Sun grubbing, fishfaced ringing, silly fatsy, stuffulstilskin.

Jab arm making, hardironed taking, jingle stealing, Stuffulstilskin.

Violence for nothing

A ghost of the past

A demon of imagination.

The faithful slay and perish

While the unholy thrive with intellectual understanding.

An age of death for those of the sin

Driven to by the force unknown.

The ghost wraps His fingers

Entwines and tricks

A falser of His namesake

Hate on His tongue,

His tongue which LIEs in a mouth of fantasy.

Drunk fox mother,

With a stone dead dad, ten years to the grave.

Blood of the moon shines

With the black eyes of a failure

Vacant.

Glazed and defeated,

The sons, withdrawn.

Control has fled,

Like gulls in the wind,

A stone in the norm,

Love ripped with a thorn.

With always the black eyes staring;

Vacant.

Am I losing you?

Snaking through, encircling.

Spindle-like spiderkin,

Forever pulling,

Down, down, down.

The air constricts,

Inhuman; unto the dead.

A sleight of hand,

A sweet-tongued word,

You fall for his tricks,

The devil’s tricks.

He licks his lips,

The keeper of sin,

But the fault is yours;

You are impure,

Proven evil’s twin.

Go home?

Not now, your home is here,

Where darkness and fire dwell,

Hither, in Godforsaken Hell.

Truly

All you fear.

——

In the counter-culture that is Darkness Before Sleep, I see not ME

Beardy in the baboon spotlight.

Scared, in the light

The shining light of inquisition

But a hard man, always harsh

Beardy of the North

Cold

And hard, always harsh

Beardy in the baboon spotlight.

It had all began when the Count of Odenhall claimed he would begin an expansionist crusade outside of the Mezca. The smaller and wilder towns on the outskirts of the Marshlands protested fiercely; they feared what an industrialist generation of Marsher would mean for their people as a whole. Not only that, they feared the expected Hadji retaliation to a massive expansion.

The hardy Baegan mercenary had been hired on by the Count as a third unit enforcer; a relatively mid-level rank in the non-aligned group of men who fought for gold, not feeling, or commitment to state. Originally he had been assigned to a battle troupe defending the outer city gates with the rest of the Count’s hired mercs, but when his reckless fighting techniques and lack of disciplined form caused the deaths of four of his comrades, he was sent to the Guerilla Unit. Once he arrived at his new station in the marsh, however, he quickly abandoned his post and chose to fight by himself.

The Count, if he even heard of Gladniir’s abandonment, would care not; as long as the Baegan fought valiantly for the gold he would receive, Count Haborshmad didn’t worry about who he fought with. Haborshmad thought his gold was well spent if his mercs were out in the marshes causing havoc and chaos while his Regulars kept to the rank and file.

As he approached the battle, he off-handedly thought up a plan for attack. Normally he would charge in like a bat-out-of-hell, howling to Baeg for strength, cleaving heads from shoulders like nobodies business, but this was a large scale attack he was heading into. The Count’s Regulars had pushed the Field Marshers (or so the county folk now called themselves) to the Mezca Marshlands/Candarian boarder and the presently civil war was about to become international. Apparently, a Candarian emissary had spoken to Haborshmad about the direction the Regulars were heading in, which was dangerously close to the border. Haborshmad, smug as he is, told the emissary to not stick his whiskered nose where it didn’t belong; as far as the Count was concerned, as long as the fighting remained at least three hundred feet from the border (according to international law), it was still considered a civil war. Never mind his intentions after he silenced the uprising.

But all this didn’t really matter to Gladniir in the end; he was, after all, just here for the gold. The night previous, he had decided that he was not interested in sticking around for the end of this bloody campaign; a couple more engagements and he would have enough gold in his wallet to enjoy a couple months of quiet nights and easy mornings. Well, as quiet as a night can be when you spend it guzzling booze with loose women in northern Hamsfleidt. For as much as the Baegan enjoyed fighting and bloodletting, he was getting old and he could feel it in his limbs.

Concentrating his thoughts on the upcoming battle, because he did realize he was continuously getting sidetracked in his musings, he hatched out a plan. The Regulars were fighting the Field Marshers from the south, holding out until a battalion of Guerillas came in from the east to mess things up while the Regulars caught their breathe. Gladniir figured he would wait for the Guerillas to make their appearance, then slip in from the west to hopefully blindside a unit or two of the enemy’s worst. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t handle a stronger unit by himself, but he was missing a meal or two and a couple of nights of sleep; needless to say, the merc wasn’t at his peak on this day.

A horn sounded from the rear of the Regulars and they began to retreat, archers and crossbowman covering them as they did so. The Field Marshers roared in triumph, the damn poor souls, and gave chase. Gladniir did respect these country folk, for not only did they have more skill than he would have thought, but their courage and resilience while fighting large scale surpassed that of even the Count’s Regulars. Of course, get any of them one on one and they will hightail it to safety, but that was okay; wars were not fought by one man.

They had almost closed on the retreating Regulars, and maybe Gladniir did hope they would catch them, when the Guerillas came whooping from the trees. They’re crazed advance was not supported with bows or bolts, but javelins and indeed whole spears, long enough to gore not one man, but two or three. Most of the mercs were Baegans, for it had been years since the warriors of Hamsfleidt had engaged anyone in a war of their own, but those who did not hail from the northern country were just as skilled. It was even said that Haborshmad had found a man of Okiiki origin; someone who could wield an axe as large as Gladniir himself and who could bend the forces of magic to boot. This was mostly a rumor spread about by the Regulars, however, who were too proud of Odenhall to realize that the Mezca Marshlands was an incredibly poor country. Even if there was an Okiik mixed in with the mercs, he would be no stronger or mentally adept than any of the others.

For a second, Gladniir almost missed his opportunity as he watched the Guerillas in action, but, he collected himself and quietly approached the turned backs of a green looking unit of spearmen. They would probably yield a few easy kills; the shafts of their spears were wooden and would prove easy enough for the merc’s heavy iron sword to hew through.

Indeed, the battle started out comfortably enough, with Gladniir hastily dispatching the first man with a smack on the head with his sword’s pommel. Skull cracked against the well-shaped stone of his old sword’s hilt and the grizzled merc barked a laugh of content. The rest of the unit soon realized there was an enemy in their midst and began to change form accordingly.

“Enemy swordsman behind! Shields up boys, let’s keep this bastard at–,” the apparent leader began. “Bay?! Ha, ye dogs don’t know the meanin’!” Cleaving through the captain’s soft neck before he could raise his shield, Gladniir roared to Baeg.

“Ye see,” parrying a spear, he clipped the head off, rendering the weapon useless. “A bay is a large body of water!” Gladniir jumped forwards and dug his toes in the soft, swampy ground, stopping suddenly. Using the stolen momentum, he used it to thrust his sword forward like one of his foe’s weapons. The motion blasted the shield out of the hands of one of the Field Marshers and sent the sword continuing through to appear on the other side of his belly. The Marsher looked deep into Gladniir’s eyes as blood gurgled out of his mouth as he attempted a last word. The Baegan wouldn’t allow it and whipped the sword out of his enemy’s stomach; the force brought the man crumpling forward to lie dead on his face.

Only two of the original five now stood to face Gladniir and he could plainly see that fear gripped them as if they were two Candarian babes and he the Master of Cataclysm. They looked from the blood drenched warrior to themselves and the one on the right took a step back.

“Aye, ye best be doin’ so, I think.” He wiped sweat and dirt from his face. “’Less you wish to turn out like them,” he spat on the captain’s decapitated head. He really didn’t want them running off and spewing whatever they wished about the sword swinger cleaving up the company’s flank, so he did exactly what he knew would keep them about. Marshers as a whole are fairly proud, for whatever reason, especially these country folk. Spitting on a fallen comrade and poking fun at their cowardice was about the best thing anyone could do to start a fight with a Marsher, no matter what part of the Mezca they hailed from.

The cur that had backed up was now brandishing his spear at Gladniir and his comrade emitted a mostly pathetic growl. Now that the element of surprise had all but been used up, the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder posed a decently difficult fight. It wouldn’t be anything the merc couldn’t handle of course, but the last thing he wanted to do was push his luck this far into the campaign. Shrugging at the both of them, he slammed his great sword into the soft mud where it stood quivering. As expected, this surprised the Marshers long enough for Gladniir to un-strap his boot knife and send it flying into the jugular of the man on the right.

A pang of guilt rushed into the Baegan as he watched the man slowly slip to the ground as he held his ally’s and obvious friend’s arm. The luckier of the two cried out in pain for his brother in arms and held him closely as he breathed his last. Gladniir allowed for this moment of departure, standing by his sword for the man to send his friend into the beyond. Before he could finish, however, another horn blew from behind: the Guerillas had had their fill and now it was time for the Regulars to finish the fight. He didn’t cause as much harm as he originally hoped, but it was time for him to leave regardless; with the withdrawal of all of the other chaotic fighters, he would stick out like a sore thumb.

With a wink, Gladniir lifted his sword out of the mud and fled off into the woods. It no longer mattered whether the Field Marsher went to the rest of his company with news of the Baegan being there; he would be long gone before they had time to organize a force for his capture. Just as he reached the tree line, however, the unthinkable happened: a Field Marsher bolt struck him through the shoulder. Gladniir slowed his pace and almost tripped to the ground, but, after a quick glance back, kept running. The man who had shot him, which happened to be the man whose life he spared, was loading up another shot. It wouldn’t take the Marsher long to finish cranking the bolt into place and if Gladniir was still out in the open when that happened, he would soon lie dead on the field.

Another glance over his shoulder revealed that the Marsher was taking aim on the fleeing merc. Without a second thought, Gladniir dove forward into the mud. As he did so, he heard the whizzing of a projectile overhead; two seconds slower and he would now have a long, slender piece of wood sticking out of the back of his head. Not stopping to think of the possibility of death, the merc stood up and began a zigzagged run. He figured the Marsher had probably just gotten lucky with that last shot and that he really just wielded a crossbow with mediocre skill. He not only assumed this to be true, but also prayed dearly to Baeg that it was.

As he sharply cut back to the left, Gladniir stubbed his toe on a jagged stone; an action that sent him stumbling forward. He was able to keep his balance through the ordeal and he later came to appreciate the fact that the stone had just saved his life. If he had not stumbled forward, the third bolt that had been fired would be resting in his lower spine, not his right calf. The pain of its entry almost brought him to his knees, but he was steps away from the tree line and he continued on. Taking one last look at the Marsher, he was pleased to see that the man did not load up a forth bolt; he knew he had been beat. Gladniir would live to fight again.

He entered the inn at half past midnight on a fairly illuminated night; the sky was star-flecked and the moon was in full. Joancin had hastily rushed into the inn, practically throwing himself on the nearest barstool and ordering himself up some Baegan Gum Rot Grog. As you might have assumed, no steward to a count, not even the Count of Odenhall’s steward, would ever be Baegan. This wasn’t because the Count himself was overly against the barbarous religion, but with their get-to-it attitude and lust for adventure, a Baegan would never fit in as a part of anything to do with royalty or politics. This, Tyrillius’ out of character appearance (for his hair was very askew and muddy, his pantaloons and shirt even more so) and the fact that he was even in Fungi’s Tarry brought many odd glances his way. Some glances, however, were not so odd; no, these were dangerous.

Assuring a halt of any murderous advances from his violent patrons, (no one at Fungi’s would try a move if the innkeeper Garrus Kulheim didn’t give the okay) the old Baegan started up a conversation with the steward. On a normal night, Garrus would allow his well-paying patrons to have their way with Tyrillius, but tonight was the last night of the two-week-long holiday, Hail to Baeg. Garrus, being the devoutly religious Northerner that he was, would see no bloodshed on this, the holiest of nights during the holiest of holidays.

“Don’t see too many like you out in these parts,” Garrus said. His plan was to make just enough small talk as to make sure the killers in the back knew to stay away.

“I suppose you don’t,” Joancin said absentmindedly. He was slowly sipping the grog, making a wretched face after each burning swallow. Garrus cleared his throat and poured himself his own glass of grog.

“So then, what are you doing here?” he snorted, “there is a reason why we don’t see too many of your type out this far in the marsh,” putting great emphasis on the word ‘is’.

Joancin ran one dirty hand through his hair and looked behind him, as though someone should be there. After assuring himself that there was in fact no one, he grabbed the cup of grog and took a long draw. The stiff drink stung in his throat, but that was exactly what he needed right now: something to calm his nerves and straighten him out. Garrus on the other hand, was getting a little impatient with this good-for-nothing steward ignoring him. The man had no business in a place like Fungi’s Tarry and he damn well wasn’t giving its proprietor the respect he deserves.

“Look here, I don’t care who you are or what your story is, just give me a little something so my friends over there don’t gut you the minute you step off your stool,” he didn’t sound overly angry or concerned, more along the lines of annoyed. The idea of being knifed then looted wasn’t sounding exactly ideal to Joancin, so he jumped out of whatever trance that had been captivating him so.

“Uh, sorry about that good sir, I’m just having a bit of a problem tonight. Had to get away from it, you know?” he tittered a bit at this last part and looked straight at Garrus. The haggard old bar and innkeeper knew that look well; this man was definitely hiding something.

“Why don’t you tell me something about this little problem of yours? Maybe I can help,” Garrus said. He had downed his glass of grog and was busily pouring himself another along with three more for some rough looking dockworkers who had just finished a long day’s work.

“I wish you could, but I’m just not so sure you can,” Tyrillius was looking incredibly antsy and his right leg was literally pounding the floorboards with its shaking.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give you a try though…” he trailed off, looking back over his shoulder again and giving one more of those nervous titters. Garrus peered down at the steward as if to say ‘hurry it up already’.

“You see, uh…?”

“Garrus.”

“Yes, uh, Garrus, it seems I am being followed. Quite closely I might add. And it also seems that this pursuer only has the vilest of intents for me,” the beginnings of a smile were creeping up on the corners of Joancin’s lips. Not a well-placed smile though; this was a smile of one who’s just crossed that dangerous line into insanity.

Garrus was beginning to understand the cause for Joancin’s rugged appearance and unexpected entrance into his inn and he figured that he no longer had the desire to protect this man. Baeg had no respect for the weak minded and if one was slain on the eve of a week long celebration to him, he would be more inclined to reward than to punish.

“Waste of my time…” Garrus grumbled as he turned away from the now desperate looking Tyrillius. When the steward had first entered the inn, he looked out of place, but at least he had managed to keep his composure. Now, he was completely strung out and it seemed to Garrus that at any minute he would begin to make a scene.

“But you must understand! I truly am being followed! There is a man, waiting…For me he waits! You must protect me, yes?” Joancin had now stood up from his stool and the remainder of his grog had either spilt down his shirt or onto the bar counter. After the spill, Garrus decided he had had enough and called over the bar watchman to throw Joancin out.

“I can’t go out there!” he howled as the watchman hauled his skinny form towards the door. “The Count will have your head for this! You refused to protect me when I was in need of…protecting!” Garrus shook his head at the man as his watchman gave a final heave and the steward flew out the inn door. Just like Baeg himself, Garrus had little respect for those who harbored weak minds. He believed that the only thing that should be able to bring a man to his final hour should be physical destruction, not mental manipulation.

The land outside onto the hard ground was very unpleasant for Joancin; especially considering he was now kind of buzzed off of terrible tasting alcohol and The Man With The Crazed Eyes still lurked behind him. Just like he knew he would be, The Man was waiting roughly twenty feet from the bar. Joancin knew that as soon as he began moving, The Man would follow. He would wait until he cornered poor Joancin in a dark alley and then…And then what? Tyrillius knew not and he was not prepared to find out.

He scorned the foul outcasts in Fungi’s Tarry that shirked their responsibility to help him. Yes, he truly felt that as a person of wealth and import that it was the responsibility of others to give him a helping hand. Not that he would do the same for anyone else, but that is neither here nor there. What is here and there, however, is The Man With The Crazed Eyes.

Tyrillius estimated that The Man had been following him for close to three months. The first two months, he had decided on coincidence. But by the time the third month had rolled around, Tyrillius came to accept the idea of an eerie stalker watching his every move. As an act of either bravery or fear, depending on whether Joancin believed The Man was trying to get to the count through him or was indeed hired by the count himself, he had resigned from his post as steward for the rest of the year. He figured that if he was still alive by the time next year rolled around and this Crazed Man no longer shadowed him, he would be happy to steward for the Count of Odenhall once again.

The first place he had gone was definitely not Fungi’s Tarry. In fact, Fungi’s Tarry was the very last place Joancin had come to on this day, for now he was done running. He had gone to the Docks, Faryun’s Bed and Breakfast, Gunderhoin’s Smithy; Joancin Tyrillius had even gone out to The Marsh Ranches at the South end of town. Everywhere he went they had figured him as mad and threw him out, believing that if they let him stay he would become violent or aggressive.

As the reflection of his day finally stopped at his present location at the present time, Joancin got up from his arse and prepared to get a move on. Now determined to end this reign of fear The Man With The Crazed Eyes held over him, Tyrillius unsheathed his boot knife and headed for a the nearest alley. Here he would make his stand, whether it bring his end or the end of the pursuer. He cared not who this person was, whether it be a youngling, or elder. It didn’t matter if this person knew Tyrillius or not, what their motive was for following him or whether or not they were about to cease. The poor steward had made it known several times that he wished for a halt to The Man’s actions, but no halt had arrived. So now, a life would be claimed and release would be had.

When Joancin finally reached the end of the alley, he gave a quick glance to ensure The Man was still following. Typically, he was, but Joancin didn’t turn to wait for him, no; he had something else in mind. He would wait until The Man was within arms length and then turn and knife him. It was a dirty plan, but he didn’t like his chances in a hand to hand fight; he was never good with a blade.

The Man quickly walked towards Joancin, never missing a step. To the steward (ex-steward), the kill seemed imminent; there was no way he could botch this. Four steps away; this is it. Three steps; here we go. Two steps; he’s close enough. And then Joancin spun and pierced his blade straight through the belly of his stalker. This wouldn’t be a clean kill however, for it seemed that The Man With The Crazed Eyes wouldn’t be going to the Afterlife alone; he had gutted Tyrillius as well, seemingly in the same spot as he had been.

Although mortally wounded, Joancin would not allow himself to die in pain. He smiled and maybe even laughed a little as relief rushed into his body and blood rushed out.

* * *

“We found him out here early this morning,” Garrus told the guardsman. There was another of the city guard just outside the alley who was questioning Garrus’ bar watchman.

“My guy had nothing to do with this though, this crank was nuts,” the Baeg looked at the body of Joancin Tyrillius and held a hand to his mouth. Garrus had seen a lot of grotesque things in his time, and even to him the twisted heap of the steward’s body was a grueling site. The man had plunged a dagger deep into his own stomach, spilling blood and stomach acid onto the grimy brick walkway. Even with all the gore decorating the alley, Garrus still believed the most unsettling portion of the scene was his distorted maniac’s face; especially, his Crazed Eyes.

Why then, if change is ultimately the goal of the assassin, is change also the goal of the politician? Should they not both have their voices heard in equal debate, rather than one man becoming desperate enough to slay in hate, and another’s life being cut short in a painful spurt of blood?

Only through destroying our values and ourselves do we see the true change which we desire; is there any real hope for man?

“You know, some people would kill to get here, you only had to lie your way in,” Katrick now wore a smug grin on his face, “Besides, we forgive you, and certainly understand your desire to enjoy our hospitality.” the grin spread even wider, practically enveloping the entirety of his countenance.

Terry still dragged his feet beside the guide, and glances back from whence he came were very frequent. Although Katrick was right, he had earned his way here, it didn’t make him feel any better about it.

“Well, here we are,” the two had apparently met their destination, and Katrick could see Terry’s expression become all the more filled with gloom.

“I would feel sorry for you, but then I wouldn’t be doing my job,” the maggot ridden hellspawn growled at the poor Terry. With one push of a clawed hand that reeked of brimstone and death, Katrick sent Goosun falling helplessly into whatever awaited him in the depths.

We dance the dance

Of death, we’re trained

Ba-dum, ba-dum

With steel we hound

A smile on face

By blood we’re bound

Never relent the chase

Ba-dum, ba-dum

Loose women for us

A wench on shoulder

For all her fuss, she’s beautiful

Or so we told her

Ka-dum! Ka-dum!”

-An excerpt from the dwarven corsair chant: “Blood and What She Brings”