Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

ALRIGHT! I think i might have told some people that I write, and I'm to... self conscious? to post it out side meh journal. So enjoy, and do leave CONSTRUCTIVE criticism, k?


The moon sat high in the sky, a pale circle of light against inky black. Tree branches swayed in the cold wind, the first signs of storm clouds made silver in the sky. A lone figure laid on the snowy ground, surrounded by the thick underbrush that permeated the Canadian forests, his chest torn and bloody. He felt the life slipping out in a hot stream, turning the pure white beneath him to a macabre red slush. He smiled up at the moon, his canines glinting wicked and long in his bloodied mouth, and he let his mind wander to his brothers, his pack. They were half way to Alaska by now, and he was sad for it. He let a chuckle build in his throat, the cold driving the pain away long ago, and it came out as a howl of anguish. He had let a pup defeat him, shred him, in front of the only family he’d ever known, and now they marched to their deaths. He had failed them. White spots appeared in his vision, and his last thought before he let unconsciousness take him was that he had left his door unlocked to top it off.

It was warm when he woke, and unusually soft. He groaned at the feeling of flesh knitting together on his chest, and wondered if the movies knew how much that actually hurt. He wished it work like that sometimes, the wound would just close with out any pain. But it didn’t, it took hours sometimes, and it made you ache from the extra effort your body put in to heal quicker. It also itched like mad. He let his eyes drift open and winced at the light streaming in from the window above him. He tried to shift and sit up, but was stopped by the feeling of rope around his ribs. He struggled for a moment, then thought better of trying to break free. Whoever had him tied down was apparently paranoid and the last the he needed was to be ousted as a supernatural creature. He could imagine the government facilities now.
He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a door opening across the room, then shuffling footsteps coming toward his resting place. He cracked one eye open, and was greeted with the sight of a stringy haired young girl no older than twelve. She had big watery eyes the color of coffee with too much cream, and he realized they couldn’t belong to any human. She reached out a thin hand and tugged on his restraint, her hand ice cold against his chest. She nodded once then scurried away, mumbling to herself.
The next hour passed in silence, not even the sound of a bird outside to ease his mind. He had the room memorized, down to the exact number of floorboards. It was fourteen by fourteen with only one window facing east, the bed was beneath it, and a door in the west wall. There was a ceiling fan, but it was off, and he desperately wished it was on so he could have at least had a breeze. He tried to wiggle free again, but the rope just irritated his now mostly healed wounds. He let a heavy sigh and tried to go to sleep, trying to clear his mind and let the day melt away. He counted sheep for what felt like hours, and finally stopped at seven hundred and eight. The silence was unsettling, and he wanted so badly to turn over. Or to be able to sit up and pop his back.
The sound of the door creeping open almost made him relieved, and he turned his head to ask the stringy haired girl to let him loose, or better yet, let him go, but found the words stuck in his throat. A man stood in the door, curling copper hair brushing his shoulder, and arms crossed over his chest in annoyance. He stood almost to the top of the doorframe, and he held himself like a man who had to control a great amount of violence. He moved to the side of the bed and looked down, sky blue eyes filled with venom, and tugged on the ropes.
“I see you’ve healed.” His voice was thick with a Scottish brogue, so it sounded almost alien at first.
“Yeah well, I’m still not sure if I should thank you, or try rip your throat out.” He smiled up at the scottsman, letting his slightly protruding fangs show. The other man only laughed, showing his considerably longer fangs, and he had to swallow a groan. Of course he would be found bye a vampire, it just added that perfect touch to his day. The vampire stopped laughing, and the venom returned to his stare.
“What’s your name?” It wasn’t really a question, but he figured it was better to tell the man who tied him to the bed anything he wanted to hear.
“Leon. I thought you guys were suppose to be the picture of old world hospitality?” He asked in jest, hoping to win the vamps trust until he got free, so he wouldn’t see the claws in the back coming, but was rewarded with only a glare.
“I am Faolan. You would do well to hold your remarks.” Faolan turned on his heel and walked to the door, his hand brushing over the light switch, and just as Leon thought he was going to cut the light, he flipped on the fan. Leon smiled at the kind gesture, and three hours later he succumbed to sleep.

Faolan paced the halls of his house, a grimace set on his face. He found the man half dead in the snow and his heart had seen her, lying bloody in the river, hair streaming out in the water like black satin. He took the stranger with him. He rotated his shoulders, feeling the creak of old age settle into his bones. His boots carried him to his study, a fire burning bright in the fireplace in effort to chase the creeping cold from the room. Cold azure eyes found the claymore mounted to the wall over the mantle, the solid blade nicked in at least a dozen places, the leather wrapped hilt black with age and use. There was still blood on the hand guard, and it brought a sly smile to his face. He’d had the massive blade since he was a young man, nothing more than his fathers shadow. It had served him in the clan wars, and had lain waste to the English. There were more than a few innocent live on that steel, but more guilty.
Rhona had once tried to learn to swing it, her tiny hands barely wrapping around the hilt. She had laughed, stumbling around with her face painted like his ancestors, and had nearly impaled herself with it. It had stayed put for almost thirty years after that, silently watching as Faolan watched his daughter wither.



NOW! Before I get the strange names speech, those are ACTUAL Celtic names, though VERY OLD. I can't remember what they mean, but I'm pretty sure Faolan means wolf. Obviously Leon is not strange. And again obviously this is unfinished, and is the beginning of a much longer work. If you're interested, pm me, and I'll work out an update thing with you. I am looking for a grammar beta.