Weaver's Knight ~ A Modern Fantasy Web Serial

Ch. 1.1 - Alex

Alejandro Deleon looked at his drafting table, colored pencil tapping at its edge. He frowned at the latest version of his cover art, shaking his head. He ignored the cooling coffee he'd brewed for himself at work.

Smith raised his sword, a weapon of steel and power alloyed. Sharp enough to cut a hair lengthwise yet broad enough to serve as a shield, the energy trailing behind it seared the air. Motes of power hung behind it where Smith swung, yet the Pale Knave blocked it with a wave of his hand. Behind the Knave, the Divine Lady writhed, fighting the bonds that delivered her might to her champion's nemesis...

Alex grabbed his eraser and wiped away the Divine Lady. "Gah. Too cliche. Come on, I can do this. Archetype, not stereotype." Tan fingers ran through short, curly hair. Alex tried again, not quite distracted by the pulsing in his forehead. He ran through a handful of pencils, each color further emphasizing a new duel between powers.

Behind the Knave, the Lady dodged his master, the Devil-Prince. Her magic clashed against his, barely holding him back as...

He grimaced. Too far the other way. Plus, the Devil-Prince is supposed to look just a little off, not have one arm a hand longer than the other, he thought caustically. Alex erased the Lady again, taking half the Devil-Prince with her. He shook off the tension building behind his eyes and began to sketch once more.

Pinned beneath the Devil-Prince's power, the Divine Lady tried to bless Smith with her favor, but the Knave tore at it with his unholy spirit. The power of the Smith-sword wavered.

Alex stared at the page, caught between frustration and disbelief. And the Smith-sword wavered right along with it, he noted dryly. Somehow, he'd put a curve in the middle of the massive blade. His jaw twitched. And now I have a full-blown migraine. Wonderful. Some part of his mind tried to object that tension-headaches weren't migraines. Alex told it to shut up. "Fine," he snarled, hand dropping onto the paper, ready to crush it. "I give up."

His hand didn't close. No. I don't give up, he rumbled. This is... The headache throbbed, and Alex squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "Screw it," he said finally, whirling around and grabbing his jacket and portfolio. "Blowing off some steam for one night is not 'giving up.'" He threw his door open and almost slammed it behind him, striding out with a will. As he walked off, Alex began to smile for the first time in hours. I've got a whole pseudo-weekend ahead of me. Time to enjoy it.

He didn't notice that the headache had stopped the moment he decided to leave.

* ~ * ~ *

The Red Rock Room's music was loud and pounding. Not usually my style, but tonight... The drumming was almost primal, and the guitar beat was almost drum-like itself. Tribal metal. Is that a genre? Alex wondered idly.

To the artist, the place was less interesting visually than it was musically. It has possibilities, though. It was dark, with pulsing multi-colored spotlights overhead. Rave 101, right out of a Hollywood set for a club. The patrons came in several varieties, ranging from his own geek chic to a sort of neon neo-punk to some variant of goth. Everyone seemed to be into the music, though, heads or feet moving to the beat.

All we need is someone to lead the raiding party, Alex thought with almost disembodied glee. He felt on fire, wild, energized. That's downright bizarre, the rational part of his mind mused, after an utter failure of a sketch. He smiled wryly. Maybe the Rave Gods have summoned me. It wasn't a serious thought, but it wouldn't quite disappear. Memories of a father fervently in service to one god and a mother who believed in none at all bubbled up, then drained away.