“I'm a little busy right now, your majestic graciousness!” Derarg shouted through his teeth, swinging his nicked broadsword through another blood-slick mound of orc flesh. Again.
The iridescent, sepia toned, non-corporeal form of Princess Abalea hovered nearby. None of the shed flesh, inner parts and black blood appeared to soil her restored gown. Standing in front of the few remaining columns of the royal castle where Derarg rescued her, she offered well-meaning advice. “I am only suggesting that if you butchered the orcs coming up behind you first, you would be able to work without distractions to get us in the Temple doors.”
Even with the axes, arrow points Derarg dodged, he still found enough breath to mutter “I hope the wizard we're going to see can change YOU into one of the orcs at my backside….”
“Excuse me?!”
Derarg felt the Princess-ghost’s annoyance and tried not to let it distract him. That talent may have saved him from the Allancian poison-tipped arrow that flew past his head close enough to flip his long red hair covering it.
“I……am….sorry…my….leige…” Derarg grunted as he chopped through the last of the soon-to-be-departed bastards of the Original Race. “Please….DIE YOU UGLY, SCALLY, SMELLY THING!!...forgive me. I know not what I say”. He said through gritted teeth. At last, he could see no charging monsters by the slowly dimming torchlight. He kept in a crouch, holding his heavy broadsword in one hand, a stolen ancient axe in the other. He whirled about, doing his best to ignore the insulted glare of the Princess, searching for enemies that may or may not be worse enemies.
“Ah. True. You have your mothers’ Rarkarian temperament. Unfortunately, none of your fathers’ talent for tact and diplomacy.”
“‘Tis true, Princess” Derarg took the momentary lapse of combat to wipe down his blades on whatever clean portions of cloth he could find on his fallen enemies. He started to argue with his late companion that it was tact and diplomacy, acts of talking and thinking that lead to his quick and brutal death at the hands of the Princess’s Chief Advisor and Heir to the throne. Along with her own. His mouth hung open, sweat and goblin blood splattered on his face. He closed it and went back to work, cleaning up.
“You were about to say? Something about how I got myself into this predicament? Or, we?” The Princess’s normally shrill, but inexperienced voice loosened up a little. Her stance showed her reluctance to lecture and nag like she had since the spell loosening her from her body and becoming attached to the Eastern Kingdom barbarian was enacted. She walked about the open courtyard, her formal gown trailing behind her. She looked behind her, seeing the finery dragging along the floor. “Alas, that is one blessing of my status, I suppose. My clothes cannot get dirty. Nor can they keep up with whatever fashion trend is occurring in the courts.” She shook her head, not noticing that Derarg was almost done raiding the bodies of likely stolen gold, even some trinkets and small, but useful, weapons. “I suppose that I have been rather critical of your methods. I do apologize for my harshness, at some moments.”
Derarg glanced at the seemingly saddened ethereal form of the remaining monarchy of Khalan. “It’s alright, Your Highness. I don’t know what I would do either if I found myself unable to vanquish foes, feeling a blade…or two…in my hands, smelling victory in the air, hearing anguish of my enemies.”
“You can be quite reprehensible at times like this, Mister Derarg. However..” One could almost hear a little sigh from the un-living Princess, “it is your skill and strength that is getting us through this chaos. I appreciate your efforts.”
Derarg nodded and allowed a slight grin. He had a hard time believing his current situation. An Eastern Kingdoms drifter, sellsword happening on a dedicated Temple of Vrisian, Goddess of traders and diplomacy to steal her Ruby eyes found himself in the middle of a ritual to lengthen the life of the Viceroy of the Khalan Kingdom as well as make himself the exact double of the current King so he would be able to take his place and rule.
The Viceroy, practicing illegal magics, was about to confront the barbarian thief when the Princess walked in to get the Viceroy’s advice when the spell he had cast towards Derarg ended her life when she jumped in front of Derarg, saving the thief. She had claimed it was “purely an accident. A slip in judgement due to your presence” as he reminded him for the first mile of their journey, leaving the wrecked Temple and soon after, the Castle to burn. More after-effects of the illegal spell. That, in addition to her being “bonded” to the barbarian thief until they can find the Sapphire Light. A rare gem that can undo any spell, legal or illegal. Plus, the gem must be activated by a mage that was the same level of knowledge and power as the Viceroy.
“Alright. Now that we’re done discussing my disgusting habit of slaughter and mayhem, I think we should be going.” Derarg ignored the rumbling in his stomach as he picked up what few useful items he found, throwing them in the burlap sack he stole as well. No food though.
“Where do you think that you may be able to stop to eat. You need nourishment to continue on through the snows. I’ve seen the dark clouds outside.”
“You’re correct, my liege. I’m sure there’s a village nearby where I can trade some of these goods for food and shelter.” He turned to her nearly translucent face and winked. “Trust me.”
There was that sigh again. Or a barely perceptible sigh from a throat that kind of, sort of, didn’t exist. “Yes, I’ve found that out. You were the one that discovered the location of the only magician that could help us and the likely place where the Ruby is buried. The twin to this Temple space on the other side of this valley.”
Derarg heard all of this before. He knew it well. He lived it just days ago when he took his so-called friends’ advice to go after this treasure. Yes. A priceless, beautiful, ruby right for the taking. Easy take, easy leave, easy gold on his return. All explained to the barbarian simply enough. Except for the part about the jealously guarding Viceroy that dealt in illegal blood magic to guard this key to…. Derarg shook his head, getting all of these thoughts out of his tired mind. He started to feel more tired than when he pushed back at those green, slimy, scaled beasts attempting to make HIM their trophy. Stories of a legend do travel fast, looks like.
After trudging through the building snow, the darkening skies and his mood to match, he glanced back at the unfairly deceased Princess. He knew, as a physical human, he left bootprints in the soft, white, cold snow, but she would not. In fact, on their travels, no one sees her, he discovered. He would argue with her, when she told him he was…once again…going the wrong way, though he knew this ground very well. He had run from a vengeful witch after he…acquired…a few magical items from her cupboard here. The people witnessing all of this glanced at each other, at the air, in the sky, behind each other and politely nodded and smiled at the haggard looking, large red-headed and bearded man with the scar on his face and left ear.
To those that couldn’t see her, he was alone, talking to himself. But in truth, he had grateful company that no one else could see. Or hear. Especially hear.
