Lest We Forget

We open our story today in a town, specifically the town of Dunnald. This town, like many others, had a road. It actually had several roads, but only one of them is important to us, or anyone else really. If it didn’t maintain a trade road, this town would be utterly useless, and likely wouldn’t exist. But I digress. So, we were talking about the road. And this road had several rather interesting locations on it, but for our purposes we are going to focus on one of the taverns. Bars? I don’t know, the difference seems largely pedantic. All I know about this place is they have food, they have liquor, and they have rooms for the night. Do with that information what you will. Anyhow, moving right along, this tavern-ish place called itself the Blind Frog, and for a gold coin the owner would tell you the story behind the name. But that isn’t this story. This story is set inside the Blind Frog, on the main trade road, in the town of Dunnald.

Now, a piece of common knowledge, that you probably don’t know, likely being from a land mainly populated by humans, is that in areas where many different species are likely to mix, such as along a trade road, most locations will do their best to accommodate as many of them as possible. For example, the Blind Frog had a main room which was much like you’d expect, being well-lit, with a bar and bandstand, along with many tables and raucous noise. They also had a secondary room, which was about two-thirds the size of the main room, that had much the same amenities as the main room, but being significantly darker so as to allow the more nocturnal or cave-dwelling, or otherwise light sensitive creatures to dine there comfortably. Finally, there was a tertiary room, which was only large enough for around half a dozen tables. This room had no bandstand, and had thicker walls, in addition to having the lights darkened. There were a couple of species that were more comfortable in a quiet atmosphere, but, if we’re being honest, it was mainly used by people who wanted to brood without being bugged, as these rooms were generally largely left empty, or almost empty. As such, these rooms had earned the nickname of “Brooding Rooms”, and, in case you haven’t read a story before, this story obviously takes place in the Brooding Room of the Blind Frog, on the main trade road, in the town of Dunnald.

Dante Morgansen had just sat down, alone in the room save for a single waitress. He was a fairly young looking human, wearing a faded grey cloak and loose-fitting, dusty traveling clothes, with a sword in a battered leather scabbard slung over the back of his chair. The handle of his sword was coated in tin (along with a clear, magical preservative, similar to shellac, but that’s unimportant) and bore an engraving of a large, muscular, three-eyed woman, her arms upraised in a Y, along the crossbar of the sword. In her right hand, at the end of the crossbar, was set a turquoise gemstone etched with a dove carrying a flower, while in her left hand was set a jade gemstone etched with the silhouette of a town. Her feet rested on an orb of hematite, inlaid with a silver sketch of a set of scales, perfectly balanced, with a dove on the right plate and a sword on the left.

The waitress deposited a large bowl of steaming hot, boiled (but not still boiling) water, which he had requested. He tipped her for the trouble and placed his order with her. As she left to take his order to the chef, he removed a cake of soap from his travel sack and set about washing his hands using the bowl of water, which elicited an odd look from the waitress as she walked away. The path to the kitchen caused the waitress to go through the door to the main room, and, as she exited, someone else entered.

This new person was a large, heavyset man in worn work clothes, with callouses, cuts, and scars covering his hands. An observant person may have noticed that the cuts and scars were mainly on his knuckles, a sign of him getting into frequent fistfights. He was covered in a layer of sweat and grime that you only get from a day of hard work, and he radiated a scent of alcohol that you can only get from a night of harder drinking. His head swiveled around, obviously looking for something specific, finally fixating on Dante. He strode across the room calmly and with purpose, and sat down at Dante’s table. Dante largely ignored this man, hardly sparing him a glance before going back to scrubbing his hands.

“Y’all wunna thim Meltax cooltists?” asked the large man, with an accent so thick you could practically taste it. This was enough to make Dante actually stop and look at the man.

“I...what?” asked Dante, after a short pause, staring at the man. He then proceeded to rinse his hands off in the hot water, not waiting for the response.

“Ahr...y’all...wunna thim...Meltax cooltists?” the man repeated, somewhat slower, as if talking to someone who is rather deaf, or rather stupid. As he repeated his question, he gestured at the bowl of water and the cake of soap.

“Ah” responded Dante, packing up his soap. “No, I’m not a member of the Order of Meltak. Although I do understand the confusion. I follow their laws of cleanliness to a degree because—“

“That e’nt wha Ah’m heer” interrupted the large man.

Much to Dante’s relief, it was at this point that the waitress returned with his meal, consisting of fresh venison, warm bread, and diced potatoes with a tankard of cider, for anyone who’s interested. “Is that going to be all?” asked the waitress congenially.

“An Ordal Shot, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble” responded Dante.

She went off to a corner of the room and quickly returned with a shotglass of hard liquor that had a black and lilac color scheme, which most people could recognize as the Ordal flower. The Ordal flower was mildly poisonous, but in the grand scheme of things, it was slightly less poisonous than the alcohol in which it floated. The liquor had been clear, but the coloration of the flower leached into it, giving it a light pink rose color, in addition to a light, rather pleasant, fruity flavor. The color change made sense, but the flavor change didn’t really, as the flower itself had a strong, acrid, bitter taste to it. It also acted as a mild hallucinogen under certain circumstances, which is why many people would down the flower with the shot. (This often wouldn’t work, as you need to chew the Ordal flower for a certain space of time to get the hallucinogenic properties) Of course this was all unimportant, as Dante looked at the shot, then at a tattoo on his right wrist, then back at the shot, before tucking the flower behind his left ear with his left hand and downing the shot with his right. As he went to slam the shotglass down, the large man grabbed his right wrist.

Please note, while the alcohol itself didn’t make it any easier for Dante to understand the large man’s thick accent, it made it less painful for Dante to endure. As such, I won’t be spelling his words phonetically anymore and you’ll need to imagine the accent yourself. I’m mostly doing this because if I need to subject myself to that spelling anymore I’m going to end up giving myself a stroke.

Anyhow, as I was saying, the large man grabbed Dante’s right wrist and turned it to reveal a tattoo. It was a small, circular sketch depicting a sword stabbed into a hilltop, with a cloak clasped around the sword, encircled by writing in the Celestial language bearing the phrase “Lest We Forget”. Rather, that’s what the man noticed, as that’s what most of these types of tattoos were. However, had he inspected it closer, he would have noticed that it was a specific sword, with the pommel being in the figure of a dragon’s head, and the center of the crossbar being a heart. The brooch clasping the cloak was also specifically styled, in the shape of a sun with the silhouette of a raven in front of it, which is the official symbol of the Knights After the Manner of the First Holy Order, in case you care. But regardless, the man saw nothing beyond a generic sword in a specific hilltop, with a generic cloak held on by a generic clasp.

“Who do you think you are?” asked the large man. “How dare you have that tattoo around here?”

The door to the room swung open and two other men entered the room, one was built like a tree, at least six and a half feet tall with a nose that had been noticeably broken several times, while the other was short of height but broad of shoulder, somehow being the most muscular and least battle-scarred of the three.

“Tim? I thought I saw you come in here” said the short man, with a slightly less noticeable accent than Tim had. “Why you in here for?”

“Ah, Mark!” responded Tim, nodding at the short man. “And you brought Andrew with you! Good. I might need you to help beat some sense into this bastard.”

During this exchange, Dante had managed to finesse his wrist from Tim’s hand and had largely ignored the three men and begun eating his dinner. However, upon hearing the men refer to him as a bastard he smirked, the only sign he had given thus far that he could actually hear them.

“Calm down and start from the beginning” said Mark, not nearly as drunk as either of his compatriots. “Why are we gonna need to beat some sense into him?”

“Look at this!” exclaimed Tim, moving to show them Dante’s wrist before finally realizing that he no longer had it in his grasp. He grabbed at Dante’s wrist again, but Dante moved too quickly.

“Hands off” said Dante. “I can show them my tattoo all by my lonesome.” He held his hand in such a way that his wrist was shown to them, with his hand pointed toward the ceiling, as the tattoo was rotated so that the top of the tattoo pointed towards his hand. The sight of the tattoo brought a sneer from Andrew and a look of disapproval from Mark. “Great, now that we’re done with show and tell can I eat my dinner in peace?”

The waitress gave Dante a questioning look and began to get up from her seat, but Dante subtly shook his head and she returned hesitantly to her seat. She had been asking if he needed a guard. Surprisingly enough they had both been on the same page. He had refused the help because the guard would likely serve mainly to escalate the situation and Dante could escalate a situation perfectly well all by himself.

“You see?” said Tim. “See how disrespectful he is about this? Almost bored by it!”

“No almost about it” muttered Dante.

“Now now” said Mark, practically in a growl, “perhaps he doesn’t know how disrespectful that symbol is”.

“Maybe we need to educate him” said Andrew in a deep, booming voice, flexing his huge, meaty hands into fists and spitting a long spray of tobacco juice to punctuate his statement. Dante grimaced as the juice sprayed his face and covered his food and drink.

“So I guess that’s a no to me eating in peace” said Dante, exasperated. “Fine then, educate me” he continued, turning towards the men.

Mark shook his head. “Do you even know about the Battle of Blood Ridge?”

Dante looked off thoughtfully, in an exaggerated manner, and slowly shook his head. “Can’t say as I have. I do happen to be familiar with the Battle of Kahldar Ridge, might the two be related?”

“Don’t change the subject” snapped Tim. “We was talking about Blood Ridge, not whatever these Kaladar are.”

“Kahldar” corrected Dante.

Mark shook his head. “He wasn’t changing the subject, he was being funny. Weren’t ya?”

“Possibly” said Dante. “Or perhaps I don’t actually know that the tribe of orcs, called the Kahldar, held control of Kahldar Ridge until they were all slaughtered, earning it the nickname of Blood Ridge, did you ever think of that? No, I must have been being sarcastic.”

Mark slammed his fists on the table. “I lost a brother in that battle. Tim lost his son. Everyone in this town lost someone to those damned orcs. And the Kahldar started the fight, or did you forget that?”

“No they didn’t. They may have been the ones to declare war, but that’s just because their very reasonable demands were ignored.”

Mark narrowed his eyes. “If the Kahldar were in the right, then why did the Knights of the First Holy Order side with us?”

Dante shook his head and sighed. “The Knights After the Manner of the First Holy Order gave their aid because the alternative outcome would have included the destruction of several villages and thousands or tens of thousands of innocent civilian casualties, and still would have ended with the Kahldar being wiped out.”

“Seems rather convenient” retorted Mark. “Are you sure you didn’t make that up?”

“Believe what you will. It is a matter of public record that no fewer than twenty of the Knights chose to ally themselves with the Kahldar and were slain for it during the battle. Also, of the hundred-and-twelve Knights Deus called upon for aid, only twenty-three came to lend aid, the rest publicly noted themselves as conscientious objectors. And all of the Excelsiors publicly decried the battle, even those not asked to render aid.”

“And I suppose you’re some sort of expert on the Knights and their inner workings?” asked Mark.

Andrew walked up behind Dante and unslung Dante’s sword from his chair. “I reckon he may well be. Look at this” he said, tossing the sword to Mark.

Mark caught the sword and examined the handle, with Tim looking over his shoulder. “You’re one of them Knights?” said Tim, shocked.

“Nah” responded Mark. “He ain’t got the cloak or the sigil--”

“Seal” said Dante.

“What?” asked Mark.

“The sun and crow? We call it a seal, not a sigil. It technically means the same thing, but ‘seal’ has some symbolic meaning, or something” explained Dante.

“Whatever it’s called, you ain’t got it, which means you aren’t one of them anymore” said Mark. “You’re Kelset. A Bastard. Your actions got you thrown out of your brotherhood. I bet you can’t even draw that sword anymore without the gods punishing you.”

“You are...much better read than I was expecting” responded Dante.

“So we get to do what the gods didn’t?” Tim asked Mark, eagerly.

“Yes, we get to pick up the slack. Try not to enjoy it too much” replied Mark.

Tim grabbed Dante’s sword from Mark and drew it, but as the blade began to exit the sheath, vivid white flames sprang forth from the blade and spread up Tim’s arm, quickly spreading across the front of his chest as well as he screamed and collapsed to the ground. The sword slid back into its sheath and, as quickly as they appeared, the flames disappeared, leaving only Tim, motionless and breathing raggedly on the ground.

Andrew strode towards Dante and raised a fist. As he was about to swing, Dante struck him in the shoulder, making a loud cracking sound and causing Andrew’s arm to fall limply to his side. As Andrew tried to recover, Dante simultaneously kicked him in the back of the knee while striking him in the chest. There was a pop and Andrew fell to the ground, his leg bent at an unnatural angle.

“You should recover in a month. Maybe six weeks. But only if you’re smart enough to stay down” said Dante to Andrew’s writhing form. He was smart enough to stay down. Although there is a non-zero possibility that he was just in enough pain that he didn’t want to get up. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t getting up.

Mark drew a knife as Dante turned to face him. Dante could tell from his stance that he wouldn’t be as simple to deal with as his friends. Mark lunged at Dante and Dante ducked and rolled beneath the strike, coming to a stop near Tim, then popped to his feet with his sheathed sword in his hand. Mark struck at Dante and Dante narrowly dodged the knife.

“You know your premise is faulty, right?” asked Dante.

“My...what?” asked Mark, taking another stab. “What premise?”

Dante casually batted away a blow with the sheathed blade of his sword with a clack. “Being Kelset doesn’t stop me from being worthy, just from being a Knight.” Bat, clack, dodge. “The armor and vestments belong to the Knights and had to be returned when I left,” bat, clack, dodge, “but the sword belongs to me, blessed by the gods, and as long as I don’t break my oaths to the gods” he drew his sword, revealing a gleaming white blade “I can draw my sword whenever I want.”

Mark dropped his knife and fell to his knees. “I yield” he said, holding up his hands.

“Mmm. And you expect me to accept that after you tried to kill me without even listening to my side?” asked Dante.

“You have to” said Mark, somewhat uncertainly. “All Knights are bound by an oath to honor a yield.”

“Most Knights” corrected Dante. He re-sheathed his sword and held it so that Mark could examine the handle. “What do you see?”

Mark’s eye’s widened slightly in fear. “Is that…”

“Daal’Theria, goddess of justice” finished Dante.

“One eye sees the past, one sees the future, and the third examines the present. Were you…” Mark couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

“One of the Hasatan. The only of the Knights given the authority to ignore a yield, after examining the totality of the circumstances. And you tried to kill me after determining I was a terrible person, without even really talking to me. You just saw a tattoo that’s a reminder to not rush to violence, and chose to attack me over it.” There was a streak of grey light and Dante appeared in front of Mark, holding Mark’s knife, and, in one smooth motion, he removed the thumb of Mark’s right hand. “Let that be your reminder. I’m keeping this knife, it’s nice.”

“Sir…” said the waitress.

“They started the fight so the tab’s on them, per house rules” responded Dante.

“Very good, sir” she responded.

And with that, Dante left three injured men in the Brooding Room of the Blind Frog, and followed the main trade road out of the town of Dunnald.