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[Chanticleer]

---

"I shall slay this demon," the warrior Chanticleer announced confidently. "The girl Celestia. If she was capable. So am I." Then, armed with sword and shield, he stepped forward.

"I said you'd face the demon," the man known as Balric of Barataria quietly commented. "I never said you'd slay him."

If the young warrior heard (or even cared), he made no indication of it. Instead, he marched into the depths of the dungeon Khaldun, accepting without hesitation of the fate that awaited him.

********

The taint of foul sorcery filled the air. Skeletal talons ripping at armor and flesh. Strange writing that foretold only death. The Blade of the Fist slashed and stabbed as Shield of Invulnerability blocked and parried. Until he could no longer feel them in his hands. Until he could no longer feel his hands. Then there was pain. Then there was no pain. And then there was only darkness.

********

Chanticleer slept, yet he did not dream.

Occasional images. Brief memories penetrating his mind that were neither wanted nor his own. No narrative or logic or any sense to be made of them. Despite these small intrusions, he was content.

Time passed. The world continued without him. Chanticleer did not mind this.

********

Gentle touch upon his face. Full lips against his own. Hands grasping at round flesh. Finger warm and moist. Pleasurable sensations.

-- Chanticleer resisted --

Sudden pain in left shoulder. Blood flowing freely. Tastes of slick steel.

-- Chanticleer struggled to resist --

His entirety overwhelmed by soft nurturing glow.

-- Chanticleer surrendered resistance --

********

Unfocused eyes flickered in response to the unwanted light. His ears barely comprehending pieces of conversation.

" ... you explain ... quite intimate ...still breathing ... a test ... " A man's voice, familiar and instantly disliked.

" ... my necklace ..." A woman's voice, unrecognizable.

There was the sound of a key closing a lock. "Beggar's can't be choosers," spoke the man, and then he was gone.

Chanticleer blinked as he slowly dissected detail from blurred imagery. He tried to stand, but his legs lacked strength, and he fell against the cold, hard floor.

"Woah there."

His vision finally adjusted, and with it an awareness of his surroundings. The young warrior was trapped in a small, blood-stained prison cell he had never before seen. Next to him sat a naked, dark haired woman whose face was unfamiliar. He attempted words, but no sounds emerged from his throat. Only fits of coughing.

"Drink this water," she advised, offering a bowl filled with water.

Once more, he struggled to his feet, but failed again just as quickly.

"Where do you think you're going exactly?"

[Chanticleer]

---

Too weak to reach for the bowl of water, the dark haired woman decided to quench his thirst by cupping its contents in her hands and bringing it directly to his lips. At first, it was painful for Chanticleer to swallow, but he slowly became accustomed to the soothing liquid. When he finished, she told him her name and that they were being held somewhere north of Vesper. As she spoke, the young warrior carefully studied his new companion. He also began to wonder why they were both without clothing, and gestured questioningly to her naked form.

"Our Master's doing," his fellow prisoner smirked.

"No man. I call no man." A painful cough followed his protest.

"Life holder? Keeper?"

"Elaborate," Chanticleer commanded her.

"Did you catch any of the earlier conversation?"

He shook his head. "There was a man. He spoke. But I couldn't follow."

She sighed. "Renthar."

A name he both recognized and despised. "Foul sorcerer."

"The other ... man involved is Wolfwood," the hazel-eyed female continued.

Yet another known villain. "Vampire."

"Undead now," she corrected, although he did not understand the distinction. "Well, he looks whole now, because of what they used me to get."

Irritated, the young warrior motioned for her to continued, and then began to drink from the bowl of water.

"Renthar had some ... power that the demons "stole" from him after some ritual he did. They used me to take it back from the demons." Then she smiled as he offered her a sip of water. "Thank you."

"Demons," he nodded. "I recall. Demons."

"Seems Khal Ankur stole your ... form to fight."

"Khal Ankur?" As he asked, a dull ache filled his head.

"Yes. One of the demons," she informed him.

The warrior made another attempt to stand, but could not remain on his feet.

"Easy," his curvaceous companion urged. "He is dead now though."

"I remember. Khaldun." The pain in his head began to throb. "Then nothing."

"You were being held captive by them," she explained.

"Captive?" Chanticleer scowled. "Renthar?"

"The demons," she responded. "Renthar had me ... rescue you."

"Why you?"

"Because he knew I would?" The dark haired female answered. "I wanted to be free from the demons and he said he could help me."

"Free?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I was in servitude," she casually admitted.

"They captured you. As well?"

"You could say that," the tan-skinned woman stated.

"Foul beasts," he then remarked.

The young warrior looked from his companion to the cell door, and back again. "Locked?" As she nodded in confirmation, his face suddenly twisted in agony.

"What ... hurts?" She asked. There was a hint of concern in her words.

"All." His eye lids were heavy and his voice barely above a whisper.

"Well, you've been unconscious since I ... rescued you."

Despite his wishes, his eyes were already closed.

"Hmm."

He felt her touch, gentle on his arm.

"Chanticleer?"

And then once and again, he was asleep.

[Chanticleer]

---

When Chanticleer awoke for a second time, he was still trapped inside of that prison cell with the mysterious, dark-haired woman. For the next few minutes, he ignored both her presence and her words, and instead focused on testing his current limitations. With no small effort, he was able to use the stone walls of the room to stand to his feet. Muscles ached and legs trembled, but he refused to surrender. Then, after demonstrating this strength to his audience of one, he looked down upon her and returned to their previous conversation.

"Who are you?"

She repeated the name she had already provided.

"You've said. But who are you? What do you know?"

"Know about what?" She asked.

The young warrior cocked his head at the cell wall. "This."

"Well, Renthar put you here," the hazel-eyed female explained. "Him and Wolfwood put me here."

"Villains both," Chanticleer noted.

"Renthar used some of my life force to awaken you," she continued. "Apparently during this ritual he did ... he bonded us."

"Elaborate."

"He seemed quite amused with himself over this," his companion told him. "He didn't have details since he said he'd never done this before. But apparently we can be separated for certain amounts of time. The longer apart, the sicker we will get until we die. So seems we're linked now."

"Linked," the young warrior shook his head in disgust. "I'm not fond. Of this."

"It's not ideal."

"Ideal?" He rolled his eyes at her. "It's foul sorcery."

"Could be worse," the dark-haired woman added. "You don't agree?"

Chanticleer grunted in response to her inane suggestion. Of course he disagreed ...

[Chanticleer]

---

"I'm going to release you both now," spoke Renthar, as he held the key to their prison cell in his hand. "Please behave." Then he unlocked the door and took a step back.

"In Vas Mani Hur," chanted their captor's companion, the red garbed sorcerer that he called Red Minalan. "Let the cleansing winds grant him strength."

The magical energy touched Chanticleer's form, soothing the pain of scorched flesh that was a consequence of Renthar's recent lesson in manners. But the young warrior cared little for the source of this kindness, and instead approached the two spell-casters and said to them, "Foul mages."

"Foul magic saved your life, boy knight," the strange-eyed mage advised, before turning to his other prisoner. "Did you explain to him?"

"What I could remember, yes," the dark-haired, hazel-eyed woman responded.

The young warrior scowled. "I reject this. I fear not death."

"I told you he would not be so easily manipulated," the red robed sorcerer interjected. "Knights have the intellect of a potato, and no fear of losing their lives."

"I'm no potato." Chanticleer countered.

Renthar commenced with his exposition. "It's quite simply, really. You can't harm me, or Wolfwood. If you spend too much time apart, you'll die. If you do as asked, you'll earn your freedom from this."

"How much is too much?" The female asked.

"After a few days, you'll start feeling ill. By a week, you'll be dying. It's your choice what you do with it."

"What is it you're asking," she continued. "And how long does that go on?"

A strange smile appeared. "You'll do as Wolfwood and I ask. Mostly Wolfwood ... I don't have any set need for you now. Or if Red Minalan needs any favors done, I might task you out to him."

"Most likely not," added Minalan.

The conversation continued, but Chanticleer paid it little attention. Then Renthar departed, followed by the red robed sorcerer. Soon, the former prisoners stood outside the house, contemplating their next move. The young warrior immediately realized the woman had been truthful about the change of seasons. It was summer when he entered Khaldun, yet it was the cold bite of winter that had greeted him this day. There was much he needed to learn, and only one place he knew of to search for the answers.

"I'm off to Vesper."

[Chanticleer]

---

"Don't presume. Anything of me," Chanticleer scolded the dark haired, hazel eyed woman as they bickered inside of her room at the Ironwood Inn of Vesper. They had only just arrived, and yet were already in disagreement. He had caught her lying about her true identity, and predictably, she had found him judgmental.

"That statement goes both ways," his companion countered from her chair. "But you're been presuming about me since we met."

"I already know enough." The young warrior informed her from his position near the door.

She shook her head. "You know a small blip of my life."

"I know enough."

"And you still presume," the dark haired woman sipped her wine. "Why couldn't he have picked someone older?"

"Older?" Chanticleer raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, older," she responded. "That's actually lived and had life experiences. Turmoil, trials. You're what ... twenty?"

"Twenty and three."

"Close enough."

"There's not much. For us to discuss then," he said. "You wish my plans?"

"I asked for them earlier," the hazel-eyed female reminded him. "You were too busy questioning me about things you already knew and wasting our time. So either speak them or leave."

"Not a waste," the young warrior argued. "It painted a clear picture."

"Hardly."

"As you say. I intend to seek out someone," he explained. "After I've done so. I will make my plans."

"What a revelation," she remarked, once again lifting her glass to her lips.

"Bitterness. It ill-suits your features," Chanticleer advised.

"By all means then, become more pleasurable to be around," the dark-haired woman suggested.

"Sadly. I've already learned. What form pleasure takes. For you."

She laughed at him. "That is not the only form. Again, you presume."

"True. There's also murder. And deceit. And drinking blood."

"Just leave," his companion demanded. "I'm done with you."

"Sadly. You're not," the young warrior corrected her. "Unless you wish death. Again."

"For now," she repeated. "I am done with you."

"As you wish. Good evening. Lady Blackwell." Then, as he turned to leave, Chanticleer made time for one more insult. "My apologies. Princess Blackwell."

[Chanticleer]

---

"I wish my bank box. Now," Chanticleer demanded as he marched towards the front counter of the Mint of Vesper, and possessed of a mood that was far from pleasant. Since departing the Ironwood Inn earlier that morning, he had been searching for news of his uncle, the man known as Julian Randall. He had learned nothing encouraging.

At the sound of his voice, the tall, blonde figure that stood in front of him slowly turned around. The moment she saw him, the color drained from her face, and she stumbled backwards in surprise.

"Erollisi. It's good to see you." The young warrior calmly greeted as he recognized her face. She was one of his uncle's hirelings and someone that he called friend. Although he could easily imagine the reasons for her reaction, he decided it was best to reveal nothing.

"You're ... you're ..." Erollisi gasped as she raised her bow at him. "You're dead."

"No," was all he said in response.

"Yes," she countered. "I saw you die I brought your ... body back here ... your uncle buried you!"

"Khal Ankur?" Chanticleer inquired.

"Yes."

Then he moved forward. "If you wish. Shoot. If not. We may speak."

"Speak," Erollisi told him, her eyes still watching him carefully.

"Not here," the young warrior stated, and departed the bank. She followed, as he knew she would, until he stopped halfway across the northern bridge that led out of the city. "This is good. For you?"

She scanned the area for any potential trouble, and then nodded.

"It wasn't me."

"What do you mean it wasn't you?" Erollisi asked skeptically. "Spoke like you ... had ... your memories and thoughts."

Chanticleer scowled. "A copy. Or so I'm told."

Her next question followed. "Where were you then?"

"The Keepers of Khaldun. They captured me. Then copied my form. For their Khal Ankur." As an indication that she accepted the truth of his words, his companion put her weapon away. The young warrior did not flinch as she closely examined his face and then reached for his arm. "Miss me?" He almost smiled.

"I ... we thought you were lost ... dead."

Impulsively, Chanticleer reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "For that. I'm sorry."

"You ..." And then, as if suddenly remembering something, Erollisi sighed deeply. "I have bad news Chanticleer."

But he already knew the source of her discontent. "My uncle?"

[Chanticleer]

---

The next day, Chanticleer returned to the Ironwood Inn of Vesper, only to find Dezera Blackwell ready and waiting for him there. For some reason, the sight of this dark-haired, hazel-eyed temptress was far less irritating than the last time he had encountered her. Perhaps it was the events of the past twenty-four hours, but the young warrior was almost ready to accept their forced entanglement. Or at least not despise her -- another unwilling victim in these forced circumstances -- quite so much.

"You seem to have found some things," Dezera remarked as she saw him.

"My things," Chanticleer corrected her, but offered no further explanation regarding the blade and armor that had been restored to his possession. He did not tell of sifting through his own grave in order to retrieve these items from the corpse of the false Khal Ankur that had impersonated him. He did not mention the news of his uncle, and how he had disappeared while recuperating from a grievous assault. And he did not speak of the affection that had passed between himself and Erollisi. Instead, the young warrior simply said, "Now. Your things?"

"If Renthar told the truth, they should be in my home."

Chanticleer nodded, and gestured for her to follow him out of the inn. He would see them both whole.

[Chanticleer]

---

Sword clashed against sword as Chanticleer Reich and Dezera Blackwell fought outside of her north of Vesper home. With the Blade of the Fist and Shield of Invulnerability in hand, he blocked her attacks and resisted her necromantic spells. Although his dark-haired opponent acquitted herself well, in the end the young warrior emerged victorious. The way it should be.

When they returned inside, Chanticleer looked to Dezera and said, "The two of us. We're different."

"That we are," Dezera nodded.

"My thoughts. Of you. They're unkind. As are yours. Of me." Neither of these revelations were particularly surprising. "Yet."

"Yes?"

"Our circumstances. They're entangled. What next then?" He asked of her.

"Does that mean you'll be sticking around?" She questioned him.

"I fear not death. But neither. Do I choose it," the young warrior replied.

"So, that's a yes then?"

"I've made. No decision. That is the purpose of this discussion," he explained.

"I don't know what's next," his dark-haired companion offered. "I suppose that's determined by Wolfwood and Renthar. Until they slip up and a way out of this is shown."

"I believe. They expect us. To bicker. And mistrust," added Chanticleer.

"I'm sure Renthar is counting on that," she agreed. "Which has been quite true so far."

"Then what?"

"Do you think we can get along enough to not kill one another?" Dezera inquired.

"Do you believe? That's sufficient?"

"It's going to have to be unless you have another idea," she countered.

He shook his head. "Not my meaning."

"Then what is your meaning?"

"Is not killing each other. Enough?" The young warrior wondered.

"Some semblance of co-existance would be good," The former assassin stated.

"Enough?"

"Why don't you speak your mind Chanticleer? What is enough for you?" She attempted to probe.

"My mind. It's uncertain." Then he paused to clear his throat. "I speak. Of trust."

"Trust, in what regards?"

"Each other," he answered. "With our lives. They're inter-dependent now."

"Are you capable of trusting me?" Dezera smirked.

"Are you? Of me?"

"You're not capable of giving a straight answer, are you?" She pushed back.

The young warrior cleared his throat again. "I don't trust."

"Neither do I."

"Then we're at an impasse," he conceded. "Then Renthar wins. Or we die."

"Then I guess we need to keep each other alive if you don't want Renthar to win," the dark-haired temptress suggested.

"Without trust?"

"You said you don't trust," she reminded him. "Are you going to change?"

"Can you?"

Yet, Chanticleer knew that at least in this matter, Dezera was right. They were opposites that could barely tolerate one other. He found her to be wicked and deceitful and consumed with self-interest. She believed him to be arrogant and judgmental and unwise to the ways of the world. Under ordinary circumstances, they would have been enemies, or more likely never have met at all. But these were not ordinary circumstances, and if they were to survive Renthar and Wolfwood and their forced enslavement, they would need to accept and change. Two of unkind.

To Be Continued (In Game) ...