Exalted Realms Online- Harbinger of Chaos

by Jamie O'Leary

  What was he thinking? He’d set out for a life of adventure and now he wanted to turn back home because he was afraid? How pathetic. How could he ever show his face in Coronus again if he squelched on his promise to defeat Yorub and avenge King Maldrick? He’d be the laughingstock of Half-World for sure. Nurox decided he’d give up on worrying about all this Darkwind business and would instead keep his vow to the people of Coronus. He, Nurox the Hunter, would prove himself worthy by finding and destroying the wind demon Yorub. This would be the challenge that would make him famous.

  Now horseless, Nurox was forced to walk. His stomach started rumbling and he knew he’d have to eat soon. He would have to trek up the mountain pass of Keldovo to reach Yorub’s castle, which sat among the peaks overlooking the kingdom of Sunderia.

  He knew of a small outpost that served hot biscuits and gravy near the base of the mountain, which was only a few miles walk to the pass itself. He could almost taste the flaky crust of those biscuits, so he picked up his pace.

  The Sunderian Mountains stretched across the middle of the continent, its majesty of snow-capped cliffs jutting from the earth was home to the wind demon Yorub and a bevy of other creatures, including harpies, gargoyles, and götfangs. They were known to attack adventurers seeking their way to Yorub’s castle. They were relatively easy creatures to defeat, and Nurox had cut his teeth on götfangs, small goat-like creatures with a mean streak that were indigenous to Sunderia while he was still in training. If he replenished his supplies at the outpost, and perhaps hired some sellswords to join him, he might have a shot at defeating Yorub.

  For now, he put one foot in front of the other, and headed for the mountains in the distance, whose deep violet hues now caught the rising sunlight.

  VII

  Oswic peered out the window of his room, then paced back and forth. “If that bastard Darkwind betrays me, I’ll have his head!” he uttered to himself. He scratched his scalp, his paranoia taking over. “Where could he be?”

  It was morning as Darkwind rode up to the Dusty Trails Inn. He carried a lumpy sack over his shoulder.

  The innkeep announced their evening specials to Darkwind as he entered. “What can I get you tonight, fine sir?” he inquired.

  Darkwind scanned the room. “There was a fat, old man that checked in here yesterday.” The innkeep nodded. “Bald head, about ye big,” he continued.

  “Yes, what about ‘im?” the innkeep inquired.

  “He’s my traveling companion and I’ve come to meet him here. Have you seen him?”

  “Aye, I know of this fella. He’s upstairs. The one with the green door,” the innkeep motioned.

  Darkwind knocked on the green door. He could hear the shuffling of feet on the other side. The door cracked and Oswic pulled Darkwind inside.

  “Is it done?” the High Counselor asked giddily.

  Darkwind dumped the contents of the sack onto the bed—the heads of the remaining High Council. Oswic stepped back in horror, aghast at Darkwind’s barbarism.

  “B-but you—” Oswic stammered.

  “I didn’t think you’d take my word for it, so I brought back proof,” Darkwind replied casually.

  “You’re a butcher!” Oswic said.

  “I do my best,” smiled Darkwind. “Now, let’s talk about my reward. What did you say it was, a million in Mevalonic gold? I hope you keep your promises, Councilman, for your sake.”

  Oswic could hardly breathe over the lump in his throat. “Get this out of my sight,” he scoffed. “You’ll get your money.”

  Darkwind put the heads back into the sack. “I’ve got my eye on you,” he said to Oswic as he turned and left the room. Oswic knew his death would be imminent if he didn’t take care of Darkwind first. What could he do?

  Oswic procured a horse for himself, and he and Darkwind headed for Etonia. The ride felt long and Darkwind refrained from talking to Oswic when he could.

  “Are you going to murder me before or after I pay you?” Oswic asked.

  “Don’t know,” Darkwind toyed with him.

  “Why would you kill me?! I’m paying you a million in Mevalonic gold! You’re being paid to protect me!”

  Darkwind fed Max some berries from his hand. “Then why do you think I’m going to murder you? Where’s the incentive?”

  Oswic clasped his throat and winced with fear. “What you did to the others—”

  “That?” mused Darkwind. “That was nothing, really. I’ve taken the heads of giants. Your fellow councilmen weren’t very impressive. I have to admit, I thought about killing you since you’re as much a scumbag as any of them, but you’re right, you are paying me to protect you, so—”

  “So you’re not going to kill me?”

  “At least not yet,” Darkwind said with a sly grin.

  Oswic knew he would not be able to sleep again until he was rid of Darkwind.

  As they rode up the gates of Etonia, Oswic was anxious to pay Darkwind and get on with his life in Etonia. This place was quaint and the pair’s horses trotted down the muddy street through town.

  “It’s just up there on the hill,” said Oswic, pointing out a large stone house with a blue roof. This was Oswic’s family home, and the one place his treasure — hoarded over years of corruption in the High Council — could be kept safe.

  Etonia was over three-hundred years old and was originally settled by farmers, who cultivated the rich soil in this region. They were also known for herding lews, small furry creatures only a couple of feet in length that were raised for meat. Oswic’s father was lew butcher, and Oswic was expected to follow in his footsteps. The cleaver was never Oswic’s way though; he saw opportunity in his quick wit and silver tongue, which he felt could wield more power than any blade. He set his sights on Mevalon at a young age. From the first time he spied Mevalon on a map, he was intrigued. He pored over Mevalonic history books, legends and lore, and anything else he could get his hands on about the storied kingdom. Oswic applied for and entered the Mevalonic School of Councilmen, and he excelled at his studies while there.

  One of his professors, Luvaric, took a particular liking to Oswic and because of Luvaric’s connections, Oswic was offered a seat on the High Council upon graduation. It was unprecedented for someone of Oswic’s age at the time to join the High Council, but they were seeking young blood to rule in their stead and for incoming generations. Oswic jumped at the chance. He did his best to work with the other Councilmen, who were old and crotchety, and far-removed from the trials of everyday people in the kingdom. As the old died and were replaced with the new, more corruption became apparent. Rather than stop the purge of gold and other treasures, the High Council crafted laws that made them near-invincible.

  However, in recent weeks, the people of Mevalon — the hundreds of thousands of players that lived, worked, and played there — had caught onto their schemes and exposed them. It was Oswic’s (and his fellow Council’s) bad luck that he’d run into Darkwind. Now Oswic felt as if this would be the last time he’d ever see Etonia. Despite all his mistakes, he had a good run. Is this when Darkwind would slay him and take his head, too? If Darkwind was going to kill him, he was too weary now from the trip, his paranoia and his guilt, to do much of anything about it.

  They dismounted at the steps of the house, which Darkwind noted was even bigger up-close. The stones that made up the house were large and smooth, alabaster with specks of blue that complemented the matching blue ceramic rooftop shingles.

  Oswic unlocked the large front door, a golden wood that was braced by two iron hinges, with an iron handle and lock. It roared as it slid open. Dust kicked up in spirals through the shafts of sunlight pouring in from the eastern windows.

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting your payment, eh?” Oswic guessed. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Darkwind stood in the big, empty room. This might not be a bad summer place. A few statues of Mevalonic heroes stood in the corners of the room—Meldesh, the Us
urper (of Togosh), with his trident in-hand, his fierce battle gaze locked in infinity; Gerturinde, the Warrior Woman, whose feminine wiles were eclipsed only by her fighting ability; and Maslom, the Dreaded, whose statue was crouched down, spear in one hand, shield in the other. These were the once-great champions of Mevalon, in the days before the High Council, before Oswic and his avaricious cronies came to power. Now, it’s all falling apart.

  Darkwind turned to meet the sound of Oswic shuffling towards him, carrying a large wooden chest on his back. He set the chest on the dusty floor and took a breath. “There you go, Darkwind. One million in Mevalonic gold.”

  Darkwind popped the chest open. The interior glittered in the sunlight. It was nearly blinding. Darkwind easily lifted the chest, hoisting it onto one shoulder. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Thank you, Darkwind, for destroying the High Council. They would’ve killed me for sure. I take it now that I’ve paid you, you’ll go about your business?”

  “Yes. I’ll go about my business.”

  “It’s settled then,” Oswic replied.

  “Not quite,” Darkwind said. “There is one more thing.”

  ***

  Darkwind stuck Oswic’s head on a pike outside his Etonian house. He knew that if Oswic lived, he’d never forgive himself for letting that one get away. Darkwind was used to killing a lot of people, most of whom didn’t do anything in the first place. At least, Oswic had done something that made murdering him have some other purpose than to collect PKs. Either way, he needed Oswic’s soul if he was ever going to complete his quest and get to the bottom of it.

  He took his prize, plundered the remaining supplies from the house that he could carry, mounted his horse, and left Etonia behind.

  VIII

  The pot boiled over, sizzling on the stovetop. The smell of fresh garlic and thyme filled the room. JosiePussycat16 sat in the corner of the room, her scarlet hood pulled over her eyes so she could scan the room conspicuously. She had been sent to this tiny village by Lord Darian of Barul to assassinate the so-called leaders of a rebel uprising, and she was looking for her targets, who were known to frequent this inn.

  The men-in-question were called Tomlin, Ogrest, and Smire. They were three otherwise unassuming citizens living under Lord Darian’s rule, but they had long harbored aspirations to take their own lands rather than work them for their Lord.

  Barul was known for its gardens, where nearly every species of flora in Half-World was said to be kept. Lord Darian also used his nation’s flowers to produce anesthetics, healing potions and other remedies, by which he made a fortune in-game. Without so much excess gold, Lord Darian splurged on himself and his subjects. He shared much of his wealth and prosperity with the people living under him, and many had no reason to challenge him. But these three men dared to.

  When news of the unrest first made its way to Lord Darian, he requested that Tomlin, Ogrest, and Smire formally meet with him to hear them out and discuss a compromise. The trio entered the throne room. Lord Darian sat on his throne, thick puffs of smoke billowed about him as he exhaled from an ornate hookah seated next to him. He cast his gaze at the men through the thick fog.

  “Is this Tomlin, Ogrest, and Smire before me?”

  “Yes, m’lord,” they replied almost in unison.

  “I understand that you’re unhappy living in Barul?” he prodded.

  “We simply want to be independent, Lord Darian.”

  “Independent? What for? Do I not provide you with everything you need? I give you protection with my guards, I give you food, shelter from storms, everything. What will you do if you are independent of Barul, with no lands to call your own? What then?” Lord Darian lashed out.

  “We want to take over the lands we currently have. Y’know, the ones we work for you now? Perhaps we can begin trading—” Tomlin began.

  “Enough! I won’t hear of it. Give away my land to you because you cultivated it? I don’t want to break the province up, and if you take this land from me, it takes it away from everyone in Barul. Think about what affects your actions might have. If you try to secede with lands from Barul, I will be forced to take action against you. Let’s be peaceful. Barul is the kingdom of flowers, and gamers from all over travel here to see its beauty. Let’s not disrupt that over some petty war,” Lord Barian said.

  “Then give us the land we deserve,” Smire snarled.

  “It’s no use,” Tomlin said. “He’s not going to budge.”

  The three men exited the throne room, their request unrequited, but their thirst for independence was still unslaked. Lord Barian continued to puff on his hookah. “Why can’t we just get along?”

  Now, JosiePussycat16 was on-the-clock for Lord Barian, who decided that in order to save Barul from civil war, he’d have to go against his own values as a ruler and have these defectors assassinated, which is where Josie came into the picture. She was revered for being one of the best assassins in Half-World, and was known for her cunning and ruthless nature. Josie was loyal to those who paid her for her services, and was feared by those who failed to do so. She felt she was a forgiving person, but once she caught on to a scheme or someone’s plan to try to pull one over on her, Josie retaliated without mercy. Her skills tree had been mastered for some time now, and she possessed all the abilities of a covert assassin—she was an efficient thief that had the power to shapeshift, making her near impossible to be detected by her targets. Her shapeshifting strategy also wrought psychological damage as her targets would become paranoid until they distrusted everyone they knew, and then, she’d strike!

  Josie had tracked the men over the past few days. Lord Darian offered her 1,000 gold per head. She figured it’d be easy money and agreed to Lord Barian’s terms. It was easy enough to find them, but Josie knew she’d need to pull some surveillance on her targets, so she could find the perfect time to carry out their elimination.

  At that moment, the door of the pub opened and a weary Nurox stood in the entrance. He shuffled to a seat. Josie watched him. He looked devastated and positively worn out from his apparent travels. Nurox caught her eyes as he casually scanned the room; perhaps he was looking for Darkwind or something else. He signaled down a barmaid who promptly took his order. Soon, she returned with a mug of honey ale, which Nurox quickly chugged down. He slammed the mug down with a satisfactory belch. He turned red when he saw Josie laugh. He took another swig of his drink and sauntered over to Josie. He pulled up a seat.

  “Not interested,” said Josie abruptly.

  “Not interested in what exactly?” Nurox asked.

  “No interest in you or getting to know you. I’m working. Buzz off.”

  “What? You work here?”

  “I didn’t say I worked here. Go away. You’re bothering me,” Josie commanded.

  “Okay, well, have fun working, uh, miss, I didn’t get your name,” he gestured.

  “I didn’t give it.”

  Nurox composed himself. “I’m Nurox the Hunter. I’m on my way to kill Yorub the Wind Demon of Sunderia.”

  “Ugh, I don’t care,” replied Josie.

  “Fine. Have you seen a wind demon around here?” Nurox asked in an irked tone.

  “Can’t say I have, Murnox, but good luck. Now, would you mind getting out of here? I’m busy.” She pushed Nurox aside as she saw the trio exit the pub. She headed for the rear door.

  “Wait, you still never told me your name,” Nurox called out as she disappeared in the crowded pub. Nurox shrugged and continued to drink his cold honey ale with delight.

  Minstrels performed on a stage on the opposite side of the pub. Roars of laughter erupted between their antics. Nurox kicked back and enjoyed the show. He wanted to drown out the nagging at the back of his mind regarding his pledge to the people of Coronus. Why was he always making such bold statements when it only gets him into trouble? If he could avoid everyone and slip away to the countryside, nobody would remember Nurox the Hunter
. The people of Coronus would take him for a liar; he’d be branded an empty braggart and coward.

  Nurox drank down the rest of his ale and called for another. He sat there and drank, pondering what to do next. The minstrels show was winding to an end. “Encore!” the crowd cried out.

  After a few pints, Nurox staggered out the rear door of the pub, which opened into a forested alley. It was pitch dark, save for the lantern that hung above the door. Nurox stood against the wall and began urinating. He let out a sigh when he suddenly felt cold steel against his neck.

  “What do you want?” he asked, midstream.

  “Who are you?” whispered a voice.

  “I am Nurox the Hunter,” he replied, choking up with fear.

  He felt the blade move away from his throat. “Oh, it’s you,” the voice replied.

  Nurox was puzzled. The dim lighting made it impossible for him to make out who this person was. “Who are you?” Nurox asked, peering blindly into the dark. Then the figure moved closer. It was JosiePussycat16.

  “Uh, I didn’t expect you,” Nurox stammered, intoxicated by both Josie and the unusually strong honey ale.

  Josie was lithe and beautiful; she was of average height and slim; she had pierced elfin ears, electric blue hair that was shaved on one side; big, come-hither, magenta doe-eyes that made Nurox feel unsteady. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I think that’s pretty obvious,” he motioned. Josie quickly turned around.

  “You know what I mean,” she said.

  Nurox finished his business and opened the door to the pub. “Let’s have a drink and I’ll tell you?” he offered.

  Josie declined. “Sorry, but I’m working.”

  “You never told me your name or what you do.”

  “It’s Josie. And I kill people for a living.”

  And with that, Josie disappeared. Nurox stood there mesmerized by this beautiful bringer-of-death. She may be gone now, but he would find her again. Still, she would never have him if he was a coward! Right then and there—maybe it was a flash of lucidity, or simply the booze talking—he made his decision. He knew exactly what he had to do.