Beyond Chaos - A DiceRPG-Interlude: High Noon

“Son of a cat!” the devilkin exclaimed, reaching up a hand to slap the back of his son’s head, but the boy brought his hands up as the older man tapped the back of his hands. “Defending yourself from your father? The youth of this day!”

“You are too old to be striking me now, and I am too old to be struck,” the boy replied, shuffling away beside the other.

“You think you are so old now, you can eat more bread?”

“We will reach the city soon! We can buy more bread, fresh and fluffy, not like the way you cook!”

“Grab him!” the man ordered, though the boy slipped further back. Even as he did, he soon found himself within his father’s arms, the devilkin pinching his son’s cheek.

“When grandmother hears, she will teach you your place!” the boy exclaimed, still struggling against his father, before he was set free once more. “Are we so poor we cannot afford more bread?”

“You think we became this rich by spending all our silver and gold?”

“When I am the Yellow Turban, you will see,” the boy replied, his eyes darting up to his father’s turban, a yellow turban, the same one that denoted him to be the eponymous figure.

“You think you can have my turban?” Yellow Turban replied.

“When I am Yellow Turban, they will say I am the best,” Kalid stated.

“You? You are… five? Six?”

“You are so old you cannot remember I am eleven?” Kalid teased his father, raising his brows. “This is why I should have it now.”

“Eleven is still too young.”

“Eleven is old. I am almost a man.”

“Almost a man, but not a man yet.”

“The women, they love me. If I want to be a man, I will go to the city and find five, six women.”

“Too many women and you will lose all the gold.”

“I will earn so much I can have one hundred women!” the boy declared, flashing the most charming smile, dodging his father’s slow hand.

“You are too young. When you are…” Yellow Turban continued to smile that charming smile that he had inherited from his own father and had passed on to his son. His eyes lowered for a moment, noting the motion Jalal made. He didn’t look, trusting his friend’s instincts.

“You are too old,” Kalid snapped at his father, chewing on his bread. “They say this Kalid is so good! This Kalid, he can sell snow to Noskans, blood to Iyrmen, and fire to the Rai.”

Yellow Turban pulled up his turban, revealing his long hair, tied into a knot, and held out the turban to his son. Kalid smiled even wider, bowing his head, but his smile dropped as his father placed the turban onto his head, his face going from playful mischief to grave concern.

“Aleya, go with my blessing,” Basim said, waving his hand, before he stood.

“Ey!” Kalid replied, reaching up to Aleya’s hand which grabbed the boy’s shoulder. “Ab? Ab!”

“Bastara, why are you shouting so loudly?” Basim replied, pulling his head away. “Aleya, tell them that my son has my blessing.”

“Shukhur, Basim.”

“Shukhur.”

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“Ey! Ab! What is happening?”

“You must go now, Kalid.”

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Kalid was about to shout again when his eyes caught the sight of the darkness on the horizon. He narrowed his eyes, the cold sweat upon his back seeping into his clothing.

“Noorhabi…” the boy whispered, and suddenly, the turban felt heavier upon his head. His eyes darted to his father, who smiled warmly. “Shukhur, ab.”

“Shukhur, my son.” Basim smiled, bowing his head, and Aleya and the other quickly drew away on their carriage, Kalid watching from the back. “Bastara, why do you stay?”

“How can you die without an audience?” Jalal replied, the devilkin running a hand through his beard. “I will kill the one who kills you.”

“Kills me?” Basim let out a loud laugh, still feeling the gaze of his son upon his back. He continued to joke with Jalal as the figures approached.

Tall. Red. Dark. The figures numbered three, and they approached the two devilkin with a confidence that betrayed they did not know who Basim and Jalal were, or they were strong enough to be so ignorant. They were born of nightmares, and as they stopped, far enough away where one would need to raise their voice to speak, the devilkin felt the oppressive gazes upon their shoulders.

“I thought you would be taller,” Basim said, pretending to hide the disappointment, though he allowed just enough of it to slip out.

“…”

“You are not in Aldland now,” Basim said, motioning a hand out towards the sands around him. “You may speak. Aswadasad is famous for accepting others, if you welcome Noor into your hearts.”

One of the three figures, which looked almost the same to all others, save for the keen eyes of a merchant like one who was once called Yellow Turban, stepped forward. This particular figure was not entirely all red and dark, for those eyes were silver.

Basim waited for it to speak, but it reached back, and drew a sword wreaking of death the blade itself formed of jagged nightmares.

“He is stronger,” Jalal said, drawing his two blades. “I will take the other two, so you may have your fun.”

“Shukhur! You see, Reaver? This is why I keep Jalal by my side!”

“You keep me by your side because you are jealous of how much I play with my wife.”

Basim laughed, reaching to the hilt at his side, before drawing it. It held no blade, but the magic vibrated through the merchant. “I am Basim. Son of my father. Father of my son. Once, they called me Yellow Turban. Now? I am only Basim.”

The Reaver listened intently to the figure’s words, trying to understand what he was trying to say.

“I am Jalal. Son of my mother. Father of my daughter.” He spun his blades over his hands, the sun of high noon gleaming across the steel, of blue and red, before pointing his blades downwards.

The silver eyed Reaver’s attention turned to him, smelling how powerful the figure was in comparison to his merchant companion.

“Do not look away,” Basim warned, before willing the magic through his hilt, which formed a blade of wind. “I did not become Yellow Turban because of my good looks, but I still have such good looks, so when you look away it hurts.”

“…”

Jalal stepped forward, and as the silver eyed Reaver stepped forward, it spun to the side to clash against Basim’s Windsabre.

“Ah? Can you feel it?” Basim smirked at the Reaver, whose disappointment quickly washed away as the devilkin filled with the heat of rage, and suddenly forced the being back.

Jalal clashed with one Reaver while the other remained back, but he quickly lunged for the remaining Reaver, who barely managed to deflect the devilkin’s blades.

“Why must you feel so lonely?” Jalal asked. Jalal forced the two back with his great strength, who quickly stepped beside one another, ready to face the Rage Dancer, whose blades hummed with delight.

Basim inhaled deeply as he clashed with the silver eyed Reaver, the pair’s blades singing the kind of song one could only hope for. However, as he fought the silver eyed Reaver, he had already felt it during their first clash, but it was further confirmed. Basim could have fought either one of the other Reavers to victory, but not this silver eyed Reaver.

Jalal beheaded one of the Reavers, its head falling behind him. He heard a struggled cough behind him. “You may go first, Basim. I will follow.”

“Noorshukhur,” Basim replied, and though his body was red hot with rage, and he was stronger than he had ever felt before, the silver eyed Reaver stood tall and unmoving. ‘Kalid! You must avenge this worthless father of yours! I dare to lose your inheritance, and leave your uncle to die alone?’

Jalal heard the light thump, followed by the heavier thump, but as he continued to force the remaining Reaver back, his blows turned light, and the devilkin stopped within his tracks, looming over the remaining Reaver, who almost greeted death. The Reaver remained silent and still, before slowly pulling out of Jalal’s shadow.

The silver eyed Reaver reached down towards Yellow Turban’s chest, inhaling deeply as its entire body glowed, before it picked up the hilt, claiming the prize of its victory. The other Reaver placed a hand on the dead Reaver’s body, gasping lightly before pulling away.

“…”

The silver eyed Reaver reached out to Jalal’s chest, grunting in discomfort, and drew out Jalal’s spirit, before tossing it into the air. While it could not claim it, for they did not earn the victory, at least it would not be claimed by the beasts which would pick at its bones.

As the pair of Reavers left, Basim and the dead Reaver’s bodies turned to dust, while Jalal stood, holding onto his blades still.

The silver eyed Reaver smiled.

These lands were truly full of treats.

It stopped smiling, as across the horizon, a figure approached them. He stepped towards the Reaver pair, striking his cane lightly upon the earth as he walked ever onward. Sitting atop his hat was a large crow.