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body div#devskin0 hr { }

The Band of Laurels rode the path to the arched city where further rewards and adoration waited. Clad in the charmed cloaks and coronets of ages past, they joked and gamed, discussing and dismantling their latest adventure, cataloguing every daring feat and unlikely incident, honing their story to perfection. The buzz of the kingbees and the chirrup of the crickets slowed their pace to match that of the lazy river that ran alongside them.

“If a woman's hips are ample
Then I want her in the hay
Skirt and stocking all a rample-” sang Cieron, for no other reason than that the sun was shining.

The Laurels joined in, looking forward to a heroes' welcome – save one.

Bale was silent, oblivious to the birdsong and merriment around him. A looted wreath crowned his tangled hair. An ancient king's pauldrons rested upon his sloping shoulders. Amulets of unknown providence hung around his neck; fashioned, he presumed, for someone of much nobler blood than he.

The Band of Laurels quested in a land as old as time, where history caked on history, and treasure lay in strata. In aeons past, those of god and angel blood were granted divine gifts – and now these mythic weapons and relics of legend had found their way into the hands of the Laurels. How many tombs had they resided in? How many graves would they inhabit hence?

As clouds gathered and dusk descended, Bale watched vultures wheel in the stormy sky, and reflected upon the endless cycle of scavenging. He unsheathed his sword, Tîbrist, last tooth of Paeslarin, saviour of Six Kings Sleeping, and laid it on his folded cloak. The gems on its pommel glinted in the lick of the campfire light.

He remembered old times riding under the Laurel banner, loafing in hells and floating through paradises, grinning all the while. Exploring, raking the absinthe green oceans, returning with tans and treasures and tales to win hearts. Still, even then, at times he'd dreamt of nothing more than a small field, with blue skies overhead and nothing else.

More often now he'd dream of his love, pale and silent, like a dream you fight to remember even as it fades.

He dreams he can feel love-bites that can't be healed.

He dreams of murderers bitterly repaid.

The sky that same evening grew dark as smoke, and the stars, yet more jewels, failed to shine through the night.

When dawn broke, Bale was long gone.

No longer would he weigh himself down with crowns meant for the brows of better men. He stroked his horse's neck as they rode across the lonely steppe, following the streams to where the great rivers broadened. Only sky formed a blanket for his nakedness.

Blue sky, and nothing else.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

The Band of Laurels rode the path to the arched city where further rewards and adoration waited. Clad in the charmed cloaks and coronets of ages past, they joked and gamed, discussing and dismantling their latest adventure, cataloguing every daring feat and unlikely incident, honing their story to perfection. The buzz of the kingbees and the chirrup of the crickets slowed their pace to match that of the lazy river that ran alongside them.

“If a woman's hips are ample
Then I want her in the hay
Skirt and stocking all a rample-” sang Cieron, for no other reason than that the sun was shining.

The Laurels joined in, looking forward to a heroes' welcome – save one.

Bale was silent, oblivious to the birdsong and merriment around him. A looted wreath crowned his tangled hair. An ancient king's pauldrons rested upon his sloping shoulders. Amulets of unknown providence hung around his neck; fashioned, he presumed, for someone of much nobler blood than he.

The Band of Laurels quested in a land as old as time, where history caked on history, and treasure lay in strata. In aeons past, those of god and angel blood were granted divine gifts – and now these mythic weapons and relics of legend had found their way into the hands of the Laurels. How many tombs had they resided in? How many graves would they inhabit hence?

As clouds gathered and dusk descended, Bale watched vultures wheel in the stormy sky, and reflected upon the endless cycle of scavenging. He unsheathed his sword, Tîbrist, last tooth of Paeslarin, saviour of Six Kings Sleeping, and laid it on his folded cloak. The gems on its pommel glinted in the lick of the campfire light.

He remembered old times riding under the Laurel banner, loafing in hells and floating through paradises, grinning all the while. Exploring, raking the absinthe green oceans, returning with tans and treasures and tales to win hearts. Still, even then, at times he'd dreamt of nothing more than a small field, with blue skies overhead and nothing else.

More often now he'd dream of his love, pale and silent, like a dream you fight to remember even as it fades.

He dreams he can feel love-bites that can't be healed.

He dreams of murderers bitterly repaid.

The sky that same evening grew dark as smoke, and the stars, yet more jewels, failed to shine through the night.

When dawn broke, Bale was long gone.

No longer would he weigh himself down with crowns meant for the brows of better men. He stroked his horse's neck as they rode across the lonely steppe, following the streams to where the great rivers broadened. Only sky formed a blanket for his nakedness.

Blue sky, and nothing else.