Song of the Lute
by George Masologites
http://www.serve.com/guilds/ranma/
guilds@mail.serve.com [Hunter Kid]
(c) 05/12/1998  All Rights Reserved

Blue ends; and hang the dreary grey skies,
old friends, bound by blood ties.
New growth, trials of the sword;
ageless oaths, broken under fire's tor.
Rotting earth; young Prince, old strife left prone,
malevolent rebirth; stung since no life, dark stone.
Still wind, wild sea,
ancient kin, desert key.
Sword and magic; the Song of the Lute,
Orb ends tragic, foretold from old root:
'When the world is in darkness,
Four Warriors will come...'

1
Stormy Arrival

    The open plains of Coneria should have been a pleasant place.  
    It was mid-autumn, but not a trace of cold weather was found in the
air.  The grass was still green, and the winds whispered softly across the
gently rolling plains.  Every so often, a lone oak would rise up above the
flatlands around it, towering a beautiful, commanding respect from those
who passed by it.  Besides that, though, it wasn't a very nice day.
    Days in autumn usually have a tendency to be cool, chilly, even, with a
nice breeze rustling the browning grass and the trees of the nearby forests
turning brilliant yellow and red.  For some reason, though, nature refused
to acknowledge this, and it seemed to still be summer.  Which was fine with
most people, but when there was an overcast sky, it made the air hor and
muggy, annoying travelers and farmers to no end.  It was one of those days
where the weather can't make up its mind whether it wants to rain or not,
so instead, it sits there, teetering on the edge of a rainstorm but not
quite doing so, contenting itself with making everyone miserable in the
humidity.
    And for folk dressed in plate armor, traveling was the absolute peak of
misery.
    "I still say it's a bad idea," a fellow dressed in a shoddy half-plate
was grumbling irritatedly to himself.  
    Another man snorted derisively.  "Bad idea or not, it's something we
need to do," he stated in a deep rumbling voice.  
    There was three of them, and they looked to be an ill-matched group.
The first, dressed in various pieces of armor slapped together to vaguely
resemble half-plate armor, was a young man, rugged in outer appearance with
a mop of black hair that fell over a tightly tied orange-and-black
bandanna.  He was wearing a simple green and yellow traveling outfit
underneath the sloppy armor, which consisted of a long-sleeved yellow tunic
that opened over his right breast, loose dark green trousers bound up
tightly at the calves, and worn brown traveling boots.  He was carrying a
large traveling pack on his back, which appeared to be stuffed full, and
had a sheathed broadsword hanging at his side, which looked to be somewhat
cheaply made.
    The second of the three, a cheerful looking young man dressed in a red
silk shirt and black trousers tied at the ankles, had black hair similar to
the first fellow, except that it was tied back into a thin, braided pigtail
that hung partways down his back.  He didn't have the same annoyed look as
his friend did, probably because he wasn't dressed in plate armor and his
pack didn't look nearly as big, or as full.  His only weapon appeared to be
a long simple staff that hung easily from his shoulder, apparently carved
from some sort of red-tinged wood.
    The last, the deep-voiced fellow, was a gruff-looking older man,
wearing a tempered steel breastplate that appeared to be fairly
well-crafted; certainly better made than the half-plate armor that the
first boy was wearing.  His head, obviously bald, was covered by a white
bandanna.  He was thick-boned and heavily muscled, and carried a huge
traveler's knapsack on his back with no apparent trouble at all, though it
appeared to be larger and fuller than the first young man's.  He had
heavy-looking chain arm and leg guards strapped to his limbs, as well as
metal-plated boots, but he didn't seem encumbered by them in the least.
Under his armor he wore a dirt-stained white tunic and trousers, tied at
the waist with a worn leather belt.  There was a large broadsword attached
to his belt, which clanked against his chain legguards as he walked along.
    "Cheer up, Ryoga," the pigtailed young man was saying, attempting to
instill good humor into his friend.  "We're almost there."
    The bandanna wearing boy, Ryoga, grunted slightly as this.  "Yeah,
yeah, I know.  This armor's just getting to me, that's all."  He grimaced
as he looked at the sky, showing a pair of strangely canine fangs.  "And
this weather isn't helping.  Least it's not raining."
    The heavily-armored older man laughed.  "That's the perfect way to get
a rainstorm, boy - say you're thankful that you're not getting one.  But
Ranma's right; we're almost to Coneria."  He shifted the pack on his
shoulders slightly.  "Be nice to finally be under a damn roof again," he
grumbled.  He looked up the two younger men.  "You two -do- remember what I
told you, right?"
    Ryoga rolled his eyes.  "You mean about our names?  You never explained
that.  I don't see the problem with the names Ryoga, Ranma, and Genma.  No
one's going to guess where we're from."
    The older man, Genma, snorted.  "Believe me, boy.  The Conerians aren't
the brightest bunch around, but they know a Pravok name when they hear one.
 One whisper of our real names to them, and we're goners."  He made a
gesture of a sword slicing through a neck, which was enough to quell any of
Ryoga's complaints.
    "Fine, fine," Ryoga consented with a sigh.  "I still think it's sort of
a dishonorable thing to do, hiding our identities and all."
    Genma smirked.  "Better dishonorable than dead, boy.  You'd best
remember that."
    Ryoga shrugged.  "Whatever.  You said my name is Ralthear, right?"
    "Right," Genma acknowledged with a nod.  "It means, literally,
'swordbless' in the old Conerian dialect, and it's a common name for a
warrior to use."  He looked Ryoga over with a critical eye, taking in his
appearance.  "That old half-plate suit's not bad protection, but it isn't
too good for looks."  He chuckled.  "When I told you it would be handy if
you had armor, I didn't mean for you to take it off the corpse of an imp
warrior.  You're lucky it wasn't cursed or something."
    "I," Ryoga stated loftily, "do not believe in curses."
    The heavily armored man jabbed a finger at the young man's chest.
"That attitude will get you cursed one day, boy.  Mark my words."  He shook
his head.  "Better not to talk about curses.  I don't care what your ideals
are, boy, but talking about curses has an uncanny way of getting yourself
one.  Have I ever told you about the Dark Confusion Soul curse?"
    Ryoga bit his lip.  "Er...no."
    "Good, because I don't plan to.  If you don't shape up, though, I'll
blabber on about it all day until you get cursed inside out, then back
again."  He grinned toothily, then looked over to Ranma, shifting his the
huge pack again while he walked.  "And your name is...?"
    "Rantur," Ranma responded gloomily.  
    Genma gave him the full benefit of a flat glare.  "There is no problem
with that name," he stated matter-of-factly.  "It means 'red fist' and that
definitely suits you."  He glanced meaningfully at Ranma's red silken
shirt, and then at the reddish-brown staff that was strapped to his
shoulder.  "And my name is Shatur, 'dark fist.'  Don't forget it, because
people know me in Coneria and if one of you two calls me the wrong name, it
will bring up questions I don't want to answer.  Understand?"
    Ranma and Ryoga both muttered that they did.
    The traveling, for the most part, was easy going, especially for Ranma,
who wasn't wearing any armor.  Ryoga didn't walk; he trudged.  He wasn't
used to wearing armor other than a light leather breastplate, and the
moderately heavy half-plate he was currently suited in was wearing him
down.  His deeply-tanned face spoke of much traveling, though, so Genma
made an assumption that Ryoga was trying to get pity for himself and
pointedly ignored the overdone trudge-like movements.  Besides, he had been
traveling long enough with the boy that he was aware that Ryoga's
tremendous stamina wouldn't be wearing down this much because of a little
plate armor.
    Genma himself, dressed in his chain-and-plate armor, walked for the
most part without any trouble at all.  He had been wearing armor for nearly
his whole life, after all, so he had become accustomed to its weight.
Truth be told, he felt awkward without any armor on.  He had a confident
stride, not quite a swagger, and his sword hung at his side as if it
belonged there; the weapon didn't unbalance his walk like it did Ryoga's,
making it apparent that he had worn a weapon for most of his life.
    Genma eyes narrowed alarmingly.  "Don't move," he barked to the two
younger men, silencing them with a sharp wave of his hand.  His searching
dark eyes gazed carefully around them as he fingered the hilt of his
broadsword.  He started to relax, then suddenly ripped the broadsword out
from its scabbard, lunging towards a large clump of nearby bushes.  There
was a pain-filled scream from inside the bush as Genma's blade could be
heard ripping through flesh and bone mercilessly.  
    "Imp warriors," Genma growled, jumping backwards from the bushes, his
right sword arm clenching the broadsword in an tight grip.  
    Ranma groaned.  "How many?"  He inquired, irritated.  He slung the long
staff off from his shoulder, holding it in an easy grasp, looking intently
into the large clump of bushes.  
    A voice shouted a command in the imps' harsh language, and five armored
imps jumped out of the brush, brandishing their scythe-like swords and
long-bladed spears menacingly.  The imps were about the same stature as
humans; perhaps a little shorter.  Their faces were somewhat twisted, and
looked to be a cross between a human and a wolf's appearance, and they all
wore armor similar to the shoddy set that Ryoga was garbed in.  Imps were
inherently violent and territorial, attacking any travelers who came into
their 'spaces,' which were generally very large.  
    Originally, the locals had left the imps alone, but as they did, the
imps grew more numerous and soon, all the land was gone, divided up into
various imp 'territories,' making travel and trade impossible.  The problem
had died down somewhat ever since the Conerian King had decreed that imps
were to be killed on sight, but as their territories were reclaimed by the
humans, the imps grew continually more vicious and bloodthirsty, until
their rage finally had equaled up to the human army's skilled warriors, and
the two sides were now at a stalemate, each of them killing the other
whenever the chance arose.
    "Five," Genma grunted, pulling a small dagger out from his belt.  "This
could be messy."  He eyed the party of imps warily, waiting for one of them
to make the first move.  The imps did much the same, baring their canine
fangs and staring at the large warrior furiously.
    Ryoga didn't like this.  He was a skilled fighter for someone as young
as he was, but there was no way he could take on more than one imp warrior
at once.  He swallowed nervously.  He hadn't been in any real battles
lately, just mock-fights with his brother Ranma, and the occasional
skirmishes with a wolf or two, and he had heard about the imps gaining
something of a berserker attack.  No one he had met was too familiar with
it, but most folks said that the imps had a sort of collective rage over
the loss of their lands, and when they met up with humans, they tended to
attack viciously with little regard for their own health.
    And, as Ryoga knew, that viciousness had been the death of many a good
warrior.
    He glanced over at Genma with undisguised envy.  Ryoga was aware that
Genma probably wasn't even worried; the older warrior had been fighting
with his sword for his whole life, and his defense was amplified a good
deal by the large, curved dagger he used in his left hand to parry attacks
as well as a throwing knife, when necessary.  Ryoga himself was using the
weapon he always used - a large, twohanded broadsword.  He looked over to
Ranma, waiting for the signal they always used to begin sparring sessions,
and the same one that they used to coordinate their attacks.
    Ranma nodded slightly towards Ryoga, moving his wooden quarterstaff
forward slightly, and Ryoga shifted his weight and bunched his muscles,
ready to attack.  Ranma gave the signal - he lifted the staff about an inch
higher.  Ryoga did the same with his sword.
    The two of them charged at the imps, bellowing semi-coherent battle
cries.  The imps snarled viciously, meeting the charge gladly.  Ryoga
rolled under an ill-placed thrust of an imp's sickle-like spear, using his
momentum to carry his heavy broadsword forward.  The sword smashed
perfectly into the imp's abdomen, ripping maliciously through the shoddy
plate armor and tearing open the stomach, spilling the contents onto the
grassy earth in a bloody mess.
    Ryoga barely had time to kick the corpse aside before another imp was
upon him, screaming in rage as it slashed wildly around with a half-moon
sword.  The fanged boy grimaced in pain as he was unable to fully parry the
blow, the half-moon blade slicing slightly into his unprotected upper left
arm, leaving behind an angry red gash on his skin.  Ryoga snarled in pain,
stumbling backwards as he struck out with his large sword, aiming for the
crosspiece on his opponent's sword, hoping for a quick disarm.
    No such luck.  The imp swerved the blade aside at the last moment,
bringing it down onto the desperate Ryoga's now unguarded chest.  Ryoga
closed his eyes, waiting for the feel of sharp metal cutting into his chest...
    ...but it never came.  He blinked as he opened his eyes, looking from
his fallen position to Genma's angry form, striking out with his broadsword
in a blur at the imp.  The imp's wolf-like face filled with horror as Genma
finished the 'six carving' sword form, as Ryoga recognized it.  An agonized
scream tore from the imp's mouth as it fell into six different pieces, each
slashed in perfectly straight, gruesome lines.
    Genma smirked down at Ryoga, pulling him to his feet as they prepared
to face off against another two imps.
    Ranma was holding his own against his opponent, but it seemed to have a
skill level equal to his, and was easily parrying any offensive shots Ranma
took with his quarterstaff.  Ranma could do the same to the attacks from
his opponent's long-bladed spear, though.  Ranma grimaced, easily knocking
aside a blow from the spear and hopping backwards to regain his footing.
He knew it was only a matter of time before one of them got lucky.
    The imp stumbled forward, thrusting from an awkward position towards
Ranma, who dodged quickly, smashing his quarterstaff hard into the imp's
chest, causing it to stagger backwards, gasping for breath.  Ranma cursed
slightly, wishing that he had a bladed weapon to kill it quickly with as he
jumped forward, swinging the staff in a powerful arc that connected solidly
with his opponent's cheekbone, sending it into a daze of pain as it lost
its footing, collapsing to the ground, clutching its shattered face in
agony.  Ranma gave a triumphant shout and drove the staff downwards, the
hard wood puncturing the chest and killing the imp instantly, not even
giving it a chance to thrash in pain.
    Genma was having more trouble than he expected from his opponent,
grimacing in frustration as the imp attacked viciously in a berserker rage,
forcing him to stay on the defensive where he couldn't finish it off and
help Ryoga, who was obviously having a more difficult time than Genma was.
The older man parried another attack with his dagger, throwing his
adversary's scythe-like sword off to the side.  His eyes flashed and he
grinned as he brought the broadsword forward in a quick slashing motion,
knocking the weapon from the unbalanced imp's hand.  Before it could even
attempt to regain its sword, Genma had impaled it fully with his
broadsword.  He snarled and kicked it off the blade, rushing to help Ryoga.
    Ryoga was desperately parrying the imp's attacks, which were becoming
more and more frenzied by the moment.  He wasn't that fast of a fighter,
and with his large twohanded sword, he was having trouble keeping up with
the imp's increasingly fast attacks.  The imp's spear flashed towards him,
and a startled expression flitted across the imp's face as it slipped on a
loose patch of dirt, barely stopping itself from falling.  Ryoga bellowed a
fierce cry, swinging his sword to the side and smashing the bladed end off
the spear and leaving the imp with only a short, useless staff in its
hands.  He lunged forward, prepared to give the finishing blow, when
suddenly a long quarterstaff smashed hard against the imp's head and a
broadsword ran it through from behind.  
    Ryoga blinked, watching as the imp collapsed in a lifeless heap.
"Thanks," he stated, smiling wryly at Ranma and Genma, who were both
looking rather sheepishly at the imp they had just killed.  Ryoga glanced
down at his own blood-covered sword with disdain and wiped it off on the
grass, resheathing it with a grunt.
    "You boys are improving," Genma noted, nodding.  "You can hold your own
against berserking imps, and that's no feat to be scorned at."
    Ranma grinned.  "Yup, I'm improving.  I agree with you there, old man."
 He patted Genma on the back, who irritatedly knocked his hand away.  Ranma
shrugged and looked up worriedly at the sky.  "It's definitely going to
start raining," he remarked dryly, gazing upwards at the dark grey clouds
that covered the sky.  "Doesn't really bother me, but in your plate
armor..."  He smirked at his two companions, leaving his sentence hanging.
    Genma shouldered his pack.  "We'd better get moving, then," he stated
flatly, ramming his sword back into its scabbard a little harder than was
absolutely necessary.  "We've still got a good two hours of travel before
we reach Coneria's gates."
    Ranma just shrugged, and cast Ryoga a glance that plainly said, 'I feel
sorry for you.'  Ryoga noticed the look and scowled - not really at Ranma;
it was more of a comprehensive scowl that took in everything, most notably
Genma and his own set shoddy half-plate imp's armor.  But there was no real
point in protesting out loud, so he decided to keep his mouth shut.
    Soon, the three of them were trudging back on the road to Coneria.

    Tarou leaned his chin against his hand thoughtfully as he gazed outside
into the pouring rain.  
    He sighed slightly, taking a small sip from the frothy mug of ale in
his other hand.  He had never particularly liked Coneria or the surrounding
areas; there was too much damn fighting with the imp warriors to get
anything done.  Travel was becoming quite a nuisance with the erratic
weather patterns that descended over the town's nearby areas of late, and
the roving parties of imps and wolves didn't do anything to encourage trade.  
    Not that there would have been a lot of trade going on regardless.
    Tarou smirked wryly, remembering that Coneria had a feud with a city to
the east, Pravoka.  Last time he had been in these parts, the fued was a
somewhat minor thing.  Ostracism for any of the people in the rivaling
city, but it wasn't anything that people couldn't handle, though.  Lately,
the feud had become more of a bloodbath.  If you saw a Provok in the
streets, you drew your sword and challenged him on the spot, or were
considered dishonorable and a coward to boot.
    Because of this, he was very thankful that he wasn't from either of the
two rivaling cities.  He frowned.  Tarou was, though, a Provok name.  Or
rather, it was a Ryukahna name.  Tarou was originally from a small town
south of a large desert called the Ryukahn.  The Ryukahna people didn't
look much like Pravoks, but the language from his homeland was very similar
to that of Pravoka's.
    Needless to say, this annoyed him to no end.
    Tarou had been forced adopted a false name, Skharal, simply so he
wouldn't get his throat slit.  It wasn't a big deal, it just irritated him
not to be able to use his real name because of this town's stupid hatred
against the Pravok people.  He looked around the common room of the Dragon
Fang Inn.  The people here didn't seem to take notice of him; that was
good.  He wasn't a Pravok, but anyone who hailed from a different homeland
was often treated with a great deal of hostility.  He smirked again.  The
people here wouldn't have a chance, at any rate.  Most of them looked like
typical townsfolk, and though a few of the people carried swords, he
doubted that they could use them with much skill.
    For himself, he was a fairly skilled warrior with the sword or without.
 He wasn't supernaturally strong, but he could hold his own against three
imps; two if they were berserking.  That in itself was something he was
rather proud of - not many folk could boast at being able to take down a
berserking imp, let alone two at once.  He grimaced slightly, remembering
the broken rib that was the price he had paid for winning that fight.  He
had gotten out alive, though, something that he surprised himself by doing.
 He always had a rather ill feeling in his stomach thinking of that fight,
because he was pretty sure it was only by dumb luck that he had managed to
come out alive, let along victorious.  
    He grinned, recalling the fierce fighting.  He had been fighting off a
raiding party of four imps, and had managed to dispatch two of them with
only minimal injury to himself.  It had been pouring rain, then, too, as it
currently was, and when the two remaining imps had berserked, he knew he
was in for it.  And then one of the imps had slipped on a patch of mud and
impaled itself on his blade.  He couldn't help but laugh inwardly at that.
In a rather long one-on-one battle with the other imp, he had managed to
slash out its throat after receiving a vicious blow to his ribs, snapping
one or two of them.  Afterwards, he had barely managed to make it back to
Coneria's clinic, where he had stayed for several days.
    His ribs were fully healed now, although he occasionally felt a small
twitch in them when he made jerky movements, but it never caused him any
pain.  Just sort of a mild tickling, as if there was an ant crawling along
the side of his ribs.  
    Tarou looked around the common room again, taking in the appearance of
everyone.  He revised his earlier opinion of the folk in the Inn; there was
two people, a man and a woman, sitting in a darkened corner who looked as
if they knew how to fight.  The man was dressed in lightly-engraved steel
plate armor that looked fairly heavy.  It was a dull grey and looked
strictly utilitarian, with the exception of the engraving of some sort of
fanciful blue steel thunderbolt design on the breastplate, and it covered
his whole body save his head, though he didn't seem to have a helmet
anywhere nearby.  There was a twohanded broadsword in its sheath on the
table, which his hand seemed to be touching involuntarily.
    Upon close examination of the man, Tarou decided that he probably
wouldn't be anything to worry about in a fight.  Even in the shadowy corner
table, he appeared to sit with his back straight up, in a rigid position,
and appeared to be quite full of himself.  Probably more pomp than power,
Tarou mused wryly.
    Switching his gaze to the woman, he frowned slightly.  She was dressed
in armor almost completely different from the man's - who looked to be her
brother - and it appeared more ornamental than useful.  It was made up of
light plate shoulderguards, forearm bracers, and leg greaves, all forged
from darkened steel and covered with intricate swirls and designs.  Quite a
pleasing effect, when coupled with her dark metal breastplate, with a
beautiful black rose emblazoned in the center.  Something about her, though...
    Tarou shook his head, clearing his thoughts.  There was something about
the dark-armored woman that was disturbing, but he couldn't quite place it.  
    He lapsed back into deep thought again as he swirled his ale and took a
long drink, staring out into the pouring rain.
    
    The rain was getting decidedly worse when Ranma, Ryoga, and Genma
finally managed to reach Coneria.
    "I hate this," Ryoga grated, shifting his form around in the chafing
wet armor and growling slightly.  "Damn it, why'd it have to rain?"
    Genma flashed a wry smile, and Ryoga remembered his remark earlier,
'The best way to get a rainstorm...'  Of course, remembering this didn't
put Ryoga in a better mood, so he changed his facial set from merely
irritated to angry, all of which Genma was pointedly ignoring.
    "Now where do we go from here?"  Ranma asked, pushing his thick, soaked
black hair out from his eyes.  
    Genma grinned.  "The Inn, of course."  He pointed towards a fairly
large, two-story building down a street to the left.  "Ah, the Dragon Fang
Inn.  It's been quite some time since I've had the chance to enjoy as good
beer as the stuff that they serve there..."  He coughed.  "Follow me,
Ralthear.  Rantur."
    Ryoga grunted slightly, shifting his wet pack on his shoulders as he
reminded himself that Ralthear was his name for the time being, and the
three of them began slogging through the muddy street toward the Inn.
Ryoga noticed how run-down the town was, considering that it was Coneria,
the 'dream city.'  This was his first opportunity to visit the famed city,
and he had expected something a little more...grand.  His hometown of
Pravoka was probably in better shape than this place was.  He wondered if
it was the constant warring with the imp tribes that had apparently taken
their toll on the city that had caused the degradation of the houses and
the street, though he figured the latter was caused by the rain.
    The street had a constant flow of people on it, though it was fairly
minimal, probably also due to the rain.  There were a few hawkers haggling
with customers, but other than that, there was only the occasional annoyed
looking wagoner, trying to get back to his home before getting soaked to
the bone.
    After a moment, the Inn came into plain view - there was a beaten
wooden sign hanging from over the door that read 'Dragon's Fang Inn.'
Simple enough, and to the point.  And as soon as they stepped into the
place, Ryoga knew that he was going to like it.
    The Inn was almost exactly the same as the inns back in Pravoka; made
of good, solid stone with a wooden floor, and a large group of patrons
inside.  There was a jovial air about the place, and stepping into it was
like entering another world from the dismal rainstorm outside.  Patrons
talked loudly in rough voices, drank, and told lewd jokes to each other,
which caused bursts of uproarious laughter about the common room.  
    A large, crackling fire burned brightly in a large fireplace on one
side of the inn, banishing the rain's constant, wet chill and putting a
pleasant warmth into one's bones.  Just the fire alone was enough to make
Ryoga's rugged face to break out in a wide grin, and he looked to his side
and saw Ranma also grinning as he looked around the inn with his bright,
blue-grey eyes, drinking the sight in fully as he always did.  Ryoga
glanced down at his worn traveling boots, sodden with the rain, and then
over at Genma, who was already striding towards a table.
    "Ralthear," Genma called to Ryoga with a small hint of a smirk forming
on his lips, "come sit down.  Or were you planning to stand there gawking
all day?"
    Ryoga started to slowly walk over to the table, his rain-soaked leather
boots making no sound above the din of the common room with his soft-footed
tread, and he frowned.  Something didn't feel quite right; he was getting
the same unnerving feeling that he had often felt before being attacked by
wolves in the forests near his hometown of Pravoka.  And then, like a
passing storm, a log in the fireplace popped and the sensation was gone,
leaving a relieving emptiness in its place.
    "Hey," Ranma's voice cut through Ryoga's thoughts like a steel blade.
Ryoga glanced at him; he had stood up from where he had been sitting with
his father and had his hand on Ryoga's plated shoulder.  "Ry...Ralthear,"
he corrected himself quickly, "are you alright?  You look a little
lightheaded."
    Ryoga blinked, clearing the remnants of his previous thoughts from his
head.  "Y-yeah, I'm okay," he assured Ranma, putting on a decidedly false
grin.  "Just got a...oh, it's nothing.  Don't worry about it."
    His pigtailed brother shrugged.  "Okay, I won't," he agreed, grinning
broadly as he sat back down.  "Now take off your pack and join us, will
you?  You look like an evil omen incarnate, standing there with that
forsaken stern expression on your face."
    Ryoga nodded absently, slinging his large traveling pack off from his
shoulder and sitting down in one of the simple, uncarved wooden chairs.  He
surveyed the room again, this time looking more closely at everyone, trying
to puzzle out what had caused his feeling of apprehension; he was
experienced enough to know that those unnerving feelings didn't just pop
out for no reason.  And if there was a person with malevolent intent for
him in the room, Ryoga needed to find out who it was.  And why, but that
would come later.
    The common room was mostly filled up with talking and laughing folks,
the great majority of them men with the look of soldiers or townsfolk about
them.  Some of them were clad in shoddy plate or chain armor, and most had
short or broadswords hanging at their sides, clanking against their leg
armor, if they wore any.  The three serving women that he could see from
where he sat were all pretty enough - two with nut brown hair that reached
their waists, and the third had ponytailed blond hair with a full figure
and a beautiful smile.  There were some farmers about the room, dressed in
leather tunics mostly of their natural color, but occasionally there would
be a red or violet dyed tunic to be seen.  Two people - brother and sister,
it appeared - caught his eye at a small table in a shadowed corner.  They
were each dressed in beautifully carved plate armor, especially the girl's,
who's plate armor was delicate looking and had an intricate rose pattern
engraved on the breasplate, and both looked as if they knew how to fight
with a certain amount of skill.  
    Then his searching eye found something of an oddity in the room - there
was a rather strange looking fellow sitting next to one of the inn's small,
rounded windows, who had a frothy mug of ale in his right hand which he
occasionally took a small sip from.  He was dressed in a fairly simple
manner, with a sleeveless purple tunic belted at the waist with a
dark-tipped orange sash and loose dust colored trousers tucked into worn
leather boots; Ryoga almost dismissed him as a simple farmer, but the
gracefully curved scimitar in a sheath on the man's back made Ryoga look
much more closely.  Even Ryoga, who had never been to Coneria before, knew
that scimitars were only crafted by blacksmiths and craftsmen in the East.
Pravoka was the farthest west that he had ever heard of such a weapon
coming; most of them were found in the far eastern lands, such as Crescent
Lake or the villages and tribes surrounding the Ryukahn Desert.  Scimitars
were regarded by the lands to the west of Pravoka as being pathetic and
ineffective weapons, and far inferior to the double-edged broadsword.
    Ryoga was a well-traveled young man.  He had wandered much through the
forests surrounding Pravoka with Ranma and Genma, and oftentimes gone much
further, into the seemingly endless woodland to the north.  Sometimes, he
would hear tales from traveling soldiers in Pravoka's inns about a huge
ocean to the north called the Western Sea - Ryoga actually found this
somewhat odd, given that it was to the north - and the soldiers would tell
stories of their homelands in far-off lands, like the town of the
Song-People who could speak to the earth, or the wondrous floating castle,
home to the mystic Sky Warriors.  There was the often-told tale of the
mysterious sunken shrine, the legend of the Island of the Dragon God,
Bahamut, who was said to grant incredible powers to warriors worthy of the
honor, and the legacy of the Sky Warriors' airship, crashed in a forsaken
desert long ago.  
    As a small boy, Ryoga would sit around at the inn for days on end,
listening to the tales of these wandering warriors and poets, his
imagination running wild with images of the Song-People, of the floating
castle, of the Dragon God, and he would swear many times that he would see
these places for himself.
    Not that it was ever particularly likely, then or now, Ryoga mused
sourly.  He forced his mind of that topic - it never failed to depress him
- and back to the strange looking young man with the scimitar.  He had
slender, slanted eyes of an intense violet and high, arched eyebrows.  His
hair was uncombed and a dark bluish-black in color.  He appeared to be
fairly tall, slightly taller than Ryoga, and had a slender, whiplike build
that suggested agility and speed.
    Trying not to look too out-of-place, Ryoga took his gaze from the odd
young man, and looked over to Genma, who was jesting with a buxom,
blond-haired (as all Conerians seemed to be; blond and fair-skinned)
waitress, who smiled back at him.  At length, he ordered a plate of
Conerian beef - which was purported to be quite excellent, from what Ryoga
had gathered - and ale for all three of them.  The blond waitress smiled
once more and drifted off towards the kitchen to get the food and drink.
    He glanced at his cheerful brother, Ranma, who seemed to be having
quite a good time flirting with another blond (although this one didn't
look particularly Conerian) who, although she had a pretty face, was
dressed in a man's garb instead of the usual rather revealing dresses of
these parts.  Ryoga felt pretty sure, to his private amusement, that Ranma
was a bit annoyed by this.  He amusement vanished quickly when he
remembered that he wasn't in one of the inns of his hometown, and he would
get his throat cut (according to Genma, who Ryoga often felt gave
ridiculous and needless exaggerations) if someone so much as guessed that
they might be Provoks.
    He cleared his throat somewhat conspiratorially, and Genma's sharp-eyed
glance flickered over to him.  "Uh, father...?"
    Genma didn't seem overly interested at Ryoga's seriousness.  After all,
of late, Ryoga had been wearing a somber expression seemingly all the time,
anyway, chiefly because while he had a tendency to travel around quite a
bit in the woodlands surrounding Provoka, he wasn't used to wandering
around so much in the open (and their sea traveling disagreed with him even
more).  "Yes?"
    Ryoga coughed.  "Aren't these people going to notice that we look like
were Provoks?"  
    It was a perfectly natural thing for him to ask, mainly because they
-were- Provoks, and thus the natural assumption was that they should look
the part.  And the Provoks really did look a great deal different from the
Conerians, as they were a dark-haired, slanted-eyed people; no Conerian
that Ryoga had seen yet had had hair darker than a sandy blond.  Except the
odd young man seated next to one of the windows that he had been looking at
earlier...but then, he didn't look like a Conerian.  Or a Provok.  Ryoga
guessed that, in line with his observations of his weapon, he was from the
East.
    Genma shook his head.  "I really doubt it.  Not in this crowd; and
besides, this inn's not very well-lit.  Just keep your mouth shut about
your name, and no one'll ever guess."
    "If you say so..."  Ryoga didn't bother arguing; he figured that Genma
was probably right, since his father had been traveling all around the
continent way before he had fathered him and his brother.  And Genma had
been to Coneria before, too (if you believed his stories, he had actually
been here several times, all on important missions for the king), so Ryoga
didn't have any real reason to doubt him.  Besides the nagging feeling of
uneasiness that had returned to him, which he did his best to ignore.
    He realized that he was staring at the Eastern fellow again when the
young man turned his head and looked straight back at him.  His eyes
glanced over Ryoga disinterestedly, but then suddenly widened slightly with
amusement when he saw who his two companions were.  He grinned slightly and
motioned Ryoga over to sit by him at the two-seat table.  Ryoga, curious,
nodded and stood up.
    Genma, who was chatting amiably with two rough-looking mercenary types
from the table next to theirs, gave him an irritated look.  "Where are you
going?  Don't tell me you have to relieve yourself."  At this, the two
rough men snickered.
    Ryoga returned his father's glance with a gaze just as irate.  "Just
going to talk to that fellow over there next to the window."  He darted his
eyes in the Eastern man's direction.  "I won't be gone long.  Don't worry,"
he smirked wryly, "you won't miss me.  And you won't steal my food, either,
I hope."
    Genma and his two newfound friends all guffawed at this; Genma at how
well his son knew him, and the other two at Ryoga's supposed insult.  Ranma
didn't pay attention to any of the happenings, being concerned with
(attempting) to get in good with the pretty-faced blond; it was apparently
working, as she seemed to be warming up to him.
    Ryoga jostled his way through the rather smelly crowd to the table by
the window, and as he sat down, the Eastern fellow grinned slightly, tinged
with curiousity.
    "Um," Ryoga said awkwardly, not really sure what to say.  "Good day."
    The young man chuckled, and took a drink from his frothy ale mug.
"Actually, no it isn't.  It's miserable out there, as you've apparently
experienced first-hand, eh?"
    Ryoga gave a wry grin at this.  "Yeah, well, me and my companions just
got here.  Started pouring before we even managed to reach the gates..."
    He nodded.  "So, got a name?"
    "Ralthear," Ryoga responded easily, making it sound natural.  "What's
yours?"
    "I'm Skharal," the Eastern man answered him.  "Well met.  At least, I
hope so."  His eyes twinkled somewhat mischieviously.  "So, your name's
Ralthear, is it?"
    Ryoga eyed him suspiciously.  "Yes."
    "Then you're a Conerian?  Funny, I wouldn't have thought it from the
look of you."  He took another drink of his ale.
    "Nor you."
    Skharal nodded again.  "True enough.  I'm from a place pretty far east
of here.  I doubt you've heard of it."
    Ryoga smiled.  "Try me."
    "I'd rather not.  Still, you really don't look like a Conerian.  Dark
haired, but not very Provoki, either.  You one of those adventurers from
the north?"
    "No," Ryoga responded steadfastly.  "I'm just a Conerian.  Believe me,"
he added, trying to make his claim sound more natural, "I've gotten more
than a few jests made towards me about my dark hair.  It runs in the
family, though, and we're all from Coneria from way back..."
    "I see.  Actually, I was just calling you over here wondering why you
were with two Provoks at that table of yours.  You say they're your
companions, which I can understand, since I think this feud's insufferably
stupid, but don't you know that being with Provoks can get you lynched?"
He gestured to Ryoga's hair.  "Especially with that dark hair of yours.
You might even be able to pass for a Provok."
    Ryoga grinned.  "I think I'll chance it.  That's my brother and my
father; told you, the hair runs in the family."
    Skharal raised an eyebrow skeptically.  "Oh yeah?"  He shrugged.
"Well, I suppose so.  Not much family resemblance, though, is there?"
    "Not really."
    There was silence for a few minutes, then Skharal ventured, "So why're
you here?  In the city, I mean."
    Ryoga caught the attempt to make him reveal himself easily.  "Well," he
replied, grinning, "we -do- live here, after all."
    "Ah yes, of course."  His eyes glinted with amusement.  "Though you did
say that it started pouring before you reached the gates."  He sipped from
his mug again, which was now only about half-full, and glanced at Ryoga
interestedly to see what his reaction would be.
    Keep thinking, Ryoga told himself, silently damning Genma to all the
worst tortures of the Underworld.  "We were hunting imps.  You know how it
is."  He said this, of course, hoping that most folks that resided around
here would 'know how it is,' because Ryoga himself certainly didn't.
    Skharal agreed with some warmth in his voice.  "Damn straight I do.  So
did you find any?"
    Ryoga grinned.  "Sure did.  Found a pack of five of those damn imps,
got rid of them nice and quick."
    "Well, I'm envious.  I fought three once, two of them berserked.
Five's pretty damn good, though."
    "My father did most of the work," Ryoga admitted truthfully.  "He's a
really good swordsman."
    "Yes, I've heard that a lot of Provoks are quite good with their blades."
    Ryoga glared at him.  "I told you," he said severely, "we're Conerian."

[Author's note - I didn't proofread this real carefully.  Please tell me if
there's any glaring plot/grammar errors.  Thanks!]

Rain Song
http://www.serve.com/guilds/ranma/
guilds@mail.serve.com

open hk.sig

    The slender girl, Ryako, only gave him a cute, yet somewhat wolfish,
grin.  "Aw, you're no fun, Ryoga," she said, hitting him on the shoulder
playfully.  "Here we are, so close, and you won't let me read what you're
writing?"  She snuggled up against him, smirking to herself.
    Ryoga apparently didn't notice that she was only kidding, because his
face glowed a bright red and he nervously inched away from her.  "C-close?"
 He stammered.  "I...well...you see..."   
			 			-from Ryoga 1/2, chapter 11
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