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Sir Giorno the Golden looked up into the blazing sun above them, hand shading his crystal blue eyes as he ignored the droplet of sweat beading at his brow. He and his valiant companion, Sir Buccellati the True, and his not so valiant companions, Sir Abbacchio the Moody and Narancia the DwarvenSmith, had been riding for hours- at least since the rise of the sun yesterday morn. They had but one more righteous fellow to find to complete their fellowship, but they were still so far away.
Long was the way but noble was their quest, their cause or at least the conclusion of it would make it well worth the trek. Supposedly. Polnareff the Knowledgeable had seen a great calamity on the horizons, and called upon him and Sir Buccellati to assemble a fine and stalwart team. Only the bravest and strongest to stave off the oncoming darkness spreading through the land according to the legends.
Diavolo.
The name instilled a deep fear amongst even the most courageous of men. He was the bringer of despair- the purveyor of blight- the devil in pink- or so he was told. Nobody had ever seen him before… and lived.
“I'm sweatin’ through mine trousers,” Narancia complained.
“Thou art wearing too many layers. If thou had listened to us, thou wouldst not be as sodden,” Abbacchio griped, despite his cold demeanor, he too was looking disdainfully at the sun beaming down upon them.
“I could nay bear the thought of leaving my finery behind,” wearing more fur than cloth, “Sir Buccellati, when willst we arrive?”
“Sir Fugo the Petulant is just at the edge of the Purple Swamps,” their leader replied, “not too long now.”
The swamp lay at the bottom of a foothill, a half days ride away, and in it stood a castle. Sir Fugo was wise and would be a boon to their group, but was a bit… volatile
The group of four neared a wooded path, and they all let out a sigh of relief at the dappled cover. They still had quite a distance to travel yet, but the shade was welcome indeed. Until the young Sir Giorno realized the birdsong had cut out, leaving just the rustle of the wind and the not so natural rustling of the nearby underbrush.
Giorno raised a hand to halt their little grouping, calling out, “who is there? Art thou friend or foe?”
Abbacchio reached for his sword, “I imagine it is none other than an enemy brigand, come to do us harm!”
The mysterious cause of the rustling crept forth from the bushes, a figure clad in a simple brown cloak, hands raised in surrender.
“Reveal yourself, ruffian!”
The figure complied, lowering the hood about their face to reveal a young woman no more than Giorno's age with bright pink hair.
The four cried out at once- “what! How could this be! Could this be the work of an enemy brigand?”
The mysterious woman frowned and said, “Nay, but an honest bard with mind to assist your lot.” Her sharp green eyes conveyed an iron will. As she stood before them with open hands, the group silently turned to their leader, Buccellati, who watched the girl with a confused interest. After another moment he flinched back and pointed to her.
“Mine eyes do not deceive me! You are Trish, the daughter of accursed Diavolo, he who we must slay!”
“Tis true,” said Trish. “I am she. Fate has driven me here to join your quest and end his unholy reign.”
Buccellati and Trish spoke quietly together then, exchanging information and testing loyalties. Buccellati had a charitable heart but it always did him well to ensure their allies were trustworthy. As they spoke, Giorno turned his back, one hand on his golden hilt and watchful eyes on their surroundings.
Then, something ran through the underbrush. What Giorno saw was small, pinkish, and quick-moving. It vanished into the trees.
Giorno looked back at his companions. They had not noticed the creature and were preoccupied with their group’s newest addition. If this creature was a threat, there was no question; he must pursue it. Its identity should be discovered if nothing else. Carefully and silently Giorno crept away from the group and into the trees. The wood was dense and quiet - too quiet for his liking. As he took some steps in the direction that he thought the creature had run he found small cat-like tracks in the dirt. He followed the trail. After another dozen paces, he caught sight of the creature once more.
It sat on a stump and watched him in return with large yellow eyes. It resembled a plucked chicken more than a cat, but with a long rat-like tail, cupped ears, and snout suggesting the shape of a feline – yet entirely hairless. Giorno stared curiously at the thing. It stared back. Suddenly, it leapt off the stump and ran off.
Giorno followed it with little thought. The sight was so curious he simply couldn’t ignore the creature’s invitation. He ran on through the woods behind the fleshy blur ahead until eventually crashing out into a large clearing.
Strange food littered long banquet tables. Lanterns hung from surround tree branches and lit the clearing like a king’s hall. The tree tops arched above him, mimicking the vaulting ceiling of a great banquet hall and washing the space in cold shadow. Giorno counted half a dozen of the bald creatures sitting perfectly still around the base of a large stone throne. The man who sat in that throne was… odd, to say the least.
“My dearest guest, welcome. Taketh your share from my feast,” the man said, sweeping a velvet-wrapped arm towards the tables.
“Villain! Thou art tempting me.”
The man looked immensely hurt. As he deflated one of the bald creatures leapt up onto his lap and he put a gentle hand on its back. He asked Giorno, quietly, “Are you a cat lover?”
Giorno blinked. Surely his ears were tempting him by cloaking queries now. “Pardon?”
The man threw his hands up. Addressing the creature to his left, he spoke: “First a villain, then a temptress. Now, I’m named his riddler.” Then, to Giorno: “I asked thee if thy preferences for companionship lie with the Egyptians or the Greeks and their hounds.”
Ah. ‘Twasn’t Giorno’s ears, but rather the origin being from a confusing tongue. “If forced to pledge an allegiance, I would join the feline, though I would not bridle my horse to do so.”
The man rested his cheek on his fist. “Art thou assured?”
“Pardon?”
“I asked if thou spoke the truth, either of thine own knowledge or not.” He swept his arms wide, at his court of creatures. “You’re not a true cat lover if you can’t appreciate these little naked and wrinkly goblins like I do.”
Giorno blinked. “Goblins?”
The man twirled his hand. “Goblins, creatures, the golems of sphinx, what have you. Dost thou—” the man blinked, like he forgot what he was saying.
“I followed one here, didn’t I?” He stepped forward. Taking an invitation before it was given was generally bad taste, but based on the look of this man’s court he could not tell the difference. “To whom am I speaking?”
The man straightened, chest puffed. “I am Mista, king of beasts.” He reeled back, eyes squinted in thought. “Goblins. Creatures.” He gestured to the thing in his lap. “These things.” He tilted his head. “And that is no answer. Hunters follow prey on end. What does this hunter call himself?”
“I am Giorno, and do hunters not love the kill?”
“Not while it lives.”
Giorno hummed. For some reason, he wanted to learn more about this man. In a quick decision, he sat himself on the floor. He held out his hand with the deceitful promise of food towards the nearest creature, like he would towards any cat he hoped to befriend, and emphasized the noise of a kiss repeatedly.
The thing—and, on closer inspection, Giorno could say it held a certain charm in the folds of its ugliness—crept forwards, inspecting the air left to cross as though it had encountered this deception before but could not dash the hope that it is mistaken.
“Dearest apologies. I should not have spoken of a light I’ve never seen, though I do not think I’d take to hunting, even if given the opportunity.”
Mista raised an eyebrow. “And yet thou, bladed and armored, findst my court on Cinque’s trail.”
Giorno opened his hand for the goblin to see its nakedness. It frowned, and pushed its head into Giorno’s palm, demanding recompense. He scratched.
“Apologies, milord. I am no hunter. For where hunters kill for food, the final breaths I draw are for justice.”
Mista tilted his head. “Lawman?”
“Of a sort.”
“Mercenary.”
“Nearer.”
“Ah.” Mista smiled. “And whose life doest thou intend to trade for coin that brings you through my domain?”
Giorno looked up at the handsome king. “Diavolo.”
There was pause, as expected. Then, merriness from the pit of the lord’s gut.
“Giorno the Mercenary,” the lord said, standing. “I have decided I like thee. Bring thy friends here, and we may discuss how we will smite such a fiend where the walls have no ears to betray us.”
Giorno blinked. He looked around the banquet hall. “Diavolo’s magic cannot reach here?”
Mista smiled wide. “If he tried, the goblins would alert us of his watchful presence.”
Looking up at the silly lord without subjects, Giorno claimed a new title: cat lover. And in doing so, he also staked a new title for once Diavolo had met his end: courter of the lord of goblins, for he had never met a fellow such as he. He dressed as spoke- extravagant and strange, with garish feather collars and a ruffled shirt ending not a step below his ribs. His sleeves were a patterned velvet, and rings adorned each finger and thumb. He wore no armour, but his trousers were much too close to his skin and made from a tigers pelt.
Mista hummed, interrupting Giorno's wonderous musings, “say, thou remindst me of the babe.”
“Quoth? What babe?”
“The babe with the power.”
“Merry, what power?”
“Hark, the powers of voodoo.”
“Who doeth?”
“Thou dost.”
“Doth what…?”
“Remindst me of the babe,” Mista exclaimed, “this babe,” picking up and unfurling a tapestry with the visage of a woman with locks as pink as as precious tulips- the daughter of Diavolo herself.
“Ah! Fate guides us both. My band met with such a lady not long ago. How doth thou know of Lady Una?”
“She is the devil's daughter in name, but she often visits with me and mine! Go and gather thy friends, Giorno the Mercenary, so that we may celebrate!”
He was a strange fellow indeed, but a welcoming one, so Giorno left to gather his party waiting beyond the wood.
It was an odd tale to tell when he returned to his companions, and odder still was their new company. But the king of beasts had prepared a feast befitting of his title, and it left them feeling satiated and merry. Mista was a jovial fellow with a boisterous voice and enthralling aura, both court jester and royalty together as one. It would do no harm to have suspected him to be a member of their fellowship all along, as seamlessly as he fit amongst them.
Their festival of new acquaintances lasted long into the night, ending only with the break of dawn. Mista's word held true, and his bright eyed subjects had kept their vigil. It was with emboldened spirits that their group of six made their way to the swampy castle of Sir Fugo and then onwards to the dark realm of the Crimson King, Diavolo.
Many a song would be sung of their exploits and many tapestry woven of their deeds. Sharp was the sword of Sir Giorno, and sturdy was the shield of Sir Buccellati. Trish sang songs of inspiration and courage as Narancia the DwarvenSmith swung his greataxe. Sir Abbacchio's tongue was as biting as the pike in his hands, as fine as the cutlery Sir Fugo threw. And Mista, king of beasts, notched arrows as sure as the sun, guided by his strange familiars. Together the motley group achieved what many thought would forever be impossible. Cruel Diavolo was dethroned - an event as mythical as pulling a star down from the heavens itself.
A golden wind carried word of their success to all the corners of the land and the people gladdened. They were hailed as heroes and peace returned like the coming of spring. The dark was banished and hope blossomed forth, and Giorno the Golden reflected upon the boon he received. The money he cared for not, but the friends he had made he found dearest. More so was that strange lord of the grove he had found- the brightest treasure earned from his quest.
So dear his discovery was, he was now quite sure, whether it was a goblin or cat- he appreciated each, and the king of their court.