A Dance of Fang and Claw: The Ranger Archives Volume 3, page 15
A Chronicle of Monsters: A Ranger’s Bestiary, 12th Edition, Page 335.
Hestor, Ranger.
It was only minutes before the cursed man awoke, and with a thumping headache by the way he was clutching his forehead. He rubbed his throat before his attention landed on the ranger.
Asher was seated on a chair, close by, with his short-sword spinning between his fingers, the silvyr tip worming into the floorboard. For those precious minutes, he had contemplated what to do with that deadly weapon. Whether he was to run him through or not, the ranger had decided he would wait until the man was awake. Seeing him now, he was still conflicted.
“What… what happened?” By the look on Maybury’s face, his memories quickly rose to the surface and answered his own question.
“You lost control,” Asher articulated for him anyway. “Again.”
Russell’s jaw tensed. “I told you—”
“I know what you told me,” the ranger calmly interrupted, his spinning blade coming to a swift halt, the hilt now firmly gripped in the palm of his hand.
Its movement—or lack thereof—hadn’t escaped Russell’s attention. “I’m sorry,” the miner offered, if half-heartedly. “The pain…” He shook his head as if to clear it of the mess. “When the beast comes, under the moon I mean, there is so much pain. When you hit me it… it was like transforming all over again. It awoke the wolf.”
That made so much sense to Asher, though he wished such a revelation could have come to him prior to the attempted meditation. Where pain triggered detachment between mind and body in him, it triggered detachment between man and wolf in Russell. Once he was removed from the equation, there was nothing to stop the wolf from taking over.
A revelation it might be, but it offered no obvious solution to their ongoing problem.
“You’re not saying anything,” Russell pointed out.
The ranger collected himself, unaware that his thoughts had been carrying him away. “We keep moving forward,” he said, the only direction he knew anymore. “I will go to the blacksmith’s and see what can be done before the next full moon.”
“What shall I do?” Maybury asked, watching Asher rise to his feet and replace his short-sword over one shoulder.
“You should keep your mind and body occupied for now.” The ranger looked about their surroundings. “Clean this place up. We’re going to need the space if we’re to continue your training.”
“Continue?” Russell echoed, halting Asher’s departure. “So we are to continue then?”
“For now,” came the only response Asher could muster.
Winter soon swallowed the day, replacing light with dark. The hours of transition, however, had done nothing to replace Asher’s doubts with conviction. He had met with the blacksmith and found little but excuses for why the work would take longer than three weeks and prove more costly than predicted.
Since then, he had walked the streets of Lirian, his feet lost to the by-ways, avenues, and alleyways of the capital city. So too did his mind wander, rarely settling on anything tangible. More than anything, he kept returning to his failures. It had been a mistake to attempt Nasta’s techniques, especially on the uninitiated, but more so because they were simply wrong. They were the brutal techniques of killers and though Russell had blood on his hands, he was no true killer.
Despite being a specialist in always finding the best angle, the ranger had failed to see it. Without a viable solution, what life could Russell hope to have? Wallowing as he was, Asher decided to take the next left, well aware of the establishment that sat halfway down the street. There was Sable’s Tavern, a perfectly good place to buy food and drink and, if one was so inclined, to find good company, yet to the ranger it was a reminder that, like everyone else, he had blind spots.
Taking a seat in the same booth he had years earlier, Asher recalled the two men who had shared it with him. Dunkan and Geron. Men he had believed to be one thing but who had turned out to be something else entirely. In truth, he knew looking back that he hadn’t seen them for what they really were because he hadn’t wanted to. At the time, he had been desperately seeking out something in the world to cling to, something that was as far away from Nightfall as possible. Forcing such a rigid perspective on himself had, ultimately, blinded him. He had vowed since to always see the truth before him, no matter how ugly it was.
So why was Russell Maybury still breathing?
What did he think he was achieving by saving him?
These questions circled his mind while he sipped the forgettable drink and consumed the tasteless meal. So absorbed was he by his own thoughts that, at some point in the evening, he had stopped scanning every face that entered and departed Sable’s Tavern. It was this slip that prevented him from noting the man before he was seated in the booth opposite him.
Every muscle in the ranger’s body stilled. His left hand, hidden beneath the table, enveloped the hilt of a small knife strapped to his thigh while his right hand simply touched the knife resting on his empty plate. His broadsword stood against the booth, just behind his shoulder—an awkward reach—while his silvyr blade stood on the bench beside him. It was easier to grab but was sheathed.
Appearing far more relaxed, the pale man tucked one lock of blond hair behind his ear and offered an easy smile. “If it would make you feel better,” he said, voice as smooth as silk, “you may take one in hand. But I warn you, Ranger, if you must make a scene others will die before you do.”
Asher followed the gaze of those cobalt eyes to the many patrons that had packed out Sable’s Tavern in recent hours. Among them, however, he discovered faces equally pale to the one who shared his booth. Male and female, they all looked back at him, angular faces of unquestionable beauty.
“This is yours, I believe.”
The ranger was drawn back to the table, where the stranger had laid down a familiar curved dagger and pushed it towards him. Asher hadn’t seen it since burying the weapon in the fiend that had attacked him in Russell’s house.
Asher didn’t reclaim it immediately, unsure if it was a trick.
“I would ask who you are,” the ranger said, his voice all the more gruff by comparison, “but why don’t we start with what you are.”
A tight but knowing smile cut through the chiselled marble of that pale face. “We’re complicated,” he replied cryptically.
“I kill monsters for coin,” Asher stated evenly. “I like to keep things simple.”
The stranger twisted his lips in amusement. “Hmm,” he mused. “Well I’m a monster and you’re food. Too simple?” he asked, naught but amused by Asher’s hard stare.
The ranger nodded along pleasantly enough. “That’s one way of looking at it. Another way would be: I’m the hunter, you’re the prey.”
A melodic laugh escaped dark lips. “Trust me, dear Ranger, after eight hundred years of sinking my fangs into your kind, I know prey when I see it.”
The stranger’s eyes appeared dark now, and fixed on Asher as if he was the only thing in the world, though it did little to unnerve the ranger, even if he had a clue as to what he was dealing with. Turning to his right, he scrutinised a handful of those pale faces again, seeing them anew. How could he have been so foolish? Had he hunted so many vile creatures that he had forgotten that not all of them wore hideous guises. Talk of fangs, their insipid complexion, a distinct beauty about them, and only at night had he encountered them.
“Vorska,” he uttered with disdain, eliciting another smile from the stranger.
“Gorgers, Vampires, Blood Fiends. Now… Vorska. Give it a century or two and we’ll be known by another name I’m sure. Personally, I prefer to go by Merith.”
Asher’s mind had already returned to the bestiary, having tuned Merith out. Naturally, he recalled weaknesses and means of execution first.
Merith chortled, returning the ranger’s attention to him. “Humans! Your thoughts are so predictable. Right now, for example, you’re trying to remember all the ways you can kill me. Hmm?” Asher said nothing, the promise of death there to see in his eyes alone. “Yes,” the stranger purred. “Well let’s move things along, shall we? You can’t kill me. Or any of us for that matter.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to make such a claim,” the ranger declared.
A dead smile settled on the creature’s human face, never quite reaching his extraordinary eyes. Clasping his fingers on the table top, he said, “Don’t think that killing a filthy Werewolf—and a baby wolf at that—qualifies you for the job of facing my kind.”
It was Asher’s turn to offer a tight but knowing grin. “You come in here and sit at my table like you know me, as if this is some show of power—a predator stalking its oblivious prey. But you don’t know me at all, do you?” Still smiling, the ranger confidently retrieved his dagger. “When we’re done here, you and yours will be just another name on a very long list.”
Merith’s eyes gave an almost imperceptible twitch. “Don’t be so sure, Asher. I’ve already learnt so much in the time we’ve shared this quaint little booth.” The creature’s nose crinkled. “Like me I’d say you’re something of a complication.”
“I thought I was just prey.”
“What you are is just a man. Yet…” Those predatory eyes narrowed on the ranger. “It takes something ancient to recognise that same trait in another, and you smell…” The creature paused, inhaling Asher’s scent again. “You smell older than me. There aren’t even Vorska older than me.”
Despite understanding every word the creature used, Asher didn’t understand anything he said. “It sounds like your mind is beginning to slip in its old age—”
“And your blood,” Merith went on, speaking over him. “It’s different.” Licking his lips he added, “Impure even. Yes,” he said, encouraging his own investigation. “I can feel it beneath that parchment you call skin. You have a touch of magic about you. Something in your blood that shouldn’t be there. You’re human, of that I have no doubt. But you’re also… something else. How intriguing.”
“I didn’t realise your kind killed their prey with words,” Asher told him dryly.
A tired smile overcame the creature. “Forgive me. After so long, it’s rare to come across a sheep that stands out from the rest. Perhaps I will make you one of us,” Merith pondered aloud. “Then your secrets will be mine.”
“Why are we even talking?” Asher questioned bluntly, itching to get to the fight.
The creature sat back against the booth. “I suppose it is rude to play with one’s food. We can probably chalk it up to curiosity. What man, nay ranger, takes in a Werewolf instead of slaying them? I was astonished to discover your scents outside of Kelp Town, moving together. I just had to meet the man,” he said, arms outstretched. “And you haven’t disappointed me. You are a conundrum. Had I the time I would unravel the mystery that surrounds you but…” Merith glanced out of the window, its corners packed with fresh snow. “It’s a first in my long life but I am running out of time. Which is why I felt it expedient, if not prudent, to remove you from the equation. I really must have that orb.”
Asher’s lips slowly parted, the truth of the matter dawning on him as he too looked to the window. “Russell,” he whispered to himself, though it didn’t escape the Vorska’s ears, a wicked grin stretching the monster’s pearly cheeks.
“He has likely been flayed by now with all the time my kin have had.”
In one motion, the ranger collected his silvyr blade and broadsword and bolted for the tavern door. He was given pause as he reached the threshold by the very same Vorska he had left for dead in Russell’s house, a dagger lodged in his skull. The Blood Fiend gave Asher a short bow, a promise of sorts that they would conclude what they had started in Kelp Town.
Only seconds later and Asher had left Sable’s Tavern and its monsters behind, his feet racing through the snow that had recently settled over the city. He skidded round every corner and shoved any and all aside who found themselves in his way. But, all the while, Merith’s words lingered in his mind like a poison.
“You can’t kill me. Or any of us for that matter.”
Having seen that last Vorska on his way out, Asher was inclined, if reluctantly so, to agree with the beast. He would have given it more thought had The Ranch not come into view, a dark and uninviting block between the warm glow of the houses around it. Having clipped his weapons to his person mid-run, the ranger freed the silvyr short-sword from over his right shoulder, the rare metal creating a high-pitched scraping sound as it tasted the winter chill.
He ran for the short steps, preparing to leap up to the porch in a single bound, when he heard a short sharp hiss from the adjacent alley, beside the stable. Halted in the road, Asher looked back and discovered the cumbersome frame of Russell Maybury peering out from behind a stack of crates. With a glance back at The Ranch, the ranger made for that same alley and sank into the shadows.
“They’re inside,” Russell breathed, his gaze fixed on the building.
Asher did his best to steady his breathing before responding. “Why aren’t you inside?” he whispered.
“Needed to clear my head. Went for a walk.”
The answer didn’t best please the ranger, especially since the man had gone for a walk without his cloak in the freezing dead of night. “You were supposed to stay inside,” he rasped.
“If I had would I still be alive?” came Maybury’s reply. “I arrived back as they entered,” he explained. “Saw them drop from the rooftops. They aren’t human.”
Asher let some of the tension ease in his jaw. “You’re not wrong,” he said, reassessing their next move. “We can’t stay here tonight.” The ranger felt the coin purse hanging from his belt, fingers deducing his current wealth. “We’ll find an inn. Return in the morning.”
Russell frowned in the dark. “What difference will that make? It’s abandoned—they could just wait in there until we return.”
Asher was shaking his head. “Trust me, they won’t be anywhere near here by sunrise. Come on.” The ranger hesitated, turning back to his companion. “Do you still have it? The orb?”
Maybury touched the largest pouch on his belt. “I do.”
Asher nodded his satisfaction and made for the other end of the alley, putting The Ranch behind him.
Chapter 13
Digging In
Crownling - No larger than a dog, these beasts might seem hardly a challenge, but beware ranger for, with jaws like a warthog, their bite can break bone and sever limbs. With that in mind, it will only take a single bite to take you out of the fight. If you can’t defend yourself, the rest of the pack will descend and tear you to pieces.
Since their back is lined with jagged rock, you will have to target their sides but don’t rely on arrows for they tend to annoy them more than anything.
See below for known poisons and traps.
A Chronicle of Monsters: A Ranger’s Bestiary, 12th Edition, Page 159.
Baigan Ruun, Ranger.
Having had no sleep, Asher’s sense of anticipation dimmed as he watched the dawn brighten the world. It was not chance that he observed such a thing through the window of The Jolly Rotten, for the ranger had chosen the inn above all those they had passed.
Strategically, it was well placed being near the southern road, a path that would take any traveller away from the city. It was also the tallest building on the block, giving him a good view from any room of the surrounding area and preventing anyone from invading the inn via the rooftop—a method of infiltration he and every Arakesh was well versed in. It helped too that the owner possessed a dog that barked at everyone who entered.
There was one last reason he had made directly for The Jolly Rotten, though it was yet to prove useful.
Leaving his room, partly guided by the smell of hot food, Asher walked along the hall that overlooked the tavern floor. There he spotted Russell Maybury, seated on a stool by the bar. He appeared to be in deep conversation with the owner, who was serving the miner a plate of something steaming. Only one of the tables was occupied, though Asher quickly sized them up as being no more than another patron, and not a threat.
Making his way down the stairs, the ranger overheard some of what Russell and the owner were conversing about. “That’s a lot of kegs,” Maybury was saying.
“Time of year,” the owner replied casually enough. “Different seasons bring different customers.”
“And your supplies,” Russell probed, “they’re all sourced locally?”
“More or less,” the owner said happily.
Despite their conversation being quite light, it seemed to Asher that Russell’s interest was more than piqued. Their talk came to an end, however, when the owner nodded at the ranger over Maybury’s shoulder. He busied himself further down the bar as Asher took the stool beside his companion, offering no more than a friendly nod at the ranger’s order of Velian tea.
“You haven’t slept,” Russell commented. He frowned at his own assessment. “I’m not sure how I know that. Something about the way you smell.”
Asher naturally looked to the owner, who was trying his best to appear disinterested. “Always take a booth,” he said gruffly, getting up from his stool. After Russell had joined him, he tapped the wall at the end of the booth. “Always assume there’s someone coming for your back. You need to learn to narrow your vulnerabilities.”
“You know,” Maybury began, stabbing a piece of bacon with his fork, “sometimes you sound nothing like a ranger.”
“I didn’t realise you’d met so many of us to know,” Asher quipped.
Russell chewed his bacon, eyeing the ranger all the while. “You said you’ve been doing this for six years. So you’ve spent a lot more time doing something else,” he concluded, leaving his statement to sit between them.
