by As the train drew to a stop, Venus rose to her feet, looking around her. She was apparently the only person here who seemed to be in a damp mood, and for good reason too. The paper in her hand was the reason for her not-so-delighted countenance. It was a mission. Naturally, the Sabertooth mage should have been excited at the chance to take another mission, do her guild proud, and get some cash in the bag. Matter of fact, it was the money that had made her take this job, uncharacteristically not even reading the contents of the mission flyer before signing up for it. It was a D-rank mission, she'd thought. How hard could it be?
Of course, it was a cakewalk, if one considered killing people to be a cakewalk. Or, killing one person in particular. Some old fellow, who wanted to die in battle, so that his soul would be taken to Valhalla, the afterlife land of warriors, instead of Hel, where went those who died of old age, diseases and other generally milk-drinking exits from the world. While Venus felt it was foolish to desire such a death, she had to respect the fact that the man had a different culture from hers.
Finding him wasn't hard. She simply followed the directions on the paper which contained the mission details. They led her to a little house at the edge of town before which an old man sat, clad in a suit of armor so old it could defend against only the weather, with a large kite shield to his left, and a double-edged sword resting at his right. A lit pipe was in his mouth, releasing puffs of smoke. As she approached, the man rose.
"Ior Valiir?" the Demon Slayer asked. The man nodded, as he studied her momentarily. "Well met, child," he replied, taking the pipe out of his mouth. "Am I to assume that you are the Valkyrie come to send my soul to Valhalla?" While Venus didn't consider herself in most ways similar to the psychopomps that took the souls of brave warriors to Valhalla, she could reason why Ior Valiir would draw parallels between herself and the mythological shield maidens. "I may not be a Valkyrie," she replied, "and I am not particularly joyful about killing one who hasn't wronged me. Yet your call for death has been answered."
"Good," Ior Valiir answered, hefting his shield and gripping the haft of his sword, "I desired a light mage, or a neutral one, for this job, because you understand the value of life, so you understand the gravity of this situation, and you will not take it lightly. Still, do not hold back, or my soul will curse you with it's dying breath. Now, I have spoken too long, and I may just keel over and die while talking here with you, so let's get on with the glorious business."
"More like unpleasant business," Venus thought sourly, as she took an unarmed stance and waited. In response, Ior yelled something in an unintelligible language, most definitely his war cry, and charged, swinging his sword horizontally as he drew near. Initially Venus intended to only dodge the attack, but she realized that having Ior die from overexertion was most likely a mission failure, so she responded by leaping over his attack and planting both feet on his chest as hard as she could, sending the old man flying backwards. She knew that with that kick she had broken something; the advanced strength of a Slayer would make sure of that.
Hurrying over to where he lay, Venus knelt by the man's supine form. She already knew his sternum had caved in; the armor he wore provided no protection for the man. He smiled up at her. "Quick-- clean-- I can boast to my ancestors that I died wielding my weapons in battle like a true son of theirs. Thank-- you--." His last breath left with his final words, and all was silent. Venus, alone with the man's corpse, allowed herself to cry, until the sound of footfalls informed her that a group of people was approaching, most likely the undertaker's retinue. Rising to her feet and cleaning her face, she walked past the group, whose members muttered their thanks as she passed by.
WC: 782 words.
Of course, it was a cakewalk, if one considered killing people to be a cakewalk. Or, killing one person in particular. Some old fellow, who wanted to die in battle, so that his soul would be taken to Valhalla, the afterlife land of warriors, instead of Hel, where went those who died of old age, diseases and other generally milk-drinking exits from the world. While Venus felt it was foolish to desire such a death, she had to respect the fact that the man had a different culture from hers.
Finding him wasn't hard. She simply followed the directions on the paper which contained the mission details. They led her to a little house at the edge of town before which an old man sat, clad in a suit of armor so old it could defend against only the weather, with a large kite shield to his left, and a double-edged sword resting at his right. A lit pipe was in his mouth, releasing puffs of smoke. As she approached, the man rose.
"Ior Valiir?" the Demon Slayer asked. The man nodded, as he studied her momentarily. "Well met, child," he replied, taking the pipe out of his mouth. "Am I to assume that you are the Valkyrie come to send my soul to Valhalla?" While Venus didn't consider herself in most ways similar to the psychopomps that took the souls of brave warriors to Valhalla, she could reason why Ior Valiir would draw parallels between herself and the mythological shield maidens. "I may not be a Valkyrie," she replied, "and I am not particularly joyful about killing one who hasn't wronged me. Yet your call for death has been answered."
"Good," Ior Valiir answered, hefting his shield and gripping the haft of his sword, "I desired a light mage, or a neutral one, for this job, because you understand the value of life, so you understand the gravity of this situation, and you will not take it lightly. Still, do not hold back, or my soul will curse you with it's dying breath. Now, I have spoken too long, and I may just keel over and die while talking here with you, so let's get on with the glorious business."
"More like unpleasant business," Venus thought sourly, as she took an unarmed stance and waited. In response, Ior yelled something in an unintelligible language, most definitely his war cry, and charged, swinging his sword horizontally as he drew near. Initially Venus intended to only dodge the attack, but she realized that having Ior die from overexertion was most likely a mission failure, so she responded by leaping over his attack and planting both feet on his chest as hard as she could, sending the old man flying backwards. She knew that with that kick she had broken something; the advanced strength of a Slayer would make sure of that.
Hurrying over to where he lay, Venus knelt by the man's supine form. She already knew his sternum had caved in; the armor he wore provided no protection for the man. He smiled up at her. "Quick-- clean-- I can boast to my ancestors that I died wielding my weapons in battle like a true son of theirs. Thank-- you--." His last breath left with his final words, and all was silent. Venus, alone with the man's corpse, allowed herself to cry, until the sound of footfalls informed her that a group of people was approaching, most likely the undertaker's retinue. Rising to her feet and cleaning her face, she walked past the group, whose members muttered their thanks as she passed by.
FIN
WC: 782 words.
