DateYou can name a date. “And where do you think you’re going?” A robed arm stretched out at the ethaefal, the fist at its end wielding the flailing ropes of a wheatwhip. Whatever this stranger was, the monk who stopped him saw only a creature who, despite his resemblance to a rightful human, wore the twisted horns of a demon or worse. The pale sigil on her robes gleamed in the light of the street’s lanterns as she waved to her brother in honor and called, “Come have a look at what I’ve found!” The swift patter of his approach was sullied by the wet squish of his worn sandals. It had been one of those days: ducking beneath sporadic showers, shuffling through cobblestone puddles between indoor shelters. Dusk had come and gone without ceremony, glaring pale yellow at thick clouds and their miserable grey shadows. Families mumbled prayers for those of their own who must suffer through the damp; painted emblems dripped rainbows onto the slick street, glowing in the faint flicker of surviving streetlamps. Otherwise the world was dark and empty, unseen by sun or moon. The streets were left to the monks and the monsters. And Volans. “It’s dangerous out here, this time of night. Didn’t you know?” The approaching man said, head cocked to one side as if weighted by his power. He looked idly left, then right, then turned his gaze down the road, which ended in a bridge and the giant crevice beneath it. The elbow of his free hand nudged his fellow’s arm. “Where exactly did you come from, horned man?” “Maybe we should put him back where he belongs,” the woman suggested, lifting her armed hand slowly upward. She caressed the ethaefal’s cheekbone with the soft bend of her weapon, then rose it high. |