Another warning for new delvers: Don’t get too hung up on how long you spend within a rift. Factions, guilds, orders, and any other organization understand that approving someone for a delve means they will be unavailable for an unknown amount of time.

  Estimated completion times are just that, estimated. To try and hold yourself to that estimate as a deadline is a fool’s task. Take all you can from the rift. The experience itself will undoubtedly be valuable, as rifts provide opportunities to be placed into roles and situations which are nigh impossible outside.

  

  Willow

  Enduring Tarvey’s Balcony, World’s End Entertainment, Sheerna

  

  Roaring, screaming, hooting, hollering, and laughing. The noise was a textured blanket which alternated between striking the ears and warming the heart. Standing in the crowd, her leather armor stowed away in the pack on her back, Willow’s sparkling dress was one of thousands of garish outfits. The beautiful garment’s sparkling golden weave was interspersed with baby blue and turquoise ribbons. The outfit was traditional to the people of this planet - world? - and was supposed to represent the layered complexity of a person.

  The top of the dress was a sleeveless affair, with a flattering shape cupping her chest tightly while only exposing a tantalizing hint of cleavage. The bodice narrowed sharply in a V over her belly to her waist, the small piece connecting the top and bottom of the dress only as thick as her fist. It covered her belly button, while exposing her sides.

  The skirt of the dress contrasted sharply with the top, the long skirt being a long and flowing affair. The waist was simple, a belted skirt followed by about ten centimeters of fabric. The next ten centimeters was a weave of two fabrics, only slightly thicker as each interwoven material was slightly thinner than the first. Below that layer four thin silks fell together, and so on. The fringe of the skirt was such a complex latticework of gossamer thin sheets of fabric that it whispered pleasantly if she spun quickly. The hem seemed to sparkle and shimmer with every movement.

  The entire dress was made of various shades of gold, which complimented her skin beautifully, somehow making it look as silken and smooth as the soft fabric of the dress itself. The soft blue ribbons and bangles were added to compliment her eyes, and to conform with the gregarious culture of this place. Most of the locals skin colors ranged from neon pink to onyx black, with only the most ‘unfortunate’ having skin tones which weren’t immediately eye catching. Willow had been patted consolingly by many well-wishing people about her ‘skin’s lack of flair.’

  She’d been reassured at least a dozen times by the seamstress who designed her dress that her ‘unfortunately plain’ skin color was no problem. She said there was beauty in something under-stated, though the woman had clearly not believed it. When she told Willow her eyes were striking enough to make up for the lack, however, she was certain it was a sincere compliment.

  Other than their bright skin colors, all of the people here were normal humans. Save their eyes. Every single eye was inky black in its entirety. Not a single person had white sclera, nor a colored iris. Each eye was like an endless peak into a black hole. This difference was, somehow, even more notable to the locals than her skin tone. There were others with ‘boring’ skin colors, but no one had colored eyes. It had been a struggle to convince the well-meaning seamstress that she didn’t need a headdress which would direct all observers to her eyes with what amounted to pointing arrows.

  In the end, she had conceded to wearing a simple diadem with the bottom tip of a raindrop shaped setting pointing down her brow. The stone set within was a chip of a local material they simply called ‘Ice Stone’ which was was a near match to her own eye color.

  The only part of the outfit which the locals hadn’t designed were her shoes, which couldn’t be seen anyway. Since they wouldn’t be on display, Willow had kept the sneaker-boots she’d been wearing for… However long she’d been within Sheerna.

  Every person here was dressed differently. Flowing dresses, sharply tailored suits, fabric cut in ways which made their wearers look like birds, hats and head dresses of every conceivable variety. The only constant was the rule of complexity. The bottom part of each outfit was at least twice as complex as the top, if not more.

  A stranger would be forgiven for thinking today was a city-wide festival. In fact, Willow had thought as much, and had immediately been forgiven while the man she’d asked happily explained that it was as normal a day as anyone could find.

  Willow had been here for two weeks now, though each day and night passed at least twice as fast as her UICI’s clock’s universal time, so maybe just one. She stood watching the crowd from the balcony of her room, a room she’d acquired by agreeing to let the hotel owner’s wife design and make her dress. It was beautiful, so there was no doubt in Willow’s mind she’d gotten the best end of the deal. And yet…

  It’s all so… She let her thought trail out, not certain how to end it. The people below rushed around excitedly, jumping for joy and hollering at one another brightly. This was the ‘World’s End Entertainment.’ Not the plaza, not the street, the city. The entire city was named as a place of entertainment. The claim wasn’t empty, as everyone here was expected to perform. The noise never fully died down, as any large city, yet it all felt so practiced. The joy filled tones of raised voices were all so similar, with little variation.

  The call of one friend to another managed to cut through the clamor on the street Willow was watching. Their performance began. The man who had called out rushed forward, the crowd parted and formed smoothly into a near-perfect circle, everyone sorting themselves by height to allow as many as possible a view.

  Once in the center, he met the woman he’d called to. She called his name, a clear and bright sound which traveled effortlessly to Willow’s ears, “Tavalen!”

  Then they both stepped forward and embraced, the man sweeping the woman up and spinning her around. Both laughed, the man’s voice booming, the woman’s tinkling. They spun apart, the man’s right hand clutching the woman’s left so their momentum halted before separating fully.

  “By the gods and devils below, my sweet Chiremol! The red of your skin appears to radiate heat, and your eyes drink the light like an endless abyss!” His powerful proclamation elicited a bright smattering of cheering agreement from the onlooking crowd.

  Bringing a dainty hand in front of her cherry-red lips, the woman giggled loudly enough for all to hear. “Tavalen, you scoundrel! You know full well the heat of my skin is not for you, yet you jest such! I am a woman betrothed, and to your brother no less!”

  Gasps from the crowd, shock and anticipation. “HAH! My brother and his yellowed skin can scarce compare to my radiant blue, and consider then, you, our children shall be violet fruits! With my passion and your grace, what could compare!”

  Laughter, a few boos, some shouts to, “Leave promised women alone!”

  Stepping in closer, Chiremol laid a small hand on the blue man’s broad chest and looked up into his eyes. She leaned forward, until their bodies were nearly touching. The striking shades of yellow she’d painted her face with easily broadcast the expression of longing which she wore as she stared up at Tavalen’s silver-painted face.

  Then, in a sudden shock of motion, Tavalen pulled Chiremol tightly to himself and pressed his lips down on hers. The crowd exploded in roaring excitement, cheers and jeers in equal measure. Several fights developed from members of the crowd, who screamed at each other over the occurrence. Talking about bets lost and favors owed. Those fights gathered their own circles of onlookers.

  There, on the street, Tavelen and Chiremol began ripping each other’s clothing in their haste to remove it all. Hands explored freely and the crowd’s mixed outrage and elation reached a new fever pitch. Feeling blood rushing to her cheeks, Willow turned away. She walked to the other end of the balcony, finding other scenes playing out below. None so salacious, thankfully. Her blush deepened as she heard unmistakable moaning and groaning, projected as dramatically as the rest of the performance.

  This, was the city of World’s End Entertainment. Every moment, every interaction, was a play. Every person an actor and audience both. A closed door was little more than a drawn curtain, ready to be pulled open to view the next scene. Her own door had a dresser in front of it, keeping the locals out. She’d learned to keep the passage blocked with the heaviest thing she could find after waking to find three people standing in her room, watching her sleep. She’d also started wearing her armor when she slept, rather than just her underwear.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The entire thing had been a source of excited scandal as Willow had reacted by screaming for them to all leave. When they didn’t budge, she literally grabbed two by their ears and dragged them out. The last had followed, laughing. The story was recounted frequently, as apparently wanting to be unobserved while sleeping was odd here. Most people enjoyed having ‘followers’ who would watch them even while sleeping. When it had become known that Willow didn’t want followers - stalkers - at all, she’d immediately become a celebrity.

  For once, she was certain she knew where the rat king was and how she’d end up in front of him. He was one of the premier celebrities in the city and constantly staged elaborate scenes, some even being violent. The people loved him. Willow’s celebrity status would eventually lead them together. Regardless of what she wanted. If she fled the city, she’d be followed. This city was called ‘World’s End Entertainment’, but every city was named similarly. The entire world was the same, according to the locals who had happily explained in their own booming voices.

  Being watched constantly wasn’t entirely new to Willow, given her past. What was new, was even mundane activities like eating in her own room or sleeping being noteworthy. She’d even had a few dozen people watching her as the hotel owner’s wife - was it Immie or something? - had taken her measurements for her dress. The same dozen had returned when she went to pick it up and have the final fitting done.

  If she ran, she’d end up in front of the rat king one way or another. Either he would chase her for the sake of his own fame, or the citizens would contrive their own plots to pull them together. After all, entertainment was more than just isolated scenes. The drama between Tavalen and Chiremol which she’d witnessed just moments ago had likely been building for months, if not years.

  There was a good chance other ‘actors’ had involved themselves to manipulate circumstances to ensure their obvious attraction to each other had been opposed, obstacles introduced. There was likely a villain painted in the entire thing, maybe Tavalen’s brother, maybe some third party which everyone but the pair themselves knew had been manipulating things to try and keep them apart.

  All of this was facilitated by someone the people, in hushed voices, called, ‘The Benefactor’. A man who had somehow ‘solved’ all the world’s problems. There was no poverty, as a livable stipend literally appeared out of thin air in front of every person daily. Willow herself had accumulated a lot of the little gold tokens which the locals used as currency, just by waking up each morning. Every morning at the same time, a soft hum would precede a gentle flash of light, then a small stack of ten coins would be laying somewhere within her view.

  The coins were mostly meaningless, though, as no one really seemed to care to use them in exchange for goods or services. Most people were more than happy to give whatever someone wanted in exchange for a loud conversation which brought in a small audience. Some people simply stole what they wanted and left calling signs, which itself was a form of payment as it built a drama for the merchant’s followers to track.

  Even the most downtrodden and despised had their own audience, people who loved to watch their suffering. People who knew their suffering required them to have hope, and thus would provide it. Even those people didn’t sleep in the streets, but in warm beds. They might not have three meals a day, but they always had one.

  Tokens were mostly used as a symbolic gesture. Sometimes people would exchange tokens, but only if there was some kind of greater meaning to be painted in the exchange. ‘Illegal’ deals might see an exchange of money, but in reality the drama the situation generated was the payment. The ‘money’ was just used to show the audience how ‘expensive’ it was.

  The city, the world, was a stage. A loud, never-sleeping stage. Willow’s eyes were distant as she distractedly observed the comings and goings, the clusters of dramatic scenes which burst into existence from seemingly nowhere. The roars of happy people who won money on bets, or the cries of those who lost.

  Amid the constant stimulation, though, the cheers of the children stood out. They were learning from their elders to be dramatic, to be gregarious, to lie, to cheat, to look for the entertainment in the lives of strangers and in turn amuse others. Yet they were still innocent in their own way. Their dramas weren’t complex interpersonal relationships, or theft, broken promises, crime syndicates.

  No, they played at hero and monster. Their reenactment of famous tragedies were punctuated by giggles, rather than trained tears. Their joyous shrieking was a familiar balm, calling memories of weekends spent with her family.

  Sitting next to Hunter and Veera, the three swung their legs out in unison. The thrice reinforced - due to their antics - porch swing nearly went vertical with the worn deck planks. It was habit to maintain this impractical and reckless swinging pace. It was only possible due to uncle Blake’s over-engineered porch swing.

  Why would a porch swing need to have holes cut through the deck so they could be planted four feet into the ground with concrete poured to keep it stable? It wouldn’t. That didn’t stop uncle Blake, though. The man was a menace of stable construction. The decades old deck planks didn’t even groan in protest when stepped on. Shameful.

  The trio watched as their four youngest cousins chased each other and the two dogs around. They giggled and screamed in turn. Little Casey tripped and face-planted in the mud. Willow might have been concerned, had she not seen the same little girl do the exact same thing almost a half dozen times today.

  Veera leaned forward at the apex of their swing, a risky but impressive display of core strength, to look over at Willow. “Are you sure you don’t have anyone special, Willow? You’re almost twenty! I snatched up Hunter here when I was only seventeen, you’ve gotta get out there before all the good guys are taken!”

  Leaning forward herself, Willow watched Hunter’s smug face from the corner of her eyes. “If it’s all about getting in early, how’d you still get stuck with him? Lose a bet?” The smug look crumbled. Heh.

  “Willow! Don’t be rude!” Veera reached out to pinch at Willow’s leg, but couldn’t get a good grip as Willow flexed. Sending a smarmy smirk at her cousin, she answered the real question, “I don’t know, twenty is still pretty young right? I can’t even drink, yet, after all!” She said, as she raised a craft beer to her lips.

  “Urgh!” Veera threw herself backward into the swing, throwing off their rhythm and slowing the dangerous pace to just unrecommended. “You know what I mean!”

  “Yeah, yeah. But we’ve known Hunter since he was even more of a pipsqueak. I mean, he’s still only like, what, buck twenty? Pretty sure I weight more.” She poked her cousin-in-law in the belly and dodged the casual slap he sent her way.

  He flashed her a smirk, “Just cuz I watch what I eat, don’t be gettin’ jealous.”

  They both snickered at the ancient joke. Hunter was a stick of a man. Willow wasn’t large by any measure, only being 164cm tall and somewhere around fifty five kilograms, but she was muscular and fit. Hunter was just skinny. It was lucky he was both smart and a good person, or he’d never have managed to win Veera’s famously picky heart.

  Tommy started screaming at Steph for ‘steewling her gog’ as the latter threw a stick for Bo. They all ignored the children’s dispute.

  “It’s not so much lack of interest. I mean, I’d love to find the right man. But I’ve already got so much to do every day, how am I supposed to juggle all my training, press interviews, meeting with brands about sponsorship, spending time with my friends, and a boyfriend? It’s just not in the card, y’know?”

  She kicked extra hard, helping get the swing back on track. Back to the comforting velocity, which promised injury should anyone fall out.

  “She’s just scared to tell James she’s got a crush on him.” Willow just rolled her eyes, not rising to the bait. She loved James, but was it that kind of love? She didn’t know. She knew he loved, or at least had a crush on, her. He hadn’t confessed or anything, but he also wasn’t subtle. Shy, flirty, dependable, helpful, always ready to support her. Maybe I should give him a chance? I could see myself being happy growing old with him.

  Veera snorted, the explosively un-ladylike sound always shocking coming from the perfect southern belle. Sun-tanned skin dotted with freckles, bright blonde hair, and the family staple bright blue eyes. All wrapped up in one of the demure dresses she loved so much, looking thick and home-made. Because they were home-made, by Veera herself. The illusion of her traditional lady-likeness was a thin veneer.

  “No way James can keep up with Willow. He’d be like a lap-post. She’d be springing all over, just coming back to him. Or worse, a tether. Keeping her from flying high cuz she’s gotta stay close to the ground for that boy.”

  “Hey! Don’t be mean to James when he’s not here to flush about it!” Willow shot back, craning her head forward to shoot the blonde a playful glare.

  Is she right? Would I stop following my dreams because he couldn’t keep up? It wasn’t a new thought. Rather, the very question was one of the reasons she’d never suggested they date. She didn’t want to hurt him, or herself, or ruin their friendship. Worse, if she and James had a bad falling out what would happen to her little friend-group? They were all so precious, she couldn’t bear losing even a single one. Much less being the cause they all split up and stopped being a tight-knit unit.

  While James was the only one who would be able to come with her to her come-back in the upcoming Olympic games, they would all be there in spirit. I’ll talk to him about it after. We can talk like adults. We don’t have to act like stupid kids.

  “Just don’t wait too long! Life’s short, you’ve gotta make the most of it! Love and family is what gives us purpose, after all!”

  Love and family… Purpose… Willow stared out into the streets, at the lively festivities which seemed to lack meaning. There were no true consequences, because everyone had an eternity before them. A single mistake wouldn’t end someone’s story forever, leaving everyone around them broken and lost. A good thing. Yet, it also meant that every moment would eventually be forgotten.

  How long until I forget that conversation on the swing? Until I forget my cousin’s freckled face? Until I forget about James, Vash, Whitney, and Fenny?

  Willow had felt her path had always been clear. She found something she loved doing and she became the best at it. It was a simple goal, but meaningful. She knew she’d competed as a gymnast. Not because she wanted or needed the money from sponsorship, nor for the fame and recognition.

  No, she’d compete because she wanted to be the best. Competing was the only way to be sure. Pitting herself against other people with the same dream, the same drive, the same path.

  Knowing she wanted to be the best at what she did, Willow had known what to do. How to get there. She even knew how long she had to do it. She couldn’t get distracted, because she had a deadline. Literally.

  Staring down at the endless colors, the endless spectacles, Willow finally realized that in an infinite world, she had infinite time. If she had infinite time…

  The thought lead to her current dilemma. She was stubbornly refusing to follow the pre-written path laid out for her in this rift. It was so clear that if she just played along, she’d be free. She might spend a year in a prison, but was that anything at all in the grand scheme? Would that even translate to a year outside of the rift? This rift was supposed to have some kind of time compression, though she didn’t remember how much.

  Yet she refused. She didn’t want to give up. Not just because she didn’t want to go to jail. If she fought and lost, she’d really not have a problem spending a year or seven in a cell as a result. No, the problem was simple. She’d chosen not to and didn’t want to go back on that choice. Why? Every day she was less sure…

  Turning her eyes from the crowd below, Willow looked down at the beautiful, complex, and lovingly crafted dress she wore. Her fingers traced along the layers below her waist, not noticing the soft sensation her fingers reported.

  Each of Willow’s trains of thought kept leading her back to the same question.

  What’s the point?