(Cookies to whoever saw the Talhoffer move. Straight outta the treatise, man.)
I'm reluctant to do reviews because my incompetence smacks me over the head all too often, so forgive my shamelessness.
Legend:
"abyss": Aure's equivalent of "hell"
"heartbeat": Aure's equivalent of a second. Sixty is a minute.
“bell”: In towns, the first bell is rung at 6am. Each bell is rung in 2 hour intervals. Also used to denote 2 hours.
“salle”: “Room” in French, but in this context, it’s a room for martial training.
Punta: “Point” in Italian. The top third portion of the blade of the sword.
Half-sword: A longsword grip in which the master hand grips the handle as per normal, but the off-hand grips the blade in its top quarter. It can now act as a short spear.
“Mordtschlag”: In German, literally “murder stroke”. A strike executed when the longsword is held by the blade instead of the hilt. It can now act as a warhammer or mace.
Master cut: A sword stroke where one defends and attacks simultaneously.
Gods/deities:
Fronde, the Almighty
Maldin, Death
Gerund, Order
Fingarr, Chaos
Take heed, O lowly mortal, for this is a wise and good saying;
When you see the approaching hand of a god, run; aye, and run fast.
~The Holy book of Gerund, Chapter II; Paragraph V
Prelude
There was only one traveler mad enough to walk this road in the middle of high winter, and that was Echaron. A lone figure, wrapped in a black cloak, trudged on in the snowy road, her footprints the only ones around for miles.
There were patches of dense forest and pieces of splintered fence to either side, evidence that people had tried to tame this road. Tried and failed. They said that it was the werewolves, every time. Werewolves picking off screaming construction workers in the night, howling, planting human body parts around construction camps; there was never a moment of peace.
She never quite believed their stories, even more so because she did not hear any howling, and none of the trade caravans she had been on ever reported anything of the sort. Perhaps the construction workers were simply attacked by the bandits and their mercenary guards were too embarrassed to admit it.
There were also rumors about shadow creatures, lying in wait behind the gnarled, ancient trees. But if there was one person who would dare venture in alone, it was her. Notorious for fearing nothing and utterly disregarding superstition, the mercenary had taken on many jobs other mercenaries dared not to take. These jobs often involved potentially defiling temples, trampling on graves, ruining funerals, bursting in on marriages, and many others too humiliating for the victims to mention.
So the monks dreaded her, the mourners hated her, the couples despised her, and many others nursed grudges against her...though only in secret, for reasons justifiably undisclosed.
Echaron was eighteen that year, and still a very happy girl. She had a steady flow of jobs and commissions, and had gotten by doing what she loved, so although she had no stable home, she was at peace with that. Small price to pay for a life of freedom. No ties, no lasting obligations, free to offend, free to fight, free to kill. Father would have disapproved, but then, he was dead. Just like how "Echaron of Refterin" was once her name.
"Oh!
Bravely brave Sir Robin,
Rode forth from Denerin,
With sword and shield
He did battle
With wineskins a dozen... "
Aure’s two moons could be seen clearly against the starry night sky, amidst the billowing snow. Just a few days ago, the air had been cold enough to bite. But winter was coming to an end, so the cold wasn’t so bad anymore.
While this was the shortest road to Teleraed from Veeren, the Veeren villagers were always too afraid to go on this road, fearing the werewolves (alongside, of course, the bandits- they had numbers). They left the supply delivering to only the best and, in their opinion, the most suicidal mercenaries. Traders from the other towns, on the other hand, constantly used this road, because the alternatives involved going over mountains, traversing through caves which may or may not have dragons, among other precarious terrain; which usually ended in catastrophe.
Concluding that the risk was worth the coin, the traders decided to use this road instead, and mercenaries were never out of a job. Paupers who wanted to travel to Teleraed would go with the mercenaries. Bring your own sword and supplies. A great offer. Though someone always ended up dying.
Echaron needed to go to Teleraed as part of a kill job, but she didn’t wait around to join trade caravan. This time, she went traveling in the middle of winter. No wasted time, no need to fear an ambush. Genius.
All right, not really, in retrospect. The past week was almost like the abyss. Her fires kept going out, and she couldn't have defended herself if her life depended on it because she couldn’t feel a single damned thing. Abyss, her hands were still numb!
But the same went for the bandits. So nobody attacked anybody and all was peaceful.
Echaron fingered her Amulet as she let her mind wander. The people of the last town, Veeren, were the ones who warned her about the shadow creatures. But Echaron didn’t take heed. And, likely, none of the traders would, either. Everyone knew that shadow creatures have not been sighted in decades, and the only eyewitness accounts were dubious at best. Even if she were unlucky enough to cross paths with the monsters, Echaron felt no fear. She had her trusty longsword, and her Amulet was there to keep her safe.
"...So I stared down 'is eyes,
Behold; he had none!
In distress did I ask him why,
And he replied in riddle..."
Of course, the song was sheer nonsense Echaron concocted on the spot. But then, what better way to entertain yourself than to sing to yourself?
Although, of course, it may well be the first sign of my madness.
It was about then when her voice started to waver, not because she ran out of ideas, but because she felt... Presences.
There was a particular skill her Amulet gave her, and that was to detect the presences of sentient minds, what she merely called “ripples”. And now, there were four, closing on her flanks.
Her mind flashed to the bandits. Surely not, they shouldn’t be out yet. But then...who else?
Still in a merry prance, a hand resting on her longsword's handle, she continued on her way, footsteps a little more fluid than before.
"Oh no! Said he,
‘Tis beneath your caliber!
But oh yes, said me!
This sniveling fiend...’
There was the crunching of snow, somewhere to a side. And another. Numerous crunches.
Echaron shook her arms to warm them up and drew her sword in a motion that almost seemed casual, rolling her shoulders. She could feel the familiar prickle of excitement at the base of her neck. Though she didn’t quite expect the bandits to come out so soon, she was eager to bloody her sword.
‘...A lesson to teach thee.’
Echaron felt a ripple, closing in fast behind her. She whirled around.
The fuzzy image of a dagger, incredibly fast-
She jerked back in surprise, thrusting her sword out at the blurred form of the rushing figure. He ran into it, impaling his own neck, dagger stopping just short of its target, his feet sliding in front of him as he briefly convulsed. His hands relaxed first, followed by his body.
Echaron let his corpse slide from her blade, feeling shaken, but stepped closer to examine him. He wore a black hooded cloak over a thick black gambeson, which had a coat of arms that Echaron thought she saw before, but couldn’t put her finger on where. It was a simple white semi-circle with two crossed daggers atop it.
Wait, this guy isn’t a bandit. That much is obvious. He was too fast. Assassins, then? That’s not right...by Gerund, is someone out there cursing me? This was supposed to be an easy trip!
Echaron dropped her hood to free up her peripheral vision, ignoring the chilly wind and snow against her numbed face, breathed in deep.
Immediately, more flashes of movement, and she could make out three distinct figures sprinting in her direction.
Don’t know why, but it’s definitely assassins. But...why me?
The answer didn’t matter. Not at that moment. She should get rid of them first.
Choosing the assassin closest to her, Echaron backpedaled a few steps, buying space from the other two, where she stood her ground, waiting for him to approach.
Predictably, the assassin snapped out his daggers to try to catch her in the neck, his arms in full extension.
Right at that last moment, Echaron sidestepped, cutting at the assassin’s exposed arms from below as he shot past. A red mist issued from the impact point, and Echaron only vaguely noticed his frenzied screaming before she turned her attention to the next assassin.
This one took a defensive guard. Echaron loosed a cut at him when he ran into distance, snow flying from her feet as they violently pivoted to throw her body weight into the stroke. It took both daggers to deflect it, and sparks flew.
Unhesitating, the man came around with an underthrust, a hand snapping out at her midsection. Echaron quickly stepped back to put herself out of range, sword flashing out to lick him in the wrist. Grunting, he snatched back his wounded hand and withdrew, starting to circle her.
Unbeknownst to her, another assassin had managed to close in, and he was already in range to strike when Echaron saw him. Cursing her own neglect, she tried to sweep her sword across his extended arms.
She managed to catch his left wrist, the blade chopping through the leather gauntlet, biting into flesh -that hand stiffened and dropped the dagger- but this did not stop the other; which ducked underneath her defense, burying itself to the hilt into her abdomen. She jerked back, gasping. For a moment, triumph crossed the assassin’s face.
But even as he twisted the dagger to drive it deeper, Echaron, half-swording, drove her blade into his sternum, letting a growl escape as she ran it through. It wasn't just an act of mindless brutality, however. She could feel the ripple of the last assassin approaching from behind, and this was no time to be distracted by pain.
The assassin screamed in agony, and jerked his dagger out to stab her a second time, but just as he was about to do so, Echaron took him off balance with a savage tug of the sword, swinging him around, ducking underneath-
The assassin gasped as two daggers plunged into his back and his side, and Echaron let him fall from the blade as his body sagged.
The man responsible had let go of his daggers and stepped back in dumbstruck horror, holding his hands to his mouth, watching his comrade die. He did not move.
Seeing that the final assassin was disarmed, Echaron seized the opening, charging forward, running her sword through his chest, blade slipping through ribs to impale the heart. He grasped her blade, giving a feeble cry as his knees buckled, and he slipped off the end of the blade to lie on the ground, writhing in pain. A short moment, and all movement ceased.
She remained standing over him, catching her breath, but her mind was racing.
Four assassins. Why?
The fighting ground had become a mass of snow dotted red. Echaron saw that the man whose arms she cut had bled to death, and everyone else was clearly dead.
Normally, she would be patting herself on the back while taking a swig out of her wineskin, but for once, she found nothing to be happy about. That assassins of some obscure cult were coming for her meant that she must have angered someone important. This doesn’t bode well at all.
I might have offended someone from all my temple defiling and broad-daylight duels… I shouldn’t be surprised that it has come to this, should I? But, that insignia of theirs seems so familiar, and it’s definitely not from the temple of Fronde…
And I feel… Thrilled. A little scared, but mostly thrilled. At least I’ll be engaged in more sensible fights than gambling disputes and tavern brawls.
She turned, and, still thinking, managed a few paces before a sharp, acute pain suddenly gripped her, causing her to drop her sword and double over into the ground on her side, clenching her teeth, groping for the source. She’d forgotten about the stab wound for a moment there. When the pain passed, she lifted a hand to her eyes, and saw the glimmer of liquid on the glove. All too suddenly, she felt her strength leave her, and her mind went into a bit of a panic. Abyss take me! Is this the touch of Maldin? This isn't right... I've gotten through worse, haven't I?
The wind was howling, and Aure’s two moons shone brightly in the sky. Echaron briefly thought to sheath her sword, or to do something about the wound, but when she tried to move, she found that she could not.
The light from the stars wavered in the heavens far above her, some of them extinguishing entirely. Then, the moons dimmed...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Somewhere else, a young woman woke from her sleep, jolting upright in her chair, head sheathed in cold sweat. She just had a nightmare, and it didn't feel like just another typical dream. Everything seemed a little too realistic. She didn’t remember what exactly happened, but she had the distinct impressions of snow, cold, the flashing of blades and a bit of blood. Just as she thought that, she groped around her abdomen where she imagined she had been stabbed. Finding nothing, she laughed at her own foolishness.
The woman remembered how the old Mind scholars had argued in favor of Rationalism; that physical sensations cannot be trusted, referring to the great realism and believability of dreams to reinforce their arguments. They say that the mind reuses past experiences and memories to reconstruct utterly believable and realistic imaginary worlds. Nothing to worry about, then? Perhaps her mind was simply getting better at tricking itself. However, she never remembered being stabbed, nor has she ever touched a sword.
Deciding to think no further, the woman stretched back her aching limbs and yawned, briefly wondering which bell it was, though she soon remembered that the library did not have windows. She looked down, and saw her unfinished treatise on the desk, as well as a numerous volumes of books stacked in messy piles on the desk, lit by a lone blue candle in the middle. She found her quill still in hand, its tip coated with dry ink.
The woman ran a hand through her untidy blonde hair in mild amusement, turned a knob on the candle stand to dim the light, placed the quill back into its inkpot and went back to sleep. Think later. Plenty of time later. Aye.
Do you have anything in the way of criticism?
You caught many things I missed! Thanks so much. In hindsight, "squeal" may not have been the right word to use, you're right...hahah. xD I'm still trying to kick the ellipses thing. Old habits die hard. 
