#tolria | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

icarusfrommars · 22 days

Text

In The Muck

In the land of Tolria there resides a Bard and a Guard, two traveling companions who seek to see the world, giving performances and engaging in heroics wherever they find themselves. The two have spread their names far and wide as a pair of mischievous do-gooders, who are always ready to take up arms against the evils of oppression and hopelessness. A duo so dauntless that in some places of the land their names are synonymous with bravery and heroism. With chilling might and wondrous talent they brave their adversaries, bringing steel and song down upon their dastardly victims. The pair that is so grand, so fierce tha-

"Can you please stop with your boasting, sire." protested the Guard, more commonly known as Royal Protector Xantumal Chorster, actively hacking through the underbrush in a fussy sort of way, fit with many grumblings and shakes of the head to emphasize his dislike of the situation.

"Excuse me for trying to think of ways to market us to the masses in these dismal backwater places!" came huffy reply from the Bard following behind, whose full title was Prince Xerseine Thornbush Drestar, the Glamorous and Most Elegant, Second in Line of the Throne of Drestar and Duke of Drent, Illusionist Extraordinaire, Daring Magician, and most importantly an Elf of the Common Folk. A humble title for one so narcissistic. Xerseine will suffice, however, for purposes of this story. "Ugh! My boots keep sinking into the bog and I have the constant presence of a sneeze I am right on the verge of, but it won't seem to tip!"

The elf vigorously scratched his nose in a manner befitting that of his aristocratic heritage and let out a frustrated groan, very clearly an indication of his noble distaste of the fetid swamp they found themselves trudging through, which was nothing if not insistent on dragging the two down inside. Both of them had ample amounts of filth clinging to their clothes and flowing into their boots, something that Xerseine often mentioned in a manner that shows his dignified restraint against complaining about issues he nor anyone else has control over, that being not very much. Xantumal, meanwhile, was at this point accustomed to his companion's cries of disgust with their situation, as he had only been already dealing with them for five shards (months) at this point.

"It's probably the stardust geysers. A local from town told me that they were more active this time of year. Apparently it's a common side effect for elves and other magical beings that get too close. Something about arcane particles or whatever."

"Well, it's all just dreadful if you ask me. You're so lucky that you humans have no natural sense of the Ley as we elves do, otherwise your eyes would be watering just as bad as mine are."

"First of all, saying "you humans" like that is…" Xantumal started, but halted his words midway. Scolding his charge went against his training and place, he knew that much. He caught himself on more than one occasion on this journey nearly speaking out of line, and it had only gotten more frequent as the two spent more time together. Xantumal took a deep breath, steadied his emotions, and respectfully turned towards his prince.

"Apologies, your highness. What I meant to say was that I think the water in your eyes is more likely from the multiple bouts of sobbing when you and your cape fell in the muck. Sire." He ended his helpful retort with a sharp jab on that last word.

Xerseine beheld the bundled up silk he clutched between his fingers. This fine fabric was imported from the distant shores of the islands of Caerdonel and was worth many weights of gold. Well, it was when it wasn't sopping wet and riddled with the essence of the swamp. It was completely ruined, no hope of recovery whatsoever.

"Oh. I suppose you're right." That was Xerseine's favorite cape. He only donned it because he didn't have another one that matched his outfit for today. His "arcane allergies" once again began to act up, as he instinctively rubbed his eyes on his sleeve, spreading more of the swamp's mess upon his pale face.

With that sorted, Xantumal returned to his work of slashing through the tall swamp grass that blocked their path. The two found themselves in this situation after recently coming across the town of Chambery, situated just near the border of the Silver Bog here in the country of Mariton. They arrived in town yesterday evening, and decided it would be good to try their luck with the local inn. Usually the pair made good money in a small town like this, seeing as the townsfolk don't often see magic or High Elves that often, let alone both at the same time. That was how they managed to afford their way through Faloque, after all, and they hoped that it would be the same for Mariton. However, unfortunately for them, this was not the case. While Faloque was destitute and looking for any sort of comfort or break from the monotony of their lives, Mariton was much more of an intellectually minded land whose forte was inventing new forms of magic. So an illusionist strolling on into town and putting on a show was less of a spectacle, and more of a nuisance to most.

The two thought that Chambery would be different, since it is closer to the Faloque border, but once again the two were met with empty stares and uninterested audiences. Xerseine's attitude of self aggrandization and belittling of the townsfolk who passed by in a hurry also certainly did not help. It was less of a nuisance, and more akin to verbal harassment. Eventually, the town guard, if you could call a twelve year old with a wooden sword and an old man who could barely hold his weapon straight a "town guard," demanded the pair pack it up and shut it down. After a back and forth between the geezer and the elf about who was older than the other (it was not Xerseine), Xantumal decidedly pulled the elf aside so he could stew in sophisticated anger, and packed up the stage himself.

However, this left them empty-handed, as the only coin placed within Xerseine's Viol case was a chocolate one, which melted inside and completely ruined the splendid velvet lining. Up until this point they managed to get by relatively easily, without needing to resort to too many acts of daring and no trudging through swamps, but worse came to worse. The Bard and Guard found themselves broke, hungry, and desperate. Over drinks that were extremely cheap but still too expensive for them to really afford (causing Xerseine to have to give up another one of his favorite scarves, which was the 5th time this shard), the two discussed the idea of possibly doing what they dreaded the entire adventure: actual adventurer work.

"And so, alone in the wild, our heroes present themselves up to the challenge. The Bard, regal in all his actions, nobly acquainted and a friend of the folk, was called upon by the unfortunate souls of the quaint village of Chambery to fell the foul dark beast residing within the fog-layered waters of the Silver Bog. A terrible thing, made of sharp teeth and deadly smoke which came in the night with an unholy groan and terrible stench, full of… malicion and… devilrocity! For weeks this godless creature came knocking around the locked shutters and barred doors, looking for an unguarded entrance where it could slink in and devour the residents whole. When it could not, it found the chickens and the lambs and the asses and consumed them in the farmer's stead! As a hero of the people always should be, the Bard was determined to venture forth into the putrid swamp, convincing the hesitant Guard to tag along on his quest to hunt down and-"

"Sire, the people of the town deal in forestry and lumber, not livestock," Xantumal corrected the elf, who had returned to embellishing their current situation, "and if I remember correctly, you were the one who begged me not to accept the job. You're changing the story again."

"Xantumal, I have explained this to you on many occasions at this point. Oftentimes you must sacrifice historic accuracy in order to maintain the audience's interest in the narrative." Xerseine dismissively flicked a lump of muck from the pointed tip of his sharp nose, and placed an expression of intellectual superiority upon his muddied facial features.

"I see." Xantumal did not, in fact, see the importance of such falsehoods and narrative changes. He often wondered why Xerseine felt the need to alter the story in such small ways, and mostly the results he came down to were that it must be an issue of ego for the elf. He wasn't too far off the mark either.

However, it was easier to simply agree and move on rather than sit and listen to an hour's worth of Xerseine's tedious ramblings on the structure of stories and how to captivate the audience in the right ways and so on and so forth. That was yet another thing that he had become accustomed to on this journey, and he considered it even worse than the complaining at points. At least when his lord was whining Xantumal understood what he was complaining about. But when it came to theatrics, he was much less invested.

"All I'm saying is that-" He hacked through another clump of cattails in their way, which clung to his sword, "maybe your audience might appreciate a real story for once." He shook the plants off his weapon and proceeded with his work, his patience with the bog wearing thinner and thinner with each swing.

"I resent the notion that my recountings are in any way fictitious. They are simply… revised to be more appealing." Xerseine adjusted his nose and sniffled regally once more, with the faith that it would provide a moment of relief from the dust of the geysers which permeated in the air. Alas, another fruitless effort that only muddied his face further. "And besides, they can't discern fact from fiction. To those people, my word might as well be gospel! I'd wager I could begin my own religion were I willing to try."

He scoffed at the notion at first, chuckling to himself as they continued forward through the watery underbrush. However, upon further introspection, perhaps that concept wasn't so far fetched as it seemed. It would certainly be a consistent form of income, and he imagined that his royal bloodline would give him an advantage over a more common individual in growing a following. Perhaps founding a sect of his own might be a profitable venture. Only as a business opportunity, of course.

"Sire?"

The elf pondered further. He would likely need an upfront investor in order to afford a compound, though with his web of contacts that shouldn't be too upsetting of a predicament. The question, then, was one of compelling new initiates. He required a satisfactory foundation on which to structure the cul-... organization.

"My liege?"

As a baseline, he needed a compelling hook for new investors. Something that would truly enamor them and thereby entice them to part with their earnings in a consensual manner. Something that was entrancing on the surface, but underneath was simply fruitless. He delved deeper into the concept, with the sense that he was nearing a breakthrough.

"Prince Drestar."

Perhaps a tier system would be sufficient? If a member invested more, then they would be provided greater benefits in the afterlife? Yes. He was closing in on an epiphany. It can't be the afterlife though, that market has been cornered. It would have to be afterlife-like, but what would it be? He was drawing close to a conclusion, he could sense it. It needed to be something tangible, yet elusive. Unknown, yet commonly speculated on. Not gods, no, but…

"Xerseine!"

"Extraterrestrials!"

At this time of year, in the beginning of the season of Growth, you can hear many beautiful noises within the Silver Bog. The distinct pop of a stardust geyser releasing the pressure generated by the latent magic of the earth. The gentle creaking croak of the Wyrd Frogs, whose mating season was in arrival. The soft clicking of young Silver Bats, searching for a delicious meal of tasty Fog Moths or juicy Brush Beetles. An eerily pleasant droning of the Zuratura Bird, who has sparked many folktales and legends of Bog Banshees luring men to their deaths. There are many more sounds of the swamp, and the residents of these areas often refer to these unnervingly captivating noises as Nature's Orchestra. If you ever find yourself with the privilege of visiting the Silver Bog in this season, it is highly recommended that you truly immerse yourself in this beautiful symphony of nature, as it is a most fantastic sound to behold. However, all of this majesty and more had been drowned out by the incessant and irritating racket of Xerseine's woes and Xantumal's constant frustrated grumbling for the past few hours.

But in that moment, the orchestra of the bog overtook the unspeakably awkward silence that befell the Bard and the Guard in response to the elf's inexplicable outburst. Xantumal stood in stunned confusion and surprise, doing his best to wrap his brain around why Xerseine could have possibly gone completely silent for five minutes before randomly yelling out about aliens. He was not doing very well at it, completely puzzled by the prince's crazed declaration as his face sat with a strained expression in an useless attempt to comprehend his charge. For his own part, Xerseine felt extremely daft, with his arms outstretched towards the sky in a gloriously inane manner and a mirthful expression on his face. Slowly, extremely so, he lowered his hands and melted away the childish grin, replacing it with a bashful grimace.

No words were given for some time as the pair stood there in confusion and embarrassment. Neither side seemed to be able to acknowledge what just happened in a way that would be comprehensible, leading to a standoff over who would mention it first. Eventually, however, Xantumal finally cut through the tension.

"We're… here." He stated with a shake of his head and a rough exhale from his nose. With his right hand on his hip in a disapproving way, his left gestured to a small clearing past the underbrush, where an island of more stable ground revealed itself.

Xerseine, ever eager to evict himself from both the torture of the muck and the foolishness of the situation, bounded forward from the spot where he statued to the respite of solid ground. Hopping on his right foot, he swiftly unbooted his left and dumped the grayish-brown slime back into the swamp from whence it came. The elf swapped feet and repeated the action for the other, before desocking his toes and giving the genuine Opretonian goat wool stockings a good wringing. Xantumal pulled his feet out of the mud as well and joined Xerseine on the shore in cleaning out the gunk that had built up in his greaves, making sure to give his feet a good massage as well, which was an understated yet important part of being a Royal Protector. Most of the common folk don't realize how much standing there is when you're charged with protecting the royal family, often for hours at a time. Taking good care of your feet, then, becomes not only a necessity, but often taught in basic training for royal guardsmen such as Xantumal.

"Right, I believe this calls for a drink, then!" Cheered the prince, who produced a most expensive and luxurious bottle of genuine Longeaves Port Red, meant only for a momentous occasion. Considering that the two of them just managed to wade through the leech-filled murk of the Silver Bog without the misfortune of one or both of them dragged into the mud completely, this might as well be as good a time as any. Well, that and the unfortunate situation of the elf lacking in any other bottle of indulgent which might help distract him from their current plight. Xerseine gave his pockets and pouches a pat in search of his favorite ornate gold bottle opener, made by the dwarves of the Northern mountains and carved with ancient runes that were said to enchant the bottle to taste as fine as starlight. A fine marketing scheme that the dwarves came up with to sell more of them off to gullible elven princes. Unfortunately for that gullible elven prince, the bottle opener was nowhere on his person to be found, neither was it discovered within the confines of his traveling purse. In fact, the bottle opener was comfortably resting under the counter at the inn of Chambery, where an intoxicated young bard had left it on his stool the previous night after insisting that it was a truly magical artifact to a disturbed barkeep.

Adorned in grime, missing a precious trinket, and completely sober, Xerseine finally let loose his mounting rage in a reserved and eloquent manner befitting of a prince by exclaiming the most foul words he could conjure up to the heavens above. Meanwhile, Xantumal continued to stretch his legs, having moved on from tending to his toes and now performing his standard fitness routine in order to maintain his strength. While he was not a huge fan of workout culture and dieting and other so-called "healthy living" techniques, Xantumal certainly understood the importance of keeping his body in good condition, especially his legs.

He never skipped leg day. Ever.

Xerseine's completely senseless one-sided shouting match with the sky concluded with a draw, as the elf stomped and stamped at the soil beneath him. With a dignified pout and a smattering of muttered curses, the bard slipped the still soggy garments onto his feet once more and retrieved his purse from where it rested on the ground. Xantumal moved on from his 50 jumping jacks to now 50 lunges, which he threw a cross-body toe touch in with as well. He was already at 19 completed by that point, with the final 100 one-armed push ups just around the corner. 50 for each arm, of course.

"Hurry it up, Xan. We haven't all day here." came a curt demand from Xerseine, who was ready to simply kill the damn thing and go home.

"Twenty-three… Twenty-four… I can't, sire… Twenty-five… Twenty-six… If I stop now, it would result in possible cramps and… Twenty-seven… Twenty-eight… that would obviously not be good… Twenty-nine… in the heat… Thirty… of battle… Thirty-one…" The guard prided himself on maintaining his strength, but prided himself even more on keeping with his routine.

"Can you at least skip the push ups? Just… do them later or something."

"Forty… Doing them later would… Forty-one… Forty-two… go against my routine… Forty-three… Forty-four…"

"And doing them right now would go against my orders. You decide which is more important."

Xantumal did not respond to that. He knew that it was yet another attempt to get a rise, as that's all Xerseine ever seemed to want from him. Well, he hadn't given the elf the satisfaction of truly speaking out of place yet and he wasn't about to either. For a moment, he did consider simply ignoring Xerseine's command and just completing the routine as usual, but thought the better of it. Xerseine pined for disobedience, so the most disobedient thing Xantumal could do was to simply do what the elf asked of him. Therefore, he simply finished the lunges, did his post-routine stretches (slowly as possible, just to frustrate the prince even further), and gathered his gear. He turned back to Xerseine, who was still visibly on the cusp between simmer and boil, and stood at attention as another small act of personal rebellion.

With a roll of his eyes, the bard set off, with the guard marching in a comically overblown manner. See, he could totally enjoy himself! He wasn't just an uptight stick in the mud! Obviously the words of a drunken Drestar from last night still reverberated within a cranky Chorster's head. It didn't help that Xerseine was acting especially… Xerseine-y today.

The elf stopped after only a few paces, and Xantumal halted in his tracks as well, giving a good military stomp to truly punctuate his act of obedient defiance. Xerseine gave a few troubled 'erms' and 'uhs' before stamping down a boot of his own and turning left, with his companion resuming his over-the-top performance behind. Once again, after a short while, the elf stopped and muttered to himself. Resolutely he once again pivoted, this time making a half turn to go the opposite direction, and set off, with Xantumal behind. They only managed to get another thirty steps or so, before Xerseine paused yet again, made a series of anger-filled arm flailings and let out many frustrated grunts and groans, before finally spinning around to show Xantumal his face, flush red with mounting rage and clearly reluctant to admit anything.

"Yes, sire?" Xantumal mischievously teased, faking an innocent inquiry.

"Damn you, Chorster, you know what's wrong!" Xerseine managed to venomously spit out behind clenched teeth, seething with annoyance.

"I'm afraid not, my liege." It took everything he had not to crack. Somehow he kept it steady, though, proving the drunken bard from last night wrong once again. See, he was capable of good acting.

If there were a term for the expression the elf provided his guard, it would have to include the meanings of several different phrases that all involve the desire to inflict incredible amounts of bodily harm. However, to his credit, he once again spun around, gave an anguished cry that would likely give even arena pit fighters pause, before returning to face his companion, this time with a forced grin pushing its way forward through tightly held lips. "Xantumal. Quit playing games with me. This is serious, and I would very much like to get it over with so we can get out of this terrible swamp full of mosquito bites and allergen geysers!"

"I agree with you, sire. This bog is quite dreadful." Xantumal put on his best impression of Xerseine's voice, which he saw caused a vein to bulge in the mocked elf's forehead. Both of them could hardly hold it in anymore, and the man's eyes began to wet from the humor of the situation.

"Good," Xerseine was holding out his hands in desperation as his eyes were wide as saucers, "so tell me."

"Tell you wh-" A small crack in his facade caused him to release a tiny giggle, once again drawing even more ire from Xerseine. The game was coming to a close, but first he cleared his throat and regained his composure.

"Tell you what," here came the final blow,

"Xersy?"

Xantumal knew that the elf's mother used to call him by that nickname when he was a child. He also knew that the prince hated it beyond anything. Xantumal let loose his laughter, unable to continue any longer with the bit. He had finally gotten one over on his liege, after so much mockery and torment, and it was liberating! Meanwhile, for Xerseine, the gates of wrath were unleashed. The bard's head might as well have been smoking, as the words he shouted were tinged with fiery breath.

"Where the Hells are we supposed to be going, you insolent pigheaded willowsniffing fatbritched hornswallowing gitsuckling bootstamped venomsnatched coneydogging thoughtrotten buffoon with a diseased incontinent garden hamster for a brain?!"

With each different insult, Xerseine forcefully poked and prodded and punched Xantumal's chest. All the while, the man could not stop himself from releasing every ounce of mirth in his body, nearly keeling over and collapsing from the full chested cackling emerging from inside. For five shards at this point Xerseine had belittled, mocked, bad-mouthed, and bullied Xantumal, all without a single ounce of retaliation. Thus, for Xantumal to finally pull off this victory over Xerseine? Well, it felt absolutely glorious!

That was until the prince forcefully smacked him across the face with an open hand.

An enraged Drestar shoved himself close to the stunned Chorster, an accusatory finger aimed directly at his face. "How dare you speak to me that way, guardsman? I am your prince and you will show respect towards me and my name! In case you have forgotten, guardsman, my name is Prince. Xerseine. Thornbush. Drestar. And I am your superior! If I ever hear you refer to me in such a way again I will have your head mounted on a spike. Am. I. Clear. Guardsman. Chorster?"

Xantumal had never seen the elf like this before. Usually, even if he was the recipient of light mockery, he would simmer for a short bit but always take it in stride. But this? This was hatred. This was rage. This was a level of fury that the guard didn't even think the prince was capable of. He stood, transfixed in shocked silence. On one hand, his training was so ingrained into him that he instinctively felt the need to drop down on one knee and plead for mercy from the elf. However, on the other…

"You struck me."

"I did, yes," Xerseine raised his right hand once again, this time to go back across the other side of Xantumal's cheek with the back of his open knuckle, "and if you do not submit right now, I will do so again."

Xantumal was raised to be a Royal Protector. It was the duty of his father, his father's father, his mother's father, his mother's mother, and on and on up the tree spreading out into various mothers and fathers. From the day he was born, he was instilled with a sense of honor and service to the crown of Drestar. His place was below, a protector, a guardsman. So why, then, did he feel so conflicted at that moment? He knew in his head that he needed to follow his training and the teachings of his mentors, however in his chest he felt a growing flame, ready to be released. He felt unsure, uncertain. His identity and purpose were on the line here and yet…

Xerseine went to bring his hand against Xantumal's other cheek, but it was immediately taken a hold of by the man's own hand.

"Listen here, Xerseine! For five shards, no, for the last twelve years I have done nothing but submit! I have taken every insult, every order, every outburst, and I have handled them all in stride! Because you are my prince by your bloodline, yes. However, if you have forgotten, your titles were stripped, Prince Xerseine Thornbush Drestar. You have no claim over anything anymore, Duke of Drent! In fact, you have no right to order me to do a single thing! Yet, for all of the time I have spent with you, not once did I ever question my loyalty. I have been and always will be loyal to the crown of Drestar. To your father!"

Xantumal held tightly to Xerseine's wrist, wrenching it from its place near his cheek to firmly twist it around, causing the elf to wince in pain. By this point, the one with the stunned and fearful expression was no longer the guard, but the bard. Xerseine had never before been spoken to in such a manner by anyone, let alone his own servant, and he certainly hadn't been taken ahold of like this.

"Don't you ever question my loyalty again. I am here on orders from your father to look after you, not yours. In fact, I was actually only ordered to watch you so long as you stayed within the borders of Drestar! Yet here we are, in Mariton, hundreds of miles away! I could leave you here and now and be fully within my duties as Royal Protector. I choose to stick around, Xerseine, because if I didn't there is a more than likely chance you would already be dead."

With that, the man releases the disgraced elf, tossing him back with force enough to send him to the ground. By this point, whatever anger Xerseine harbored was completely eradicated, replaced entirely by fear and remorse. Xantumal looked away, returning his focus back to the mission at hand.

"Get up! We promised we'd deal with the monster, and that's exactly what we're going to do. Afterwards we can discuss our… arrangement."

The man hoisted the elf up by his collar and set him on his feet. It took a rough push, but soon the two were in motion, in pursuit of their prey. A chilled breeze blew through the swamp, choreographing the fog in a strange dance that made it seem almost alive. The orchestra that sounded so serene before changed their tune to one of suspense, as the two infiltrators barreled forward into uncertain danger. Though Xerseine embellished the appearance of the creature they were after, in truth nobody in town could give an answer as to its real appearance. The only bits of information that they gathered was that it was large, pitch black, and wielded a sharp row of teeth. The two weren't even certain whether or not its lair truly lied ahead, as it was seen as a bizarre speculation by an old town drunkard. However, as it was the only lead they had to work with, they decided that traveling through the murky bog in search of a small den hollowed out of the side of a hill was better than just wandering into the bog in hopes of bumping into the damn thing.

Thus, after three hours of trudging through that muck, they finally arrived at the hill the drunken man told them about. From this angle, it was hard to tell if there really was a den within, as it just seemed to be a normal hill. As they rounded the left side, however, it all changed. Sometimes old codgers just simply have a way of inexplicably knowing things, through the sheer power of insanity and alcohol. Right there, fast asleep within a small crevice that would be nearly imperceptive in a heavy fog such as this to anyone who wasn't looking too hard, was their culprit.

A young girl, who could not have been any older than 11 or so, and who was wrapped up in nothing but a thin cloth to keep her warm.

"Pantheon be praised," a troubled Xantumal said with an exasperated sigh, "we've got a… kid… situation."

Xerseine, who was cowering both in shame and terror, using Xantumal as a human shield, slowly poked over the man's broad shoulder pads. Expecting a ravenous beast to be residing in the hole, he was not prepared to see just the small, shivering child in its place. With a scoff and a wave of his hand to signify the dismissal of his foolish fright, the elf gave a wide step around his flesh shield, shooting Xantumal a mischievous wink.

"Oh, I'm fantastic with children! They absolutely adore me. You just stay here. You might scare her off with your combative stance."

"Combative stance? I don't have a… combative stance." Said the man whose hand was resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword and whose legs were firmly planted in a way that would allow him to release the blade with a swift upward slicing motion with a wide berth, perfect for sudden and swift decapitation.

Xerseine provided an unconvinced glance in response, then returned his attention to the dozing youngster. Her lengthy raven black locks obscured her facial features, though that was not what stuck out to the elf. Judging by how her milk-pale skin clung to her thin bones, it was clear to Xerseine that she was extremely famished, and were it not for the slight amounts of movement upon the surface of the paper thin shawl that covered her, most others would have mistaken her for a corpse. The privileges of elven eyesight were almost as satisfying as the privileges of elven nobility in that sense.

A stardust geyser only a few meters away gurgled with arcane gas, causing Xerseine's nose to once again continue its unfortunate irritation and his eyes to flood over. He doubled over, took in a deep breath through his nose, and violently released it with a sneeze so loud it reverberated across the murk and startled a pair of hunters looking for a wild swamphen that would provide a tasty feast for tonight's supper.

Both Xantumal and Xerseine froze, as the poor girl stirred in her slumber. A bleary-eyed visage peered out from underneath the veil of hair, curious as to the intruders who decided to interrupt the small bits of slumber she was able to afford. As her gaze came into focus enough to comprehend the sight of two strange men with swords looming over her, she paused for a minute in surprise. The scrawny one reached out a hand which came much too close for her liking. The girl released an ear-splitting screech, even louder than Xerseine's outburst and causing those hunters to flee in terror, crying about bog banshees out for their blood.

Thinking quickly, Xerseine snatched up his flute from his pack and jammed it against his lips. A soft tune from his childhood erupted from its ornate brass construction, intended to soothe the disturbed child and laced with a twinge of magic to make sure it took. Take well it did, as the girl switched from a terrified scream to instead a silent and tense observation, her breathing extremely fast-paced. Her knees were pressed up to her chest and she attempted her best to cover herself with the small bit of fabric she was previously using for warmth.

"Yeah. You sure are great with children, sire." bluntly stated Xantumal, with an unconscious slip back into his protectorate role. He was still on edge about the situation, with a sense that something was off about this unusual child. His hand did not move from the hilt of his sword.

Xerseine ignored the man, offering a graceful gesture of kindness and fair noble generosity to the girl. "Hello there, fair maiden. We are no marauders with intentions to bring harm upon you. We are simple and humble travellers in this realm." Slowly and methodically, he inched towards her. She responded by bundling herself up in an even tighter grip and ducking her head deeper into the comfort of her knees. Xerseine was unsure if the girl could even comprehend his words, her eyes darting between him and Xantumal, who was still just as poised and ready to release his blade at any moment. The elf followed her gaze over his shoulder and shot his companion a commanding glance. Xantumal relaxed his shoulders and fixed his posture, however to the sword his hand was kept firmly gripped around. "This scowling fellow here is my loyal servant, Xantumal."

The bard looked back at the girl, attempting to reflect kindness in his eyes. To an outside observer, however, it was more along the lines of an uncomfortable bowel movement. "Most know me as Prince Xerseine Thornbush Drestar, the Fair and Honourable and…" He suddenly felt a sharp taste of bile in his mouth as he began to recite his title, as if his body were rejecting his own personage. The elf cleared his throat, conceding the attempt at formalities. "You can simply refer to me as Xerseine."

Xantumal was firmly concerned with ensuring Xerseine's safety, and so kept his expression narrow and expectant of the worst. However, this small moment of humility from the prince did evoke a slight twitch of his brow and a flare of his nostril.

"What is your name, little one? I promise we are an honourable duo and shan't bring you harm."

The girl gave no response, however her breathing began to still. Slowly, her fear subsided, and she relaxed her bunched up form as the surprise of the two strangers fell away. Xerseine once again turned to Xantumal and gestured for him to provide his cloak. The guard approached their bags which they abandoned near the water's edge, rummaged about within his own, and produced a blue and white cape which was standard issue for those within the royal protectorate. Unlike Xerseine's drape, however, Xantumal had the foresight to pack the cloak away so that it would not become drenched during their crossing through the muck. The elf took it from him with a thankful bow of his head–which once again gave Xantumal a brief moment of pause–before offering the article to the girl. Slowly and gently, as if taming an animal, he set it down in front of her and retreated a few feet back towards his partner, giving her space to retrieve it if she so wished, which she did.

"I'm getting a bad sense here, sire. There's something up with that girl. She's unnatural."

"Nonsense. It's simply your soldier's paranoia acting out of turn."

"I'm telling you, I don't like this. Sometimes it's more than paranoia, it's intuition."

"How is it that a helpless young lady all alone in the bog gives you such trouble, Sir Chorster?"

"I can't explain it exactly. It's as if something about her is rotten… Like she has an aura of curdled milk."

"First of all, disgusting, secondly, that's not how you speak of a lady, third…"

Xerseine let out a wheezing chuckle at Xantumal's insinuation of this "aura" about the girl, holding onto his shoulder for support as his knees buckled from his unquenchable mirth. The guard, stoic as ever, kept his gaze affixed to their subject of conversation. His grip on the sword tightened even further.

Nearby, that same geyser from before once again began to bubble and fume, spewing that mystic ash into the surrounding atmosphere. Xerseine's nose had only barely recovered from the previous bout of frustration, as yet another was brought upon him. The same reaction was had by the girl, who utilized Xantumal's cloak as a sort of oversized handkerchief as she doubled over from the fumes.

Within a split second, the man lunged forward past Xerseine and readied his blade, its point aimed right between the eyes of the girl, who was immediately once again accosted with fright. He had been suspicious of her presence this entire time, and now there was clear proof that something was amiss. The only beings who react to the dust of these geysers are…

Xerseine, catching his breath after a series of sniffles, placed a firm hand on Xantumal's shoulder and spun him around. "What is the matter with you today? You can't just brandish your sword at a maiden such as her!" With a bit of a scuffle, he grappled against Xantumal's tight grip on his sword. He gave the guard's hands a few harsh slaps, before finally and forcefully wrenching the blade from him. "You need to be more considerate of those who are lesser off than yourself! Therefore…"

The sword now in Xerseine's hand was a precious heirloom to the Chorster family. It was a time-honored tradition that the sword, made of pure silver ages ago, was passed down to the most recent Chorster recruited into the royal guard. As Xantumal was that most recent candidate, it had been in his possession for many years at that point. He treated the blade with more care and tact than a father might treat his son, and he never went anywhere without having it on his person, with intense emphasis on anywhere. It meant more to Xantumal than anything else.

So, of course, Xerseine casually and uncaringly hurled it over his shoulder and into the swamp.The guard could only look on in horror and unbelievable anger as it soared through the air, its silver beauty glinting off the small rays of light that pierced their way through the trees, before it was swallowed whole by the mud of the swamp with a sucking sound. Xantumal made a very similar sound, as he exhaled every molecule of air from his body all at once and deflated like a ball punctured by a hundred spikes.

"Therefore, I rescind your right to bear arms in her presence entirely." To the maiden, he gave a deep bow, and to the stunned Xantumal he gave a pat on the shoulder. "As I said, you shan't be harmed by our presence, young one." To Xerseine's delight, the girl stood from her cowering spot and cracked a smile in his direction. He returned a smile of his own and once again bowed deeply. Finally, he was getting through to her!

Or so he thought. As he raised his head and the pair locked eyes, he realized he hadn't truly given her face a thorough examination. The girl's eyes turned red and bloodshot, unnerving the elf. With a frightened falter, he fell upon his behind, crushing something hard and uncomfortable underneath him.

Xantumal managed to finally break himself free from his disbelief, and began towards Xerseine with a definite intention of harm upon him. However, upon witnessing that the girl had reversed the roles and was standing over the elf, duty replaced rage. The man threw himself in front of Xerseine, walling him off from whatever this thing approaching was.

The girl took a few steps in the pair's direction as Xantumal called out, "Go no further, creature! Leave us and the town nearby alone, or else we will be forced to claim your life!" His warning, however, was difficult to hold up when he was without weapon and his companion was flat on his ass in the dirt behind him. The child before them began to shift, her thin, milk-pale frame becoming lanky and gaunt with her already tight skin stretching to fit these elongated limbs. Her blood-red eyes sunk into her skull, which barred nasty, dagger-like rows of teeth, yellowed and ridden with grime. The fingers and nails on her hands extended out, resembling sharp talons and which could undoubtedly puncture straight through the toughest of armors mankind could fashion. The creature's hair also fell longer, almost touching the ground despite the fact that the monster was well over 7 feet by the end of its transformation.

The two shot nervous glances at each other. They found their beast alright.

Before there was time to react, Xantumal was quickly swatted aside by the monster, his body flying through the air and slammed into the murky water of the bog with a painful splat rather than a splash. The guard groaned in pain, though nothing seemed to be broken. Praise the pantheons for padded armor! With mud clinging to his loose dreads, he lifted his head up and gave a shout to Xerseine.

"Quickly! Play something and put the thing to sleep!"

The beast methodically and patiently creeped towards the downed elf, who was trying his hardest not to need new trousers for reasons beyond trudging through a few miles of mud. He scooted himself backwards, away from the beast who was approaching at a brisk pace, all the while scanning the landscape for where his flute could have rolled off to.

Then he scooted another foot backwards and found the remains of his instrument underneath him, with a fine dent in the shape of his rear right in the middle. This must have been what he fell upon a moment ago, and it now was useless for any sort of music making. Unfortunately, he left the rest of his musical toolkit with his bag, on the other side of where the monster was gaining on him. There was no hope of getting past the thing to retrieve them. He would undoubtedly be skewered well before he got the chance.

Xerseine took a fearful moment to wonder how his life ended up this way. He once lived lavishly and comfortably in the grandest palace in the world, with servants at his every beck and call. He didn't have to lift a finger for an entire day and everything would be done for him. He owned titles and land, with entire regions under his direct oversight. The galas and parties and balls he put on within his holds were said to rival those of the Gods themselves. Fascinating all with his noble recountings of adventures that he most definitely embarked upon. He was one of the most powerful political figures in all of Tolria not but 6 months ago.

And now here he was, about to die in a swamp to a… Hair…ling… He'd workshop out the name in the Realms Beyond, he figured. The elf, with a long sigh and acceptance of his fate, closed his eyes and waited for his swift end to come to him in a dignified way, with the honor of those in his royal heritage. He gave one final, serene prayer as he watched his doom come near.

"Oh, Pantheon! Xantumal! Please save me! Xantumal, help me! Please! I don't want to die!"

The Hairling, who frequently enjoyed the sound of its prey squealing in fear, pulled back its lips even further than they already were as far as they could go. It drew its black tongue along the rows upon rows of deformed teeth, imagining how good this defenseless little morsel must taste. While the monster wasn't too keen on the taste of human, this being wore a different scent around it. It reminded the creature of fresh fruit in the springtime and the smell of morning dew. Yes, without a doubt, this little snack was full of mouth watering and incredibly juicy magic. The Hairling drew its claw near to the morsel, before rearing back and…

With a cry of battle and a leaping lunge, Xantumal appeared as if he was summoned by Xerseine's cries and tackled the creature to the ground. The two rolled a few feet from Xerseine, a tangle of black hair engulfing them both. The guard and the monster wrestled there in the dirt, the man somehow overpowering the unholy strength of the beast. Xantumal began to send blow after blow into the teeth of the monster, causing his knuckles to become cut on their points. The Hairling gave out a vicious cry of pain and frustration, desperately trying to tear the revolting human from off of it.

"Xerseine! Now!" called Xantumal, gesturing to their packs on the shoreline. The elf quickly did as told, managing to finally find his footing in spite of the fear gripping his whole body. He threw his weight towards the bags, quickly stumbling his way to them as fast as his unstable legs would take him.

With a roar of rage, the Hairling threw Xantumal off of its prone position and once again back into the mud. He landed with an "Oof!" this time right against the rim of one of the geysers which were so active during their trip. He gave it a quick glance down inside the hole.

It was frantically bubbling, and looked ready to burst at any moment.

Meanwhile, the Hairling quickly got to its feet and, with a shake of its gaunt face to reorient itself after the human's beating, started after its tasty little snack. The beast lunged forward after Xerseine, who was only a few feet from their packs. It managed to just barely take hold of the morsel by his ankle, causing him to fall to the ground just barely out of reach of the bags. It succeeded, despite the intrusion of the disgusting human, and now it would feast on the fruits of its labor, or in this case, meat.

Xerseine strained his arm as far as it would reach. All he had to do was grab a hold on his bag…

The creature pulled the fresh meat closer, closer. It managed to get to its feet, still with the meal in its claws, and went to examine its prize.

Which is exactly when Xerseine swung his bag as hard as he could against the sunken eye socket of the monster. With a screech and a howl, the beast recoiled in pain and covered its injured eye, its vision becoming full of pinpricks of light which staggered the beast. Xerseine managed to slip free of its claws and quickly found the ground below him headfirst with a thud. The elf was now the one seeing stars, waving his arm in frantic search of the pack he dropped when he fell.

Now the monster was exceptionally enraged, turning to Xerseine with the intent of doing worse than simply eating him alive. It once again shook its head, cleared its eyesight, and bounded forth, talons first, ready to rip the elf to shreds.

Unfortunately for the Hairling, Xerseine found a hold of his violin. He didn't have the bow, but that didn't matter. Thinking quickly, he plucked the strings that he vaguely remembered would cast his sleeping spell, hoping that it would be enough to stop this terrible monstrosity.

But instead of dropping to the dirt in slumber, the creature was launched into the air, flying away from Xerseine as if a sudden force sent it careening backwards into the muck. Both the bard and the monster were stunned, neither expecting such a spell to emerge from his improvisation. It landed not too far from where Xantumal lied against the geyser, as the man waded his way to the Hairling as quickly as the swamp would let him. Once again the creature attempted to clamber to its feet, but the unstable ground underneath the muck proved to be a greater adversary than anticipated. It seemed nothing was going in its favor today…

Xantumal was swift in reaching the monster, engaging it in a headlock from behind as it struggled to get to its feet. Though the beast's claw-like nails swung and swiped, the guard had a hold of it in such an angle that it could barely reach behind. Xantumal heard the geyser bubbling behind him, about to blow. With all the strength he could muster up inside of him, he dragged the Hairling, kicking and howling and swiping, right over the arcane geyser. He stuck himself within the geyser's pit, feeling the heat rising on his back.

During all of this, Xerseine had willingly entered the murky waters on the other side of the island. Frantic and mostly running on adrenaline, he combed the waters for the sword he so carelessly discarded before the creature emerged. He cursed his own name for doing something so foolish, wading through the waist high muck in desperation to find the blade. Where could it have gone? Where is… Ouch! The elf stepped on something sharp and long in a particularly deep section of the swamp…

Xantumal felt the geyser boil beneath him. Sensed the aura of it, as he had when they first entered this bog. It reminded him of times as a child, running about playing knights with his older brothers. He wished that he could be home right now, to be able to make mischief like that once again and get into all sorts of trouble. To dream of being a great hero to the people and receive recognition by the king himself. He shook his head. This was no time for childhood reminiscing, especially since he held a very angry and squirming horror creature pinned down, who was doing its best to take his head while halfway inside a geyser about to explode on the two of them.

"Xantumal! Your sword!"

The guard saw the silver blade spin through the air once again, landing not too far from where he and the creature were interlocked. He turned his gaze to the island, where Xerseine stood, covered head to toe in mud and dripping wet. The elf gave the man a confident nod, and readied the bow to his violin. Xantumal flung himself off the beast, who swung wildly at the man as he escaped, managing to cut a nasty length down his back with one of its claws. As he trudged through the water, he could sense the beast's aura of spoiled milk and rotten eggs on its way after him, looking for revenge against the guard.

Suddenly, there was a whistle from the shore, as the creature turned to see its desired meal standing confidently at the top of the hill. The monster screeched once more and abandoned its hunt on the man, still prioritizing its next feast over anything. It saw the elf place the bow against the strings of his violin and begin a tune. Xerseine didn't have time for words with the last spell, but this one deserved a proper casting, he determined. The bard closed his eyes and exhaled, before quickly fiddling out a tune.

Oh, Hairling! Oh, Hairling!

A beast they described, yet none could expect

The wickedness of your smile, the awfulness of your stench!

Oh, Hairling! Oh, Hairling!

Your game was set when you challenged the bard!

And the match was met when you battled the guard!

Oh, Hairling! Oh, Hairling!The truth, it seems, your sneezes did give away,

And soon enough, your arcane allergy will save the day!

Oh, Hairling! Oh, Hairling!

Remember this when you're long dead!

'Twas your own fault we chopped off your hairy, hairy head!

Though it could not understand the words, the Hairling recoiled with each verse, as if it were being tormented by countless voices. It felt the taunting force of Xersine's song like a million arrows in its head, as it stumbled backwards towards the geyser. It tried covering its ears, tried shutting its eyes, tried to screech over the words, but nothing worked. On and on the nasty musical meal taunted him, repeating that same song until it could no longer bear it. The monster reopened its sunken eyes, ready to tear the elf to shreds.

And it was at that moment that the geyser directly behind the monster erupted. A massive shower of arcane dust fell upon the beast, covering every inch of it above the water with scalding hot fumes. The monster cried. The monster howled. The monster screeched.

Then the monster sneezed. And sneezed. And sneezed.

It simply could not stop. It was completely overtaken by the geyser's influence, completely rendering it unable to see where it was going or what it was doing. The Hairling sneezed for almost a minute straight, until its vision went cloudy and its face went numb. It sneezed long enough for Xantumal to grab on to his sinking sword. It sneezed long enough for him to make his way over to it.

And when it was doubled over, its lungs on fire and its nose finally clear of the particles that refused to leave, it discovered that it sneezed long enough for the man to raise his sword and bring it down upon the creature's neck, parting its hairy, hairy head from its body. ----------------------------------------------------

"I do believe that they shorted us for this job."

Xantumal Chorster and Xerseine Drestar sat at the bank of the Silver Bog, counting out the gold pieces they received in return for the head of the creature that tormented the small town of Chambery in the country of Mariton. The original reward poster offered a total of two hundred gold for evidence of the slaying of the monster. There were, in fact, only one hundred and eighty two gold pieces in the coin purse which they received.

"That's not even the worst of it. Look, Xers."

Xantumal divided his share into two separate piles, one that had coins featuring an insignia of three shields and a crown above them, while the other pile was made up of coins with a triangle hole through the middle and an ornate arrangement of flowers surrounding it. They were very clearly distinguishable from one another, even from a distance. He picked up one of the triangle cutout gold pieces and help it up to the sky

"A good amount of this is Faloque currency. We can't even use it here in Mariton. Damn crooks…"

"I wouldn't jump to calling names too quickly, my friend." Xerseine interjected, unwrapping one of his coins that turned out to just be made of chocolate and popping it into his mouth, "Perhaps it was simple blind ignorance of how the rest of the world actually works. Or maybe they just didn't have enough gold here in town."

As if Xerseine had just spoken in ancient tongues, Xantumal gave him a confused and worried expression. "Are you sure you're feeling alright, sire? We were in that bog for quite a while. You didn't contract anything, did you?" Instinctively, Xantumal went to put his hand to Xerseine's forehead to check his temperature, just like Granna used to do when he was sick.

Xerseine batted the man's arm away and scoffed heartily. "I feel perfectly complacent, though I appreciate your concern. However, my nose is certainly ready to leave this swamp and never return. I still have that itch that refuses to go away." He ruffled his nose with a sniffle, only gaining a small bit of relief from the attempt. He sighed and opened another chocolate coin, resting it on his tongue and letting it melt against the roof of his mouth.

"If you say so. You're just acting… strange is all. More understanding all of a sudden." While the elf wasn't looking, Xantumal quickly nabbed one of the chocolate coins and snuck it in his own mouth, crushing it to bits with his tongue against his teeth.

"I suppose I realized something in the muck. Perhaps it was just an idle reflection but on our way back I saw myself, really probably for the first time ever. Covered head to toe in mud, beaten up, missing half of my valuables, and clothes ruined and I… Well I guess I had a revelation of sorts. I used to hoist myself up upon the backs of other people, telling their stories, lifting their experiences and puppeting them as my own. I never stopped to consider the people who risked their lives to ensure a small town like this could sleep in peace, even for a single night. I never gave credence to the lengths they must have gone through for something so small. I just… bastardized their tales with tawdry fluff. You were right, Xantumal. Sometimes the true story is better to tell." Xerseine moved his pile of chocolate coins in between the two of them, not noticing the one that was pilfered a moment ago was gone, "And sometimes, you just have to accept the truth, despite its mucked up visage."

Xantumal felt as if he had just been shot by an arrow in that moment, as he responded to that confession with a look of abject shock the likes of which he had never experienced before. Did he hear him correctly? Did Xerseine just say that he was… right?

"Don't hold your mouth so agape, Xantumal. You don't want a Silver Mosquito flying in there." Xerseine gave Xantumal a slap on the back and a hearty laugh at his own joke, but Xantumal still could do nothing but stare at him with disbelief. Xerseine, the elf who challenged the king himself and was banished for it, admitted to being wrong for once? It was completely unheard of, and yet here they were.

"Hello? Xantumal?" Xerseine waved a hand in front of his friend's face in an attempt to wake him from the stupor that claimed him, alas to little results. Xantumal still remained just as stunned as before. Xerseine switched tactics and gave a quick snap right in front of the man's eyes, and that seemed to summon him back into his body, though he was still unable to bring himself to form anything coherent for a moment.

"Y-yes, sire. Apologies, your highness, I didn't… Wow." Xantumal had no words. He legitimately had no idea what to say in response beyond "Wow."

Xerseine, for his own part, was extremely confused at Xantumal's strange attitude, but waved it off. Having to live so short of a life must make you crazy earlier, he thought. And so, the two sat in silence, finishing off the last few chocolate coins between them and listening to the gentle creaking croak of the Wyrd Frogs, the soft clicking of young Silver Bats, the eerily pleasant droning of the Zuratura Bird, and all other sounds of Nature's Orchestra that can be found in the beauty of the muck of the Silver Bog.

Art by @madiroller

#Xerseine Drestar #Xantumal Chorster #OC #short story #dungeons and dragons #Tolria #Young Misadventurers #fantasy #writing #paranormal

9 notes · View notes