Fire, Venom & Bone Saga: Chapter 2

The spider lowered itself on a strand of silk, stopping inches from the nose of the Captain of the Guard. At the sight of it, he shrieked and turned to run, but one foot caught on the other causing him to fall forward onto the street in a cloud of dust.

The guard scrambled to his feet, drew his sword and squared himself to the dangling intruder. After a few deep breaths, he laughed nervously and glanced around to see if anyone had witnessed his embarrassing ordeal. Embarrassing or not, this was the most exciting event to occur in weeks at his post.

He looked at his sword, then at the spider, then back to his sword again. He grinned and threw the weapon to the ground. “Challenge accepted. But we’re going to settle this in a more,” he bent down and pulled a knife from his boot, “personal manner.”

He approached the spider, extended his forearm and allowed the creature to land on his plate vambrace. “I’ve got a surprise for you, my little friend,” he said as he plunged the tip of the knife into the bug’s abdomen with a crunch. He held his quarry out in front of him and watched as the creature’s legs ceased wiggling.

“You should have chosen your battles more carefully, beast.” With his revenge exacted, he flicked its lifeless body onto the ground and crushed it under his foot.

“Nasty little bugger.” He bent down to place the knife back into his boot, and a second spider landed on the ground to his right. Then a third to his left. Then he felt something land in his hair. Then on the back of his neck.

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The Fire, Venom & Bone Saga: Chapter 1

His eyes widened and he clutched his throat as a thick green froth seeped from his mouth. His back arched as a violent spasm shot through him, and that’s when he shit himself.

In the morning, his assistant would find him face down on the floor in his robes, soiled from both ends. It would be a fitting end for the increasingly reclusive magi who squirreled himself away in his tower littered with unread books, empty wine bottles and a lifetime of regrets.

Grand Illusionist Thedorious Baltz waved his hand in front of him to dismiss the image, and knocked back the last swallow of wine in his glass.

He poured himself another. “Poison is just not a very dignified way to go, is it old friend?” He asked the bottle. “Of course it isn’t! I thought you might say that.” He sipped the drink. “Maybe we should try something a little less,” he paused, rubbing his chin, “messy?”

He waved his hand again. This time a younger version of himself hung before his eyes. His feet dangled inches above the floor. His body gently swayed. Baltz stood and slowly approached the image. Its hair was well-groomed. There was no thick stubble on its face. No crow’s-feet. No wrinkles. Time had yet to take its toll on his looks and conscience.

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