Tag Archives: The Great Rift

The Forsaken Crown

The heavy canvas tents of the royal camp bucked and snapped in the heavy winds outside the walls of Adkarna. Dead leaves had gathered and begun to molder against the skirting, and King Jeraziah noted they would have to be removed soon or would freeze there and remain until spring. It was an absent thought, something to keep his mind from the task at hand. He’d avoided it for as long as he could.

He stood outside the tent staked furthest from the city, set apart from the rest. Not by much, but in the typical straight lines and exact spacing of Jeraziah’s camp, the outlier stood out like a tumor on a biscuit.

A voice mocked his hesitation: Why is the boy king frightened?

Jeraziah scowled at the all-too familiar inner dialogue, wondering yet again if all rulers shared the constant nattering and self-doubt. If they did, they kept it to themselves, just as he did. But that did not mean he had to take it idly.

I am not frightened. Simply irritated with this…chore.

The voice scoffed. I know of at least one ruler who doesn’t share this curse of indecision with you. And he’s waiting inside the tent. Continue reading The Forsaken Crown

Merrick’s Plinko

When news of the Great Rift spread across Newerth, every citizen—Man and Beast alike—trembled at the thought of the gateway expanding into that bleak and ruthless realm. Every  citizen, that is, except Merrick. When everyone’s favorite goblin shopkeeper heard of the vast alien wasteland, only one thought crossed his mind: Franchise!

Though it pained him grievously (much worse than any fleshwound those heroes suffered upon the battlefield, surely), he drew a Portal Key from his warehouse, decreasing his stockpile by one but not gaining a penny of profits, and teleported to the slopes of Krula with a new shop sign tucked under his arm.

He waved to Valreia the Riftwalker, who sat slumped against a rock with pages from ancient tomes scattered at her feet. Some of them seemed to be torn to shreds, and Merrick made a note to himself: Valreia may need glue. He brushed past the hideous purple tentacles slithering through the black maw to drop their darkness-spewing stalagnights in Newerth, then nudged his glasses higher on his nose and held his breath as he stepped into the Great Rift. Continue reading Merrick’s Plinko