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"Gods and demons, both one and the same. This is why I shall bind under the rune of Ván those under my charge. Hear my plea, Yggdrasil! Avalon, be my witness! Let my life be the parchment and my blood as ink. If they must live as monsters devouring gods and demons alike, so be it!"
~Gandr de Morte
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Murals cover the walls of a humble chapel, their presence the only show of grandeur. The building is like an unsightly dwarf amongst majestic giants, for Utnapishtim is the great city of splendour where all that glitters is gold. There a lone parish resides, his humble ways beckoning the willing to have a chat, no matter how trivial the talk may be. If the Holy City is a constant reminder of what has gone right, then mayhap a humble chapel still serves as the sole reminder of what should have been right all the while.
Aeravor finds it amusing that all it took for him to get dressed with neither hassle nor harassment was a quiet corner, a place where he’d half expect to see the pious pray. After all, no nook and cranny are ever free from the ever-watching gods. That is if they actually exist. His training as a ranger has served him well, his dark complexion paying a mocker’s fee to the light. Emerging from the alley, he finds the ever-pervasive apathy amusing. Then again, there is no difference between the holy ones and not-so-holy ones, for there are always a number of ways to express the same thing.
Not in my backyard? Well, this place is merely another kind of backyard.
Not in my backyard? Well, this place is merely another kind of backyard.
It never took the ranger long for his burnt hand to heal. Teutonians call the Vánagandr monsters of the gods for a reason, their ability to heal swiftly from any injury nothing less than inhumane.
"I should have tried extorting a hefty sum and his whore from that man of the gods," chuckles a derisive Aeravor, the image of a comely harlot still engraved in his mind.
Not knowing where he should be going, let alone whether he is heading the right way out, the former Vánagandr finds himself at a humble chapel’s porch. Amused by how whimsical fate can play its cards, Aeravor enters the building. Murals greet his azure eyes, a wolf of war recognising images of conflict. The only thing missing is the portrayal of women raped, their destiny either one of slavery or to the slaughter. Drawing a cynic's smile, Aeravor knows perfectly well the hypocrisy behind superficial tales of caution against any and all evils.
"Ah, a stranger arrives as a guest! How rare and wonderful."
"You forgot to mention unlucky as well," his unceremonious words uttered, a sellsword sits down in front of an old man bearing no arms and with nary an ill will. An aura well beyond his years radiates from the host wearing a parish’s garb, a position of the lowest rank in the Holy Quintet clergy. His head is balding, his form thin and frail. Sitting cross-legged with a slouch, no trembling is seen in his arms as he takes a sip from an earthen cup filled with water. Unlike the Legalis of Anglsax, his eyes do not harbour arrogance and falsehood. Unlike that man of the gods, he wears not a perverted leer but a sincere smile. Like that whoremonger of a holy man, he still commands wariness from a wolf who has seen much in a merciless world cast in the image of a fiery crucible. The only reason why he chooses not to walk away is the need to avoid unwanted confrontation, a ranger’s sixth sense telling him not all is normal in this tiny place. People do not care about what is committed in plain sight unless someone happens to die. Even then, it is not a given that they would bat an eyelid. This is not one of those moments. Years of being a survivor have taught him the importance of animalistic instincts.
"Nice drawings. You need to tell the artist to add some bitches, though," compliments Aeravor, the sardonic manner of praise not lost on the parish.
"War is never a beautiful thing," nods the elderly clergyman, his smile mirroring the wry grin maintained by Aeravor, "Unfortunately, people still think monsters do not exist in fairy tales."
Throwing back his head, Aeravor erupts into howls of laughter. He cares not the loudness of his mirth, neither does he care that this is the sound of a wolf howling. He has seen too many monsters in every shape, size, and status. Most chose to wear a mask while others chose to lie to themselves. And to think people scoff at the idea of demons existing, the source of their willful ignorance being an insistence that it's nothing more than morality preaching fear. As for this old man, he belongs to neither. Never in his life has the ranger ever imagine he is able to see eye to eye with a holy man, this meeting truly feels like a wolf befriending a shepherd. He has seen plenty of contradictions and many an irony, but this has to be the lord of them all. For now, the wolf chooses to lower his guard.
"I’m starting to like you, old man. What’s your name?"
"Liegen. But most people call me Lieg. At my request, of course."
"Fine, Lieg then."
"And you?"
"Aeravor," then just as sudden as his show of amusement, Aeravor let out a growl, "But don’t you dare call me Aera unless you want to die."
"I truly doubt you are acting, Aeravor. I’ve seen before men as unstable as you. Fine, Aeravor then."
"Now we’re starting to get along," grins the sellsword, his smile now wider as he claps his hands and gives a shrug, "I guess you’re too bored to stay quiet like a man with his tongue cut off."
"Most pain lasts for a time allotted, but some pain is meant as a lifetime of torment," nods Liegen in agreement, his languid demeanour amusing Aeravor till no end.
"So you’re going to tell the artist to add some bitches here and there?" asks Aeravor with his index finger pointing here and there at the murals.
"The church has existed for years beyond counting. The artist is already dead and I don’t like asking those alive to tamper with a dead man’s work. Pride is given to the living, but respect must be given to those departed."
"What about those both alive and dead?" smirks Aeravor as the wolf keeps goading the shepherd.
"A homunculus, you mean. I happen to know one here," with a sigh, Liegen utters a name which should not be mentioned, "Sarel Aphros."
Aeravor instantly tenses up, his back slightly hunched like a beast waiting to pounce. The parish may have played the wrong cards, but he calmly stares back at a murderous glare.
"What else do you know?" snarls Aeravor, "Tell me or else…"
"The one performing the resurrection is no longer alive. He is already dead, I made sure of that."
Answers begetting only more questions, Aeravor understands at last what manner of a person he is dealing with. With a combination of amusement and wariness, the parish reminds him of someone else. The Serpent of Histalonia, Edeaux de Serpentwine. One is a poor man of religion, the other the monarch of crime lords. One is behaving like a pious man, the other a man attracted to other men. One is a human, the other an elf. But both are schemers regardless of the differences. If Liegen is willing to show his cards that early, it means he is no parish. At least not in a conventional way.
"Relax, my friend," even with no malice detected, Liegen’s smiling visage nevertheless reminds Aeravor how laughable children’s tales can be.
"Relax? This before a man of the gods who thinks like a man of war?"
"Gods? War? Let me ask you then, Aeravor, this question: Can the gods truly know peace?"
"Good question, Lieg. You worship five, I worship none. You should know the answer, not me."
"You worship yourself just like the rest," as Liegen finishes his statement, his eyes turn sombre as his features warp into a frown much to Aeravor’s bemusement. Never before has he been so entertained and intrigued at the same time.
"Let’s set aside the question of whose gods are more real. Or more correct for that matter."
Old man Lieg is now pulling the strings with those words, Aeravor reasons to himself silently. What started off as a harmless conversation took a turn for the worse, said worse then took another turn. So now it becomes a game. His appetite now whetted, the wolf prepares himself for the shepherd’s dare. Silence prevails, both players waiting for the other to make his first move.
"Very well," sighs Liegen, a quaint smile adorning a face scarred by wrinkles, "What says you if I assume the gods do not know what peace is?"
Unsurprised by Liegen's words, Aeravor is nevertheless impressed. The first strike always symbolises an advantage. Either that or a bad move amounting to five steps backwards. He is a ranger, he knows how vital it is to assassinate a target instead of just claiming a kill. Yet, here he is ceding the right to pull off a gambit. And now he has to deal with unfavourable odds, for a parish had used a ranger’s hand against an actual one. A good one, this the wolf has no choice but to concede.
"I agree. But don’t you think such assumption is a blasphemy? After all, you’ve implied that your gods only care about violence and whores in the name of victory. Hence, the murals depicting violence. Minus the whores, of course."
Aeravor is clearly relishing the game now, his reply prompting a frown from the opposition. This is surely much better than hearing some stupid debate between the seemingly intelligent, people who have nothing better to do with their senseless knowledge.
"There is more than one way not to know peace. One can be the most righteous saint, only not to know what peace looks like beyond a successful parley."
"I take back my words, O’ most revered Lieg. You don't have to ask why because I feel like doing it," shrugs Aeravor, an impish smile throwing the parish off his guard, "You and I know the sword pays better wages than religion. At least most men would love to have a whore after a day’s work. Never mind whether it’s actually one whore for an entire army."
"As one who is unaccustomed to such barbaric ways, I can never understand why the sword is preferable to prayer. A sword in hand means a risk at hand."
"You mean getting killed while having fun with a bitch out in the open? I actually killed someone this way," chortles Aeravor, the recollection of Fragarach biting into a rapist from behind tickling him, "Then again, I can easily kill a praying man in the same way. I once heard an idiot saying we might die. Seriously, I shit you not."
"Your reaction?"
"My reaction? I laughed. Even after an arrow took him down. Please, we might die? Bullshit! Truth is, we all will die."
"And therefore?"
"And therefore, I have to tell you I’m not the one who fired the arrow. An enemy loosed that thing and that poor boy happened to be at my side. Wrong place, wrong time, not sure if it's the wrong target."
Liegen can only afford to laugh out loud despite the dark humour displayed while Aeravor replies mirth for mirth.
"Life as a god is all about drinks, whores, and money. As for you, I have to concede that you’re a different god from me if you want to see it this way."
"Indeed," answers Liegen with eyes of a compassionate man, "We have gods of prosperity, war, righteousness… I won’t say many things, but rather every single thing."
"You forgot to mention goddesses of love, fertility, and whores," grins the wolf who knows best the inner man, "There is a saying…"
"We are merely the ore, the world itself is a crucible."
"That’s not what I’m going to say," scratching his chin absently, Aeravor nonetheless shows a mercenary's mocking visage, "But you surely gave me a better saying here."
"I’m no Tamurian, but I’m also not like those haughty oafs calling themselves scholars just because the Imperial College recognises them as talents."
"So you know the next sentence?"
For the first time throughout the conversation, Liegen displays a hearty smile.
"Wait here for me. I suddenly remember there’s a stash of fine food and wine in the pantry."
Aeravor maintains his smile. If an ambush is imminent, he will just kill them all, that old man included. If he is to die, then so be it. If that old man can be trusted, it means he who is still a Vánagandr will just get to die another day. An attractive prospect compared to dying today. After all, it is not as if people might die.
"The rest is dross, the fire consuming the unworthy," murmurs the ranger, words from his mother’s people a constant reminder of what is the truth all the while.
"Here we have it, my friend," beams Liegen, a young boy helping him by holding a platter made from pewter. On it are two mutton legs well-cured, mashed potatoes and gravy accompanied by freshly baked bread. In Liegen’s hands are two goblets, both made from the same material. Then there is a young girl holding a pitcher, its content most likely some decent manner of wine.
Wonder how old they are. Twelve or thirteen like that little girl from the East I saved years ago?
"You both may go now."
At Liegen’s words, the girl gives a brief bow as the boy runs off giggling. Giving no heed to a rare show of childish innocence, Aeravor grabs his share of the meat and enjoys the meal like a wolf devouring an elk. Taking a goblet proffered by Liegen, he takes a draught. Wiping his lips with a gloved hand, the sellsword flashes a smile akin to a satisfied patron.
"Humphrey and Harriet."
"I never knew sheep and goats have names."
Liegen can only let out a resigned chuckle, the wit displayed by his guest impressing him.
"I’m referring to the two children under my care."
"Irak and smoked meat seasoned with beirat. Never knew you have a way with Tamurians, Lieg."
"Currently feeling nostalgic, Aeravor?"
"Please, I don’t even know what my mother looked like."
"And your father?"
Before an innocuous reply, a simmering fire seizes Aeravor. Why did this old man choose to be so annoying at the wrong time? There were times where he felt like killing people on a whim, now such a moment arrives again. Liegen is playing with fire and fire will always consume those playing with it.
"You want to see fire?" snarls Aeravor, his face akin to a beast out to defend its territory, "I’ll make sure you catch fire instead."
Holding out his hand, Liegen shakes his head.
"I offer you my sincere apology as a parish, for no one is ever too lowly to be insulted."
"If you’re sincere, then shut up. Let me finish a good meal in peace like a god and I will make sure you won’t rest in pieces like a dead man."
With a retort intended as a parting shot, Aeravor slows down his eating speed. His sight is still on the food and drink, his focus staying alert to the surroundings. Liegen may have allowed Aeravor to lower his guard for a considerable period, but all it took to turn the situation awry was a comment with nary a malice. If words and actions do define a person, it means there is no telling what this mercenary will do next. Like how there is no reason for sellswords to display friendliness before people of faith unless money is involved, there is no logic behind a cordial conversation ending with a threat this way. After all, some questions are never offensive to a normal person. Whether Aeravor can be called normal, however, is another question altogether.
"I have an offer for you."
"For me or my sword?"
"Your sword."
The ranger ceases his eating, orbs of azure blue eyeing warily at a pair of gentle grey eyes. There is no predicting what the old man’s next move will be, but at least he recognises an offer should one come his way. Nevertheless, the notion of a holy man requesting an ungodly sellsword’s aid remains a jape worth an hour’s laugh.
"Let me ask you a question, holy old man."
"Go ahead."
"Give me a good reason why you need my sword. I know the Imperatum. And I know they ain’t in the business of sitting their arses on comfortable chairs."
"Manpower restraints. It’s like fighting a war. Choosing which battles to fight is half the way to victory. Or defeat for that matter."
"Don’t bullshit me. I know my former brethren exist for a reason. In this world, the Vanir exist for the same damn reason. Not to mention the demon hunters as well. So don’t you dare bullshit me with whatever restraint your merry shiny city got."
"You think I’m making fun of you?"
"I think you’re giving me a dead horse to ride."
"Fine then. I'll tell you the truth. Promise me that you will keep this between me and yourself."
"Keeping secrets is part of the business so long the pay is good," with a wicked grin, Aeravor leans forward like a beast waiting to pounce, "Tell me the details and I’ll assure you no better pay is gonna have my sword."
"A mercenary’s word lies in his sword. I know the rules despite being a sheltered man of faith. Since you’re willing to pledge your word to my offer, I’ll tell you what you want to know."
"Do continue before I get bored," with those words, Aeravor refills his goblet of irak even before it is drained, "I don’t play a noble’s game of formalities. Too tedious and stupid."
"Every now and then, there are errant members of the Holy Quintet Church. Long story short, I need you to deal with one of them. A cult named The House of Flying Goat…"
Before Liegen can finish his words, Aeravor erupts into laughter. There is something about his show of amusement this time around, however. This is a laughter akin to that of a child. Before him is a fully grown adult, someone who can never travel back in time to retrieve things lost in his childhood years. Even though it is only for a momentary flash, the elderly clergyman sees a certain innocence in a brutal man. Perhaps the world is not as bad as one has said. Then again, the world is always full of false dawns and new deceptions.
"This is… this is too funny," guffaws Aeravor, "I’m no playwright, but House of the Flying Goat? What do people do there? Shafting goats and sheep?"
"Human sacrifices."
At Liegen’s answer, Aeravor ceases his laughter. He is no saint, for he has ended lives beyond count. Yet, the notion of dealing with such a cult doesn't fail to intrigue him. Even though it is only due to whims and for never any reason.
"Do go on, old man."
"You only have one job. Get in and get rid of Antis Epines. The first man wearing a goat’s head should be the correct prey for one like you. Give me his horn as proof of your deed done. Anything else?"
"Nothing. I don’t give a shit about what happened between this goat and the rest of the world. You gave me an offer, I make sure you get your money’s worth."
"To get your money, you need my help."
Aeravor recognises too well the speaker, he who is part of the Homm’Nua. Leaning nearby against the wall is an elf dressed in sleeveless doublet, a shirt, and pants fastened by a sash, his look complete with a pair of leather shoes. The sight of silvery blond hair slicked back and tied with strands hanging out at the front is a familiar sight for Aeravor, the intruder caressing his elongated ears while wearing a dishonest smile. While he wouldn't want to get involved with matters concerning Edeaux de Serpentwine, the ranger is forced to admit the Serpent of Histalonia is the only intelligence broker capable of rivalling the Men of Redmarch. At the same time, Deios Symon always charges too steep a fee. Simply put, Edeaux is definitely a more dangerous option since his goals are not always about money. At times, yes. All the time, no.
"When was the last time you offered your service, snake?"
"Recently. This I can assure you, my wolf."
"I’m not sorry to say that I don’t swing the other end. Just tell me why you’re here."
"To give you information."
"Definitely not for free."
Ignoring the Vánagandr, Edeaux takes a deep bow before Liegen.
"Truly humbled I am to know the City of Lights actually seeks my assistance."
"That’s because certain circumstances do call for unconventional measures," sighs Liegen, "Utnapishtim can’t afford to deploy its own warriors of faith to deal with things soldiers of fortune are more accustomed to."
"And you told me about your manpower shortage?" snaps Aeravor, his azure eyes flashing with anger towards Liegen.
"Always possible it is to have two reasons behind any event," interjects Edeaux with a cunning smirk, "You need to stop reacting like a beast. Such a trait can and will get you killed one fine day."
"Fine. You win. The two of you win," concedes Aeravor as he delivers a vulgar gesture at a man of knavery and his counterpart of opposite nature.
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"Attempting to assassinate a fellow clergyperson is never a good idea, Your Excellency. Sending me soup laced with arsenic? And letting a servant girl take the fall after you’re done with her? How deplorable."
Before his hated foe’s goading, Paelos stays his silence. As for Sharry, how dare she failed him? And to think she is now standing here, her eyes without fear. What did that harlot say to her? What did she do to her?
"Slanderous accusations and scurrilous attacks. State your business, grand harlot. I still have things to attend to."
Amused by a show of defiance, the Grand Damsel wonders whether the Legalis of Anglsax knows what he is in for. As part of the ruling elite, Paelos would always maintain an air of moral dignity. As a woman understanding men, Sarel Aphros has no reason to call Aeravor a liar.
"I heard rumours that you’ve been seen carousing with women like me. Slanderous and scurrilous without a doubt."
"This is nonsense. A load of…"
"Bullshit. A load of bullshit. Is that what you’re wanting to say?"
With a quaint smile and a finger tapping her chin, Sarel is clearly enjoying the game. She knows what that man is up to, for Sharry has divulged everything. This was a plot to get rid of someone too dangerous to handle. And there was a tale of horror involving horrible abuse. Lastly, there remains a promise pending fulfilment. After all, a seductress is also a woman, no matter what others may say.
"Blasphemy! To think you are so brazen…"
With a strong firm grip, the white-haired beauty forces a slightly overweight man back to his seat. Paelos is taken aback. How can a mere woman display such inhumane strength? Fear seizes a stranglehold over he who is more used to judging than to be judged, his adversary digging her slender fingers into his shoulders.
"Brazen? Me? Just because I uttered a vulgar word twice? Why thank you for your compliments," cackles Sarel, the sound sending chills into Paelos and Sharry alike, "Unlike Your Excellency, I am but a whore spared from the Seven Hells. You, on the other hand, are a man of the gods awaiting damnation."
With those words, Sarel let out a leer. Standing at the corner is Sharry a servant girl whose freedom was purchased in exchange for being a toy reserved for abominable cravings. Continually abused, she had been haunted by nightmares of rape and sodomy. Not anymore now. Sarel has promised her justice. And justice shall be served. As for Paelos, he starts writhing in agony. Yet, the more he struggles the more he is unable to escape. The chair is intended for comfort, a furniture fashioned from Teutonian oak with a cushioned seat made of Cinha silk and Slarvean wool. It is to be both the cell and executioner’s platform, a pyre for the doomed.
"There is a reason why I should be here despite my sins," whispers Sarel as she leans towards the quarry’s ear, her leer never changing, "It is by the decree of the Grand Chaplain himself. It has always been the will of His Holy Eminence, not mine. Let alone yours."
Her statement finished, Sarel forces her fingers into Paelos’ shoulder. The warmth of blood sends a tingling rush from her fingertips to her innermost being. The ecstasy is both physical and emotional, the power of Muspelheim immolating the Legalis of Anglsax. To any observer, Sarel may seem merciful. But she who wields the Circle of Fire knows better. For the flames were never converged from without, but rather erupting from within. Not even a scream escaped from the death convict’s lips, such the ruthless sentence proclaimed truly is.
"A goddess…" whispers Sharry, her face wearing fear and awe, "What…"
"I am merely your saviour, Sharry. Not a goddess."
"But that fire…"
"Merely both a gift and a curse."
"A gift… and a curse?"
Not knowing what her new mistress means, Sharry can only behold a corpse blackened and charred. Her tormentor’s face is now reduced to a skull, its jaws wide open and empty sockets replacing the eyes. If he had worn any look of terror, surely it was already fed to the fire. Both a saviour and a goddess, this is the only conclusion she can come up with.
"Remember, Sharry. For mortals to survive, they must become gods. For them to be gods, there must be mortals beneath them begging for grace and mercy."
The advice of Sarel Aphros shocks Sharry back to her senses. She knows how true the words are, though. For the Legalis of Anglsax used to be a god. Until he met a goddess.
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Glossary:
Irak: A distilled alcoholic beverage made from berries and raisins. Commonly consumed by both the Tamurian men and women as a show of collective unity and individual strength.
Beirat: A chilli pepper paste consisting of red and green peppers, herbs, and garlic. One of the two types of condiments used by the Tamurians, the other being a kind of mustard named mousadi.
Additional notes:
1. Homunculus is a legal term. We all know the real Full Metal Alchemist and the brown guy versus the white guy.
However, I can't spoil it for you.
2. Irak is inspired by the Middle Eastern liquor Arak. More specifically, the idea came from the Persian version.
3. Beirat isn't inspired by Beirut because that one is the capital of Lebanon. Rather, it is inspired by a combination of baharat and harissa.
Beirat: A chilli pepper paste consisting of red and green peppers, herbs, and garlic. One of the two types of condiments used by the Tamurians, the other being a kind of mustard named mousadi.
Additional notes:
1. Homunculus is a legal term. We all know the real Full Metal Alchemist and the brown guy versus the white guy.
However, I can't spoil it for you.
2. Irak is inspired by the Middle Eastern liquor Arak. More specifically, the idea came from the Persian version.
3. Beirat isn't inspired by Beirut because that one is the capital of Lebanon. Rather, it is inspired by a combination of baharat and harissa.
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Additional track
