UselessBytes
Plays too much Yu-Gi-Oh!
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2015
- Messages
- 454
- Reaction score
- 174
Heyo workshop readers! It's time for another one of my stories, and this time it's a chapter fic! (Hopefully one I won't abandon ) This time it's about Deen, a mysterious swordsman from Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia. I'm a sucker for his kind of character, so I decided to write this little story. The first chapter is a tad short, but more chapters are coming soon. (And as a heads up, you don't really need to know anything about Fire Emblem to read this, so even if you barely know the series, enjoy!)
1 - Enigmatic Blade
Darc looked down at his drink, grumbling about bad service. The crummy ale that filled his mug tasted no better than horse piss, but he’d grown used to it over the years. After all, crappy ale was better than no ale. The bar around him was dingy and rundown at best, but it was still packed to the brim with drunken sailors and serving women. After all, any bar is a good bar after hard sailing on the rough Zofian Sea. He could attest to that personally.
Darc tipped back his mug, draining half the ale in it before slamming it back down onto the bar’s surface. He smacked his lips and looked around at the patrons. Today was a particularly busy day. Sailors and townsfolk filled the tavern as usual, but the unsettling sight of Grieth’s thugs and bandits were mixed among them. Grieth’s men didn’t often leave the desert, let alone come far enough south to end up in Zofia harbor. He figured they must’ve had a particularly successful raiding adventure and had come to celebrate.
He sighed as he raised his mug to his lips again. With those ruffians around, a fight of some sort was bound to break out. It was only a matter of time.
The faces around him were all familiar, and he could easily point out the most likely candidates to start a fight. There was a brutish man at a table in the center of the room, downing mug after mug of ale, named Buxley. His bulging muscles and nasty scars made him quite the character, and he was known to be one of Grieth’s top bruisers. Darc knew that if anyone was to start something, it wouldn’t be long before Buxley saw fit to join in. That is, if Buxley hadn’t started it in the first place. He was a man who was prone to stir up trouble.
Buxley’s presence made Darc uncomfortable. He made a note to head out as soon as he finished his ale, lest he be caught up in some kind of brawl, but some nagging feeling in his mind told him that he shouldn’t leave. He supposed it had something to do with the man with the mess of purple hair sitting a few stools down from him, hunched over a mug of his own. He was dressed in light armor that was colored a muddy, darkened red, almost brown. A dark cloak hung over the man’s frame, and a sword hung at his belt, tagging him as a sellsword, but something in Darc’s mind told him that this man was no garden variety mercenary. He tried to get a better look at the man’s face, but his head was low and his mass of hair made it hard to get a good look at his face. Even more curious, however, was the long, thin, cloth wrapped package leaning against the man’s stool. Darc was a naturally inquisitive man, and this stranger made him itch with questions.
Darc’s attention snapped back to Buxley as he heard the sharp cadence of a mug banging against one of the wooden tables. He sighed and rolled his eyes. Buxley was angry with one of the serving girls again.
“Oy, what the hell you spillin’ ale on me for? You got ta be kidding me, lass!” Buxley’s foreign accent was heavy and thick, punctuating every word that left his lips. The serving girl shrank back in fear. Darc pitied the poor girl. She couldn’t be older than fifteen, and she was clearly scared out of her mind. Darc didn’t blame her. Buxley was a terrifying man.
“I- I didn’t m-mean to, s-sir,” she managed to stutter, her shaking voice barely louder than a whisper. “I s-swear I didn’t! I-I’m sorry!”
Her apologies fell on deaf ears as Buxley pulled himself up from the table, his massive, hulking body towering over the serving girl’s fragile frame. He loomed over her, his face twisted in anger, his stiff leather jerkin soaked in the establishment’s mediocre drink. He pulled a short sword from his belt and brandished it above his head, waving it at the girl threateningly. “I swear I could cut you open without a second thought, kid. You’re an idiot to ‘ave messed with me!” He yelled, doing his best to make every word sound as threatening as possible.
“I’m sorry- I didn’t- I wouldn’t-” the serving girl stuttered, her voice dying in her throat as she sank to her knees, tears forming in her eyes.
Darc clicked his tongue disappointedly as Buxley pulled his sword back, readying to strike. He looked back to his drink, waiting for the inevitable scream of agony that would come as the blade bit into the girl’s flesh.
But it never came. In its place, the familiar clang of steel on steel rang through the tavern. Darc whipped back around to see a figure clad in muddy brown armor standing between the serving girl and Buxley, his sword drawn and raised to block Buxley’s strike. The brutish pirate snarled angrily at the man in front of him who had so casually intervened. The man’s deep purple hair still obscured the majority of his face.
Darc spun back around to where the man had just been sitting. Sure enough, he was gone, the slender package he’d been carrying saving his place at the bar. How could one man move so fast?
“Who tha hell are you, you stupid merc?” Buxley roared, bringing back his blade for another strike. The man sighed, and spun his sword around inexplicably fast, the very tip of the blade slicing across his wrist. Buxley cried out in pain as the short sword fell from his injured hand and clattered against the floor of the bar. The other thugs who’d been egging Buxley on fell silent.
“Despicable,” the man with purple hair muttered, his voice deep and rough. He flicked his sword around and drove it into the stunned pirate’s thigh. Buxley let out another cry of agony as he fell to his knees, unable to decide whether he should nurse his wrist or his thigh. The man reached out with his free hand and grabbed Buxley’s head, slamming him face-down into the ale soaked table. Buxley sank to the ground as his moans of pain went quiet, clearly unconscious.
The man flicked the blood off of his blade and returned it to the leather sheath on his belt. He pulled a few coins out of a pouch tied around his waist and placed them on the table. “Sorry for the trouble,” he muttered to the still shaking serving girl as he headed to the door.
Darc looked on in awe as he choked down the last of his drink. This’d make one hell of a story for the boys tomorrow.
1 - Enigmatic Blade
Darc looked down at his drink, grumbling about bad service. The crummy ale that filled his mug tasted no better than horse piss, but he’d grown used to it over the years. After all, crappy ale was better than no ale. The bar around him was dingy and rundown at best, but it was still packed to the brim with drunken sailors and serving women. After all, any bar is a good bar after hard sailing on the rough Zofian Sea. He could attest to that personally.
Darc tipped back his mug, draining half the ale in it before slamming it back down onto the bar’s surface. He smacked his lips and looked around at the patrons. Today was a particularly busy day. Sailors and townsfolk filled the tavern as usual, but the unsettling sight of Grieth’s thugs and bandits were mixed among them. Grieth’s men didn’t often leave the desert, let alone come far enough south to end up in Zofia harbor. He figured they must’ve had a particularly successful raiding adventure and had come to celebrate.
He sighed as he raised his mug to his lips again. With those ruffians around, a fight of some sort was bound to break out. It was only a matter of time.
The faces around him were all familiar, and he could easily point out the most likely candidates to start a fight. There was a brutish man at a table in the center of the room, downing mug after mug of ale, named Buxley. His bulging muscles and nasty scars made him quite the character, and he was known to be one of Grieth’s top bruisers. Darc knew that if anyone was to start something, it wouldn’t be long before Buxley saw fit to join in. That is, if Buxley hadn’t started it in the first place. He was a man who was prone to stir up trouble.
Buxley’s presence made Darc uncomfortable. He made a note to head out as soon as he finished his ale, lest he be caught up in some kind of brawl, but some nagging feeling in his mind told him that he shouldn’t leave. He supposed it had something to do with the man with the mess of purple hair sitting a few stools down from him, hunched over a mug of his own. He was dressed in light armor that was colored a muddy, darkened red, almost brown. A dark cloak hung over the man’s frame, and a sword hung at his belt, tagging him as a sellsword, but something in Darc’s mind told him that this man was no garden variety mercenary. He tried to get a better look at the man’s face, but his head was low and his mass of hair made it hard to get a good look at his face. Even more curious, however, was the long, thin, cloth wrapped package leaning against the man’s stool. Darc was a naturally inquisitive man, and this stranger made him itch with questions.
Darc’s attention snapped back to Buxley as he heard the sharp cadence of a mug banging against one of the wooden tables. He sighed and rolled his eyes. Buxley was angry with one of the serving girls again.
“Oy, what the hell you spillin’ ale on me for? You got ta be kidding me, lass!” Buxley’s foreign accent was heavy and thick, punctuating every word that left his lips. The serving girl shrank back in fear. Darc pitied the poor girl. She couldn’t be older than fifteen, and she was clearly scared out of her mind. Darc didn’t blame her. Buxley was a terrifying man.
“I- I didn’t m-mean to, s-sir,” she managed to stutter, her shaking voice barely louder than a whisper. “I s-swear I didn’t! I-I’m sorry!”
Her apologies fell on deaf ears as Buxley pulled himself up from the table, his massive, hulking body towering over the serving girl’s fragile frame. He loomed over her, his face twisted in anger, his stiff leather jerkin soaked in the establishment’s mediocre drink. He pulled a short sword from his belt and brandished it above his head, waving it at the girl threateningly. “I swear I could cut you open without a second thought, kid. You’re an idiot to ‘ave messed with me!” He yelled, doing his best to make every word sound as threatening as possible.
“I’m sorry- I didn’t- I wouldn’t-” the serving girl stuttered, her voice dying in her throat as she sank to her knees, tears forming in her eyes.
Darc clicked his tongue disappointedly as Buxley pulled his sword back, readying to strike. He looked back to his drink, waiting for the inevitable scream of agony that would come as the blade bit into the girl’s flesh.
But it never came. In its place, the familiar clang of steel on steel rang through the tavern. Darc whipped back around to see a figure clad in muddy brown armor standing between the serving girl and Buxley, his sword drawn and raised to block Buxley’s strike. The brutish pirate snarled angrily at the man in front of him who had so casually intervened. The man’s deep purple hair still obscured the majority of his face.
Darc spun back around to where the man had just been sitting. Sure enough, he was gone, the slender package he’d been carrying saving his place at the bar. How could one man move so fast?
“Who tha hell are you, you stupid merc?” Buxley roared, bringing back his blade for another strike. The man sighed, and spun his sword around inexplicably fast, the very tip of the blade slicing across his wrist. Buxley cried out in pain as the short sword fell from his injured hand and clattered against the floor of the bar. The other thugs who’d been egging Buxley on fell silent.
“Despicable,” the man with purple hair muttered, his voice deep and rough. He flicked his sword around and drove it into the stunned pirate’s thigh. Buxley let out another cry of agony as he fell to his knees, unable to decide whether he should nurse his wrist or his thigh. The man reached out with his free hand and grabbed Buxley’s head, slamming him face-down into the ale soaked table. Buxley sank to the ground as his moans of pain went quiet, clearly unconscious.
The man flicked the blood off of his blade and returned it to the leather sheath on his belt. He pulled a few coins out of a pouch tied around his waist and placed them on the table. “Sorry for the trouble,” he muttered to the still shaking serving girl as he headed to the door.
Darc looked on in awe as he choked down the last of his drink. This’d make one hell of a story for the boys tomorrow.
Last edited: