Resigned To Fate

“Do you suppose he would come today?” One guard asked the other softly.

“I do hope he doesn’t show up.” The other replied, his eyes darting left and right as he spoke.
“Things would get ugly – “ He paused as he thought he heard something, and when he reassured himself that it was just a passing wind, he added, “and messy.”

“Ugly for him, I hope.” The first whispered, obviously not certain of that statement. Standing right outside their client’s door, he could see them, but they could not see him. “For him.” He reiterated in self-comfort, though their vulnerability unnerved him.

A knock on the door from the inside broke the dreadful silence that was beginning to unnerve the two guards. The second guard looked left and right cautiously before turning to face the door, and whispered to the person inside, “Everything’s fine, sir. There’s not a soul around here, except for the two – “

His words were brought to a painful halt as something exploded into the left side of his face, and he smashed into the ground, quite dead from the impact. The second guard turned in sheer fright, his nightmares materializing right before him.

With the aid of the light shining from the porch of the house, the guard saw the assailant. Drenched in a dark red hooded cloak, the ends of the crimson fabric swirled gently at his feet as he retracted his left hand back to his side. Despite the swift and impossibly powerful impact, the cloak hardly moved. The assassin took a slow menacing step, but stopped as the guard’s sword flashed out in his hand.

Fear gripped the guard, but he was determined to live this night. He knew that his client behind the door was the only thing this avenger wanted, and that his life would depend on his decision to fight or yield. But yielding certainly did not rest well on his pride, and besides, he calculated, that he was fully armored and armed, while the avenger was unarmed and unprotected. Despite all those rumors and stories of their combat finesse, a small naieve fraction of his mind shrugged them off as exaggerated stories of envy. Then something made him want to change his mind, but it was too late. The red cloak shifted slightly, and the guard saw that a cloud of white mist encircling the avenger’s right hand.

It wasn’t any other avenger that he faced. It was he, Samuel Eldruin.

Eldruin backed away from the light, shifting slowly into the shadows. He had come for Gringo, and he had no interest or desire to engage or harm anyone else.

However, the guard thought otherwise. Determined to stop the avenger before he could disappear from his sight, he raised his sword and charged after the reddish fabric that was disappearing into the threatening shadows. Eldruin sighed in exasperation. Seems like I can’t avoid this one, he figured.

“Eldruin, fear my blade!” The guard roared, swinging his blade in a tremendous arc into the shadows where the avenger had been, but the blade hit nothing. Cautious, the guard leapt back from the shadows, readying his shield. The avenger followed in close, pressing in on the guard’s false sense of security.

Instinctively, the guard brought up his shield before him in defense, and a crushing blow shattered his footing. The guard landed heavily on one knee, his steel shield trembling from the impact. Almost a split moment later, a gauntleted hand grasped the shield at the top and yanked it downwards, revealing a crimson nightmare. The flash of red was upon him in a moment as the avenger drew back his right hand, the white mist trailing in line.

The guard knew what would ensue, and quickly angled his blade, thrusting it towards the avenger’s midsection in a vicious counter strike. The avenger’s next few moments connected so smoothly that made the guard wish he had believed in those rumors and not underestimate his foe. As the avenger’s right hand pivoted to its maximum, he grabbed tightly on the end of the white trail, and a gleaming white saber materialized from the mist in a split second. He jerked his right shoulder towards the guard, thrusting the deadly saber Dawnsender towards the guard’s face. Using the momentum of the shoulder swing, Eldruin shifted to the right, dodging the guard’s wicked tip by inches.

With Dawnsender’s tip charging towards his unprotected face, the guard released his grip on the shield and jumped back in a desperate attempt at retreat, his reflexes and finesse saving his life.

The guard landed heavily on his feet, his heart pounding and adrenaline pumping hard through his vein. Eyeing the cloaked avenger recover slowly, he felt his sweat rimming his brow, and the warm sensation of his blood flowing from his cheek. Realizing he had been hit, the guard didn’t have sufficient time to consider his next move, for Eldruin came charging in again with terrifying speed.

Leaping to the side, the guard reached for his shield and raised it in defense, drawing back his sword arm, ready to impale the avenger when the opportunity came.

It never did.

The guard felt a sharp pain on his shield arm as Dawnsender slammed squarely on the steel shield. Driven back a step, he thrust the sword before his shield, more from instinct than design, for he could not see anything from behind his massive shield. The sword hit only air, and a flash of red came from over the shield again. Heaving with all his might, the guard lifted his shield, along with the avenger in an overhead arc.

Eldruin borrowed the momentum of the rising shield, and leapt over the guard to his back. Spinning in mid air, he grabbed the back collar of the guard’s cuirass and jerked it towards him, choking the guard. The guard coughed from the momentary shock and sudden pain from his throat, and tried to spin around on his attacker, but it was too late.

He jerked in fright and pain, passing out as the white saber drove itself home from above into his chest. The dusty ground rushed up to meet him, but he had passed out long before he fell.

Eldruin rose to his feet slowly, steadying his breath. Looking at Dawnsender lodged at the side of the guard’s chest, near his deltoid, he sighed again. Gingerly, he reached to draw the blade out of the lifeless body, grimacing as he heard the sick sound of metal sliding against flesh. The guard groaned in agony and moved a little, still far from dead. The saber had not hit a critical spot, and would not claim his life this night if he did not get up.

His quarry had escaped, Eldruin knew. Certainly, he would not have waited to watch if his guards could win, as the result would be evident – the avenger would win, and continue the chase. But to an avenger like Eldruin, it didn’t matter where or when his quarry chose to flee, for even a twenty-day-old trail would seem as fresh and traceable as any. In the corner of his eye, the first guard that had been felled earlier stirred from his unconsciousness.

Eldruin approached the dazed guard softly, Dawnsender leading the way. Its deadly tip came to rest on the guard’s throat, freezing him with fear.

“What, and how many other forms of protection has Gringo employed for his protection?” Eldruin’s questioned softly, his eyes deeply locked upon the guard’s own. The guard just sat there, visibly shaken from the ordeal, and Eldruin decided he had to play it up a notch. Releasing Dawnsender, the white saber broke into its gaseous form, and Eldruin brought his hand nearer to the guard’s exposed throat. Gripping onto the mist again, Dawnsender reformed, a gleaming dagger this time, smaller but no less threatening than the saber. “ Do not make me repeat myself,” Eldruin spat, his orange glowing eyes promising nothing short of pain.

The guard had enough sense to comprehend the avenger’s words this time round, and he struggling to string an answer.

“Grin…Gringo’s not revealed anythin’…I…know nothin’…” He felt the cold edge of Dawnsender press harder against his neck, obviously disappointed at the answer, and struggled to recall any other information. “But…I did receive…talk…that he…he had… assassins…waiting…in the Laropt…”

The cold merciless edge of Dawnsender left the guard’s throat, and he nearly collapsed in relief. Eldruin remained where he was, though, and whispered coldly, “I’ll trust your words, but know that if I find out that you’ve led me on a wrong lead, you will cross me again. And when that day comes, I will not be so merciful.”

Eldruin rose, releasing Dawnsender back to a cloudy mist. Behind him, the terrified guard scrambled away from the scene, not even bothering to pick up his equipment. With such fragile courage, Eldruin knew that his loyalties did not run deep enough to put his life on the line.

Looking up at the starless sky, the avenger sighed. The corruption, the sheer ugliness of humanity saddened him each day. The scene today was ever so common as any other case – the people who had sinned chose not to repent or ask for forgiveness, instead, they chose to run, to flee from reality, from justice. 

But divine retribution would eventually catch up, with death not far behind.

In this world, he played both roles.

this beautiful world

I no longer know what, or how to feel anymore. It just seems that with my learning of the psychology of people these days, I feel that my compassion for them has detached itself.

Weak. Helpless. Angry.

Its what I feel.

I keep questioning myself, asking myself questions that I cannot answer. I ask myself why people react the way they do, why they do not preach what teach. Interestingly, I ask myself the questions that I personally do not know the answers to.
I have not lived 20 years in this world, but I’ve seen much more than anyone can, or rather, care to see.

In the pursuit for monetary wealth and material comfort, many charge blindly up the stairs of advancement. To get better in their craft, do more and better things, all in the name of money.
Be noted that I am talking about a very particular, and unfortunately, rapidly increasing group of people, and not stereotyping about humans.

It’s a little unnerving to see people getting corrupted by the very things that they have created. Humans created currencies, the act of exchanging money for goods or services. Many claim to say that money is the root of all evil, but the truth is, who created money? Who decided that things had to have a value? Indeed, without currency, without the ability to judge one’s value and make it available for exchange, perhaps we would still be stuck at the prehistoric times of cavemen and barbarians, never advancing.

Money is not the root of all evil, it is weakness in man to succumb to their own inner demons that is to blame. It was intended to aid and facilitate the hassle of barter exchange, but some saw it as a way to show one's strength, as a weapon. Man’s very own lust and desire for comfort, for material wealth, whether is it for showoff or for personal comfort. For teenagers, and fashion-seekers, the pursuit for wealth serves nothing more than to aid them in their endless demand for material gains, hoping to buy items so that they may be as ‘cool’ and ‘hip’ as their other friends. Again, fashion, another demon crafted by the very hands of Man.

For adults, the need for money may be nobler, as they have families to feed. But many a time, I have seen them all so willing and ready to sacrifice a stranger just to satisfy their own children’s needs and worthless demands. “Hey, we mustn’t lose to that other kid!” Life then becomes an endless competition, an eternal struggle, a war, even. I have seen that form of competition and fight in many animal documentaries on national geographic.

Amusing.

Does it then mean that the manifestation of Man’s foolish lust and desires have degraded us to nothing more than feral and unthinking beasts?

It is everywhere. No matter where I turn, humanity’s ugly head never fails to reveal itself. On the trains, people push others just to secure their own seat on the train. When they see some who need the seat much more than them, they suddenly feel so ‘sleepy’, and decide to take a nap. When they see a busker playing his instrument on the streets, they mock and ridicule his physical appearances and musical abilities behind, or even sometimes, in front of him. They think he’s some participant from ‘Just For Laughs’.

Why?

Why have people become like that?

Personally, I’m not one who’s in for pets. I am an animal lover, but I’m not a pet-lover. Why should people keep animals as pets? Removing them from their natural habitat and way of life, feeding them fat and unhealthily, just like the owners themselves.

And why?

Because the people are bored.

Imagine that.

You deny an animal, a living being much like yourself, of its livelihood, feed him fat just like a stuffed animal, under a humiliating lease and muzzle, perhaps, all for your sick and selfish satisfaction and temporary happiness.

And we do that just because such animals are incapable of independent and advanced thought, and are incapable of defending their lives and their freedom. If they do get too dangerous, a ‘jab’ ought to make them shut up a little, eh?

You can choose to turn away from this article, criticize the author for all its worth, but you cannot deny the truth that resonates in every word.
Not looking at it does not make you correct; criticizing it does not make you any smarter, denying its existence does not make it an illusion.

That is truth.

It is sad.

But life is such.

Many do not have the ability to choose, or fight for what they truly need in order to live a full life, and those who have abundant strength use it in any way they will, and others can only hope that the small flame called compassion and kindness still flickers in their small encased heart.
Thankfully, there are others who may not have the knowledge of how badly decomposed this world is, but their hearts are pure and kind. And I can only hope that their hearts will remain free from the demonic shackles of ugly humanity.

Take care.

The Ignition of Rage

­[this will be my final story post, for i will be starting on the main story from now on, and so will no longer post it here.

On another note, though, this blog will still continue, except without the story portions.]

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After two days of continuous running, the avenger finally spotted several flames littered along the meandering stream in a distance. Several campfires had been set up there, and Sam started out to investigate further.

Sam leapt swiftly through the trees, using the Forse of Sound to eliminate any sounds from the leaves and branches. At the beginning of nightfall, he crouched on a tree branch, observing the campsite. He saw shadows and silhouettes of human figures, but it didn’t seem right. He had caught the scents of wolves and humans, but he neither heard nor saw any wolves among the camps. The only possible answer was – werewolves.

In his previous battles with werewolves, they had fought beside the demons, vile and savage races bounded together by their common insatiable thirst for mortal blood. Allies of the demons meant enemies of the avenger, and therefore, they would be crushed.

Werewolves were a combination of wolves and another race, humans being the most common of them. Werewolves were spawned when the lycanthropy virus seeped into the bloodstream of the host, usually injected from the bite of a werewolf. The virus would then fuse with the blood cells of the host, evolving the genes. Lycanthropy had many different stages, each having its own characteristics. A ‘new-born’ werewolf would be categorized into the lowest stage, with simple gifts in the form of enhanced speed, strength and flexibility. However, it would only be able to transform during a full moon, and the transformation process would not be without pain. As the werewolf continued to live and hunt, it would naturally grow stronger, and more in control of its more savage alter egos.

The werewolves in Rivoliath had a god, Rak, and it was indeed the most powerful of them all. He could control his savage instincts at will, being able to utilize the traits of his lycan form despite being in elven form. Indeed, Rak was an elf, and he had willingly accepted the bite from a werewolf nearly two centuries ago. Rak could transform at any time, day or night, and for any duration. However, tales have mentioned that he has stayed in his wolf form for more than fifty years, preferring to hunt and kill in his lycan form. Rak’s fur ranged from white, like the bitter winter snow, to a black as dark as the night itself. In his wolf form, Rak stood taller than any human, and could run faster than the fastest steed in the lands.
Sam looked up at the night sky and found the reason why so many werewolves had gathered here this night. There were three moons in the sky, marking the birthday of their great werewolf god. Glancing back at the campfires, he then noticed that the fires formed an indistinct outline of a wolf’s head. Werewolves were creatures of stealth, powerful hunters that fought with the shadows as their cloaks. However, the glorious celebration for the wolf god called for no such secrecy this night, and the werewolves would surely drink and celebrate till dawn.

The birthday of the wolf god marked the height of his power; but also the weakest in his army. The period for transformation was ten days later, which meant –

The people who sat around those campfires were trapped in their humanoid forms.

Sam made a mental calculation and estimated the number of werewolves to be near seventy. “Their blood shall flow at the first light of dawn,” Sam decided, as he rose to make his necessary preparations for the upcoming battle.

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The first rays of the sun came slowly over the horizon. While the sunlight began to warm up the campsites, their occupants still remained in deep sleep, knocked out from the many jugs of ale that many had gulped down the night before. Only a handful of them remained wide-awake, guarding the tents from any possible intruders. However, they were sleepy, shackled by fatigue from the lack of sleep. So tired they were, such that they failed to spot the approaching company.

A lone warrior armed with a shiny glass dagger and a cold, killing gaze.

When the guards finally sensed an intruder around, they were greeted by the bright gleam of the glass dagger, and a huge gash across their throats. As blood spewed out from their gurgling throats, the avenger walked on, towards the first tent.

With the only conscious guards dead behind him, the avenger had nothing but time. Holding his glass dagger above the tent, intercepting the sunrays, he watched as the sunrays passed through the dagger, and converged into a tiny speck on the tent’s canvas. The intensity from the morning sun wasn’t strong enough, but the properties of the dagger amplified the rays, and several moments later, the speck turned a bright orange, and tiny wisps of smoke began to rise from the burning spot. Flames began to dance a moment later. Picking up a short branch from the ground, Sam ignited the branch and walked past the tents, lighting them up, tent by tent.

It took several moments before the werewolves awoke from their drunken stupor, aroused by the burning smell of their tents. Panicking, the werewolves rushed out of their tent, only to see that every tent in their vicinity was aflame, and the arsonist standing a distance away. Some were not so unfortunate as to escape, and ended up in coffins made from burning tent canvases.
Ironically, the members of the pack who managed to escape from their flaming tents were not that fortunate either. The avenger sprinted towards the humans (unable to transform into their lycan forms), cutting down the first two as he hopped right past them. Several of them went to assist the others who were still trapped in their tents, while a few others charged to engage their unwanted visitor, weapons drawn and mouths salivating in hunger. Despite being trapped in their humanoid forms, this group of human werewolves viewed their adversary as a walking piece of meat, and they sprang towards the avenger with frenzied speeds fuelled by their insatiable hunger.

If they had thought this warrior to be a harmless piece of food, they were badly mistaken.
Their frenzied charge came to a halt as they saw what ensued. One of them had come charging, his greatsword steady over his head. Just as he brought it down forcefully upon the avenger, the blade was greeted with a left fist. A loud smash boomed from the impact, and the rest of the group stared in terrified awe as the greatsword shattered into pieces.

The clash did not affect the fist one bit, and the avenger jerked it forth, driving it straight into the shocked face of the man.

Several warriors of the group backed away as they saw the result of that punch, with the head of the man lolling grotesquely at the side of his neck.

They obviously outnumbered the lone avenger, but he had made sure that everything else tilted in his favor. Werewolves were not fond of fire, and the flames that had nearly reduced them to cinders traumatized many of them. Moreover, the smoke from the flames stung their eyes, and the sun’s heat escalated their discomfort to new heights.

“Rak!” came a cry from one of the warriors. Slowly, the others began chanting their god’s name, drawing strength and courage from the chants. The chants grew louder, and within moments, the cries had become screams of maddened rage, the warriors possessed by the mere call of their all mighty god. With renewed strength and ferocity imbued by their lycan god, they charged towards the avenger.

And then, they halted suddenly.

A burst of white light exploded from the glass dagger, the sheer intensity of it blinding every single one around it. The two warriors at the front had saw the avenger raise his dagger towards them, but failed to shield their eyes in time. They screamed in pain as the light robbed them of their vision forever. The rest were fortunate enough to have not looked at the dagger straight in the eye, and were only momentarily blinded. They staggered, dizzied by the intense rays, and clutched their heads, struggling to reorient themselves.

The glass dagger was a weapon crafted by the angels, enchanted with the ability to absorb, store and then release the rays from the sun. The dagger had absorbed a fair amount of energy from the morning sun minutes ago, but the bright flames from the tents had supplied it with overflowing power. Of course, the avenger had taken that into consideration before taking action.
Shifting his other hand out of his view, the avenger saw that the plan had worked, and made no hesitation to lose the clear advantage that he had gained. With his left fist tightly clenched, and his right wielding the glass dagger, Sam leapt onto the first human, his left fist smashing into the blinded warrior’s face. Thrown back by the immense force, the human crashed into a tree behind, his life ending even before he hit the ground. Turning to face the dizzied humans beside him, Sam charged past the second human, his glass dagger making a deep gash at his throat.

The time taken to kill the two blind warriors took less than a minute, but even that was sufficient for the rest of the pack to regain their combat status. Readying their weapons to attack the lone avenger, they charged in unison, twenty to one. Completely surrounded, the avenger stood undeterred by the sheer disadvantage of numbers.

An instant later, time itself seemed to stop as the avenger’s left punch connected to the ground.
The land shook violently as the full force of that hit transferred from the fist to the ground. The ground buckled under everyone’s feet, knocking the whole twenty of them off balance. Wasting no time, the avenger leapt into a counter offense. He knew that by this time, the other packs would have been alerted, and would soon come charging this way.

This pack had to be finished soon.

Lifting his feet off the ground, Sam hurled his glass dagger at a warrior, and swung his right hand outwards, guiding the dagger, which was attached to a chain around his forearm. Like a whip with a wicked tip, the dagger lashed at its target, slicing off a fair amount of flesh from his shoulder. The rest of the pack realized that apart from their weapons, they had nothing that they could use as a shield from that wicked dagger, or its wielder. The avenger had calculated that by throwing them into a panic early in the day, they would fail to be well armored and ready for battle. However, knowing that reinforcements were on their way, they pack began to fight with renewed strength and ferocity, determined to stall their assailant till help arrived. The avenger knew that too.

The dagger whipped back and forth, keeping most of the pack at bay, occasionally scoring a hit. The dagger only served as deterrence to buy time, while the avenger formulated an attack strategy. The pack saw through that, and three of them leapt from behind.
Instinctively, Sam tugged forcefully at the chain, steering the dagger straight at his face. Dropping low immediately, he heard a cry of pain as the dagger drove into the lung of the man behind him. While still crouching low, Sam leapt backwards, attempting to trip the other two men. Like nimble elves, the two men jumped up, clearing out of the avenger’s attack. But, these werewolf men were instinctive, not overly intelligent creatures, and failed to notice the avenger’s ploy. The moment they were in mid-air, they twisted around to face the avenger, raising their blades, poised to strike.

They were fast, but Sam had already sprung upwards the moment his feint had worked. Both the men’s chins cracked under the impact of the avenger’s swift knuckles, and they tumbled backwards, their blood trailing after them. Sam pressed the attack frantically, his punches and dagger thrusts leading the way, and eventually broke out of the human enclosure. Turning around, he began attacking with more composure, each measured attack strike hitting with deadly accuracy. Using his left fist as a shield, and occasionally as a bashing war hammer, while using the dagger as the main wound maker, Sam felled the men one by one, with increasing speed and consistency. Right from the start, the men had been cautious as to openly engage this avenger, and now, with all the tricks and ploys that he had deployed, they were even more doubtful of their chances of victory. Despite hearing news of the incoming reinforcements, that information brought only a little measure of comfort to the men.

Sam knew his advantage would not hold out when he saw the silhouettes of the reinforcements flowing over the horizons. Something out of the ordinary caught his particular attention.

A tall, huge humanoid figure with a wolf’s head was amongst the reinforcements.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed the werewolf, and instant the rage and enthusiasm that were once replaced by fear reappeared in the men before Sam. Instantly, they charged towards him unanimously, determined to pin him down so that the werewolf could tear him apart. They were hungry.

Sam took one step forward, before leaping into the air, launching him in a back flip. Two men fell as his knees smashed into their lower jaws. Landing, he leapt forwards, again using his knees to smash into another man’s chest. Rib cracked under the force of that leap, and the avenger went on, using the man as leverage to propel himself further into the pack. Alas, the last of the pack went down, but Sam barely had a chance to rest. Light footsteps approached fast, and Sam whirled around to face the new group of adversaries.

Just in time to see a huge claw smashing into his face.

The blow nearly lopped Sam’s head off his shoulders, sending him into the air, smashing against a hard boulder a distance away. Yelps and cheers erupted from the others as they saw Sam’s body go limp.

The werewolf looked at its own claws for a moment, believing that a single blow could defeat this seemingly invincible foe, and then walked cautiously to the unmoving body of Sam. Sam grimaced at the pain in his head, forcing the pain out of his mind. In countless battles before, Sam’s iron will had produced many miracles, enduring seemingly impossible amounts of pain, standing to fight over and over again. Storytellers everywhere retold these stories countless times, though each story deviated further from the original truth. These werewolves had heard of this formidable warrior, terming him simply as ‘the avenger’. The name alone struck fear and awe in the hearts of many, not because of the tales of his iron will and unbending determination, but of his special left hand.

Sam’s left forearm was invulnerable, the skin impregnable not only by any blade or arrow, but even spells of flame and lightning. His punches were as forceful and hard as a stone-forged warhammer, evenly matched in strength and hardness but much faster and agile than it.

However, the gift was not without any setbacks. Every punch drained Sam’s energy, sapping his very ability to battle. Over the years, fortunately, the toll on him has reduced as his strength, stamina and endurance are now near perfection. Moreover, the mastering of his Forses, which are a person’s personal energy aura, has enabled him to resist the strain for extended periods of time. His left hand was not the only extraordinary gift he had. His legs were faster and more powerful than a human, and had the ability to transcend into the twilight plane when he reached a certain speed, rendering him invisible on the material plane.

‘If the rumors about this man were true, surely he wouldn’t be felled with just one blow?’ the werewolf thought to himself. And he was right.

The sudden movement before him broke its chain of thoughts, and he glanced to see Sam slowly shifting to balance on all fours. His head hung low from his shoulders, and blood dripped slowly to the floor, the green grass beneath stained and changing to a reddish hue. Slowly, the werewolf took one softer step towards him.

Then, the avenger looked up and eyed the werewolf, his deathly gaze locked on the bestial warrior. In that moment, the werewolf felt so small, so weak, and so fearful. Sam slowly got to his feet, his cold, hard gaze never leaving the werewolf for even a moment. The rest of the reinforcements fell into a terrified hush, not knowing what to expect. The force of a werewolf’s slash could easily kill a full-grown giant, but this avenger still lived. Not only that, he looked like he was ready for more! The werewolf looked as Sam sheathed his glass dagger.

Then it saw in disbelief as the avenger simply vanished.

Everyone did not have time to question where he had went, for he appeared a moment later, his knees knocking the wind out of the werewolf’s powerfully muscled chest. The knee attack was merely the distraction, as the avenger’s following punches met with no resistance. Three deadly planted blows, the first blinding the werewolf’s left eye, the second breaking three ribs, and the third blow to its left temple. The werewolf reeled and howled loudly in pain, staggering back from the impact of the blows and trying to get away from its terrifying foe. Leaving no chance for retaliation, the avenger came again, and drove both fists into the bared chest of the werewolf.

The werewolf jerked backwards slightly, averting a little of the impact, but the remaining power proved too strong for it to handle. Three more ribs crunched under the knuckles and the werewolf fell to the floor. If a wolf’s face could show an expression of fear, it was all revealed in the dead werewolf’s contorted visage.

The werewolves were instinctive and savage beasts, but they were now in their human form, and possessed a little more logic and intelligence. That prevented them from charging blindly to fight the avenger. But in this situation, the choice to attack or retreat did not lie in their hands.

The frightening gaze of the approaching avenger was a clear answer to their fate.

Tears

Indeed, the glass dagger was beautiful. Its glass edges glistened softly in the retreating sunrays, absorbing and reflecting the warmth of the sun. Emanating a soft bluish glow, the dagger’s deadly edge and tip were enhanced by the designs and symbols that marked it as a weapon of exorbitant value and rarity.

The words were crafted in an ancient language, used even before the world was created. While many referred to it as the language of the dragons, the other regarded it as the language of the ancient gods. The language comprised of symbols, rather than words, and the symbols that were edged in the dagger read “For the Thirst of the Maiden”. Small, red rubies lined the flat edge of the blade, complimenting the beauty of the weapon, even though it seemed more of an ornament rather than an instrument of murder.

Sam’s fingers stroked the blade slowly, its texture invoking many memories in him; memories that he had been trying to overcome for years, but had found no strength to. He fought back the tears that were welling up at the corners of his eyes, but just as an image of the dagger’s owner surfaced in his mind, the tears broke free, trickling down the sides of his face. He remembered the girl who had showered him with care, love and happiness during his darkest times. The girl whom he had spent many years with, enduring the harsh weathers together. The girl whom had stood beside him, fighting back demons and monsters, protecting each other every step of the way.

The girl he had promised to spend the rest of his life with.

Sam’s gaze wandered up towards the sky, in time to see the last rays of the sun diminish beyond the great mountains. Those painful memories came flooding back like a tidal wave, and he no longer bothered to suppress them any longer.

To him, Kyla was his life, the very reason for him to breathe and walk the paths of self-justice. She had been a soul mate, an ally, a friend, a lover.

He had met Kyla at a celebration banquet, and was mesmerized by her cheerful nature and kind heart. Despite being the daughter of a powerful merchant in the lands of Vater, she treated everyone in the same, gentle manner, believing that ranks and status should not change the way people treat one another.

However, fate wasn’t as nice to her as she had been to others. A few days after Sam left Vater and was on his journey once again, a horde of demons had rushed through the town; pillaging and burning every house and shop they could lay their hands on. Kyla managed to escape in time, but she wasn’t quick enough to save her family when the roof collapsed in front of her, killing them that very instant.

Sam could hardly contain his rage, anguish when he rushed back upon hearing the dreaded news, and saw that Kyla’s once sweet smile was replaced with tears, and a sorrow that he knew would scar her heart for eternity.

He took her along with him, leading her away from the place that held nothing but tragic and tearful nightmares. From that instant he saw her crying, his path became all too clear for him; he would charge upon the demons with a fury so fearful that they would never, ever dare to lay a finger on any town or village, for as long as he lived.

For the following years ahead, they went through everything; from trekking through the cruel winters in the Perilo Peaks, to killing demons and monsters that amounted to hundreds, they stood together, helping each other at every turn. Their relationship grew stronger with each passing day, and they both soon realized that their feelings for each other had far transcended the levels of mere friendship. They shared a connection between each other, a magical feeling that both felt when the other was troubled or disturbed.

Kyla brought him warmth, kindness, but most importantly, happiness. Since the moment he was able to think as a child, he had been an avenger, an agent of self-justified murder. It was not a path he had chosen, and till the day he had met her, he had lived his days with a grim face most of the time. His only relief and consolation being the fact that he was killing for a justice that he had felt was right, Kyla taught him something special. She taught him that morals were what guided people, and as long as decisions were made in accordance to the heart and morals, the conscience should carry no burden.

Eventually, after three years, with the help of Sam’s allies and friends, the demon warlord, Ty’lis was defeated and slain, and the world was granted a brief period of peace. Sam and Kyla returned to the central lands, and held their marriage ritual in the human city of Astern. Surrounded by laughter, songs and dance, Sam could hardly imagine the horror when he awoke the next morning to find his love missing. The reality pierced his heart as he realized that she had been taken by demons, determined to break both his spirit and fortitude.

Since then, Sam had been searching for seven years, with nothing to remind him of her except for that glass dagger, one of the two that she was so used to wielding during battles. Sam traveled the lands, in desperate search of his beloved. During those years, Sam reveled in his own misery, usually crying for nights on end, ending only when the tears had turned to blood. Even then, the pain seemed like a temporary relief from the harshness of reality, allowing him to sink into uncontrollable periods of sleep.

However, all his suffering and self-torment shall come to an end.

Clutching the dagger tightly in his right hand, Sam stood up slowly, for the first time in nights, and screamed into the emptiness before him. The air escaped from his lungs with such force that the scream could be heard deep high up in the caverns. The scream was a sign, a sign of his change in attitude; a change in goals. When at last the echoes of the scream had been carried away by the gentle winds, Sam’s scrambled thoughts finally converged into a single notion.

The demons had meant to break him, but now, they had broken something else – the cord that linked him to mercy and compassion. He would find them, and hunt them down, one at a time. The demons had showed him no mercy, and now it was his turn to return the favor. He would cut them down, cold and heartless, and he would let no one survive… …

“They will pay…for everything,” Sam told himself, as he held up the glass dagger, feeling its power coursing through his hand.

When the avenger had at last picked his path, he sprinted off , into the comforting embrace of the shadows.

The Eternal Grief

Another short one, or rather, a longer one compared to the previous one...


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“What skilful display that was, indeed.” came a voice from beyond the trees, as the three-eyed demon walked up the hill. Knowing that the voice came from the south, the demon stopped in his ascent and waited. As it had expected, the voice continued. “While I had spent years training them to fight, you had spent only moments to cut them down.”

Speaking in demon tongue, the demon replied,
“You have wasted their time; teaching them pointless moves and techniques that have long been out of fashion.”

“You seem to hold your skills in high regard, desolatr.” The voice had recognized the three-eyed swordsman to be belonging to sub-species of demons, known as desolatrs. “Perhaps, it is time to judge if my moves and techniques are indeed out of date…” The voice continued, trailing off slowly.

Moments later, a shadowy form charged out from the north of the desolatr, the leaves rustling in its wake. As the moonlight revealed the features of the new attacker, the desolatr saw that it was an old man. The old man charged towards the desolatr with a speed that questioned his age, and the desolatr only smiled.

Revealing two long daggers, the old man came up short right in front of the desolatr in only a few moments, and thrust his daggers at the face and chest. As if foreseeing the attack, the demon leaped backwards, drawing his broadsword, which was belted on the left of his belt. The drawing action blocked off the two thrusts perfectly, and the both of them staggered from the sudden impact.

It was the demon’s turn to attack.

Drawing his other, narrower blade from the left of his belt, the demon leapt towards the old man, both his blades high above his head. The old man saw the vulnerable opening that the demon had foolishly created, and thrust his right dagger towards the demon’s abdomen, intending to leave the left as a defensive measure.

The demon smiled at the old man’s wit, but had long expected that move. Instantly, the demon jerked its right knee towards its chest, using its knee to deflect the dagger thrust. In the same moment, it brought down both his swords simultaneously, leaving the old man in a critical situation.

The old man saw his own folly the moment the demon had used its knee to block the thrust, and by purposely swinging its blades simultaneously, it had forced the old man to only be able to defend against one of the blades, while the other would be left open to do its wicked job. For that instant, the old man was thoroughly impressed at the demon’s skill and experience, as to deploy such a move. Demons were thought to be intellectually weaker and simple-minded by the other races, particularly the elves and humans, but this one was different. Desolatrs were the most superior fighters amongst all the demons, perhaps, even the other races. However, they were applauded for their fortitude in battle, and cursed for their lack of compassion and mercy. Despite that, they were not known for their intelligence, even in battle. However, this demon was different. He had seen it cut down his four paladins as easy as if they were paper dolls, and now it had outsmarted the old man in a single move.

The old man’s thoughts were halted suddenly by the sound of the approaching blades. Bringing up his left dagger to parry the blow of the broadsword, the narrower blade screamed right down the side of his face, bring an ear along with it. The old man stumbled backwards as the second blade finished its work, the pain from the side of his face and a loss ear a sore price to pay for belittling his opponent. Looking up at the demon, the old man looked as the demon dropped his hands to his sides, smiling. Thinking that the fight had ended, the old man picked himself up slowly.

Then, the demon charged.

The old man had barely enough time to bring his daggers before him to block the series of blurred attacks. The demon guided his blades in a wild flurry, slashing and stabbing furiously, forcing the old man to retreat, but not without suffering from a dozen small cuts first. The demon’s attacks continued mercilessly, each swing meant to carve a critical wound in the old man’s frail body. Knowing that he did not have much space to fall back into, the old man threw his dagger, its deadly tip aimed straight at the demon’s lung. It sidestepped almost instantly, the dagger missing its target totally, hitting a cinder tree behind. The throw had failed to make the demon bleed, but managed to steal a few moments of time, enough for the old man to leap away from the dead end, giving himself more room.

“Smart,” the demon remarked, as it turned to face the old man, “to create a diversion to save your life. However, is it worth it, now that you are handicapped more than before?”

The truth of the words struck hard at the old man. Right from the beginning, he did not have the advantage of speed, agility and strength over his adversary. And now, with only a dagger left, his chances of victory, or rather, survival had almost all but evaporated.

Seeing the sudden realization in the old man, the demon straightened and sheathed its blades.
“You intrigued me, for a man of your age to be able to move as fast as a ranger. Although, your lack of skill proved to be your downfall.” The demon surveyed the old man as it mouthed those words, curious in finding out the source of his vitality.

“I’d never thought a demon to be so skilful and intelligent in battle.” The old man changed the topic quickly, not wanting to reveal anything else. The demon saw the old man’s intent, and let his curiosity go at that, probing no further. “You have come for the pole-arm, nonetheless.” The old man remarked with confidence, as if he had read the demon’s thoughts.

“You have spent your entire life safeguarding it. Perhaps you should have taken better measures of protection.” The three-eyed demon said coldly. It had been disappointed when he saw that five rogue paladins and an old man stood between him and the legendary pole-arm, the Eternal Grief.

The Eternal Grief belongs to a set of magical weapons, all having the word ‘eternal’ in them. Crafted by the legendary blacksmith, Zeck, all eight of them are enchanted with powerful abilities, and crafted out of emerald steel, a rare composite of glass that shines like an emerald and strikes like steel.

“I have lived a full life, and I am tired of protecting it. Fate has dealt me a good hand, by allowing me to hand it over to an individual as skilled as you. At least the pole-arm’s existence would be justified in your hands.” The old man reached into his pouch and retrieved a handful of green dust. Releasing his grip, the magical dust hung in the air, swirling like a miniature cyclone. Moments later, the dust had formed and materialized into the Eternal Grief, with its handle as black as night, and the blade as green and enchanting as emerald.

It took several moments for the three-eyed demon’s eyes to leave its mesmerizing green glow, and he reach forth to take it from the old man. The pole-arm was magically light, even lighter then his narrow blade, and definitely much sharper.

A sense of relief tingled in the old man as he saw the demon’s fingers prancing across the blade of the pole-arm. Alas, he had found a fighter worthy enough to wield this magical weapon, and perhaps, he had done Zeck justice too.

As the demon prepared to depart, the old man asked a question that he had meant to ask the moment he had seen the demon,

“Who, are you?”

“Do you believe in gods?” Was all the demon said, as he disappeared into the shadowy cloak of the night.

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The Bringer of Blood

I felt the urge to write something about Juan, anything, so I decided to do a random portion of the story to share as well as to make me feel satisfied...

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Argath had only enough time to raise his claymore before his attacker rushed past him, making a clean cut at the spot beneath his rib cage, where his armor was the softest. He looked down upon his wound, then up towards its maker, and found that two other rogue paladins in his group had met with similar fates. Slowly, with his life escaping in the form of bright, red blood, Argath fell to the floor, moving no more.

The unknown killer continued his ascent up the hill after scoring his third kill. With only two layers of tunic, donned upon his slender frame, he was vulnerable to any attack. However, the two swords that he held in each hand argued that fact. His arms guided the blades with amazing speed and accuracy, slashing too fast for any parry, and too accurate for any shield or armor to deny.

Seeing that Argath, Trog, and Renil had fallen to this dual wielding attacker, Zesrh had no intention of suffering the same fate. Reeling on his heels, he broke into a frantic charge into the bushes, where he knew he would escape. Or so he thought. The tip of a blade pierced cleanly through his right calf as he ran, diminishing all his hopes of escape. Wincing from the pain from his calf, Zesrh turned slowly to acknowledge the attacker, and for his last moments, managed to catch a glimpse of the attacker under the moonlight.

The attacker had short, white hair, which resembled a vampire ancient. His features bore even more resemblance to the blood-sucking race- Thin, bony facial features, coupled with black sclera and green, glowing pupils, the same ones that Argath had sighted in the trees just moments ago. However, what terrified Zesrh was the fact that he had three eyes, the third one located just above the brow, in the center of his forehead. The eye was vertical, and shared the same glow as the other two, except that the glow was yellowish instead of green. Sporting pale blue skin, the attacker looked too much like a vampire, apart from his third eye.

“V…vampi-” was all Zesrh could mutter before a narrow blade sliced across his throat, ending his final attempt at speech.

The fifth rogue paladin, Kor, wasn’t one of fear. Lifting his broadsword, he charged towards the three-eyed attacker, his mind devoid of fear. His broadsword was met with another of its kind, and the sound of the parry rang loudly through the silent grove. Quickly, Kor’s left hand reached for his belt, where his wicked dagger was placed. Hoping that the parry would hold his attacker off, Kor thrust his dagger forth towards the assailant’s midsection. The assailant saw it coming, and thrust his hips backwards forcefully, and the dagger pierced only air. Tilting his parrying sword with a flick of his wrist, the three-eyed attacker brought his sword down along Kor’s blade, and slashed at his wrist. Kor screamed in pain as his blade – and hand- fell to the ground. Pain and terror screamed at him, as he saw his own severed hand on the ground, in a pool of bright, red blood. His pain and fear were short-lived, for as soon as he glanced up to face the merciless killer, twin blades pierced both his lungs, putting the last of the rogue paladins to eternal sleep.
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