The Forsaken

UNINVITED GUESTS

Noname walks as prying eyes watch and judge her every move. She makes her way toward the table, toward Lord Belmon and the other nobles as Master Abacus accompanies her. There is a strange feeling in her stomach; an uncomfortable feeling she never felt before. Her right eye steadies as she braves on. What is this weird feeling? Noname feels something new, something never felt before. An unknown emotion- embarrassment. A strange sensation, a tedious sensation.

Arriving at the table, Lord Belmon stands pointing at the empty chairs beside him; Noname goes to sit, and right as she is about to reach for the chair, Master Abacus intercepts her as he pulls out her chair for her.

She pauses for a moment as she sits down.

Stinky nobles, can’t even pull a chair for themselves. Do they even wipe their own ass, Noname wonders?

“I present to you, my niece. Princess Valima of Garniot,” Lord Belmon says as he sits.

“A pleasure to meet you. I am Abacus, a scholar,” Master Abacus says as he lays the groundwork for the introductions.

“A pleasure to meet you. My name is... Princess Valima of Garniot,” Noname repeats as she sits down. The words are simple enough but for her, it might as well be a page-long poem they forced her to memorize; Master Abacus smiles, filled with as much pride as a parent whose child uttered their first words. It is proper... so far. Belmon and Abacus sneak a peek at each other as they stealthily nod to each other. The first step is done.

Prince Takon stands as he gently bows with a smile on his face and a little red on his cheeks.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Princes Valima. If I might be so bold to say that your beauty is unlike any I have seen,” Prince Takon says as he sits with his eyes intensely fixated on Noname; the Dutchess Emna raises her eyebrow at his comment.

“Um...yes,” Noname adds as she grabs the nearest wine and pours it into her glass; Lord Belmon looks at Master Abacus’es, judgmentally.

“Princess Valima, was it? I believe the servants should attend such matters,” Dutchess Emna adds.

“Pray tell us, Lord Belmon, where did you find the Princess?” Duke Embro asks as he leans forward.

“Indeed. I thought the Princess was kidnapped years ago and there were no words on her whereabouts,” Lord Obul adds.

“She was found right here in Union,” Lord Belmon says.

“In your very own city?” Duke Embro states in shock.

“I have to say that I am shocked,” Dutchess Emna adds.

“I have to concur with the Dutchess. How is it that you have not found her sooner?” Lord Mayro adds as the nobles talk over each other; Master Abacus musters the courage to speak, but as soon as he does a young man steps forward.

“Come now, my dear fellows. This is a joyous occasion! I know that Lord Belmon turned the land in his search for her. We should celebrate his reunion,” Prince Takon says as he raises a glass in Noname’s direction; she looks at him, unsure of what to make of the young man.

“That is true but still to thought she was in the city for all this time,” Duke Embro adds as he thinks.

“Sometimes my lord the best place to hide something is where one would least likely look,” Master Abacus adds respectfully.

“This is true. I still cannot believe that you are alive. Why go through all that trouble and...” Lord Mayro says as he stops mid-sentence.

“Lunch of worms! Lunch of worms!” Noname blurts out drawing questionable gazes of the nobles.

“Who knows what those villains were thinking? What matters is that things are starting to look up,” Lord Belmon adds ignoring the outburst.

“Here! Here! Let us raise a glass to commemorate this joyous occasion and leave the past in the past,” Prince Takon says as he raises his glass breaking any further inquiries; the rest join his cheer.

The grand feast continues as the conversation turns to politics and history; it turns tedious. The Prince contributes little to the chatter as his eyes are fixated on Noname. He keeps an unyielding smile and a steady gaze; she looks behind her as she is unsure of what is wrong with this stinky noble.

“Princess Valima, might I be as bold to ask you for a dance,” Prince Takon says as he stands and extends his hand.

“You don’t look bald to me,” Noname says as she munches on cherries.

“Ha! A splendid sense of humor. Shall we dance?” Prince Takon repeats as he remains inviting.

Lord Belmon and Master Abacus look at each other as they know full well that dancing is most likely not in her repertoire. What to say to this invitation? Should they reject and risk tarnishing their reputation with the Prince or should they allow it and risk Noname making a fool of herself and still end up the same? A lose-lose situation.

“I don’t know how to dance,” Noname says without a second thought to the surprise of others.

“Do not worry about it much. It is simple and I shall show you,” Prince Takon says with an unrelenting smile.

Noname never danced, but she saw other people do it. She remembers their expressions, she remembered it looked fun. This is the first time someone has asked her to dance. The Prince may be a stinky noble, but he looks reasonable; more so than the rabble she associated with at the slums. Noname accepts.

Prince Takon looks at Noname as he puts one of his hands on her shoulder and the other on her hip; she looks unsure of what to do.

He takes her hands as he places them in the correct position.

“Don’t worry, dancing is about having fun,” Prince Takon says as he smiles at her.

“Who said I was worrying,” Noname says as she squints her eyes at him not showing any signs of weakness. This is one of the cardinal rules down in the streets.

They dance casually in the most simplistic and basic form. One step back and one step forth as the music dictates.

The Prince continues to look at her with his inexhaustible smile; Noname notices a handkerchief sticking out of the Prince’s pocket. It looks nice; she snatches it mid-dance.

“Why are ya smiling all the time?” Noname asks.

“To tell you the truth, I didn’t think you would accept my dance proposal. Due to the fact you were a commoner,” Prince Takon says stopping mid-sentence.

“So I am a commoner? So wat?” Noname adds.

“You are a Princess now, Princess Valima,” Takon adds.

“Bah,” Noname responds; she didn’t expect that dancing would involve talking.

“Might I ask you one question?” Prince Takon asks as he leans closer; Noname remains unhinged.

“How did you survive out there? What did you?” Prince Takon asks.

Her mathematical skills are subpar at best, but even she knows that this is over one question.

“I stole, I did wat, I had to survive. Wat of it?” Noname says.

“I see. I didn’t mean to judge. It is a harsh world we live in and more so for some than others. I apologize if I have offended you. I truly only wanted a dance with you,” Prince Takon removes his hands as he slightly bows and walks away.

“Wait!” Noname says as the Prince turns around with surprise.

“Who said to stop da dancing?” Noname says.

“I thought I had offended you,” Prince Takon says as surprised by her statement.

“This dance is fun. Only less talking,” Noname says as she closes the distance between them.

The Prince smiles as he makes a motion of zipping his still smiling mouth; an almost unnoticeable smile appears on her face.

Outside, some distance away from the city of Union, a large army of barbarians marches in its direction. Tall, strong, imposing men and women covered in animal skins bearing weapons and scars of war. A missing eye, a missing finger, no arm, scars on the face, or the body in all shapes and sizes. Truly a tribute to the horrors of war. The swarm marches on foot; at the vanguard, horsemen, and Fenrir riders. Large wolf-like creatures. In the far back barely dressed and physically malnourished slaves follow carrying equipment, craftsmanship materials, and pushing incomplete siege engines. They follow a goliath of a man, even by the savage’s standards, wielding a two-handed sword riding the largest Fenrir covered in war paints. Besides him a man and two women; young, beautiful, skinny with long pale-white hair. Like a serpent of fire, the wave crawls to seek prey and devour it. The bringers of death are coming.

The grand feast of the higher class continues with fancy drinks, rich foods, and high-end entertainment; on the streets, crime, prostitution, black markets, and the partaking of cheap drinks, common food, and low-end entertainment at taverns. Perhaps the low-end entertainment fails in comparison but it is still surprisingly louder.

In a tavern, Shaphas and Tyr are drinking ales one by one; as they finish one, another arrives to take its place.

“That hit the spot,” Tyr says as he chugs his ale; a suspicious man approaches and gives Shaphas a few bottles in a stealthy exchange.

“What sort of drinks are those? Are they any good?” Tyr asks, mildly intoxicated.

“Sadly, should you drink these even you would not be left standing? These liquids are used to create the flames of Aion,” Shaphas says as he packs the bottles.

“For a moment I forgot you are a religious lunatic,” Tyr adds.

“Those that are chosen shall find the light in the dark. For the light is the way, the way is Aion, and Aion is god,” Shaphas says as he shows a sign of a mirrored upside-down seven.

“Is that something from your church?” Tyr jokingly asks.

“Something,” Shaphas shortly adds as he signals the tavern master for new drinks.

“How does a priest like you have so much coin?” Tyr asks.

“Should I not have any coin?” Shaphas asks.

“Most priests I met were dirt poor. I know how these organizations don’t like to share their wealth. If you catch my drift,” Tyr says.

“You speak the truth, I shall not deny it,” Shaphas says as he reminiscences.

“So, why are you special?” Tyr asks.

“I have gotten what I was due from my previous church. Everything I have is... well-earned,” Shaphas says as he looks away in thought.

Tyr recognizes the look upon Shaphas’es face; he knows that look very well.

A beautiful, full-figured woman dances near as she sneaks peeks at Tyr.

“I believe you have caught someone’s eye,” Shaphas adds as he wants to move away from the previous conversation.

“Who?” Tyr asks as Shaphas stealthily nods in the woman’s direction.

“Not my type,” Tyr says as he returns to his drink.

“I have to ask. How did you learn to fight as you do? The way you move seems... unnatural,” Shaphas asks.

“Unnatural? That is good. It is and was all so very unnatural,” Tyr says.

Elsewhere, Melione and Ulric walk amongst the houses and streets of Union; the structures, even if most of them are run-down, are impressive in their eyes as Ulric spent most of his life in the outdoors and Melione, well Melione is Melione. Every building she meets with a curious look. The stone pavement is surprisingly easy to walk on; not like the hard earth of nature. Everywhere around, masses of people on the streets; talking to each other as they exchange gold coins in favor of gifts of drinks, plants, and flesh. Ulric keeps his guard up; he always has his guard up, this is how he survived. Melione walks with purpose and without purpose; she follows her nose, this is her way. Dancing on the streets, men breathing fire as others cheer, some lying on the streets with dead eyes looking nowhere, others doing obscene activities in the hidden alleyways, children begging in the streets and so goes the more sophisticated life of the urban dwellers.

“Here,” Melione says as she erratically changes her path; Ulric does not question the chosen of the Moon as he follows with admiration and conviction.

In front of them lies a seemingly abandoned building; they enter.

“Who are ya?” a bald man sitting with two others asks as he stands.

“Hello,” Melione says as she smiles; the two other men also stand.

“Is this the place?” Ulric asks.

“I dunno ho ya iz but leave fore trouble comes ya way,” the man says.

“Ya. Dis is our spot,” the short man adds.

The tall man stands up, but he doesn’t speak; he never did talk much.

“You are not whole! One piece of you is missing,” Melione says as she walks towards the man.

“Whatcha talkin’ bout?” the bald man asks.

“One of us? Could she be talkin bout Noname?” the short man says.

“Hawta would she no bout Noname?” the bald man asks.

“She is alive. She is in the castle,” Melione says.

“Alive!” the bald man blurts out.

“I told ya, she is alive. Why else would dey let us out?” the short man adds; the tall man nods as he keeps silent.

“Dis is weird! Hawya no bout this?” the bald man asks.

Melione comes closer to him as his face blushes a bit; he has never seen such pure beauty. She smiles.

“You will meet her again. She will be in danger,” Melione says.

“Danger! Whatchatalkin bout? Is ya mad?” the bald man says as he backs up.

“I am not mad, I am Melione. This is Ulric. Nice to meet you,” Melione says, and as she smiles the rough and on-edge status of the three men melts as ice near a fire.

“I am Harry,” the bald Harry says.

“I am Big Pete and this is Little Pete,” the short Big Pete introduces himself and his tall friend Little Pete who remains quiet.

“He doesn’t talk much? Does he?” Ulric adds.

***

Time passes for each in their own way. Some drink in taverns, others play cards with their newly found friends in a questionable structure, and for those living up high, it ends with a feast and dance. For all those who sleep now shall live in the bliss of ignorance, for that which lies in the darkness shall soon fall upon them as it always does; so goes the never-ending waltz of life.

A new day rises.

Lines of new arrivals stand in a well-organized line as they enter the city one by one, following a close inspection of the city guard. In the distance, they hear screams as the people instinctively gaze in its direction. In the first instance, they see common folk running; in the second, a group of Fenrir riders chasing and cutting them one by one. Devouring them.

“Inside the city!” a guard yells as the line runs in haste; there is no time for inspection, not now.

The unfortunate are indiscriminately cut down; men, women- and even the young. Stripped off bravery, they cannot do anything else than watch the massacre unfolding before their eyes.

For some, it starts with a scream.

“Was there a leak?” the giant riding the painted Fenrir asks.

“No, chief Bjorn. None have passed. There will be no reinforcements,” a one-armed savage answers.

“Are you sure?” chief Bjorn asks as he looks at the tall man who seems paltry in his presence.

“The mystics have confirmed it. None have ridden from here and with their magic, we couldn’t have been detected,” the one-armed savage says with confidence.

“And the mystics?” Bjorn asks.

“They have entered the city,” the one-armed man says.

“Prepare the siege!” the giant on the war-painted Fenrir commands as slaves begin assembling catapults and barricades.

“What about the dead Chief Bjorn?” a one-armed savage asks.

“Do something pretty with them,” Bjorn coldly responds as the one-armed savage maliciously smiles back.

For others, the day starts with a simple knock.

“Enter,” Belmon says from his chambers.

Rash-An enters as he lightly bows.

“They have arrived,” Rash-An says as Lord Belmon stands up to look at his city through the window.

“How much?” Lord Belmon asks.

“By my estimate, there are about 50 000 infantry, 10 000 horsemen, and 5000 Fenrir riders. They also have materials for siege engines and barricades,” Rash-An adds.

“The uninvited guests have arrived. The pieces are all set and so the game can finally begin,” Lord Belmon says looking intensely

“The preparations are complete,” Rash-An adds.

“Very well. It is time,” Lord Belmon walks towards his old suit of armor and sword.

He takes the sword as he deeply sighs.

“Today marks the start or end of our history. We shall be triumphant or we shall be no more,” Lord Belmon says as he picks up his sword.