The Gypsy Camp

The music was loud and pounded in her ears, but she reveled, dancing in its eerie rhythm. Gypsy clans roamed all over the westlands. When they came to a village to open their bazaars and trade, the evenings turned to great celebrations where villagers were invited into camp. The villagers shared food; the clan shared exotic passions. Their tinny instruments combined with the rapid beat of drums to heat blood and embroil heart and mind. Incense combined with torchlight to create flickering mania in song and dance. In this, even a killer could forget what she was and feel alive.

The Demon Lightning

Rolling sheets of lightning crackled through the cloudy night sky, the heat oppressive even hours after the setting of the sun. Argen’s mother had called this demon lightning, and considered it an ill omen, as it came without rain. Steven called it dry lightning, and mused that it might be caused by the heat and the thickness of the air. Sweat beaded on Argen’s brow as he lay in the soft grass and watched the sheets roll. The sharp scent of the lightning mingled with the sweet grass and salty sweat, but it reminded Argen of home, now far behind.

The Awakening

When he awoke, it was dark. A delirious fever raged through him. In his confusion, he scrambled to one knee. His revolver was fully loaded and in its holster, and the few pouches he carried at all times: ammunition, a day's worth of trail food, and useful odds and ends were still intact. His clothes were stiff with blood, some his, and some the ocher and slimy green of the horrors. The last he remembered, he was making his to camp. Now, in the moonlight among the dead, it was obvious he had not. How long had he been out?

The Laundry

The white soles of the washroom gleaned with summer sun pouring through the thrown open shutters. The heavy steam of the boilers wafted on the warm breeze. The sheer number of chores the Anointed were expected to contribute to was immense. Of them all, she despised laundry duty. To make it worse, the Anointed were not allowed to conduct while sweeping, mending, washing or cooking. Instructors insisted it built character to do without using the rift for such menial things. With her sleeves rolled to her shoulders, her arms elbow deep in a tub of washing, Rosalyn did not agree.

The Butcher's Field

In the cacophony of battle, he had been separated from familiar faces. The howls of the butcher’s field had fallen dim. He dimly remembered a Cavalier from the battle: middle aged, handsome and plump with faint grey in her brown hair; she extracted the spine from his shoulder and conducted to patch his wound. Few living things remained in this part of the battlefield, the living had rejoined battle if able. He reloaded without thinking. The dawning understanding that it was done, combined with the bone deep weariness, hit him like a hammer. Stumbling from exhaustion, he made for camp.

The Obsidian Hills

They had not seen any life other than themselves in two weeks. The obsidian hills were warm, a welcome break from the deathly chill which they had traversed to reach them. The black glass formed spires and spines all around them, groaning beneath their feet from time to time. Molten rock in a deep crevasse chuffed steam and smoke; the sky responded, dusting down ash and ice. They broke for rough lunch, jerky and trail bread, avoiding the sharp stones which littered potential seats. They drew close now, close to the final resting place of the founding First among Equals.

The Castle Ravensmount

The walls of the keep rose starkly for several spans, expanding into wide battlements. The red stone was flecked with black and gold, fused by Cavaliers of old. Castle Ravensmount was considered impregnable; even the gates were rift strengthened. Atop the walls, Steven looked to the horizon and the shifting colors of the rift. The castle would certainly be besieged again, as it had been so many times before, but the stores would hold; no surrender. A charged breeze carried the buzzing scent of the rift, wafting his cloak clumsily. This riftland rebellion smelled like the wind; not quite right.