The Peace

The sun shone down on them, warm and bright under cloudless sky as they crossed the open field. Tall grass wavered gently in the wind, which carried the scents of wildflowers interspersed across the plain. The wagon tracks they traveled were the only place in sight where the grass did not stand waist high, surrounded as they were by a sea of green and gold, interspersed with colored fragrant blooms. They halted. Anya smiled slightly, standing on tip-toes to see as far as she could. Rosalyn leaned on Argen’s shoulder and sighed. A moment of peace and beauty was welcome.

The Theatre

The theatre was damp from the leaky ceiling; ill lit, with splintery benches and stagnant smoke filling the hall. It was a copper to enter, and wine flowed freely for another per pour. Patrons had to bring their own mugs. Rosalyn had never seen such a foul, common degradation of the actor’s art. The fearful players yelled their parts to cut through the rambling of the audience, though few listened. A copper for shelter from the rain was a deal in even the poorest quarter of Alandren. She followed her prey here; she would wait for him to move on.

The Elder Wood

The soft patter of the rain on the leaves reminded him of his youth, and the running footsteps of the tenant boys upstairs. Sporadic beams of sunlight broke through the clouds, creating dazzling rainbows for a few moments before fading. For all the beauty of the forest, with its tall trees and soft earth, there was eeriness to it. Not something evil, but something old, primal, wafting up with the scent of the decaying leaves. He wrapped his cloak tightly, the rain slicking off the oiled exterior, and pressed deeper into the elder wood. He sought, but knew not what.

The Daemon

She shouldered the door open and rushed across the room. A bolt thudded in the doorframe, tearing her dress and opening a gash on her arm. She crashed through the window. It was a short drop from the window to the rocky ground, but a sharp crack left her ankle in a blaze of pain. A sea of rage welled up, consuming her fear. She fumbled for the trance but her conduits were wide open; the rift a raging, vindictive daemon. She screamed in her mind, and only then realized her voice was already a cry of anguish and vengeance.

The Speaker

A crowd bustled around them, nearly crushing them in its celebratory fervor. Anya wavered on her feet, dreamlike, held up only by the soldiers and camp followers which thronged around them. Rosalyn pushed back at the crowd, vainly trying to make room which filled in as soon as it was created. With a sigh, Argen drew his revolver and fired it into the air. The din of the crowd trailed off; a space opened around them and all eyes turned to him. He dropped the gun into his holster, and slipped his thumbs through his belt loops.

“Victory!” he yelled.

The Wait

Holding the power of the rift, she idly tapped at the keys of the harpsichord. Crackling energy circulated through her, longing to be used, setting her nerves and senses alight. Colors leapt from the vibrant tapestries embroidered in thread-of-gold. The sharp scent of the cheese and sausages across the room flowed into her. Touching the rift was pain and pleasure all wrapped into one; every sense enhanced, every emotion amplified. She stilled her mind, though a sea of rage whirled with love was all too present. She would have only one chance to free Argen, and she would not fail.

The Chambers of the First

The windows of Ysrindil glittered like flickering diamonds as he looked out over the city. The thin rift-crafted rail of the balcony was solid, glassy to the touch beneath his hands, though it looked as a brisk breeze might snap its spindly filaments. The moon cast a dull glow from its silver crescent, playing lightly off of rooftops and the shorter towers. The light wood smoke of cookfires from the many inns carried up even this high, though the air was still. Steven sighed, turning to return to his quarters. They honored him, but he would not be the First.