Triumvirate

[Funka Genocide]

Here's a work in progress, about 20 something pages at the moment. It's your standard action adventure fantasy schtick, needs work of course, needs more. Just thought I'd post it.

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Chapter 1
Krausen

“I have nothing to say.”

Krausen stood immobile on a rickety platform, a noose artlessly draped around his neck. Tight enough to begin constricting his breath, so that his simple statement was complicated by an irregular rasp. He’d said everything worth saying all ready, and a bit more besides. He supposed that might be a strong contributor to his current situation.

“Then pay now for your sins.” Came the remorseless reply from a bare-chested man with a black hood over his face. Krausen thought blandly how terrible a death at the hands of such a cliché might be. Repulsed by this prospect, he at least found solace in the fact that he didn’t plan on dying just yet.

The executioner archetype gave a tug on a simple lever, which in turn released the catch on a simple trap door mechanism beneath the booted feet of the supposedly doomed Krausen. The last thing the condemned man though before the trap fell was how impersonal this death would be, leaving such room for moral ambiguity in the act. Death by ax, or garroting perhaps, now that was personal. You had to get your hands dirty for such work, but this, this was a travesty of epic proportions, an execution executed by the unfeeling hand of gravity.

As the thought subsided, Krausen inverted his entire body with a blurring speed, catching the rope between his feet and halting his literally break neck dive. His hands finally completed the work they’d begun minutes ago on their bindings and came free, a second later he’d loosed the noose from his chafed neck and let go of his foot grasp on the rope. Completing an acrobatic and graceful flip, he landed beneath the trap door amidst a pile of old bones and forgotten rogues. Yanking free the black velvet cloth that had blinded him for the better part of a day Krausen revealed a face that spoke of many such defiant stands in the face of death. Handsome yet aged before it’s time, with a simple scar beneath his left eye frankly declaring a livelihood not earned through timid exploits.

“I am afraid this show’s been ruined my good man, apologies and all that, but I do believe I’ve overstayed my welcome, now if you’ll just give me back my possessions…” Krausen paused as an arrow passed within worry worthy distance of his face, weaving slightly to the right with an expression of minor concern, he might have been watching a particularly intriguing drama or be engaged in an unimportant yet thrilling wager of Trump judging by his expression, certainly not dancing away from deadly projectiles. “Possessions I’ll be on my way without any further…” a second arrow sought Krausen’s face, but stopped just short as he deftly snatched it from the air, holding it loosely in his left hand and letting it drop to his thigh, “Further trouble to you fine people.” Krausen finished as a hale of steel tipped death was loosed against him. Krausen continued his lithe, easy dance of avoidance behind one of the thin pillars of timber that supported the gallows he’d so recently hung from. Arrowheads struck the soft wood repeatedly, causing the ancient supports to splinter and fray. Thin, straight shafts stuck from Krausen’s unlikely and logically inadequate refuge like a strange coniferous tree, thistles of death and dire threat lodging continually into the makeshift trunk instead of Krausen’s fleshy hide.

“Why is it always the hard way with civilized folk?” Krausen asked himself quietly as more arrows whizzed past his ear, his hands skillfully removing the arrowhead from the missile he’d caught, stripping off the fletching and leaving a simple cylinder of wood. “I suppose I’ll have to gather my own things then…” he sighed.

Darting from his haven with an unnerving quickness, Krausen bolted away from the central gallows area and into the crowd of awe struck and horrified spectators. The rabble moved aside almost apologetically as Krausen saluted stoically all the way through the fast dispersing crowd.

“Stop that criminal damn you!” bellowed a voice one would assume was used to being obeyed. The crowd merely stood dumbfounded as Krausen swam through it with the speed and grace of a professional tumbler, or a professional cutpurse.

Krausen ran beneath an awning that hung protectively over a fully stocked fruit stand. Small spheres of orange and red glistened temptingly in the full glory of midday. Grasping a hold of the support strut that held the awning aloft, Krausen vaulted upwards and landed easily on the soft canvas surface. He leapt upwards from there and caught ahold of the edge of a roof, pulling himself up effortlessly and standing straight up.

“My good marshal!” Krausen spoke loudly, but just loud enough to be heard, not wanting to appear rude in front of so many people. “I recommend a cessation of hostilities, you’ve far more to lose than gain in this endeavor, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep soundly knowing I’d wronged such an upstanding citizen of this fair town!”

The same voice that ordered Krausen’s subdual now responded with barely repressed fury. “Brigand! I won’t have such lawlessness tolerated in my lands! Come down from there at once and receive your just punishment!”

“Seeing as your justice seeks my demise, I see very little reason to submit to it’s dominion my good marshal!” Krausen replied earnestly, receiving a few nods of understanding from the crowd that had gathered for the sole purpose of witnessing his death.

“You mock this lands laws! You’re effrontery knows no bounds! I’ll see your neck stretched before this day is through brigand! Mark my words!” the marshal screamed as he ripped a long bow from an infantryman standing next to him, notching an arrow and letting it fly towards the offensive Krausen.

A hushed gasp spread through the crowd as Krausen stumbled over and began tumbling down the far side of the building. Apparently struck by the marshal’s vengeful arrow.

“Retrieve his body at once!” the marshal ordered, handing the longbow back to it’s owner with an audible sigh of relief. Several men armed with polearms and dressed in the coat of arms of the local lord began pushing their way through the throngs of patrons, having considerably more difficulty than the late brigand.

Behind the building an old man stumbled away drunkenly, grasping a useless shaft of arrow wood in his left hand.

The guardsmen shoved their way brusquely through the populace and came at last to the likely resting place of Krausen. A pile of discarded clothing hung pinned to a wall by a single arrow. The two infantrymen approached the effigy skeptically, until one reached out and removed the arrow from the dry wood wall it rested in. The clothes fell unceremoniously into the dirty alleyway as the infantryman inspected the impromptu clothing hanger. He noticed with a chuckle that a set of teeth marks were etched halfway down the shaft. “That sly son of a bitch.”
































Chapter 2
Einlen

Dank was a word that had only occurred to Einlen sporadically throughout his life, Seldom thought of and only occasionally said aloud to describe particularly unsavory places he’d been forced to visit during his duties.

Dank was all there was now, it summed up his existence for the past month, dark and dank became more than abstract descriptions of momentary unpleasantness, they became his private milieu. A slow hell where his body withered and his mind fought for purchase on anything that could be used as fodder for hope.

Einlen was half crouched on his knees, his arms chained helplessly to the molding stone wall behind him. The position was uncomfortable, but the most appealing he could muster with his body chained as it was. He spent most of his days in that strangely penitent pose, paying for a crime he’d never committed.

A scraggly beard was fast overtaking his usually well groomed chin. It created an illusion of age far out of reach with his actual tenure in life. His strong jaw drooped slightly in deference to exhaustion, his typically well maintained appearance losing any necessity.

Foot steps broke the drone of his own breath and heartbeat. Einlen would have almost been happy of another bout of torture to break the soul splitting monotony of his slow decay, almost. The footsteps were lighter than usual though, not the steel shod boots of his captors, but fast moving and agile feet that moved with a purpose beyond routine duties of debasement and masochism.

Einlen dragged his weary head up to look out the bars of his prison cell. The hurried, even footsteps grew louder, though never so loud as to be intrusive. Einlen was sure if he’d been otherwise preoccupied he’d have never noticed them. As they reached a loudness slightly above a whisper Einlen caught a glimpse of someone in tattered robes and a hood floating past, agile as a Fornbeast.

“Help…” Einlen managed to croak as the strange footsteps began to subside into the distance. He knew nothing of this oddity darting past, for all Einlen could surmise it might just be another prison worker hurrying to his station, this interloper could just as easily enter his cell and kill him as offer any sort of mercy, though as Einlen saw it death would be as close to mercy as he could hope for.

To Einlen’s surprise the robed figure paused and began walking back towards his cell. Einlen suspected a round of base taunting from an annoyed guard, perhaps followed by a liberal application of corporal punishment. What occurred next struck him as odd, to say the least.

“Do you require assistance my good man?” The robed figure inquired, a tone of sincere concern apparent in the question.

[Funka Genocide]

“I am Einlen SurDovan, deposed general of High Crown’s Fourteenth legion, wrongly imprisoned by Dorvath, Lord of Elsenwer…” Einlen blurted fervently, spitting onto the decrepit floor in disgust as he mouthed the name of a hated foe, the taste of the syllables causing a visible revulsion to overtake him. “I seek the means to avenge myself and my fallen brother, I seek retribution!” he roared, a strength he’d almost forgotten in his incarceration overtaking him as he made known his intent for vengeance.

“Oh dear, I would ask you, politely mind you, to keep your voice down a tad, you see I am on a bit of, what one might call, a subterfuge at the moment.” The interloper cautioned, his voice remaining cordial and unrushed even as he warned the enraged Einlen. “I could perhaps do something about your terrible situation, but I must ask, and purely out of necessity mind you, are you any good with a sword?”

Einlen’s face lit up at the mention of weaponry, an inner glow seeming to overtake his shabby surroundings, his vicious spirit shining through the sad creature he’d become in his imprisonment. “I am the best you’ll ever meet sir.” He said with no hint of boast in his voice, merely a seething fury and determination made all the more frightening by his ghoul-like appearance.

Einlen stared intently forward now, a dire cunning replacing the pathetic sorrow of moments ago. The interloper met his firey gaze with one of amusement, and a bit of mischief. “I do believe I should believe you, Einlen.” The interloper spoke honestly.

“Believe me now or later my friend, if it’s bladecraft you seek, you shall find no greater purveyor in High Crown’s seven lands.” Einlen replied.

The interloper did not reply to this immediately, he merely approached the locked bars of Einlen cell and produced a small piece of wood from a fold in his robe. Inserting what appeared to be a splinter into the mechanism and working it around expertly, Einlen was surprised to here the telltale click of the cell unlocking.

“I too am unfortunately familiar with the failings of law in this land.” Einlen’s liberator spoke conversationally. “perhaps when we’ve found suitable environs to talk at length we should discuss potential legal reforms?”

“What? Yes, fine, thank you.” Einlen managed, his desire to be free battling against the strangeness of this man who even now worked at unlocking his manacles. Here was a man who spoke as if in High Court while busy at freeing one of the realms most notorious criminals.

A few quick movements from the deft fingers of his liberator and Einlen was no longer chained to a dungeon wall. He collapsed momentarily into a sitting position, rubbing gingerly at his bruised wrists and trying to get feeling back into his legs. His newfound companion helped Einlen to his feet carefully, supporting the large and strongly built man against his own frame.

“I do sincerely hope we both survive the next few minutes, in case things are otherwise I’ll take this opportunity to introduce myself properly. I am Krausen of Fath, and I am at your service general.” Krausen spoke cordially.

“I thank you with all my heart Krausen of Fath.” Einlen spoke huskily as his body reaclimated to supporting it’s own weight. ‘I shall see to it that we both make it from here still breathing, I simply need a blade to ensure our safety.” The beleaguered man spoke, his hefty weight all ready beginning to lift from Krausen’s relatively narrow shoulders.

Krausen held a thin stick of wood in his hand, appearing to consider it for a moment with the utmost scrutiny, then thinking better of it he placed the object back into the folds of his oversized robe. “Well then let us find you a blade my good general, as I fear stronger persuasion than I can afford may be necessary.”

Einlen nodded and the two left his home of late as quietly as they could, Krausen’s footsteps making only slight vibrations as they floated across the uneven dungeon surface, Einlen’s feet making slow shuffling noises as his legs balked at the sudden effort required of them.

“Perhaps it is best I tell you now, we won’t be leaving the grounds immediately, you see I must retrieve a few of my belongings from this establishment, freeing you, though motivated purely by my moral convictions of course, was something of an addendum to my initial plan. I hope you understand my reasoning general Einlen and don’t mind offering a bit of assistance if necessary.” Krausen spoke with the sureness of a professional diplomat.

“Freedom is never cheap my friend, and in all honesty I wouldn’t mind an opportunity to rid this place of a few smears of humanity.” Einlen replied dangerously, his gate becoming surer and stronger as he spoke, his weight then entirely off Krausen’s shoulders.

“That’s the spirit general!” Krausen said impishly, one almost expected a childish giggle to accompany his statement, but looking at him only revealed a face inured to the battle that loomed imminent over the moment.

The two skulked through the dim pathways of the dungeon, passing by a few empty cells and devices of interrogation. In some cells men lamented their fates from beyond the abyss of madness, strange gibbering and howls broke the dripping silence at discordant intervals. From terrible black oubliettes came foul smells of assuredly unsavory origins. The pair worked their way ever onward through the labyrinth of horrors until they came to a sturdy iron studded door built into an implacable stone wall.

“I believe my belongings can be found within.” Krausen said, gesturing towards the imposing portal. “I don’t suppose..” he said, trailing off as he attempted to open the door, finding the handle slid easily and the door opened without much effort. “Ah, what luck! It wasn’t locked.”

Behind the opening were shelves of rotting wood and a low table, strewn about were various bits of gear seemingly gathered from the inmates held within the dungeon. Here a set of wooden spoons, there a thinning rawhide bag. Tossed onto the table was an ornately embossed red velvet sack, it’s contents spilling out haphazardly, a few of the baubles lit eerily by a shaft of sunlight that snuck in through a small slit near the ceiling. Krausen quickly threw the few bits and pieces on the table into the crimson bag and cinched it with a golden colored chord. Slinging the bag over his shoulder he made to leave.

Einlen walked towards the back of the evidence locker and grabbed a long scabbard from it’s place on a shelf. It was made of roughly cured leather and tied with rawhide lanyards, a simple hilt sticking out of one end. Einlen’s eyes lit with the same fire they’d held when freedom had first been offered as he drew the blade housed within. It shone dull silver in the single shaft of light, it’s surface perhaps not expertly crafted, but certainly serviceable, and sharp enough for Einlen’s immediate purposes.

“I see you’ve found your blade general, I think we should make haste now, for as eager as I am to see a display of your prowess, I suppose discretion to be the better half of valor.” Krausen said encouragingly. Einlen merely nodded his ascent and sheathed the blade, carrying it seriously in his left hand in case a quick draw was needed by his right.

The two now scurried quickly back the way they’d come, passing all the same dire reminders of the places purpose as before. Einlen felt a chill run down his spine as he passed his old cell, wondering again what sort of fate had brought him to this point in time. He had not time to contemplate the vagaries of destiny however, as the exit to his dark, dank world came in view and his freedom became a thing of reality instead of dream.

The two were running now, driven by a desperate need to escape that living mausoleum. Ahead was the brilliant light of day, behind the mephistolic stench of madness and death. Ahead was a chance at redemption and revenge, behind was a narrowly avoided fate of torture and insanity, Ahead were armed men, behind was nothing of any further consequence.

“Stop that man! Kill him where he stands!” came a booming command through the narrow passageway that led up from the dungeon. “Wait, who? Another?! Kill them both!”

Half a dozen men ran headlong into the escaping duo, swords drawn and bloodlust in their eyes.

Einlen never broke stride, his only change a smirk that grew absent of his will from the folds of his mouth. Krausen halted abruptly and began rummaging through his newly regained sack.

The fastest amongst the guardsmen reached the tip of Einlen’s sword before the others could react, Einlen having driven it through the stunned man’s chest without slowing.

Behind Einlen, Krausen found the object he’d been searching for amongst his recently estranged possessions. A small glint of steel reflected in the light from the entrance, and Krausen closed quickly with the developing melee.

A slice aimed at beheading Einlen sailed clear as Einlen ducked under the deadly blow, driving his newly acquired swords tip through his attackers lower jaw and straight through the top of his skull. Another guardsmen shrewdly attempted to take advantage of Einlen’s position, his blade stuck as it was, and leveled a killing blow downwards towards Einlen’s exposed head.

A shining blur, a spray of blood, these were the only indications that something had occurred, soon after the shrewd guardsman fell to the floor, or more precisely, his upper body fell to the floor while his legs stood defiantly a few more seconds. Einlen had dislodged his sword and cleaved the man in two with one maneuver.

The remaining three combatants paused for a moment, almost as if they were admiring such perfection in their craft, that moment was far too long to go unexploited however, and Krausen flew through them like a scythe through ripe wheat. Two halves of his peculiar arrow flew straight as truth into the eye sockets of the trailing guards, as they grasped their wounded faces in anguish the third found a dagger placed neatly into his vertebrae, his body collapsed like a child’s rag-toy as Krausen pulled his still neatly glimmering blade free. Einlen decapitated the remaining two guards with one sweep of his blade, too fast for the eye to see. Their pain ceased as their heads rolled lifelessly to the ground.

“My good marshal, I had hoped you had more sense than this.” Krausen spoke disappointedly.

Chapter 3
Dangerous Choice

The marshal stared in disbelief at the pile of corpses that had recently been his retinue. His own blade held firmly but lowered as the scene cemented itself in his memory. “They’re all… dead.” He muttered to himself.

“Yes marshal, dead as the men you’ve hung for petty crimes, dead as their children, starved to death for want of an income, any income, even one that disagrees with your lofty ideals, and I am afraid they shall stay that way barring some form of foul sorcery that I think it best not to speak of.” Krausen spoke, seeming to find a sick glee in his speech.

Einlen seemed to twitch at Krausen’s words, as if he meant to argue the point and thought better of it. These men had been soldiers, or close enough to soldiers that Einlen could still feel a sort of kinship with them. They died like soldiers however, and such was all a soldier could truly ask for and hope to receive.

“Marshal, you have no means to resist, you’ve seen what we can do, retreat and you shall live. I give my word.” Einlen said at last, earning a short burst of laughter from Krausen. “I do not say this in Jest, I may be a criminal by happenstance, but I shall not willingly become a monster.”

Krausen stopped laughing.

“You know I will not rest until I see you both dead, by my sword or the noose.” The marshal asked almost pleadingly, a quizzical expression on his face.

“I understand, and should you find your vengeance I assure you it will be hard earned. Now leave.” Einlen replied.

The marshal looked once more at his men, a grimace of pure hatred crawling across his face as he sheathed his sword and marched away.

“Judging by your decision, I assume you’ve got quite a list of enemies trailing you around general.” Krausen said moments later, an air of petulance in his voice.

“Not for the time being, they all think I’m dead. Now I think we should be going before a militia of some sort is raised, or the castle guard is roused.” Einlen said.

“Right you are general!” Krausen replied, regaining his composure and managing to sound cheerful again, a sound quite absurd spattered in blood and surrounded by dead as they were. “We’ll need to procure some manner of conveyance, horses I believe would be the best choice, as anything more ostentatious is bound to draw unwanted attention. Fugitives as we are it is our lot to forego the simple pleasures of a sky chariot or any such mystically assisted means of travel.”

“Procure, yes. Let’s just hurry this business along then.” Einlen answered, more than a hint of distaste in his voice. The general was obviously not accustomed to any manner of skulking or thievery.

Unperturbed, Krausen began to walk towards the dungeon’s exit. The sound of hoof’s prancing in the dusty road above was evident. “I don’t suppose these fellows will be needing a horse any time soon.” He chuckled.

Einlen merely made his way from the dungeon entrance and quickly mounted one of the slain guardsmen’s horses, his face a mask of barely contained anger, at what could only be guessed at. He was a man with much to contemplate, and more to accomplish.

Krausen vaulted into the saddle of a waiting horse as well, kicking it’s sides and taking off at a gallop towards the limits of the town. Einlen followed seconds later, his muscles remembering the familiar jolts and bumps or horseback from many years of long rides.

The two sped off in silence as the town descended beneath the horizon, Krausen leading his wayward companion on, Einlen thinking always of the men he had to kill before he could rest easy.

The list was unsurprisingly long.

[Funka Genocide]

Chapter 4
Halse

A bare-chested man with a two days’ growth of beard sat sprawling atop a rickety wooden chair in the darkest corner of a dimly lit inn. The name of the inn was written in chalk above the entrance, the name of the man was carved in blood and broken bones into the memories of three men that lay in various states of agony across the dirty floor.

The other patrons paid no heed to the spectacle of a drink infused brawl, it was common enough occurrence for tempers to flare and boasts to turn sour, at least a weekly occurrence, and in these hot months most likely nightly. The only thing that raised an eyebrow or two was the size disparity between the victor and defeated. The bare-chested man was lean, not quite scrawny but not exactly imposing, even with his scraggly beard it was obvious he’d not yet seen 25 winters, perhaps barely 20. The three men who had until recently been his gambling partners were obviously hard cases, bulky and mean from years of being ugly and underpaid. He’d bested them all masterfully, not so much as a scratch suffered even as he reeled from too much drink. It would have been a cause for inquiry or alarm in some of the better establishments of Graud, but this certainly wasn’t’ one of the better establishments, and the patrons knew that questions were for people who didn’t mind painful answers.

And so the young man sat lazily as his opponents gathered themselves from the floor and left as best they could. A few curses were leveled at him as the group exited, but nothing that would stick, and he would know.

“bar wench!” the drunken man yelled as he raised his empty cup. “My spirits are a bit low…”

“Aye Mr. Tradewind, be right with ya” came the hurried reply of an overworked girl running past with several steins of potent ale grasped mercilessly in her hands.

The young man tipped his cup back heedless of it’s still empty nature and looked sorely depressed as it once again refused to produce a beverage. “I shall have to serve myself I s’pose.” He mumbled. He then produced a small packet of powdery substance from a pocket in his pants and proceeded to pour it hastily into the bottom of his cup. He spit once into this dusty concoction, turning it a muddy sort of brown. He set the cup down and waved his hand over it reverently, his eyes becoming focused as he chanted a short verse of seemingly nonsense syllables.

“Inum Dor Fusil” he whispered as a light began to shine from the muddy container. The light reflected in his dark eyes, casting a pall of madness to them. The light grew ever brighter as, miraculously, the cup began to fill itself with an amber colored brew. As it nearly topped itself off a sharp slap on the back roused him from his mystic meditation. The light grew blinding bright for a moment as the drunken Tradewind fumbled backwards out of his seat and onto the floor. A sharp crack like an exploding pine nut was followed by a veritable tidal wave of ale that sloshed outward from the cracked mug onto the now unseated magician.

“I say good man, I do remember you being able to hold your drink a bit better than this.” Came a biting sarcasm from the back-slapper, a gleam of mischief surfacing in his cold eyes.

“Agh, Krausen you bastard!” came the drunkards retort as he attempted to right himself from his prone position, losing any semblance of dignity in his ale soaked pants. “I’ve been pissing away my life here for a month, and now you show up here looking just as empty handed as when you left, you no account scoundrel!” he fumed.

Krausen looked hurt, genuinely injured by Tradewind’s accusations. “Empty handed? Why, I thought you knew me better Halse, I never leave anywhere empty handed.” Krause replied slyly, offering his drenched comrade a helping hand finally.

“So what have you found then?” Halse asked as he grasped his old friends hand and stood shakily on legs that managed to be out to sea while the man remained in port.

“He’s a rather nice fellow actually, bit on the stoic side but he’s good in a pinch.” Krausen replied.

“He’s?” Halse’s face was a convergence of worry and hope.

“Yes, he’s waiting outside looking quite surly and imposing, one ousted general Einlen.” Krausen answered.

“By Aud, you’ve found our third haven’t you?” Halse asked desperately, the news almost cutting through his haze of alcohol.

“Stumbled across more precisely, but the effect is the same my dear magician.”















Chapter 5
Table for Three

Hush was not a state that came easy to the Forlorn Maiden Inn, perhaps grudgingly at the first light of dawn as even the most earnest of drinkers had to face the reality of a new day, but as Luna rose to take her place at the zenith of the night sky one would find it difficult to subdue the Inn with a standing army.

Einlen managed just that with a sweeping glance, albeit only fleetingly. His face was a stone idol dedicated to the idea of intimidation. His gaze was two shades away from murderous as he scanned the dim room for anything that could signal threat, an old face or a particularly unsavory new one. He approached the ale soaked table where his erstwhile traveling companion and a new face sat slapping knees and backs like old university chums.

He stood before a young man, bereft of a shirt and soaked to his scrawny bones in drink, judging by his mannerisms perhaps it had soaked through his bones as well.

“May I introduce General Einlen.” Krausen interjected before Einlen’s steel set lips could part, his unease becoming even greater at the mention of his old title.

“Please Krausen, I’d rather dispense with that title. My name is Einlen sir, and what might yours be?” Einlen managed to say through his blanket of wary unease.

“Oh dear, I must apologize, I let that slip didn’t I?” Krausen lied masterfully. “I shall keep the necessity for discretion foremost in my mind from henceforth, but trust in your present company to hold your secrets.”

“Of course!” Halse blurted, playing up the part of drunken fool with aplomb. “Likewise for me general! Why, I prob’ly won’t remember yer face by the morrow!” he laughed. “Name’s Halse, Halse Tradewind, I do a little of this and a little of that, y’know?”

“Delighted.” Einlen muttered as he took the last remaining seat at the slowly drying table. “I suppose a drink is in order then, help calm the nerves…” Einlen said gloomily, seemingly resigned to his present company of less than sterling companions.

“Ah! Too right general!” Halse shouted, his oath of secrecy long forgotten in the intervening seconds since he’d made it. “Where’s that scrawny bar wench! Woman! My good man here’s a general! You’d best make with the ale ‘fore he finds displeasure in your services! H’kup”

The beleaguered and growingly frustrated barmaid turned with daggers in her eyes to the raucous Halse, her gaze falling just as threateningly upon his new friends. “I don’t care if he’s vassal of Grentorborn you foolish trickster! You’ll hold your tongue better than your drink if you don’t want a slap!”

Einlen buried his face in his hands, trying desperately to avoid the damning gaze of the enraged woman looming over the group. Krausen merely stared idly into the aether, hoping to be overlooked in the likely carnage that was to follow.

“A slap you say! And from whence might this slap originate? Last I remember of your slapping it was against the thighs in a darhrak!” Halse began to insinuate before a large clay plate shattered itself across his forehead and sent the young mage reeling onto the floor once more.

“Shut yer stink hole filth!” came a voice after the plate.

Einlen tried desperately to bury his face deeper into his hands, to no avail. Krausen began whistling a somber tune to himself as his gaze drifted farther a field.

“And you two scum best hold yer tongues or I’ll toss ya out on yer arses!” the barmaid growled from behind a large wooden table top as she poured several glasses from a well worn keg.

“Aye maam.” The general managed, mortified.

“But of course my good lady, why I hardly know the young fop you’ve so rightfully deposited on his backside, an old acquaintance of the family fallen on hard times I assure you, I visit him merely out of charity.” Krausen said smoothly.

“Make mine a pint!” came a groggy voice from the floor.

The barmaid hastily deposited three foaming mugs onto the stained table with a glare of pure venom, Einlen smiled weakly and offered up a “thank you ever so much.” While Krausen flashed a winning smile and a wink. Neither gesture seemed to make much of an impact on the young woman, though they were obviously enough to avoid another flatware assault.

Halse righted himself in his chair with startling quickness born from many hard hours of practice. “A toast! A toast to the good general! May we find all we seek, and seek only that which may be found!”

“I’ll drink to that!” crooned Krausen, raising his glass energetically.

“I’ll drink to anything right about now.” Einlen mumbled, hefting his glass as if all the world was floating within it.





Chapter 6
Marinated Marauder

“Sho I shaid, hick… I saidsh that I’d sooner lie dead beneath the Krine’s before going along wit, wit,” Einlen stammered drunkenly before belching loudly, the barmaid who’d been listening making a sour face and turning away. “I’m shorry madam, truly sorry, I seem to have losht my manners, a gentleman should always, alwaysh maintain control of hish faculties…”

“I fear you’ve drunk yourself useless, General.” She purred playfully, sarcasm mixing with a flirtatious overtone. “I must say your tales do intrigue me though, perhaps another night you could regale me further, in more comfortable surroundings.”

“Oh, aye maam, I’ve, I’ve a villa, hick, in the Westiles…” Einlen sputtered drunkenly, seemingly oblivious to the innuendo.

“I’m sure you do general.” The barmaid laughed lightly before standing up from her seat upon Einlen’s lap and heading back behind the bar.

Halse snored loudly from beneath the table, curled in a little ball and mumbling now and again to himself about various pastries and jams.

Krausen peered forlornly at the bottom of his ale cup, vaguely recalling an announcement of last call several minutes ago, as the dawn broke like a crystal vase over his head, painful and expensive. “I’d no clue you’er such a playboy my good general.” Krausen intoned in a strange accent, made all the more pronounced by his drunken drawl.

“Playboy?” Einlen questioned earnestly, before his addled brain could put the pieces together. He smiled stupidly as he realized his situation. “Oh, ha. Well I shuppose I am not wishout my charmsh…” Einlen said before belching once more. “Schuse me.”

“I think it best you’re without a purrsh general, otherwise I’d fear she’d charm more than your trousers off.” Krausen spoke before laughing loudly and slapping the table.

Halse awoke from his fitful dreams of breakfast with a start at the loud banging on the table. His bewildered young eyes searched around for the source of his annoyance, rested calmly on Krausen before he mumbled a string of incomprehensible syllables and curled into a ball once more.

Krausen’s laughing ended abruptly, though his face still looked as if sound should come from it. He continued to pound the table madly, producing nothing more than a silent vibration, the look of almost tortured amusement on his face silent as a graveyard.

“Heh, finally, a good use for shorcery.” Einlen chuckled before standing warily from his seat.

Krausen had stopped laughing and now gestured violently, his face growing red in frustrated silence.

“I shall return, I must obey natures first order” Einlen said, bowing in a sad parody of regal propriety, almost stumbling over but catching himself on the table.

Einlen made his way through the slowly brightening Inn towards a latrine in an adjacent room. He undid the laces at the front of his trousers, simply tailored as they were and began the process of relieving his body of the toxins he’d imbided. Reaching absently behind himself to scratch an itch that presented itself on his rear, his hand met with something cold and metallic. A gruff voice soon whispered in his ear as the cold metal point of a dagger graced his throat gently.

“Make no sound, or your blood spills with your piss.” The unknown assailant spoke menacingly.

Einlen was too drunk to muster concern, only able to worry about the disposition of his pieces. “Aye, might I have your leave to put myself away however?” Einlen asked with an honest concern.

“Fool! This is no game!” the voice threatened, the blade biting lightly into the flesh of Einlen’s neck, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

Einlen fidgeted uncomfortably, the pinprick of pain starting to sober him up. “I see your point, and well, you’ve seen mine so there’s not much left to discuss…” Einlen said dumbly.

The unidentified assassin seemed confused by this remark momentarily, his confusion quickly transitioned into alarm however as he found himself flipping into the air, Einlen having grasped his arm and flipped him fully overhead in one deft maneuver. The would be murderer crashed loudly into the latrine basin head first, sloshing pitifully amidst the refuse.

Einlen saw the face of his washroom companion and had no idea who it could be. The phenomenon of random people trying to kill him wasn’t exactly alien to him however, and he quickly finished his piss, the unfortunate marauder taking the place of the latrine drain for the duration. Einlen did his trousers back up and left the crumpled form of the mysterious man to marinate.

Leaving the washroom Einlen could see three figures making their way surreptitiously towards the table where Krausen sat wrestling with a silence spell, and Halse rested absurdly on the floor.

“Ambush!” Einlen yelled as the three men noticed the failure of their comrade in the form of one unscathed general emerging from the latrine.

Krausen’s face changed immediately, from childish frustration to cold and calculating. He tilted his own chair backwards with a fierce jerk just as a heavy blade cut deeply into the wood of the table before him. He went sliding across the floor, through the legs of an assailant. He flipped backwards nimbly, righting himself and producing a slim dagger from a hidden fold in his shirt. As the assassin tried to wrest his blade from the deep gouge in the table Krausen grabbed him from behind and pressed the cold steel of the blade against his neck, Krausen’s face still bewildered with drink and exhaustion, reacting entirely from instinct.

Einlen had drawn his sword from his belt slung scabbard and began circling slowly towards the remaining two ambushers, their faces covered in black scarves their eyes following the drunk men’s movements intently.

The barmaid screamed aloud as she entered from the kitchen through two hinged doors. She rushed back into the steamy confines she’d emerged from, yelling all the while.

Halse opened one eye and saw the source of his unwanted wake up call this time wasn’t merely an uncouth joke from Krausen. Neither of the remaining two men in black scarves noticed him beneath the table, pulling a small leather cylinder from a pocket in his pants.

“Drop your weapons!” Einlen roared, Krausen still unable to vocalize anything due to Halse’s mischief. The duo of assassins didn’t seem to heed Einlen’s words at all, seemingly unconcerned with their companions life. Einlen’s vision still blurred from his debauchery, he had trouble focusing on the two shadowy figures.

The assassins’ circled around, one of them obscuring line of sight to the other. Einlen barely noticed the obfuscation tactic as the rear assassin produced a small hand held device from his black robes. It was too late to react, Einlen could only yell at Krausen to duck as a hand crossbow was leveled at his head.

Just as the trigger was pulled, Halse shouted “Etfiernus!”

The room was bathed in crimson light, as if blood had been poured over the rising sun, giving the entire Inn a ghastly, surreal appearance as a blazing inferno of molten rock engulfed the two murderers in black. They had no time to even scream as the flesh instantaneously melted from their bones, moments later the bones themselves were reduced to cinders of forgotten scoundrels. The entire display lasted only a handful of seconds, it ended abruptly with a brilliant flash of white light and a distinct sulfuric odor. A pile of black, fine ash was all that stood as testament to the two black robed men.

Einlen stared in disbelief at the black spot several feet from where he stood, still wobbly with the drink.

Krausen coughed loudly as he let go the corpse of the man he’d held at knifepoint, a small bolt jutting conspicuously from the corpses face. “Sorry about that my friends, I’d have liked to have left at least one alive for, hick, queshtoning.” He spoke sadly, his accent still pronounced.

Einlen managed to drag his gaze from the black grease spot and focus on Krausen. “Don’t worry, there’s another still breathing in the latrine, a bit on the unclean side however…”

[Funka Genocide]

Chapter 7
A Brief Interrogation

“You look awful friend, and I’m afraid the stench does little to ameliorate that fact.” Krausen said coolly to the recently roused assassin now tied securely to a wooden chair in the Forlorn Maiden’s dusty pantry. The captive only glared with hateful eyes as Krausen circled almost playfully around him.

The three had took turns standing a watch over their prisoner for the past four hours or so as they edged their way towards sobriety. Halse had advocated using the defeated man as a punching dummy to work off the booze, but Einlen had won out in the end, suggesting they approach the subject with clearer heads. The midday sun was slowly beginning it’s return to darkness as all three men entered the pantry, scowls of anger and pain plastered on their faces from both a failed assassination and a successful night of drinking.

“I guess it’s safe to assume he’s no means of killing himself then, I’m sure if he could have ended it by now he most certainly would have, having to spend an hour alone with Halse would have seen to that.” Krausen commented.

“Oh ha ha, quite humorous. Have you told the one about the centaur who married a goat yet?” Halse retorted.

“Please, now is not the time to go into your family history.” Krausen’s voice was tinged with a pathetic meekness born from his monumental head pain.

Bound and gagged as he was, the assassin managed a muffled laughter. He shook quietly in his seat as the three men stared at him intently.

Einlen pressed his face within inches of the stinking man’s nose, “I’m glad you find amusement in this scum, it’s a very rare few men who can smile at death so earnestly.” He said menacingly.

The assassin ceased his laughter and resumed his cold stare.

“I’ll bet you’re dead set on taking your secrets to your grave, why I’ll wager a pleasure street whore’s weekly wages that you’d sooner choke on your own entrails than divulge your employers name and whereabouts, I suppose even asking would be a monumental waste of time.” Krausen began evilly, his voice holding a startling darkness in it’s rich tones, creeping closer to the heart of the murderer’s fear. “And since’ you’re so dead set on maintaining your secrecy, I see no need to remove that gag of yours, no need to even try for an answer, instead…”

Krausen trailed off meaningfully as he turned his back to the captive assassin, Halse stepping forward eagerly with menace in his grin. “Instead we’re going to have a bit of fun.” The mage said, a madness most unsavory becoming apparent as he rubbed his hands together expectantly. The assassin’s eyes widened in terror as the wizard began his incantations.



Chapter 8
Work

Krausen and Einlen left Halse to his work, the door to the pantry remained closed for almost two hours as muffled cries tried in vain to escape it.

Chapter 9
Oh

“You haven’t… turned him into something… unnatural, have you?” Einlen questioned as the weary mage emerged finally from the guarded pantry.

“Unnatural? Oh, no, of course not. Transmogrification really isn’t my thing, I just made a few modifications to his aura, it’s all very complicated and technical really, involves a lot of pulling and pushing of soul lines and such, all very boring and somewhat arduous to be honest, No idea why I took this job in the first place, no money in it, always carrying around foul smelling spell ingredients...”, Halse paused briefly to put a thinly rolled cigarette to his lips, lighting it with a flick of his fingers. “Do you know how hard it is to get engroot out of cloth? Bloody devil’s own hardship I say, and you only get the strange women pining for you, the one’s that shave odd patterns into their’ body hair and worship imaginary demons in their boudoirs and such…” Halse rambled on, his tongue all the more loquacious having been freed of it’s burden of booze.

Einlen nodded repeatedly, his expression becoming progressively bewildered. Before another sentence could arise he interjected abruptly, “right, so what was all the shouting and screaming about then?”

“Oh that? Ah, well I spent the better part of an hour standing on his chest you see, honestly it’s the most comfortable position to manipulate a person’s energy patterns from, gives you the widest field of view.” Halse replied easily.

“Oh… so he’s well then?” Einlen managed to ask, completely lost.

“Well? Heavens no general! He’s rigged to blow if anyone other than myself so much as caresses his cheek! Ha! I punched him a few times too, purely out of frustration. I’d say he’s about as far away from well as one could conceivably get without the use of several depraved river trolls.” Halse answered again, lightheartedly.

“Oh.” Was all the general could manage.
Chapter 10

The evening came cool and swift to the streets of Graud, The Forlorn Maiden Inn standing conspicuously silent as it’s doors remained barred against customers. A few musty shadows approached the building to find it closed only to wander off in search of another watering hole. This minor deviation from routine would go unnoticed for the most part by the general populace, but most assuredly noticed by the people that mattered.

Krausen and Halse sat at the low bar opposite a very concerned looking woman, the same barmaid as the previous night, who coincidentally happened to be the establishment’s proprietor. Einlen glanced quickly from a narrow window into the courtyard out the front of the building. The group had spent almost the entire day huddled in planning and recuperation, the Inn hadn’t opened for business once.

“You owe me for this you blasted Fathinger.” The barmaid said gloomily.

“I trust the obscene amounts of gold we’ve invested in this business will have to tide you over for a little while. Now I must ask that you make your way somewhere safe, I can’t guarantee anything once the messy business starts.” Krausen seemed mildly concerned.

“Right, just don’t drink me out of business, and if you set this place on fire I’ll murder you in your sleep!” she roared, stomping out the door in a huff, leaving the Inn devoid of all life save the three embittered warriors.

As the door unbolted, opened and subsequently slammed shut, Halse turned to Krausen. “How’d you manage to get the place for the night?”

“Do you remember that job we pulled in Gurbz six months ago?” Krausen asked.

“Of course, quite a hall, the “nest egg” I believe you called it” Halse answered. “What of it?”

“Yes, well the nest egg’s just been cooked.” Krausen said flatly.

The color drained from Halse’s face immediately, giving his slim feature the unnerving quality of a cadaver. “I shall be needing a drink now.”

“No, now is not the time for drink, I am afraid that despite my gratitude I will be needing some answers Krausen, sober answers.” Einlen interrupted, provoking a pouty-lipped face from Halse, who gently lowered his prospective bottle.

“I suppose you are right.” Krausen admitted bitterly. “Well then, what would you know?”

“Firstly, I am indebted to you insomuch as I owe you my current state of freedom. I offer my protection from any harm your charitable act may have caused you, yet something tells me the men who tried to kill us this morning were not sent by the marshal of the Aern town guard, nor the satrap of Aern, nor anyone I would consider a personal enemy. Had I to take a guess at their origins, I would suspect that they lie firmly in your past, not mine.” Einlen stated flatly.

Halse twitched noticeably at this accusation, Krausen’s face merely darkened momentarily.

“You are correct General Einlen, those assassins came for me, or perhaps Halse, most likely both of us. You see, we’re in a bit of a predicament.” Krausen explained.

“Bloody balls in a vice more accurately.” Halse muttered.

“Correct, you see we find ourselves embroiled in a game of sorts, very high stakes to be sure, a game in which there are more players than prizes, do you catch my meaning general?” Krausen asked.

“I catch a piece of it, how about you toss the rest of it?” Einlen replied.

“The Aud damned celestial mirror Krausen, not as if we’ve got a chance without him anyways!” Halse yelled, exasperated by Krausen’s reluctance.

“Fine!” Krausen snapped, losing his typically exemplary composure. “Fine, yes, I guess we’ve no other choice but to trust you in any case. You see, this whole mess started two years ago, in the month of Frostborn, seventeenth day I believe.” Krausen began.

“It was an Entsday” Halse added as Krausen began his tale.

















Chapter 11

The path grew thick, as if unused for months as Frost grew ascendant over the land. It had been two weeks since the death of Fallow and the birth of Frost, and the chill that made it’s way South with reluctance had yet to take a full hold. A cool breeze was all that could be felt, the playful vanguard of a mild season of snow and ice.

Through this overgrown path traveled two men, dressed as peasants and heading North through these hidden paths from Sulder. One was Krausen of Fath, a man adept at getting things people didn’t want him to have, the other was Halse Tradewind, rogue scion of an unimpressive house and purveyor in sorcery for a price.

They had traveled since morning that day, making good distance as they traveled light and were not weighed down by infirmities or goods. They were not weighed down by much of anything in fact, and their simple clothing was more a necessity and less a disguise than they would have readily admitted. Despite hard times however, the two were in good spirits, for a new road meant new places, and new money.

The sun was growing tired earlier these days however, and a clearing a few miles down the road presented a very inviting campsite to the road weary travelers.

“How much of that jerky have we left?” Krausen asked as the clearing grew closer with their brisk pace.

“Jerky?” Halse replied indistinctly, his mouth stuffed full of the very same substance he appeared mystified about.

Krausen gave Halse a glance of pure hatred before tossing him the bow and quiver he’d been carrying on his back. “Fine, dinner is yours to fetch this evening then.”

Halse continued to chew sadly as he fumbled with the unfamiliar weapons.

“Yeah, I hope it was worth it.” Krausen taunted.

As the clearing grew closer Krausen made a startling discovery. Near the unkempt road in thick underbrush was an upturned old wagon, one wheel smashed to cinders and the other propping it up haphazardly at an odd angle. Deep green and thorny vines crept along it’s side as if to hide such a shameful sight from prying eyes, trying to afford a sense of dignity to the fallen machine. Where once fine linen curtains had graced it’s window now only cobwebs and tattered linen remains could be found. A few shards of glass were littered around as well. The whole scene had the eerie quality of a tragedy frozen in time, left to decay without human interaction for months.

“I wonder what we have here.” Mused Krausen aloud.

“Highwaymen perhaps, even along these old roads you still here tales, or maybe just a spot of terrible luck?” Halse answered.

“Maybe, let’s investigate.” Krausen said as he broke into a jog, Halse following quickly behind.

[Tydeus]

Good stuff! I've only read the first chapter (I plan on reading the rest of course, but I wanted to jot off a quick little reply), but I quite liked it.

You obviously know what you're doing -- there's a readily-identifiable voice to the piece, and your power of description is clearly practiced and consciously crafted.

You also are familiar with the conventions of the genre, and include them for the reader's sake (familiarity, etc) without being tired or over-used. Certainly not clichéd. It's a difficult task -- believe me, I know for a fact (I do sci-fi myself, mostly).

Overall, my biggest complaints are grammatical -- so, what, big deal, right?

You had a few compound adjectives which I probably would have hyphenated if it were me. For example, "break-neck." I would hyphenate that, personally. It lends a certain cadence to the prose that directs the reader to the proper internal pronunciation and timing. So, yeah, hyphenated compound adjectives. That's really my biggest criticism.

Excellent work!

[Funka Genocide]

hey! I appreciate the feedback, thanks. I need an editor perhaps, heh. I think it's a bit flat myself, the characters seem, one dimensional to me. I don't spend enough time developing the setting either, it feels more like a comic book or a TV show, something similarly fast paced. It needs a lot more depth before I can expand it into a novel. I chalk that up to my inexperience and lack of patience. Sometimes you just need to let the words come, you know?

If you like sci-fi check out the bottom of this sub forum page, I've been working on a sci-fi story as well, I posted it here. It's called "AI IA: First Shot" I suppose it's on par with what's been written here. Entertaining enough I suppose, but in dire need of a lot of work.

again, thanks for reading!

[Lord of Joshelplex]

I can do the editing thing. I'm essentailly a grammar nazi... FROM HELL!!! but yeah, I can edit. Yours is pretty good, considerably better thant my piece of shit I've been working on.

Also, to save space, put it up on fictionpress, it's kind like youtube of written stuff, and it will make it a lot easier for us to see each chapter as you finish, as we wont have to randomly search this thread for each piece.

[Funka Genocide]

I actually stopped working on this about a month ago, giving it time to settle I suppose. I'll get back to it now, and I usually put it on my Deviant art page, but that can be sort of tricky. Let me get some more written and we'll see where it goes. I'll definitely look into thatweb site though, thanks!

[Lord of Joshelplex]

I would reccomend you stick with it, smply becasue I think there is potential in this one, unlike me, a no talnet hack. You could do some pretty sweet stuff.

[Funka Genocide]

First off, don't call yourself a hack. The only way to get better at something is to keep doing it. I look at the things I've written and I'm faced with an unending desire to improve, that's what you should feel when you honestly appraise your abilities. Never settle, but never give up hope. If you can't maintain the belief that what you have to write is worth reading, you'll never make it anywhere. A writer is defined by his passion for words, story and entertainment, but also by his belief in self, his ego. We have to believe our thoughts are great enough not only to be given form and function through text, but grand enough to deserve an audience outside our skulls.

Keep writing, that's the best advice anyone ever gave me.

Secondly I was wondering if you could have your friend who commented on your writing critique mine, they seem to be quite... critical. I could use something like that I think, I find myself abusing cliches in this piece quite abundantly.

I did some work on it though, I'd expect a few more chapter by weeks end hopefully.

[Lord of Joshelplex]

I can warn you right now he wont like it. For the record, I am a hack, I need to rely on cliched plotlines and events because all my original ideas I cant develope properly. I'd say relying on pre-existing plotlines would be being a hack.

[Funka Genocide]

I can warn you right now he wont like it. For the record, I am a hack, I need to rely on cliched plotlines and events because all my original ideas I cant develope properly. I'd say relying on pre-existing plotlines would be being a hack.

the point isn't whether or not a critic likes or dislikes a work, the point is how much good you can get out of their criticism. The best critics actually point out viable flaws, they show you your weaknesses where you may be blind. Whatever flowery language they use to convey their displeasure is irrelevent, the only thing that matters is the facts and points they bring up. You can't be afraid of someone not liking what you've written, all you can do is mine them for tools to improve your own writing. I don't care if he thinks it's complete literary refuse, so long as he can give me something I can use to improve.

And labels like Hack should never be self applied. the only label worth owning up to is "writer". Let other people make their decisions about what to call you, just keep putting words on paper. (or into computer data banks as the zeitgeist would dictate, heh)