Chapter 10: Rift Expedition
"Where the hell is our courier? We have barely ten minutes left until the Rift opens and he’s not even here."
Moffrey’s frustrated voice turned the heads of two of his squadmates. Assigned the role of striker, his tall, lean frame and the icy menace of his Frostbitten Cobra made him ideal for it.
His face was rough and prematurely weathered for his age of 24, a husky edge to his voice and sharp brown eyes beneath the mess of spiky brown hair jutting from his head.
An armor of a sleeveless navy jacket exposed his lean arms. His forearms were protected in scaled mesh armor, patterned like serpent skin and reinforced with aether blasters— the blaster in his left arm was connected to his beastlinker.
A cheap aether gun was strapped to his shorts, and his boots had shortflight rockets infused underneath. The visor atop his head bounced slightly as he snapped his head at the rest of his teammates, expecting them to say something.
"Chill out, Moffrey. It’s only a courier; a pretty useless role anyway." Anson, the second striker, said with a chuckle as he ran a whetstone over his spear. "Besides, our assigned escort isn’t here either."
"He was here earlier. He left to go find the idiot."
"Can we not with the insults?" Songred, the captain, sighed. "And the courier is not a useless role. Every position is important for a successful Rift Clearing."
"Pfft," Moffrey rolled his eyes. "Don’t get all high and mighty on us just because you’re the captain. We’re all Class E’s here."
Songred nonchalantly lifted his brow at him, his long silver hair shifting aside. "Speak for yourself. I moved up to Class D over the weekend."
Pott, the big hunk Vanguard, gave a grunt of approval, his Geargrinder Rhino snorting beside him.