Monday, September 30, 2013

intrō...


As I eluded to quite some time ago, I've begun a writing project that has blossomed into what will eventually be a book.  Perhaps even a series of books... but let's not get ahead of ourselves.  It's a tale of a knight, during a nondiscript time period.   Perhaps in a land far-far away.  Fighting an evil that has spread throughout the realm.  I'd love some feedback about this excerpt from the introduction.  I will be performing this piece in an upcoming podcast to ..ahem..."practice".


Darkness...shadows...in the gloom of the silvery moonlight.  I watch.  I see the ruffian ants shuffling from here to fore, searching for the food and wealth to make their queen happy.  They drone on...looking only just ahead...in a stupor from the sweet nectar provided by their mother.  Intoxicated by it's pure beauty and unaware of their approaching end.  I count their numbers...seventeen...then plot my course.  How many before I am seen?  How many before they gather their wits?  How many before they retort to my wrath? The enclave they call home is an abandoned church, but Religion left this place long ago.  Now it knows only evil possession and the grip of hell.  I was made for retribution.

The time feels right.  I strike!  Leaping from the dark confines of my deceit, the alleyway across the street hides me no longer.  Soon I am amongst them; the two hammers of fury drawn and ready to pierce their putrid souls.  I will devour them and make them once more pure.   I was built to earn salvation.

Perhaps not.  The furthest of them sees me, his vantage point higher than the rest.  His cry of warning pierces the night just as I smash into the nearest of them.  No longer is surprise my consort.  This endeavor just became far more difficult.  The first three to the left bare their claws; like slashing knives that look to cut me down.  I rebuff their advances with a vicious burst from one of my two handguns, now morphed into something much more than a routine firearm.  Neither ammunition nor power will run short.  The .50 caliber shells punch holes in their chests where human hearts once ruled; now they pump only poison. Muzzle flash engulfs the air like dragon breath and the stench of death begins it's flow.  I keep firing to my left, killing one more, as the hellions gather to my right.  One leaps in to the air straining to gather height. His shape forecast in the outline of the moon behind, I parry to avoid his attack.  His skull is crushed below my steely boot before he struggles back to a defensible posture. I am the dealer of vengeance.

Five torn asunder.  Twelve plot the course of my journey to the shores of death.  It is fortuitous that these are no longer thinking men, because their numbers would prove advantageous.  The bulk of them is now amassed to the right and so I streak to my left, running near full speed,diagonally across their line.  I level the sights of the infernal goddesses unleashing unimaginable destruction upon them.  The barrage is constant, but aimed roughly because I am moving. Despite the heavy ammunition the blasts MUST be centered on the heart or the head.  Nothing less will do. The elixir that animates these malformed beasts also makes them resilient.  Their bones are heavily calcified.  Their musculature dense.  What they lack in sentient thought, they make up for in sheer strength.  I am stronger.  

The maelstrom of firepower lays siege upon them, felling seven more.  Five left to reclaim. These are different; more robust; able to withstand the rounds that have penetrated their skin.  Even head wounds have afflicted no discernible damage...at least not enough to kill.   I had heard rumors of this breed, designed by their maker to be unstoppable and imbued with greater abilities and wielding weapons the rest do not.  They are Rakshasa.  They will have to be dealt with in a more elegant manner.  My coat...which has merely billowed in the wind thus far hides my weapon of choice.  A blade of my own design and forged in the Japanese style from Tamahagane steel.  It is comprised of a softer inner core of steel wrapped in layers of increasingly harder outer cores.  My power infuses it with the ability to transform at my will to whatever shape or size I deem necessary.   The blade is polished and sharpened with a singular purpose...to cleave it's target efficiently and effectively.  I AM the blade.

The demons advance, the first wielding a blade of rusty iron.  Rust formed from the blood of the innocent.  His gruesome blade swings wildly at my head, but misses by that much space.  I draw my blade up and smash against his defense, simultaneously pushing against him towards his fiendish friends.  I push HARD and then stop short, throwing off his balance.  I swing with a flash through his legs, cutting him down to two thirds his size. The beast howls and for the first time I realize they DO know the fire of pain.  The four behind look on in surprise for loss is not their abode.  Their expressions teach me new things about these creatures, for I did not expect thought nor fear.  I am the source of their discontent. 





 


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