How to gut a shadow – Chapter 3

It is a peculiar thing, Eyren will accede. The fact that Herdbrand do not leave corpses behind does inescapably augment the outlandishness of these monsters, should one exclude the little faded glyph which falls to the ground in the aftermath, of course. Having slain quite a margin of them up until this day, on the other hand, she’s partially grown past vexing her mind or theorizing on the subject, but when her employer sought proof of a terminated task, she had to point him to these runic stones that had flopped to the soil. The face he’d given her was one of both wonder and disbelief, that a monster of this elevation would be remolded into such a tiny scrap which one can keep in one’s fingers.

Once it’s done, the farmer has dug his hand into his pockets and fishes out a pouch with coins, representing the impercesms which she’s receiving for the job.
“Here you go, my friend: your due payment. Take it, with my compliments of course!”

Eyren lets it sink into her palm and dips her head in acknowledgment.
“Much obliged.”

With the two of them now right ahead of one another, he stares into the eyes which she’s training on him, those who have shifted from their navy blue to an eerie grey-white.
“I…I don’t know whether you’re aware, but…your eyes are…different.”

Hoping not to discourage him, she merely smiles at him serenely.
“Ah, nothing to worry about. I’ll be okay. This usually happens.”

“Does it? Hmm. Very well, then. Either way, I’m thankful for your efforts, miss Katlattar! You truly are a great person and warrior for having pulled this off alone.”

“Not alone – Razz here was with me”, she says and designates a hand at the raptor, who chitters happily to have been included, her tail wagging slightly.

“Hah! I see, I see. A thanks to both of you, then! And if you don’t mind, I’ll be keeping this rune. Think it’ll make for a nice trophy on a shelf in our living room.”

“Go ahead, I don’t have any use for it. Seen too many by now anyway.”

This threesome is not sequestered completely from the remnant of the village where they came out of, for another man is standing nearby, who’s studying the leftover runes on the ground which have practically crumbled at this rate. When he at last rises to his feet, he heads closer to them.
“I think it’s over now, Tenkeeper”, the farmer tells him and there’s a somewhat smug hint to his face. “Seems your warnings were for nothing, huh? I did find myself a fitting hireling after all! And the job done was quite a spectacle. Am I right or am I right?”

The religious representative isn’t concerned with him, but rather keeps his attention upon the warrior, staring at her for an elongated spell, to the point where Eyren finds it a smidgen eerie.
“…Fateworn.”

“…come again?”, asks the farmer.

“That’s what you are, correct?”

A nominally rude capacity to address someone, following this time span they were separated and then factoring in the deed she accomplished in the interim. For him to hurl that denotation on her free of any other notions makes her wonder what reputation they have amid the Temples of the continent these days.
“I’ve been called that before”, Eyren agrees. “Guess it’s not wrong.”

The Tenkeeper lets that hang in the air for three seconds and then he shakes his head.
“I hadn’t realized this was what you implied when you spoke to us that day. Had I certified your nature, perhaps I would’ve been more careful with my prayers.”

“I did tell you it’d be okay.”

“Wait wait”, the farmer intercedes. “Keeper, what was that you said? Fate…something?”

“Fateworn”, the Tenkeeper repeats. “It is what the Temple has decreed to classify people like miss Katlattar here. Those souls who are resilient to the stigma spread by the Herdbrand, who do not receive the mercy of a brisk death from its contamination. The plague caused by the Herdbrand is referred to as ‘the Woerdinn’, for it as cruel and capricious as fate is wont to be, and Fateworn are the most cursed by its viciousness.”

Blinking his eyes, the farmer then peers down on the hand he employed to shake Eyren’s.
“Uh…is that…contagious?”

“No”, the Keeper assures him and continues staring at Eyren. “It isn’t, but for the sufferer, it is deadly, seeing as they are fated to perish a drawn-out and ghastly death. A Fateworn never persists into old age.”

Well, that’s one form of looking at it, she supposes. She’s not stumbled on this precise phrasing preceding this moment, but the sentiments don’t dissent monstrously from some cautions and indignities she’s scored out of those who rarely cotton onto what she can bestow them or her own philosophy in the matter. She really doesn’t warrant nor ask for their pity. With a sigh, Eyren turns away from him.
“Thanks, I’m aware.”

Eyren is seconds away from bidding her farewell and taking Razz with her out of this field when she catches a noise out among the tall grass, which to her makes to be a dab of rustling too affected to be natural. Prior to letting her speak, however, six beings leap out of various sectors of these plants only ten meters from them, keeping what is definitely weapons in their hands.
“Alright, mbjaker, nobody moves!”, bellows an older man with a sword in his hand, the traits across his features coming off a bit like a hyena’s. Despite his weaponry, he doesn’t carry any armor or separable defenses, but it’s feasible that he doesn’t require any, for with him are five extra persons who abet him in shaping a half circle revolving the quartet.

“What…what is the meaning of this?!”, wonders the flabbergasted farmer.

The central figure of the sextet grins at him and rolls his sword around in his hand.
“Sounds like you’re having a nice little post-job discussion here, eh? Well, excuse us for barging in, but we happen to have business with this lonely ranch and its fields.”

“Business? What business?”

“Namely, we’re going to take anything of value that ya won’t be needin’ right now. We can start with that sack of coins that was handed to the wannabe hero over there. And you, old man, yer the owner of this shack, right? Get your gitties out of whatever chest you’ve buried at home and lay it here on the ground. And we’d like some supplies too, so grab yer best goodies while you’re at it.”

This sudden eruption was not anything like what any of the three people standing and discussing had forecasted, that there would be a bunch of scavengers twice their amount lying in wait somewhere in the shadows to take things from them. The Tenkeeper is fixating on them with a stern exterior, while Eyren frowns and the farmer is widemouthed to the core. As for Eyren personally, she isn’t unacclimated to their colors, as she’s crossed and even killed numerous cases of them throughout her tour of the continent, in spite of that she hasn’t been out here that long.
“You…”, the farmer finally releases. “What are these demands you’re making?! How dare you come here and extort me?!”

“Extorting?”, asks the leader and huffs, taking steps nearer to them. “That’s a little rude, don’t you reckon, otapiwa?” That last utterance is no doubt an invective, Eyren can recognize this much. “We’re only conducting a grain o’ business. The trade being that you give us your stuff and you get to keep your lives.”

“It’s not extortion”, claims Eyren. “It’s theft. They’re bandits.”

“B…bandits?”, stutters the farmer. “But…we haven’t seen any of those since…a great many years.”

Taking in her vision, the head cutthroat grins at Eyren and lets out half a bellylaugh.
“Well, lookie here, an aiwei with a clearsighted head.” Eyren believes that term refers to a nonnative, but in a demeaning fashion. “How refreshing. Can’t help but notice ya haven’t handed over your gitties yet, though. Why don’t ya get to it, before I cut off both your reward and your hand, huh?”

Gitty or gitties is an Ahteron slang term which principally everyone is apprehensive of, being that it’s about money. While ‘impercesm’ is the official name for the Ahterilonan currency which was established by the old empire, it’s the symbols on their two sides that have won popularity among the commons: one side showcases a saber cat head, a fairly fashionable mount in the east, whereas the diametric end holds an ocular icon, the whole item made from gold. That they were then named gitties – ‘gold kitties’ – or ‘imp eyes’ by the populace is a blinding truth that the officials should’ve seen coming.

Standing where she is, however, Eyren is not demoralized by his threats, nor by the lady with avian features and daggers in her hands who is positioned several meters behind the northerner.
“Why don’t you try taking them from me?”

“Ooh, a feisty one”, goes the bandit. “Yer gonna give us a lil’ fun in the midst of this, are ya? Heh. Well, we don’t mind dancing with ya, not the least bit.”

“Please, everyone”, the Tenkeeper pauses their hostilities with, “let’s take a step back and relax these tensions, shall we? There’s no reason we can’t simply deliberate on this in a civilized manner, yes?”

Crinkling his brow with a line of perplexity, the bandit head regards the Tenkeeper as if he just uttered the most preposterous and alien sentence that’s been spoken at any point.
“…huh? Who the fuck are you, buddy?”

“I am but a simple Tenkeeper, who is seeing clearly what this scene we’re in will bring us. Would you not agree that it’s foolish after the tragedy already suffered, for us to engage in expanded agony and bloodbath? The Shades would frown on recklessness so blatant, when we are more than equal to adopt our words than our steel.”

More than a little startled by the pious man’s attempts at negotiation, the leader takes his eyes off him and peruses his allies, who are no less nonplussed by the approach.
“Who the fuck let this clown get in here and chatter?”, he declares, making his companions sputter laughs and titters, taking some amusement from the absurdity. “Listen here, milquetoast, this ain’t a give-and-take, alright? We’re not gonna discuss this with you, and we’re not asking you nicely to share your resources with us. You can keep that godly crap up your own ass. I’m telling you to give me your coins right now, or I’ll slit your belly up so hard that even Mannaze won’t grok that you were once a guy.”

The Tenkeeper doesn’t feign being impressed by the compulsion, nor is the waving of a blade passable to make him step back, which is why he approaches upon this moment.
“My good man, the Shades are not concerned with frivolous notions parallel to your slights and insistences.”

“Keeper…”, Eyren warns. “I wouldn’t-“

“The Preeminent Colors teach us that we are all one on this earth, the same flesh and blood, the same passions and desires. The bounties which we work so hard to earn, the exultation which we reach for and bring into our hearts, it is theirs to give and for us to cherish, should we only surrender the vindictiveness which some souls thrust against others, in spite of the innocence. Bloodshed and malevolence is uncalled-for in society in order to eke out a worthy living, when a reasoned methodology is just as deserved of a reward in their eyes. Recall from the holy scripture, their promises – ‘fear not, we are with you; be not dismayed, for you are chosen; we will strengthen you, we will help you, we will uphold’-“

Had he postulated that preaching was a satisfactory solution in order to soothe the choler which suffuses these depraved spirits who dwell in illicit corners of the continent, then he hasn’t learnt particularly well. In an instant, as he is to complete his lesson, the prime bandit lashes out and cuts his sword straight over an arm and part of the chest of the undefended templeman, making him shriek in misery as he tumbles to the ground, painting the grass in red.
“I’m sorry, did any of you hear me asking for a fuckin’ summary of the bullshit the Temple spouts at us?! No? Then don’t throw that junk at me, you lousy godly fuck!”

Being mighty furious and finding it unsatisfying solely to hurt him once, the bandit lifts his sword and aspires to bring it down to mutilate the Tenkeeper deeper, likely dooming him in the process. It’s then that someone else has had enough – earlier than the crooks can react, Eyren has hurtled at him and tackles the ringleader in his gut, punting him straight into the grass two meters off and freeing the preacher from Mannaze’s judgment. Comporting with her partner’s act, Razz leaps in to shield the farmer, aiming a growl at the bandits.

“Right, I’m putting an end to this jazz”, Eyren relays to them. “Was gonna let you take it easy and maybe cede some coins to spare your health, but I’m not gonna tolerate butchery while I’m here. You idiots hit this place at exactly the wrong hour. My abilities haven’t waned still, so this will hurt.”

Around the time that the farmer bends down to support the floored Tenkeeper, the bandits trade their centricity on him for Eyren and they flock her sides like a pack of wolves. Three of them commence laughing, while the shorter lady with the dagger scowls quietly, the leader grins and purely one guy is stood cagey in the rear.
“Well well, boys and girls, we’ve quite possibly got a contestant for our prey right here. The hero of the day herself cares to draw up and give us an encore for what she did earlier. Maybe we oughta drill this aiwei in what the consequence of pretending to be holier-than-thou is, huh?”

Endeavoring to pinpoint who the foible among them is, Eyren aligns her vision at the man who’s positioned a couple of meters closer to the growing grass, and the northerner can discern his grey-blonde hair, pale hide, his thick beard, chubby build and partially furry arms and hands.
“Uh…boss, cool it for a bit, will you?”, he requests.

The accent out of this one lends weight to Eyren’s assumption that he may genuinely be a man from her own province. The ringleader relinquishes little but a peek at him.
“What is it?”

Tagging the direction of his perception, Eyren knows he’s checking out her gear, especially what hangs over the upper half.
“That…that pin on her chest…” he mutters, implying the steel and ebony emblem attached to her coat, with the outlines of a mountain below a crescent moon.

“Huh? Pin? Oh, that tiny badge? What about it?”

Peering into her eyes, Eyren’s own sparkles with intent, making this fearful bandit close to shiver.
“…you’re a Rittmark.”

“Dja”, Eyren confirms in a northern tongue, and continues in it. “Better be careful, or I’ll send you and the rest of your shithead friends headfirst into Helheum.”

This fellow seems affected by that, swallowing and clenching the hammer in his hands. His comrades eye him with both uncertainty and a healthy ounce of suspicion.
“What was that? What’s she on about?”, asks the leadman.

“She’s…one of the Rittmark, boss.”

“…uh…isn’t that…”

“Knights of the north. The toughest and best-trained warriors on this whole continent.”

Arching an eyebrow and surveying their quarry once again, the leader isn’t convinced through and through.
“Hmm…what, cuz of that badge? How you know she ain’t stolen it?”

“…well, guess I don’t. But either earning it or having stolen it…or worse, killed a Rittmark…makes her dangerous.”

“Tsk”, hisses the avian-adorned lady. “What, you scared, caréhon? Wanna go home and cry to your northern goats?”

The outlier flinches, but this suffices in recuperating a glimmer of his earlier courage.
“…n-no! I’m just…saying it’s unwise to take her on.”

“You better listen to your partner”, Eyren assures. “Attack us and I won’t be very lenient. I’ll cut up every one of you, slowly. And the ones I like the least, I’ll feed your guts to my buddy Razz here.” The raptor bends her legs a tad, perks her dorsal feathers and growls low at them. Eyren points a finger at the leader. “Starting with you.”

Seething now, the bossman spins his weapon around in his hand.
“Bah, I’ve had it with you and your uppity fucking attitude, aiwei. Gonna gut you good and then take your precious bird bitch apart to eat for dinner.”

This looms as the initiating drift of the fight to commence, and although they haven’t quite compassed this matter yet, it will be the final moments for the brunt of these thugs. At that second, the avian lady twists her dagger in her fingers and while Razz is busy hectoring the three on the antipodal end, she sneaks closer to rip at the raptor’s legs. An instance which never gets through, for whilst her mentality is so set on the beast, Eyren sidesteps, swirls and thumps the shield directly into the lady’s nose, bowling her over on her ass.

For the upcoming minute, a disarrangement takes hold of the entire scene, one that won’t cease at wreaking violence, but smears the earth with torrents of blood. With the trio storming at Eyren and Razz, the raptor illuminates them of her agility by dancing away from them, and when the first of them cuts at her, she dodges and then rotates, lashing the arm with her tail and slamming the weapon out of their hand. As this person groans in light of the tribulation, she digs her claws into the ground and springs into them hard, jostling them to the dirt with a bash from her humongous skull. Sometimes humans carry a tendency of viewing animals as nothing except big, dumb, and mindless beasts, ones who will either act on instinct or necessity, but if discounting the corvids in the world, raptors may be one of the ultimate ingenious breeds available. As a second fool touches down by her, she flies out of the maul’s reach, two seconds to digging her fangs in to nearly chomp off the arm, with an accompanying shriek from the bandit, and their blood crams her hungry maw. In this instant, these goons are certainly reminded of a raptor’s genuine guile.

Pending Razz flooring this duo in less than twenty seconds, Eyren fields the opposition from the leader and her fellow northerner, blocking the hammer from the latter and parrying the sword from the former. Despite outnumbering her and being capable of flanking, at no point in the opening half a minute do they detect that they capture the upper hand. Eyren swats their armaments aside as if they were children’s flings at war, and at one interval even tries to offer a gap in her defenses for them to exploit, only to punish them harshly when they go for it. She’s toying with them, and it grates on their pride that she doesn’t hide how effortless it becomes.

Amid the leader’s most recent assault, Eyren dodges to the left, clenches his wrist and then rams a shoulder into his back to knock him forward, the man tumbling into the grass. This is to give herself an opening to stride straightway against the northman, glaring with her eerie grey-white optics into his own, filling him with dread to the level of backtracking instinctively.
“Last warning, brakher”, she relays in the most common northern language. “Get out of here with your life intact or die to my blade. If you don’t long for Helheum’s shores, I suggest you wise up.”

With every childhood tale and ghost story filling his mind, not exclusively of what Rittmark have to their name, but what the abominations who are instilled with the corruption of the Woerdinn can be seen accomplishing, he lets out a light gasp, drops his hammer and turns on his heel, taking off from the area.
“What the-…you fucking coward!”, the boss exclaims as he gets to his feet. “Ya’ll regret running like a lil’ wimp! Everyone will hear of this! You can’t go nowhere anymore!”, he calls after his comrade, but it’s for naught, for Eyren’s fearful guise has already taken effect. “Agh!”, he expels and lays his rage sooner towards the nearest target. “Had enough of you and yer rotten attitude. I’ll be taking your ugly ass head and show these losers that you’re nothin’ to fear.”

Eyren snorts and shakes her head upon his latest offensive against her.
“Some people never learn, huh? Very well, then, peabrain”, she airs and tosses her shield away on the ground. She flourishes her sword at him nonchalantly and goads him with the second hand. “C’mon, make my day. Before you meet your maker, I’ll prove why he made the smarter choice.”

Mystified by this free space that he’s granted, he doesn’t contain the smarts to smell a trap when it’s laid ahead of him, and therefore lunges against her anew. The earliest two swings Eyren ducks off from, particularly as one aims at her throat, but when she takes one slash against her leg and another by her hand, and no blood spills from it, there ought to be warning signs going off in his head. Eyren doesn’t requite his slices in the slightest either, further intellectual prods that don’t reach him. To seal the matter once and for all, he uncovers a suitable interval in her defenses and stabs her plumb into her gut, a route that Eyren encourages. Holding his hand on the hilt for three seconds where she doesn’t move, his agitation then intensifies, for he’s coming around to that he’s severely goofed this act up.

This is a realization at the eleventh hour, when he can no longer escape. Eyren grapples his wrist and her grip strength is at the height of a metal hook around his skin that crushes it beneath. What makes this eerier is how she digs his blade deeper into her stomach as she drags him nearer, except her visage is unfazed and her uncanny eyes pierce his unblinking.
“I’ll regret that later”, she mutters to him, but what induces the utmost noise is his moaning while the pressure on his wrist deepens. “But you won’t have time to regret ever again.”

Twisting the arm now, she dislocates the limb from where it should be, before she positions her own sword in a course channeled into his belly. Shoving it within him tip-first, the power she muscles against it is borderline so high that the hilt could enter him as well. His last clamor is to gasp painfully as his blood tarnishes her glove and his own clothes, spilling from not just his midsection, but pouring out of his throat and over his lips. Gritting her teeth, Eyren tears it sideways, ripping his body open as if she were dicing a piece of beef and once he buckles to the earth, he doesn’t dare to look below in his final moments, as he isn’t sure whether she hacked him in two or not. Another who doesn’t brazen this reflection is the dagger lady with the avian traits, having broken her nose from Eyren’s shield earlier, she could but watch as the horridness developed before her eyes. She’s having none of this and makes a break for it the instant where she’s able to walk again. Eyren does not chase her.

With the battle at its conclusion and Razz digging into her victory meal consisting of one of her kills from the fight, Eyren approaches the farmer and the Tenkeeper, wiping her blade clean in the process. The Tenkeeper looks up at her, more humbled than he would admit.
“…thank you, miss Katlattar. You saved my life. I…am unsure whether I was deserving of it. Didn’t treat you with due respect back there.”

Eyren simply smiles at him and holsters her sword, fetching her shield where she dropped it.
“You don’t know how regularly I get that. No point in letting you slip away for a minor thing like it, though.”

“How can I repay you?”

“Not necessary”, she says and then wanders across to where she bested the Herdbrand earlier. “But how about you just promise to watch over these people and take the hazards of the Shadow Herd more seriously in the future?”