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Unsafe Campsite

7/24/2016

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It was a long way to The Old City. Feldspar and Gypsum made good time the first two days. The road was smooth and clear and there were many campsites along the way showing frequent usage by other travelers. The twins jogged often for miles at a time, partly to maintain their conditioning and partly for the sheer enjoyment of the effort.  And perhaps, a little, because they were impatient to see the legendary place.
One of the ancient rivers—merely a stream at this time of year—that ran from the mountains surrounding The Old City joined them along the way, running parallel to the road about a hundred yards to their right. They were cautious about drinking it at first, but when tentative sips offered no discomfort they accepted what they had been told. The ancient poison was gone and the water was safe.  
It was four full days of well-paced travel before the horizon offered a hint of their destination.  Constant thin trails of smoke ascended from still unseen sources toward the sky. Those were the signs of the forges and smithies the inhabitants of the city maintained.  The twins had never seen smoke like that before.  It was black and white, twisting together like twirling ribbons running into the vacant azure and spreading across the sky into a permanent swirling gray cloud cover.
The twins slowed their approach. They decided they were in no hurry to get under that gloomy blockage of the sunlight.
When they were still a day away from The Old City the road offered choices again—left, right, or straight ahead.  This decision was not as easy as the first and they chose to camp there at one of the used campsites while they discussed their options.
Ever suspicious, Feldspar walked in large circles around the site, looking for signs to indicate any possible dangers.
He found more than one.
Trip wires, old and worn and severed now, had been strung around the site years or decades ago. What they had been attached to was no longer in evidence, but apparently someone had considered the effort to place them a necessity.
And there was evidence of a small battle or at least a skirmish. A piece of armor broken by a sword blow, a broken horn and a broken fang with blood on it, and, mostly buried under sand, a big jagged rock also stained with blood. These things were all around the old campsite that would naturally be used by travelers.
He insisted that they choose a campsite next to the stream to guard at least part of their perimeter. 
Gypsum had his own suspicions.  Examining the pieces Feldspar had found, he suggested that these remnants of violence were from at least two different times.  Feldspar's further examination caused him to agree. The amount of weathering on the fang and the horn were much different.  And the blood stains on the fang and the rock also showed different age.
It was clear to them both that this was an ambush site.
They prepared their camp like normal. They erected their tents, built the fire, found some luck in the stream with their fishing gear, and ate casually. They appeared not to have a care in the world.
When the darkness shrouded their movements they took their sleeping bags and silently moved nearer the stream, perhaps thirty yards away from the campsite.  They were essentially invisible to anyone approaching the tents and still-glowing fire. One slept while the other kept watch. They wished to see if an attack would indeed be staged upon the campsite.
They were not disappointed.    


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Goodbye Forever

7/5/2016

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They woke early and wasted no time in breaking camp. They did it very quietly and disappeared from the lives of Pyrite and Amethyst and the people of Rackarn forever. They made good time toward the river. A sturdy bridge spanned the water at a wide point where the force of the surge would be diminished a little.  They could see that this bridge was built more heavily and carefully than the flimsy one built by the people of Krakold. Feldspar noted that it seemed too much reliance on religion produced too little reliance on hard work.
After they were a mile past the bridge they stopped, prepared a cold breakfast, and studied the map. Two miles down the road presented three choices: upriver to more villages and small towns much like Groakpod or Rackarn.  Downstream and veering gradually off to the east the road led to the one big city on their map—Chorkald.  It was rumored to have over ten thousand Riotori living within its borders.  It was surrounded by farms and ranches and filled with markets and stables and smithies and saloons and every kind of commerce.  There was no doubt they would find many beautiful females there; they would probably have their pick of pleasing young women.
Or they could go straight and eventually reach The Old City.  It had been named something else, of course, a hundred or thousand years ago when it was still inhabited by more than a few strange dedicated disciples that tried to keep the fires going and the factories producing and the buildings in repair. It was said that this work passed from parent to child and had done so for more generations than any Riotori could count.
The Old City had been the source of all weapons and armor for a thousand miles around at one time, centuries ago. There were mines dug deep into the mountains that enfolded the city on three sides. The mines brought forth iron and copper and silver and gold...and one day, legends say, it brought forth poison.
Mists belched from one of the mines, issuing out like wind-blown drizzle, covering the city and then dissipating slowly as winds pushed it out beyond the city's borders.
The small rivers that were the lifeblood of the city were contaminated and killed all who drank from them even miles downstream.
The city died.  Thousands of Riotori lay in the streets and the buildings, dead.  Their carcasses decayed in the sun of the streets and the shade of the buildings and the rooms inside.  The stench became unbearable and deadly.  Carrion eaters crept into the city, feasted on the dead, and became dead themselves. The poison remained in the flesh of the dead.
An entire generation of Riotori avoided the city of death and even the rivers that flowed from the mountains.  Then some brave souls dared to visit. Some were the grandchildren of those who had fled the city in time, or had been luckily away on the day of death. Others risked it for the treasures rumored to be ripe for the picking in the city and the mines.
Those too impatient or too careless died.  But others continued to investigate and eventually it seemed that the curse of the poison was passed.  
The Old City was not inhabited except for the previously mentioned disciples but there were three towns near its perimeter.
The twins had never discussed what they would do when this decision was presented, but there was never any doubt. There was no need to discuss it.
They ignored the roads to left and right and continued straight ahead.

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    The story: This serial is about the "mascot" shown at the top of these pages. There are actually two of them, identical twins, Feldspar and Gypsum.
    The people call themselves Riotori, and their planet is Kylrock. The twins have been journeying for hundreds of miles, across many hazards, in search of mates. Please visit the archives to read their whole story.



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