The earth trembled against the pressure of the Abyssal Rift. Writhing arms of darkness spewed from the gaping hole in the pavement, blackening the sky and blending with the smoke billowing up from the burning town. The Voidborne prowled the desecrated streets, ripping apart buildings and choking the air with fear and visceral hatred.
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Through the mist, a faint glow hung over the water. I shifted my hydro-scooter into neutral and flicked the light off. The glow wasn’t Samuel’s spotlight. Besides, hadn’t he mentioned that the constables’ fuel allowance had been cut?
My scooter bobbed in the waves, a bit of salt spray dampening my boots.
“May I ask a deeply personal question?”
“Again?” I turned to the dwarf, taking care to roll my eyes dramatically enough for him to notice from his position below.
“It’s been five minutes since my last one.”
“Not long enough.”
“Oh.”
He was quiet for a whole sixty seconds while I rigged my net in the trees. Knots: secure. Branches: sturdy. It would work.
“Idiots!” Admiral Paul Seward exploded as soon as the doors closed behind him, cutting off the hearing chamber with its three transparent sides showing a stunning starfield view and its dreary bureaucratic interior.
His navigator, who had waited outside, jumped straight. “Sir?”
“Turning down humans, the most promising Lightwarden candidates, just when we’re in dire need of recruits.”
Light burst across the room, exploding in a shower of sparks.
Chaimon lowered his pen and glanced up from the treaty spread across his desk. Ah, he’s back.
When the sparks faded, a familiar figure materialized. Dressed in a black coat and matching fedora, his outfit looked out of place in the castle’s study where Chaimon’s sword collection covered the stone walls. Then again, a time traveler couldn’t help obscurity.
Season Two: Stories That Sing is wrapped up with a bow, but not boxed and put away with the Christmas decorations! We’re compiling the best of the best into our Season Two Anthology. More information on that next weekend! In the meantime, we entered everyone with a correct guess (user name in parentheses) into a
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“Today is going to be a good day. I can feel it.” Roe strapped on his belt and gave his sword, Mike, a pat.
“Ow.” Mike huffed. “I told you. No touchy-touchy.”
“Somebody’s grumpy today.” Roe pulled on his boots and stretched. Nothing was going to sully his fine mood, not even his sort-of-faithful sword he’d stolen…
Gray studied the coarse texture of rubble under his feet. His elven ears twitched at the distant sound of buildings groaning. An acrid stench wafted in the air smelling of ash and decay.
At his side stood Amelia Slyhart, a tall human with red hair and blue eyes.
“Warn’t nearly this hard when yer pa were in charge,” Les Watkins said into the phone, wiping blood off his hands with an old dish towel. He was careful to use the old ones. The missus scolded him nigh to death every time he ruined the fancy towels she’d just got.
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“This is completely your fault.” Captain Quinn paced up and down the cramped dungeon cell, glowering at his android co-pilot.
INFO’s internal servos whirred as she tilted her head. “I do not see my error. I merely informed the men that the sorceress they worship is most likely not a deity, but—”
Pete clung to the crawl handles on the skin of his spaceship and hoped he’d catch a breath before reaching the upper atmosphere. He’d looped his pilot’s harness straps hastily through a handle and clipped them together, taking most of the strain during acceleration, but he was already regretting his recklessness.
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“You have to admit, Ramses, this round of The Demigods of Demolition was awesome. Watching Hercules pin Nessus the Centaur in three rounds was amazing,” Bernie said.
We were waiting for a taxi and hiding from the varied rush of people and creatures leaving Asterian Arena, home to the Alliance of Legends Wrestling Federation. I’d never seen my partner so animated.
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