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Galkgrokst Firearms

The first galkgrokst firearms were developed a little over 900 years ago by the engineer-philosopher Krashee Palkst Dzal. His patron, the Empress of the Unalloyed Will, commissioned him to create a more powerful version of the hurled bombs in use at the time. In his typical fashion, Krashee Palkst Dzal instead delivered an entirely new weapon system. He adapted existing grenades into conical projectiles filled with explosives. The projectiles were fired from rifled tubes, propelled by pre-measured explosive charges. These early weapons, though large and primitive by today's standards, led to tremendous changes in the nature of warfare.

At their core, the basic design of firearms has changed little since Krashee Palkst Dzal's day. Most galkgrokst weapons consist of a long, rifled barrel, with a magazine and firing mechanism located at the rear and a trigger mechanism located near the front. This forward placement allows the narrower end of a user's tentacle to depress the trigger mechanism, which enhances both comfort and safety by allowing a more natural grip and the use of a comparatively small trigger guard.

In older weapon designs, the trigger group is linked mechanically to the firing mechanism, usually by a series of rods and levers. Weapons developed within the last 15 years typically use an electric connection, with the trigger now acting more as a switch or button.

Firearms are held by wrapping one or more tentacles around the weapon's body. Spent shells are typically ejected laterally, away from the body and head. Most weapons have a shroud around the barrel with an air gap between the two assemblies for heat dispersal and to protect the user's tentacles from heat. Firearms are typically held down and away from the eyes, with the eyestalk raised away from the weapon. An experienced galkgrokst veteran will often fire from cover, exposing only the weapon and one eyestalk to fire.

Galkgrokst weapons typically lack sights, and soldiers are trained to varying degrees in unsighted fire. In some cases, iron sights are used, and the highly-advanced GCS-9918 infantry rifle, developed by Keeping, can be equipped with an electro-optical sight feeding to an eyescreen. In the main, however, galkgrokst combatants rely on putting large numbers of rounds downrange to inflict casualties, and even today many battles involve maneuvering to close with the enemy and engage in close combat.

One notable exception to these design principles are the helmet-mounted guns which have recently come into vogue with some of Keeping's Ground Combat System 84. GCS 84s are highly trained and motivated troops called upon to perform special missions which sometimes require covert action. The helmet-mounted gun typically fires low-caliber, subsonic rounds and includes an integrated suppressor. It may be used for quiet, close-range kills. Some 84s see this as an advantage because it leaves one's tentacles free.
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When they came in, they always came in fast. They skid low across the atmosphere like silvery stones, flushed with coldness and dawn. It seems like they had been coming for a few years now, and perhaps observing for some time before that. We knew what they had been doing for awhile, but due to the scale of the previous conflict their depredations went unnoticed. Unnoticed at least by nations and armies. The inhabitants of a remote farm would go missing. Bandits, of course. A fishing vessel might disappear, just before dawn on a clear calm night. Drift mine, most likely. However, the disappearance of all the human inhabitants from certain remote island chains seemed harder to explain.

As things were rebuilt, one missing person became ten, then a hundred, then a thousand. A sort of harvest was suspected. It took radar and collective will to finally see them clearly. Silent, swift, and hungry. We almost never saw them at all. We never found any trace of their victims. They came on calm nights, tearing across darkened skies, seeking with a purposefulness that spoke of long planning. Sometimes there was a burst of radio static across the upper bands, but more often there were just empty houses, drifting boats, and uneaten meals come dawn.

It was determined that Something Must Be Done by those that determine such things. Experts were called in. The wartime radar pickets were refurbished and expanded, and all eyes turned to the edge of the stratosphere. One of the reconnaissance balloons finally got a picture. They were about seventy feet long, and glinted brightly in the sunlight. Their ships were tapered and featureless, with skins of perfect mirror brightness. The shape gave them the only name we have: They were Teardrops.


Treichler had dreamed of Alma again. They were in Vienna, and it was June. The city seemed renewed and washed clean by a recent rain. The city center had been rebuilt, and she was waiting for him in the park. She was wearing white, and held something in her hand. The dream always ended before he could see what it was.

He snapped out of his reverie, and couldn’t held but notice the grayness of the landscape. It was always gray, but now it seemed exceptionally colorless. No more Alma, no more Vienna. He stretched and stepped out of the truck, nodding to the driver. The sun had not yet risen over the dead stubble and deserted buildings, but the sky gave a slight even glow. In the dimness of six o’clock the interceptor was being fuelled on the tarmac before him. They were blowing the fuel lines out with steam, and the lights on the airfield turned this into a halo.

The interceptor looked not so much sleek as purposeful, the stub wings supporting two oversize engines. Low and gray, it was a hunched thing. It had the appearance of being doubled over under the weight of the jets, mounted at the joint where wing met fuselage. The silhouette was that of a peddler with a burden. He would sit between the engines, and below and in front of the wing spar. The wings were swept back, tapering and drooping gently towards the tips. They were small for the size of the aircraft. The nose was glazed.

While the outside spoke of brutal elegance, from within the cockpit it was a rococo accumulation of scavenged parts, worn leather, and tube steel framing. The Soviets didn't bother taking off the Reichsadlers, and WESTSOC didn't bother taking off the red stars. There wasn't time for that sort of thing. There wasn't time for a lot of things. The seat was a high gee affair, reclined slightly and evoking the sense of being in an oversize catcher's mitt. Treichler put his flight helmet on, while he perched on, rather than sitting in the seat. Your range of motion is limited once you strap in, so it was easier to adjust your helmet, throat mike, gloves, and collar before you were in all the way. It was a comforting ritual. Once he was satisfied with the fit of his gear, he eased in and slipped his feet into the rudder pedals. Not an inch of space seemed to be wasted. Throttle at your left hand, Control stick in the center. Basic instruments in a cluster in front of you, navigation aids in a smaller cluster above it, just in front of the hatch. You arm the bomb from a selector panel below the main panel. The effect would be claustrophobic if it wasn't for the panoramic view that peeked at you from behind and around all the other artifacts. Treichler flipped on the main power and set the source to 'Ext'. He plugged in his headset to the familiar pop and faint hum of interference from the external generator. The panel lamps came on, and all instruments read normal.

Settling in, his mind drifted a little. He remembered neighborhoods of long acquaintance, avenues of crumbling brick and the bright water of the river at flood. The air here smelled of many things, but never of the cold clean water of April flood stage. The preflight check was like a mumbled prayer, perfunctory but meeting all the requirements of the form. The panel lamps warmed, illuminating the dials with an amber glow. Treichler exhaled and regarded the mist of his breath. Only just then did he realize how chill the morning was. He pulled the hatch shut, grabbing the tube steel handle with his right hand and bringing it down with nuanced force. He flipped the release latches at the front corners to lock them, looking to the left and to the right. Internal power on. A low hum from the generator behind him. Thumbs up to Old Trigby on the left, who then unplugged the electrical umbilical. The mechanic flashed him his usual grin and returned the gesture. There was something sad in his eyes, though it only showed there. Thumbs up to the man on the right, who removed the wheel chocks and gave his approval as well. He was new. Never caught his name. They moved to the left, past the wingtip and stood by with fire extinguishers.

The moment of truth. Treichler flipped the fuel cock to 'Main' and pressed 'Air Start'. Compressed air coughed the engine turbines into motion with a shudder. He set the throttle to five percent, and stabbed the ignition button. His mouth was moving, silently voicing words even he didn't know. A violent cough, and the engines belched a thick white vapor. Better be ready to get out in a hurry. You never strap yourself in yet, unless you want to burn to death. The right engine made a healthy whine, but the left stayed silent. He cut the fuel to the left engine with a curse, and advanced the throttle on the right one to ten percent. The compressed air system needed to recharge. This was bad. We didn't have time to waste. This would be a tricky enough intercept on its own without being ten minutes late. Thirty PSI. Good enough. Throttle to five percent. Ignition. A thump, then the whine became a two part harmony. This was much better. He advanced the throttle to thirty percent and the interceptor rolled forward with that massive but floaty feeling of a full wheelbarrow. He was moving at the speed a man walked, but not for long. He steered the nosewheel with the rudder pedals. The interceptor passed from the revetment to the end of the long runway, turning into the chill wind. Throttle to fifty. The walk became a jog. Through the pedals, he steered left slightly, pointing the acrylic nose down the center of the runway, slapping the release hooks of his harness onto the loops at the shoulders and crotch of the gee seat. Faster now. The interceptor vibrated, and Treichler slowly advanced the throttle all the way. Not too fast. They'll catch fire if you do that. The whine advanced exquisitely, and the engines keened like angels in pain. The faint smell of kerosene and ammonia wafted through the cockpit. Warm enough. Almost time. Faster, faster, faster the vibration diminished and the tires tiptoed a few final bumps. He was in the air. Needed just a few feet of altitude. The aerodynamics were messy when the gear was coming up. Okay. He rotated the selector and began raising the gear. The low roar of eddying air shuddered across the aluminum origami of the bay doors, then a clunk, then silence. Three red lights. The gear was up and locked.

He armed the booster and waited the eight seconds of eternity, the dead and empty fields racing by below him. All dark these days. The ready light was like a consummation. He flipped the safety up on the arming panel and tripped the rocket ignition. What happened next always surprised him. It surprised him not with its violence, but with its purity. Ammonia and hydrazine were both pumped into the ignition chamber, and combined explosively to give him the thrust he needed to reach the edge of the sky within five minutes. That really didn't capture the essence of the experience, though. There he was, trundling along in his cartoon jet, overburdened by fuel and foreboding, then a moment later perched atop a column of yellow fire big as a building, leaving a contrail that could be seen from the next state. Time to get to thirty degrees.

The controls were already heavy, the ailerons fighting to cut into the swift air flowing over the wings. Back. Pulling hard. He became aware that he was sweating. Kansas floated below him, a distant and faded patchwork. Ten thousand feet. The curve of the earth was already visible, ever so slightly. Another few seconds and the angle of the horizon lined up with a thin red line painted on the inside of the canopy. Thirty degrees. Time to stand on it. His left arm felt clumsy and heavy, reaching for the throttle. He flipped the release and sent the engines to emergency power. His arm felt like it was made of lead, and it was as if someone was sitting on his chest. For the next forty seconds the rocket and the jets were putting out enough combined power that he would be at the edge of the atmosphere at burnout. He clung to the immovable control stick reflexively. At this speed the air was so thick and viscous it might as well be wet concrete. The interceptor was fully ballistic at this point, with the stubby wings mere decorations atop a pillar of angry bright fire.

In the spectacle, Treichler had almost forgotten his oxygen mask. Wouldn't do to black out. He clipped his mask on with fumbling fingers against the gees. Flip of the switch, and a reading of normal flow. The rubber was cold against his face. Airspeed was 500 knots and slowly accelerating, arcing slowly upwards past 45 degrees. In less than a minute the rocket would burn itself out, having consumed two tons of fuel and oxidizer. He would be around 28,000 feet then, still accelerating on inertia and jet thrust. At 32,000 gravity and the thin air would betray him and he would hang in a stall for a long instant before beginning his terrible glide towards his quarry. He was at 60 degrees. He gently rolled the interceptor onto its back, the blue Earth above him, and the blackness of night spread below his feet. The stars were always out up here. The rocket rattled rather than roared, then made no sound at all. Burnout. The pressure on his chest lessened and he flipped the arming switch on the weapons panel from 'On', past 'Off', to 'Vent', purging the pump system of any remaining hydrazine. It was nasty stuff, and had to be treated with respect. He backed the throttle down to 30 percent, the engines leaning their mixtures automatically in the thin, cold air. Only 600 pounds of fuel left. Throttling down to ten percent, barely moving. Barely moving. The mach meter showed 0.8, but the sky was thin and smooth in the darkness. He was pointed towards Denver, with the rising sun behind him. Release would come at the foothills of the Rockies, with the intercept proper thirty miles west. Very cold now. His fingers felt heavy through his gloves, and his boots felt tight on his swollen feet. Time to get a target and get down out of the freezing night. He was the man of the hour, he thought, his face making something like a smile inside his mask. He thought of the look in Old Trigby’s eyes again, and of Alma, then dismissed it all with a shrug.

The interceptors didn't use radar, or at least not sets mounted on the aircraft themselves. They were too big, too heavy, and were something that the Teardrops could sense. When we (meaning WESTSOC) first seriously tried interdicting them, bombers were used, fitted out with missiles and search radar. The first couple intercepts were successful, with shootdowns on both the Denver and Mojave approaches. These initial victories couldn't be followed up though, and subsequent experience showed that the Teardrops would go into near vertical dives when the tracking radars were turned on. These dives were usually around Mach 3, and weren't something even the newer missiles could catch up to. In the end, it proved more effective to use ground radar and guide the interceptors with radio beacons. The ground radars were passive, which is to say that instead of sending out their own radio signal and waiting for it to bounce back from the target they painted their picture with signals from other radio sources. Usually we used one of the remaining commercial radio signals, but the medium wave weather band could be used too. You could even use background radiation, but your range really dropped off. If the Teardrop was coming in, Grand Junction and Rio Rancho would be triangulating the position and speed right now. So far, they hadn’t figured out that they were being tracked with music, which was heartening. They were fallible.

The Earth was a pool of blue above him, spreading slowly as if to welcome him. Treichler flexed his hands cautiously, one then the other. The swelling didn’t seem so bad now, but was still painful. He fumbled at the dial for the direction finder, rotating the aerial slowly through an ocean of static until he heard faint music. It was Rhapsody in Blue, which was appropriate enough. Lili Marlene would have been more welcome, if only for old times’ sake. Either way, that was his beacon, about five degrees to his right. The air was slowly thickening as he descended, making a thin hiss barely audible over the engines. It was enough to give some control again. He pushed the stick to the left, and the interceptor rolled slowly upright. The Earth looked lush and wet and was growing beneath him once again. The engine sipped fuel, throttle almost at zero. This was all gravity now. Just a little rudder put the nose on the beacon. Treichler flexed his aching hands and tried moving his feet, giving up on the tingle in his toes after a few tries. It was easy to drift off the beacon if you didn’t pay constant attention. The thick gloves didn’t help. It was deathly cold and almost silent. The engine’s whine seemed very distant, and the air outside was a thin hiss across the wings. Gershwin was scratchy and distorted this close to the ionosphere at dawn, and barely more than static.
The primordial blue of the atmosphere came rising up to embrace him again. A faint shuddering rhythm came to him through the wings. They had something to bite into again. Shivering slightly, he began the long descent back to warmth and life after thirty seconds in eternity. The interceptor falls in slow motion, grossly out of scale. The aircraft is tiny and gray, a secret thing gripping fifteen kilotons of ruin beneath it. A little fire to chase away your teardrops, Treichler reflected. This smile was no more successful than the last. He was on the right path now. He was triangulating from the Alberta and Fort Pleasant transmitters, faint metronymic beats hammering out a counterpoint to the old song.
It wouldn’t be long now. Treichler tensed slightly at this thought, or rather at the implications. All he had to do was turn his key to the red part of the dial and flip the arming switches and the bomb would be ready. The press of the button on the control stick would finalize everything. A successful intercept would prevent Teardrop incursions for between three and six weeks. It was a race. He fell faster now, quickening his descent with each moment. The stub wings whistled slightly, and began to shudder. Sound was catching up with him again. The sun was breaking across the mountains, fresh bright light on the last snows of winter. Each peak glowed like a beacon, calling him back to Earth above the purple whispers of the vanishing night.
There was vibration as he descended into warmer air, but it wasn’t too bad. The morning was as bright and clear as any he had seen, and he was the hunter this time. The wings started doing their job again, and his hands hurt a little less. He advanced the throttle to a more respectable setting and enjoyed the whine of the engines. Their precision, their power, and their seeming fury all comforted him as he raced above the bright peaks in a shallow dive. As fast as the Teardrop was, he was faster. Much faster, and accelerating. He would catch up to his quarry in about eight minutes, lobbing his bomb in an arc as he went into a steep climb. Interceptors rarely saw a Teardrop. If you did, it was because something was wrong. Getting the bomb within a mile of a Teardrop was close enough. There were two fuses: One was for altitude, and one was for proximity. The proximity fuse used radar, but it was a clever design that only armed itself once the first fuse did. The target didn’t have time to take evasive maneuvers, and probably not even time to become aware of the bomb before it went off.
He followed the beam, the faint murmur of a waltz turning to the occasional crackle of multipath as he descended. He was listening, straining, waiting for... There. The ping of the tracking station. He was on the right path, and closing as he should. He started sweating again. Another ping. The tones would get more and more frequent the closer he got. When they bled together into a single sound he was to pull up sharply, hit the release, and get away as best he could. Usually it was best to do a half roll and dive, heading back the way you came. You had to be at least five miles away when it went off, and ten was better. It was fused to go off about a thousand feet above the Teardrop, smashing it downwards into the jagged peaks with the blast. This would also keep the fallout to the east at acceptable levels, though there were few left to sicken. Utah was all but deserted by now. We were being nibbled away. Town by town, night by night, they disappeared. Never livestock or anything else alive. Just people. What the War did not harvest, the Teardrops did.
He turned his key to the red quadrant of the arming panel. His hand shook, or perhaps it was the turbulence. Four switches followed, and with each a name. Click. The lamp for ‘Preheat’ came on and an air hose fed hot air, bled from the starboard engine to warm the arming and electric systems in the bomb. Alma. With you it was always spring. Click. The lamp for ‘Lock’ went from green to red. The tamper could now move freely when the cordite was detonated. Theo. I’ll be joining you soon, just like old times. Click. Now ‘Elec Main’ glowed green and the detonator had electric power. Father. I did as you would have done. A pause, and then a final click. ‘Main Arm’ flicked, then glowed green. He could drop it any time now. Vienna. A small brass button on the control column was all he needed to press to finish things.
Treichler was close now, and still speeding up. At 375 knots he was almost level with the tallest peaks, and squinting into the sunrise. The wings were starting their vain protest, rattling and groaning in the thickening air. The tones were close together, and getting closer. Almost there. Sweat ran into his eyes. He took off the oxygen mask, chancing the thin air for the last few minutes. Almost there. He screamed through a jagged pass and a wooded valley stretched out below him, all tall pines and snow in the shadows. He was low, and getting lower, trading altitude for speed at usurious rates. The tones were so close they almost bled together. Wait. Remember the training. Remember. Make this one different. An icy river zigzagged below him, a bright and curling ribbon that heightened the sense of speed. The sun was painfully bright, the mountains seemed a dark wall, rising up to claim him.

Then he saw it. Treichler saw it. The teardrop. Close and cold, spitting a thin streamer of violet fire as it raced ahead, following the valley. It seemed tiny, just a garish pinprick in the long shadows. Tone.

With an inhuman sound Treichler heaved the stick back with all his might, and the wing spars groaned. He snapped his head to the left, eyeballing the alignment of the 35 line on the canopy with the horizon. Too many mountains to be certain. The groaning wings silenced his curse as he pressed the release. It made the tiniest click, and the next tenth of a second lasted years. Then the bomb released with a clunk, and four blank cartridges fired from their sockets, pushing the bomb clear. The next movements were all instinct. He was pointed almost straight up, and was losing speed rapidly. He had seconds to get away. Roll right. Dive sharply. The edges of his vision went dark with the gees. The valley floor slid into view, and began to fill his field of vision. The aircraft shook and vibrated. How long? How far? The instruments were blurs. A dud?

Treichler’s heart sank. Then a terrible light overtook everything. For a split second the world was white, and then it was dim. Afterimages burned into Treichler’s eyes. The heat hung in the air, content to curl and bubble the smoking paint from the underside of the wings. He realized that he was too close to the explosion. The next moment brought an avalanche of wind and fire. The interceptor was swatted from its dive and sent tumbling upwards. Spinning like a broken toy, it was outmatched and overpowered by the fury it had released. Trailing corkscrew plumes of black smoke, the interceptor began its final descent.

Blacking out from the blow, Treichler awoke to smoke and ruin. The glazed nose was shattered, and a hot wind whistled in through zigzag cracks. This alone dispersed the choking kerosene fumes from the leaking tanks. Engine temperature was pegged in the red, nozzles burning through and the turbine bearings starting to wobble and fail. The keening of the engines ascending to a scream as tortured metal entered its death throes. His face burned and cut, Treichler fought the stick to correct the spin. Reduce power, rudder opposite to the spin. His fuel almost gone, he squinted through the blood and could make out the pass he entered the valley through. He might make it, or at least make it far enough that he could bail out somewhere that wasn’t on fire. His leather gloves smoldered slightly, and the shattered instruments were obscured by an increasing amount of smoke. He was on fire. He slammed the throttle to full power. If he could get enough speed, he could blow the flames out, or at least keep them from creeping forward into the cockpit for a few minutes. The smoke cleared slightly, and he could see the small mirror at the top of the cockpit. The starboard engine was on fire, its aluminum fairing stripped away and jagged orange jets were poking out of holes in the shattered motor. The port engine was somewhat better, trailing black smoke from the overheated nozzle. Just a few minutes. Maybe seconds. He had come through too much to give up, though the valley floor was a carpet of fire and his aircraft a cinder.

The world was orange and blood red. The aircraft hissed and rattled. The vibration became pronounced. Then he saw it. Saw it again, when it should have perished in the blast. It had doubled back in a snap turn that should be impossible. The Teardrop was racing below him, the torch of violet at the tail longer, but irregular and jagged. Its mirror surface now seemed somehow cracked and veined, and it was shedding pieces of itself like droplets of molten silver. It too, was heading for the pass. Treichler knew in that instant what he had to do, and that he would die that day.

Their speeds were almost matched, and Treichler had the advantage of a little altitude. The pass seemed like the eye of a needle, a minute space between the dark mountains. He relaxed slightly. It seemed simple now. The jagged forest was unburned and green, the pines rising up to greet them as the valley narrowed to the pass. The Teardrop was very close, and getting closer. Rising slowly, it sought the same path of escape past the mountains. Treichler regarding the flaming reflection of his aircraft in the cracked mirror surface. The Teardrop was barely fifty feet away. It was time. Treichler applied emergency power and rolled to the right. Inverted, he pulled the stick back and pointed his nose at the wounded intruder. He collided with the Teardrop just as they crested the pass. He hit it just off center, at the base of his starboard wing. The flaming, screaming engine snapped forward and tore away from its mounts. The interceptor lurched crosswise, burying its nose deeper into the Teardrop. The mirror surface shattered and the acrylic nose disintegrated, bright sharp fragments filling the cockpit. It was like glass, but swirled as if alive. It writhed and danced in the air, as if was trying to reform itself into a solid shape again. The interceptor tumbled end over end, a pinwheel of silver and fire. The main spar tore away from the fuselage with a wrenching sound and the noseless, wingless fuselage tumbled through the pass into the next valley.

Treichler sat on the tube steel chair in what was left of the cockpit. For a moment, he felt nothing so much as confusion. Dazed and concussed, he wondered where his aircraft had gone and at the sky beneath his feet. The icy air struck him like a blow as the ruined cockpit tumbled into the wind, and the cuts on his face burned. This snapped him back to reality, though his vision was blurred, and his left arm was numb and likely broken. The canopy had been torn away, along with the glazed nose and most of the instrument panel. Everything was coated in silver. He was still gripping the control stick with his right hand. He was still alive. This thought finally registered as the wingless fuselage ceased tumbling and plunged into the steep shadowy depths of the silent valley. As if underwater, he fumbled the quick release on his harness and stood up. The slipstream peeled him away from the ruined aircraft, and time sped up again. The parachute that was his seat cushion opened with a snap and spread above him. The jerk of deceleration was excruciating, his left arm useless but as a source of pain. The fuselage shot away, hitting the slope five hundred feet below and disintegrating in a puff. It was silent again, but for the wind and a faint clanging echo across the pines, which faded quickly. Treichler soared down the slope, slowed by the icy draft that was rising to meet the pass behind him. He had bailed out far too low, but it wouldn’t kill him this time. The pines were small here, and narrowly spaced on the snowy slope. They seemed tiny, and perhaps they were. Nonetheless, they seemed much larger as they rose to meet him. It might hurt, but this one was survivable. Survivable. He mouthed the word in disbelief as he smashed into one treetop, then another, then another. After that he lost count, and decided he would like to pass out for awhile.

He woke up a few feet above the ground, suspended like a very battered spider by his parachute webbing. His arm hurt, but that seemed alright. The hike out would be tough, but this was April, and the pass would be clear. He realized he was covered in silver, courtesy of the Teardrop. He rubbed a little of the material between him fingers as he searched for the release for the parachute. It looked like quicksilver, but it felt like glass. It quivered slightly, and grew milky and stiff. Whatever it was, was no more. He raised his head to regard the sunrise, the slope bathed in shattered silver tears turning golden with the light of morning. Treichler tumbled awkwardly to the ground and began his long journey home.
This is a short story inspired by a painting I did a while back. It's 1948, but not *our* 1948. I hope you enjoy it.
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Prologue: “Your Ears are Bleeding”


In the grim reality of the distant future…

There is only war.




“C’mon! Keep running!” A young blonde girl in a pink and white outfit yelled jokingly to her friend. The friend she was yelling to was a young female Eld’ Earin. A fox-tiger hybrid. She looked at her friend with an irritated look. They were both running away from an explosion that they both caused in the downtown section of city. No civilians were harmed, but a fair amount of destruction was caused.


“I TOLD you this was a bad idea Dea!” She said to the blonde. Dea only smiled and rolled her red eyes.


“I know, but aren’t most bad ideas fun?” Dea replied “Plus, you don’t have to worry too much Fulvus. It’s not like those losers are going to catch us anyway, right Thusfar?”


The small dragon that was sitting on her shoulder purred and rubbed himself against his mistress' neck in agreement.


Not far behind the two troublemakers, a trio of young human men, led by an orange-furred fox Eld' Earin, stopped for a second to gather their bearings, for they had lost track of the girls they were chasing.


“Great! Now where the hell did they go?!” A boy with brown hair complained.


“Chill out, Chris. We’ll find them. Mitchel, can you get a lock on their location?” Another boy with orange hair, armed with a crossbow and a staff on his back asked.


“Sure Arron, just give me a second.” The one known as Mitchel lifted his mechanical arm. He pressed a few buttons and a small screen appeared, split into four smaller ones. These screens were the street cameras near their current position. On camera three, they saw their targets bolt.


“There! They’re not far ahead!” Mitchel shouted in relief.


“Right then! Come on guys! These three aren’t getting away this time!” The fox said with a grin on his face.


“Okay Des, lead the way.” Arron said with a smile.


Des jetted ahead of his friends. Being a fox, he was naturally quicker than his friends and he didn't want the girls to get away... not again.. Des stopped when he arrived at where camera three covered. There were two ways the girls could have gone: strait down the main street, or down an alleyway that fell just out of the camera’s line-of-sight. When his friends caught up, Des explained his thoughts to them.


“I am not sure where they could have gone, and I can’t pick up their scent. They either went down the main street like they have been, or took a detour down that alleyway.”


Mitchel spoke up, “I guess we should split up then. Des, you and Arron head down the alleyways. Chris and I will keep moving forward. Be careful guys, we can’t let them get away this time.”


“I mean, seriously!? Blowing up a GameStop of all places?! Just when you though those two couldn’t get any more annoying.” Chris shouted. His friends just rolled their eyes.


“We’ll call you when we find them.” Arron said.


“Same here.” Replied Mitchel. “Okay now, let’s get going!”


With that, the four of them split into their two teams of two. Not long after entering the alleyway, Des picked up the scent of the strong perfume that Dea loves to wear. He and Arron followed that for a few minutes, around a few corners, when they finally saw them. They were cornered against a brick wall that they were just about to climb when Des and Arron showed up.


“What was that you said to me earlier? “It’s not like they’re going to catch us?” Fulvus said sarcastically to her friend.


“So I was a little wrong. Big deal.” Dea replied with a hint of annoyance in her voice.


“And here we were thinking that you two had learned your lessons.” Arron said with an amused smile.


Des chuckled slightly. “So, how about you guys just surrender quietly this time? There is no need to cause anymore chaos.” Des suggested.


Thusfar growled after hearing the fox’s suggestion, to which Dea patted him lightly on the head. “Are you just saying that because Thusfar here threw you off of a building the last time you came after us?” She said with a smirk.


Des blushed a little at this, remembering that instance.


“N… No! I just think that – “


“Either way, sorry boys, but we don’t feel like going to prison today!” Fulvus interrupted with a smile as she got into a fighting stance.


“Well, I hate to break it to you Fulvus, but you kind of are going today.” Des replied, also with a smile while assuming his fighting stance. He then channeled his magic into his right paw with his Trigram Seal, just enough to knock these three out. Seals are used to divert magic, and are essential for most spellcasters. The more prongs set into a seal means that more magic can flow through it. A trigram has three, making it a pretty basic seal.

He saw out of the corner of his eye that Arron also engaged his stance, now armed with his staff.


“Well, if that’s the case, I apologize in advance for this guys.” Fulvus said. She then breathed in deep, and closed her eyes. Foreseeing what she was about to do, Arron jumped out of the way, behind a dumpster that was nearby, covering his ears as well. Des however, used this opportunity to charge at Fulvus. Little did he know, that Fulvus was ready sooner than he thought. She then let out a loud, powerful shout that stopped Des in his tracks as he braced himself. Fulvus felt a surge of pride when she saw the look of surprise on Des' face as he was hit by the wave of magical energy. She couldn't help but smile at the situation. Until… Her eyes widened even more. There was something different about the magic she was using right now to amplify her shout. Something that she had never felt before.


Deep within the hellish plains of the Warp, within his Black Library, the Dark God Tzeentch, god of treachery, lies, change, and sorcery, was sitting on his throne, deep in thought. However, his eyes shot open as he felt a strange disturbance in the Warp’s energy. Something, or someone, not one of his followers or a follower of his brothers or sister, had just drawn power from the Warp! With this, Tzeentch stood up from his throne, grabbed his Staff of Treason, and vanished. He had transported himself to the Spire of Chaos, where he saw that his kin had also arrived.


“Please tell me you all felt that too.” Tzeentch said to his brothers and sister.


Des tried to hold his ground, even going so far as too dig his claws into the ground, but the force of Fulvus’ shout was too much. Des was blown off of his feet, and thrown back across the alleyway. His back hit the wall, not with enough force to break anything, but enough to knock him out with a sickening crack. After Des fell down unconscious, Fulvus stopped shouting. She stood there, staring wide-eyed, still surprised with what she had felt while using her power. She rubbed her throat, trying to dispell a slight tingle that had crept into it.


“Des!” Arron shouted as he ran to see to his friend.


“Great job girlfriend! Now, let’s make a run for it!” Dea said with joy as she and Thusfar made it up and over the wall. Fulvus heard her, but was still frozen in place with what she had felt. She then looked over to Arron as he was making sure Des was okay.

Fulvus wanted to say something, but her pride wouldn't let her.

With that, Fulvus  then made her way over the wall, where her friend and her dragon were waiting for her.


“What took ya?” Dea said with a smile.


“I’m… I’m not sure.” Fulvus said while looking at the ground.


Dea looked at her confused friend with some concern, “Well, something tells me we shouldn’t stick around for much longer. Let’s get going.”


“Yeah, let’s." Fulvus replied, as they continued running.


A few minutes later, Des groaned as he started to open his eyes.


“Hey guys, I think he’s waking up!” He heard Chris’ voice say. Des then opened his eyes fully. He was slumped against the wall of the alley that he had hit. The back of his head hurt a little bit, but not so much that he had a headache. In fact, aside from his head feeling a little tender in the back, he felt fine. He saw Mitchel and Arron walk over to him.


“Oh, thank God.” Mitchel said “You alright Des?”


“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. The back of my head hurts just a little, but that’s it.” Des said as he made to stand up. Arron decided to help him stand. “What happened?”


Arron answered, “Fulvus did her little ‘magical shout’ at you and that threw you back against this wall. I called Mitchel and Chris over and when they got here I explained what had happened.”


“Did Fulvus and Dea get away?”


“Yep. And their little dragon pet too.” Chris replied.


“How long was I out?”


“Only about 5-6 minutes. You don’t have anything broken or sprained, so you probably won’t have to go see Carol again. And don’t worry about those three. We’ll get them some other time.” Mitchel said with a joking tone, trying to assure his friend.


“That’s good. Well, I guess we should get going. Shade is probably not going to be happy with this.” Des said with a smile. Arron however, noticed something not long after Des stood up.


“Hey Des. Your ears. They’re… They’re bleeding!”


Des placed his paw up to his ear. When he brought it down, his eyes widened a little bit. Arron wasn’t kidding. On his pointer and middle finger, was sticky, red, coppery-smelling blood. What did this mean he wondered. He could hear fine, so why were his ears bleeding. Chris and Mitchel also had concerned looks on their faces.


“Maybe I should see Carol after we get back after all.” Des said.


Meanwhile, within the Warp, not long after he arrived in the Spire of Chaos, did Tzeentch ask if his brothers and sister had felt what he felt. They were in the main hall of the dark fortress, where a large, evil looking crystal table was centered in the middle. Tzeentch was at the part where his back faced the entrance of the room. To the opposite side of the room, a throne made of skulls was located, and it was occupied.


“Yes.” A deep voice said to his right. The voiced belonged to Nurgle, the Dark God of gluttony, disease, and decay. “A disturbance in the Warp’s magic energy, caused by an unknown outside source.”


“Something that does not follow any of us.” A female voice interjected. This was the Slaanesh, the Dark Goddess of lust, pleasure, and desire. “Something, powerful.” She said the last word with a smooth, lusty tone.


Tzeentch reached up to his neck to fiddle with the dark blue crystal that he kept around his neck (he does this sometimes when he thinks), only to realize that it wasn’t there.


“MinthRas!” Tzeentch yelled. A cloaked figure appeared on the opposite end of the table. It was MinthRas, Dark God of greed, envy, and luck.


“Come now little brother. You should know by now that I would have given it back to you. Eventually.” MinthRas said with a laugh as he tossed the crystal back to Tzeentch.


“If the two of you are done jerking each other off, we have something important to address! Like the reason we are all hear now!” A furious, threatening voice echoed, prompting all the others to turn their heads in its direction. The voice was that of Attikan, Dark God of anger, fury, and pain.


Slaanesh spoke up, “He is right. This is a serious matter. What do we know?”


“Little to nothing,” Nurgle replied, “All we truly know is that it was clearly an accident, for no Imperial would be so stupid enough to try to draw power from our domain.”


“There is something else.” Tzeentch added, while his kin all turned their attention to him, including the one sitting upon the Skull Throne.


“And what is that?” MinthRas asked.


“When I felt the disturbance, my instinct led me to try to find its source. Unfortunately, because it was so short, I was unable to precisely pin-point the cause. But, I WAS able to find, where it came from.” With that, Tzeentch placed his right hand on the table. The surface of it began to glow. Not long after, a projection of the whole galaxy rose from the table (this is not a hologram, but a magic 3D map of the Milky Way Galaxy). Tzeentch then magnified a small world, in the farthest rim of the galaxy. A planet unknown to them. When this planet’s image was all that was hovering above the table, the Dark Gods eyes all went wide except for Tzeentch. They could feel the raw magical energy that this planet contained. It was not like any other world in the galaxy.

With this, the figure sitting upon the Skull Throne stood up. The rest of the Dark Gods turned their gaze to him, as he descended the small flight of stairs that led up to his throne. This being, was Khorne, the Dark God of violence, death, bloodlust, and chaos, the Master of the Warp. He was slightly taller than the rest of his kin, and his appearance commanded respect and displayed authority. He took his place at the table, between Nurgle and Slaanesh, and said in his deep, powerful voice.


“What do we know about this world?”


Tzeentch replied, “It is inhabited by humans who share it with sentient anthromorphic beings. It is the only place aside from the Warp that seems to have any form of magical energy. The locals are advanced, but not to the standards of modern day.”


Khorne stared down at the image of the planet, deep in thought.


MinthRas spoke, “So, now that we know where this disturbance originated from, what do we plan to do about it my brothers and sister?”


Tzeentch spoke again, “I actually had an idea about that, I propose that – “


“Well, I say that we send our armies to this pitiful planet!” Attikan interrupted “Hunt this usurper down, and SLAUGHTER it! Make it feel pain that only WE can make it feel!!!” Tzeentch was about to say something, until Khorne spoke.


“Calm yourself Attikan. While I am normally supportive of causing death and mass slaughter, I must say that I agree with Tzeentch.” MinthRas, Nurgle, Attikan, and Slaanesh then looked at their youngest brother, who was also slightly surprised. He didn’t finish what he was saying, so how could Khorne agree. Khorne then continued.


“Despite my distaste in the arts of sorcery, I do agree that, whoever this being that drew power from the Warp is, could prove to be a powerful asset. Anything that could steal from us without us even knowing immediately who he or she is, must be a powerful spellcaster and warrior. One that I would love to meet myself. One that, with the right training and guidance, could become a mighty Champion, or even a Lord of Chaos.”


Nurgle finally spoke up, “I concur. I say we try to find this being, and turn him or her to the path of Chaos.”


“I do as well. Also, I do certainly hope that this troublemaker is as sexy as it is powerful.” Slaanesh said with a seductive grin as she licked her lips.


“I am also in favor little brother.” MinthRas added.


“Fine! I’ll go with this as well!” Attikan shouted, clearly not completely pleased.


Tzeentch smiled a wicked smile as he spoke, “I suggest we send someone to hunt this person down, and try to recruit this being. Someone who is skilled in the art of sorcery, who is silver-tongued, and who can take on whatever this planet throws at him or her.”


“I agree. With both this idea, and the one you are thinking of Tzeentch. Bring him in, so that we may brief him.” Khorne said with an evil smile.


Tzeentch also smiled evilly, as a man, clad in power armor, appeared behind him. Tzeentch turned around. The man took a knee to the Six.


“You requested my presence Lord Tzeentch?” The man said.


Tzeentch replied, “Yes Ahriman. We have an assignment for you.”


Comments, questions, and constrictive criticism is appreciated.

Any rude remarks, antagonistic comments, or flames will be deleted and their writer blocked.

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Ch11.Ohayo Gozaimasu! (Training Time!)

Hinata's eyes peeked open after her sleep was disrupted by a stray ray of sunlight. She blinked a few times and looked around the room. Everything was tidy. However it wasn't the Hyuuga room that she was accustomed to. Her head bobs up and down. She wriggles off the warm, moving pillow she had slept on. Looking at her 'pillow' she realises it's not a pillow but a man's chest. Her brain kicks in and reminds her of the previous night's events, finishing it off with a nice, sharp throbbing pain to her head. She instinctively puts her hand on her head to feel a small lump where she had hit it on the pantry shelves. Then as if out of nowhere a small, annoying beeping sound interrupts her memories of her and Naruto kissing. The blonde man in the bed stirs and Hinata squeaks, back to her nervous self.
Naruto reaches past Hinata to the alarm clock radio on the bedside table. Naruto grumbles back to sleep, only to be awoken again by a singing voice on the radio. The song is a Japanese song that's very repetitive singing of "Cherry, cherry, cherry- Bon! Bon!" Would have anyone up in 2 minutes. Half dressed, Naruto rolls over in his bed to face the Hyuuga. Hinata's face a bright pink, she stares at him. Even his messed hair and drowsy expression couldn't shake the fact that he still looked utterly handsome. Naruto, barely awake, smiled dumbly at the girl and got out of bed. Grabbing the nearest shirt he slipped it on, as he did; Hinata view of Naruto's chest now obscured, she regained some of her senses, only to quickly lose them as Naruto went to change his hakama (The bottom half of a traditional male garment). Hinata turned around, just in time to miss seeing Naruto's drawers. Naruto looked up at her. He'd forgotten she was even there. Being half awake still he mumbled an apology and quickly slid on a pair of black denim jeans. Hinata, still in her kimono from last night, nodded taking her leave.

"Ah, Hinata!" Hinata spun around on her feet as she reached the door and looked back to see Naruto with a somewhat bewildered look on his face.
"Did you want to borrow some of my clothes?" He asked, referring to her wrinkled kimono. Hinata, blushing; nodded and walked back over to Naruto.
As the two sat and Naruto held things up for Hinata to try on, Hana found herself unable to move in her bed. She was too overwhelmed with joy that her mother and father were in the same room together. She remembered how hard it was to fall asleep last night. The anticipation of today keeping her awake. She wondered continuously the night before what they would do together. Then, like a dark cloud covering the brightest sun she remembered Naruto's deal to her grandfather. Hiashi Hyuuga was the most unpleasant man she had ever laid eyes on. She had never known the man before, but this- This, she was certain of. He had such a cold glare towards her parents. He didn't even acknowledge her. The dark storm grew darker and sprouted thunder with lightning. She let her mind trail off on the 'what if's' if Naruto couldn't win against the cold Hyuuga. However, snapping from her thought's as a yell was heard from Naruto's bedroom.

"AH Hinata?!" Naruto said, looking at a passed out Hinata that lay in his arms. Hana rushed in screeching in to see a panicked Naruto, a Limp Hinata and a pile of Naruto's clothes. On top of which was a pair of his boxers. Beside which, lay a small, inconspicuous box. Seeing Hana, Naruto panicked. Dropping Hinata to the floor, he rushed Hana out of the room. Confused, Hana obeyed, though it involved Naruto having to push her out. Naruto quickly excused himself and fled back into the room.
Once back inside he looked to the pile of clothes, the boxers, the passed out Hinata and finally the small box. He glared at the latter and cursed it. Why pervy sage had ever left it in his will for him after he turned 18 was beyond him. He'd never used any before, so the packet was still unopened. He sighed a moment then stuffed the box and a few other clothes back into the closet all the while thinking "Hinata-chan probably thinks I'm a pervert now!~". Jamming the doors shut he turned to Hinata. After searching through his smaller clothes they had found some that would fit her for the day. Carefully he picked Hinata up and she stirred, blushing deep pink.
Looking her in the eyes, he gently tapped her forehead with his hand. "C'mon, we've got to go get something to eat before we train" Hinata nodded, blushing. After which, Naruto lead himself out so she could change into his more comfortable clothes. While Naruto lead Hana out to the kitchen where he began to make some food. This time it wasn't ramen, which was very surprising to Hinata, as she walked into the kitchen to find a small plate of curry and rice.
"Did you cook this?" Hinata asked, pointing to the yummy smelling food. Naruto nodded a smile spreading across his face.
"It's not as good as Hana's but I think I'm getting better.." Hana took a mouthful of the curry, a blank expression on her face. She chewed, swallowed then stared at Naruto.
"You're right…" Naruto watched her expressionless face daring to hope that she would accept his attempt at cooking.
"It's not as good as mine." Hana smirked, smugly as she sat down at the table, taking a plate of her own. Naruto took his plate and began to eat with the others. Hinata sighed a little. She knew Hana to be a little controlling when it came to her food. Whenever she would take Hana out for food she would always say that it was not as good as Hinata's. She quickly came to noticed Hana's bias towards particular food tastes.
Naruto sat, sulking while he ate. She was right though, and they all knew it.
Once their meals were finished, they all got dressed properly into attire that would be more appropriate for sparring. Hana, wearing her regular ninja gear with her pale orange hoodie with white sleeves and white furry hood lining, black three-quarter pants and basic blue ninja shoes. Hinata dressed in an old white shirt from Naruto's closet, her ninja pants, gear and Jounin jacket over the top. Naruto wore his consistently orange attire with a Hokage logo embroidered on the back of his jacket. Grinning the family set off towards the training ground.


Landing safely on the tree branch, she awaited her anticipated attacker. Her breaths, shallow but hard. She could sense his chakra nearby. With a few whips of her hands she un sealed her kekkeigenkai with a single word.
Already laboured she noted the setting sun, then, resumed her scan of the forest. Releasing the jutsu, she jumped, landing firmly on the ground. She knew her chakra was almost completely spent so, she signalled to the other two to halt training for an hour or so to have lunch and catch her breath. Taking out her lunch she begins to set up. Nothing like a family picnic.


As the sun visibly began to sink below the tree covered horizon, the three trained long into the hours of the day and eventually night, finally stopping at 8pm for a late dinner at Ichiraku's. Naruto was thrilled to get to eat out, however secretly wouldn't have minded trying Hinata's cooking. He remembered as a kid she could always cook really well. He wondered while slurping up noodles, how much better she had gotten over their time apart?...
Naruto then found himself wondering off onto a tangent. How much had she grown? He already knew she had become stronger over the years. Still, he wanted to know more. He wanted to know her, personally. Hinata continuously blushed, as Naruto would drift off, staring at her. Hana just laughed at them.
On their return home,
none of them sensed the lone ninja hidden amongst the dark shadows of the night that followed their every move, waiting, biding their time until they would strike. By the time they would notice, it would already be too late.
Chapter 11 of my FanFiction
Naruto - The next Generation.
"It's been two years since Naruto first sat as Hokage,
three years prior were spent travelling, now, at Naruto's
23rd Birthday party, a young girl claims to be his daughter.
Is the girl really his? How will Naruto handle parenthood?
And- Who's her mother!?"

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Naruto Characters belong to Masashi Kishimoto (C)
Hana belongs to Me :)

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The story of a young witch

My name is Melina Blackeye. I live in a tower in the middle of nothing. Where is that nothing, you may ask. Well, it's in the land of Iroma kingdoms. The three kingdoms in war. I live next to the battlefield and they bring me wounded knights and brave people.
I am also a witch. I was born from a mother-witch, but my father was just a knight, serving in one of the kingdoms – Karalom.
Karalom isn't the biggest kingdom, but it is known for its really good farmers and farmlands.
I live alone. My mother was slain by kingdom Iomus' knights, because, well, she was a witch. Iomus people don't like magic at all, they use only their weapons and even their bare hands.
They know about me, but now they are too busy planning their attacks.
Actually, I don't worry about that.

I am still young. I am 24 years old, but I'm still studying magic. I'm not even in a hurry, because I have about 200 years left to live. Maybe longer, I don't know.

All my days are boring. Just sitting in my room and reading.
When I don't study, I like reading about adventurers and dragons...I really want to go on an adventure like those I read about.

I heard about many magical creatures roaming the forests and the mountains. I heard about centaurs, unicorns, werewolves… And many times I have been thinking of grabbing my staff, putting on my black hood and going to see all of them.

I'm not afraid. I don't fear almost anything. I ate a spider when I was 7. I punched my father in the face when I was 8. I rode a wolf one time, when I was 12.

But still, there is something I fear of. Drowning. That's how they murdered my mother.

Here's how I lost her :

One day. A normal day. Nothing happened. But suddenly the door of the tower where I live now was smacked down by three strong men. The showed no mercy to all our books and shelves. When they were done destroying all we have, they tied us. They injected something in our hands and we fell asleep.

When we woke up, we were in a cold cage inside a cave. Two men came, unlocked the cage door and told us to move. They weren't gentle at all. They kicked us, when we slowed down, because we were tired and we didn't know what was happening.

After ten minutes walking we faced the Big Gate, which was leading to the throne hall. Other guards opened it from inside, but it looked like being opened by itself. Like with magic.

I remember getting kicked again, because I was so impressed from the view…the beauty of the gates and the whole kingdom. I felt like flying out of reality.

In the next moment we were facing the king. He was about 50. He was covered…literally covered with jewels and golden necklaces, that I couldn't figure out – if he was fat, or there were just too many things on his body.

He didn't say much. He only said "Cut her mother's head ! Lock the little one in the underground prison ! Don't allow visitors !"

All happened immediately. Guards took me by the hand and started dragging me on the floor to my loneliness. I screamed and shouted against them, but they seemed like they didn`t care.

I found myself crying in my prison room. It was so cold… my skin was white… My eyes were bleeding. I couldn't hear anything, except the guard's breathing. He was breathing so rhythmical, so I figured out, that he was sleeping. But what could I do ?

I went near the cage's door and looked around. The prison was empty. No prisoners at all. What were they going to do with me ? Let me starve to death ?

Just when I thought about that, a man came and gave me a wooden bowl, full of rice. He didn't seem very old, but he had many ages behind his back. He didn't say anything and he just walked away.

I ate all that was in the bowl. But suddenly the thirst for freedom became very strong. I looked around and I wanted to make sure, that no one was watching me right now. No. No one was.

I thought of using magic, but I was 14, I didn`t know much about magics, I just knew something about different creatures and herbs.

A crazy idea ran trough my head.

I took the wooden bowl and started to fret it in order to make something like a cod. With that cod I could unlock the cage door.

It wasn't easy at all, but finally I made it. But there was a more difficult step to do – NOT to break the cod.

I started to "dig" in the keyhole. It took me about half an hour to success, but finally I did.

Unfortunately the guard woke up and saw me running to the exit. He stood up and ran after me in order to catch me and bang my head on the floor to death. Or at least I thought so.

When I was in front of the prison door, he was right behind me. I started pulling and pushing the door, but it didn't open. That was the moment, when my heart was about to explode. I thought he would raise the muzzle of his gun to my head. But he didn't. He just pushed me aside gently, reached the keys from his pocket and unlocked the prison door. I was so surprised, that I stood there and watched the man in the eyes. Few seconds after that he pushed me trough the door and said : "Go ! Go, fast !! There's a hole in the kingdom wall south from here ! Walk near it and no one will see you !" I nodded and ran as fast as I can, until I found the hole in the wall. It wasn't big. It was big enough for a dog or a fox to get trough. I kneeled and got on the other side of the wall.

I was free ! I was really free ! I thought of running wherever in the forest, that was nearby, but I stopped. I wanted to save my mother. But how could I ? I just went outside the walls, that kept me in prison. No. I thought, that I must save my mother.

I went trough the hole again and I noticed, that I'm behind a big village house. I thought, that I could find a hood or something in the trash next to the door. I didn't , but I saw a strange hat next to the window. It was inside, but the window was open. It seemed like no one was inside. I grabbed the hat and I put it on.

Then I heard a loud noise coming from the center of the village. I went behind a house and tried to look around. There was a perfect view of everything. I saw many people shouting against the person standing in front of them. It was her. It was my mother standing there freezing, because, obviously they tried to drown her in cold water. I could tell that, because I saw the huge pool with water next to her. She looked so weak. Her life was flying away. But they didn't stop. They were preparing the gallows.

I knew what's next. I covered my eyes. I wanted to shout against those...tyrants, but I knew, that if I did that, they would cage me again, or even kill me in public... like my mother...

I couldn't do anything. It was too late. There was nothing left, except to run away and never come back.

And so I did.

I remembered where our tower was. I went there and what I found was a huge mess. That wasn't a big problem. It was much easier to tide it up, compared to the things I had to do before I came.

So that's how I lost my mother. Sad story, indeed. But after that I didn't think about it much. At least I tried.

I thought, that they would send knights to search for me, because I wasn't where they wanted me to be. They didn't. But they actually "used" my magical powers to heal their warriors few years after all that with my mother and me happened.

You may wonder what happened to my father. Well that's not a story as long as the one for my mother. He simply died in war. That's all.

I didn't like him very much. I actually didn't at all. He was just a normal human, fighting on Iomus' side.

However. I'm not thinking much about the past. I "look" in my future and I don't mean looking in the crystal ball. I would like to see all with my eyes.

Who knows, maybe my dreams will come true some day...
...a story about a young witch, that lives in a tower, next to the battlefield of the three kingdoms - Iomus, Kalarom and Gloromdor.

She is dreaming of someday going on an adventure, as she reads in her books. She wants to see all those mystical creatures - dragons, werewolves and centaurs...

Who knows...She may see them sooner, then she thinks...

I really hope you like and enjoy my little story :)

-_-_-_-_- Grammar Mistakes Fixed -_-_-_-_-

Chapter 2 coming in a few days !
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Who will survive?
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[Verse 1]
Marching quickly across the land,
Destroying the enemies quick as we can.
Killing our victims and taking no slaves,
Do this for Hitler’s third Reich.

[Verse 2]
The engines of war are roaring,
Blow them apart for it is our calling.
We march quick and we march by his hand,
To put the West under his command.

[Verse 3]
Machine guns are firing the tanks are destroying,
Demolishing our way to glory.
Our general’s smile at the sight of us giving hell,
The Fuhrer knows his armies have done well.

Send the enemy to meet the reaper,
Dig their grave and blow it deeper.
We smash down their walls faster than lightning,
Until the day breaks we will be marching.

They cannot stop us from doing our part,
Our formation strikes like a dart.
They will all die today or tomorrow,
Either way we end their sorrow.
The blitzkrieg will strike and they will pay,
Their countries are ours by the end of the day.

[Verse 4]
WAR! It’s in our blood!
We march towards it put our foes in the mud.
Europe’s land shall be stained red,
Lucifer shall fill his halls with the dead.


[Verse 5]
No country is safe no one shall be spared,
We’ll crush you faster than you can prepare.
Only total victory will satisfy our need,
We are marching and this is our BLITZKRIEG!
Song about the German Blitzkrieg.
Wrote it myself.
Part of a concept album I am writing about Nazi Germany.
This is 1 song from it that has been completed.
Took some time with different lyrics, different timing etc etc.
Overall I like it.

Comments welcome.
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Nightgaunts are in the air
We're floating in the moonlit sky
The people far below, unknowing as we fly

You're holding very tight
You dare not make the faintest call
You're fearing you would die: that I would let you fall


Far across Dreamland
We are silent as the grave
Our quarry we now bear 
The shoggoth, he does crave

Victims gaze open mouthed
Taken by surprise
They speak not, for they fear, their near demise 

We're coming to the lake
We're passing Thok's accursed peak
We dive down with no fear
though we may look weak


Suddenly swooping low on the lake so deep
Arousing of the mighty monster from its sleep

We're walking in the air
We're soaring through the starless sky
And everyone who sees us run off as we fly

So, with the turn of the season just around the corner, what better way to impatiently wait for it than with a Lovecraftian cover of another song?
In this case: Walking in the air from The Snowman.

Feedback is always welcome!
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Your suppose to be mine

Pein: Reinforcements, huh?
Hinata: I won't let you lay another finger on Naruto!
Naruto: What're your doing here! Get out of here! Your no match!

Hinata: I know. . .
Naruto: (!)
Hinata: I'm...Just being selfish...
Naruto:What're you talking about! What're you doing here! Its dangerous!

Hinata: (. . .)
Hinata: I'm here on my own free will
Naruto: (...)

Hinata: I used to always cry and give up...I nearly went the wrong way...but you showed me the right way.

Hinata: I was always chasing you...wanting to over take you... I wanted to be with you...You changed me! Your smile saved me! So I'm not afraid to die protecting you!

Pein: (...)

[Hinata gets into her fighting stance]
Hinata: Because I-I love you
Naruto: (!)

-Your presence

-Your memories

-Your future

-Your past

-Your now

-Your everything

Is supposed to be mine.

Suppose as in imply, assume.

But what happens when you pour your heart out for someone who just walks away, leaves, avoids, ignores.

What are you suppose to assume, when your everything is gone?

How am I supposed to react?

I don't think I just do;

The nightmares of war is taking a toll on my body and slowly draining my senses of what's real and what's not.

My hands tighten around a kunai to reinsure reality as blood runs down and slowly drips off the tip of the blade.

I take a shaky breath as I try to remember all the memories of you that are too big too sharp to put back together.

I fight for people not because of your shinobi way but because of their screams, of their lives, of their willingness to survive.

My memories of you drift away as every stab, punch, cut, and dodge cause me to become enraged and cry out.

Thoughts of you dont have the same affect on me as there suppose too ; reality seems too much to bear.

Everything that was supposed to be mine; everything that could have been mine was lost.

I'm sorry but as sad as it may seem, your no longer my shinobi way, no longer my selfish cause

Your Love...

Was never mine and will never be mine.

So now I have to ask myself isn't there something missing?

As I try to understand and remember what I saw in you from the beginning.

Who do you really belong to?
First NaruHina fanifc!:love:

Hinatas reaction to narutos no response to her confession!
She feels our pain too...reality hurts doesn't it??</3

But dont worry this is just the beginning since this is only Part 1:excited:
This is going to be a continuation! And not just in poetry form but and all out story this is just the preview. Hope you guys liked it!:heart:
~editing and open opinions are welcome and please comment! thanks sooo much!:tighthug:
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