Ranger of Gravesfeld (Patreon)

Name?

"Asher Osian, Ciaranson."

Lineage?

"Half-Blood Son of Ciaran 'the Hound' Rhyssor and Aithne-Duvessa Desdemona aka  'Bloodpine.'"

Occupation?

"Gravesfeld Ranger, forward scout and forest guide."

Marital Status?

"Happily Married."

***

It was supposed to be an easy job.

Air exploded from Gratz' chest as he ran.  The mercenary stampeded headlong into the dense underbrush of the dark, mist-shrouded forest.  Everywhere around himself, the cries of his companions had been slowly, methodically silenced as they were hunted.  Even the Half-Orc, eyes finely tuned to pierce the shade and see in the darkness of caves, could not see the seeming half-spectral predator that had stalked him and his men.

Like a beast on the hunt, their pursuer had dogged them relentlessly.  Over glen, creek, and boulder, it seemed impossible to shake the being with burning red eyes as it dispassionately picked them off one by one.  No shadow was safe; even ones inspected furiously were liable to explode with whistling blades, crossbow bolts, or sinister traps.

Gratz had never felt like prey before, nor ever this sort of fear.  He had once believed himself hardened to the terrors of both battlefield and monstrous encounters; tonight had convinced him otherwise.  The icy dread clutched his chest tight as a vice, claws cold as ice sunk deep into his heart, making his limbs slow to respond and his heartbeat pounding as loud as a drum in his ears.

It was supposed to be an easy job, he thought frantically for perhaps the dozenth time.  Investigate the rumors of a hidden commune in the deep woods, where the shadows lay thickest no matter the time of day; that was what the nobleman had said.  A curse on all his kind, Gratz snarled to himself in tight-lipped terror over his notched tusks.  Five men short of a score plus himself had gone into the woods in search of their hired lord's foes.

They'd expected monsters; the Bloodpines were notorious for beasts of all shapes and sizes.

They'd expected hidden soldiers; rumor had it that a clan of Wood Elves had taken up residence here.

One of Gratz' companions had joked of the rumors of a Vampire somewhere deep in the catacomb of dark crags nearest the mountain range.  They had all laughed away the grim humor.  Laughed.  None of them would ever do so again.

The reality was far worse.

Heavily-armored frame sagging with effort, Gratz collapsed against a tree.  Down below, he saw a drained riverbed, stones gleaming in the light of a too-bright moon and stars so far above the world.  His throat felt cold and sticky, powerful frame shuddering as he tried desperately to get his wind back.

The crunch of leaves and twigs nearby had him whirling in panic.  His heavy falchion flashed from its sheath, ham-sized fist clenching the weapon that a strong man would have struggled to lift in two.  Terrified as he was, he would not go down without a fight.  There was little to no loyalty for his employer left; Gods he wished he'd never taken this job.

An entire crew wasted.

Keen, yellow eyes flashed about, weapon held so tightly in his fist that its tip wobbled and danced in violent tremors.  A shadow moved against the nearest tree to his own; he watched its profile reaching slowly out for him.  Closer...closer...

The mercenary swung without a second thought, roaring a battle-cry which echoed all around the dark confines of the trees.  Deep inside, the fury of Orcish blood surged as he felt steel bite into flesh.  A startled, agonized gasp came as his falchion completed its bloody arc, sending the figure staggering back, off the ledge of the riverbed, and tumbling down its shale sides.

They landed in a heap at the bottom, blood already pooling.  Moonlight splayed across a surprised face, one that Gratz knew.  Frozen in death, Margus stared up at his erstwhile comrade who had struck him down.  The falchion fell from his heavy-knuckled grip and he stumbled back a step.  He hadn't been alone after all, but he most assuredly was now.

Or was he?

A whirl of nearly silent sound was his only warning; a rush of whispering air along a razor-sharp edge as it hurtled towards him.  The Half-Orc had barely halfway turned back towards its source when a slender blade had slashed out from the darkness.  Moonlight briefly played along its edge as it struck, fast as a viper.  Gratz barely felt it sink home, burying itself in his chest through the gaps in his chainmail armor.  His back thudded against the tree behind him, impaled in place.

Dazed, confused, utterly in shock, Gratz looked slowly down at the weapon that had transfixed him.  A single-edged affair, not quite as long as a standard sword and slender; a weapon meant for speed.  What little he could see of the steel sticking out of him was silvery-bright, and although covered in nicks and scratches from previous battles, it remained whole, sharp, and strong.  It trailed down to a completely circular dark-wood handle, almost as long as the blade itself without a guard save for a metallic ring right at the base.  The haft itself was smooth for about a hand's length, the end terminating in a wrapped leather grip and a polished, metal pommel in the shape of a humanoid skull.  While small, barely half of Gratz' knuckles in width, the Half-Orc could tell that the affair was easily strong enough to bash open skulls or break bone.

It was an odd thing to be so reverent of a weapon currently sticking out of him, stained with his dark blood and nailing him in place to a tree.  Perhaps it was just the shock of it all, or maybe Gratz' obsession with weaponry.  He'd never seen such a blade in all his life and even run through, he would like to have owned such a fine thing.  An odd thought to ponder as his last breath rattled out of him.  Funny...wasn't death supposed to hurt?

***

Soft boots slid silently along the forest floor, barely disturbing the pine needles that lay thick all around.  Ruby eyes glinted in the dark as the predator stalked closer to his prey, now still and quiet against the tree.  Dagger-tipped elven ears listened keenly for even a single sign of this being a ruse; he needn't have bothered.  He knew a corpse when he saw one, having watched that frantically beating heart shudder to its last many times.

Another mercenary, another invader, dealt with.   

A leather-glove wrapped hand gripped the hilt of his sword, pulling it seamlessly from the body.  One of a mirrored pair, its identical twin was currently held in his opposite hand.  The Half-Orc's body fell in a heavy jingling of chainmail onto the ground, soon decorated with an artful spray of red as he twirled the blade in an arc, cleaning the steel of blood.  He inspected the weapon for any signs of damage, then expertly slid it into his already occupied hand, deftly holding both blades in-between a pair of fingers each.

The killer rolled the Half-Orc's body over, expertly digging through the pouches within the ruined armor until he found what he was looking for.  Eyes, now faded to a bright, leaf-green, scanned the hastily drawn map and notes taken by the mercenary invaders.  They'd gotten too close to the hamlet, too close for comfort.

Standing, the elven figure, draped in leathers and the cover of darkness, hefted his strange pair of blades, moonlight glinting along their edges as well as the strand of bright white hair amidst the birds nest of brown atop his head.  Lifting the parchment up above his head, he released it, allowing it to begin fluttering slowly back down.  His hands flashed, double-pair of blades slicing the falling letter into shreds and scraps with neat, lightning-fast flickers of steel.

A tad over the top?  Perhaps.  But who was going to say such when he was finally all alone like this?  He watched the last falling fragments of the note fall limply to the ground before he hefted both swords and sheathed them within one another until he was left holding a long solid quarterstaff, each end decorated with the iron-skull devices.  Tucking the weapon against his shoulder, he turned, about to begin making his way back through the forest.

A breeze drifted past him at that moment, heavy with new scent, the rush of limbs heavy with strength crossing the distance between them as fast as his blades had been.  The fighter whirled, a moment too slow, and felt something huge, solid, and powerful bowl him off his feet.  The scent of sea-salt, ozone, and juniper vanilla mixed in his keen nose as they tumbled and tussled, rolling across the forest floor.  He felt hands easily as large as the Half-Orc's had been attempting to grab hold of him, seeking to immobilize and pin him down.

Wriggling like an eel, he extricated himself from the crushing grip, not without some difficulty, and hurriedly rolled back and away from them.  His back hit a solid pine right behind him and he wasted no time, crab-crawling his way up the tree as smoothly as a spider on a pane of glass.  Now safely hidden in the leaves above, he glared down hotly at the person who had tackled him with red-gleaming eyes.  Even so, he was unable to keep a grin from his handsome, pale features, the tip of one of his overly sharp fangs protruding slightly.

"On the job?  Really?" he taunted the darkly-shrouded person as they, or rather she, leaped to her armored feet.  Even muffled by the dense foliage and underbrush, the thump of her boots would have been audible to even those without his innately gifted hearing.

"Any time, any place," came a low chuckle alongside a melodic voice, almost out of place coming from a figure as large as hers.  "That's the promise you made me."  Her heavy head of indigo hair, pitched-black by the gloom, flicked up casually by one of those massive hands, a coquettish and playful gesture.  "Besides, all intruders have been dealt with."

Rolling his eyes, he settled in amidst the limbs about him, as easily at home amongst them as a squirrel might have been.  "Well, at least I can speak as to your efficiency, if not your workplace professionalism."

"Dear husband," she balked, mock-offended tone making him chuckle along with her.  "Are you saying you don't enjoy mixing business with pleasure?"  Her voice trailed off into a low, amused growl that she knew always set his teeth on edge and his heart to pounding.

"You are...incorrigible," he sighed, feigning exhaustion before his grin spread to his words.  "Tell you what; I'll race you back.  Catch me before we get to the outskirts of the hamlet...?"

"Oh you're already caught," his wife chuckled low and hungrily.  Even in the near pitch-black, his keen eyes could easily see the coil of strength within her powerful limbs tightening from anticipation.  Her scent became stronger from her obvious desire; as hungry a predator in her own way as he was by his very nature.

"None of your usual tricks," he warned, standing atop the slender branch that ordinarily would never have born his weight.  Even so, he knew she would, and he wanted her to anyway.  It was the spirit of the thing if nothing else.

"Oh my Little Deer," she teased, making the hackles on the back of his neck rise from her nickname of him.  "What's that you're always saying?  'All is fair in war and love?'"

His fanged grin spread wider, leaf-green eyes peering through the dark towards where he knew would be the amber orbs he adored so much.  "Then you won't begrudge me a head-start," he quipped, and then like a bat flitting through the night, he took off across the branches, racing ahead through the dark.

"Hey!" she called after him indignantly.  The thunder of her footfalls came a moment later as she took up the chase.  "Now when I catch you, I'm getting it twice!"

"I still have to report to my father!" he yelled back, keeping one eye on his tree-top trail while with the other he tried to track where she would be.  "Leave me at least a bit of my propriety!"

The crunching, stomping, almost boar-like sounds of her charging onslaught after him set his blood to buzzing with the promise of what she intended.  Even now, they were growing louder, closer, even despite his great speed and advantage of Elven tree-hopping.  He could smell her even more now, hear the pounding of her mortal heart, the familiar tinge in the air of her blood as it set to racing as much as his was.  How he loved its bouquet...

"Propriety shcmiety, Asher!" she bellowed after him, voice full of the thunder that was her legacy, as much the night-stalking predator was his own.  The son of an Elf and Vampire, the daughter of a warrior and a Giant.  They were an odd pair, and a more beautiful one he would challenge the world to produce.  "Give me that pale booty!"

Their laughter filled the dark forest with the merriment of their chase as they raced back towards their home.  The hidden valley village of Gravesfeld was safe from invaders and spies once more, as it would always be with Asher Osian.  All that dwelled here were seemingly blissfully undisturbed by the evening's earlier violence.  The forest would claim the evidence.  

As it was always to be, the gentle sounds of nighttime amidst the dark pines, mountains and valleys were filled with the murmur of the breeze and the soft rustle of animals bedding down for tonight. 

It was a night for lovers after all; the sounds of those two souls, so very much in love, soon blended into the nighttime.  Even as loud as they could sometimes tend to be.

***A short scene based around my latest Dungeons and Dragons Character, Asher Osian, Dhampir Ranger.  Want to meet his beloved wife?  Stay tuned for her reveal soon!***