Today we come back to a character that has so far only been hinted at - Zoba. While I'll not give any hints as to his place in the overall story I'm telling, it is important. One thing that the reader is stuck with as this first draft progresses is that the timing and balance of how the story unfolds is unpolished. The main content is developing as I'd like, but there will certainly be elements of the story that get moved around for purposes of clarity once I edit this first draft. Also worth noting, for those on this journey with me who may be concerned about my profession of being unsure where this is all going, fear not. You will not be abandoned. I have a pretty clear idea of where it's all going and how to get there now. No guarantees that you'll like the end result, but there is indeed a plan :-)
Chapter 4
Zoba sped across the Plains of Velchuria. It was one of the few lands in Alycia that one could not count on safe passage. This was a peaceful world and the inhabitants had no designs on gain through the pain or misfortune of others. For the most part.
A remnant of the Great Split was a category of muddled souls who had not fully split and were forever bound in a twilight of confusion and hatred, fueled by the fact that they lacked the purity of most Alycians. Zoba felt sympathy for their plight, and thus unlike some Alycians who felt hunting down the Velchurians for sport was a responsibility to the world they lived in, steered clear of their lands and did his best to let them be. But he knew that those foolish enough to enter the Plains could not count on the same allowance from the Velchurians. Targeted and hunted for so long, they had developed a keen sense of survival, mixed with a brutality that was largely absent from this world. A lone traveler, even one as formidable as Zoba, could easily find himself in trouble fast.
He checked the tank of his sun glider again. It’s wings gold and glittering like a dragonfly, Zoba sat atop the center on a shimmering saddle, appearing to float between the wings as finely spun gossamer threads were what connected it all. The tank was a small back up, capable of only a few minutes flight past the sun’s setting. Traveling at night was not done except in emergencies in Alycia. After all, righteous work was done in full view of the world, not cloaked in darkness.
Unfortunately Zoba needed to consult with The Order as soon as possible, and that meant taking risks. The path across the Plains would get him to the Kingdom of the Order a full three days faster than traversing the Golden Ring. But it also meant he’d be pushing right up against sun set to make it across. As long as nothing went wrong he would have a few minutes to spare. If anything did go wrong though, well, those were thoughts best left alone. This was not a journey in which he could afford to contemplate failure.
Sadly that was ripped out of his control as a black wisp of smoke suddenly replaced the left side wing that had so recently allowed him to dance across the sky. There was no time to figure out what had happened to his beautiful and trusted craft. Now Zoba saw nothing but a fast approaching ground, dusty and desolate, as night drew near and his ability to escape these deadly plains without incident was extinguished. A solitary thought overtook his mind. Survive. He could figure out what to do next if he was lucky enough to have that option.
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