The Horrors

Crouched behind a hedge, Argen could feel the wrongness of the creatures. They were twenty, perhaps thirty, yards distant but they had a sickening corruption about them, like oily smoke which clung to your sanity. There were three of the creatures, slithering like the snakes that their lower body resembled, but holding themselves upright like mockeries of men. Bony plates covered bladed arms, protecting heads and torsos which were only vaguely human. Rift horrors, Argen knew, that much was certain from the seeping madness. Which kind, he did not know. He waited for them to pass, then ran to report.

The Spine

White hot fire lanced through his shoulder; the resultant spasm of his right arm muddled his sight red and black. A foot of chitinous spine bloomed from his chest. He staggered, but did not fall. His revolver hung limply from twitching fingers. Mesmerized by the spreading wet scarlet on his shirt, time slowed. The battle raged, shrieks of rift horrors, valiant battle cries and the anguish of the injured forming a deafening, chaotic din. He took the gun in his left hand. Grinning through the blazing pain, he loosed a mad laugh, and blew a crater in an advancing horror.

The Ennui

He rolled out of bed quietly and began to dress, gathering his clothes from where they had been recklessly tossed. He buckled his belt, secured the strap that prevented his heavy revolver from bouncing, and quickly checked over his other belt pouches. A deep sense of ennui seemed to hover over the village, and it was unnerving. He wanted to get a look around to investigate this feeling before day set in. Her freckled shoulder poked from beneath the blankets as she dozed. The light had not yet fallen across her face; he would let her sleep a bit longer.

The Children

A girl with long blonde hair and a grin snarled by the loss of two of her teeth played with a boy of darker complexion, with tight dark hair and pale blue eyes. They ran, dancing and laughing. Anya perched nearby, concealed in the crux of a tree, watching down through the leaves. Bark and soil mingled with grass in this ballet of innocence. She conducted, setting exuberant motes and music among the children, who embraced it; such things were not unknown in Ysrindil, seat of the Cavaliers. A desire burned in her, faint tears traced wetly down her cheeks.

The Carving

The slight curves, subtle and graceful, leapt from the bone as he carved. It was an old hobby, and the smell of the well-oiled tools in their leather satchel was a touch of comfort, a touch of home, even on campaign. Several other pieces in various stages of completion, one of expensive ivory from far to the south, lined the table ahead of him, where the lamplight flickered over them. The wings of a carved bird cast a particularly fearsome shadow. He smiled, shaving off another thin slice from the piece in hand. It would be a whale, he thought.

The Gate

The gate formed before him, an arch framing a cascading sheet of softly crackling blue. He maintained concentration as it solidified and exhaled, rippling his duster. Within, the wispy energies of the inner rift were violet and green streams in an ocean of deep blue. The air was sharp, like after lightning. He stepped through the portal. He felt a sense of stretching as he was pulled across the distance between the gate and its terminus. As soon as he was fully through, the gate forcibly closed. Goosebumps broke out over his skin and one hand dropped to a revolver.

The Sight

He performed the cleaning rituals on his weapons, washed his clothes, re-oiled his gear, and mended a tear in his plain canvas tent. The fragrant spring breeze drifted through, chilling his bones, even as the sun still rose. Soldiers and followers hailed him occasionally as they passed, but mostly left him to his chores. Finished, he sat on the folding camp stool and pulled a leather bound book from his pack. Settling in to read, he sighed. He was an old man; his retirement was behind him. He did not have the sight, but he knew his days were numbered.

The Burnout

A cold calm suffused him, though he raged behind the barrier. The pressure had reached a point where he was sure more would have broken him, but he bore on, and it continued to build. He was simply a tool to the commanders, a piece on a board to be utilized until it wore out or needed be sacrificed. Unending tasks were his to be seen to, thankless and menial; apparently no one but he was capable of getting them done. His voice was flat, tired, and expressionless. His friends had left him, knowing he preferred to be left alone.

The Passed Sire

As a boy, he remembered his father leaving every spring, and returning every fall. His mother wept after father left each year, but the house remained full of the clean smell of laundry and fresh bread through the summer. When his father returned, he brought with him the smells of oiled, white bleached leather, polished steel, and earthiness borne deep into his gear. Such was the life of a knight captain in the Queensguard. Argen remembered the scents, the roughness of his father’s sword calloused hands, and the calm softness of his voice. He wished his father was here today.

The Victorious Camp

The bone weariness had yet to set in. The exaltation of victory kept the soldiers and their officers about far longer than any would have thought. Casks of ale and brandy were being freely distributed about the camp. Voices roaring with laughter and other life affirming activities drowned out cries from those who had lost friends or family. Yes, they had suffered losses, but they were comparatively light. The war was nowhere near over, but morale would improve. Argen leaned on a stack of crates, an arm around Rosalyn, who half-dozed on her feet her face nuzzled into his neck.

The Meadow

Her hair flowed out behind her and her skirts, divided for riding, bellowed as she worked her mount to into a gallop. The wind on her face was invigorating; the wild smell of the meadow called, but she knew better than to leave the track. In the vibrant tall grass and wildflowers there were holes and ruts which could break a horse’s leg. The sun shone on her face; she smiled as she reined in. She sighed momentarily. Riding, she felt alive, though her current mood was still a pale shadow next to the unending scarlet passion of the rift.

The Trap

Around the edges, flickering light crept in. There were no windows to admit the silver moonlight. She had heard the footsteps approaching her door, and now the candlelight. The faint metallic tapping of lockpicks was next. Rosalyn was seated in her shift, facing the door. The door creaked open and the candlelight seemed to flood the room. When the man entered, he was presented with her grinning face, framed by red curls, calmly fingering her stiletto. He staggered for a moment, almost loosing a startled yell before composing himself. He stank of wine. Rosalyn’s grin widened; the trap was sprung.

The Dead Lands

The verdant green was behind him, the frigid north ahead. The air was dry. His skin cracked and his boot-leather flaked with every step. His loose clothes frayed; ready to disintegrate from the desiccation. There was no sand, only scorched dirt; no scent, no wind, everything the same dull brown-grey. Nothing grew. Even conducted rift energies did not work properly here. His last waterskin was left behind this morning. His pack was left days before. Only his small ration pouches, his guns, his wits, and the rift remained. This had certainly been a mistake. He had to find water soon.

The Endless Wood

Dreams fled as he started from his reverie. It was cold and damp, his bedroll left behind. The fragrant foliage made poor bedding, as expected from a token effort to find comfort before collapsing. The forest was immense, dense, and foreboding. Few animals were seen, but they were present. Hoofbeats in the distance and bird calls broke the morning silence from time to time. The sour taste of the berries he had deemed safe last evening caked his mouth; he rinsed with a gulp of stale water from his skin. West he would continue. The forest had to end eventually.

The Sorcerer

The ground pounded beneath his feet. He conducted. Fountains of earth and fire flanked him, rippling outward; he continued to charge, guns in hand. Lances of fire came. Argen disrupted them. Acidic smoke wafted through the searing air, sweat sprang from his pores. He felt none of it. There was one objective, one thing in the whole world. The sorcerer raised his hands, and choked with a bullet in his throat; three others found his chest and gut. The sorcerer staggered and fell. Red blossomed through his robes. Argen skidded to a halt, reloading his revolvers. The battle raged on.

The Kyemvar Pass

An ephemeral heaviness hung in the air. It was a cloudy day, a rarity in summer, but still warm and damp. They were in retreat. After holding the hordes of rift-spawn at bay for nearly six months, the enemy had managed to turn their flank at precisely the wrong time. The sense of defeat was everywhere. Soldiers looked at the ground as they marched. The severely wounded moaned softly on wagons. Walking wounded gritted their teeth with every step. The Kyemvar Pass was their destination now. If the rift lords could not be held there, they would not be held.

The Incense

The tent was no shelter from the oppressive, humid heat. What it provided in shade was negated by lack of circulation. He rested uncomfortably on his bedroll, in his smallclothes. Shafts of light penetrated oiled canvas, illuminating smoke rising from the herbal incense Rosalyn enjoyed, burning next to her bedroll. She was out, helping the injured. He had avoided any hurt yesterday, aside from the exhaustion of battle. His muscles ached, but he dredged himself from laziness, dressing from a pile of neatly folded clothes. He wanted to see her, to make sure she was not pushing herself too hard.

The Field Hospital

Field surgery was a messy, bloody business; the grass ran red, smelling of salt and iron. She sat on a stool in the shady open tent, her clothes covered by bloody surgical garments. Anya was tranced on her feet, fused with Rosalyn, giving the healer more energy with which to work. The din of suffering patients and working medics was cacophonous. Maintaining wards on the hospital, especially pain blocks and regeneration fields, was draining. She stretched further, conducting occasionally to heal critical patients. They had been at this for hours, and the tide of wounded showed no signs of abating.

The Trance

An amber sphere of light followed her, casting a pale sepia glow across the long, still grass. The path was worn, but peppered with stones. She walked briskly, careful to maintain her step, breathing in the night. The evening was the edge of spring, shaking the slumber of winter. It was chilly, but not cold; damp, but not wet. Over her shoulder, she looked back to camp. She felt ill ease entering the trance around her friends, unless it was necessary. It was dangerous, but it allowed her to unlock her true potential, and that she would not be denied.

The Friendship

Her fingers crossed tough scars as she massaged the underlying knotted muscles. The oil smelled of cloves and lavender, soothing both of their minds. His clothes lay loosely piled aside the bedroll, her case of herbs and oils was open nearby. She had never done this for a friend; she had learned it as a cover for her previous life. Dim light permeating the tent played across his muscled back as the flap rippled with the wind. A soft snore brought a grin to her face as she realized Argen had fallen asleep. It was good to have him back.

The Edge of the Wood

Leaning against the rough trunk of an old tree, Argen surveyed the fields before him. Even in the deep shade of the thick wood, it had been growing brighter for hours before he stumbled out to the cleared land. He had been lost in the woods for several days, but he had kept on to the west, away from the fighting. He was dirty, low on rations, and exhausted. A farmhouse loomed in the distance, surrounded by outbuildings. A slight breeze carried harvest scents, warming him in the shade. He hoped the farmers would be friendly to a lone Cavalier.