Prologue : http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/topic24813.html

PART 1

“Mommy,” the child whimpered, knowing his mother was dead. The black demon had cut into his mother with his knife-like claws and she’d fallen to the ground, crimson life spilling unto the paved street. The demon was still here now, hunting through the streets and ripping into houses in his search for more victims.

The boy sobbed, but got to his feet and stumbled away. It was a clear night and the moon was full, casting a dim white light over the city, revealing the horror for the child to see. They were all dead. Bodies lay scattered about the streets; the sickening smell of blood perfuming the air. It seemed there wasn’t a single building that wasn’t scored by the demons claws; there wasn’t a door that had withstood his charge.

The boy heard a scream, followed by a series of crashes. The demon was on the move! Terror took the place of chocking sadness and he was running wildly, trying to find his way through the transformed streets and to the guardhouse. Surely he could hide there. But his small legs could only carry him so fast and his small lungs only take in so much air. He soon lost strength and was blinded by tears of fright, falling over a dark shape he didn’t want to admit was there.

“I love you," his mother has said, before leaving him hidden in the attic. She had asked him to be strong, to be brave. He wiped his eyes; he had to make it. His mother had worked so hard to keep him fed ever since his father had left; he knew she wouldn’t have wanted the demon to get him.

He sat up on his knees and rubbed his eyes, looking around to find some familiar making to help him find his way.

Instead he found her.

Too young to understand what she was, his child mind saw only that the reaper had come cloaked in darkness, holding a glowing blue light in her hands to lead the spirits of the dead away to the afterlife. Everyone knew about the reaper, she followed after devastation and disaster; easing the passing of those so suddenly ripped from life. The being was both frightening and beautiful; gliding down the street as she called to the spirits in a soft language he did no know. They came. The child watched wide eyed as wisps of blue light seemed to flow from the dead, twisting and curling around the soul collector before becoming a part of the light in he hands.

And then he saw the demon. It loomed out of the darkness, seeming to stalk after the reaper, as if to make sure she only took the dead. And the boy knew the bear had seen him. In the darkness the demon’s eyes shone with malicious intent as it advanced. But it did not touch the reaper. It did not interrupt. No one interrupted the reaper at work, or she would take your life and your soul. His father had told him that.

Seeing this glitter of hope in the boy’s eyes, the demon growled. Terrified, the boy screamed as he saw the monster coming much faster now, it’s teeth glistening hungrily.

And then he was wrapped in darkness. He cried and screamed and fought, but was still when a gentle hand rested upon is head. The reaper continued her chant; and though he knew it meant he would die, the boy wrapped himself in the darkness of the cloak and went with her.

Yazra felt the warmth of the small boy up against her leg and mentally kicked herself. It had already been seven months, yet she was still a sap. She told herself she would let Bear handle the boy later, when she was done her work. But she knew it was a lie. She would feed him a sleeping draught and drop him on someone’s doorstep. She’d tell Bear it was because with no survivors, there was no one to spread the story.

But deep down she knew she just couldn’t stand the screaming.

P1 Question: Did you find yourself hooked/interested in this story right away, or did you just read to be nice? If it's the last one, what do you think is missing to make it more interesting?

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PART 2

The interesting thing about being a henchman, is when realize you’re not but that you might be the only one who noticed. Though don’t get me wrong; I’m not deluded into thinking I’ll be rewarded with my own lands and slaves when this is over. In the end, all I get out of this is experience. Bundy is the one who will be taking over the realm, and Demon’s the one who is becoming infamous. Me? I’m just a ghost; the reaper, if you will. I’m the invisible being that handles all the little things Bundy is too busy to notice need doing and that Demon doesn’t give a damn about.

But you probably have no idea what I’m talking about. It’s been seven months since my last entry, one I didn’t even get to finish because I was interrupted. It’s been seven months since that day, and this is the first time I have written in this journal in that time. You don’t even need to ask, I’m going to tell you why. Just know that you haven’t missed anything: this is the beginning. Before today I was still in transition; now I have arrived. But first, I think I need to go back to the end of my old life so you can see the beginning of my new one.

Ever since my parents’ deaths, I’d been trying to outrun them. My father had drilled instincts into me I no longer wanted; instincts that told me to approach life the way my father had. If I was hungry, steal the food. If I was uncomfortable with the way the farmhand smiled at me every other minute, threaten him. At fourteen, I had to start learning how to live all over again. It wasn’t hard at first; I just kept to myself and watched others. It seemed easy to be like normal people, happy people.

That lasted three months.

Seeing I was trying to escape it, my fate—written in the blood that runs through my veins—decided it was time to intervene. The day I turned fifteen things started going wrong. It started off small; being mistaken for a thief, being called aside for questioning for looking ‘suspicious’ by town guard; small things. But it escalated quickly. I found my way into the middle of tavern brawls, stumbled across crime scenes, kept being befriended by crooks and then getting labeled as an accomplice and similar troubles. It was easy for me to get into those situations, because my mother had dulled my senses against the dark. A tavern full of shady characters seemed just to same as any other tavern; even if my father’s instincts alerted me to which ones were armed and which ones were not, it never seemed like I was in any danger.

Three weeks before I turned sixteen, the anniversary of my mother’s death, I started doing things. I told myself it was because I was so high strung—constantly looking over my shoulder and trying to avoid the trouble that seemed to be drawn to me—that I started following my father’s voice unconsciously. I’d find myself hungry, and as I passed the food seller’s stall I’d snag an apple. No one would notice because my father had taught me well. But I noticed, and the guilt haunted me.

Even as I learned to avoid places a normal person would avoid, trouble still stalked me. I realized it wasn’t that I found trouble, it was that I was trouble. I started to see connections between the things happening around me, and my actions. Suddenly the man being mugged in the alley was the man I’d sat across from and bought a drink while he told me of his troubles at home; I’d intoxicated him and made him an easy target. It was no longer that I ended up in the middle of trouble; now I was the one inadvertently helping trouble along. So I stopped trying to be helpful, settling for keeping to myself.

Seven months ago, things finally came undone. The doctor was the first step; I’d been having trouble sleeping and he was listening to my troubles, blaming my nightmares on bottled up emotion. The day he offered me a diary, this very one, he also offered me a ‘bit of fun’. Then suddenly he was stumbling back and falling into his chair—dead. I knew it had been me, I knew I’d gotten scared and angry and suddenly just…reacted. Less than three years after the last time I saw my father, was it any surprise my natural instinct was to kill him rather than just knock his hands away?

I wasn’t even ashamed: I didn’t regret it at all. And that made me sad. The next step, which was tied to the third, was Bear, of course. I saved him, and in allowing him to torment the man who’s attacked him ensured the poor man would be too out of is mind to save himself for the beasts of the forest. Then I did it again; I killed a king’s soldier as he tried to kill Bear—knowing full well at the time Bear was a vicious bloodthirsty man-killer.

It seemed only natural to give up. Was it not proof enough that a wizard had specifically picked me out from a crowd months before and decided I would make a good henchman? I gave up, gave in, let go. My father would be proud—he started small himself. And for my first villainous career choice, helping a wizard take over the realm is actually quite an ambitious choice.

Yazra looked up at a knock on the door.

“Yazra, when were you planning to leave?”

Yazra sighed, so much for waiting for the rain to stop. Though Bear had responded to her actions on their last ‘hit’ with his usual indifference, Bundy—ever concerned about her feeling at home in her new lifestyle—had suggested she take some time off. As if. Yazra had far to many responsibilities in this operation to take time off.

“I just need to finish some stuff,” she assured the wizard. “I won’t miss the meeting.”

When I first started this job, I was numb. Even as I started playing the ‘reaper’, I didn’t really feel anything. Not fear, not relief, not anger or sadness or joy. I just worked, doing what Bundy told me.

I guess I started waking up when I noticed the garden. To explain a wizard living in a town with people, Bundy runs a little potions shop—he tells people he turned into a wizard to fight off the witch who was terrorizing his town. It amazes me how many people accept that a wizard can be anything but evil—they get their powers from eating hearts for crying out loud! No one who chooses to kill a holy, law abiding man, bathes in his blood and then eats his heart can call themselves good.

Yazra shut her journal and slid it into her leather stomach pouch. She wore the pouch under her three layers of pocketed shirts and stored only the things she could not lose within. So far that meant the pouch had a population of two: her diary and the vessel. The pockets of her shirts were filled with odds and ends to distract thieves who might get close enough to pinch something—so far she hadn’t met anyone who could find anything to carry away other than their mercifully spared fingers. Yazra was fast.

She left the attic—her room—descending the tight staircase, continuing past the little door on the landing half way down. This door led to Bundy’s study—the only place Yazra was not allowed to go. Though considering how neat he kept the brewing room, she wasn’t sure she’d enter even if given permission.

When she came out of the door at the bottom of the staircase, she entered the brewing room. The spell of herbs and potions filled her nose, making her feel nostalgic. Shaking her head, she crossed the little room and came out through the other door, entering the front shop. Bundy nodded at her, offering her a small cloth bag. “He’ll ask for these. Don’t lose them.”

Yazra accepted the bag of magic stones and tucked it into her belt-pouch before taking her leather cloak off the hook and stepping out of the shop and into the drizzling rain. The smell of the sea hit her like a wave, clearing her nose of the smell of potions and magic. The day would be wet and grey, driving people indoors to avoid catching a cold—a perfect day for checking on the souls.

P2 Question: I've given a better image of what Yazra's life was like before, do you think I should move a lot of this to the prologue and work it in there?

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PART 3

The man sat on the slanted church roof—having long since given up on standing. The rain had been falling since the night before and there wasn’t a surface in the city that wasn’t slick with water. He sighed, wishing he’d picked another day for this meeting.

“You have some information for me,” a soft voice said. He cried out, nearly jumping out of his skin. A small hand shot out--steadying him before he lost his grip on the stone and fell to his death.

The man turned, seeing the hand belonged to a young woman. She had a solemn expression, but a smile played on the corner of her lips. Her eyes were a bright green, like young leaves—he’d expected her to be a man.

“Yes. You were looking for-”

“Not here,” she hissed, dragging him up quickly and helping him back into the church through the bell tower window. She silently led him downstairs and ignored is objections as she pulled him into the confession box.

“Where is she?” she asked, seeming to relax a little.

“The witch is under Gorhen Mountain. She dwells deep in the caves, only leaving to find new specimens for her experiments. She’s a man-eater too.” He rushed, feeling more nervous by the minute. This was the kind of information you could die for having, and he’d nearly said the witches name aloud where anyone could hear! She wasn’t one to be trifled with, the quiet ones never were.

The young woman pushed a bag into his hand and left the confession box. By the time he stumbled out after her she was gone. He sighed, hoping he never ran into the one who wanted anything to do with the Dissection Witch.

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Yazra dragged her feet as she made her way back to the shop. Inside, her stomach churned with worry—she knew what was about to happen. Bundy would be pleased—so pleased in fact he’d forget he’d given her the week off. He would ask her to go to the mountain and speak with the witch.

The Dissection Witch.

Most witches and wizards contented themselves with random acts of destruction and terror, living for the most part like hermits. But then there were some who had a purpose, and they were by far the more frightening. The Dissection With was a woman of science, supposedly from across the sea. There she had learned an art that was here forbidden, so she had turned to the dark side.

She was known for picking targets, people with gifts, and then taking them away. Sometimes she returned them—sometimes she did not. Those who did return were always short two things: their gift and some body part. A man who could place his hand into a flame an not be hurt would came back short the same hand, a woman who said she could hear voices that told her of danger came back without her ears.

These gifts were rare and supposedly product of a mixing of bloodlines and inheritance. The witch would know—after all, she had figured out how to take the gifts away.

And Bundy was going to send her there. Yazra shivered.

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“The Gorhen Mountain?” Bundy asked as he inspected one of is many spell stones. Yazra admired him for them; very few—holy or unholy—could master the art of sealing a spell into an object to permit other to use them. Even fewer could accomplish the task without there being some adverse and usually fatal cost for the user.

“Yeah. If I bought a horse I could be there-”

“You’re not going.” Bundy interrupted, his rough voice surprisingly severe and cutting. Yazra blinked, confused.

“But-”

“I’ll be handling the witch myself. There is no need for you to needlessly endanger your life. Besides, I gave you the week off. Mind the shop while I’m gone,” he put away the stone then and swept through the door to the brewing room. Yazra stood stunned for a moment. His behavior was abnormal. Bundy usually didn’t like leaving the shop, and he was rarely so abrupt.

“Ok, sure.” Yazra said to herself, taking up her place behind the counter and sighing. So much for visiting the souls—she’d have to wait until nightfall.

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The light moved down the beach slowly, bobbing in the fast breeze that came off the water and swept towards the harbor. As the waves surged and charged the shore, it darted away, only to return as the sea retreated yet again. Then suddenly it vanished, disappearing entirely—leaving the newly risen starts to shine brightest through the moonless night.

The souls were always restless when there was no moon.

Yazra held the lamp against her chest, hurrying forward until she reached the cliff. Here the sand ended as it butted up against a sudden flat wall of stone. The water here was three times as tall as a man and hid dangerous undercurrents. But to reach the cave, Yazra had to make use of the natural handholds and move around the cliff until she reached the narrow gap twenty meters along he wall. It was thin, and only someone thin could enter by turning themselves sideways.

With practiced care she moved along the wall, lowering herself until the water swelled up to her knees—allowing her feet to rest on the small, submerged shelf that ran along most of the cliff. Someone, an Earth Walker, had probably made the cave and the shelf, though for what purpose Yazra could only guess.

Of all power users, Walkers were the most solitary. To be able to find one, you had to be one. And even then the only one you could find with any certainty was yourself.

As Yazra slid out from between the rocks and entered the small tunnel that led downwards, she could feel the air thick with the spirits agitation. She sighed, wondering what would happen if no one came to look after them. She felt along the rock in the utter darkness and found the spell stone.

“Yeslenk,” she spoke. A jolt raced up her arm as the spell activated and took some of her energy to start. Suddenly small rocks along the wall began to glow, lighting the way. Instantly the atmosphere changed, anticipation charging the air. She quickly descended downwards. Different passages opened up on either side of her, but she ignored them. She knew the way by heart now, and though she had to make a series of seven different turns she knew she wouldn’t get lost.

As she reached the room, the glow of the stones paled against the blue glow of the souls. She stepped through the arched entrance and sighed, feeling a release as she saw that things were as they should be. In the center of the room stood a glass bottle that was as tall as five men and as wide as six laid down on their sides.

Yazra approached, hands outstretched, until she came in contact with the cool glass. The souls within the container surged her way, pushing gently at each other to try and get closer, reaching out their own hands in greeting. Yazra smiled. “I was only gone two days,” she said affectionately.

The room seemed to echo with a whisper then, discordant yet distant voices joining together in some sort of choir. She didn’t know what they were saying, but she always listened. They were beautiful, the souls. No one soul was any different than another—man or woman, child of geezer, they all had the same ethereal form; constantly shifting between semi human shapes and that of just strands of glowing blue mist. Even their voices, seemingly different, had the same sound.

Yazra withdrew her hand, waving off their objective wails. She retrieved her chair from against the wall and came to sit down.

“I’ve started keeping my diary again,” she told them. “Would you like to hear?”

Their voices seemed to say yes, though their words were scrambled messes of sounds. She smiled and pulled out her diary. They were poor damned souls now—trapped in a jar and condemned to being tools of a wizards plan—but they seemed as content to have her company as she was to give it.

P3 Question: So, personally I rushed through this and I think it sucks. >_> I have also strayed off my original plot plan so chapter one is looking very long indeed. How would you guys suggest improving this part?

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PART 4

“We will hunt down this beast and we will put an end to its reign of terror!” Cheers rose from the crowd and assembled ‘hunters’. Yazra, standing among them, sighed. Because of his notoriety, Bear stayed in the mountains in between hits. If these men honestly thought they’d be able to catch him they were sadly mistaken. Though perhaps their incompetence wasn’t quite as sad as the reality of the fact that just because they didn’t catch Bear, didn’t mean they couldn’t catch any bears.

Which was why she was here. As much as she hated leaving the garden and the souls alone, someone had to stop these people from hunting down every black bear they could find in search of a creature they should be grateful they’d never meet.

“This monster won’t know what hit him,” the man to her left said to her. Yazra nodded mutely, pretending to be looking for someone in the crowd that had gathered to see them off. It was crucial that she avoid being recognized for what she was—a girl. She’d bound her chest as well a she could, but her voice was unavoidably feminine.

“It’s time to move out!”

Yazra’s hand slid to the rapier at her side, closing her eyes. The cold metal cooled the blood in her veins, sending a coolness through up her arm. She willed the feeling to spread until it reached her heart and opened her eyes. She was going to kill these people, and she wasn’t going to care.

P4 Question: How many of you would actually want to see Yazra at work?

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NOTICE

You might notice this chapter is kind of...choppy. I know. >.< It doesn't flow as nicely as the prologue and I really am very bored with it (plus I've run out of ideas for the fourth part) so I am moving on to chapter two. Sorry!

CHAPTER ONE FEEDBACK QUESTIONS

1) What's your opinion on the plot of this chapter? Does it need more action, is it too choppy? Honest opinions please, and hopefully some advice one how to improve it!

2) As you're reading, you probably have some questions. What questions do you have that are still unanswered at this point? (Questions can be carried over from the prologue)

*hugs anyone who's read this far* You rock.