I don't own the Overlord franchise. It belongs to Triumph Studios and Codemasters, but this is my story and my own characters.
This is my first fanfic story for me to write outside of anime, and if I was to ever do such a story it would have to be Overlord. I grew up with Overlord: Raising Hell, II, and Dark Legends, three games of a forgotten franchise that I keep close to my heart.
Felt inspired to write this story after reading both TAKA-TAKA-TAKA's stories and Mr. Nuked Duck's First and Only, both of which you, all, should check out.
As many can tell the title of the story does give the implication that time travel will be a theme of the story. I was always a huge fan of time travel, though I didn't execute it as well as I could've the first time I played with the concept. Yet, I learned from the mistakes of my past stories, hoping to do this one justice. In addition, other themes that this fanfic will cover are War and strategy, Romance, my own concepts based on historical references, events, or figures, Hurt/Comfort, Mythology, Adventure, and Family.
So, I hope you enjoy this first chapter of Overlord from the Time to Come. Reviews or constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.
Chapter 1: The Girl with Wolf Horns Part 1
Flashback...
Snow and trees...these are the mere spectacles of nature that consumes the Nordbergian woodlands and roads during a descending sunset. There was no sound of life, even from the simplest pitch of a pecker to the playful howl of wolves. The mere exception was a small, traveling train of some twenty hunters and five carts, making their way back to Nordberg with the spoils of their latest hunt, which consisted of meat, furs, and decent portions of gold, results from some fur trades with various, nearby villages. This was the perfect opportunity a young eight-year-old girl thought as she sat on a dense branch of a tall tree, surveying the wandering caravan, ignorant to the posing danger lurking in the woods above them. Yet, she and her intuition knew better than to jump into a passé ambush with expected yet unexpected odds. She needed to bide her time for the fated opening, and her Coup d'oeil would not fail her.
This said lass possessed long reddish-orange hair that was akin to a fox's fur with two, slender braided locks fell behind her ears and another two, long forelocks that hid her ears. Regarding these said horns, they were slender, almost plate-like and had the form of a wolf's ears. Her skin was an abnormal, snowy, white color with a single-lined scar on her right cheek. Her eyes were human-like as any other, yet the colorings of her irises were an unnatural blood red and deep orange with her pupils shaped like the pupils of a fox. Her attire consisted of a smoky overall dress made with the use of wolf fur, which hugged her slender form. Underneath her overall, she wore a short-sleeved, red tunic. On her neck, there rested a ragged, purple scarf that waved with the snowy wind behind her. She wore, in addition, a pair of long, striped socks and boots. Finally, she carried on her back a small longbow and quiver of arrows, alongside a dagger in one of her pockets.
While she maintained her stare on the moving train, she glanced towards her sixteen companions of young or experienced minion soldiers and Nephilim children and adolescents, who hid in various close trees as well, while another detachment of thirty-four minions lay in wait behind large bushes and baskets of snow.
"Now, young Mistress, while they're busy humming like the bumbling fools they don't think they are about their meager 'success'," she heard Gnarl state from within her mind. Her connection to him was linked through a small, sapphire-colored earring with the form of a droplet of fire on her left ear.
"Not yet, Gnarl," she whispered in response, revealing a pair of fox-like fangs in her upper, canine teeth.
"Ashura, if we wait any longer, they'll be out of the forest," a soft whisper from her closest friend stated from a neighboring branch. She had a human appearance with soft, short, bluish-green hair with two small forelocks tied into slender braids. Her eyes were a hue of deep purple. She wore a long-sleeved tunic of white underneath a plum-shaded, sleeveless, leather jacket, alongside a knee-length skirt of the same plum paint and a pair of boots. Yet, the most definitive pieces of her appearance were a pair of Blue minion fins on where her supposed ears rested and a med-sized scythe that she carried behind her back.
"Soon, Nausicaa, just tell Pan, Horseman, and Vinci to hold out for a little bit longer," she returned, earning a soft but impatient grunt from her friend.
Yet, she was right. If she waited any longer, the ambush would be forfeited. These hunters were only two minutes away from the seas of trees to open grounds. Determined and following mere but desperate intuition, Ashura slowly narrowed her gaze at the caravan's surroundings. Just like Alexander's charge, there had to be an opening. After a full, long minute, soft frustration dominated her expression. As this very same annoyance was about to claim victory and force a reckless act of attack from her part, her patience had paid off. Ashura spotted her opening. A mere stone, jagged but neither too big or small, at the side of the snowy road, and these hunters with their carts were about to walk towards it. All she needed to do was get that leading horse to stroll the front wheel of its cart right towards the sharp stone.
Without wasting a second, she conjured a gust of moving autumn leaves and converted these leaves to snow, forming two, icy snowballs in her right palm.
"Mistress, have you thought of something in mind?" Gnarl quizzed, noticing the lass's show of her little ability. Ashura did not respond as she threw both rough snowballs at the horse's front leg. The beast of burden griped, causing it to slightly shift its straightened direction, oblivious to the fact that it positioned the left wheel of the cart directly towards the incoming, serrated stone.
"What was tha-," one of the hunters wearily attempted to question as the wheel of the cart met the rock, toppling the cart to the side and almost the screeching horse along with it due to the weight of its compartment.
"The cart-get it back into place!" another hunter hastily ordered as over half of the group worked to restore the cart to its former position, salvaging, simultaneously, their fallen goods. Ashura smiled, quickly pulling out an arrow and shot it towards the throat one of the six hunters that remained on the sidelines, shocking his fellow comrades as he drowned in his own blood.
"NOW!" she roared. In that very instant, dozens of minions and nephilims charged from their hidden positions, roaring in a barbaric frenzy as they attacked the hunters on all sides. Ashura and her group swung hastily down with the use of ropes and vines towards the bewildered hunters.
"Ambu-!" a burly hunter attempted to yell as his head was sliced clean off and fell to the sprayed-red ground by Nausicaa's scythe as she flew to the other side. Another of Ashura's arrows flew, once again from her bow. This time, it was aimed towards the eye of one of the other horses in the center. This caused the shocked creature to rush and crash in a uncontrollable frenzy with the other the carts before it and the sidelined hunters, further eliminating any available space for the Nordbergians to reorganize a proper defense. The hunters, those who were busy with the recent cart debacle, were met with rows of steel, fire, and arrows, finding little to no time to unleash their axes or spears. Screams covered the forest road as stomachs were gouged, burnt flesh radiated a toasted, damning smell, blood painting the snow and horses, and limbs flying all around as Ashura's Lost Children made quick work of most of these hunters. A remaining two or so, attempted to make a run for the bordering woods, yet they were met by a dreadful specter: a headless rider on a grey steed. This headless figure wore a dark, military-like uniform and cloak, carrying in his hands a demonic-smiling, jack-o-lantern pumpkin and an axe-shaped cleaver.
"AHHHH!" one of the hunters shrieked as his body made contact with the cleaver, separating his flying head, neck, and shoulder from his body. The last hunter stopped in his tracks and knelt down on the ground, frozen in an utter example of terror as a darker shade of brown emerged in the heart of his brown trousers, running downwards like a flowing stream.
"Ugh-Disgusting. Well, thanks, Horseman. Now, I won't be able to erase this image from my head for a good day or two," Ashura sadly commented, earning an 'Oh well' hand symbol from the headless specter after placing his jack-o-lantern on his lap. The terrified hunter slowly turned his head behind, meeting the indifferent, emotionless gaze of the abnormal-looking girl that stood a few feet away from him. She stared at him in a stoic manner, expecting for her final victim to put the pieces together of who she is. The hunter's eyes widened as he noticed her snowy, white skin, her mix-matched, foxy eyes and hair, and, most notably, her blue, 'wolf horns'. The hunter gaped in dread, stuttering in an attempt to find his voice.
"Y-You! I-I know you! You're t-th-the daughter of the former Demon Lord of Nordberg, The Girl with Wolf Horns!" the hunter finally declared after a half a minute or so. A wicked grin formed on Ashura's lips.
"Ding, Ding, Ding! You've won the wager my lamb to the slaughter! Now, do me a little favor…" Ashura cheerfully stated in a childish, innocent manner, while she pulled her dagger out and walked closer to the hunter, standing only a foot and half away from him, and pressed her blade towards his neck.
"Don't send my regards to my spawn mother in the Infernal Abyss," she stated in a salty manner, slashing the hunters' neck into a fountain of blood. Satisfied, Ashura turned and surveyed the aftermath of this quick battle. Her minions and Nephilim gathering and searching among the carts the spoils of their victory, while numbers of bodies and limbs muddied the snow with blood. This was a decisive win with no casualties on their part, earning an earnest smile from the young lass.
"Well, done, young mistress, you've done your father, little me and my poor heart, and your caretaker and nurse, Ledame, proud," Gnarl happily stated, sounding like he could probably weep a wave of dark tears for her. Ashura's cheeks bloomed both in excitement and cheer.
"Oh, thank you so much, Gnarl. Now, what do you think I should call this battle?" she happily inquired.
"Well, mistress, you were the architect of this trifle. The honors go to you," her foster father and mentor stated, earning another proud smile from Ashura for such praise.
"Hmm...Alright-I got it. This site will be called the Battle of the Nordberg Forest," Ashura replied with glee after giving the name some thought.
"Not a bad name for a start but needs some work, mistress," Gnarl suggested. Ashura giggled at this but still retained the title she ordained towards this massacre.
Present day...
Ah, yes, those were the days. The young mistress leading her closest companions, the Lost Children, like her own troupe of Merry men from one of those fairy tale books that Rose would give her to read. A twisted version of Robin Hood the lass said she wanted to be, robbed from both the wealthy and the meek and gave certain portions to those of her choice. Don't ask Gnarl. He couldn't comprehend in the slightest this strange notion, either. Maybe it was pure imitation? Maybe it was a mere fancy of expectance of gratitude and worship? Or maybe, just maybe, the mistress had a heart deep down. Yet, this one possible reasoning was one that made Gnarl's skin crawl and not in a pleasant manner. Suddenly, he was awoken from his reverie thanks to the sudden sounds of minions and Nephilim at hasty work, reminding him that he was in charge of making sure this rabble of minions didn't screw up the preparation for the sudden celebration and ceremony that was soon to take place.
"No, No, No, not there, you mindless imbeciles-it goes over there!" the old, wise advisor of Overlords screeched towards a pair of brown minions that reattempted to set up a custom banner, though in the wrong place. This well of lethal knowledge still wore his withered rags that hid his bony form that had attached a stick with a glowing rock above him, which acted like a form of lamp. Despite the years, Gnarl still looked and sounded like he hasn't changed one bit, in the mere exception that he wore an eye patch to cover his right eye. The elderly yet ageless minion scratched his head in irritation, as he walked and surveyed waves of minions at work on the arrangements for this particular day. To say that the new throne room of the rebuilt Netherworld Tower was chaotic was for sure an understatement. Minions and half-breeds from each of the tribes were called upon to make up for unexpected, lost time, hectically scrabbling from one place to another.
Regarding these said half-breeds, they were a new bloc of minions, whom made up half of the current roster of the minions in the Netherworld. They were given the name Nephilim, hybrids that were born from the union of several minions with Human men or women, particularly the scores of pretty buxom damsels of Nordberg and the former Empire City or the built men of Nordberg, as well, that they'd taken as captives. The minions were, after all, quite picky. Yet, fortunately, for this new line of offspring, their minion fathers or mothers were quite accepting of their given looks. The male Nephilim inherited a minion appearance, which would depend upon specific tribe their parent originated. These same Nephilim were, also, much taller with a decent chunk of them reaching the maximum height of 5'7 feet. They were physically stronger, and walked in a straightened manner like humans, in complete contrast of their ordinary minion counterparts. Yet, their prowess when it came to their natural abilities in the use of fire, resurrection, and invisibility were lesser in comparison.
The females, on the other hand, were all gifted with a humanoid form, though they possessed, as well, minion ears, fins, or horns. Those of the Browns or Greens had a double set of ears, wielding a pair of human ears, as well. Yet, their minion ears rested on and flew behind the sides of their heads like the ears of a wolf, coyote, or fox. The coloring of their irises was of unnatural shades, human nails yet sharp like claws, and only the red, female Nephilim inherited hellish tails. Like all minions, they could age pretty quickly. Yet, the one advantage they possessed was that of this was that they stopped aging, altogether, after they reached the human age of twenty-five, which took them a mere fourteen years to reach. This meant some were already young adults at their peak age, while the rest were yet in their middle or late adolescence. Yet, this did not signify that they were immune to illness or immortal. They were not as physically strong as their male counterparts but were more agile and strategically minded.
Now, there was a second category of males. Those born from the female minions with the Nordbergian men. Unlike their half-breed, minion-looking cousins, they possessed a humanoid appearance but were gifted with minion-like legs; in addition, they, also, retained Brown and Green minion ears, the Reds' horns and tails, and the aquatic, Blue minions' fins, which all depended upon the tribe they were born to just like the female counterparts. Moreover, their eyes were human with natural-colored irises, yet they could glow just like the eyes of any traditional minion but to a dimmer extent. Even so, just like the rest of the other Nephilim minions, they displayed the capability to grow taller with 5'7 feet being the maximum height, as well. Despite these differences, all three wielded the gift and skill of normal speech and thought, yet, as all minions, they were dictated by nature to abide and follow their Overlord, which, honestly, if you ask them, they would not mind. Now, all of them pushed to complete the preparations for the very ritual, test, and celebration that were to come.
The young mistress was returning home after nine years of wandering the earth all for the very sake of her training. Though Gnarl had received message of her return three months beforehand, she had refused to come home just yet, undertaking two final tasks, instead. The first two or so months would be used to study and familiarize, her, once again, with any new dangers or wits that her home, now, offered. After this, she would spend the remaining forty days in the wilderness, as she put it according to Gnarl, "Ending her journey for self-fulfillment", much to the elder minion's complete bewilderment of what that meant. However, this was but a shard of the three-headed reason for this strange festivity. Today, it would be the day that she would become their new Overlord and master. Now, in contrast to the previous rules that led to the First, Third, and Fourth Overlord's reigns, Gnarl was particularly amazed that he was able to retain, at the very least, a portion of the Red, Green, and Blue minion tribes and hives in the Netherworld despite the lack of a master to keep them unified and due to another certain, displeasing setback.
Most, obvious, this was due to the fact that they knew the Master's daughter and rightful heir was alive and well. One day, she would return and succeed her father after her journey to the east would come to an end when she saw fit. And that day had finally come after sixteen years. Well, to be more exact, there was the incident and time when the young mistress was a recently born infant that Juno, surprisingly, took over, proclaiming that she be recognized as the "Fifth Overlord". Even though it wasn't supposed to be official or taken seriously in the slightest, the minion advisor and minions decided to humor her and placed bets on how long this "transition of power" would persist. Besides, what minion in whatever mind they possibly had could say no to Juno? Some were even dumber than usual to think that she'll make a fine successor. Well…one can dream, which was the epitome of an understatement. To summarize Juno's "reign", if one could call it that, it was an anticipated disaster. The pretty-faced harpy didn't even last a full week after her uncaring, misguided pride lost roughly most the of provinces and lands that the former master had conquered. Gnarl lightly scoffed in irritated humor from this reminder, while inspecting the working minions.
"Quite the unexpected predicament that the young mistress has placed us in," a cheeky voice stated. Gnarl placed his musing and inspections aside and turned his wary gaze towards the annoying minion. He wore the attire of a jester with white markings all around his one-eyed body, carrying a skull cane everywhere he went.
"And, here, I expected you to be giving your harp a good scrub, Quaver, or has the vile evils of music have grown weary of your existence?" Gnarl says in disinterest before returning to his former while he ignored the minion jester. Quaver gave a cracking chuckle before beginning to sing to the advisor's utter displeasure.
"The mistress so young and naïve, left home for the search for her own self being. Nine years have gone by, and, now, she comes back perhaps no longer the girl with wolf horns we knew or see," Quaver sang, annoying his other fellow, grumbling minions around him, wondering if it was best to finally throw this cheeky pest down to the deepest pits of the Netherworld.
"The question we all have is high and dear. Does Mistress Ashura possess that what makes an Overlord be feared? A child she is not, but an adolescent still she is. A devil with the sword she is said to have become, but it takes more than just a blade for evil to find its way," he completed, causing Gnarl to contemplate his words after he returned his gaze towards the jester.
"Of course, she is ready. I have faith in the young mistress," the old minion insisted.
"I don't question the mistress's skills or desire to succeed the master, yet it is quite justifiable for us to question if this is the right time," Quaver replied, continuing before Gnarl could answer, "It took the master thirteen years to complete his training before he conquered Nordberg. What trust do we have that the mistress can do the very same in three-fourths of that time even if she did have a head start on her training unlike the master? Moreover, we, minions, have never followed a female Overlord, let alone one who has not even reached adulthood since the forgotten days of Lord Gromgard. There is a tremendous weight of expectations over her shoulders and a lack of experience from us, minions, on how to guide her."
"And that is where we, Mortis, and Giblet come into play to help lessen that burden for her, at the very least," Gnarl stated, "Evil is not entirely picky, Quaver. All it cares for is to have a champion against good. Besides, it should matter not who wields the mantle of the Overlord, but his execution of the job and merit," he completes, walking off to leave the jester to his own ordeals. Yet, that did not mean that the advisor dismissed Quaver's doubts. For once, he was right. Nine years was a very long time. He had very little to no idea what has become or changed of the young girl that he, Rose, and the minions nurtured for eight years as history repeated itself, once again. What has she learned? How far has she changed? Where had she gone? All that he and the minions had heard about her after all this time was a small inkling of an ever-spreading tale. As much as about a year and half ago, a tale, spread from the east, emerged of a lethal, red-headed manslayer with hair like a fox and mixed-colored eyes. So, feared, in fact, she was thought to be a ghost or even a demon. The young mistress perfectly fit the description, and words could not explicate how proud it made Gnarl's little diabolic heart feel over the lass's unique accomplishment. This was the very factor that persuaded him to accept her appeal to be proclaimed as the new overlord despite being only sixteen years of her adolescence by the time of their written correspondence. Before he could continue his internal reflections, another minion made his presence known, this time around, to his relief that it was not Quaver.
"Giblet, completed weapons, armor, and clothing requested by the young mistress, Ashura," a masked brown minion that wore the attire of a blacksmith and carried a hammer eagerly announced, giving Gnarl a grunt of approval. Together with the message that she had sent, there was a second letter attached, detailing a specific yet hefty list of arsenal, clothing, armor, and instructions that the young mistress requested for the minion blacksmith to forge for her. To achieve such demands in just a span of three months was a taxing task. She was more than confident that Giblet was up to the task; yet, the young mistress was aware of the craftsman's limits. So, in her letter, she dictated the first, few following instructions: the forge was to be expanded with the construction of a workshop and factory, and Giblet was to take a batch of minions of his choice under his wing as either helpers or apprentices.
"Including that strange, abnormal sword and long, leather garment for the mistress, as well?" he quizzed in return.
"Young Mistress's requests were odd and strange. Took Giblet and group lot time to adapt and comprehend what is unknown and foreign, but all needs are perfectly complete. Wait for the mistress's return remains," Giblet replied.
"Good, Giblet, all that's left is the completion of the throne room, the food, and for me to set up some test to determine if she is truly ready," Gnarl says as he counted his fingers, representing each task left to be finished.
"Giblet bets twelve rats, bottle of mead, and pack of dry beef she arrives after midnight," the blacksmith minion gambled, causing the old minion to scoff in humor.
"Same, but I would wager that she appears before that," Gnarl retorted with a gleeful grin as both minions shook their demonic hands in agreement of the bet.
"Now, if you don't mind, Giblet, I must return to making sure that these fools don't ruin whatever progress we've achieved. Yet, a bit later, I'll go to find Mortis, in order to devise the perfect test for the young mistress. If you wish to have a say in the matter, you may come with me," the old minion offered, earning a grunt and nod from Giblet.
"Good-Oh, by the way, Giblet, are the minions keeping watch of my little gift for the mistr-," Gnarl incompletely states when he was knocked down to the floor as a horde of twelve wolves, painted with furs of various colors that ranged from silver to grey and black to red, raced around the throne room, causing more havoc for the already disorganized minions-at-work before each disappearing in a small flash of green light.
"Oh, for the love of everything that is evil, Gab and Sap, who gave you permission to release the mistress's wolves?! They're running amok, now!" Gnarl screeched at a green minion and a green Nephilim girl with short greenish hair, green minion ears, and purple eyes that wore an overall dress made of pure leaves and shirt. Both stared upon the enraged minion master and each other with confused looks.
"Did no such thing. Wolfies let themselves out," Gab calmly answered with Sap adding, "He's right, Gnarl." This earned the two a wary stare from Gnarl.
"OH! This means that the mistress is near. Those sadistic wolves would never act out like this in the last nine years, unless they sensed the return of their master," Quaver quickly suggested as he jumped out of humor and joy.
"Blasted, then, that means we're more behind schedule than I thought! Don't you all just stand there! Double time-if that's not enough, triple time, then! Whip each other to death if you must, just get this place spic and span!" Gnarl hastily ordered and turned, instantly, his gaze to the minion blacksmith, gesturing him out the throne room towards a Netherworld rock, "Come, Giblet, let's go find Mortis."
In the far outskirt lands of the deep snowy forests that bordered Nordberg, an hour beforehand…
Hidden among the white seas and storms of snowy trees yet visible to any passing traveler, a tavern and inn existed beside the road that led towards the lands of Nordberg. Snow wrapped and hid its firm, timbered structure with the consistent light of the moon hugging its shadowed reflection. Inside, the tavern housed a score of thirty men and women, mostly residents and members of a close, self-governing village that dined and cheered as a roaring fireplace warmed them from the sadistic cold. Mugs of Ale were gulped in complete merry. Songs dedicated for the season was called and sung. This establishment was held in business by a mere old man and his personnel. The open kitchen was hectic, manned by a single cook. Three mere waitresses wandered and served these patrons their servings of alcohol, food, or both. There was, in addition, a small square that was reserved for those who wished to dance.
"Beowulf, please, another round of ale for me and my companions, if you be so kind!" an older man in his middle years loudly requested, sitting from the other end of the tavern in a circular, dark table. The elderly owner gave an instant nod, as he prepared the next batch of beverages.
This aged bartender's appearance possessed a limited set of scars on his cheeks, hidden or rising above his snow-painted, curly beard. He wore a pair of glasses that contemplated well his calm, green eyes. His attire consisted of a traditional bartender's uniform, adorned above said clothing a stormy-gray apron. This said individual, Beowulf as named, was a man of given yet suffered wisdom with an old hand in the arts of peace and the hunt.
Once he completed the latest demand, the bartender called upon one of the waitresses to serve this latest order to their gluttonous costumers.
"Deliver this to table twelve," Beowulf requested.
"Of course," the auburn-haired, young waitress earnestly replied before turning towards the open kitchen, "Are there any completed dishes that you want me to serve, as well?"
"Here are two plates for table three and a single dish for table ten. Get a move on," a black-bearded man, who wore an apron, bluntly answered, handing her the three servings of plates. As the waitress turned and walked towards each table, delivering the trays of food and drinks, a certain conversation emerged that earned the ear of many inside the inn.
"And there I was, standing in the midst of fire and brimstone in the smoldering village, staring ahead of me was the very Spirited of Battoju," a man boasted in a heightened air to a particular small group of townsfolk around him. He was handsome fellow of long pale hair with an impressive build and youth, being only twenty years of age. His attire consisted of the expected garments of a Renaissance huntsman but wore, in addition, a long fur cape adorning a bear-headed hood. He carried a long, leather bag and cedar bow on his back with a quiver of arrows tied to his hip. The waitress knew very well of this said "gentleman". He went under the name of "Nimrod the Beast", a reckless simpleton that was viewed as the classical town hero by these same townsfolk. He was quite the beneficiary of an inconsistent nature, you see. An honorable and somewhat kind huntsman whose hunts helped feed a considerable portion of the town, yet such deeds were diluted as he was a slave to his own greed and pride. Surprisingly, these flaws were viewed with a forced blind eye by the villagers. Considering that his hunts did provide plenty for the town, they measured his selfish antics as a small price to be paid. In addition, they rarely minded at all, given that it created rounds of gossip that kept the village very much entertained to his critics' astonishment. With a sigh, the young server continued her walk and checked on each table of patrons, ignoring the foolish hunter's, obviously, forged tale.
"This foe was not like any other that you or I have seen. It had the appearance of a horned ogre, the teeth of a fiend wolf, and the limbs of a bear, wielding an enormous broadsword. Yet, what made this creature truly a nightmare was the fact that it possessed the capability of human thought and tongue," Nimrod continued, sparking intrigue and fear among the customers while Beowulf humorously snorted, "Mock and pride were present in its diabolic speech as its greenish eyes craved for the blood of this such 'humble steward of nature'. I won't deny that fear and doubt were picking at the very ends of my soul and mind, but I tell you that I gave such failed qualities a good internal beating, preparing myself for what was to come."
"What happened next, Nimrod?" a nearby female baker asked in deep anticipation.
"Taking hold of one of my arrows in one hand and my trusty dagger in the other, I mercilessly charged at this living devil. I barely escaped a lethal slash to the side from his enormous blade, as I plunged both my arrow and knife into the very sockets of its eyes, giving way to a horrific squeal of pain. I fell to the ground and rolled over far enough from its berserk reach, while it continued to roar in pain for what felt like half an hour, stopping once it had become accustomed to the excruciating pain. Seeing that it could do very little without the gift of sight, I granted the demon an undeserved mercy, a mere, expected fancy as the victor of war, allowing it to painfully retreat to the forests. Fellow comrades and ladies, I must say that it was a quite spectacle, laughing my guts out each time it bumped into some tree or rock!" he concluded with joyful laugh, earning an equivalent reaction of laughs and cheers from all inside the tavern.
"What a proud fool," another of Beowulf's waitresses quietly commented to herself in disapproval of such vicious tale.
Suddenly, the once triumphant air that consumed the inn died the instant a humorous chuckle from Beowulf was heard. Nimrod's features bloomed lightly red out of pure annoyance.
"What's so funny, old man? Do you doubt my heroic account?" Nimrod quizzed with irritation present in his tone. Despite the huntsman's wrathful glare, the bartender exercised complete composure and answered him with little to no fear.
"Well, Sir Nimrod, for starters, why should any of us care much about a mere nightmarish folklore from the east when we have our own demons to deal with, here, such as the next, expected Overlord, who is to come and replace the former Demon Lord of Nordberg that ruled these lands?" the bartender stated as an uneasy fear and surprise grasped the hearts of each one of the village with an emerging gasp from their lips. Sixteen years of utter peace and independence had done great to quail their worries and the very memory of the former reign of terror and the one that was anticipated to come.
"Old man, there is little that we have to concern ourselves. There has not been an Overlord for about two decades. And doubt that there will ever be one. His minions would've already found a worthy successor, by now. And even if they did, they would just tear each other apart in another civil war, meaning, at the time being, evil is at the complete utter mercy of good," Nimrod arrogantly declared, earning an air of agreement among the crowd, "Now, forget about the "Overthrown" and finish your pathetic little point, old timer." Beowulf roughly grunted.
"Well, Sir Nimrod, I was a former resident of Nordberg many years ago while the Glorious Empire still existed even before the Witch Boy got his barbaric talons upon my home. So, I do have quite the history and experience when it comes to the shift of subjugation and power, alongside the notion that one should not underestimate it," Beowulf replied with a tinge of annoyance in his voice, receiving a speculative, somewhat surprised expression from the hunter.
"You're from Nordberg? A successful fellow such as you with a refined palate of speech is part of a population of petty buffoons and snow-worshipping cowards that are gluttons for reaping whatever nonsense they sow?" Nimrod questions as Beowulf paid no heed to the hunter's slight with any care.
"That is quite the standing analysis, Nimrod. Yet, let's turn from that topic and humor you with the initiative that you're, also, correct regarding the Overlord, while I complete my argument with this…, how could you have fought the Spirited of Battoju when you don't even know how it looks?" Beowulf added with wary eyes as the hunter's expression moderately flushed in embarrassment, earning a soft gasp of intrigue from the rest of the regulars. Noticing the swift emergence of doubt and intrigue, Nimrod recomposed himself and scoffed at the bartender's question.
"Ha, pure nonsense, I know very well what the beast looks-," he incompletely rebottled.
"Rumors have emerged of some minor yet possible sightings of the Spirited of Battoju from other far villages, giving the knights, there, key characteristics of how to identify it, which is far from a beast as you claim," Beowulf began while he opened a close cabinet and pulled a large piece of paper, showing all to see, "This just came this afternoon. It's a picture-less wanted poster for the hitokiri."
"Hitokiri?" a nearby fisherman asked in bewilderment.
"Hitokiri means "manslayer", Mr. Johnek. I read about it from some book I bought a week ago," the bartender softly informed.
"A wanted poster-wait a second…that means it contains a reward! How much is it for this "hitokiri"?" a bearded blacksmith by the name of Luther asked in excitement, triggering the sudden, selfish interest among the majority in the inn, especially Nimrod, who eyed the master of the bar with an avaricious gaze.
"Thirty pieces of silver," Beowulf answered, earning the complete and utter shock of disappointment from them all.
"That's it?! I know that may sound like much, especially, since that's more than double of what the town turns over in two months. But, still, that's how little they think this hi-hi-hitokiri is worth?" a tailor cried out in disappointment.
"It appears, but, honestly, this is to be expected as winter is the most unprofitable time of the year for any community in this part of the region, including us. Yet, at the very least, let us be grateful that it is at least something," Beowulf completed, earning rounds of disappointed expressions from the townsfolk. Finding a nail and hammer at hand from another cabinet, he turned and began to nail the poster over a wooden board, which served as his personal placement for his mathematical notes or other such documents, he kept behind him.
"Ha, that still does not deny my tale or description of the ghost, since I'd merely argued with the use of metaphors to describe such an overestimated monster," Nimrod savagely lied behind his teeth as Beowulf worked with a groan.
"Only a foolish child would hide behind poor excuses to justify his own failings. If you have truly fought the Spirited of Battoju, I doubt you would've lived to speak of it. It's considered a ghost among ghost. A demon that preys upon both the innocent, the sinful, and most, particularly, the foolish-," the elderly bartender replied once he turned around to see a bewildered audience with an enraged huntsman, who saw only red, fiercely taking hold of him by the collars of his shirt.
"Watch your putrid tongue, you damn fool, before I-," Nimrod roared, though it was incomplete as he felt pairs of hands restrained the huntsman, causing him to release his hold of Beowulf, who roughly fell to the ground with a grunt.
"Mr. Beowulf!" a waitress cried in horror, running towards the bar to help the bartender up. Nimrod quickly recovered, as he struggled under the combined strength of multiple patrons.
"Get your hands off me, you bumbling fools!" Nimrod angrily yelled.
"We'll release you the moment you settle down, Nimrod. If not, out to the snow you go," a burly man by name of Skadnir, the town's chief blacksmith, enforced as he held the hunter's right arm.
"Very well, yet the moment I leave this establishment will be the last day that I feed this sycophantic town," the huntsman threatened as people all around gasped in deep panic. The cocky hunter was many such things, yet many never thought that he would be willing to go that far all for the sake of his wounded pride. Before anyone could say or do anymore, a firm yet peaceful voice emerged, on one of the near tables. The said individual wore a red silk, long cloak that hid her form, revealing only the glimpses of a plum-colored dress and skirt. Her most defining characteristics were the smooth, creamy staff that she carried and her braided hair, which was a fading red shade with long strands of gray. In contrast to the rest of the inn, she was a newcomer to these lands, giving a wary feeling of uncertainty to many around her.
"Well, then, if your messy, uncouth tale is in fact true, what are the traits that we must look to identify this very Spirited of Battoju?" the elderly wanderer calmly asked, earning the narrow glare of a released Nimrod as he turned towards her, while Beowulf stood and regained his footing with the waitress's aid, taking deep breaths due to the moderate pain in his back.
"Who in the bloody world are you?! I've never seen the likes of you, before. Don't butt into what doesn't concern you, hag!" Nimrod angrily exclaimed. The mysterious guest softly scoffed.
"Well, for fortunate starters, you may call me…V-Velvet," she first started with a tinge of disgust, wishing to not have to stoop so low as reviving the use of her brazen sister's name, before adding, "And, yes, I'm not a familiar to your village, yet does that disqualify the value of my question?" Nimrod stood numb in a sudden, sheepish silence.
"I didn't believe, so, either. Now, mister bartender…Beowulf, I believe that's your name, if you would not mind?" Rose requested in complete serenity. Beowulf softly sighed and began to speak.
"Well, according to the poster, the Spirited of Battoju is not a beast as Mr. Nimrod, here, claims but a wondering swordsman," he began ignoring the mixed expression that the hunter shot while curiosity consumed the establishment, "It's almost human as you and me. Reddish-orange hair like a fox's fur, small horns, shaped in likeness to the ears of a wolf, mixed eyes with unnatural shades, a reverse X-scar on its right cheek, spiral lines of deep blue that form together to make a symbol of a rotating serpent biting its own tail on its left hand and forearm, and-," he incompletely finishes, once again interrupted by the angry hunter.
"Enough, you've made your case, old man, and have succeeded. Now, I will take my leave back to my table as I do not wish to sour this night for myself more than it already has been," Nimrod states in defeat as, admitting the falsehood behind his awesome tale once he saw the obvious writing on the wall and preferred to salvage whatever credibility and standing he still maintained with the villagers. Just as he was turning around to return to his table, Beowulf's voice emerged once again in complete calmness.
"Sir Nimrod, I am a peaceful and forgiving man, who does not partake in holding grudges or ill will against any, yet never again put your hands on me, or don't cross the doors of this tavern, ever again," Beowulf firmly says, causing his grandson to sigh in discontent.
"Very well, but my recent threat still stands, which I believe that was the motive behind your patience with me, just now. Now, I want another round of mead…for myself and everyone that is," Nimrod naughtily answers as he walks and seats himself in his former table, earning a nod from Beowulf and a loud cheer from a vast majority of the crowd, who have, surprisingly, hastily forgotten about the whole earlier ordeal with the call of more ale. Meanwhile, Rose softly smiled to herself in earnest satisfaction, yet, after mere seconds, her expression turned into pure uncertain seriousness. Without wasting another second, she rose from her seat and headed towards the exit of the inn before leaving a set of coins to pay for her expenses. Once she departed from the tavern into the snowy winter, a blue light commenced to emerge around her.
'Oh, how much you've grown, Ashura, yet…do you truly intend to return home just to allow history and that accursed cycle of repeat itself, again?' she internally thought, before saying with a sigh, "Like Father, like daughter."
Suddenly, just before she was about to disappear in a flash of azure, another independent source of light emerged, revealing a hooded, faceless figure that wore a gray, tattered cloak no longing donning its original, imperial sentinel attire. Rose gave one of her four remaining sentinels a curious stare.
"What?" she uttered, before instantly receiving the telepathic message from the hooded, half-human being. Her eyes widened a bit.
"She's already close by?!" Rose declared in surprise. The sentinel nodded.
"Alright, I'm going to make a quick trip towards the Netherworld to see Gnarl's progress with the ceremony and celebration. I want you to remain, here, and let me know the moment you see Ashura. We only have five hours before midnight. And make sure she doesn't see or sense you. Understood?" she ordered about, receiving another nod from the sentinel.
"Good. The last thing I want is for her to be late and present on her most vital day with such an untidy look, like her scruffy, selfish, barbarian mother," Rose finished, vanishing in a flash of magic, while the sentinel hovered away and hid in the crown of a far but close tree, awaiting the potential arrival of his creator's granddaughter.
A score of twelve minutes had passed since the topic regarding the Battoju tale surfaced. It seemed that the inn had returned to its former state of pleasure, jolly, and cheers of ale. Guests that took temporary residence from the inn's upper rooms came down and joined in on the feasting and making merry, adding the count of customers from thirty to forty-one. Among the newcomers was a hooded musician, who added to the festivity by playing his rosewood violin. With another volley of orders beginning to flood in, it would seem that the rush and excitement of this wintery night would never come to an end. That's what all who ran this inn and tavern believed, at first. The unexpected, fateful knock at the door in the next minute or so would change all that.
"Here's another wave of steins and plates, Hermia," Beowulf states as he begins handing the same auburn-haired waitress named Hermia of before multiple wooden platters. As she was about to turn and carry them to their designated tables, a knock at the inn's dark, wooden door, which was the size of a man and half, was heard.
"Hmm, seems we have another customer. Hermia, I'll take these to our other patrons for you, while you usher in our latest benefactor," the grandfather adds, earning a nod from the young waitress. Making her way through the crowds of customers to the large door, Hermia, first, took hold of a nearby, lighten, glass lantern and began to unlock the entrance door to the tavern.
"Welcome, to the Sleepless Hollow Tavern and Inn, come in, come…in?" she, at first, warmly stated as swift breezes of winter blew inside the opened door, before her tone converted into spooked weariness as a pair of foxy-pupil eyes gazed back at her, revealing a young female with a mischievous, yet guiltless-looking, soft smirk.
So, what did you all think? BTW, the story is rated M for the graphic detail of violence and gore. I'm, currently, working on Part 2. So, I'd say that it will be complete in two weeks or more, depending if I don't have a writer's block.
A few side notes worth of interest:
1) Ashura's name was based off the gods of wrath or demons from Buddhist and Japanese mythology. Plus, I'm a pretty big fan of the game, Asura's Wrath. So, I wished to use the same name but the Japanese version for this tale.
2) The reason why I chose to go with the Witch Boy and Kelda having a daughter, instead of the traditional son or sons concept like many other Overlord fanfics on here, was simply to break the cliche. Plus, personally, I do enjoy writing female characters a bit more than male characters. So, I just want to point this out because there will probably be some that might think that I'm doing this out identity politics, feminism, or pure virtue signaling. I simply wish to write a good story. Yes, I know it's a bit wild to guess that, but you never know, especially during this time where the current climate is dominated and troubled with these three, controversial factors.
3) Yes, if you're wondering, anime did play as a part of inspiration for some of the concepts in this story.
So, that would be about it. Thank you for reading chapter one, and PLEASE, review.