3WW: fickle, sparkle, wrinkle

3WW #CXLIII
Fickle
Sparkle
Wrinkle
= = =


The melee in the courtyard slowed, all noise seemingly muted as combatants' eyes followed the arc of the ring as it flew -- no, leisurely floated -- up and up, spinning ever so deliberately in the bright blue sky, emitting sparkle after sparkle as the mid-morning sun's rays reflected off its gleaming surface.

King Philliam, in plush purple robes astride his magnificent midnight-black stallion, was just as dumbstruck as the rest of his gaping men decked in scarlet uniforms, as the gawking rebels with many a wrinkle and hole riddling their dirty peasant attire.

So dumbstruck was he that he didn't even complete the spell he had been casting, the one that required a flourish of the hand infused with his Will, the one that would have laid the rebels to waste in an instant. He didn't even think to invoke a simple Pull spell to get the ring back in hand. Instead, all that ran through his mind was Huh. I must have lost some weight.

Then up jumped Young Master Tyrus.

His too-long arms now seemed works of art as they stretched skywards, ringwards; the band's elegant journey interrupted by the boy's calloused hands. Landing nimbly, Tyrus shook a ring-clutching fist in the air and screamed "I've got it! I've got it! Let's go!" The rebels were quick to react, disengaging from the still-gaping soldiers, emptying the courtyard, disappearing into the many alleyways and downwards into the tunnels.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, King Philliam let out a bellow of incompetent rage. Spell broken, wide-eyed soldiers scurried after the rebels, even though they knew no trace would be found of them: better to vacate the courtyard, however, than to face the wrath of the king.

Alone in the courtyard, King Philliam slid off his horse, unaccustomed dread starting to insinuate itself throughout his very being. Of all the days to have been moved to wear a ring, it had to be today. King Philliam shook his head in disbelief as he led the war stallion to the stables. Of all the rings to have been moved to wear, it had to be that one. Fate surely was the most fickle of mistresses.