The Fabled One

In the event of my untimely (and unlikely) demise, please consider this note my last will and testament. I have lived a good life, and I wish my belongings, in their entirety, to be bequeathed to the sea. The sea has been the only one who has truly understood me all these long years. Yours in death, Beyonicus.
I carefully set the note in the centre of my rough hewn table, so that it could be easily found in the event of my death. I looked around my dwelling (I hesitate to call it my home as I had only been in it for a week), and smiled at my collection of antiquities and rarities. The massive (and valuable) collection was one of the main perks of my occupation. One of the downsides was the frequent possibility of death.
You win some, you lose some.
You see, for I, Beyonicus, was the fabled treasure/bounty (I diversified my brand at the start) hunter: Beyonicus the Bold. It was my noble duty to go out and find lost treasures, and “lost” people. To say I was good would be a cruel understatement.  To say I was the best that ever walked the gods green Earth would be accurate. There was a reason I was not called Beyonicus the Humble.
When one is as famous as I, subtlety is not something one needs, and both my armour and my arms represented that. Great swirls of gold emblazoned my breastplate, and the hilt of my brightly burnished sword was bedecked with jewels. On top of all that, my cloak was a deep violet, a colour usually reserved for royalty, and made of the finest silks. How fine? I bred the worms myself, and I fed them by hand. After a short time arranging my flowing, golden locks, I was ready to depart on my latest adventure: a quest to find the lost treasures of Dracon.
The treasures were said to be guarded by the most fearsome Orcish tribes in all the realms—a tribe so fearsome that the other Orcs had all but denied their very existence. The tribe is said to consist solely of male warriors in their twenties, and their language is almost unrecognizable as Orchish. The rumours also state that they are almost constantly drunk.
As I left my dwelling I was accosted by Benji, the town’s “greatest” warrior. I say “greatest” because his abilities are a truffle compared to my one. Truffle, like a pig finds them in the dirt. It was funny, I, Beyonicus the Bold, am also funny. He apparently bested some “Champions” from the neighbouring towns, or something.
“Hey, I heard you were leaving off on another quest. Thought you might be interested in team-up? The town’s two greatest warriors off on a badass road trip?” Honestly, even his voice was beneath my own.
“Listen, Benji is it?” My voice was melodic in its lie, of course I knew the fool’s name. “I’m really more of one person adventuring group. I just find that other people, I call them ordinaries, like yourself just get in my way. Ya feel?” Confident that I was finished with this inane conversation, I started down the road.
“They call you Beyonicus the Bold. They should’ve named you Beyonicus the Dolt. A real man would accept my help.” Benji said to my back.
I paused. No one had called me a man in years. Most people knew better. A million thoughts rang through my head at once. Part of my wanted to answer with my blade, but I just cleaned it, and getting all the blood out of the ornamentation was a hassle. I spoke instead, “I have fought my entire life to be known for the person that I am, and not as the person I look like. I have made my reputation large enough to shadow the doubts and the hate that comes my way,” I turned to him now, “I will not be called a man by a person like you. You, a person who came to me asking a favour. I will do nothing for you. You look at me, but you do not see me. You claim to know me, but you can’t even see the legend around me. I am Beyonicus the Bold, not because of the things I do, but because of who I am.” With that, I left.
 Dear reader, you may feel that the last conversation was a departure in tone from the rest, but it was not. Stories reflect life, and, like life, moods and tones change from moment to moment.
I left the village on horseback after I liberated my valiant steed Richard from the stables. As the wind whipped through my glorious locks, I put my encounter with Benji out of my mind. With a youth like mine, one soon grew used to sad, pathetic people such as him. I had three days of travel before me, and I wanted to make the best of it, so I began to sing. As you should expect, my singing voice was as magnificent as the rest of me.
In my youth, before I became the fabled treasure/bounty hunter, I was often invited to sing at local events. My voice would ring out, strong and true, and the maidens would weep openly while the men would pretend to have dust in their eyes. I hated that. Even in my youth I knew that those stereotypical actions were wrong. I suppose, even then, I knew who I truly was.
Due to my fame, I rarely had to pay for lodgings. Instead I would sing, and regale the audience with tales of my prowess! And in the mornings, before I left, I would give all the workers a gold mark in thanks for their kindness. I am not a charity. I pay my way.
The lost treasures of Dracon were located in a cave, as many lost treasures are. As I previously stated, the caves were guarded by a particularly nasty tribe of Orcs. What I did not mention was that the cave was located on an island in the middle of a lake. This lake was treacherous. The waves could grow to 20 feet in height, and the fish tasted bad. That doesn’t have to do with the waves, but it is a reason as to the badness of the lake!
Fortunately, the day I arrived the lake was calm and I didn’t have to worry about the waves. Long story short, I made it to the island with ease.
As darkness descended, I approached the Orc camp. Thankfully, I was fluent in all dialects of Orcish, so I was able to listen in to their chilling conversations:
Orc 1: Bruh, you see that sick flip I did earlier, bruh?
Orc 2: Dude, it was tight. Just like my main undur!
Orc 3: Sick.
Orc 1: Toss me the ale, my cup runneth dry, bruh!
Orc 3: Bro, I tell you about that boat I saw earlier? Looked like someone was comin’ here to mess with us!
Orc 2: They got another think comin’ if they think they can take us!
All: [grunting and hollering]
As I said, chilling.
I squared my shoulders, and made ready to fight. Drawing my sword, I stepped out into the light of the fire.
“I, Beyonicus the Bold, have come for the lost treasures of Dracon! Tremble and weep before me, for I am your undoing.” I had practiced that in front a mirror for hours before I left the village, and, I gotta say, it was worth it.
The Orcs looked at each other in confusion, “Who in the seven hells is she, bruh?” The first one asked.
The other two just shrugged and drew their weapons. I smiled sadly, and then attacked before they could.
The fight was short, for I, Beyonicus the Bold, am without equal. The Orcs lay dead at my feet as I sheathed my sword and made my way into the cave.
The cave was dark and full of terrors, but it was nothing that I could not handle. After casually dispatching a handle of skeletons, answering a sphinx’s riddle, and juggling a dozen small rodents to prove my worth, I was at the treasure.
Great heaps of gold. Towering stacks of gems. Bundles of magnificent armour. Silver swords by the armload. All that and more is what I expected to find.
Instead, there was only a mirror.
Upon the frame was inscribed, in great flowing script, the words: Inside Truth is Found Inner You.
Not only was there not actual treasure, the inscription on the mirror was gibberish.
I suppose not all quests end in spectacular fashion, but I, Beyonicus the Bold, am used to a certain standard.
Least I have a new mirror.

Katya's Curse excerpt

     Time for an excerpt. Yup, feels like that time of week. So, here is an excerpt from the first chapter of a fantasy novel I've been working on. Bonus points to whoever asks me if the main character and I share views on religion! 

The skies glowed pink as the golden orb of light slipped down to rest beneath the cold waters of the sea. Aberforth stood silently on the coast watching the latest cargo ships arrive to port. The cool wind ruffled his hair and billowed out his once red cloak. He slowly grasped and released the golden hilt of his sword, a nervous twitch he had picked up years ago. Today was the day that his life should be returning. For twenty years he had been without it.   

Twenty years ago, a call came from the uncivilized barbarians for teachers, and his love, his Katya, had heeded the call. Five years later, the call for soldiers to go and defend those lands came. Aberforth took up his long-forgotten sword, and went in hopes of finding Katya and persuading her to come home. He never found her; he only knew that she was still alive. Two months ago, the teachers were called back to the homeland. Today was the day of their return. 

Aberforth turned his gaze towards the town and began his walk there. He reached the docks rather quickly and was able to acquire a position close to the embarkation ramp. And he began to wait. 

And he waited. 

Women filtered past him for what seemed like hours, and still he waited. 

The ships were empty, but still he waited.  

The sun was awakening when a woman came up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to look at her with blank eyes. “Where is she?” his voice was heart-wrenchingly devoid of emotion. 

“I am sorry Aber, she taken by Manichee rebels a week before we left.” The woman paused as she gathered her thoughts, “I know she loved you. She always spoke of you, and at night she would mutter your name.” 

Aberforth collapsed to his knees, tears running down his face, his body convulsing. The woman knelt beside him and cradled his head against her chest. 

It took Aberforth all the strength he possessed to gather the will to speak. “Where are they keeping her?” 

“I don’t know why they are keeping her; perhaps they just want to learn.” 

“I SAID WHERE!” Aberforth screamed through his tears. 

The woman bowed her head in sorrow, “You won’t like this. They are holding her in their main fort. Deep in the Forest of Sight.” 

Aberforth cringed. The Forest of Sight was ironically named. The trees were the tallest in the world and their branches blocked out the sun, moon, and stars. On the bright side, the branches also kept out the rain and snow. 

A realization came upon Aberforth, and it frightened him. “How do you know all this?” 

The woman took her arm from Aberforth’s shoulders, stood up, and took several steps back. 

“I asked you how you knew.” His voice was cold now. Cold enough to kill. 

“I...” the woman swallowed as Aberforth stood up with his back towards her. The billowing cloak hiding his movements. “They sent me.” 

“Why?” his back was still towards her. 

“I am one of them. They wanted to show the Oreilles government that they could still hurt them. I led them to your wife. They sent me to tell you all of this, and to deliver a message to the High Preceptor of the Council of Oreilles. An att—” the last thing she ever saw was the blur of Aberforth’s feared sword as her head was separated from her body in what looked to be a fiery pyrotechnics show. 

Aberforth bent down and cleaned the blood off his blade with her clothing, stood, and walked away. 

That afternoon he sent out a calling to the surviving men of his old squad. He asked them to meet him at The Golden Oar later in the night.  

The Golden Oar had nothing golden about it, except for the fact that none of the patrons would lead the authorities to it. Everyone there had committed some form of crime during their life. 

Aberforth sat at a grungy table in a dark corner, watching the door, and nursing a pint of ale. He had never considered himself to be an overly religious person, even though he was a city saint. As he sat there in the dark, staring into his tankard, he felt alone for the first time in his life. The people of Oreilles worshiped valorous acts instead of a pantheon, but they still had one god that they could call to in times of desperation. Aberforth had never prayed in his life, he always looked to himself or his friends for the answers sought. But as he sat there, completely alone, he began to pray. 

“Vandicus, I come to you now, in the moment of my truest despair. My Katya, my life, has been taken from me. All my life I lived well, striving to expound of the virtues of my city, even becoming sainted. But now, I am lost. I am alone. My virtues give me no comfort, nor do the virtuous acts of those before me. Vandicus, I plead you, give me release. Give me the strength to do what is needed. Your eyes see all, and to you all truth is known. Give unto me the truth of this Vandicus!” Aberforth sat and waited for long moments, yearning for the answers to appear. Nothing came to him. No great epiphany lighted in his head. Only the sounds of the tavern were heard to him.  

“Vandicus!” Aberforth shouted out, before reigning his voice back in, “Vandicus, please. PLEASE!” He threw his mug against the wall, spraying ale everywhere. “I have lived my life to your teachings! I have followed your laws, fought in your wars! I have given my years to you! My friends, my family! My family has gone to you! And now this! Now you take this from me! I have been without her for decades! DECADES! Longing for her touch, her caress, or even the touch of her eyes upon my skin! And now! Now you take her away from me! You! You the great deceiver! The great liar! Vandicus! You promised your followers life! You promised them contentment! Piss on it! Piss on it all! I have gotten none of that! All I have ever had, YOU have taken from me! FUCK YOU VANDICUS! And fuck your fucking laws! I am done with it. I swear to you now, in front of your precious followers, great hypocrites all, that I will break whatever law I must to get her back. I will go into hell itself! I will raze heaven to the ground to hold her again! You have brought a righteous reckoning upon yourself! Before this ends, I will see you burn, oh great god Vandicus!”