Sins Forums
Post any sort of Poetry, short stories, or whatever writing you wish here for helpful and SUPPORTIVE feedback!
Those of you who did not read mine in the chatroom, I will post it here 1 page at a time, 1 page per day.
-Twilight Storm
The Huntress
-Rebel Reunion-
Prologue: Fire Child
She silently crept through the shadows, as if they and her were one. She could here the slightest breath of a nesting squirrel from thirty yards to her left and knew her prey hadn’t passed that way. He wasn’t quiet like she was. Silence followed in her wake as the surrounding forest recognized her for what she was. A Demon. The child of a creature mankind hadn’t seen in over a thousand years.
Forget everything you think you know about Demons. They aren’t the servants of the devil, if such a beast exists, but the offspring of something much more deadly. Dragons. A little known fact about Dragons is their remarkable ability to shape-shift. Her mother, a beautiful blue Dragon called Xal’Nat, had broken the one rule Dragons had about this shape-shifting ability. She had mated with a human. A crime punishable by death.
The last thing her mother had done for her after the egg she was born in was laid was give it to her father. At first, the man had been horrified at the prospect of having had sex with a Dragon, but he was indeed deeply in love with this woman, and could not deny this, the simplest of requests. Keep her egg safe until it hatches. After that, he was free to give the baby up to someone able to take care of it. Her only request was that if it was a girl, as she suspected it was, was that she would be named Katrina.
Shortly afterwards, Xal’Nat was discovered by her kind and her sentence was carried out. They burned her with Dragon Fire, the only fire able to burn through Dragon Scales. But by the time they found the man she had been with, the egg had already hatched and he had given up the baby girl. They killed him and gave up the chase.
All Katrina knew about herself was written in a letter by her father. At first, she didn’t believe a word of it. That was before she discovered her uniqueness. It was at the age of fifty that she realized her father hadn’t been lying about her mother’s heritage. And that was only because she looked to be no older than twenty-eight. And felt half that young. One thing to know about Dragons is that they live a very, very long time. Demons are no exception to this.
A crack in the night snapped her out of her trance. He was close. The one she was hunting. She didn’t know why she did what she did, it just seemed right to her. Katrina was, as far as she knew, the last of her kind. As such, she felt a very strong urge to make sure nobody suffered her fate, by not allowing herself to love. Unfortunately, she couldn’t kill herself. Her will to live was far too strong to allow that.
And much worse, was that she couldn’t not help somebody in need. She had visions of people who were going to die. Young people not yet ready for death. Un-variably she would rescue them, and unvariably they would fall in love with her, because that is the natural way of things. Especially at a young age. Out of fear that she would love them as well and have one of their children, with her curse, she always had to kill them. But only when she started to feel for them. Care for them. This man was the next on her long list, for he was very attractive, and had been sending her letters for nearly a year.
She heard heavy breathing and knew she was close to him now. It used to cause her great pain to kill the ones she cared about, but after the first thousand years, that went away. Now, at four thousand years old, she almost enjoyed it. As a rule, she always gave her victims a chance. They always got a warning before she saved them, and the only weapons she used were a sword and a bow, and occasionally a dagger she kept on her right leg. Tonight, she would use the bow, for this man was not putting up any struggle. He was just running. She saved her blades for the men who were willing to put up a fight. And the dagger for those who fought well. But none were ever spared. That was a rule.
The breathing stopped, but she could feel his heartbeat. He was close, twenty feet to her right. She closed her eyes and said a word in the Dragon Language she had learned. Katha’Gor. Bright Eyes. She was by no means fluent in the tongue of Dragons, but some words she knew instinctively.
Now she could see almost like it was daylight. He was sitting down on the ground, holding his breath. ‘Pity.’ She thought, then spoke aloud. “Just seven years ago, you were such a good soldier. Now you hide like a coward. I feel no remorse for your death Jack Nelson.” She picked an arrow from the quiver on her left leg as he got up and bolted away from her. Lining him up in her sights was easy. He was running in a straight ling. She aimed at the back of his head and let the arrow fly. A moment later, he fell. Unstringing the bow and putting it in her quiver, Katrina slowly walked to his lifeless body.
“I had hoped you would bring me a challenge Jack.” She pulled the arrow from his head and wiped it clean on his shirt and put it back into her quiver with the other seven. She hadn’t lost a single arrow in her life, and didn’t plan on starting now.
As her final act towards the man she had killed, she raised her palm to him and said another word in Dragon Tongue. Drakis’Rike. Dragon Flare. A white-hot flame swept over his body and consumed it. All that remained was a pile of ashes. And nobody ever noticed them before they were washed away, mistaking them for the remains of a campfire. They couldn’t be more wrong.
She turned from the still smoldering ground and started walking away immediately, with a look of empty satisfaction on her in her eyes. A new face had entered her mind. Or, more precisely, an old one.
Instead of giving this death time to fall into history like all the thousands of others, she simply gave a small smiled and said. “Byrne, your time is up.”
I've decided to post in chapters instead.
-Twilight Storm
Ok, here's my story opening from that other topic.
Humanity survived. The nuclear war ended many lives, and the nuclear winter that followed it claimed many more, but humanity survived. Without large supplies of food and clean water, and radioactive material drifting to the ground, only the smartest, strongest, or most cut-throat survived. In the social breakdown in Britain that had begun even before the missiles were launched and the bombs dropped, the people who were away from the devastated cities grouped together, forming their own fortress-towns. They armed themselves, and were ready when the riotous city-dwellers arrived, fleeing their stricken homes, having looted all that they could carry. Many of these towns died out, with disease, hunger, or violence claiming their citizens, but the survivors would move on, taking their belongings and finding another community to join, or joining one of the many nomadic gangs that had decided that survival was easiest if you took what you wanted from the towns. However, this was less of a problem by the time that 110 years had passed since the war. The inhabitants of the towns were a new sort of people. They had never known the care-free life of the old world. While the previous generations passed away, the radiation did as well, and many in the towns closer to London decided that it was their turn to loot the city, the majority of the nomads having been lost to thirst and hunger, making travel safer. Tilbury, which had, by some miracle, survived with many of its buildings, and its docks, intact, was more than happy to host the traders from distant towns, who came to trade their goods for the riches of London. Having grown rich on its trade of items from London, and being relatively easy to defend due to having its source of water along its southern side, Tilbury was one of the largest towns in the wastes of southern Britain, and had one of the largest populations, which was important, as the ruins of London were still dangerous, and many scavengers never returned from their hunts.
The motorboat kept a steady speed up the Thames, its crew of newly recruited scavengers ready for their first expedition. It had been difficult to find a working motorboat, but Dave Hind, founder of the Hind Scavengers, had owned one from before the war, and it had been running, with some repairs, ever since. A lot of what the scavengers in his group found was traded for fuel for this, and the new, second motorboat, as these vehicles were what made the scavengers so effective. It allowed them to quickly reach the further away, almost untouched areas of London. Thomas Crick checked the old hunting rifle that had been his father’s. It was held together by masking tape, but it still fired. By the nuclear war, almost everyone in Britain, especially in the cities, had at least one gun. When the police could no longer protect people from the riots, people started to protect themselves. A highly profitable black market for guns began in Britain, selling everything from sport weapons like Thomas’, to military grade assault rifles, and beyond, with ridiculous things like anti-tank weaponry being a common sight above mantelpieces. With the people of the cities lost to radiation, starvation and madness, there were a lot of guns, which were needed by outlying communities, where inter-town warfare and bandit raids were more common.
Thomas gazed at the haunting skeletal dome structure that had once been called the O2, a place where there were restaurants and music. He had been born there, when his father and pregnant mother had moved from the fortress-town of Hertford to Tilbury. Thomas’ family had been taken to the O2 as part of an ambitious plan to make a new town in the shelter of the dome. Life had been hard there, so once Thomas was born, he was returned to Tilbury with his mother. Thomas had declined offers to scavenge from the remains of the short-lived settlement at the O2. The inhabitants, Thomas’ father one of them, had been well protected from attack, but nothing could save them when someone forgot to boil the water from the river.
The small boat followed the curve of the river, going past the remains of the towers of Canary Wharf. Thomas frowned, and turned to the other veteran scavenger beside him.
“Why are we taking the new guys past the usual place?” Thomas queried.
“Boss says we need to make sure that the recruits get good work experience,” the other man said, “so we’re taking them up to Tower Bridge.”
“That far?” Thomas asked in surprise, “but I’ve been on the job for three years and I’ve only been that far twice.”
“Times are changing. Recruits need to have the skill of the veterans, so that we can keep ahead of the other scavengers in the city. Don’t worry about it; it’s all going to be routine stuff.”
Thomas stepped of the boat with three of the six recruits on the northern bank of the river, while the other veteran scavenger went to the southern bank with the other recruits. Thomas reminded the recruits of the timings. They had until sunset to scavenge, leaving time to reach the pick-up point of the motorboat. Being the team without the boat was always dangerous, because an incident affecting the other team could mean that nobody got offshore before nightfall. Thomas knew from the strange noises heard when returning to Tilbury that there were nocturnal creatures prowling the ruins, and he had no intention of meeting them. Then there were the Spies. Thomas suppressed a shiver, thinking of the pale, corpse-like faces that had peered at him from the shadows last time he had been this far into London. They never came out into the light in the day, but what happened at night? Thomas shook his head. Being a scavenger for ten years messed with most people’s heads, but Thomas didn’t want to go mad at 27. He had other things to worry about out here. Certain fears, like the presence of known daytime animals and other scavengers. The recruits behind him were following their training, scanning the ruins around them as the party progressed down the street, but they still couldn’t help glancing back at the towers of Tower Bridge, which stood unconnected now by the ruined bridge like silent guardians of inner London. Thomas stopped as the group reached its destination.
“Well people,” he said, “welcome to the Tower of London. Remember, I want you to stick with your partner, and be back here with all you can carry when the sun begins to slip away. You, kid with the scoped rifle, you stick with me.”
The scavenging mission went well. By the time agreed, all of the members of Thomas’ team were back at the agreed location with their massive rucksacks full of loot. The Tower had been a stronghold against the rioters for a long time in the years before the nukes arrived, and in its walls, retrofitted to the point that the nuclear blasts left the inner structures intact, there was a multitude of weapons and ammunition. As with all of the places of order which fell after the war, the residents had focused on protection against the nukes, not on sustainable food. Ironically, almost as many had died in the Tower seeking refuge than had historically died imprisoned there. Thomas congratulated his band of scavengers, and then led them off to the rendezvous point for the boat. As they walked, there was a sudden crack from a firearm. A recruit collapsed next to Thomas. Without any orders being given, Thomas and his followers dashed for the ruins, seeking cover. Another shot rang out, and was followed by more, but Thomas kept moving. One of the recruits, the one with the scope, stopped.
“I’ve spotted him!” he shouted. He raised his gun, looking through the scope, and pulled the trigger. There was a click as the old gun jammed. The recruit never had a chance to sort the problem, as a bullet punched through his head.
“Jim!” the final recruit shouted, turning back to her stricken comrade. She started to turn towards him, and Thomas tried to stop her, but she lashed out at him and dodged past as Thomas leaned back to avoid injury. Seeing that there was no help for her, Thomas ran on. He had noticed how much time she had been spending with the other recruit, and it was clear here that love had undermined her judgement, and then ended her life. Thomas had always known the dangers of London, and never wanted anyone to care for him to the point that his death endangered their life. Thomas knew that losing loved ones was terrible, and didn’t want others to feel that pain because of him.
As the sound of gunfire faded away behind him, Thomas slowed down. He ducked beneath a hanging metal beam and carried on. He was sure that the attackers would have no idea where he had gone. He began to form a plan of how to get back to the rendezvous point. He wasn’t prepared for the rifle-butt that met his face when he rounded the corner.
As consciousness returned to him, Thomas saw his attacker, who was standing over him with two accomplices. She looked incredibly ill, with a sickly face and dilated pupils. She smiled, revealing rotting teeth and damaged gums. The man and woman accompanying her were both smoking cigarettes which were no doubt looted from a shop somewhere. Thomas had heard of people like this. They were addicted to drugs of the pre-war era, and spent their lives trying to satisfy their cravings. Of course, they weren’t very welcoming to those who approached their drug supplies.
“Look what we have here,” the woman said, “a scavenging little townie. What do you think we should do with him, eh?”
“Let’s throw him in the river,” one of them said, giggling in a worrying fashion, “and see if our civilised little townie has learned how to swim.”
“Sounds good. Let’s-”
The addicts were cut off as a few small canisters arced towards the group and a series of small popping noises occurred. A hissing noise began as gas began to rise up from these cylinders. The addicts stepped back, confused, then turned and ran. Gunshots rang out as a group of silhouettes became visible through the cloud of gas. As one of the drug addicts took a hit and fell to the floor, voices could be heard.
“Don’t goddamn shoot! Jesus Christ, why are all you locals so trigger happy?” asked an exasperated male voice.
“Hey, a few dead looters will do the world a favour,” replied a female voice. Deciding to take advantage of the argument, Thomas carefully picked up his rifle and crept towards the three figures that had saved him, trying to hold his breath for as long as possible. It was going dark now, so Thomas’ approach wasn’t obvious. He went as close as he dared, then spoke up.
“All right, stay calm or this guy gets it,” he said, pointing his gun at one of the people. They wore khaki, and had military rifles and gas masks.
“Mate,” said the one that Thomas was threatening, “we don’t need to get on the wrong side of each other.”
“Sir,” one of the people said urgently, “it’s getting dark. The Watchers will come out for the body of the guy we killed.”
“Look mate,” the man Thomas was threatening, who was obviously in charge, continued, “put the gun away and we’ll give you a shot of the antidote for the gas, then we can all head off to our nearest camp. Nobody dies, and we get out of here before anything dangerous arrives.”
Thomas thought about this. He was pretty sure that the Watchers that the other man had referred to were the same as the Spies, and that the gas would be lethal if the group were carrying antidotes around with them. He wouldn’t last long anyway if he stayed in the ruins alone, so he either died, or took these people for their word.
“Fine,” Thomas said. He lowered his gun, and the leader of the group walked over with a syringe. After assuring Thomas that it wouldn’t hurt a bit, he injected the antidote.
“Good,” the man said, “nice to have you onboard. Now let’s get out of here.”
“Sir?” the female member of the group said, “it might be a bit late for that.”
All around them, gazing from the shadows, were dully glowing green eyes, framed by pale faces.
Okay. I just skimmed that cuz I'm really impatient(Nothing people here did, just one of those moods. I'll read the whole thing eventually) But it looks like you're really good, Alpha(I'ma start calling you snipe...)
Chapter One- Iraq- 4:37 AM
Colonel Byrne Djeske sat in the small four by eight room that served as his quarters aboard the Carrier Damascus as he read the letter. Jack was missing. That was the last of his old team, three out of the five of them that were still alive. Arnold, and Brian had been missing for almost three months now. And now Jack was gone too. He knew Claire would be safe. He knew exactly who was behind all of this. Katrina. The Demon who had saved their lives seven years ago and promised to take them back when she wanted them. Wanted to hunt them. She had promised Claire would be safe, but wouldn’t say why.
He had thought he’d have more time than that. Seven years? That wasn’t enough time. Why save people if you’re just going to kill them later? He didn’t know. All Byrne knew was that he was Thirty-Two years old and had a very attractive, if somewhat psychotic, woman who wanted him dead. Not the best position to be in.
As he read the last part of the letter, his heart dropped. It was orders to leave the ship as soon as they docked in Maine and go home, waiting until this whole thing was figured out.
“Great.” He said aloud to himself. “I’ve got a crazy woman who seems to be permanently PMSing trying to slit my throat, and they want to send me out into the middle of nowhere to wait for my death. Well screw regs. I’m not leaving my weapon behind.”
He pulled out his HK.40 pistol and held it reassuringly. It would be his only defense if he was attacked in his uncle’s home in Florida. He had recently inherited the small house due to an unexpected illness that had killed his last surviving relative, other than his sister Cailin. She was married with two kids. No way he’d go there and put them in danger too. Still, she would be getting a similar letter, as Jack was her husband’s brother. She would call and insist he come stay with her. And he would have to insist that she not worry. And when that didn’t work, make up an excuse as to why he couldn’t leave the area. Maybe a fake court martial…
A knock on his door snapped him to alertness as he cocked his pistol.
“Who’s there?” He said.
“Corporal O’Riley. I’ve got another letter for you sir.”
“Come in soldier.”
The door opened and a young man in his twenties stepped through. He handed Byrne a letter and saluted, looking nervously at the pistol.
“Can’t be too careful.” Said Byrne, re-holstering his weapon and returning the salute. “Dismissed.”
“Yes sir.” The man turned and left his quarters, closing the door. Byrne opened the letter, not thinking to read who it was from. Inside was a dark red note card with a single sentence written on it.
‘I want what is mine.’
-Katrina
“Shit.” He said. He looked closer at the card and realized it wasn’t consistently colored. It wasn’t even ink that had made it such a dark red, but blood. She had cut herself and let the wound bleed on the card before writing on it.
“Katrina, you sick, twisted bitch. I won’t go down as easily as the others. You’ll have to do better than this.”
He threw the card into his drawer and looked at the envelope. The return address was a P.O. box in South Carolina. Jack’s home state.
People aren't posting here, so I'll only continue to post upon request.
-Twilight Storm
Your stuff is really good. You're a good writer, why don't you join in on the Distant Stars Lore page. You're kind of limited to writing Sins stuff, but it's still good fun.
It's already got quite a few writers as well, so there's no chance that whatever you write will go unnoticed.
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