Anarchistbanjo's World

Anarchist Time Knights-Day 11: The Whisper of the Traitor

The sun ignites Oakenspire, gold and violet clawing over crystal-veined stone, OAK spires stabbing the sky. Tobal’s in the great hall, wild hair tangled, scarred hands twitching—brown eyes smolder like he’s still tasting yesterday’s fight. Fiona’s close, red braid flicking, green eyes cutting through—her fingers graze his arm, sex and magic humming from Day 10’s rift seal, pulling them tight. Rafe slouches by the wall, dagger spinning lazy, hazel eyes glinting—his smirk cuts: “Trouble’s winking—gonna flirt back?” Becca looms, broad shoulders squared, blue eyes blazing under her shaved skull—axe rests heavy, yang simmering. Cal stands tall, spear catching dawn, gray gaze steady—quiet anchors it. Valentine prowls, shaggy gray fur rippling, yellow eyes slicing—his growl vibrates deep.

The OAK groans—roots quake, a whisper ripping through: “Rift’s awake—kin stirs.” Tobal’s scars tighten, jaw clenching—his voice bites: “We ride. Now.” Fiona’s eyes flash—staff hums, vines twitching. Rafe’s dagger stills, Becca’s grip flexes, Cal shifts, Val’s hackles rise.

Storm’s hooves hammer—midnight muscle—Tobal leans low, wind clawing his scars. Fiona spurs Blaze—chestnut fire—staff pulses green, braid snaps. Becca rides hard—yang roaring—axe thuds her thigh, shaved head shines. Rafe darts—wiry frame weaving roots—grinning sharp at a farmer’s kid hauling grain—pace cuts close. Cal strides—tall shadow steady—spear gleams—yin drives his grind—no horse, all will. Valentine streaks—gray blur—Chaos stinks ahead—farms fade, wild claws in—OAKs groan—Fiona calls: “It’s here.”

The rift gapes—jagged wound, venomous—spitting black. Reptilian claws rake—scales glint, Chaos hisses sour. Tobal’s blade whip cracks, OAK steel slashing shadow—scars burn. Fiona’s staff vines snap, magic coiling—green chokes the edges shut. Rafe’s daggers flick, silver carving—“Too damn easy,” he spits, smirk fading. Becca’s axe roars, broad steel splitting—yang explodes, shout echoing. Cal’s spear thrusts, shielding Val—tall frame steady as the wolf’s teeth tear—fury unleashed. A whisper slithers—cold, close: “Not yet, fools—kin watches.” Rift snaps shut.

Dust settles—Fiona drops to one knee, green eyes locked on the OAK’s hum. “It’s kin—blood’s turned,” she says, voice heavy with roots. Tobal’s lean frame stiffens—brown eyes darken: “Mine or yours?” Rafe’s grin twists—“Family’s a bitch—whose uncle’s pissed?” Becca’s hands choke her axe—blue eyes flare: “Traitor’s close—I taste it.” Cal’s gray calm cuts—spear dips: “Oakenspire’s threading it—home knows.” Valentine snarls—yellow eyes swing back—snout points inward—Chaos reeks closer.

They haul back—Storm stomps, Tobal’s boots grind—scars tight. Fiona rides Blaze, braid swaying—staff dims, green fading. Rafe’s bounce kicks up—“Bet it’s an uncle—grudge runs deep.” Becca’s yang cools, axe slung—blue eyes smolder. Cal’s spear rests, shadow unwavering—gray tracks the horizon. Valentine pads close—shaggy guard—yellow eyes dart. Oakenspire looms, roots thrumming—the whisper coils, kin’s shadow sinking into Eden’s veins. Day 11 fades—sun bleeds out—traitor’s breath hot.