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Deviation Actions
Literature Text
"After the Conjunction of Spheres, equine would eventually encounter the Elven Deer of the Everfree - whose ancestors came to this plane of existence by white ships that sailed through a fog from an invisible ocean. The Deer were overcame and in distraught with how their art and culture may be abused, they destroyed the once beautiful civilization they lived in. Pony colonialism nearly wiped them all out, forcing the few that remained to live in non-equine districts within the cities or on reservations. The Deer had two options, to either assimilate or die. In the past few decades, some of the elven leaders decided it would be better to create the Third Option. These guerilla fighters, often hungry and delirious from living off of berries and nuts - are known as "Squirrels" or as said in Elder Speech, Scoi'tael. They sharpen their antlers and fasten them into bowed weapons, for firing projects such as bolts and arrows. Freedom fighters to some, demons to others."
~Raven Thorn, Non-Equine Conflicts: The Memoirs of a Mercenary
---
"I will continue on ahead, wait here." The Hexer stated, their chainmail shifted and clang as they reached for their silver sword. Once unsheathed, it proved shinier than their brand new gauntlets. White as a sheet, the dove-like Gryphon progressed forward into the dark ruins - guided only by the somber candle light from the lanterns on the wall. Behind was a small commando of Scoi'tael. The stags were tall, slim and slender - perhaps a bit malnourished. However, despite being supposedly fearless warriors of the cause, they were terrified of what they had encountered in these ruins. Dwarven ponies accompanied them at the side, a small unit of berserkers from Mahakam mountain ranges. They were short, sturdy stallions that had long beards and a furry, long coat that resembled their facial hair. Their manes however, cut short and kept tidy beneath golden helmets decorated vividly with their calligraphy. "Give me some distance, I said." Gilroy was stern, their yellow eyes peered back at his unusual contractors and ensured they did not breathe down his neck as he approached the chamber at the end of the passage way.
It was so humid down there, it was dripping wet from the sewers above from the city of Wyzim. It was a vast city of the Te'Mareian kingdom under King Foltest - who oversaw the trading which took place in the Hansa. Gilroy had often found work here, which was peculiar - as cities were not too welcoming to Hexers and vice versa. The cities were strange in the modern world, the weak would become strong and the strong, now coddled by a simpler life, became weak. It was as the priests always said, the meek would inherit the realms by the time of the White Frost. The priests were loud in the Te'Mareian capitol, even so deep underground - in these Elven ruins, Gilroy could hear them preach about the Eternal Fire which would save all of equine kind from extinction. The weak shepard the weak as the strong kill themselves in the coming age of conflict. But there was one sermon that Gilroy heard often, often in the real state districts as many houses built before a certain era can be sold without a seal of approval confirming it was not haunted. The Hexer found somewhat regular work as an exorcist, or rather - a skeptic to debunk supposed haunting. It was believed that the Elves cursed the land before they destroyed their city and fled. Wyzim has the most haunting per capita in the entire kingdom as a result - whenever a new house is on the market, it has to be cleared by a priest of the Eternal Fire. If one is not available, they hire a Hexer.
Yet, this was no typical haunting. It was not the superstitious wind that shifted the settling house's floorboards or a gust of room temperature exiting a confined space which resembled the sudden exhale of a specter's death rattle against a widow's neck. Gilroy moved near the chamber in centimeters, but they wished to sprint meters at a time to get into the suspiciously well lit room upahead. Water dripped from above, water dripped from the walls and water pooled on the ground. These ruins were one tremor away from being flooded and the Hexer knew it. The observation would inhibit the casting of the Sign of Aard, lest they all get crushed or drowned in sewer water. "Ughhh..." One of the stags far behind moaned, even their hardened senses and less than civilized living could find justification for the smell. "I swear, it smells worse than the sewers above down here!" The deer eyed upward, he cursed the equine that lived peacefully above him in what must have been the town quarter. "Bloede Dh'oine!"
"That is not sewage." Gilroy replied quickly, with that - they stopped and assumed a defensive stance. Their sword hand gripped the handle tightly as their other prepared to form any signs if necessary. "That is death." The visage of the deceased itself suddenly spurt out and the Eternal Fire's sermon on Wraiths returned to the Hexer's head. They were not as claimed, a projection of fear and melancholy. They were indeed, somewhat tangible and more than capable of causing bodily harm. The priests taught then when a soul dies suddenly, they are forced to finish the tasks they left uncompleted - despite being trapped in the walls of their very abode which received their death. They have no fear of equine or monster, they could haunt the darkest of crypts or the brightest of households. They are not the poltergeist that knocked at your door or stirred about in your cupboard. They were the malicious dead, manifested and hungry for nourishment in the form of recruiting the living into their ranks.
The wraith had no consistent form at first, the outline of an equine or perhaps a deer could be seen - but all that truly was visible was a creature of smoke from a non-existent fire. A hood concealed an infinite blackness that was their face - their torso wrapped tightly with a noose and rope which bound an unmarked gravestone to its back. Even as it floated, it appeared to be in immense pain and suffering, forever it would have to carry the malice it had for the living on its shoulder - a baggage which outweighed their own marker strapped to them. Whatever it may have been in the past life, it was something new now. Gilroy could not see where its death robes began or ended - in one hand it carried a lantern that illuminated a bright blue. It was filled with ectoplasm. A haunting mist followed the incorporeal Wraith and concealed the ancient sword it held in the other grasp. "By the beards of the dead of the Mahakam Pogrom!" A Dwarf called out, astonished by the appearance of the phantom.
Gilroy swung their sword, but it was too slow - they found that they had hit nothing but air. It was impossible to bleed a being that did not have veins. Yet, the Hexer continued to swing their silver and instead, continued to dash and cut the innocent air. Every time the Wraith disappeared before a strike, there was a sound that resembled a sheet being quickly pulled over one's head. The fwooshing and slashing would echo through the passageway back at the Scoi'tael, who could only stand by patiently and watch as the specter fought it out with the monster slayer. One by one, the candles of the lanterns that illuminated the path went out. There was complete blackness, besides the wet surface of the Hexer's eyes and the slight glisten of their sword and chain mail. Gilroy reached for a potion on their bandoleer and quickly digested the contents. It was the Cat potion, which granted the Hexer complete vision in the dark. It coursed through their veins and pumped through out their body with each beat of their internal drum - their eternal struggle for life on the Path. This was likely the most used potion by Hexers. In its superior form, it would grant the imbiber the ability to see even inanimate beings through walls.
The mutant could see every drop of water that fell from above and of course, the phantom in front of him. The Wraith must have realized that the monster slayer could not see them - for it brought up its lantern of ectoplasm and let it shine brightly in the eyes of the Hexer, in hopes that it would blind him. Instead, Gilroy's pupils naturally narrowed to prevent such from happening. The Hexer's sword twisted and turned through the ethereal form of the beast, it was like jabbing a blade into water - but it had some effect. The Wraith gasped, feeling the intrusion of silver meteorite sword in its body. It pulled away from the tangible realm for a moment to recompose itself. It reappeared in a flash behind the Hexer and cast its own blade down the back of the Gryphon. Gilroy gulped and stumbled, their back burned yet there was no damage to their armour in the slightest. They turned and swung with a one hundred and eight degree swipe - the Wraith felt something in that moment that would remind it of their past life. Mortality. Pain. Death?
"Ye, they be how ya do it! Smash 'im good, lad!" Another dwarf proclaimed, they already discussed among themselves what brand of mead to partake in to celebrate the heroic actions of the Gryphon. They seemed partial to the Hexer, as they were a non-equine, yet still refused to assimilate to the equine culture. Dwarves, despite predating the existence of their taller cousins in this sphere of existence, faced great prejudice despite their contributions to the equine society. The best smiths, the best locksmiths, the greatest of forges and a homeland rich in minerals and metals - they were a valued race, but a slave race at that. Alongside the Elven Deer, they were an Elder Race. Alas, you could only plunder an honest working dwarf pony so long before they braided their beard and aligned themselves with their true brothers, the Deer - with whom they once peacefully coexisted with. Indeed, it was the modern equine that colonized the world and brought such conflicts such as race and war into it. The Gryphons ruled the skies and only quarreled with themselves - however, many collaborated fully with the colonist efforts and assisted the Hussar units of the Pegasus armies of Roanania. These freedom fighters were on good terms with the Hexer, as they saw them as a Hexer first - rather than their equine-sympathetic race. Outcasts attracted outcasts. However, Hexers had little to do and even less business in the political affairs between the racial wars of the Northern Realms.
Gilroy did not know what the dwarves were cheering for. It was a fight in the dark, it must have left a lot to their imagination. The sounds of a sword cutting tightly stretched cloth as the silver blade passed through the ethereal body of a ghost and the occasional burst of blue light from the spirit's ectoplasm probably just fueled their imagination of what was happening. Few got to see the work of Hexer swordplay and live to tell about it, at least these Scoi'tael could say they at least heard it. "Come on, show me your war face..." The mutant taunted the tormented soul, the Wraith swam through the air at him and screeched - its spectral sword diced at him with consecutive blows. The Hexer was struck by only a few, but it did not matter - for they had now shredded the temporarily corporeal apparition with a few swipes. The specter yelped as it soon began to fall to pieces - ectoplasm oozed from its smokey limbs before it disappeared entirely besides a single gravemarker, cracked into small pieces on the ground. The noose rope that once was wrapped tightly around the death robes turned into ash, which laid like a layer of black soot across the gravestone. "Let's see what your name was..." Gilroy wiped the stone free to find that it was no longer nameless. Indeed, in death - the Wraith found some peace and offered a conclusion to its curse, a name to be remembered by. "Aelivan Nosaen - interesting, must have been Elven. May you rest in peace, for I will remember you."
A rattle of death exited an invisible mouth, the candles in the lanterns burst bright again and the passage way to the chamber was lit fully. A wave of warm wind past the Scoi'tael commando which remained station near the entrance of the ruins. Aelivan Nosaen was now remembered and could rest in peace fully, for the first time in what may be centuries. Gilroy could only hope that her suffering did not last long, as a few centuries were nothing to an Elf as it was. He did not know how miserable such a pause in their passage to the other side must have been as a wraith, however. To be overtaken by such misery and contempt. For once, the mutant was glad to be just that - a mutant of muted emotions. "The way is clear. Find your artifacts and get out of here before any other spirits wish to attach themselves to you and follow you home." Gilroy sheathed their sword and crossed their arms. Due to the light and the remaining effect of the cat potion, their eyes appeared especially narrow and serpent like. This mutated feature brought a smirk from the leader of the Scoi'tael commando unit.
"There are many spirits in the forests of which we inhabit, Vatt'ghern. Many of them do not haunt us, so if a spirit were to follow us - may it be an Elven one and follow us home." The Scoi'tael fighter had tall antlers which probably composed an entire third of his height. This was Mansi, their name in Elder Speech meant something like plucked flower or a plowed field. It was not their real name, but their Scoi'tael name. It was supposed to reflect the raped nature of his species. Funny, he stood tall and proudly as if his antlers did not fall off every other year. "I highly suggest that you forget everything that you have seen in here, White One. Forget these ruins, forget this place and most of all..." The unit passed the Hexer, who stubbornly moved after a brief nudge from one of the dwarves. "But most importantly and above all, va faill and dedicate yourself to forgetting our faces."
"Funny," the Hexer leaned in the doorway of the chamber. They examined the deer and dwarves who were quick to start looking upward at the ceiling, which had no sign of leakage. In fact, it was a great source of heat - as if there was a nice burning fireplace just above. They brought many weapons, but several also carried pickaxes and mining tools. Archaeologists who wished to rediscover artifacts of the lost Elven times rarely had a need for hammers that could dent an Elven sculpture with a single swing. Speaking of which, there was hardly any actual artifacts in what was described to Gilroy as a 'coven of riches, beyond the hopes and dreams of any dh'oine explorer.' "Where are these artifacts, Mansi? Where are the golden statues of Ithlinne? The sabers from the Valley of Flowers? The Minstrel's famed retelling of the fall of Wyzim in the trademark calligraphy of dwarves? You aren't here to gather artifacts, are you - elf?"
"Like I said, forget everything that you have seen here, White One. We do not need your infamous Hexer neutrality involved here today. We paid you to fight a wraith and you have. Congratulations." Mansi shoved past the bipedal Gryphon, they did not want to admit it, but they proved sturdier than they looked. The Hexer was lean and strong, while Mansi was malnourished. Gilroy wore modern armour and chainmail, made a week prior by a blacksmith and his son at the temple square in the city above - Mansi wore a tattered uniform scavenged from dead equine units that went to patrol the forest. It was a perfect metaphor for the struggle. A small shove from a sickly Elder Race against the well armoured, well fed and fit assimilated Gryphon. "There are no artifacts here as we thought, surely - they are lost to the ages. They have come to rot from the dampness or simply expired with age." It was tragic poetry - but still nothing of concern to the Hexer. They did not see right or wrong, equine or non-equine. Politics simply could not move past the bad taste on their tongue, as it would awkwardly prod the roof of their beak whenever the subject was brought up. Gilroy saw one thing and one thing only, the weight of coin in his pouch and how lighter or heavier it would be after a hunt.
A dwarf approached with a sack of coins in his mouth. He dropped it at the feet of the Gryphon, as they were too small to present it to the standing creature as it was. Gilroy quickly nabbed it from the wet ground and started to paw through it. They opened the little brown bag and examined how each of the Orens were basically rusted with blood, equine blood. "Aye, was it ghoul blood that ye poured over your magic sword before we entered the ruins?" The dwarf questioned, he seemed less eager about going through the chamber of a supposed artifact hot spot as they were with communicating with the Hexer. In fact, Gilroy would not be surprised if it was this dwarf's suggestion in the first place to get a monster slayer for this job. "Why you have two swords anyways? Oh, of course - I got ye! In case one breaks, is that not right?!" Such innocent questions they could have come out of the mouth of a young filly or colt. The Hexer could not help but notice the youth in the face of the dwarf, despite their long braided beard and heavy, golden battle ax strapped to their back. His teeth were yellow from mead, which stank up his coat as well.
"I placed specter oil on my blade before we entered the ruin, my previous investigation confirmed that you and your unit encountered a wraith before I arrived. I could tell from the ectoplasm that was on the corpses of the stags out back." Gilroy said simply, surely and quickly. They bit a single coin with their beak to ensure it was real and gave it a flip before it was placed back into the bag. Strange, this commando of Squirrels were not necessarily well equipped and they were otherwise bare to the bone from hunger. How could they afford to pay a Hexer? Even if the gold was stolen and looted from the dead, it had to have been an entire infantryman's month of pay gathered up from their shared treasures of post conflict plunder. Hypocritical. They were hungry yet chose to eat berries and probably leaves, but with this coin they could have bought enough food to last them at least two weeks of full stomachs. "And one sword is for monsters." Gilroy walked past the dwarf, who now only seemed more intrigue.
"What of the other?"
"That one is for everything else."
It was so humid down there, it was dripping wet from the sewers above from the city of Wyzim. It was a vast city of the Te'Mareian kingdom under King Foltest - who oversaw the trading which took place in the Hansa. Gilroy had often found work here, which was peculiar - as cities were not too welcoming to Hexers and vice versa. The cities were strange in the modern world, the weak would become strong and the strong, now coddled by a simpler life, became weak. It was as the priests always said, the meek would inherit the realms by the time of the White Frost. The priests were loud in the Te'Mareian capitol, even so deep underground - in these Elven ruins, Gilroy could hear them preach about the Eternal Fire which would save all of equine kind from extinction. The weak shepard the weak as the strong kill themselves in the coming age of conflict. But there was one sermon that Gilroy heard often, often in the real state districts as many houses built before a certain era can be sold without a seal of approval confirming it was not haunted. The Hexer found somewhat regular work as an exorcist, or rather - a skeptic to debunk supposed haunting. It was believed that the Elves cursed the land before they destroyed their city and fled. Wyzim has the most haunting per capita in the entire kingdom as a result - whenever a new house is on the market, it has to be cleared by a priest of the Eternal Fire. If one is not available, they hire a Hexer.
Yet, this was no typical haunting. It was not the superstitious wind that shifted the settling house's floorboards or a gust of room temperature exiting a confined space which resembled the sudden exhale of a specter's death rattle against a widow's neck. Gilroy moved near the chamber in centimeters, but they wished to sprint meters at a time to get into the suspiciously well lit room upahead. Water dripped from above, water dripped from the walls and water pooled on the ground. These ruins were one tremor away from being flooded and the Hexer knew it. The observation would inhibit the casting of the Sign of Aard, lest they all get crushed or drowned in sewer water. "Ughhh..." One of the stags far behind moaned, even their hardened senses and less than civilized living could find justification for the smell. "I swear, it smells worse than the sewers above down here!" The deer eyed upward, he cursed the equine that lived peacefully above him in what must have been the town quarter. "Bloede Dh'oine!"
"That is not sewage." Gilroy replied quickly, with that - they stopped and assumed a defensive stance. Their sword hand gripped the handle tightly as their other prepared to form any signs if necessary. "That is death." The visage of the deceased itself suddenly spurt out and the Eternal Fire's sermon on Wraiths returned to the Hexer's head. They were not as claimed, a projection of fear and melancholy. They were indeed, somewhat tangible and more than capable of causing bodily harm. The priests taught then when a soul dies suddenly, they are forced to finish the tasks they left uncompleted - despite being trapped in the walls of their very abode which received their death. They have no fear of equine or monster, they could haunt the darkest of crypts or the brightest of households. They are not the poltergeist that knocked at your door or stirred about in your cupboard. They were the malicious dead, manifested and hungry for nourishment in the form of recruiting the living into their ranks.
The wraith had no consistent form at first, the outline of an equine or perhaps a deer could be seen - but all that truly was visible was a creature of smoke from a non-existent fire. A hood concealed an infinite blackness that was their face - their torso wrapped tightly with a noose and rope which bound an unmarked gravestone to its back. Even as it floated, it appeared to be in immense pain and suffering, forever it would have to carry the malice it had for the living on its shoulder - a baggage which outweighed their own marker strapped to them. Whatever it may have been in the past life, it was something new now. Gilroy could not see where its death robes began or ended - in one hand it carried a lantern that illuminated a bright blue. It was filled with ectoplasm. A haunting mist followed the incorporeal Wraith and concealed the ancient sword it held in the other grasp. "By the beards of the dead of the Mahakam Pogrom!" A Dwarf called out, astonished by the appearance of the phantom.
Gilroy swung their sword, but it was too slow - they found that they had hit nothing but air. It was impossible to bleed a being that did not have veins. Yet, the Hexer continued to swing their silver and instead, continued to dash and cut the innocent air. Every time the Wraith disappeared before a strike, there was a sound that resembled a sheet being quickly pulled over one's head. The fwooshing and slashing would echo through the passageway back at the Scoi'tael, who could only stand by patiently and watch as the specter fought it out with the monster slayer. One by one, the candles of the lanterns that illuminated the path went out. There was complete blackness, besides the wet surface of the Hexer's eyes and the slight glisten of their sword and chain mail. Gilroy reached for a potion on their bandoleer and quickly digested the contents. It was the Cat potion, which granted the Hexer complete vision in the dark. It coursed through their veins and pumped through out their body with each beat of their internal drum - their eternal struggle for life on the Path. This was likely the most used potion by Hexers. In its superior form, it would grant the imbiber the ability to see even inanimate beings through walls.
The mutant could see every drop of water that fell from above and of course, the phantom in front of him. The Wraith must have realized that the monster slayer could not see them - for it brought up its lantern of ectoplasm and let it shine brightly in the eyes of the Hexer, in hopes that it would blind him. Instead, Gilroy's pupils naturally narrowed to prevent such from happening. The Hexer's sword twisted and turned through the ethereal form of the beast, it was like jabbing a blade into water - but it had some effect. The Wraith gasped, feeling the intrusion of silver meteorite sword in its body. It pulled away from the tangible realm for a moment to recompose itself. It reappeared in a flash behind the Hexer and cast its own blade down the back of the Gryphon. Gilroy gulped and stumbled, their back burned yet there was no damage to their armour in the slightest. They turned and swung with a one hundred and eight degree swipe - the Wraith felt something in that moment that would remind it of their past life. Mortality. Pain. Death?
"Ye, they be how ya do it! Smash 'im good, lad!" Another dwarf proclaimed, they already discussed among themselves what brand of mead to partake in to celebrate the heroic actions of the Gryphon. They seemed partial to the Hexer, as they were a non-equine, yet still refused to assimilate to the equine culture. Dwarves, despite predating the existence of their taller cousins in this sphere of existence, faced great prejudice despite their contributions to the equine society. The best smiths, the best locksmiths, the greatest of forges and a homeland rich in minerals and metals - they were a valued race, but a slave race at that. Alongside the Elven Deer, they were an Elder Race. Alas, you could only plunder an honest working dwarf pony so long before they braided their beard and aligned themselves with their true brothers, the Deer - with whom they once peacefully coexisted with. Indeed, it was the modern equine that colonized the world and brought such conflicts such as race and war into it. The Gryphons ruled the skies and only quarreled with themselves - however, many collaborated fully with the colonist efforts and assisted the Hussar units of the Pegasus armies of Roanania. These freedom fighters were on good terms with the Hexer, as they saw them as a Hexer first - rather than their equine-sympathetic race. Outcasts attracted outcasts. However, Hexers had little to do and even less business in the political affairs between the racial wars of the Northern Realms.
Gilroy did not know what the dwarves were cheering for. It was a fight in the dark, it must have left a lot to their imagination. The sounds of a sword cutting tightly stretched cloth as the silver blade passed through the ethereal body of a ghost and the occasional burst of blue light from the spirit's ectoplasm probably just fueled their imagination of what was happening. Few got to see the work of Hexer swordplay and live to tell about it, at least these Scoi'tael could say they at least heard it. "Come on, show me your war face..." The mutant taunted the tormented soul, the Wraith swam through the air at him and screeched - its spectral sword diced at him with consecutive blows. The Hexer was struck by only a few, but it did not matter - for they had now shredded the temporarily corporeal apparition with a few swipes. The specter yelped as it soon began to fall to pieces - ectoplasm oozed from its smokey limbs before it disappeared entirely besides a single gravemarker, cracked into small pieces on the ground. The noose rope that once was wrapped tightly around the death robes turned into ash, which laid like a layer of black soot across the gravestone. "Let's see what your name was..." Gilroy wiped the stone free to find that it was no longer nameless. Indeed, in death - the Wraith found some peace and offered a conclusion to its curse, a name to be remembered by. "Aelivan Nosaen - interesting, must have been Elven. May you rest in peace, for I will remember you."
A rattle of death exited an invisible mouth, the candles in the lanterns burst bright again and the passage way to the chamber was lit fully. A wave of warm wind past the Scoi'tael commando which remained station near the entrance of the ruins. Aelivan Nosaen was now remembered and could rest in peace fully, for the first time in what may be centuries. Gilroy could only hope that her suffering did not last long, as a few centuries were nothing to an Elf as it was. He did not know how miserable such a pause in their passage to the other side must have been as a wraith, however. To be overtaken by such misery and contempt. For once, the mutant was glad to be just that - a mutant of muted emotions. "The way is clear. Find your artifacts and get out of here before any other spirits wish to attach themselves to you and follow you home." Gilroy sheathed their sword and crossed their arms. Due to the light and the remaining effect of the cat potion, their eyes appeared especially narrow and serpent like. This mutated feature brought a smirk from the leader of the Scoi'tael commando unit.
"There are many spirits in the forests of which we inhabit, Vatt'ghern. Many of them do not haunt us, so if a spirit were to follow us - may it be an Elven one and follow us home." The Scoi'tael fighter had tall antlers which probably composed an entire third of his height. This was Mansi, their name in Elder Speech meant something like plucked flower or a plowed field. It was not their real name, but their Scoi'tael name. It was supposed to reflect the raped nature of his species. Funny, he stood tall and proudly as if his antlers did not fall off every other year. "I highly suggest that you forget everything that you have seen in here, White One. Forget these ruins, forget this place and most of all..." The unit passed the Hexer, who stubbornly moved after a brief nudge from one of the dwarves. "But most importantly and above all, va faill and dedicate yourself to forgetting our faces."
"Funny," the Hexer leaned in the doorway of the chamber. They examined the deer and dwarves who were quick to start looking upward at the ceiling, which had no sign of leakage. In fact, it was a great source of heat - as if there was a nice burning fireplace just above. They brought many weapons, but several also carried pickaxes and mining tools. Archaeologists who wished to rediscover artifacts of the lost Elven times rarely had a need for hammers that could dent an Elven sculpture with a single swing. Speaking of which, there was hardly any actual artifacts in what was described to Gilroy as a 'coven of riches, beyond the hopes and dreams of any dh'oine explorer.' "Where are these artifacts, Mansi? Where are the golden statues of Ithlinne? The sabers from the Valley of Flowers? The Minstrel's famed retelling of the fall of Wyzim in the trademark calligraphy of dwarves? You aren't here to gather artifacts, are you - elf?"
"Like I said, forget everything that you have seen here, White One. We do not need your infamous Hexer neutrality involved here today. We paid you to fight a wraith and you have. Congratulations." Mansi shoved past the bipedal Gryphon, they did not want to admit it, but they proved sturdier than they looked. The Hexer was lean and strong, while Mansi was malnourished. Gilroy wore modern armour and chainmail, made a week prior by a blacksmith and his son at the temple square in the city above - Mansi wore a tattered uniform scavenged from dead equine units that went to patrol the forest. It was a perfect metaphor for the struggle. A small shove from a sickly Elder Race against the well armoured, well fed and fit assimilated Gryphon. "There are no artifacts here as we thought, surely - they are lost to the ages. They have come to rot from the dampness or simply expired with age." It was tragic poetry - but still nothing of concern to the Hexer. They did not see right or wrong, equine or non-equine. Politics simply could not move past the bad taste on their tongue, as it would awkwardly prod the roof of their beak whenever the subject was brought up. Gilroy saw one thing and one thing only, the weight of coin in his pouch and how lighter or heavier it would be after a hunt.
A dwarf approached with a sack of coins in his mouth. He dropped it at the feet of the Gryphon, as they were too small to present it to the standing creature as it was. Gilroy quickly nabbed it from the wet ground and started to paw through it. They opened the little brown bag and examined how each of the Orens were basically rusted with blood, equine blood. "Aye, was it ghoul blood that ye poured over your magic sword before we entered the ruins?" The dwarf questioned, he seemed less eager about going through the chamber of a supposed artifact hot spot as they were with communicating with the Hexer. In fact, Gilroy would not be surprised if it was this dwarf's suggestion in the first place to get a monster slayer for this job. "Why you have two swords anyways? Oh, of course - I got ye! In case one breaks, is that not right?!" Such innocent questions they could have come out of the mouth of a young filly or colt. The Hexer could not help but notice the youth in the face of the dwarf, despite their long braided beard and heavy, golden battle ax strapped to their back. His teeth were yellow from mead, which stank up his coat as well.
"I placed specter oil on my blade before we entered the ruin, my previous investigation confirmed that you and your unit encountered a wraith before I arrived. I could tell from the ectoplasm that was on the corpses of the stags out back." Gilroy said simply, surely and quickly. They bit a single coin with their beak to ensure it was real and gave it a flip before it was placed back into the bag. Strange, this commando of Squirrels were not necessarily well equipped and they were otherwise bare to the bone from hunger. How could they afford to pay a Hexer? Even if the gold was stolen and looted from the dead, it had to have been an entire infantryman's month of pay gathered up from their shared treasures of post conflict plunder. Hypocritical. They were hungry yet chose to eat berries and probably leaves, but with this coin they could have bought enough food to last them at least two weeks of full stomachs. "And one sword is for monsters." Gilroy walked past the dwarf, who now only seemed more intrigue.
"What of the other?"
"That one is for everything else."
---
The entire city seemed to crowd itself around the bank the following morning. Every fanatical equine was there to protest loudly of the heist and how it was being handled. Priests from the Eternal Fire spat out their righteous bigotry and alongside them, members of the Order of the Flaming Rose. Nobility and poor marched through the streets and it was only a matter of time before a mob would come out to start killing the non-equines in the outskirts of Wyzim. The Hexer had heard of the commotion and chose to investigate. Wherever there was a crowd, there was bound to be something good for a Hexer. Crowds only formed for two reasons, pyre burnings and a caged beast from the wilds. Gilroy would be surprised to find that the residents of Wyzim were examining a very different kind of caged beast. A beast that they have in turned, bred and let form in the outskirts of their own capitol. It was time for the ponies of Wyzim to see the fruit of their supposed good nature in the obedience to their non-equine rhetoric.
"What is going on?" Gilroy asked a priest of the Eternal Fire. It was a tall pony, but aging and old - a sack of bones that could have been a wraith himself if he wore his hood more over his eyes. The robes were cast with decorations of a thorny rose surrounded by vivid flames. The fabric was suspiciously pricey and fancy for stallion of the faith - who took an oath of poverty. Their beard rivaled that of the dwarves Gilroy encountered last night, perhaps they had grown it out to portray their infinite wisdom and knowledge. The way their hooves shook and jaw chattered made it evident they had been a scribe in the monasteries before they ascended to priesthood. Pencil and quill forever in mouth, hooves constantly flipping millions up millions of pages a week. Yet, despite all those years of youth wasted in study - they looked more like a mad druid than a scholar from Oxenfort. "It is not noon and everypony already has their pitchforks out."
"Those cursed non-equine! A Scoi'tael commando has overtaken the bank and taken hostages! The Eternal Fire, may it shine brightly in our hearts, minds and souls - for it will bring us from the cold famine of faith within these terrorists..." The priest spat, their teeth rotten from the obedient diet of nothing, nothing and an extra cup of water if they managed to collect more tributes. In that moment, Gilroy noticed a certain parallel between the two extremists. Equine and non-equine. Both starving radicals on different spectrums of liberalism and conservatism. They met at the middle ground of conspiracy and madness, obedience to ideals that they both shared but for different names and cultures. "Elven Stags, cursed Deer arrow tossers and spear chucking, ax swinging dwarves are trying to empty the entire bank! To fund their terrorist operations no doubt, these insurgent separatists are going to be end of us all! You must help us, mutant - for you too, while an abomination - surely are loyal to the Eternal Fire?"
Gilroy chuckled at the new nickname. An abomination. Truly, that was what Hexers actually were. A mix of might, magic and nightmares for vampires to warn their kin at night of before sleep. "No. Hexers do not meddle in politics. I have no place or purpose in your little squabble with your Elven neighbors." The Gryphon looked over the crowd - as he easily stood above them all, being on their hind legs. Knights of the zealous Order of the Flaming Rose had set themselves up just outside of the bank entrance. The building itself was a complex work of Te'Mareian architects. Not an odd stone out of place. It must have been commissioned by King Foltest himself, this was the pride of the trading Hansa in the city. Gargoyles, hopefully fake ones, perched on the top of the roof and each door and window decorated with a framing worthy of Toussaint painting. Red brick with white linings, steps made of glistening obsidian. It was was wealth personified, but underneath laid greed like any other. The windows on the ground floor were barred, with tight, small beams of gold of course. The glass was broken and occasionally an antler would peer out over the crowd - a string tied to it and the other to form a bow. The tip of an arrow scanned the heads of the crowd and was likely very eager to lodge itself into the skull of any of the equine who gathered outside. "You brought this upon yourselves. Both sides. You never bothered assimilating with each other, both sides pushed and prodded and now that the war is over - some youths are trying to bring it back like it means anything."
"Precisely why you have to help us, monster slayer! These whoresons have found surely gotten in touch with their roots - they somehow found the ruins under the city, beneath the sewers even! They used that passage to break into one of the vaults, where they stayed through out the night..." The priest continued to repeat verbatim what the town yeller had told the people earlier that morning when the bank's doors opened to the public with the strong aroma of blood and Dwarven mead. Gilroy could not help but feel a tinge of guilt, knowing that they had indirectly gotten equine - a race that he was sworn to protect as per his guild and profession - killed and now held against their will. In fear of bodily harm or out right death, the workers inside were forced to confide with the conditions of their captors. This was not limited to beatings, harassment, verbal berating, comical hazing and out right rape or molestation. The evil inflicted upon the Elven Deers were not being reversed and reflected back onto ponykind. The elves know they have lost and that there is no way to turn back time. Instead, they intend to be a mirror, a reflection of the evil done upon them - so that they may forever haunt their tormentors. "They are lost to the ages, white one! Surely, I will do all that I can... the Church and Order, we have orens, we can pay-"
"That was all that you had to say." There was no time to negotiate the price. Gilroy felt obligated to participate now. The price of neutrality was never knowing when you had to take a side and then having to live with the consequences it bared. There was no such thing as black and white choices, good versus evil, chaos versus destiny and causality. At times, one must choose the lesser evil - for bloodshed is unavoidable. "Move, move, out of the way!" The mutant charged through the crowd and eventually hopped over the last few in the front. The Hexer had leaped over the barrier set up as a blockade to prevent a full on race riot from breaking out. In an instant, the unsung hero was now in the spotlight. The Order, in their heavy armor - some with wings and others mere earth ponies - there stood a single being that definitely was an unlikely sight. As Gilroy was the exception to the Scoi'tael to a degree, the knight that stood in front of him was the exception to the Order's own anti-non-equine rhetoric and preaching.
From the bright red armour, adorned of course with the sigil of a burning, thorny rose - stood a knight of yellow feathers. It was no pegasus, but a gryphon who stood bipedal as Gilroy did. A modest beak with darkened eyebrows - their top feathers were cut into that of a bow-cut, for the convenience of wearing a battle helm in combat. Every step was in stride and pride, this was a gryphon that took an oath to protect equine from monsters, evil magic and all things prohibited by the Eternal Fire fellowship. There was a degree of sophistication, but also pain and weariness in their eyes. This knight of the order, a leader and an outcast, had likely killed his own fellow gryphon in the defense of the Order and all equine. It was obvious, for there was no other way this chivalrous order would have followed him otherwise. "I am Sir Selig of Denesle. A Knight of the Order and the Eternal Fire. I am in gratitude, for it was rumored that there was a mutated monster slayer in our vicinity here in Wyzim. I am glad to see you are on the side of equine and the Eternal Fire, rather than those refugee scamps."
Gilroy did not flinch at the impressive presentation of Selig, to be quite frank - he looked like a dick. Yet, in that pompous glee that he delighted in, Selig was charming. Warm as a hearth fire and twice as cocky as a dwarven sword merchant. Yet, his composure was calm and collective. Gilroy noticed the parallels between the two of them and could not help but feel comfortable in his presence. So many followers of the Order and Eternal Fire often berated and scoffed at the existence of the Hexer. Yet, here it was different. It was more than just their shares species, but their similar places in the world. A strange middle ground, a compromise between equine and non-equine. Nature and the unnatural. Perhaps destiny is not pertained by merely race alone. Causality is driven by a wheel not of fate, but one's own individual choice. "I am not on your side or their's either. I am a monster hunter, not a witch burner." They swayed a hand for emphasis. "But I vaguely know that Scoi'tael commando that has held up the bank. If you go in there without a clue, you and your men are going to get slaughtered. They might be hungry, cold and desperate - but that makes them even more deadly. Like a cornered wyvern."
"Ah, yes, I understand your point - monster slayer." Selig seemed intrigued above all else. There was no rude words to reply to, they did not try to verbally insult the Hexer nor did they even seem to take notice in them beyond the fact that the two of them, as of now, were allies in this situation together. The knight brought their taloned hand up to stroke his own beak in thought. "Wyvern. Often mistaken for dragons. My father, I guess you could say you are able to relate to him, regarding your guild's history... hunted dragons. More often than not, the dragon turned out to be a wyvern. Flying reptiles with serpentine necks and venomous tridents at the end of their elongated tail." Gilroy had forgotten that the Order slayed monsters in their free time between slaughtering whores with their manhood at the whorehouses and burning deer at the stake. Selig managed to spout out knowledge of the wyvern with an encyclopedic lexicon that proved his literacy. The Hexer suddenly began to recognize the title this knight carried.
"Selig of Denesle, son of Ike of Densele, I presume?" Gilroy crossed their arms, but never let their weight lean on one foot or the other. They traced back their memory a bit and remembered an occurrence when they had been given the rare case of actually defending a monster. Not all creatures deserved to be killed. Dragons were among the first inhabitants of Equestria and predated all other species before the Conjunction of Spheres and the Elves that arrived on their white ships from another world. "Ike of Densele was crippled after he erhm... bravely charged a dragon and was promptly swatted down by the beast. Saw it with my own eyes, as I was there with an entourage of similar beast-slayers. He was crushed in his armour, yet he still flailed and managed to toss a bolt from a crossbow toward the dragon. He was a brave gryphon, whatever came of your father - if you do not mind me asking."
Selig chuckled and wiped away some dirt from his torso armour, which was plated in firm steel and painted over with a professional application of rose-red. The Hexer could not help but notice the rose on his sigil was painted in cherry red, however. "Do not worry, Hexer. My father talked rather fondly of you, despite being a bird of few words." That was a strange thing to hear, as Gilroy specifically remembered that Ike of Denesle was more than willing to chop off the Hexer's head when it came to who would slay the dragon. The Hexer could hardly remember the obscure circumstances that lead to them not only saving said beast, but in a way - befriending them. "My father is well passed, may he rest forever in the furnace of the peaceful and healing Eternal Fire. Despite his crippled condition, he requested himself strapped into a catapult and launched into a fray in which the Order was combating a Manticore gone mad." Selig, in his nightly vows, promised to never show sadness in his position as a knight. He turned away briefly for a moment, from the crowd and the Hexer. A tear was cast away with a flick from his talon onto the ground, where not even his own men could see. "It was a ferocious battle, my father flapped his crippled wings and still managed to gouge out an eye from the manticore. The beast replied predictably."
A loud crashing was heard, followed by some consecutive thuds. Another hostage was killed. A mare had been laid down onto the wooden floor of the bank and several arrows were cast from antler-bows into her body. They pierced her to the floor, no doubt about it. The Hexer's enhanced senses could hear the blood dripping from the ceiling of the floor below onto stacks of coin in the vaults. Ponies in the crowd shuttered at first, but then called for blood. The Knight and Hexer were unphased, in fact - it was Selig who raised a hand and ordered his men to sustain the now decaying position of the barricade. Residents of Wyzim were now just as blood thirsty as the elves. "I am guessing the manticore beat him or mauled him to death? A horrible way to go. Sorry that your father did not have a more honourable and frankly, deserving death. I still commend his bravery." It was weird for the Hexer to speak such sugary words, they had no respect for the deceased Ike but the living and courteous Selig was a different story.
"Actually, you are in fact wrong. My father is now cherished and patronized saint of the Eternal Fire. While himself merely a freelancer attached to the Order, his prestige has granted my name much privilege." Selig corrected, his gaze had rested on the once bare windowsill of the bank's right side. It was now decorated with the bloody mane of a scalped bank employee. This blood should could not go unanswered much longer. A fire that rivaled that of the Enteral's now raged in the hearts of the men of the Order and those in the crowd, ready to riot if necessary. Yet, in the chest of the Hexer, not a single additional pulse of blood exited their heart. "It was once said, that the time of heroes have been lost to the age of old. But I tell you this, Ike was devoured whole by the manticore!" Selig held a single talon in the air in proclamation of the Eternal Fire's greatness and sovereign, protecting rule over equine kind. It was a gesture often used by the members of the Church and Order. "My father, inspired by your Hexer technology, had created his own bombs. They had across their chest, much like you, a belt of items to help him in his final quest. He ignited all of the bombs and from inside, the manticore was burned alive!" A heroic deed indeed, as likely Ike was boiled in the brew of the monster's stomach too.
An arrow was launched through the window on the second floor and placed itself between the eyes of an Order hoofsoldier. Their staggered and their legs eventually gave away, from all fours to on the floor - they were dead before their flank hit the ground. Blood poured from the visor of his helmet and the dying nerves in his body made him twitch, their jaw chatter. "Witness him, brothers!" Selig called out, to a thunderous roar from not just the Order, but the crowd. But it as not angry, it was euphoric. As the corpse twitched and moaned its death rattle - the Order donned their helmets as their commander did. "Witness! Witness! For he is awaited by the Eternal Fire!" Selig screamed, his tender, polite and sophisticated voice replaced by a warrior's. Gilroy had forgotten that he was still a member of the fanatical religious zealots who burned crones to illuminate the Wyzim gardens at night. The worst part was - these were his temporary allies for the time being. Gilroy drew their steel sword and stood alongside Selig. They were going to siege the bank by force, if necessary.
Gilroy wanted to kick himself for getting involved in these politics. What was good for an equine was death for a Hexer.
To Be Continued in The Eternal Fire Part II
"What is going on?" Gilroy asked a priest of the Eternal Fire. It was a tall pony, but aging and old - a sack of bones that could have been a wraith himself if he wore his hood more over his eyes. The robes were cast with decorations of a thorny rose surrounded by vivid flames. The fabric was suspiciously pricey and fancy for stallion of the faith - who took an oath of poverty. Their beard rivaled that of the dwarves Gilroy encountered last night, perhaps they had grown it out to portray their infinite wisdom and knowledge. The way their hooves shook and jaw chattered made it evident they had been a scribe in the monasteries before they ascended to priesthood. Pencil and quill forever in mouth, hooves constantly flipping millions up millions of pages a week. Yet, despite all those years of youth wasted in study - they looked more like a mad druid than a scholar from Oxenfort. "It is not noon and everypony already has their pitchforks out."
"Those cursed non-equine! A Scoi'tael commando has overtaken the bank and taken hostages! The Eternal Fire, may it shine brightly in our hearts, minds and souls - for it will bring us from the cold famine of faith within these terrorists..." The priest spat, their teeth rotten from the obedient diet of nothing, nothing and an extra cup of water if they managed to collect more tributes. In that moment, Gilroy noticed a certain parallel between the two extremists. Equine and non-equine. Both starving radicals on different spectrums of liberalism and conservatism. They met at the middle ground of conspiracy and madness, obedience to ideals that they both shared but for different names and cultures. "Elven Stags, cursed Deer arrow tossers and spear chucking, ax swinging dwarves are trying to empty the entire bank! To fund their terrorist operations no doubt, these insurgent separatists are going to be end of us all! You must help us, mutant - for you too, while an abomination - surely are loyal to the Eternal Fire?"
Gilroy chuckled at the new nickname. An abomination. Truly, that was what Hexers actually were. A mix of might, magic and nightmares for vampires to warn their kin at night of before sleep. "No. Hexers do not meddle in politics. I have no place or purpose in your little squabble with your Elven neighbors." The Gryphon looked over the crowd - as he easily stood above them all, being on their hind legs. Knights of the zealous Order of the Flaming Rose had set themselves up just outside of the bank entrance. The building itself was a complex work of Te'Mareian architects. Not an odd stone out of place. It must have been commissioned by King Foltest himself, this was the pride of the trading Hansa in the city. Gargoyles, hopefully fake ones, perched on the top of the roof and each door and window decorated with a framing worthy of Toussaint painting. Red brick with white linings, steps made of glistening obsidian. It was was wealth personified, but underneath laid greed like any other. The windows on the ground floor were barred, with tight, small beams of gold of course. The glass was broken and occasionally an antler would peer out over the crowd - a string tied to it and the other to form a bow. The tip of an arrow scanned the heads of the crowd and was likely very eager to lodge itself into the skull of any of the equine who gathered outside. "You brought this upon yourselves. Both sides. You never bothered assimilating with each other, both sides pushed and prodded and now that the war is over - some youths are trying to bring it back like it means anything."
"Precisely why you have to help us, monster slayer! These whoresons have found surely gotten in touch with their roots - they somehow found the ruins under the city, beneath the sewers even! They used that passage to break into one of the vaults, where they stayed through out the night..." The priest continued to repeat verbatim what the town yeller had told the people earlier that morning when the bank's doors opened to the public with the strong aroma of blood and Dwarven mead. Gilroy could not help but feel a tinge of guilt, knowing that they had indirectly gotten equine - a race that he was sworn to protect as per his guild and profession - killed and now held against their will. In fear of bodily harm or out right death, the workers inside were forced to confide with the conditions of their captors. This was not limited to beatings, harassment, verbal berating, comical hazing and out right rape or molestation. The evil inflicted upon the Elven Deers were not being reversed and reflected back onto ponykind. The elves know they have lost and that there is no way to turn back time. Instead, they intend to be a mirror, a reflection of the evil done upon them - so that they may forever haunt their tormentors. "They are lost to the ages, white one! Surely, I will do all that I can... the Church and Order, we have orens, we can pay-"
"That was all that you had to say." There was no time to negotiate the price. Gilroy felt obligated to participate now. The price of neutrality was never knowing when you had to take a side and then having to live with the consequences it bared. There was no such thing as black and white choices, good versus evil, chaos versus destiny and causality. At times, one must choose the lesser evil - for bloodshed is unavoidable. "Move, move, out of the way!" The mutant charged through the crowd and eventually hopped over the last few in the front. The Hexer had leaped over the barrier set up as a blockade to prevent a full on race riot from breaking out. In an instant, the unsung hero was now in the spotlight. The Order, in their heavy armor - some with wings and others mere earth ponies - there stood a single being that definitely was an unlikely sight. As Gilroy was the exception to the Scoi'tael to a degree, the knight that stood in front of him was the exception to the Order's own anti-non-equine rhetoric and preaching.
From the bright red armour, adorned of course with the sigil of a burning, thorny rose - stood a knight of yellow feathers. It was no pegasus, but a gryphon who stood bipedal as Gilroy did. A modest beak with darkened eyebrows - their top feathers were cut into that of a bow-cut, for the convenience of wearing a battle helm in combat. Every step was in stride and pride, this was a gryphon that took an oath to protect equine from monsters, evil magic and all things prohibited by the Eternal Fire fellowship. There was a degree of sophistication, but also pain and weariness in their eyes. This knight of the order, a leader and an outcast, had likely killed his own fellow gryphon in the defense of the Order and all equine. It was obvious, for there was no other way this chivalrous order would have followed him otherwise. "I am Sir Selig of Denesle. A Knight of the Order and the Eternal Fire. I am in gratitude, for it was rumored that there was a mutated monster slayer in our vicinity here in Wyzim. I am glad to see you are on the side of equine and the Eternal Fire, rather than those refugee scamps."
Gilroy did not flinch at the impressive presentation of Selig, to be quite frank - he looked like a dick. Yet, in that pompous glee that he delighted in, Selig was charming. Warm as a hearth fire and twice as cocky as a dwarven sword merchant. Yet, his composure was calm and collective. Gilroy noticed the parallels between the two of them and could not help but feel comfortable in his presence. So many followers of the Order and Eternal Fire often berated and scoffed at the existence of the Hexer. Yet, here it was different. It was more than just their shares species, but their similar places in the world. A strange middle ground, a compromise between equine and non-equine. Nature and the unnatural. Perhaps destiny is not pertained by merely race alone. Causality is driven by a wheel not of fate, but one's own individual choice. "I am not on your side or their's either. I am a monster hunter, not a witch burner." They swayed a hand for emphasis. "But I vaguely know that Scoi'tael commando that has held up the bank. If you go in there without a clue, you and your men are going to get slaughtered. They might be hungry, cold and desperate - but that makes them even more deadly. Like a cornered wyvern."
"Ah, yes, I understand your point - monster slayer." Selig seemed intrigued above all else. There was no rude words to reply to, they did not try to verbally insult the Hexer nor did they even seem to take notice in them beyond the fact that the two of them, as of now, were allies in this situation together. The knight brought their taloned hand up to stroke his own beak in thought. "Wyvern. Often mistaken for dragons. My father, I guess you could say you are able to relate to him, regarding your guild's history... hunted dragons. More often than not, the dragon turned out to be a wyvern. Flying reptiles with serpentine necks and venomous tridents at the end of their elongated tail." Gilroy had forgotten that the Order slayed monsters in their free time between slaughtering whores with their manhood at the whorehouses and burning deer at the stake. Selig managed to spout out knowledge of the wyvern with an encyclopedic lexicon that proved his literacy. The Hexer suddenly began to recognize the title this knight carried.
"Selig of Denesle, son of Ike of Densele, I presume?" Gilroy crossed their arms, but never let their weight lean on one foot or the other. They traced back their memory a bit and remembered an occurrence when they had been given the rare case of actually defending a monster. Not all creatures deserved to be killed. Dragons were among the first inhabitants of Equestria and predated all other species before the Conjunction of Spheres and the Elves that arrived on their white ships from another world. "Ike of Densele was crippled after he erhm... bravely charged a dragon and was promptly swatted down by the beast. Saw it with my own eyes, as I was there with an entourage of similar beast-slayers. He was crushed in his armour, yet he still flailed and managed to toss a bolt from a crossbow toward the dragon. He was a brave gryphon, whatever came of your father - if you do not mind me asking."
Selig chuckled and wiped away some dirt from his torso armour, which was plated in firm steel and painted over with a professional application of rose-red. The Hexer could not help but notice the rose on his sigil was painted in cherry red, however. "Do not worry, Hexer. My father talked rather fondly of you, despite being a bird of few words." That was a strange thing to hear, as Gilroy specifically remembered that Ike of Denesle was more than willing to chop off the Hexer's head when it came to who would slay the dragon. The Hexer could hardly remember the obscure circumstances that lead to them not only saving said beast, but in a way - befriending them. "My father is well passed, may he rest forever in the furnace of the peaceful and healing Eternal Fire. Despite his crippled condition, he requested himself strapped into a catapult and launched into a fray in which the Order was combating a Manticore gone mad." Selig, in his nightly vows, promised to never show sadness in his position as a knight. He turned away briefly for a moment, from the crowd and the Hexer. A tear was cast away with a flick from his talon onto the ground, where not even his own men could see. "It was a ferocious battle, my father flapped his crippled wings and still managed to gouge out an eye from the manticore. The beast replied predictably."
A loud crashing was heard, followed by some consecutive thuds. Another hostage was killed. A mare had been laid down onto the wooden floor of the bank and several arrows were cast from antler-bows into her body. They pierced her to the floor, no doubt about it. The Hexer's enhanced senses could hear the blood dripping from the ceiling of the floor below onto stacks of coin in the vaults. Ponies in the crowd shuttered at first, but then called for blood. The Knight and Hexer were unphased, in fact - it was Selig who raised a hand and ordered his men to sustain the now decaying position of the barricade. Residents of Wyzim were now just as blood thirsty as the elves. "I am guessing the manticore beat him or mauled him to death? A horrible way to go. Sorry that your father did not have a more honourable and frankly, deserving death. I still commend his bravery." It was weird for the Hexer to speak such sugary words, they had no respect for the deceased Ike but the living and courteous Selig was a different story.
"Actually, you are in fact wrong. My father is now cherished and patronized saint of the Eternal Fire. While himself merely a freelancer attached to the Order, his prestige has granted my name much privilege." Selig corrected, his gaze had rested on the once bare windowsill of the bank's right side. It was now decorated with the bloody mane of a scalped bank employee. This blood should could not go unanswered much longer. A fire that rivaled that of the Enteral's now raged in the hearts of the men of the Order and those in the crowd, ready to riot if necessary. Yet, in the chest of the Hexer, not a single additional pulse of blood exited their heart. "It was once said, that the time of heroes have been lost to the age of old. But I tell you this, Ike was devoured whole by the manticore!" Selig held a single talon in the air in proclamation of the Eternal Fire's greatness and sovereign, protecting rule over equine kind. It was a gesture often used by the members of the Church and Order. "My father, inspired by your Hexer technology, had created his own bombs. They had across their chest, much like you, a belt of items to help him in his final quest. He ignited all of the bombs and from inside, the manticore was burned alive!" A heroic deed indeed, as likely Ike was boiled in the brew of the monster's stomach too.
An arrow was launched through the window on the second floor and placed itself between the eyes of an Order hoofsoldier. Their staggered and their legs eventually gave away, from all fours to on the floor - they were dead before their flank hit the ground. Blood poured from the visor of his helmet and the dying nerves in his body made him twitch, their jaw chatter. "Witness him, brothers!" Selig called out, to a thunderous roar from not just the Order, but the crowd. But it as not angry, it was euphoric. As the corpse twitched and moaned its death rattle - the Order donned their helmets as their commander did. "Witness! Witness! For he is awaited by the Eternal Fire!" Selig screamed, his tender, polite and sophisticated voice replaced by a warrior's. Gilroy had forgotten that he was still a member of the fanatical religious zealots who burned crones to illuminate the Wyzim gardens at night. The worst part was - these were his temporary allies for the time being. Gilroy drew their steel sword and stood alongside Selig. They were going to siege the bank by force, if necessary.
Gilroy wanted to kick himself for getting involved in these politics. What was good for an equine was death for a Hexer.
To Be Continued in The Eternal Fire Part II
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This was primarily written during my recent replay through the original Witcher 1, which was fantastic in every way despite grindyness of some parts
A love letter to some of my favourite characters, Gilroy is placed through a trialing task of morality
Where he is unfortunate enough to encounter the consequences of neutrality and the Hexer path is never as straight and narrow as the title "path" implies
As always, playing with themes of ethnicity, identity and morals in a rugidly dark fantasy world (as dark as I can make MLP at least)
Part II:
Witcher universe belongs to Andrzej Sapkowksi and CDProject Red
MLP belongs to Lauren Faust
A love letter to some of my favourite characters, Gilroy is placed through a trialing task of morality
Where he is unfortunate enough to encounter the consequences of neutrality and the Hexer path is never as straight and narrow as the title "path" implies
As always, playing with themes of ethnicity, identity and morals in a rugidly dark fantasy world (as dark as I can make MLP at least)
Part II:
The Hexer - The Eternal Fire II: A Lesser Evil"The wicked Forefather Kreve had pushed the ponies toward the city of brick, Novigrad. It was abandoned, little knew who previously occupied the hold. A strange glow emitted from one of the palaces, in it was a goblet of fire and a strange being. The guardian stated that it had a single job, to keep the fire going for an eternity. But alas, this prophet grew old and wanted to die in peace. The followers of the wicked skygod Kreve had raped and murdered those who were left behind in the initial retreat. Brave colonists came together, both pegasus and earth pony - they worked together to keep the fire going for the guardian told them before he disappeared: 'Guard this fire and for as long as it is kept burning, you and your kin shall survive even the harshest of conflicts. Monster and Equine.' The forces under Kreve were instantly humbled when they entered the temple and began to worship the Eternal Fire, as they knew it was a sign of divinity that would save them from the monsters th
Witcher universe belongs to Andrzej Sapkowksi and CDProject Red
MLP belongs to Lauren Faust
© 2017 - 2024 Gvozdi
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