Edit: omg! XD I get a little bomb for being popular!
Last days of denial
PART 1
Apparently, the man who said ‘you are what you choose to be’ was a liar. A really horrible liar who took joy in making innocent little children believe that they could choose their own destiny and be whoever they wanted to be. If he’s still alive, someone should help him realize the error of his ways. It will start like this: “Sir, since you can choose your destiny, why don’t you decide you’re going to live while me and my knife decide you’re going to die and see who’s will is stronger?”
“Ack!” Yazra cried in frustration, realizing the immoral direction her thoughts had taken. “Why is it so hard to be good?” she wailed. “I haven’t even written a page and already it’s corrupted!”
As if he’d made a comment, Yazra turned to Dr. Halon and sighed. “Don’t lie to me doctor. You didn’t believe that ‘you can do and be anything you set your mind to’ crap either. Thanks for the journal though--so generous of you. Which reminds me…”
Yazra tucked her new journal into the front of her pants and went to lean over the doctor where he sat slumped in his chair, and gave him a warm flirtatious smile, or at least what she hoped was a flirtatious smile. He’d never notice his purse missing, he was dead after all. After a quick search, she stood up strait, slipping her spoils into various hidden folds in her oversized shirts.
She looked one last time at her handy work, wondering if anyone would believe he’d committed suicide. She was sure there would be at least a few people who were happy to see the doctor gone, she highly doubted she was the first girl he’d tried to force himself on. Suddenly remembering the feel of his warm breath on her neck and his hands on her hips, she shivered violently. “You brought this on yourself.” she said quietly, wishing she felt something stronger than indifference for her actions.
Hearing someone outside, she quickly left the doctor’s home office and hurried upstairs. From the attic she’d be able to climb up unto the roof and make her getaway. By the time Mr. Maybell served her the dinner the kind doctor’s purse had provided for her, she’d completely put the afternoon’s sins behind her.
^*^*^*^
“Yazra, did you kill Mr. Halon?” Toby asked from the door, watching her as she did a final check to make sure she had everything she needed. She looked up, meeting the seven year old’s large eyes.
“I did,” she said quietly. Was it so obvious? Or had Mr. Maybell figured it out and shared his discovery where Toby could here it? “How did you know?”
Toby grinned smugly, rubbing his nose as he always did when he was pleased. “’Cause you said you was going to go see the doctor, and the next day he was dead! My sister was happy; she said he should rot in hell.”
Yazra considered this, and considered how to make sure that Toby’s findings never became public knowledge.
“Did you tell anyone yet?” She asked, quickly calculating. There weren’t many people about the Inn during the day…
“Nope.” He was still grinning.
Killing him was the easiest way of making sure he never told…Yazra felt her heart squeeze painfully at the very thought. She cursed her parents yet again for bringing her up he way they had. Why were such dark thoughts always the first to come to her mind?
She stood, slinging her bag unto her back.
“I have to get going,” she said, sighing inwardly. She didn’t really want to go. She was tired of this moving around--she hated feeling so alone.
Toby ran over from the doorway and hugged her, his arms wrapping around her waist as he pressed his head into her stomach.
“I won’t tell anybody what you did, ok? I’ll miss you.”
Yazra felt tears wetting her eyes and blinked them back. She hated having to say goodbye to the kids, the only who were people so innocent, her corrupted life could not touch them.
“I’ll miss you too buddy. Take good care of your mom and dad, ok?” She gave him a hug and then gently slid from his grasp, patting him on the head.
“Ok!” he assured her, smiling brightly. He’d forget her soon, and grow up to be a nice, decent, honest young man.
“Good.”
^*^*^*^
The man who gave me this journal is dead, mainly because I killed him. I’ve never kept a journal before, but then again I’ve never killed anyone either. Not that I know of anyways. I’m pretty sure fat, greasy old men don’t die just because you stab them in the leg, right?
This is probably a bad way to start, but these days it seems everything I do is bad, so it will have to do. It shouldn’t matter. Everyone I’ve talked to says journals are for two things: keeping record and expressing your true feelings. But I think from now on I will call this my diary. I prefer the letter ‘d’. Which is sad in itself, since ‘d’ happens to be the first letter in the words death, destruction, doom, depression, drought, decapitation, disease, despicable, dread and…well you get the point. I can’t even think of a single good word that starts with ‘d’, though I’m sure they exist. That’s just how my mind works.
I blame my parents.
My mother was a witch, and not just any witch: The Dread Witch herself. She got her powers by eating the rotted heart of a holy man and bathing in his blood. I kid you not. She used to be a healer, actually. I never found out why she decided to become a witch, she always said it was just in her nature.
She had quite a reputation, my mother. She dwelled, like all witches must, in an abandoned shack in the middle of a forest. From there she sold curses, hexes, poisons, and the like, only occasionally (thank the Creator), leaving to lay waste upon and torment some innocent people. She taught me everything she knew, which wasn’t so bad, since a lot of the things I learned are very useful, like which plants are poisonous and how to identify a spell.
The part where she tried to get me to eat a holy man’s heart? Not so much. I can’t count the number of times she spilled some horrible concoction on me and told me the only way to get it off was the bath in a holy man’s blood. Or the times she tried to disguise a rotting heart with vegetables. I wish I could say I hated her for it, but she really was just doing what she thought was best for me.
I also wish I could say I was scarred by the horror of it all, but we had so many hearts in jars and blood in buckets…well you just get used to it. Just like normal kids grow up used to dolls and mud cakes. I know all about mud cakes: mix the with poison, coat them in special potion twenty-three, and when it is finished cooking it will look and smell like the tastiest pie you’ve ever seen.
I went off pies at an early age.
Yazra heard a twig snap somewhere, so she silently shut the journal and tucked it into her bag, her free hand simultaneously sliding towards her boot knife. Time slipped by, and only the sounds of the forest filled her ears. She settled back against the large maple tree and let out a sigh. She’d half hoped it had been someone…but no. She had made up her mind: she’d live alone from now on. No more trouble.
Seeing the sky was darkening, she decided it was about time to settle in for the night. It wasn’t hard to do: she just climbed up the tree she’d been sitting against, found herself a nice sturdy branch, and lay down, using her bag as a pillow. It was an odd way to sleep, but she’d grown up in a forest and as her mother had often told her: “The forest takes care of it’s own, Yazra. You trust it to take care of you and it will.”
So far her mother had never been wrong, not once. Which was just another fact that added to the list of reasons why she was doomed. Her mother had also told her being a witch was in her blood.
PART 2
As horrible as she seems, my mother was actually a very good parent to me, and very loving. I know because she never let me play with the potions, because she’d take me on walks through the forest and teach me everything she knew, because she never hit me, because when I didn’t come home at night she would always find me. If you just closed your eyes for the whole ‘wtich’ part, she was like any other mother, really. Which I guess is why it’s so hard to break free of my parents: they were bad people, but they were loving parents.
I guess the real question people would ask is: How, if I was raised in such a twisted environment, I can tell that what my parents did was wrong? Until my mother died, I never set foot outside the forest. I started to gain a conscience watching people who came into the forest and who came to see my mother. Their tension and fear was a mystery to me, since my mother was always kind. I slowly began to realize that there was something I wasn’t seeing. And then my mother told me about the birds and the bees. And I’m not talking about the way of a man with a woman. It went like this:
“Yazra, you’re six now and old enough that I think you’ll understand what I’m about to tell you,” She’d said, sitting me on her lap. “In this world, there are birds, and there are bees. The bees are every day people like the ones who come and see me here. They live normal lives, all bunched together like bees in a hive. Wasting their lives, trapped in a never ending cycle. They work and work, slaving away mindlessly, eager to please a queen who cares nothing for them, and then they die.” It occurred to me that my mother wasn’t talking about the King, but rather a greater being that she blamed for man’s pitiful existence. “But there are always more of them, because even though she knows their lives are pointless, she keeps giving birth to more, maybe out of a cruel belief that somehow they are happy. But they aren’t, my love. They just think they are.”
As she told me this, the hand she used to stroke my head seemed to get heavier and heavier. She had that tight voice she only ever had when she rambled about thinks she disliked. Namely people. But I didn’t need to stop her from rambling, she came back to herself and continued cheerily.
“And then, there are birds, Yazra. Beautiful birds that soar free, slave to no one. They know that the bees live pointless lives, that to the bees freedom and happiness are nothing but illusions. These birds start off trying to help the bees because they are winged brothers, but the bees are so blind and stupid they only fear the birds and their ways. And so the birds give up on the bees, and decide to forget they were ever winged brethren. Those birds, Yazra, are like you, your father, and I.” I liked the idea of being a bird, I was six after all. “And sometimes, we birds lash out at the bees because their ignorance frustrates us so much, but it doesn’t matter because their lives are meaningless.” This was where she started to lose me a little, because I had remembered a woman once coming to my mother with her son; if their lives were so meaningless, why had the woman guarded her son so protectively?
“But we birds are fewer than the bees, and this is what you really have to understand, Yazra. Alone, the bees are weak and hopeless creatures, but sometimes their fear drives them to unite and they kill the birds out of mindless fear. That is why birds must fly high and away from the bees.”
I soon came to understand that the reason my mother hid me away when people came to her was to protect me, because she feared that if ever the ‘bees’ united against her, they would hurt me too. Though really, I wasn’t worried. Either because at eight, I’d seen my mother crush a group of angry villagers who’d dared to advance on our home, or because my mother had raised to accept death as a natural part of life, especially when assisted by such tings as poison.
My father, for his part, believed that the world was filled with only two kinds of people: wolves, and rabbits. To illustrate this point, he once brought me a snow white rabbit to keep as a pet. My mother made it into a stew. Rabbits, it turned out, existed only for the sake of satisfying the hunger of wolves.
Where my mother allowed her knowledge and (twisted) wisdom about nature and witchcraft to settle within me over time so that I would never be unable to care for myself, my father believed in shock therapy. When I was fourteen he took me out into the world and taught me everything I needed to know about how to survive in the real world, preferably while destroying it.
Yazra looked up from her diary and; the forest had suddenly become very quiet, which she knew was a sign something was wrong. Suddenly a loud and angry roar erupted from the woods, sending silent birds into sudden panicked flight. Yazra knew the animal to be a bear, just as she knew she wouldn’t be able to outrun said bear if it was on some kind of rampage. She quickly packed up the roots she had dug up for breakfast along with her diary and got to her feet. The best thing to do was get off the ground and stay there until the bear was gone.
Once again a roar permeated through the woods, but this time Yazra heard agony. To her it was obvious that the bear was injured, which ensured it was extremely dangerous to be around. Unfortunately, finding herself walking quickly in the direction the sound had come from, Yazra realized it was just as obvious she wasn’t going to be able to sleep with a clear conscience unless she tried to help.
*^*^*^*^
PART 3
The bear stood leaning heavily against a thick pine, its body heaving from the effort of breathing. It had obviously been in a fight—a spear buried into its side. Yet despite its weak state, it was a magnificent creature. Its fur was long and black, almost silken in appearance. Yazra wondered if this was some eccentric noble's pet, sent into the woods for execution because it had grown too wild and large to keep.
It would have been an execution, had Yazra not snuck up behind the man holding the spear and knocked him senseless with a heavy piece of wood. Though now, face to face with the absurdly large beast, Yazra was quickly reconsidering her plan. A voice that sounded very much like her father’s urged he quickly to use the unconscious man as a shield while she finished off the bear. Another, much like her mothers, told her to trust the forest. The bear’s eyes were dark, dangerous, angry and yet also intelligent.
Whether to appease her father, the bear, or to remove the temptation of listening to her father; Yazra kicked away the unconscious man.
“Hold still,” she ordered the bear, using her mother’s authorative tone. She kept her eyes locked with the beasts as she slowly reached for the spear. The bear growled menacingly. Yazra sighed.
“This is pretty bad, you know. The spear will slowly tear you apart, and you’ll die a slow and painful death. If you let me pull it out now, maybe I can help you.”
Yazra didn’t expect the bear to understand her words, but she trusted that it would hear her voice and understand she wanted to help. For a long moment the bear continued to growl, but the sound receded and finally stopped.
Yazra gently took hold of the end of the spear, shifting her body so the spear would come out the same way it had gone in and do the least damage. It was only a hand's width into the bear’s side, and from the look of the blood stained fur it hadn’t been in very long.
“One…. two…. three…”
Yazra threw her weight backwards, the sound of her falling flat on her back masked by the earth-shaking roar the bear let loose. She lay there a moment, hands still closed around the spear, considering playing dead for a little while.
Or she could stop the bear from mauling his attacker to death. Yazra jumped to her feet and grabbed the man’s heels, pulling him out of the injured animal’s reach. The bear roared an objection, but every step it took towards the man was slow and painful.
“No, no, no! Sit down and be quiet,” she ordered, feeling lightheaded as she realized she was getting between an angry bear and the head it wanted to crush. “If you keep moving around you’ll bleed to death,” she half-pleaded. “Just, lie down. He’s not going anywhere right now. You can eat him later when he’s awake to appreciate it.”
The last comment had been a joke, though who she was trying to amuse was beyond her. However, the bear seemed to understand it wasn’t going to get its paws on the man, and heavily dropped unto the forest floor. Yazra quickly found rope in her bag and tied the man to a tree a little ways away.
“I’m going to be right back,” she announced, indicating with her hands that the bear should stay put. It emitted a low grumbling sound and turned its head away, beginning to lick at its wound.
*^*^*^
It was past nightfall when Yazra finally returned, having hunted around the entire forest for the herbs she needed to quicken the healing. Short of a mortal and pestle, she’d ground them between two rocks and mixed them with water until it was a thick paste. By the time she’d finished, her hands stank of plants, bringing her a nostalgic memory of learning how to make poultice with her mother.
As she approached, she found he scene before her an interesting and amusing one, though the fact that she found it amusing was deplorable. Apparently the spear wielder had woken, for the round whites of his eyes were certainly visible now, and the bear had taken it upon himself to make it clear what would happen if he tried to escape. The two were almost nose-to-nose, and the man was hyperventilating.
“Please! Help me!” He cried, shrieking as the bear roared into his face.
Yazra tugged at her shoulder length hair, an indication of indecision. Finally she approached and set down her bag and the leaf of poultice on the ground.
“Why were you trying to kill this bear?” She asked quietly, getting up and gathering branches and twigs as she spoke.
“I-I wanted to be famous!” He wailed, obviously terrified out of his mind.
“How would killing a bear make you famous?” Of all the absurd things.
“Becau-” The bear roared loudly, threateningly. Yazra frowned and looked up, seeing the bear had its huge paw on the man’s head. He was crying now, whimpering and begging for his life.
“I’m going to let you go now,” she said, walking over. The bear growled, whipping around to face her. She willed her racing heart to quiet, and just kept walking.
“You owe me,” she reminded the bear when she reached him, biting her lip as she felt her own hands begin to shake. The bear eyed her a moment longer, then with a grunt-like sound it shuffled out of her way and sat, watching her intently from a few feet away.
“Go home, and don’t ever let me catch you in a forest again,” she said, untying the knot and steadying the hysteric man as he stumbled forward.
“Oh thank you! Thank you, thank you!” he said as he bowed and stumbled away, his stammered thanks turning to a cry of fear as the bear growled once again. He ran.
Yazra bit her lip, willing herself not to feel happy she’d managed to save this man’s life.
“I’m going to light a fire, then I have to apply a poultice to your wound,” she informed the bear to which he grunted. Somewhere at the back of her mind, Yazra sensed there was something odd about how easily this bear grasped the meaning of the things she said and unconcerned he was by her presence; it said to her he’d spent time around humans. Was that why the man had wanted to kill the bear? Was it some well-known show animal? Looking at the bear as she lit the fire with her tinder, she decided it was a definite possibility; wild bears didn’t have such beautiful fur.
^*^*^*^*^
PART 4
During my childhood, which for me ended at 14 when my father destroyed what shreds of innocence I had left, I rarely saw my father. He was infamous: The Dread Bandit. And yes, it was a name agreed on between him and my mother because they wanted to match. I don’t even want to guess what they wanted me to be called.
Having started as a humble mugger, my father had a real sense of the value of hard work. To him, everything worth having or being was best earned if you had carved a path of blood, tears and sweat with your own two hands to get it. My father could snap a neck like no man’s business, as I soon learned.
He was a good father to me, though, bringing me presents and telling me great stories of the great villains of all time. He carried me on his shoulders and he could make my mother blush like a young girl. It seemed only natural that one day he would take me out and show me the ways of the world as my mother had.
My father was over-enthusiastic, and forgot to take account of my gentle nature, so it was no surprise that when he immediately took me on a raid with him and his twenty-three man band, I went into shock. I’d never seen destruction of the kind and the screams were horrible. I cried and cried and clung to my father for days afterwards, earning myself the nickname Clingy. I never went on another raid again.
Once I got over that though, my father began teaching me about survival. Over the three years I spent as his shadow, I learned about deceit, danger, death, destruction and that the very nature of man is to, in some way or another, crush other men. My father did not soften his teaching with metaphors; when he wanted to show me how to kill a man he found a body, handed me a weapon, and showed me where to stab.
I somehow managed to push out of my mind the knowledge that freshly dead bodies were in limited supply and my father probably made his own. Those types of lessons were limited in number, but by the time the shock wore off I was well used to the fact that death was a violent creature.
Unfortunately, for my conscience, those three years were my time of realization. I learned about men and women from songs sung in taverns, and I learned about what being a villain really meant by allowing myself to lick the rabbits I should have been eating. By the time my father was done teaching me, any belief I may have had that what my parents did for a living was right, was gone. They were villains, and I didn’t have the heart to grow up and be like them, no matter how much I loved them.
Three months before my eighteenth birthday, my mother and our shack were burned to the ground by a small army sent by a nearby lord my mother had hexed. My father cremated the remains of her body and buried them in the woods, under the concerned watch of myself and the flock of crows my mother had used for messengers.
Maybe he should have mourned—maybe I should have too. My mother had been a witch, and she’d taught me about the birds and the bees; I knew death came for everyone. Besides, there was something so cliché about her death that I knew she went down cackling.
Though not sad, my father was definitely not going to live without my mother. He went on a rampage very soon after, leaving me in the care of a baker man and his wife. It was a devastating thing to hear about: town after town, and finally even a stronghold, were crushed under his heel. He somehow amassed under him in a few short months over a hundred men and rode across the country, gaining infamy as he went. It was only five months before the king himself lead an army to stop him. They say he was the last man fighting and that it took twenty men at once to stop him.
I know it was the way he wanted to go.
Yazra closed the diary and finished her mug of cider, mulling over the past in her mind. It seemed amazing, how her parent’s deaths weren’t sad in any way to her. To them, it had been just another part of living. They both would have told me how pleased they were to have such dramatic ends.
Their deaths taught me the last valuable lesson I would ever need to know: fear always turns to hate, and that is when a villain’s days become numbered.
^*^*^*^
PART 5
“I’m off.” Yazra announced, watching the bear tearing away at a dear it had taken down. She wasn’t sure which reason for her leaving was the stronger: the fact over the last week she’d come to realize the bear did understand everything she said, or the fact that she was certain bears weren’t carnivorous. There was something very strange about this animal, and she had had her fill of strange.
The bear grunted, not looking up. Yazra sighed, another odd thing about the bear was it’s fur. No matter how many brambles it walked through or how many times it rubbed against a tree, it’s fur remained silken and clean. Yazra could sense magic at work.
She had had her fill of that too.
Without another word she shouldered her bag and headed for the main road. She didn’t like staying in the same place for too long, anyways. The feeling of loss when she had to leave reminded her too much of having to leave the forest she’d grown up in. You couldn’t live in a forest where a witch had died: within a year the place became cursed.
It was odd other would think it, that she missed the forest more than her parents.
She hadn’t been walking for more than an hour when the scent of blood made her halt. Her stomach turned and she found herself crouching to look at a torn shirt; animals had obviously destroyed it. Wolves, she guessed, looking at the size of the tears. She felt a lump form in her throat, she recognized this shirt: it had belonged to the man who’d attacked the bear. But it was strange; wolves didn’t usually prey on humans.
Yazra knew at once what she’d done. She’d allowed the bear to terrorize him, appeasing her own twisted sense of justice, and then sent him off unarmed and out of his mind with terror into a forest at night. So, she thought bitterly, yet again the world proves that any good I might try and do will turn to something bad.
She buried the shirt under a large rock and continued, stopping when she reached the main road to write and relieve her aching heart.
I’ve always bee a traveler, since I was on my own. I stay in a town, work for my keep, and then move on, usually after something goes wrong. My mother always said being a bird was in my nature, I guess she was right. No matter how hard I try to be a bee, it always seems like my bird wings trash the hive just when I think they’ve turned into bee wings.
I try so hard, and it just never works.
“Hey you!”
A loud voice made Yazra jump, nearly spilling ink all over her diary. Seeing a patrol of seven of the king’s soldiers marching her way, she quickly tucked her journal into her bag. She’d had run-ins with the king’s soldiers before…the last time she’d ended up accidentally stabbing one of them.
If you can call a reflexively stabbing someone three times an accident. She hadn’t killed him of course, but his right hand would be of no use to him anymore, if he’d somehow managed to re-attach the damned thing.
She stood, bowing her head so her brown bangs covered her eyes. They were a stunning green, a color that might have been remembered from her little ‘accident’. “Yes?” she asked meekly.
“Where’s your pass?” the leader demanded, glaring down at her through his helmet. The soldiers moved around almost casually, but before she knew it they had completely surrounded her. Pass? What pass? There was no such thing! Anyone could walk the roads, though you had to show proof of citizenship to enter walled cities.
“I-” she began, thinking quickly. “I think my brother has it. I was sitting here waiting for him. He should be back soon, he was just catching something to eat.”
From their chuckles, she suspected these men knew she was making it all up, but they’d started it.
“And I suppose your brother also has the license for hunting in the king’s forest?” More chuckles. Yazra had to think fast, because she didn’t much trust these men.
“Sure,” she agreed, trying to judge which one of these men would be the easier to knock out of the way. She would douse him wit the ink still in her hand, and run. Their flashy armor would slow them down significantly. Hopefully.
“Liar. There is no such thin as a road pass or a hunting license. It’s a major offence, lying to the king’s knights.” He drew his sword as he said this. “We’ll just have to teach you a lesson.” The circle closed in by a step…
And then the world exploded.
*^*^*^
Yazra learned that day there was no sight quite as spectacular and frightening as that of a bear charging. And this bear, as Yazra noticed, was twice the size of a normal bear. He bowled aside two of the men, sending them flying to land with loud crashing sounds on their backs. With a roar it started in on the remaining five. Stunned, Yazra watched the carnage unravel before her.
The bear crushed armor, dodged swords and clawed at faces and throats. By the time three men were down and dead; the remaining soldiers were running. The bear chased them down, jumping on top of the closest and mauling mercilessly. The two men the bear had initially sent flying were getting up. They trembled so badly their armor rattled loudly.
“It’s the Demon Bear!” they cried, beginning to run in the opposite direction of their allies. Their words woke Yazra like a jolt of lightning. She’d heard of the Demon Bear before; though it sounded like something you’d call a myth, the bear was a very real creature. People said that he was a bloodthirsty witch hunter who’d finally crossed one witch too many: he was cursed to roam forever in the form of a bear, unless he could win the love of a witch powerful enough to lift the curse. Or at least it was safe to assume, with his reputation, that only a witch maddened by love would release him from the curse and allow him his revenge.
Some believed the story, some did not. The only think anyone had to know was that there was a gigantic black bear with fur as black as death itself that massacred any it met on the road; whether you were a child, woman, man, noble or poor made no difference. The beast was like an entire bandit hoard combined into one creature. And she’d saved his life.
The bear had run down the next man, who as she’d predicted was slowed by his bulky armor, and was merrily beating the life out of him with it’s paws. He was so busy he did not seem to notice the third running his way, sword raised high. He screamed; perhaps to let the monster know he would finally rid the roads of him—or perhaps because there was a knife in his neck.
One that looked very similar to Yazra’s own boot-knife.
Horrified, she was finally aware of herself. Her arm was outstretched; her fingers open, as they always were when she threw a knife the way her father had taught her. She watched, eyes wide, as the man toppled backwards, blood spilling from his neck.
Slowly feeling came back to her numb body, and she took in the carnage. Three dead men lay before her and two not very far away. One of the later two had died by her hand. It was as it had been with the doctor; her body had reacted without asking her mind’s permission. She had the blood of two men on her hands.
No, far more than that. She’d killed a doctor, healed the injured and cared for the sick. And now she’d killed a soldier, who guarded the roads against bandits, thugs—who’d been trying to put an end to a man-killer that preyed on the undeserving. Some dark instinct had willed her to save this creature, this beast that now lopped back towards her, almost contented. His fur wasn’t silken; it was slick with blood.
She felt her whole body trembling, falling to her knees finally when the bear sat down a foot away and began to lick himself clean. She felt sick, like someone had their hand around her gut and were squeezing.
“You pass,” A voice spoke. She turned, coming face-to-face with a gentleman in his forties. He wore grey robes and around his neck hung a white stone pendant. A wizard. She flinched back, stumbling away and nearly falling over one of the dead bodies. The bear looked up, mildly interested by the newcomer.
“Don’t be alarmed. I’ve been watching you for some time now and never done you any harm,” he purred, but instead of soothing her his voice sent shivers down her spine.
“Why?”
“A test. And today you’ve passed. These men? I sent them. I wanted to see how you would react, how you survive. You did marvelously.”
A cold, hard realization settled into the pit of her stomach: these men were dead because of her.
“How long?”
“Years, Yazra. I’ve known of you since you were a child. I’ve always watched you because I knew your potential. Yours is a natural talent. You’ve been fighting it, but I think the time has come for you to face what you are.”
With each word, Yazra felt colder and colder.
“I can help you, Yazra. I can ease the transition. It doesn’t have to be as painful as this pointless struggle you’ve been fighting all your life. It can be easy. Fun.”
A growl interrupted the man. He smiled apologetically. “And of course I can find great use for you as well, cursed one.”
He was talking about the darkness, Yazra knew. He was talking about her dream, about her blood, about her fate. She’d been trying so hard, so long, and for nothing. There was no escaping it, no denying it. Everything she did was tainted.
Yazra closed her eyes. She knew what she had to do.
^*^*^*^
I love you all, thank you so much for reading my work and giving me such positive feedback! If you find the time, let me know what you think about these questions:
1) How old do you think Yazra is? How old do you think she should be?
2) Do you feel you understand Yazra's inner struggle, or do you feel the story would benefit if I expanded further on that aspect of her life?
3) On a scale of one to ten, how random is the Demon Bear? If part four was lengthened and Yazra spilled her guts to him and bonded, what would be his randomness then?
4) What's your opinion on how quickly the plot moves? What do you think of the plot overall? Are there holes?
5) And last but not least...do you feel th story would benefit from more description of the scenery, characters, sights, smells, etc?
So far my update list is as follows:
MidnightVampire - VioletSunrise - Heatherish - SirWozzel - gurockian - JabberHut - lykeOMGitsSABRINA
P.S. Yes, okay. I have finally decided, since the dictionary says a prologue can be an 'introductory chapter', that this is the PROLOGUE now. Mainly because the other chapters are set some months later and calling the first one chapter two kills the flow.
As I read this, I'm gonna rip it, tear it, and smile the entire time. 
Maybe he wrapped his arms around her waist?
Gender:
Points: 1478
Reviews: 220