Zevandir's Tale

Chapter 1: The Hunter

The night was dark and deathly quiet, the unnatural silence broken only occasionally by the sounds of the river lapping gently against its banks. A shadow, dark as the night itself, slipped silently and surreally from one tree to another, hunting an unseen prey. The forest alone bore witness to the spectacle of the shadow on its path to whatever lay ahead, golden hair and a glint of cold steel the only hints at something gliding through the forest.

The band of zardmen and fish-bait spoke in guttural tones, their scaly hides glinting sickly in the light of the fire that burned dully in a bed of ash. The refuse from weeks of habitation were evident in the surrounds of the camp, shed skin and broken scales littered the ground, whilst food scraps and blood fed the underlings of the river-side forest. The glow of the fire was barely visible through the forest trees, the thick undergrowth cutting of the light until only a trickle of the golden glow could be seen from the river. But seen from the river the fire was, and the shadow-garbed hunter stalked ever closer to his feral prey.

A soft snap, that of a twig being broken underfoot, reached the ears of a zardman, and he knew it was not his own warrior, for the zards and fish had become lax in their sentry duties throughout the duration of their stay. A harsh grating sound that must have been an order was quickly spoken and a zardman moved from the ring of the fire. The guard was gone but a few second, before he staggered backwards in a drunken walk, falling to the ground, the shadow black flights of a bolt could be seen protruding from its neck. The zardmen and fish-bait had no time to react, before the shadow garbed hunter was among them, twin contraptions of cold steel spitting hot iron into the bodies of the warriors. Four Zardmen were dead before any had even taken the situation into their conscious minds, but the fish had taken no casualties were quicker and leapt towards the hunter. The steel-spitters were tucked into holsters and a bladed musket came forth, death exploding from its mouth as the jagged bayonet slashed into the scaly hides of fish and zards, reaping death like wheat before the scythe. It was over in the space of a few bare minutes, a full score of foemen slain beneath the fiery spit of the hunters weapons, his shadowy visage remain cold and hard throughout, devoid of emotion, though his eyes sparked with a fire as the retribution had begun.

The hunter moved quickly towards the bodies, his fiery weapons had kept a distance between him and his foes. The bodies were roughly searched, the hunter looking for something of obvious importance, his gaze growing desperate as he neared the final zardman. It too was searched and after a fruitless 30 seconds, the hunter’s knees collapsed with despair, a primeval scream ripping from his throat to startle the birds into flight and send the animals bolting for homes as the sound of coming death reached theirs ears.

The hunter once again moved through the forest aside the river, but this time, it was without stealth or care, an aura of death emanating from his person as he strode with violent purpose towards his goal, a wooden fortress, fish and zardmen standing watch on the walls and manning the towers. The forest 60 yards from the wall was cleared, providing a field of view that would not conceal a lone attacker, never mind an army. The hunter left the cover of the forest with the same violent abandon he had shown moving through the forest on his second journey. Fish-bait screamed in guttural unison with zardmen, a show of defiance and strength, but the unmistakable tone of fear chilled the lone watcher to the core. The hunter moved with deadly purpose to the front gate, loading his powerful speargun with a blue tipped rocket, flighted with cold steel and shafted with stone. The hunter was now only 30 yards from the gate and fish-bait began launching forks and stones at him as zardmen sharpened axes and tied clubs. Catlike grace was the hunters ally, slipping beneath forks and drifting away from the rocks, mid-stride the hunter raised the gun to his shoulder, squeezing the trigger to unleash a roaring dragon into the gate, shattering the rocket tip, igniting an explosion of epic proportion that obliterated the gate and reduced the surrounding walls to rubble. The hunter moved with deadly speed, reloading and firing the speargun in less than a second, the seemingly unending amount of arrows in his quiver hissing death as they flew, each one finding its mark. The walls were quickly cleared as the flying death wreaked a staggering toll against the defenders on the gate, fish and zard fled to the safety of the old stone keep, barring the door. Once again, the hunter did not pause, unholstering revolvers in the same motion that it took to slam an armoured boot against the door, shattering a hinge, again the boot crashed against the door, the defenders fear stinking in the midnight air. A BOOM followed the third crash as the door flew inwards, taking a zardman in the chest and propelling him backwards into the wall with a sickening crack. The air exploded with cracks and sounds of blood and pulped flesh splashing against the walls, the revolvers in the expert hands of the hunter felling zardmen and fish in scores. A silence was strange in the aftermath of the slaughter, the click, click, click, the sound of the firing pin slamming against empty bullet housing the only sound. The lone zard roared, a beast of epic proportions, armoured to the teeth and hosting a huge number of scars. Again it roared, but this time it charged, axe held high. The hunter smiled, more of a grimace with its current lack of warmth. In a blinding motion the musket was in his hands. As the great beast neared, the hunters smile only broadened, the axe came crashing down, only to stop abruptly, millimetres from the hunter’s head. Time seemed to slow; the beast falling back with a sickening slicking sound, a sucking POP s the jagged blade left the giants stomach. The crash was deafening as the zardmonster hit the ground, dislodging a small ball hidden in an alcove that rolled ever so slowly, before falling to the ground. A metallic ting sounded as the ball hit the ground, and began to glow a deep gold, emanating an aura of immense power and importance. The hunter bent quickly to retrieve it, studying it with deep affection and longing, before tucking it hurriedly into a pouch at his waist.

The light of the torch fully illuminated the hunter, clothed in a tight fitting black suit with many pouches and pockets. An ammo belt of black leather was slung across his chest, full with musket shells and revolver rounds. A shadow quiver was hung across his back, flighted with shafts of the deepest red, their tips hidden in the bottom of the quiver. The two brown leather holsters hooked onto his black belt revealed the silver handles of twin revolvers with inventive ammo clips that could hold more than the standard 6 bullets. Next to the quiver were twin clips for the speargun and bladed musket; both now back on the hunter’s back. The hunter’s armament did not stop there, however, and two small knives were strapped to either calf, close range weapons for dire situations. The sound of a creaking step brought a revolver to his right and a knife to the hunter’s left hand, instantly armed and dangerous. A small figure poked his head ‘round the wall of the stairwell, revealing white and wispy hair, above a face and eyes of impressive intelligence, the old man was clothed in blue-grey robes which flowed with his movement, the soft rustling soothing to the ears.
“Hullo there young man, can I help you?” the voice of the old man was rich and musical, matching his clothes.
“Erm, no thanks, I found what I came for.” The hunter’s voice was low and deadly, like a deadly predator on the verge of removing a nuisance. The old man either did not understand the meaning of this tone, or simply did not care.
“Are you sure, don’t you want to stay for tea?”
“Yes thank you, I’m sure I don’t want to stay for tea, now I really must be going”
“Ok, then I guess I’ll just come with you to wherever you’re going, might be fun, y’know?”
“No. Thank. You.” The hunter’s voice was low and extremely deadly now, but still the old man did not seem to notice.
“Oh don’t be such a pushover, I’m coming and that’s it!” the old man too raised his voice.
“NO!” The hunter shouted, ripping the second revolver from his waste and beginning a deathly dance, firing scores of bullets, intent on shooting the leaping and twirling man who seemed to cheat the death of bullets at every turn.
“Aaaaaah!” The revolvers hit the ground with a clang and the musket took their positions, breathing fire and flame at the man in the form of iron missiles. Still the old man jumped and twirled, occasionally waving his hand to brush aside the flames and bullets in a display of arcane power.
Finally, the bullets were spent and the hunter seemed to slump, almost on his knees.
“Who are you?”
“I am a magician who decided not to age with the typical stiffness.” The old man replied, his eyes twinkling in joyous mirth.
“Very well then, come along, I guess you might be useful to me after all.” The hunter said with obvious ease, as if he was neither bothered nor perturbed by the display of the magician. Though the night had taken its toll on the hunter, and he was tired beyond measure. As the sun crested the horizon and light shone into the keep, the hunter slumped forward, hitting the ground with a soft thud, asleep before he touched the ground. The old man shook his head, laughing quietly, as he lifted the hunter in his scrawny arms and carried him to a soft bed upstairs in the keep, the beasts below disappearing with a wave of his hand.

Chapter 2: Another
The next day, at the moment the sun rose up from its slumber below the horizon, the clouds burst out from the darkness in a brilliant display of red and vibrant anger, the spilt blood of those slain that night tinting the sky and the day a deep, angry red. Another man, his hair a deep indigo, slashed through with steaks of shining violet, a softly browned face shining with good humour as he ran through the forest air, scars criss-crossed across the man hands and slightly exposed forearms, which were bandaged from the wrists to the elbows in white wraps. This man too moved with the deadly feline grace of a hunter, and his suit of the deepest black was identical to that of the hunter who had passed through the forest in the night. The man’s canines were very slightly pointed, and the tips glowed a very faint green, as if tipped in poison. As the hunter sped through the forest with inhuman speed, the leaves rustling with only the barest trace of his passage.

Many hours later, this hunter came upon the campfire where the troupe of zardmen and fish men had camped before their brutal destruction by the first, vicious, hunter. It was burning out of control, consuming the surrounding forest in a blazing inferno. As the hunter came upon it, he was shocked by the hugeness of the fire and the carelessness of his fellow hunter. The normally cheerful hunter muttered what appeared to be a magical incantation, but the only affect was an explosion that succeeded only to increase the fire from a relatively small inferno to a beast hell bent on the destruction of the entire forest.
“Guess that didn’t work….” Muttered the hunter, running to the river with a small lump of plastic in his scarred and burned palm. The hunter threw the piece of plastic in a blur of his arm, launching it into a high arc that peaked and fell in the middle of the river, before it touched the water, however, the hunter had a revolver pistol in his hand, and had fired a round at the surface of the water, in a the space of a heartbeat, the round and plastic met in an explosion to rival the creation of the universe. Water exploded upwards and towards the fire, dousing the forest and quenching the inferno. The hunter grinned, remembering his tuition in the college of firearms; a secret school that only privileged young warriors were schooled.
“So it does work, eh?” he said happily to himself.
The hunter was armed in much the same way as the first, two revolvers, a quiver of shooting spears and a speargun. But instead of the brutal rifle and bayonet of the first hunter, this one’s choice armament was a gold hilted hunter’s dagger, sharp as the teeth of a vicious pike that haunts the rivers and light as the wasp and sting after which it was named. Karibachi Sasu (wasp sting). These weapons were very simple and common, but that which was the hunter’s primary melee weapon was a whip of razor-sharp steel blades, shaped like small trapeziums held together by flexible steel. The entire whip pulsed with indigo light, emanating power and mystery.

Now that the fire was out, the shadow-garbed hunter bent down, and walked slowly around the campsite, searching for any clues of the darker hunters passage. The campsite was blackened and the tents, bodies, and any other items were either completely destroyed or reduced to little more than charred scraps. The night emerged from the horizon to remove the daytime light and bathe the landscape in the moons silvery glow. The night strengthened the power of the hunter, his footsteps quieter, his eyesight clearer, and his emotional sense heightened. The hunter could feel the emotional residues of despair, fear and anger of the previous nights activities. The emotions were like a bright path though the forest, and the hunter sped off through the night with careless abandon, searching for his fellow hunter.

~
Earlier that day…
“Wake up boy!” the old magician yelled, slamming the floor with a large staff.
“Ehh….” The golden haired hunter moaned, rolling over in his sleep and slamming the pillow over his ears. The old magician moved back downstairs and into the kitchen, directly below the hunter’s bed.
“Get up boy!” the magician yelled again.
“Let me sleep…” grumbled the hunter. At this the old magician began a ditty as he cooked dinner, accentuating the song with beats of his staff on the roof. The hunter woke fully at that point, aware and alert, still clothed in his multi-purpose suit, suitable for sleeping and clothing in all situations and terrains. The weapons of his dangerous profession were laid out in disarray on the bedside table, dumped with little regard or care. This treatment of the hunter’s life was an affront, causing him to anger and blast a shot from his musket through the floor, in the direction of the magician.
“Hahaha, not even close boy, you really are an amateur.”
“You bloody insolent old man!” the hunter screamed, barrelling downstairs.
“Woah, hold up a minute there young man.” Said a pretty young lady, “but thanks for getting rid of those zards yesterday, my father was asleep and said someone would come to get rid of them sooner or later…”
“That insolent and rude idiot is your pa? The hunter asked, incredulous.
“Why yes, he is, although, I think I take after my mother rather than him I guess.” The lady said, eyes a twinkling.
“Well, then, I apologise for not introducing my self sooner, I am Valeran, the crimson bullet.”
“And I am Cyndy, most commonly called lady keep.”
“Why?” asked Valeran
“Simply because the keep and I are one and the same, each lives within the other.”
Valeran looked baffled, but was prevented from asking further question by the timely arrival of the old man bearing a delicious breakfast of sweet fruits, toast and a small selection of perfectly cooked meats, sausages, chicken and bacon.
“Mmm…” mumbled Valeran “smells awesome.”
“Hahaha, and that’s all that you get from it, a sniff!” the old magician laughed gleefully.
“What!?”
“Yours is over there, boy.” The magician pointed to a bowl of slightly burned porridge, now cackling manically. The hunter’s hand once again shot to his revolver, and once again lady keep restrained him.
“He’s just kidding, Valeran, don’t get your knickers in a knot.”
“What the ****?”
The three moved to a table inside the kitchen and began to eat, Valeran’s right hand feeling the soft lines of the grain and wondering at the type of timber as his left hand jammed food into his mouth at breakneck speed. The magician ate a little more politely, but still exuded immense mirth and glee at the hunter’s discomfort and anger. Cyndy of the keep ate very little, but a small smiled played about her delicate rosy lips the entire time, quietly mirthful.

Valeran’s knife smashed into his plate, seeing something black and shadowy flitting through the window. The reason for the hastily dropped knife was soon apparent; a revolver had taken its place. Valeran dashed through the doors of the kitchen and sped outside, now both revolvers were drawn. The shadowy creature had stopped upon hearing Valeran’s uncustomary approach.
“Wraith, you die now!” Valeran screamed, hatred vibrating through his voice.
“Why, if it isssn’t Valeran, the crimsssson bullet.” The wraith hissed in obvious pleasure.
“I will kill you!”
“Try boy, and we will sssee which of your loved ones die!” menace and dire threat was thick in the wraiths sibilant serpentine voice, a shadowy forked tongue flicking out. The revolvers came up in blinding unison, triggers squeezed and bullets flying before the wraith had time to react, but they both sped through it to smash into the walls behind, little more than wispy disturbances as a mark on the wraith. Valeran paled, golden hair blazing. At this point, when Valeran’s mask dropped with his fear at the wraiths imperviousness to his bullets, it was revealed to the old man that Valeran was little more than a boy, barely 19 years of age and already consumed by burning hatred and fear for those who slew his family. His features were worn by the weather and grief, lined with immense age on the face of one so young. In time, the old magician would come to realise that all of his guild, who were little more than a handful, all looked the same and had suffered similar horrors. By privileged, the school did not mean money, riches or fame, but the chance at a new life, albeit a short one.
“Die boy, I think I have let you fear long enough.”
Valeran’s eyes cleared, remembrance opening his mind and proving a hope.
‘….a wraith can be harmed by no natural means, for they are not of this earth, and cannot die from this earth…’
The wraith charged, but it was more of a glide, ugly and fearful, rather than serene and graceful.
“Valeran!” Lady Keep screamed, as the wraith plunged over him. A heartbeat thudded throughout the land in the space of a second, before a bayonet shining crimson burst through the wraith, light pouring out from the rip in tis putrid chest.
“Did you think I was dead, wraith? I don’t think so.”
The wraith exploded in a flash of light, sinking into the ground, the light did not dim, but shone for seconds, and Valeran collapsed, head lolling forward to his chest and knees giving up beneath him. There was no blackness closing in, simply a flash of understanding, before everything disappeared and his mind slipped from the air into unconsciousness.

Chapter 3: Rocky Reunion

The cheerful hunter slowed as once again, the day arrived over the horizon, his eyesight dimming, and power moving back to normal. The curled whip hanging from the hunters belt too dimmed, its shine that had been prominent through the night returning to its usual Indigo glow. The Hunter looked across the river, at the forest on that side. It was dark and eerie, dark beasts lurking inside. Werewolves and vampires fought a constant battle. The forest of Darkovia. The hunters lip curled up in disgust at both, the feral wolves who were mangy and disgusting, and the bastard vampires who had drained and turned his beautiful mother, accompanied by a wraith that had killed his father, his mother had lived long enough to birth him, one eye slitted yellow and the other not far off. She had tried to kill him that day. Her mind and body ravaged by the vampire, she was consumed with hunger for blood and his was fresh and new. His mother had not even touched him, her new son, for as she leapt, teeth bared and snarling, a silver bullet had ripped through her chest, killing her almost instantly, for she had screamed, softly and humanely, for her son. The men in black had barely caught the young infant as he fell backwards of the bed, the men carrying him away.
A scream ripped through the hunter’s mind and ears, waking him from the memories. He glanced about quickly, determining the location of the scream. The forest. He sped of, Dhampyre blood speeding him along. The river loomed below the bank and the hunter leapt, soaring through the air to land with catlike grace on the opposite bank, a good 30 metres away. The scream sounded again, woman’s scream. The indigo-haired boy sped off through the forest, swaying out of the way as trees sped towards him. a wolf howled and began pursuit, but never saw the bullet that ripped it apart, courtesy of the hunter. In a small clearing, a woman was hiding behind her husband, who was desperately trying to fend of a snarling trio of vampires; they were playing with him, speeding in to nip at his arms and torso, slowly and cruelly killing him. The hunter, normally cheerful and carefree, lost control, revolver disappearing in the wake of the whip, specially created to thirst for vampire blood. The hunter’s vision blurred with the rage, something that most hunters possessed, born from grief and instability. The vampires snarled at the prospect of even more blood, two leaping at the hunter as the third dealt the final blow to the man, swinging a hooked hand across his neck, the man crumpling without a word as his wife screamed. The hunter’s eyes reddened further, the whip slashing out across the first vampire, barely dodging back as the hunter matched its feral speed. The second vampire attacking the hunter paled in fear, calling to his companion to help. Now it was three versus one, an unfair fight.
“Why there boys, not very fair hey? Scared are you?” The hunter said, provoking the vampires to attack, but slashing out as they did so, slicing one across the neck ripping it open. The wounded vampire gurgled in pain, vampiric blood spurting from the cut.
“You killed Balthis!” one vampire hissed, “Filthy human!”
“You’re next, snake eyes.” True to his word, the hunters whip slashed out a second time, Indigo light pulsing in a sudden flash, ripping around the vampires head. With a sudden violent jerk, the hunter tore the vampires head from its shoulders, more black, thick blood covering the floor.
“Bye human, I’m not staying!” the vampire said, spinning around and fleeing.
“Oh yes you are, disgusting beast.” The whip curled and moved back to its hook on the hunter’s belt.

in the same movement that it took to unhook the speargun on the hunter’s back. A spear was already loaded, and now the feather flights were revealed, a deep indigo colour, slashed through with a lightning bolt of regal purple. The heads were silver. The spear slashed through the air, whistling tis deathly tune, the hunter’s Dhampyre blood game him the speed and the strength of a vampire, his speargun farm more powerful than any others. The vampire quarry twisted violently, attempting to dodge the spear, dodging at incredible speeds. Not fast enough. The silver head impacted with an explosion of dust and vampire blood, splashing the trees with it, the spear stopping with the head deep in the vampire’s chest. The hunter moved to the vampire’s side, kneeling down to whisper a vampiric curse upon it. The vampire screamed in agony as the silver spear was wrenched from its chest, more blood exploding out to leave a sizzling line across the hunter’s face. The hunter appeared to be blow softly upon the spear, but the blood flew off in a burst, adding to the painted trees. The woman began to cry, softly at first but then louder, escalating to a wail of pain.
“No, no, no, no….”
“I’m so sorry…” the hunter whispered
“It wasn’t your fault; you still saved me and my children…”
“Nevertheless, let me help you, take you somewhere safe.” The hunter suddenly looked puzzled, “Why are you living here anyway?”
“My husband was a ranger, we used to live in small villages but about 10 years ago, vampires ransacked the ranger villages, killing them and taking the stronger ones for their queen.” The woman sobbed softly, “They were building an army.”
“So why did you stay in the forest?”
“It was our home, we didn’t have anywhere else to go…”
“Well, now I’m going to take you and your children away, you can’t stay here.”
“Please, we can’t leave…it’s our only home…I love it here, my children will be rangers…”
“Fine then.” The hunter said, agitated, he took a ball from his pocket, and smashed it in the middle of the clearing, an indigo bubble spreading outward to encompass the entire glade, shimmering softly. Suddenly running feet could be heard and the woman screamed,
“Vampires!”
The hunter laughed, “Don’t worry about them.”
“Are you mad?” The woman screamed.
“Quite, but that has nothing to do with it.”
The woman began to scream again, but it was suddenly drowned out by a deafening CRACK! The first vampire had made contact with the bubble, and a bolt of electricity had exploded through him, instant death and a warning to others.
‘Although it’s a little too late for that’ the hunter thought, chuckling manically, as four more vampires died a similar way, and their bodies made a conductive chain, their clan members dying as they tried to drag them off. Soon, scores of vampires lay dead around the clearing, others hissing and screaming curses at the woman and man inside the bubble.
“Well then, I best be off, good day ma’am.”
“Wait! How will you get out, you can’t take the shield away!”
“Don’t worry,” The hunter thought he seemed to be saying that an awful lot lately, “it only fries those of ill will to you and yours.”
“W-well g-goodbye th-then…” the woman suddenly flung her arms around the hunter and cried out her pain and tears. The hunter, unused to such a show of emotion, stood stiffly, then when she let go, turned and left without a word, jumping into the nearest tree and making his way through the air, back to the river.