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Fantasy Fiction
Chronicles of War III: Draven's Revenge
Earth's Bones
Chapter 21 Page 3
Chronicles of War III: Draven's Revenge
Earth's Bones
Chapter 21 Page 3
The Ritesman stood in the burning sun and reveled in these cooler temperatures of the heights, even as he felt sympathy for his friends, who must so quickly return to hell. As Lucky Lady lifted her heavy catch spurs and her canvass wings rose to catch the breeze, Epsilon waved back at the lone figure waving from the boat's stern rail. It was Block, could be no other. Was that his tiny, young voice calling 'farewell, farewell, farewell'? Or a morose stir of the air that only resembled human speech?
From the shadows of the facade at his back, Pandolyn asked, "You have truly claimed the reprehensible Captain Tipper for your friend, of all the scoundrels in the world?" Her tone sounded mild and only slightly mocking. She heaved a reluctant breath, and amended her opinion of the trader. "Perhaps my initial judgments of him were premature and misplaced. Perhaps I am blinded by my own prejudice."
The Warfarer grunted, and the reflections of a pitching sandboat shined in the gloss of his liquid irises. "I know not what has previously transpired between you two, but you were not wrong to judge Vespuzia a scoundrel. You were instead wrong to deem me a reasonable man. There is no reason in this world," he grumbled, at last turning away. "No logic. And nothing and no one is sacred or holy."
"Not even your beloved Martial Rite?"
"Especially not the Rite." He penetrated the shadows beneath the ornate facade entrance, into the cool, shaded antechamber beyond.
From the shadows of the facade at his back, Pandolyn asked, "You have truly claimed the reprehensible Captain Tipper for your friend, of all the scoundrels in the world?" Her tone sounded mild and only slightly mocking. She heaved a reluctant breath, and amended her opinion of the trader. "Perhaps my initial judgments of him were premature and misplaced. Perhaps I am blinded by my own prejudice."
The Warfarer grunted, and the reflections of a pitching sandboat shined in the gloss of his liquid irises. "I know not what has previously transpired between you two, but you were not wrong to judge Vespuzia a scoundrel. You were instead wrong to deem me a reasonable man. There is no reason in this world," he grumbled, at last turning away. "No logic. And nothing and no one is sacred or holy."
"Not even your beloved Martial Rite?"
"Especially not the Rite." He penetrated the shadows beneath the ornate facade entrance, into the cool, shaded antechamber beyond.
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