RFC-Mini Arc 2: Elven Garde-09 (Patreon)

ANNOUNCEMENT!

So, I have considered the issue with the Cultist tier. While the initial bulk of material available from the free chapters seems fine, I agree, paying $20 for five chapters a week the same as the other tiers is... an unreasonable expectation for all.

There are two solutions as I see it. The first would simply be to match the content to the price of the tier. Which would be something like doubling the number of chapters released per week. The thought of which I love probably as much as you guys do, but is not really possible with my schedule. Ah, the day when I become a full-time writer...

Bringing us to solution #2! The one I will be doing. Once Elven Garde has finished, I will be altering the $20 tier. Essentially, it will pause, no further content being added until the $10 tier, Dreamer, catches up. Never fear! It will take the month of November only, new chapters coming out December, guaranteed. I will go as far as to promise that upon December, there will be a bulk release to celebrate.

In the meantime, I advise all my Cultists to either switch down to the $1 tier, if you want to keep your subscription streak going, or follow my patreon. I will release an update for when the new chapters come. I have a Twitter I rarely use but it'll be there too if that's easier Azazel (@Speak2Azazel) / Twitter

However, the Cultist tier will stick around! It will be there simply as a way of showing more support for now but, thanks to you wonderful people, RFC is progressing far faster than I could have imagined. I think I'll be ready to start the next planned series much sooner than anticipated. Fun times.

That's all I wanted to say. Feel free to comment any thoughts or questions! And as always, enjoy the chapters.

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He stayed in the lonely garden for several minutes, organizing his thoughts. They were a bog of confusion he couldn’t find his way through, a mire of speculation and negative emotion stirred by Kierra’s words. Beyond that, he couldn’t move because it would mean moving forward. Accepting her words meant accepting he had no chance and he didn’t know if he could.

In the end, the chill forced him to move and he traveled back to his home with lurching steps. The Grand Market, usually bustling with activity, was quiet, most of the shops closed for the day. Light illuminated the street from the few taverns still open and standing torches spaced evenly down the road, lit by magic rather than fire. Callan didn’t need to see to make his way home, having walked the streets hundreds of times.

Atkinson & Sons Woodworks was closed, same as the other shops. He moved around to the back, coming out of his daze when he found the backdoor was locked as well. He always kept it open when he went out and told his father about it.

He banged on the door, annoyance making the pounding louder and louder. The door was too sturdy to rattle on its hinges but from the sound alone, a passerby would think someone was posed to knock it down.

Lights spilled from a second-floor window and Callan stopped knocking, letting out a huff. He waited impatiently as someone on the other side of the door undid the locks.

An older man appeared in the doorway, wearing a scowl. Callan didn’t look much like his father, inheriting his mother’s fairer skin and dark hair. They did, however, share the same eyes, thin and prone to glaring.

“Where the hell have you been all night?” Caeron hissed, forcefully quieting the shouts that wanted to erupt from his throat.

“Out,” Callan replied tersely, stepping forward. He went nowhere, his father blocking his way. “It’s been a long day and I just want to go to sleep. Can we do this is the morning?”

“I think I’ve spoiled you enough.” His father straightened his slouched back, as intimidating as he could be with eyes still bleary from sleep and wearing a pair of loose trousers. “You’ve got talent but that isn’t enough. Running a shop takes commitment.”

“I do my work,” Callan sniped.

“It’s not just about the work!” his father snapped back. “The fact that you don’t understand that means you haven’t learned anything. I think one of your brother’s might be better suited to take over.”

“Fine. May I go to bed now?”

His father paused. Then he scowled mightily. “What exactly does the family legacy mean to you, boy?”

“Nothing.” Carpentry was a good way to make money but he didn’t plan on spending the rest of his life making chairs for other people’s asses. “And don’t call me boy.”

Callan tried to move forward again and was rebuffed a second time. His father was fully awake, anger banishing the last vestiges of sleep.

“You listen to me. The Atkinson family has been known as the best carpenters—”

“I don’t need the usual spiel. Didn’t you just say one of my brothers is going to inherit your precious legacy? Save it for them.” Callan glared at him. He knew his father wanted, no, needed him to take over. Otherwise, he’d be settling for a subpar successor. He supposed the tough act was meant to scare him straight. Unfortunately, his father couldn’t see he was well past the age of cowering before his parents.

This time, when he moved forward, he anticipated being blocked and wasn’t nice about it, driving his shoulder forward. Caeron grunted as he was pushed aside. Callan walked quickly to avoid whatever he would say next, hurrying to his room on the second floor and slamming the door shut behind him.

The room was sparsely decorated, containing a small bed, a worktable, and a tall dresser. The walls were unadorned and the room was spotless, not even a spare sock to be found on the polished floorboards. A small yellow flower sat in a thin glass vase on the windowsill.

Callan’s lips twitched with urge to scowl but it never formed. He could never be angry with his mother, despite her overbearing nature. At least, unlike his father, she respected his boundaries.

The proof being his cluttered worktable, a stark contrast to the orderly room. Callan pulled out the single chair and eyed his projects. All he ever worked on in his private time were wooden figurines. Besides the gifts reserved for the hostess of Elven Garde, they depicted the same image; a tall, shapely woman with long hair and pointed ears.

Each one had her in a different pose. Standing with her arms crossed, caught in the motion of tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, crouching with a hand extended toward the ground.

Callan picked up his latest work that showed his subject reclining on a bed, one leg bent while the other was stretched out, her head turned to the side with her hair splayed around her. He ran a finger over one of the finely sculpted legs, imagining the smooth finish as soft flesh. Then he threw it away with a curse.

“Lourianne Tome,” he growled, forsaking his bed to ruminate in his dark thoughts.