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The Apostate Saint: Chapter 8 – A Lively Feast

Andrew Michael Miller2 Comments

The feast was already in its early stages about an hour and a half after the final competition had completed. The Son had extended the invitation to dine to all immediate families of the day's competitors. Even though that cast a wide net for a potentially integrated crowd, the audience still looked an awful lot like a typical elite gathering in the City. Everything from the servants offering fresh fruit and libations to the entertainers scattered throughout the gardens where the event was taking place screamed upper class private gathering. At least there was music. Alaric would have preferred to be among the musicians rather than being overwhelmed by all of the well-wishers and social climbers now bombarding him with niceties.

The Apostate Saint: Chapter 7 – The Broken

Andrew Michael Miller2 Comments

Just like that, the only thing in Fridok's life that mattered to him was gone. He held the pieces of the blade in his hands, staring at them in disbelief. The registrar was right - Fridok was sold a poorly made weapon. What a fool he had been. All of the coins he had starved himself to stash away for so many years might as well have been thrown over the wall. The blade had failed when he needed it most. He lost, and now, despite the fact that the Son had taken pity on him, his inclusion was a consolation and nothing more. He was a warrior without a weapon, and outside of charity, there would be no way for him to afford another.

The Apostate Saint: Chapter 6 – The Grand Melee

Andrew Michael Miller2 Comments

Swordplay was not Alaric's greatest love. Sure, it was good exercise and he was a natural at it, but it was all just a distraction from the arts - music, in particular. His parents weren't fond of his obsession with playing music, painting and sculpting, but Alaric was obedient to their will, so he was able to pursue his true passion in his spare time without too much objection. Still, it always seemed that the more he did to make them happy, the more they expected out of him. The pace was quickly becoming unsustainable. They wanted a son who was all man, all the time, and that meant that anything that didn't fit in their idea of manhood didn't really have a place in Alaric's life. Winning the melee exhibition was the only feasible opportunity Alaric would have to finally have some breathing room.

The Apostate Saint: Chapter 5 – The Price of Entry

Andrew Michael Miller2 Comments

His chance, it seemed, had finally come. Without even allowing himself to catch his breath, Fridok gathered his sword and attached it to his waist. It was time to emerge, once and for all, from this loathsome place with its dank, mold-covered walls and all sorts of foul-smelling odors from any number of the other inhabitants who were rotting away in their own filth. The son of the Toriad had returned to the City to liberate His people from the demons and from themselves, and he had openly called for warriors to join him; His companions would win their place by His side in the proving grounds. There would never again be another chance for Fridok to claim his own salvation, and he knew it.

The Apostate Saint: Chapter 4 – At the Foot of the Stairs

Andrew Michael Miller1 Comment

"Alaricus, are you deaf or are you choosing to ignore me?" demanded Valoricus, Alaric's father, in the overbearing tone he had adopted toward him in the years since his older brother Quintus had died. Alaric stopped his singing and rested his fingers on the lyre strings, thinking about how to best respond this time. He knew better than to ignore his father, and Alaric sensed real concern in his father's inflection. "Is everything alright, father?" he responded just loudly enough, wrapping his response in his typical charm that worked on everyone else in the City except for his father. "No," his father bit back, louder. "You must come here at once!"