Legends Are Fiction...

[Letho]

((Closed to Arsenic Ruin. Takes place immediately after “Hooray for the Bad Guys” (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=3631)))


“Incredible how much mischief can one wicked man create.”

The Temple of Draconus was still very much ablaze, the flames eating through the wood and plaster alike, by the time Letho emerged from it in the most peculiar manner. Carrying a huge brass bell atop and around his bulky figure, the legendary swordsman utilized the metal covering as a shield for himself and a family of four. Needless to say, the temperature beneath the bell was similar to the one within an oven by the time they got out, but some moderate burns on his palms were a small price to pay for five lives, his own included. Mere seconds after they exited the church, the once marvelous edifice finally lost structural integrity, imploding and bringing down the bell tower and the terracotta roof. The dust and the roof tiles succeeded in dousing most of the flames, but the whole site was still smoldering and billowing by the time Letho grunted and threw the bell aside, freeing himself and the family of the dizzying heat and breathing heavily.

The destruction of the temple was but a taste of havoc that Kedx unleashed upon Underwood on that wretched night. The vampire was never a do-gooder, but tonight the darkest side of him emerged, the side blinded by lunacy that insisted on sowing mayhem throughout the street of the Concordia capitol. He started at the main square, then continued to the church only to proceed to the Peaceful Promenade. Luckily, from the way things looked from where Letho stood now, it seemed that they were able to stop Kedx’s madness before he tore down that establishment as well. There was reprieve in that fact, but there was regret as well; Letho wanted to be the one to end the vampire’s existence. Some time ago, in the realm of Haidia, Kedx stabbed him in the back, betraying his comrades and the task at hand. And betrayal was something that the Marshal never forgot.

“Thank you so much. I... I thought we would...” the man who he saved with his bell stunt said in between spasmodic coughs. He looked like royalty – the entire family did – but the gaudiness of their lofty attires was lost somewhere in the ruins of the Temple of Draconus. Their powdered faces were now red and grimy, the man’s pointy beard burnt almost all the way to his chin, while his wife’s gown got shortened to what would’ve been considered a rather scandalous skirt. That didn’t stop her from throwing her arms around the bulky swordsman, sparing several seconds to weep and whisper her own thanks before retuning to her children.

“Try to find a healer to fix your burns,” Letho said, his voice gruff to the point of being emotionless, as per usual. He doubted they would be able to find one any time soon given the magnitude of destruction that Kedx caused, but luckily their burns weren’t so severe. The four stuck around until they got a proper breather, but it didn’t take much incentive to make them scurry into the streets and towards their home. Not before they recognized him though; it seemed that the name of Letho Ravenheart went around quite a lot lately and obscurity was not something the Marshal could count on anymore. Fame had a tendency of making your face quite familiar. However, unlike Kedx, he didn’t build his own on foundations of blood.

With the family gone and the blaring of the city’s upheaval gradually calming down, the muscular ranger took some tome to check his weaponry. In spite of the chaos that swallowed all the church visitors, he managed to collect all his armaments and even come out with an additional one. The pea-shooter was an unremarkable piece of hardware, a miniature version of his gunblade, sans the blade part, of course. Never a big fan of firearms, Letho merely tucked the revolver into the belt of his pants unceremoniously.

It was then, when he was already prepared to proceed to the Peaceful Promenade, that he noticed a corpse of a boy that he brushed aside within the temple. Or at least, the blonde kid looked like a corpse. Motionless and pale, the youngster was sprawled on the cobbles, lying in a pool of what was probably his own blood. The wound on his shoulder wasn’t gushing anymore, but there was still crimson liquid oozing from it, drenching his clothes. “Not a mortal wound. Maybe the squirt is still alive,” Letho thought, squatting next to the boy and taking off his gauntlet before seeking a pulse on his neck. It was weak and frantic, the way it usually was when the body lacked blood, but it was proof enough that he was alive.

“Hey, kid, you alive?” he asked, taking off his gauntlet and slapping the boy with the back of his hand. Not waiting for a coherent reply, the Marshal proceeded to yank the belt free of his own pants before he wrapped it around the lad’s shoulder. “This might hurt a little bit,” Letho added, giving his patient a warning before he tugged on the leather belt, tightening it just above the wound. It wouldn’t stop the bleeding, but at least it would slow it down considerably, giving the youth a chance.

[Arsenic Ruin]

His last moments were grim, a tortured hero at the brink of his own physical capabilities. The bleeding proceeded to stain his kimono as he plummeted towards the ground, his sword found no purchase in the flesh of the victim he sought, but he would never know that. Knees touched first, and were abruptly followed by his thighs. Also, from the momentum of his run, his body would slap and roll across the ground; like a rag doll. Sword perched upright in the dirt, the rays of the moon blanched across the sword’s bladed surface. The world he observed, as he tumbled not to far from his blade grew dark, and steadily darker, as he tried to hold on to his consciousness just a little while longer. Left arm felt a bit deader than usual as he gripped the loose dust with his right hand, mentally blocking out the pain that rumbled and ravaged his form.

However, the pain didn’t supercede his quickened lack of cognizance. Soon his eyes were at half-mast, watching the dust roll by as a soft breeze licked his face and tussled his hair. If he were to die here, at least the bulk of it would be during his unconscious state.

For a moment he could see the faint glimmer of light, but that too soon faded. Eyes still closed as his mouth hung agape, his back was arched, limbs dangling freely, and his mangled form was suspended in a sea of never ending white. Arsenic’s eyes opened, expecting half-heartedly that his left arm would have been healed, but as he winced while in an attempt to move it he found out it wasn’t so. He should have known, but at least the wound wasn’t as messy. Still slung through the opening of his kimono, he allowed the dead limb to rest there. His body had then returned to the upright position, at which point he looked around. Lips trussed, they spread to make a face of deep concentration, pondering where he could have ended up, and what happened before he passed out.

The left arm was a clue, but as he looked around he couldn’t find his sword anywhere, and while he patted his sides he began to notice black particles massing about three to four feet in front of him. As they became arranged, and the amorphous particles formed a figure, different parts of the figure began to lengthen out, and almost as soon as he figured out what he was looking, at his jaw dropped. It dropped further than the natural boundaries of the reality he once was in would allow. He had to grab his jaw from the bottom, and pull it up for it to lock back into place. Eyes flitted across the figure’s form in a failed attempt to find a part of the duplicate that was out of place, but there was not. It was a perfect symmetrical double.

His right hand unfurled touching his clone with scarcely a fingertip and it began to flood into his palm. It was like a bad dream, whatever concentration he did have was jarred by a familiar voice. “Hey, kid, you alive?” He was asked, then his cheeks hurt his head was knocked from right side, to left side, then right again. Staggering back, face held with his right hand.

“Yeah old codger! I’m alive!” Arsenic shook his right hand up into the infinite white, and yelled. Then his head pulsed throbbing with his father’s voice, upper body doubled over and he fell to his knees. Gagging he struggled to make sense of the words, that felt as if they were being shoved into his head with a shovel. Eyes widened, as he interpreted the message from old elven.


< My son, up until now your path has been chosen for you, by either myself or your teacher. But now, it is your turn to choose your path. >


The last part of the message was muddled with the second voices, apathetic warning. Pain bubbled through his left shoulder, which shattered the peacefulness of the white, eyes squinted, then he snapped them open sitting up sharply to find that he was in the forest. The dull pain in his shoulder reminded him that his left arm was still a piece of dead weight, and by a look to his left he saw the ragged hero from the Temple. With a series of blinks Arsenic stood up using his right hand to push up to his feet.


“Thanks.” Arsenic spoke as he adjusted the daggers at his sides, bewildered about where they came from, shrugging with his right shoulder he just assumed that they were always there, or he must have picked them up in this midst of all the chaos. But that familiar pain came back to him, even with his arm elevated and wrapped it still bothered him. Looking at it then towards the man he heard called Letho, he realized where he heard the name before. During his time in Alerar he heard mention of a man named Letho that was considered a hero, that much he knew he heard correctly. As he overturned that information in his head he came to the conclusion, “If you want to become a hero, why not learn from one?”

“Umm…Sir Letho, would you impart your knowledge of combat and heroism unto me?”

[Letho]

Given the direness of the current situation, it was probably inappropriate for Letho to laugh, and yet the reaction and the query of the blonde youngster caused irrevocable laughter to sneak into the man. It was the muffled, rugged kind, the kind that came with a benevolent, almost patronizing shake of a head. How else could he react when the first thing that the teen said after snapping back to consciousness was if Letho would be so kind to impart his knowledge of combat and heroism unto him? It seemed likely that the blonde kid got bludgeoned in the head as well as shot in the shoulder. It was the only way to explain why, even though he was still severely injured, he was completely disregarding his health and instead opting to ask silly questions.

It took several seconds for the Marshal to cast out joviality from his lineaments and retrieve a portion of his rigor. This process was accelerated by the serious face that looked back at him, the expression that didn’t quite understand what was so funny all of a sudden. “Oh, you’re serious,” Letho said, slightly stricken by surprise. He wasn’t positive that the lad was serious serious, probably just riding the adrenaline wave that took the youth through the strife with Kedx, but the muscular ranger decided to play along for the time being. “Well, you can start with not calling me ‘sir’. I feel old enough without such a stately title.”

Looking at the lad now, when he was fully erected and not in the heat of the battle with bullets flying and fires eating everything around them, Letho had to admit that, even if he was serious about the whole hero tutoring, there wasn’t much potential to work with. First off, there was the issue of dressing like a woman. His attire maybe was pitch-black, but it was still basically a very peculiar looking dress. Secondly, even though he was about as tall as the Marshal, his physique was far from impressive. Granted, brawn wasn’t always the most important factor when it came to battle prowess, but Letho always preferred to land one devastating strike on his opponent then a throng of scratches. Still, regardless of how much he wanted to go and participate in whatever was happening near the Peaceful Promenade, the dark swordsman could leave the blonde teen behind no more then he could leave the family of four that he rescued from the blazing inferno.

“Alright, first lesson. Probably the most important. Stay alive,” Letho said, dusting of his leather coat before donning it. “That wound of yours needs some serious tending as soon as possible. I think the bullet didn’t go straight through. And metal and flesh don’t mix too well. Come on, I think there’s a clergy of some other god or Thayne or something nearby.”

They walked through the benighted streets of Underwood at a relatively slow pace, a pair of dark figures stepping into and evanescing from the yellow shimmer of the sporadically enlightened street lamps. There were still a lot of fires ranging throughout the capitol of the Concordia barony, bringing turmoil into otherwise calm night, transforming the inky blackness of the sky into the gray sprayed with dim orange. More courageous locals were scurrying through the streets, scouring the sites of devastation, while those more fearful for their lives satisfied themselves with the view from their windows. Underwood was a stage tonight, and Kedx brought a nightmare show for all to watch.

“So, you got a name?” Letho finally broke the monotony of the clicking boots and shuffling clothes as he led the way down one of the shadowy, narrower street above which multi storey buildings loomed. Such spots were usually a good place to get mugged, but the Marshal doubted that there would be many robbers working the streets tonight. Those that didn’t flee from the flames were probably using the general confusion to pillage a vacant home or two. “And what are you doing here in Underwood, on this rather ominous night?”

[Arsenic Ruin]

Never shall innocent blood be shed. Yet the blood of the wicked shall flow like a river. The three shall spread their blackened wings and be the vengeful striking hammer of God.




After putting up with the heroes’ bout of laughter, Arsenic regained his composure. As did his heroic companion. He stood, uninjured hand pressed to the ground, heaving himself up off the ground.


“Alright, first lesson. Probably the most important. Stay alive,” Letho said, dusting of his leather coat before donning it. “That wound of yours needs some serious tending as soon as possible. I think the bullet didn’t go straight through. And metal and flesh don’t mix too well. Come on, I think there’s a clergy of some other god or Thayne or something nearby.”

His arm pained as Letho mentioned it, granted it kept him from collapse; he chuckled sourly as they passed through the barony. It was a dumb move for him to come from he trees, and attempt to save the innocent folks of this town, there was more than enough help there already. Arsenic groaned, his uninjured arm brushed through his blonde hair, his stomach felt terrible. Maybe it was just a pang of hunger. He followed close behind Letho being mindful to keep space between them so he didn’t over crowd.

“So, you got a name?” He heard Letho say, the silence broken he figured he could keep up. “Arsenic Ruin.” He replied murmuring slightly, he lugged his body forward every once and a while using his sword as a cane, his lips curled into a grin as the next question came along.

“And what are you doing here in Underwood, on this rather ominous night?” Letho didn’t give him a second glance, as the pace was kept up. It was getting harder to walk, his breath was becoming rough and ragged.

Arsenic still could fill a bit of what he thought could be the bullet embedded into his left shoulder. His straw sandals kicked up dust, as he strolled along side of Letho who lead the way down a dark alley way. His right hand grasped the sheath of his katana, sleeves folded over his hands. Eyes narrowed as he attempted to keep an eye out for anything that may have been out of place, though all he could spot was a cozy lit edifice. It glowed in a soft golden color, which could have been caused by the blood oozing that created an admirable stain on his kimono’s black sleeve.

The blood loss caused his right leg to go numb for a moment, weight shifted to a sharp lurch where he was caught by a pair of strong hands. The black robs would give this mysterious person the moniker of priest.

Arsenic struggled to look up at him, but he soon passed out for the second time.

Enter the Priest.

He was nearly bald, and his robe was becoming quite stuffy but the priesthood was one of the best choices of his life, though he did miss being a mechanic. Now he was standing outside with the rest of his clergymen, their shim shammed chapel the outside was illuminated by a dozen candles which gave it that holy flare.

It felt that it was years ago that he was flung from his previous time to this odd place they called Althanas, the only things he had to his name were his tools, and a few scrap pieces of metal. In the past years those materials began collecting dust, but one of his brothers in the lord managed to bring to his attention a wounded man wearing a rather odd get up.

“Take him inside eh?” He inclined his head back directing the rest of the group. As they carried the wounded swordsman inside he turned his attention to what may have been his accomplice. Jonoas’ upper body inclined forward, before looking the burly gun totter in the eye.

“Would you join us? Your friend needs medical attention, and we feel we could aid him..”

[Letho]

When the young man offered his name, Letho offered a suspicious, but subtle glare in return. Arsenic Ruin was a peculiar name, peculiar to the point where the Marshal suspected that it wasn’t even the boy’s real name. Young people in search of glory and fame – and Arsenic seemed to fit the profile – usually found their real names inappropriate, overly mundane, so they dubbed themselves into something that had a more noticeable ring. Most of them never lived long enough to realize that it didn’t matter whether you were called Thor Darkweaver or Lilly. What mattered was what you constructed around that name. Some of the best (and worst) men and women that Letho knew had rather unremarkable names.

However, before the Marshal even got a chance to deliberate on this issue or address it with the youth, they reached a hallowed chapel that looked genuinely busy. Tonight was a night of horror throughout Underwood and many have fled before Kedx’s terror and found sanctuary within the sacred walls of various religious establishments. It proved once again that when war came knocking, nobody was an atheist. Robed priests scuttled around their modest cloister, tending to those with mild burns and minor wounds on the lush grass of the courtyard. The exterior was enlightened by a myriad of candles with a pot of incense smoldering here or there, spreading a sickeningly sweet scent around the chapel. This had nothing to do with piety, Letho knew. The incense was there to quell the stench of death that was coming from the inside, where the more serious cases were being handled.

One of the priests – a rather stocky bald man clad in quotidian, almost threadbare robes – approached the pair as they stepped into the courtyard and not a moment too soon. Arsenic’s head sunk, taking with it his consciousness and his body, but the holy man was there to catch the teen before he struck the ground. His eyes skimmed over the wound before he suggested for them to proceed to the inside.

“Yeah, I think that would be for the best. He lost quite a lot of blood. I can see he isn’t the only one,” Letho said, throwing one of Arsenic’s arm over his shoulder while the priest picked up the other. Together they dragged the boy through the busy courtyard and into the chapel.

“That’s an unfortunate truth, my good man. Many were caught in the whirlwind that this insane vampire caused. Last I heard, a pack of rangers stopped him near the Peaceful Promenade. Too late for some poor souls.” The monk spoke with reverence, leading the way through the rather cramped, dimly lit hallways. Some rooms they passed looked like butcheries, some echoed with painful shrieks, while others seemed perfectly placid. It took more then a glance for the beholder to realize that the serenity came from the fact that the folk in those rooms were dead as doornails.

“So, what happened to your friend?” the clergyman asked once they entered one of the room that a pair of nurses just finished cleaning. Together, Letho and the monk placed Arsenic’s lifeless body onto the slab in the middle of the room. The priest begun to work on the boy immediately, unfolding his girlish attire in order to reach the wound.

“Would you believe he got shot by the night’s villain himself? I guess it will be quite a story to tell should he survive the night,” the muscular ranger responded, taking a step back and giving the healer ample room to work.

“I find stories of battles and suffering rather uninteresting,”

“I feel the same about pious preaching, but to each his own,” Letho retorted. There was no acrimony in his voice, but the words alone were enough to make it clear that they should both agree to disagree. Priests were pacifists; the only thing they fought was the very thing that Letho did for a living, the very thing he was built for. People like this clergyman were deft at conserving life, Letho was good at tearing it away from some poor bastards.

“Indeed,” the bald man said, too busy and too tired to continue the debate. Instead, he focused on his patient, washing the wound first with water, then with something that smelled like very strong liquor. There was a concerned look on the monk’s face though, and once Letho took a closer look at Arsenic’s arm, he understood the reason for the worry. The entire length of the arm was as pale as if it belonged to a corpse.

[Arsenic Ruin]

Death and sorrow clung to the walls of this inner sanctum. The clergy talked back and forth with Letho while keeping his eyes on the boy’s grievous wound. Already he could see the removal of the limb in the near future, because even if repairs could be made to salvage it the arm would be a dead weight; the outcome was obvious the arm had to be lost. The Clergy washed the wound with water, adding strong liquor to the open wound. It would wake the boy up, but they needed to stop any hope for disease to take hold. He looked to Letho, who had already realized how horrid the wound itself really was.


“The arm will have to be removed, it’s inevitable. The boy should be stirring momentarily; regardless we will have to start the amputation as soon as possible.”

Arsenic’s ears perked at the discussion he was halfway there, but no matter how much he tried to open his mouth it stayed clamped shut throws of exhaustion passing slowly. Eyes opened, vision un-blurred while feeling was returning to his left hand and arm sitting up slowly. He coughed and winced realizing the pain kicking in from the application of liquor. Both mean loomed over him all he could do was look from one to the other with a quizzical look. Then he followed their gaze to his right arm, -which almost made him sick- the limp limb looked unfamiliar it was hard to believe that it was the same strong arm that drew his sword.

“Wha-” He almost asked what happened, but he remembered suddenly like someone took a rock and smashed him in the head the memories rushed in. The cat man, the gun, battle in Underwood he passed out before he could know what happened. Well that should be an exciting story to tell the kids, now returning to his present situation. He connected two and two, remembering what he heard the priest say while looking at the condition of his arm. There was no other way.

He was worried, wouldn’t you be? But in hindsight there was nothing he could do, personally the arm was a requirement for combat, but as a dead weight there was nothing it could do but get in his way. Better to have it removed, than have it render him prone to future defeat.

“Sir…” He referred to the priest “Is there is a way, that umm, you could replace it with something? Like a-”

“Prosthetic?” The priest beat Arsenic to the punch so to speak, assuming whole heartedly. Considering this would be his first amputee since he had been thrown into this machine free world. However, the priest noted the confused look on Arsenic’s face when mention was made of a prosthetic; an explanation was in order. “A prosthetic in simple terms is a replacement for your arm, we could go with a simple prosthetic, but you wouldn’t be able to move it like you would an actual arm, where as we could make an advanced attachment that would work as an arm, but there might be slight complications. Mainly adjusting to the arm, to the controlling of strength, and the general awkwardness, but it’s your choice.”

Though this information, cleared up the questioning look Arsenic was still worried. He wanted to continue to use a right arm, even if it was a mechanic attachment, but how well would it work out? Deep down within him a voice spoke:

How badly do you want to fight, and protect?


Badly

Badly enough to go to whatever lengths to continue doing you’re chosen job?


Yeah…but-

Fear only produces doubt; doubt prevents you from acting as you should in some cases.


Alright, I’ll do it.

“Ill do it.” His left hand slammed against the slab, head inclined forward as he closed his eyes. The Clergy nodded “The surgery will begin immediately. Sir,” the Clergy motioned to Letho “could you wait outside this room?” With that said, Arsenic was gestured to lie down, and several other clergy’s filtered in, some holding boxes, others carrying odd tools.

[Letho]

Given the severity of the news that the monk delivered to the Arsenic, the youth took it quite well for one so green. There was some fear on his beardless face, some uncertainty in his hazy eyes that was to be expected, but it seemed as if he had already come to terms with the loss of his arm. Letho knew that it was far from the truth. It was the shock that gave the boy courage and serenity, that deplorable mixture of adrenaline rush and pain and anguish that kept a person in an oblivious trance. In such condition, warriors charged their foes even if they had arrows sticking out of their neck, mothers snatched their children from enflamed buildings... young acted as battle-hardened as the old. It was tomorrow that the true realization would strike, as cold and as real as death itself. That is, if Arsenic lived to see tomorrow. There was an awful lot of blood pouring out of him.

When the monk advised Letho to leave the room, the bearded swordsman agreed with a solemn nod. He was rather adept when it came to mending wounds, but chopping arms off at the shoulder and replacing them with prosthetics was a tad above his skill level. The robed cleric, on the other hand, seemed both knowledgeable and well staffed. Sticking around would only make the ranger the fifth wheel. Before he departed, however, he addressed the wounded greenhorn once again.

“Lesson number two, son,” Letho spoke, his brooding visage towering over the lying boy. Five thick fingers of a callous hand touched Arsenic’s healthy shoulder. “Keep fighting when you feel like you can fight no more.”

Perhaps it wasn’t the most poetic kind of advice, it wasn’t the kind that one could read in some cheesy tale of heroes and aspirers and villains, but it was one that the blonde lad best gave heed to unless he wanted to wake with the dead. The stringent Marshal never lost a limb, but he carried enough scars to know how grievous wounds could be. There were times when honor failed, and when courage failed, and when the only thing that got him through the night was sheer stubbornness and refusal to put up the white flag. Death would be calling tonight. It would be a sweet, mellisonant call, a whisper of a siren coaxing him into submission. And Arsenic would have to suffer it alone.

Letho retraced his steps, walking through the halls of pain and blood and screams and groans and pious folk that fought a battle against death that Kedx brought. Somewhere, beyond some doors, a woman was wailing, calling for somebody called Jonah, begging him to wake up. In another room a six-pack of children sat around their mother, holding to the hands as pale and clammy as if death already touched them. Cowled clergymen scurried this way and that, salvaging whatever could be salvaged, wiping blood splotches with terrycloth and succeeding only in smearing the crimson even further. It was a gut-wrenching imagery, one that would send Myrhia sobbing and clutching to his hand desperately. But Letho saw it countless times before. He killed at least as many men as he saved; death was no stranger to him. He taught himself how to cope with it, how to let it wash over him and through him, how to cancel it out. It was actually quite simple.

Everybody dies.

Some young and unflowered, some withered with a century beneath their belt, some with a sword in their gut, some with their arm lopped off, some stomped by a throng of horses. The list went on indefinitely and there was nothing anybody could do about. Nothing but to choose how to face their last hour.

The Marshal ended up in the courtyard, sitting beneath one of the flickering torches, as far as possible from the smoldering pot of incense. The scent was too strong and too sweetish for his taste, reminding him of boiled sweet corn and pineapple kernel. The flames above didn’t grant him too much illumination, but it was enough for him to study the revolver he picked up after Kedx fled. The firearm looked sturdy enough even in his large hands, a crude thing made of iron that could use some maintenance according to the small umber spots of rust that started to show on the long barrel. Never one to travel without a whetting stone and an oily rag, Letho took the latter out and started to dismantle his gun. The bearded swordsman was... well, a swordsman and as such not too well-versed in the mechanics of the firearms. But the night was long and he was too tired to run around saving a damsel or two in distress, so he turned to a simpler duty. He took the weapon apart, pieced it together, then did it again. And again. After the third time, his head nodded and he fell asleep with the unloaded gun still in his lap.