A Break

For the last 6 months, I have shared the story of four wonderful characters, Steven, Anya, Rosalyn and Argen. The Riftlands have become a concise but brilliant place, filled with wonder and the horrors of the rift. I plan to take a break from this project for a time, probably a few weeks, and then return with a new set of characters, a new world, and a new story. For any who have read this, I appreciate your support.

The Nomination

The Honored Sir Argen Teyr walked in his formal blues brusquely to the quarters he shared with his wife. The silky blue garments whisked lightly with the quickness of his steps. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he leaned against the wall in a brief pause. The ruling council had nominated him to be the First, and he had declined. He was a swordsman, a soldier, not a politician. He was a pretty young face they thought they could control to their own ends, a hero to the people, like Steven before him. Akin to Steven, he politely, firmly demurred.

The Exit

Rosalyn ran to him as he trudged from the gate, bearing Anya. Like a half-wit, he stumbled dazedly and tripped face-first into the spring, carrying Anya’s limp form with him. The cold water shocked him back to his senses. Argen could hardly believe the idyllic glade with its small fresh spring, fragrant pines and soft grass, after what seemed an eternity in the bizarre realm of the rift. Rosalyn took Anya, far beyond help, and wept. Exhausted, he comforted Rosalyn in her grief. Argen had spent all of his tears during the long descent, carrying the one who saved him.

The Path Ahead

An eerie twinkling and piercing metallic dissonance filled the air. The cloudy energies of the rift swirled about them; wispy eddies of shades from crimson to gold, predominated by crimson and violet. The crunching of the crystalline path as the proceeded was piercing to the ears, while making quick work of the soles of their boots. The ozone scent of the rift was not unknown to them, but it was overwhelmingly powerful. They pressed onward, following the only path laid out in the eerie waste. The sorcerer was ahead, they would find him. The end neared for he or them.

The Decision

Two good friends were buried; homecoming felt more solemn than victorious. Rosalyn nuzzled into Argen’s shoulder, the sun lighting on their faces, warding chill from the wind. Before the Hall of Solace they stood, not yet wanting to enter. After a moment, Ros dozed on her feet, leaning more heavily against him. A year ago, she would have never let her guard down, never trusted anyone to support her or protect her. Her hair, close cut and curling slightly under her ears, smelled of lavender and cloves. In that moment, Argen decided to ask for her hand, once mourning was done.

The Brandy

Their quarters were smallish, but they were home. Rosalyn had put her flair and sensibilities into the décor, which was reflected in the ebony furniture and carved marble tabletops. Argen had contributed the old crimson and silver tapestry that had hung in his childhood home. His father’s sword hung on the wall. The hearth was empty, the smell of old ash in the air. He sipped brandy as he read reports. Their quarters felt still and empty; Rosalyn was out on patrol with some younglings, and would not return for another month. Argen’s students were poor company compared to Ros.

The Last

Anya fell with the crimson shard in her pale chest; blood rushing down the grooved crystal, bubbling from her lips. His reserves were spent. Staggering, he lurched forward, fueled by the peace of one who knows he is to die. Advancing across the jagged glassy ground, acrid smoke from twelve shots roared to no effect. The sorcerer stood impassively until Argen limped within arm’s reach. Only then did the two sanguine shards over the sorcerer’s shoulders aim for his heart. They streaked, shattering before they struck. The sorcerer’s eyes widened. Argen turned. Anya hovered, inches off the ground, retribution incarnate.