My Friend Frank
Anya squinted through the steam, the aroma of burnt toast and Anya’s hopes clinging to the air. This wasn’t how she envisioned the results of her latest attempt at achieving her mission. But then again, most things in Anya’s life defied convention.
The once pristine kitchen, a battlefield of stainless steel and gleaming countertops, now resembled a alchemist’s haven. A kaleidoscope of bubbling concoctions simmered on the stovetop, their scents mingling in a symphony of spice and possibility. Anya, clad in a mismatched lab coat (courtesy of a rogue experiment that dyed her usual attire every shade in the visual spectrum), sported a welding mask perched on her forehead, a testament to a particularly fiery experiment just the day before.
Unlike her counterparts in dusty tomes, Anya had no wizened mentors dispensing cryptic wisdom. No mischievous friends flitting about, ready to stir up trouble. Her only companions were the worn cookbooks stacked high on the counter, whispering tales of culinary legends, and a solitary figurine on the corner shelf. Carved from a smooth, obsidian rock, the figurine depicted a stern-faced gargoyle with a permanently furrowed brow. A remnant of her childhood, Anya had imbued it with the personality of a grumpy critic, forever judging her concoctions with its silent disapproval. Today’s project? The Everlasting Elixir, a legendary potion whispered to grant boundless energy and a youthful spirit. Perfect for whom, you might ask? Anya, of course!
With a determined glint in her eye, Anya began the meticulous process of assembling the fantastical ingredients. First, a single, luminescent tear, captured under a sky painted an impossible blue during a celestial event whispered only in ancient legends. This tear, collected in a vial of enchanted moonlight quartz, shimmered with an otherworldly luminescence.
Next, a feather, impossibly large, was snagged from a creature that soared above the highest peaks, a creature of myth and legend. Anya, ever resourceful, sewed a winged-suit, christened the “Brick” (Frank, with a particularly grumpy expression etched on his obsidian face, couldn’t help but mutter something about a “death wish”), and spent weeks navigating treacherous air currents before finally managing to snag a single feather from a startled Gryphon during a daring aerial maneuver.
The most elusive ingredient, however, was a whisper. Not just any whisper, mind you, but a single, melodious breath exhaled from a flower rumored to bloom only in forgotten realms, a flower that held the essence of perpetual youth. Anya, armed with nothing but her wit and a satchel of homemade biscuits, spent sleepless days and nights navigating the treacherous pathways between realms. Finally, by bartering with pixies and imps using her homemade biscuits, she came upon a hidden clearing bathed in an otherworldly glow. There, nestled in the heart of a luminous thicket, bloomed a single Everbloom. As Anya knelt before it, the flower, its petals shimmering with an ethereal light, exhaled a single, melodious whisper that carried the essence of perpetual youth into the vial Anya held aloft.
The final ingredient was a single, ember-like pod, plucked from a plant guarded by fire-breathing drakes in the heart of a volcanic wasteland. This pepper, rumored to hold the fiery essence of life itself, was Anya’s prize after a daring, sleep-inducing escapade under the cover of a moonless night.
As she stirred the concoction, muttering an incantation she’d cobbled together from half-remembered legends and a dash of pure imagination, a mischievous glint danced in her eyes. Anya had always been a dreamer, weaving elaborate tales around every ingredient, imbuing them with strange properties. While others scoffed and called it childish, Anya reveled in her own unique brand of alchemy — a delicious blend of science and whimsy.
“Alright, Frank,” Anya said with a playful lilt in her voice, addressing the gargoyle figurine, despite the nervous flutter in her stomach. “Do you think this concoction will grant me eternal youth or just a bad case of indigestion?”
Of course, Frank remained stoic, his obsidian brow perpetually furrowed. But to Anya, that was half the charm. Frank was her sounding board, her imaginary critic who forced her to articulate her thoughts and consider alternative approaches.
“Maybe the Dragon’s Breath Pepper is a bit much,” she mused, the internal debate spilling out into the open. “Perhaps a dash of calming chamomile would be a more balanced choice?”
As she spoke aloud, the tension in her shoulders eased. Talking to Frank, helped her organize her thoughts and see the problem from a different angle. Suddenly, the solution became clear. With a determined nod, she reached for a jar of chamomile flowers, a newfound confidence blossoming in her chest.
With a final flourish, Anya added the calming chamomile to the Everlasting Elixir. The bubbling concoction shimmered and swirled, taking on a soft, golden hue. A delicious aroma, a blend of spice and floral sweetness, filled the air. Anya held her breath, a thrill of anticipation coursing through her veins. This was it. The culmination of weeks of tireless work and daring escapades.
Taking a deep breath, Anya raised the vial to her lips. Just as she was about to take a sip, the kitchen door creaked open. Anya froze, the vial inches from her mouth. A sense of unease overtaking her senses. Who could it be at this hour?
A tall figure, cloaked in shadow, stood framed in the doorway. The moonlight filtering through the window made it impossible to discern their features. Anya’s hand tightened around the vial, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
“Anya?” a voice, strangely familiar but with unsettling power and privilege, echoed in the room.
The vial trembled in Anya’s grip. Did she know this person? Should she be afraid? A million questions swirled in her mind, but before she could voice any of them, the figure stepped forward, revealing themselves in the moonlight.
It was Rue, the region’s traveling spice merchant. But there was something different about her tonight. Her eyes, usually warm and inviting, now gleamed with a regal intensity. But why the change? Why did Anya recognize that cloak but not on Rue.
Rue’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “So, you finally brewed it,” she said, her voice laced with amusement. “The Everlasting Elixir. Or at least, your version of it.”
Anya blinked, momentarily stunned. “Rue? What are you doing here?”
Rue took a step closer, “Let’s just say,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I need your wit and sense of adventure. As it turns out I have, well had, a relative after all. Her name was Eleanor and well I think she was quite famous… er or infamous… not really sure just yet. Anyway, I just inherited her cloak. It doesn’t look at much but I can tell that I am different when I put it on.”
Anya stared at her, Rue’s words fading and the promise of immortality forgotten in her hand. Anya, who thrived on adventure and a touch of the inconceivable, couldn’t help but become still. She knew that name. That name was power. That name was infamous. Eleanor is, well was, the Keeper of Time, Chronus. Her passing and Rue donning Eleanor’s cloak only meant one thing: Rue is now the Keeper of Time.
