Friday, October 18, 2013

Snippets

click above to see more snippets!
Thank you, Katie! :) 

You asked for more Time Travel snippets...I am happy to oblige. XD Though only one of these was actually written since school started. :P



“You are late, my leader,” Kang-Dae said, glancing across at him as they fought, the reckless smile that meant he was fully enjoying himself clear upon his face.   “Do not forgive me,” Ja-Il said shortly, catching a poorly aimed blow with the hilt of his kardas and bringing his foot up to kick the man who had aimed it, sending him backwards into the patrol behind him.



"He may already be gone, but you must go, now.”
“Why?” It was a stupid question, but he was honestly confused.
Echo slammed something like a tin can down on the table and turned to face him, shaking hands folding into fists. “Because Rui will kill you! Threatening worked this time; it is not going to work next time because they will have a plan. And if we had left you in the alley, maybe they never would have seen you—Amon wanting you is my fault too. So just leave! I will not have another innocent person taken because of me!” 
She whirled away from him, and there was suddenly an echo of laughter in Ellian’s ears, a memory’s whisper.
“They have your sister.” He said it aloud before he thought, a kinship with the girl before him suddenly there, vast and unmistakable. 



“Rise, Ja-Il.” 
The command was clipped with anger, and though Hae-Jin dared not look up, the sound of his leader rising to his feet and the brutal thud of iron on flesh needed no explanation of sight to understand. Within his line of vision, Hae-Jin saw Ja-Il stagger at the blow, heard his muffled breath of pain, though his leader made no other sign.



“I have to get home, as soon as possible.”
“You can’t.” She felt drunk, or how she imagined being drunk would feel. Except if she were, she should not feel so hurt. “The only person who could figure out how to send you home is my sister…and Amon has her…she could send you home in a heartbeat…she’s brilliant, my sister. But she’s gone. So there is no one to help you.”
“You know for a fact that she could get me home?” His voice hurt her head, and she flinched at the sharpness of it.
“She broke into a laser-locked warehouse…hacked into the history database…deleted files from Amon’s secret web…She could do anything…but she’s gone.” 
“Is she dead?” he demanded, and she winced as the throbbing in her head increased. 
“She is gone…” she repeated, then whimpered as she remembered Ja-Il’s words.
Ellian must have remembered them too, because suddenly he was kneeling beside her, his eyes locking with her blurring gaze. “Then we’re just going to have to get her back.”



Let death win. Stop resisting.
But how did one force oneself to stop wanting life, to live, to be alive? It sounded sweeter every moment, even as death crept steadily nearer. 
He did not want to die.





And...just for fun...I thought I would properly introduce the story I threw into this snippets post.  :) 




Chaos Allegra


The Girl came first. 
A girl with a voice in a country where women have little say.
An orphan in a culture where to be without family is to be cursed.
A child of Gypsy descent in a civilization where to bear the blood of the Wanderers is to be an outcast forever, and made nameless by law.



The girl spun back to face him, black hair lashing about her face. But there was that calm upon her face that marked the center of a hurricane, and something more frozen than ice within her voice.
“Do not speak to me again.”
All façade of gentility dropped from the man’s face like the mask it was. “Don’t get high and mighty with me, witch. They’re orphan girls. This is good work for them.”
She did not hesitate. “They are my orphan girls, and I say your louts shall not sully the air they breathe. Begone with you, sir.”
The order seemed to leave the man dumfounded, and for an instant he simply stared at her. She stared directly back, her gaze unwavering. Anger seemed to bring back his voice, and it returned with a rush, his tangled tongue flinging an ugly curse at her. His hand drew back to strike her, yet still she did not flinch. Hesitation seemed to catch him then, and he pulled back, his hand returning to his side as a fist.
“I’ll not be touching such as you,” he ground out. “Not with my bare hands, at least.”
The ice that chilled her voice seemed to crack, and there was fire scarce restrained in her words. “You have made me angry. It were better you left before you knew how angry.”



The child Emmett....whether he is
more or less of a man when he returns
from the capitol remains to be seen...
Then came Emmett Kynaston.
Privileged child of the Elite, future carved in stone by his father and the others of the high class to which he was born.
He possesses all he could ever want...and yet when his father is given charge of the ships and his family returns to the harbor home of his childhood, he cannot help but wonder about the black-haired girl he once knew. The girl who refused to tell him her name. 



“What’s your name?”
It was a boy’s voice that asked, and she turned for that reason alone. There were no boys at the orphanage. Not because boys were not orphaned, but because they were never left. She had not talked to a boy in six months. A cousin’s uncle had come for Lethe on his first birthday and she had kissed him and cried when he was taken. Lethe had screamed for her all the way down the street. She had not been allowed to eat the rest of the day.
This boy was older. As old as she perhaps. He was still looking at her, swinging slowly on the iron-swirled gate between them.
“I am Emmett. What’s your name?” he repeated.
She wondered if he knew his eyes were like the sky, swiftly changing blues that held both shadow and sun. His jacket was burnt orange and silver moonlight, and his hair was that shade of brown that streaked gold in summer.
“I am a girl,” she said at last.
He looked at her still. “Girls have names.”
“I am an orphan.”
Lines of puzzlement appeared between the blue that was his eyes. “Orphan girls have names.”
“I am a gypsy.”
The gate creaked.
“Oh,” he said, when there was nothing else to say. 



Then was Jericho Chand. 
It was the day before his sixth birthday that his father stepped forward at the request of the Council, to tell what he knew. Before the sun had set, the honest name of Chand had been changed to that of Traitor. The ones who had ordered it stepped into their desired place as Council leaders, while the Chands died at the hands of the executioner or in the slave camps. 
Almost fifteen years have passed, and yet his steps do not lead him to what was once his home, to the blackened thing left standing as a monument to the fate of traitors, or even to that house which bears the name that hatred has branded upon his soul.
Instead he finds himself in the alley where he first met her.



His father was weeping. Jericho wished he would stop. The baby, clutched in his mother’s chained arms, was not crying. Even his sister, clinging to his grandmother’s skirts, who always cried, was silent.
He wished he could cling to her skirts. It was too hard to stand. So he sat, the chains on his wrists crumpling against the stone beneath him. It was too hard still to look at the others, and he closed his eyes.
 They knew they were going to die. It was the rule of three. Those who had raised the traitor to do as he had done must pay with their lives, and those who he himself had raised, who would do after him as they had learned of him, must also die. His father's father and mother...his own mother...and the rest of them, all to die for the sake of his father.
“You cannot let them kill you.”
There was command in the voice, and Jericho raised his head, feelings too far spent for surprise to enter him.
It was a girl. Black eyes boring into him as if she would see his very thoughts within, she crouched down beside him.
“Do you understand?” she asked.
“No,” he whispered.      She reached out, warm fingers touching his chilled hands. “Just live,” she said. “All you must do is live.”



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