Titles Stink

There. I said it.
But I didn't mean it.
Let me rephrase:
"Titles Stink (Sometimes)"
So, I have something new from Rising Waters. This is more fun from Ramcol and Drift (or not fun...). It's after they've traveled toward Mt. Raksund, and made it to the border. It's fairly short, but I didn't want to do the longer section. Just an ad! You'll get the rest when I finish the book.

Ramcol glanced around. As he passed the border into Mt. Raksund, he could feel the spell tug at where his magic would be, if he had any. He didn’t have magic and he didn’t particularly want magic. Neither did Drift, but they both still felt uneasy about it.

            Mt. Raksund was an old, old landmark. It was discovered by the elves long ago. It had been a mountain then, until its eruption. It was supposed to be highly dangerous, and filled with boiling hot lava.

            This made it perfect for Gladius.

            He had tunneled into it and created the perfect base. No one knew that it existed, except for a very few. Ramcol had known that it existed, but he had thought that Gladius had abandoned it after the First War…but apparently not.

            Gladius had set up a border around the volcano. No one could enter this border with magic without express authorization. It was taken from them as soon as they passed. Thus there was only one way in.

            Ramcol and Drift scaled the mountain without difficulty. It took a few hours at most, though it seemed shorter. Ramcol wasn’t afraid of many things. But what they were about to do was one of them.

            Finally, they came to the chasm -- the gaping hole at the top of the mountain. Drift turned to Ramcol.

            “You understand the plan, right?”

            Ramcol nodded. “Yes.” He still didn’t feel right…but it didn’t make any difference.

            “Ladies first.” Drift gestured toward the hole. Ramcol stared at him. It took a few seconds for Ramcol to realize that Drift had made a joke. He wasn’t smiling, and neither was Ramcol. Ramcol couldn’t figure out whether it was meant as a joke, an insult, or was simply another way to show how unfunny Drift was.

            That’s right, Ramcol thought wearily. Make a joke complicated, why don’t you?

            Out loud, he said, “Thank you, sir.”

            Then, with a deep breath, he jumped into Mt. Raksund.

And here, a special surprise: A short preview of the entrance of Adria Malice. 

            Her hair was a deep, deep chestnut color. It was held out of her eyes with a headband of the same color. Her eyes were a bright blue that reminded him of winter, and the icebergs he had seen floating on the far horizon of the Astian Sea. Her skin was pale, and her figure slender, but not light or fairylike. There was a feeling of power, a confident assurance about her that was impressive on its own, without the added fact of two knives hanging from her belt, and a dark green hood hanging down behind her.

            And Micenah noticed all this before her scar.

            It was a line running down the right side of her face, from the area across from the tip of her ear down to her chin. This completed the picture of a battle-hardened warrior.

            “Adria,” she said, offering him her white hand.

            “Micenah,” Micenah returned in a confused manner. As he took her hand, a shiver ran down his spine. “Um, I hate to ask, but, ah…why are you standing outside the outskirts of Loc’Lif?”

            “I’m here for you, of course,” she replied. “I knew that Vinir had brought you here, so I’ve been waiting for you to come out.”

            “What? How did you know that?”

            “Simple. Vinir Castile drags you out of Nipkae Sindra and imprisons you in Loc’Lif? An independent being like you, what are you supposed to do? I’m just here to help you.”

            “Help me?” Micenah echoed. His puzzled tone, or perhaps the expression on his face, must have been amusing, because Adria smiled. It was a small smile, and with little warmth, but Micenah recognized the gesture. He immediately relaxed. “How?”

            “I’m here to explain a few things to you. About the elves,” she said. Her voice was quiet, yet completely confident and assured. It struck him that she must be a human, as Micenah glanced at her unpointed ears.

            The darkness was even more complete around him now that the light illuminated such a small area. Still, somehow, he felt that any danger lay not outside the thin beam of light, but within it. This human was far more skilled than he was, he was certain of that.

            “You certainly don’t know anything outside of your dwelf city. Oh, don’t be offended, it’s true, and you know it is. But you can learn quickly. What if I told you that the elves aren’t as perfect as they seem?”

            “What?” was all Micenah could say. Nothing else occurred to him.

            “Tell me, Micenah, since leaving Nipkae Sindra…who have you talked to?”

            Micenah searched through his memory. “Ah…Vinir, a few other elves in Loc’Lif…”

            “Elves? You mean to say that you have only talked to elves?”

            Micenah thought. “…Yeah. Pretty much.”

            “Ask Vinir for proof that what he says is correct, that King Marz is in the right and the elves are perfect, and what will he give you? He’ll show you elves. Of course elves are going to tell you about how they are the heroes! But have you ever talked to a human, or a centaur? What do you think they will tell you?”

            Micenah stepped away. “What’s your point?”

            “Do you think you can handle something, Micenah, if I am perfectly frank with you?” Adria asked, narrowing her eyes.

            Micenah nodded.

            “You can’t go back to Nipkae Sindra.”

            “What?” Micenah stepped back further. “Of course I can! That’s where I’m going!”

            “Think. Too many people are searching for you now. A dwelf with magic? The first one since Cyque? It’s King Marz’s dream! It’s exactly what he wants. No one is going to ask you what you want, Micenah. It’s not important. At least, not to the elves.” Adria watched him closely. She leaned against a tree, and the breeze softly rustled her dark hair.

            “But…but…” This was too much for Micenah to handle. “But you said you were going to help me.”

            “And I am.” Adria straightened again. “I am going to open your eyes, Micenah. I’m going to show you Astia -- not the fake, narrow Astia that the elves want you to see. I’m going to show you an Astia of power, and beauty, and wonder. All the things the elves are supposed to stand for. Come with me and talk to a few Astians -- who aren’t elves.” Adria held out her hand again. Micenah hesitated once, slowly reached…

AND I think that's quite enough of that. I can't give it all away, can I?

So here's the promised blooper reel from Kevin McCreary. Enjoy! 

Ah, yes, and tomorrow may or may not be someone's birthday. And I may or may not put up some more of Moreover and Strangely sometime soon. And I may or may not be dying in anticipation of Episode 42, Part 1 of The Ceiling Fan!!! No, wait, yeah, I am. 'Bye, guys!

-President Fantasy