Klassen.pdf

K LASSEN

For the first Creator.

by Rev. Kenneth Molyneaux

Chapter I

Chop! Chop! A mighty axe sliced down again upon a helpless log. The axe, raised towards

the azure heavens above, came to a stop as the blade glinted cheerily in the bright sunlight. Then a

slight whistling sound ensued as the blade hurtled through the air and into the defenseless log. The

large brown log split in two and would provide great warmth when fire consumed it.

Although it was a brisk, chilly day in the beginning of spring, sweat from the day’s efforts

massed upon Klassen’s forehead. This pool was thrust away by the powerful hand of Klassen.

This woodchopper was an effervescent, salubrious man of twenty seasons who wore a crown of

sandy blonde hair and whose life pulsed with vigor in dark blue orbs of sight. He had a hard, solid

frame and it was evident that the hard work he practiced sculpted a muscular physique. He wore a

simple but sturdy brown tunic with matching pants, befitting the woodsman that he was.

Taking a brief repose by placing a black-booted foot upon his woodcutting stump of oak,

Klassen scratched his short, golden beard as he gazed about the surrounding wilderness. The

joyous blossoming of life was overtaking the pleasant expanse and the buds on the trees ordained a

ripeness of fertility that was sure to follow. Some trees were still bare and skeletal but they too

would have the breath of flowering life imparted upon them.

A robust breeze swirled about and brought the refreshing smells of nature to Klassen’s nostrils.

Breathing vigorously of this sweet, delectable treat, he was greeted by the charming sounds of the

squirrels gnawing away at nuts, birds greeting one another, and a far-off cry of what sounded like a

prowling wolf. The soothing sounds of nature were a symphony of solace to him that calmed his

aching, passionate urges to destroy that which threatened the livelihood of his people.

The era in which Klassen lived was a dank, dark time where the icy blasts of dishonor and

mental pollution had spread across the land. Plagues of corruption had poisoned the citizens; they

allowed wave after wave of vile beasts to inhabit the civilized lands, horribly tainting the world of

Teramon. The exact source of this malignancy, Klassen could not determine, but it certainly

manifested itself in myriad ways.

There were many diseases to be cured in the enervated land, but Klassen’s homeland of Urtgart

was mainly crumbling under the weight of despicable creatures that were passed off as “equals.”

At first this silly notion was rejected wholesale by the upstanding Nobilis race, which Klassen was a

member of, but the myth became more and more solidified until many took it as an adamant,

absolute truth. Klassen, however, was not deluded.

Although Klassen and his clan lived a ways from the town, the mere presence of the creatures

was irritating. The mass immigration of these unwanted beings began when he was but a mere lad

and at first it wasn’t so bad. He would occasionally play with several ogres that, while hideously

ugly and immensely fatuous, were certainly fit. As the numbers of foreigners swelled, though, the

differences between the Nobilis people and ogres became more distinct and violence on the part of

ogres was common.

Violence and criminality escalated exponentially as more ogres swarmed to the once beautiful

hamlet of Urtgart. Filth and squalor accompanied not only the ogres, but also the other foreigners

as well—the perfidious orcs, the thieving hobgoblins, and the wide-faced imps—to name the most

prominent. So many of these undesirables had entered the town that now it was difficult to safely

perambulate through the streets—lest foul immigrant hoodlums assault and perhaps even slaughter

anyone who dared frequent the hamlet without protection.

Upon seeing such a disastrous policy of migration, it would seem logical to reverse the tide of

woe that had befallen Urtgart. This was not to be, however, as the prevailing force throughout the

four corners of Teramon—the Universal Church—would not allow it as they promoted accepting

everyone, no matter how sickly, vile, or corrupt. This policy of buffoonery tolerated the lowly

elements instead of systematically eradicating the contaminating weeds that had overrun the once-

prosperous garden. As a result, the proud and superior Nobilismen were being drowned in a raging

flood of inferiority.

The Universal Church had powerful sway across the realm and Klassen loathed its

dishonorable, weak, and suicidal doctrine. Klassen valued honor and strength as prime virtues and

was also disgusted by the superstitions propagated by the church. Glancing around it was clear to

him that none of nature’s eternal laws had ever been broken. The myths of spirits, ghosts, gods,

and devils simply cluttered the brains of his valued kinsmen.

This Universal Church had so many poisonous ideals that it was like a colossal trash heap in

Klassen’s mind that continually proliferated itself. One dogmatic belief that came to his mind was

how these scrofulous villains promoted loving every creature, but then proceeded to torture, burn,

and decapitate those who disagreed with anything the priests might utter. To top it all off, this cult

of dishonor scared its adherents stupid by creating a demonic vision of a diabolical torture chamber

of blazing fire that was purported to be the destination of any who didn’t toe the line of the

church’s ideology. It mattered little that no such place had ever been reported to exist.

As a blue jay streaked across the sky creating a colorful blur, Klassen was reminded of the blue

cloak his tutor had worn. Aristotle was his name and brilliantly perspicacious was he. He formed

Klassen into the man he was and was sorely missed. It had been some years ago before this great

man had disappeared. What exactly had become of him, Klassen knew not but he hoped he was

simply on a journey somewhere. Death was a very likely possibility for Aristotle but Klassen

hoped for the best and wished to resume his friendship with his mentor.

The disappearance of this splendid friend was quite an emotional experience for Klassen,

especially since the values Aristotle held were the same as his own. Although Klassen’s father had

been there to raise him, it was Aristotle who taught him to be virtuous and honorable. So the

blustery winter some two years ago had been especially brutal, as Aristotle had gone off on his

usual hike—even though it was snowing—and had never come back. Day after day had gone by in

bleak melancholy, yet Aristotle didn’t return. The man was old, but tough, and it was hoped that

someday, any day, he would return. The lugubrious winter dragged on but no sign of the scholar

had presented itself. It was a difficult time for Klassen but it had hardened him and he devoted

himself to living a supremely virtuous life in memory of his dear friend. This wicked time had been

the chasm of Klassen’s life, his nadir, but he felt confident that due to this extreme low, a

magnificent zenith would follow.

This rising wave of optimism attracted to Klassen a pleasant squirrel who eagerly darting amid

the grass, looking for a tasty nut to satiate its hunger. Remembrances of the good times that

Klassen had with his mentor flooded his mind in a relaxing wave of nebulous nostalgia. The

squirrel, the birds, the trees—nature itself—was a favorite subject of Aristotle, which he passed on

to his student.

Although the Universal Church frowned upon the art of literacy to all but the priests, Klassen

was taught to read at a tender age. His family knew how as well, but it wasn’t until Aristotle came

about that Klassen really learned. The precocious child quickly absorbed the sciences. The trips to

the forest to observe nature in all her splendid beauty were unforgettable and brought a swift smile

to the visage of Klassen.

Glancing down at his worn and fragile book, Klassen knew his preferred field lay in heroism

and warfare. It mattered not at all whether the writing was fact or fiction so long as the virtues of

honor, chivalry, and heroism were depicted in magnificent grandeur. The book that was grasped by

the woodsman was his favorite collection of stories—“Adventures in Heroism.” He must have

read the tales a hundred times, but they always retained their magnetic pull over Klassen and once

again he began to read from the pages that seemed as though they might disintegrate in a soft

breeze.

Hurled mightily, Klassen once again entered his own realm as he read the inscribed words of

dauntless valor. He assumed the lead role in the stories, of course, and felt the tingling vitality of

power whenever a battle broke out or a doughty deed of honor was performed. The current

narrative that he was engaged in was coming to a climax as the fiery maelstrom of justice—a

knight—was prepared to deal holy death unto a foul reprobate when Klassen was violently seized

from his sublime revelry.

The shrieking scream of what sounded like a banshee reverberated throughout the forest in its

high-pitched annoyance. The second screech was discernible and uttered, “Supper!” This dread

voice was very familiar to Klassen; it was his mother. Putting his book in his pocket, he turned

away from his natural paradise to see his family’s cabin that seemed to ooze with refuse despite

being in immaculate condition.

Grabbing the chopped firewood and placing his sturdy axe atop the woodpile in his arms,

Klassen set out towards his home. The walk itself was quite a ways, as he liked to commune with

nature and be far away from his family who unfortunately had been polluted by the vitiated policies

that dominated the land. As such, Klassen felt that every step he took away from his natural haven

brought an icy chill. However, this freezing touch of corruption was unable to phase the titanic

armor that Klassen had forged through years of tough tribulation. While the world of darkness

wasn’t wanted, it had tempered Klassen into the virtuous blade that he was.

Traveling down the trail he himself had created, Klassen caught a glance of his older brother,

Grausen, engaged in his favorite pastime—torture. This sibling was taller and leaner than Klassen

but there was no doubt the two were brothers. The differences between the two were far greater,

though, as Grausen had especially been plunged into the nether region of deleterious destitution.

Laughing hysterically, Grausen was bashing the skull of a long-since-dead dog with a solid

wooden club. The brains and vital organs of the creature were strewn about in a pool of gore.

Whack! Whack! went the club as blow after blow assaulted the corpse. At one thump, an eye of the

canine shot away from the beast and a tittering eruption burst forth from Grausen. Nimbly leaping

over the remains, he squashed the eyeball in an explosion of carnage as he said, “Suffer! Suffer!

Hehehe.” These words oozed revoltingly from his maniacal lips.

Grausen glanced in Klassen’s direction and with a glint of madness twinkling in his eyes,

inquired, “Wanna bash the mutt, brother?” Although the cauldron of rage was stirred by his

brother’s meaningless violence, Klassen contained himself as he proceeded along the trail in

disgust. His brother, on the other hand, resumed his assault.

Initially Klassen had attacked his brother for such actions but this was soon halted as Grausen

had the favor of their father. Since he lived in his father’s domain, he ceased pummeling his only

sibling after the first few beatings. The idea of killing game wasn’t repulsive to Klassen as he

enjoyed the sport of hunting, but he did not see the point in mauling an already devastated beast; it

seemed cruel and wasteful to him.

As Klassen neared his home, the family cabin seemed to gleam in majesty as pride swelled up

within him at the sheer sight of it. It was far larger than the normal house of the age and had been

constructed under the wise guidance of Aristotle. He had helped to design and build it, which

stirred him to productive happiness whenever he thought of it. The family that lived in it was far

from ideal, but the work of art that it was stood tall for all to gaze upon.

The solid oaken structure loomed impressively above the ground a full two stories, culminating

in a pyramid summit. The current home was far better than the old one, which had been destroyed

for the wood. The old cabin had encompassed only one room while the almost castle-like present

one had two living rooms on the first floor and three bedrooms upstairs. At the time of its

construction, Klassen had shared his room with Aristotle but now he alone occupied the room.

Just as Klassen was about to reach the cabin, the eerie guffawing of his brother swiftly wafted

along as his brother scudded by, into the cabin. The door crashed shut and Grausen’s chortling

abruptly ceased as briskly as it had begun. Klassen, used to such behavior, paid little mind to it as

he placed his small mountain of wood against the side of the cabin. Grabbing his trusty axe, he

pushed the door open and entered his spacious abode.

Stepping into the area where the family dined, Klassen was confronted by the irritating sea of

smoke that his father emanated from his favorite pipe. As usual, Klassen squinted under the

barrage of this attack before placing his axe by the door so that it wouldn’t get wet from rain.

Although it took slightly longer than normal, his father uttered the typical exhortation.

“What takes you so long boy? Grausen always gets here in time but you never do. Seat

yourself for supper, now!” Klassen’s father, Ubelig, exclaimed his words with force and a

sternness that could make a horde of hideous ogres tremble.

Despite being extremely confident in his abilities to crush his father, Klassen acquiesced and

seated himself. He disagreed with his father on many topics but felt his father ruled supreme in the

home, as wickedly as he might reign. Thus, he usually obeyed his father though he almost never

agreed with him.

The chairs and table which the family sat at was designed and constructed by Klassen although

little thanks did he get. It was a sturdy design that he had learned from Aristotle. Thanks to this

learning Klassen he had even added an artistic flavor by decorating the legs with playful swirls.

Never did the furniture need repairs in their history despite the brutal pounding Ubelig and Grausen

exerted upon the table in fits of drunken stupor.

Klassen joined Ubelig and Grausen at the table, while his mother Schlimma was preparing

dinner by the fire. The resemblance between the men situated at the table was striking with the main

difference between the father and his sons being age: Ubelig had slight wrinkles while his sons did

not. All the men wore similar tunics of brown, which seemed to further voice their family

relationship. The cerulean eyes that the trio possessed all burned with fierce intensity, although the

primary driving force in each was quite different.

The pleasant aroma of cooked meat dancifully wafted throughout the room and Klassen’s

mother, Schlimma, carried a large plate of deer to the table. Schlimma was a fairly lean woman with

brunette hair and large brown eyes. It was evident in her children that the slightly darker shade of

hair and eyes the sons of Ubelig had, were from her darker complexion. She wore a black dress

that stood out among the brown tunic-wearing family members.

When Schlimma seated herself, Ubelig commenced the recital of the prayer condoned by the

Universal Church. Klassen was the only person in the family that was not a member of this church

and disdained the prayer, which offered thanks to an unknown, unseen god. As such, he was able

to completely block the moronic ramblings which his father vocalized. The perfidious prayer had

entered his brain when he was younger but he had since erected a monumental fortress to protect

himself from the mendacious forces of venality.

The supplication to the heinous god of the Universal Church over, the family eagerly plunged

into the food like starving hyenas. Of course Ubelig, being ruler of the domain, got first dibs on the

tastiest portions of the meal while Klassen was relegated to last, due to his rejection of odious ideals

of dishonor. Klassen never went hungry, though, as he was able to supplement his diet with fruits

or nuts that he found while exploring the forest. He also noticed that this addition to his food

regimen was more receptively received by his body as evidenced by his infrequent indigestion

problems. On the other hand, the rest of the family frequently complained bitterly of this woe of

the stomach.

With a hacking cough Grausen exclaimed without his usual wicked laugh, “Mother, this is

horrible! It’s burnt to the extreme!” This proclamation was answered by a quick backhanded slap

by the cook, Schlimma. She catapulted a gaze of doom at him; and Grausen, after glancing at his

father who held a similar but more imposing glare, uttered meekly, “Sorry.”

At this harsh display of discipline, Ubelig rumbled heartily as he laughed at his son’s insolence

and swift punishment. After his laughter flittered away, he grew stern and announced to his wife,

“My boy is right though. This meat is horrible and it is burnt. It isn’t his place to say it though;

it’s mine. So I want some different food. Now! Go to it!”

With a simple “Ok dear,” Schlimma scurried off into the other room to scavenge for some

food. Klassen, unbeknownst to his father, had found quite a few tasty nuts while he had been in the

forest that day. They lay nestled snugly in his pocket but Klassen, of course, made no

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