off. By the time my vision is clear, the other three are already running towards me. The frontrunner holds his wooden buckler up. I chop at his shield with Frostraze. My strike rends the wood, and a large splinter of it impales the wielder’s eye. Falling to the floor, he writhes and howls in agony. He shuts up when my boot meets his mouth. Behind him, his comrade trips on his corpse. I point Frostraze forward. In an almost comical manner, he skewers himself on my sword. While I try to free Frostraze from his gut, the last of them swings for my head. Grab. The blade of his sword lands into my open hand. Unharmed, I crush his sword. The metal screeches as it’s compressed. Finally, I wrench Frostraze free. However, he already produces another weapon, and it’s a mace this time. Closing the gap between us, I stride forward. Feign. He moves to block. My false slash quickly transforms into a jab. He gasps as Frostraze emerges from the other side of his torso. Slithering it out slowly, I withdraw Frostraze and hold it upwards. Blood drips down the glistening ice. I look back at the man to find him still standing, amazingly.
“You… k-killed my friend,” he sputters.
I place Frostraze on the ground, breathing heavily. “Which one? There’s a dozen of you idiots, or have you forgotten?”
Looking at me with sullen eyes, he falls to his knees. “H-his sword got… kof, gotstuck to your… kof armor…”
“Ah, yes, him.”
He clutches where he was stabbed. “You’ll p-pay.”
“Will I now?” I say as I approach him.
Taking a deep breath I grab his left shoulder. “True, I did kill your friend. First I caught him in my trap.” I yank on his arm, tearing it off. “Then I smashed his fucking head in. Like this.” There’s a sickening crunch. My elbow bursts through his noggin, sending blood and bone my way. Only a few spikes of skull remain to represent what was once a head. I drop the body to the ground.

Time for their leader. Keeping Harper’s wound in mind, I pick up Frostraze and rush back to where they surrounded me. I halt before the green eyed man, practically unscathed. His face is a maelstrom of emotions, terror and amusement being the most noticeable.

“I guess the innkeepers weren’t lying when they said you wrestled a group of wild bears and won,” he mutters.
“No, they weren’t.”
The green eyed man shuffles into a fighting stance. “Let’s dance,” he says with a stupid grin.
I snort. “You call it a dance. I call it an execution.”

Just as I finish my sentence he comes storming forward with his Herculean hammer raised. I stand my ground. Parry. Frostraze blocks the hammer’s path. Our weapons locked, I kick at his shins with my right leg. Howling, he hops backwards on one foot. The green eyed man looks up at me while he grasps where he’d been hit, and grimaces. Teeth clenched, he sucks in air. Yelling, he runs at me and swings his hammer. Dodge. I pivot on one foot, and turn away from his futile attack. Slash. He lunges backwards, and my attack misses. I lean out of the way of his counter attack. Jab, jab, jab. Demonstrating some decent footwork, the green eyed man avoids the tip of Frostraze. But it will do him no good, he can only dodge. If he parries, he’s good as dead. Feign. He falls for it. Seizing the moment, I send a half swing. Clang. His handle obstructs the path of Frostraze, and somehow it didn’t shatter… I only went through half the motion of a swing since it followed a feign, yes, but it still should’ve gone right through.

He frees one hand from the grip of his maul as our weapons are stuck to each other post-parry. I see it coming, but in my train of thought, I don’t move. The punch lands just above my nose, squeezing tears out in a stinging sensation. Half dazed, I stumble backwards into an aggressive sword stance. He leaps towards me, bringing his maul down. To block, I hold Frostraze horizontally. The handle of the hammer bounces off, and I kick the green eyed man in the stomach. Gasping for air, he staggers away. A few more breaths and he’s upright once more, charging with his hammer raised. Dropping Frostraze to the ground, I sprint straight towards him. Before he can even move his maul, I crash into him and throw him over my shoulder. I hear him land on the earth behind me, and he yelps. Panting, I turn around to face him. The head of his hammer lays atop his hand. He cries in agony as he picks up his weapon with his free, non-pulverized hand, and gets to his feet. While he recovers, I walk backwards and retrieve Frostraze. Time to finish this bastard off. He struggles to hold his weapon, let alone maintain balance with it. To test his effectiveness, I give him a half arsed swing to block. He misses, but so do I as he slithers out of the way. I only laugh instead of finishing him off, wishing to prolong his suffering. He swings, however it’s an obvious fake. I smack his hip with the flat of my blade to taunt him.
“JUST DIE!” he yells.
“Shouting for my demise won’t render me dead.”
“I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU!”
I take off my helmet and put it on the ground. “Then kill me,” I reply with a smirk.

His face flushes red in anger, and steam rises from his skin. Screaming, he stumbles forward and clumsily moves to bash me. Dodge. As I sidestep, I hear the head of his hammer whisper while it glides past my ear. Recovering before him, I knifehand him in the throat. He coughs out a puff of air, and before he can do anything, my thumb gouges him in the eye. He tries to scream, but only releases an agonized wheeze. After I wriggle it out, I return my hand to the hilt of Frostraze. I plant my left foot in front of him. I spin backwards to the left, Frostraze swinging around towards my target. I feel the sword jar in my hand as it bites through steel. When I stop to look at the green eyed man, I don’t see his namesake. In fact, everything above the collarbone has been hacked off. A fountain of blood gushes from where his neck used to be. Frayed veins sprout from chunky bits of flesh. Some of the meat slides off slowly, revealing the white bone within. I look to the floor, where I see his head and… everything else. Little rivers of blood trickle slowly between the cracks of ice on Frostraze, and a few veins coat the blade. I respire deeply.

With haste, I run over to where Strongspine and Harper are. The horse whinnies and whimpers, trotting around where Harper lays. Kneeling beside him, I examine his wounds. He moans. Not only is there an arrow wound, but multiple stab wounds as well. That green eyed son of a bitch must’ve perforated the shit out of the poor boy. His shirt is mottled and soaked in blood. He’s bled too much. There’s nothing I can do to save him. As gently as I can, I remove the arrow from his thigh. With a half-smile he looks at me. A tear forms on the precipice of his lower eyelid, and rolls down his cheek. He grabs my hand. Slowly, he rolls his head upright. His grip weakens. He closes his eyes but they don’t open again. I no longer hear his breathing, only deafening silence. Raising my head, I look towards the sky, feeling the heat drift off my face and into the heavens above. Enjoy Vallaryn, Harper.
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