Beyond Chaos – A DiceRPG

Xarot stomped his way to his mother, grabbing her knee with a tiny hand, holding up the small cup up towards her, the same cup which his elder brother had once drunk out of, but now he sipped from it with delight.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, young man!” Adam called, reaching over to pinch the boy’s nose. “That’s my wife you’re laying your hands on, pal.”

Xarot blinked towards his father, smiling shyly, sucking his dummy lightly, quickly hugging his mothers legs to hide his face. He glanced up to see his father still looking at him and he laughed with delight, almost dropping his dummy, his mother quickly placing a thumb against it, the boy sucking it quietly.

“If only your sister was a little more like you…” Adam said, while Virot and Damrot sat beside one another, watching their grandmother knit a blanket for their new aunt, who was currently cuddled up against Ashmir. The Lion King remained behind to assist Amal in getting used to her new family, the girl too young to understand she had been adopted by the Rot family, though not too young to understand their affection.

Jarot held his granddaughter within his sight, seeing just how thick she was. He should have expected Adam would have brought back a child, since Adam was Adam. His mind wandered, feeling the ache within his arm, his leg, his thighs, even his torso. He had grown leaner, sharper, but he was still a shadow of his former self.

‘Tarot, you must return to see how well my greatchildren are growing,’ Jarot thought. However, Tarot would need to remain for some time, since training to become a Grandmaster was quite difficult. Right now, the Rot family, who held a great many Masters, a great many Experts, were, for the first time in an age, lacking Grandmasters. Certainly there had been times when there were various Iyrmen who chose against becoming Paragons for one reason or another, but how many Grandmasters did the Rot family possess in any generation? Indeed, if the Iyr required Grandmasters, the Rot family would be upon the top of their list, but they had lost three so quickly, and technically, though Jarot was unofficially a Grandmaster, could they consider him such now?

Perhaps they could, for he had regained his fangs, even with one arm, but one leg? The Rot family was not as swift as the Ool family, but they were still swift of foot compared to the Aldishmen, but with Jarot missing his leg, he was barely as swift as an Aldishman on a good day with his new prosthetic leg.

‘Sarot and Rirot have gone ahead,’ Jarot thought, holding up his hand in front of his face, noting the roughness across his palm, a lifetime of evidence which had brought him to the likes of a figure who could claim to be a Grandmaster, and it should have, as many expected, brought him to the likes of a Paragon.

‘Zirot should train too,’ Jarot thought, for the woman had been born within the Kan family, one of the families who held a similar pedigree to the Rot family, and she had retired early too, but within a few years of effort, she could become a Grandmaster too, and as the Family Elder…

“Grandfather,” Jurot called, noting the old man approach with the kind of look upon his face he had begun making more recently.

Jarot placed down a gourd of the wine Jurot had requested, for he owed Chosen for one thing or another, but he brought a second, a wordless request.

The pair sat within the field, where many Iyrmen had brought their children, playing lightly under the duskval sky. The old man poured a cup of wine for his grandson, pouring himself a cup, and wordless, the pair drank.

The drink was heavy, the young Iyrman thought.

The old man sipped the cup, tasting the wine for a long moment between each sip. Seconds passed like this, minutes, until finally the old man had finished three cups.

Jurot thought of the times his father would bring him to this field, when he was a boy, he would sit on his father’s lap, when he grew older, he would sit beside his father, and now, he could not sit beside his father. Jurot realised his father, too, must have sat here with his father when he was a boy, wordless. He would have sat on the Mad Dog’s lap, then as he grew older, bigger, he would sit beside the Mad Dog. One day, Jurot would bring Damrot here, and the pair would sit wordless.

Would they ever share a drink like this?

Jarot thought to speak, but did he have such a shame to speak such words, this weak old man? He closed his eyes, thinking about the Jarot who could have been, the Jarot who perhaps had tempered his wildness, but had remained fighting, reaching the heights of a Paragon. That Jarot, certainly, would have defeated Dogek for daring to speak so ill of his greatchildren.

Now?

The Mad Dog was a toothless, beaten dog.

The Mad Dog who should have been put down.

Jarot let out a sight, that kind of sigh, Jurot could tell.

As they stood, the old man grunted in pain, rubbing his knee. Though it had been years, though he had been struck by countless blades, this pain bothered him the most.

“There are two considered to become the Grand Commanders of the Order of High Garden,” Jurot said.

“Two?” Jarot mused, for he hadn’t thought about it, but with his grandson killing the Grand Commander of High Garden would have let to a selection of a new figure. They had killed many great warriors earlier in the year, but from the three Orders, only one Grand Commander had come. This update ıs available on novᴇlfire.net

“Sun Sword and Red Matriarch,” Jurot said. “Red Matriarch will claim the position.”

“Sun Sword is stronger,” Jarot stated.

“Yes,” Jurot agreed, firmly, perhaps emphatically, for the likes of him.

“You believe Red Matriarch will take the place as the head of such an Order?”

“She will remind him he was unable to defeat a dying old man with one arm and one leg,” Jurot said, holding his grandfather’s gaze.

“I did not defeat him.”

“You defeated him at your prime, you defeated him crippled, you will defeat him even in death,” Jurot replied simply, recalling the flash of Sun Sword’s blade, and the Mad Dog who dared to defy him. Though the old man had swapped opponents with his granduncle, the Bearded Dragon, it was only due to the fact they needed to reserve their strength, for it was that kind of battle. It was not a battle to die, but a battle to live, or at the very least, a battle so the likes of old men could die, while the young men could retreat.

Jarot let out a snort, glancing to the side, clenching a fist as he walked away, wordless. ‘I am too old to be worrying my grandson like this.’

‘Do not forget, grandfather,’ Jurot thought. ‘It is you who can defeat whichever takes the title of the Grand Commander of the strongest Order across the lands.”

“Babo!” a child called upon seeing the silhouette of the old man, she had long grown up to see the old man in such a way, so even a shadow of his silhouette instantly informed her. “Papo!”

“Jirot, Jarot,” the old man called, dropping to a knee, more painful than one might expect, but he scooped the pair into his chest with his one arm, the pair hugging him tight. His heart swelled, the joy forcing away the sorrow within his bones.

“Babo, I learned so much today, my head feels so big,” the girl said, holding her head, her amber eyes glistening.

“Your head should grow bigger, since your mouth is so big,” Jarot teased the girl, causing her to cackle, the girl hugging him tighter. “Little Jarot, did you learn well?”

“Yes,” the boy replied with a nod of his head.

“Does your head feel bigger?”

“Mm…” The boy thought. “No.”

“It is fine, since you are already so handsome the way you are,” the old Mad Dog said, kissing the boy’s forehead, picking the pair up.

“Hello, papo,” Jirot said, leaning in towards her uncle, who leaned in to allow her to kiss his cheek, allowing little Jarot to do the same. “Papo, did you go to school when you were a boy?”

“Yes.”

“Were you very smart?”

“No.”

“Kakos are smart, but papo, you are not as smart, but you are still very smart, and you are so strong,” Jirot reassured, smiling so adoringly.

“Yes,” Jurot agreed.

“Papo, sometimes I think, you are so strong, and so handsome, but you do not cause trouble?”

“I have caused much trouble, but your father causes more trouble, so it looks like I cause little trouble,” Jurot explained.

“Ah,” Jirot said, nodding her head.

“Babo, are you tired?” little Jarot whispered into his greatfather’s ear.

“How could I be tired when you are within my arms?” Jarot replied, rubbing his cheek against the top of his greatson’s head.

Little Jarot stared up at his greatfather’s face, taking in the familiar features. “Babo, one day, I will be as strong as you?”

“You will be stronger, since you are much smarter than me, and your sister, she will help you,” Jarot replied, holding the twins deeper against his chest. The old man’s heart throbbed. His name was already beginning to fade among the next generation…

Little Jarot had no idea what his greatfather was thinking about because of his death, all he knew was that his greatfather, who had slaughtered thousands, was so warm and adored him so much. The boy rested his head against his greatfather’s shoulder, closing his eyes, resting within his greatfather’s embrace.