Dervish — Roleplayer Guild

A heavy boot sunk into what had initially appeared to be a regularly muddy section of the dirt road leading to Kakariko Village, the sensation disregarded for a moment until the putrid aroma of horse dung filled the air, causing the boot’s occupant to utter a curse so foul that a mother had to cover her child’s ears to protect their presumed innocence. Whether it was a boy or girl was impossible to decipher; all humans looked alike in their adolescence, with horrible high voices better suited to the damnable tree folk than a race that had conquered most of the lands with their mighty armies. To complete the illusion that all children looked the same was the fact that every single one of them were dressed in green or like the Great Bane, the so-called Hero of Time.

Not for the first time, Maryev decided he hated these lands and the people in them, and was wondering if their influence was having an adverse effect on his mental facilities. After all, was it that voice that permeated his mind and roused him from his sleep was the reason he was convinced to march to Kakariko Village while this horrific festival honouring a glorified Inquisitor and assassin that represented the subjugation of anyone who did not bend a knee to a royal family that claimed to speak for their Goddesses and some of the superstitious mongrels, many doubtless running amok in the squalid hamlet in their infuriating greens and aimlessly waving their shoddy toys around with the proficiency of actual Hyrulian soldiers, believed that their Princess was a deity of sorts, reincarnated time and time again with their beloved Inquisitor.

Not for the first time, Maryev vividly imagined leading a Legion of his finest warriors into the flimsy gates of the city, a wall of disciplined swords and armour laying waste to all living things more thoroughly than a forest fire. From behind his helm, the Darknut allowed himself a slight upturn of the lips as a reward for his morbidity. The slow pondering child waddling in front of him, somehow having eluded the horse dropping that had claimed Maryev’s patience, was either oblivious to the towering man behind him or thinking him to be a delightful part of the festivities, a costume for the Inquisitor to vanquish like the rest of Ganon’s armies to reassure these peasants that they’d survive a coming storm by the Gerudo King.

Perhaps that was why he came to this village; the slim chance that Ganon himself would return to strike down his enemies and give Maryev a worthy cause. The King had always been a champion to the Darknut people, and they had always answered his call; the Hyrulians and the other races, like the imbed Goron tribes, the squawking Deku, and the pompous and frail Zorra, had claimed Ganon a great evil, decrying his liberations of the realms and his representation of the oppressed and needlessly slain races as the hypocrites failed to see how anything that didn’t cry fealty to an oppressive monarchy with a rule that spanned countless generations could possibly have cultures of their own and causes to fight for. They never seemed to question why races like the Darknut, Gerudo, Lizalfos, and moblins continuously rallied behind Ganon each time he returned. He was a liberator, a champion to those beset upon by all sides by an increasingly hungry King who wanted more and more. Maryev had spent many years watching the encroachment on the notoriously independent Gerudo Tribes by the Hyrulians, overtures of peace and trade undermining their sovereignty. Did tradition mean nothing to those women? Were they so blind as to miss the true intentions of their ancient enemy?

I’m surrounded by fools. Maryev thought begrudgingly. Not for the first time, he imagined Ganon’s fabled bestial form eating the child in front of him.

Suddenly, the scent of grilled meat filled Maryev’s nostrils, his despair briefly forgotten as what he suspected was the true reason for his coming here came to light. His stomach growled in protest like a wolfos who had not caught sight of prey for several days as he sought the likely greasy and gamey meat, something that brought Maryev a warm hopeful sensation not unlike spotting a wave of reinforcements on the horizon. His eyes caught sight of the roasting pit, all pretense of politeness evaporated.

“Move.” Maryev’s voice boomed from behind the child, his massive frame brushing into the child like a boulder, knocking the boy… girl? Into the muck. He did not turn back to listen to the cries of indignation from the mother or listen to the shrill shrieks of the wailing child, whom Maryev imagined found itself in a pile of dung of its own. He would have allowed himself a smile, but his prize was too near. The crowds parted easily at his coming.

After all, there were few forces in Hyrule as terrifying as a Darknut on the warpath. Or, in this case, in pursuit of supper.

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