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.

The Triumphant Return

Bells rang throughout the city, heralding the return of the army. The banners were flown high and the soldiers, wounded and unscathed alike, had polished their armor for the procession. Soldiers washed and shaved was a rare sight, but this march was the army’s homecoming as much as a celebration for the civilians. Sunlight glinted off helmets and mail as the scent of well oiled leather mixed with the flowers thrown into the path of the march. Few rode, aside from the Lord Marshal and his generals. The Cavaliers took no part, having returned far ahead of the main host.

The Bier

The bier was borne by six soldiers, who held it high. She lay in ivory silk with a transparent veil, she had been washed and dressed by Rosalyn, who walked ahead of the bier with Argen. Rosalyn and Argen were in their formal greens and blues, with the white Cavalier’s coats embroidered in their path colors overtop. The cairn the procession made for was atop a green hill, and the tall grass danced to and fro in the warm summer breeze. A nearby tree provided shade over the site; Argen planted and enchanted lilies around the stones. Anya loved lilies.

The Boy

The boy’s head lay limply in her lap; she bowed over him. Blood ran from his wound and ears, slowly congealing on her snowy dress, staining the green grass ochre. The spark of life was in him when she first conducted, but it winked out before she could arrest it. Tears fell onto his young, shattered face mixing with the subsiding sanguine flow from his caved skull. Anya stood by, remotely fused, allowing her some time. Healing was deeply emotional work. Even amongst the stink of dead and cries of dying, healers, Cavalier or not, brought life. They brought hope.

The Wrath

The ground opened and deep crimson, streaked with violet poured forth as only the rift could. The air was full of acid, metallic taste permeating every breath, stuffing foulness into every pore. The black cloaked sorcerer pointed towards them. The following rolling destruction emanating from the rupture threw them from their feet. The sound, the tearing of the earth, was immense and pressed on them like a catastrophe. The sorcerer stood grinning, enraptured in wrath, unaffected by the gaping scar from which the unchained energy poured. Rosalyn was up, red curls ablaze, knives shining. Back on his feet, Argen drew.

The Watch

It was a quiet, nearly moonless night. The sparse forest was wet and verdant, filled with mushrooms and mold. Argen snored softly, away from the banked coals of the fire they allowed themselves. Anya tossed and turned in her bedroll, as she so often did, soft mewling cries occasionally slipping through her pale, drawn lips. Ros could still taste the delicious spongy mushrooms they discovered and had fried in butter. With her back to a tree, she stood watch with her ears, not her eyes. There were too many shadows dancing through the wood to rely on what she saw.

The Plunge

He was flying. The murky, cold water surrounded him in a rush; he sank like a stone. Working quickly to loose himself from the encumbering pack slung about his shoulders, he could feel the pressure building. A moment’s panic struck when he found his cloak’s clasp tangled with his gear, but he wrenched it all away. The straps slipped loose; pack falling deeper, along with his cloak. A quick scissoring of his legs, and he made for the surface. His head broke water, and he saw, as he drew a deep, ragged breath, that the ship was a flaming hulk.

The Mindtouch

It was an effective, if unsettling, method of communication. By reaching out to another Cavalier conducting the Rift in a light fashion, like a whisper across a feather, you could make a mental bridge to their mind. The communication was all sensation, no words or coherent thoughts. He conferred the horrors by their stench and wrongness, through sight of the scythe-like talons and bony carapace. He conveyed their range similarly. Breaking contact always left a sense of nausea and emptiness. The joining of two minds was useful for this, but too close in ways to the arts the sorcerers practiced.

The Sky Lights

It was the midsummer festival on High Day, but the sun had long since set. The muggy heat hung thick in the air and the smell of powder from fireworks was carried on the wind. People were gathered now, waiting for the great spectacle of every High Day in Ysrindil: the sky lights. Cavaliers came together, and in a great ritual, painted the night. The coruscating colors danced and mingled, blossoming bright as dusk. It was of the rift; but unthreatening. Beautiful, so unlike the horrors and sorcerers the rift bred. Argen was no less impressed than the common folk.

The Market

The cakes were sweet, and she savored every crumb on her plate. After months of bland camp food, it was excellent to have a fresh baked, sugared treat from a city market. The smell of hot iron from the blacksmith mixed with the sweet scents of the bakery. Colorful dressed and tapestries were being sold in stalls. She brushed the crumbs from her hands before feeling the soft, shiny silk of a blue dress. The battles did not have much effect in the city; citizens hawked their wares and bustled to their destinations regardless of grim happenings on the frontier.

The Taste

A slow deep fog had crept into town before dawn, and with the light, most of what one saw was thick impenetrable grey past a few yards in any direction. The fog was cool and damp, with the smell of the lake in it; a welcome change from the dry heat of the past few days, but decidedly odd. Something in the air tasted sharp, wrong. He watched his flanks as he made his way down the main road towards the general store; he did not expect an attack, but in this fog, it would not hurt to be ready.

The Trance

The breaths came in slow, even, measured intervals, striving to be as still as possible. The well of passions, the strongest of emotions: rage, love, fury, lust, despair and triumph were at her fingertips, separated from her mind by only will. The trance helped immensely, providing an extra stillness. She could trance need for food or sleep, so that when she released it, she would be ravenous but too tired to eat. She was to be guarded in battle for the same reasons. In the trance, it was her and the rift; there was no sensation, no touch, sound, sight.

The Power

The stars were vast in the sky, tiny pinpricks of light. The rift-lights were not visible with no clouds in the sky. She picked out the constellations: old mother, the hound, the sage, the bear. Argen dozed nearby in his bedroll, and the fire was reduced to smoldering coals, but the dry woodsmoke rose true in the calm night. Anya was several spans away, in her trance enveloped by wispy blues, violets and crimson. Ros could sense her power even from here, and she grew stronger everyday. She hoped Anya would be as strong as they needed her to be.

The Charge

A thunderous outcry came at the command; pikes came down and were set for change. The armor of the men of the riftlands glinted in the noonday sun and the pennants of pikes trembled. Blood ran hot, but was calmed by the soft breeze. An anxious calm silence permeated after the cry, interrupted only by the incoming thunder of hooves. The rift horrors bore down on them, the four legged, hoofed armored scythers charging like cavalry, the serpentine spine spitters and the spiderlike shock troops not far behind. The pass, with its tall stone walls, was their last best hope.

The Dancing Girl

She was surly; he thought he could almost feel the heat rising from her flushed cheeks, she was so close. Her skirts billowed, white flashing under as the crimson outer skirts flared. The village folk sang with the music and danced occasionally in the smoke filled common room, but mostly it was the two outsiders who spent their night in the cleared corner. By the time they both sat, sweating and exhausted, his legs like jelly. He ordered two drinks, and cooled his forehead with the chilled clay mug. This was not an expected evening from such a small town.

The Dawn's Light

He rolled over on his hard bedroll; softer than the rocky ground, true, but his body did not thank him for it. The dewdrops gleamed in the nearby grass and the amber hues of dawn were lighting the sky. Anya snored lightly, curled into a ball on her own bedroll. She reminded Argen so often of a small child that it was easy to forget how dangerous she truly was. Rosalyn was inches away, a smirk on her face, chest rising and falling lightly. He lay his head back down and closed his eyes. It was not yet time to rise.