Write to Rank 2022 [Genre - ACTION]

5. Not All Those Who Wander

Fantasy and Action Mashup

Prompt: Exactly what it says, write us a mashup of the two above-mentioned genres. What are the prompt specifics? Nope, that's it, the rest is up to your imagination.

Required Words: 1,200

The moon above was bright as they came up to the ancient, rotted iron gate.

"The Land of the Chosen," the old man said.

Aelius narrowed his eyes. "Quiet, mage."

The overgrown wrought-iron fence stood guard for the dirt path that lie beyond, a path that seemingly ran for infinity through the graveyard. Mossy, overgrown gravestones surrounded both sides of the soil path, stretching on for entire horizons that had no end, nor beginnings.

"Tripe," Aelius said. "We go around."

"Even as though shrouded by the very ink of thy own wisdom, hunter," the old man said, "surely you recognize the ages it would take—we've simply not the time."

The old man spoke the truth. It would take many years to circle the graveyard—if it was even possible. Many spoke and bragged of crossing the graves, but... these many were also sure to make known thy's life had been realized by far worthier endeavors, which warranted no further examination nor revisiting.

While others, quite simply, just never made it back.

"No," Aelius said, shaking his head. "No. I may be a fool, mage, but nor am I eager to meet my maker. We go around."

The old man's cloak rippled, reflecting the moon above as it shined glossy silver streaks across the old man's gray hair. His staff stood watch in his gripped hand, standing a head-foot taller than he, the twisted and gnarled wood of the shaft climbing like carcinus, grappling and strangling up to an orb of resplendent green emerald that adorned the very top.

"Need I remind you, hunter," the old man said, his voice melachonic. "You are beholden here by decree of the King, and not by thy blackness of your own heart."

"Charming," Aelius said. "Although no, the fact that my father has seen in his never-ending wisdom and foresight to waste valuable resources on finding the drunkard son of a grifter sorceror has not been lost upon me—although I've no doubt the issue he may take with what you ask of the Kingdom now."

"I implore you, hunter," the old man pleaded, falling to his knees in front of Aelius. "Have grace—it's my son."

Aelius sighed.

They entered the graveyard. The wind gently rustled around them, drifting and floating across the vast plains of graves, oddly calming and eerie. Moonlight bathed everywhere there was no shadow, the landscape a blurred and vague gray and blue.

The graves went on as far as Aelius could see.

"I know your heart, mage, I do—I've lost a brother of my own," Aelius said. "But I'll only entertain this charade for so long. I've never much ascribed for superstition, and have no wish to cross wicca sentinels to discover the repercussions."

"Crone lore, hunter." The old man flapped his hand dismissively. "False, at best. In truth, I—"

A scream pierced the night behind them.

Aelius whirled around, drawing his broadsword from its scabbard, the sound of the blade scraping through the night as the steel harshly rasped across leather.