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[Roger de Clare]

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The battle raged for hours. Demonic hordes, imps, dark fathers, companies of undead such as liches and mummies, kept coming from the area of the corrupted moongate. The warriors and mages and tamers of many noble houses fought them toe and nail, holding the line at the outskirts of the city.

Yet here and there some buildings began to burn.

Whole acres of jungle turned to blackened ash by fire and energy blast. Monsters fell. Heroes fell. More always came. Thrice Roger de Clare was toppled by the forces clashing around him and lay senseless as the lines wavered to and fro over him.

Yet finally, finally, the monsters began to fall back, back, back. Sensing victory the blackened, bloodied defenders surged forward and kept pushing and hewing, casting their spells and summoning creatures of power.

Until no living foe could be seen. They had been defeated.

Roger gazed around and around. Rode to the moongate where many others sat on their mounts and stared. The filthy but grinning men and women wondered if it was over. Braced for another monstrous attack.

And waited. Exhausted, Roger made his way to his ship. Instructed Halfdan to summon him by pigeon if another attack came. Then he cast holy journey and returned home.

He checked upstairs and found Xana sleeping fitfully. He leaned down and lightly kissed her forehead and her eyes. She relaxed and smiled.

He dropped his armor and weapons on the floor downstairs. Dropped into the pool and swam away the filth of battle. Climbed out and ate a cold but satifying meal.

Then he returned upstairs, gently eased into bed beside his beloved Xana and slept.

[Xana]

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It was as if in a dream Xana was roused from a fitful sleep. She could have sworn she felt Roger's lips against her face, but when her eyes opened he was not to be seen in the murky gloom of their bedroom. With the petulance of a scorned child, she lay in the dark and wondered if it were some type of omen to have been so convinced Roger had come home.

A cold foreboding crept over the sleepy bard's entire being. Xana was paralyzed with the conviction that something had happened to Roger. Just as she was about to leap from the bed and dress, she heard the clang of armor hitting the tiles beside the pool downstairs. With a sigh that was part relief and part that of adoration, Xana fell back onto the pillows.

And waited for him.
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An artist is a creature driven by demons ~Faulkner