- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Female
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Fantasy, SciFi, Modern, Magical
The thief stared down, face twisted monstrously into a sneer. Gurgling a plea of desperate confusion, a man lay at his feet. Crimson life bubbled from his throat, finding escape through a neat little hole. Smoke still curled from the barrel of the pistol the thief held, an ashen path for the dying man's soul to shortly follow. To their left, the thief's companions were rounding up several head of horses: excellent stock, to sell at inflated prices to the rich socialites of California who had more money than sense. The man, gray mustache now stained red as blood seeped into it from the puddle it lay it, reached out a weak hand. It grasped the thief's ankle, twitching in the last throes of persistence. His chest heaved, trying to force a cough that was wholly unequipped to the task of expelling the liquid from his lungs. Above him, the thief pulled back the pistol's hammer.
"Why, hermano? Jorge?" The words were barely discernable through the blood. The thief's sneer widened to a full grin. It had to; it was suddenly full to bursting with avarice, resentment, anger, and self-satisfaction.
"Because, cabron. Because he loved you more."
The pistol fired again. And again. And again.
Jorge fell to his knees, his stomach squeezing his supper enough to make it into a fountain of bile and filth. It made good on that threat, and only by shoving aside his neighbors did Jorge manage to avoid dousing them in his vomit. That- thing. It was- It was unnatural, he was certain. What was it doing here? What even was it?
And why did that girl from the Inn, that Eliza, treat it like- like it was a loved thing? No, it was a thing that Shouldn't Be. Jorge longed as he had longed for nothing else in his life to run screaming from the scene, disgusted by the very presence of that vile thing. Yet curiosity took him once more, and he returned for a closer look.
He should not have. He should have leaned into his inclination and left, returning to his bed with a bottle of tequila to drown the memory. Or, were that insufficient, he should have given himself to the wilderness, taking his chances. He later wished he had.
He pushed to nearly the inner-most circle, the crowd seeming to make easy way for him. The beast's eyes caught his own immediately. They seemed to look right into them, supernatural in their knowledge of his sordid past. They judged him, did those eyes. They knew. His deepest, worst offense. The one that, someone, the Law had never learned. He'd carried the memory around in his head, a secret weight; as far as his companions had known that night, the man he'd murdered was some random, poor rancher. No one knew that it was his-
But those eyes knew.
"You did not warn enough then, anciano."
Who the hell knew what the man was talking about? Jorge's own response came as a surprise to him, focused as he was on the corpse. Waiting- for what? No one appeared to want to act, to do anything. This girl, Eliza. She should not be sitting there like that. Even Jorge, for all his misdeeds, knew that. With a muttered mierda, he stepped forward and grabbed her by the back of the shirt collar.
"Come, muchacha. This is not a thing for you to see."
"Why, hermano? Jorge?" The words were barely discernable through the blood. The thief's sneer widened to a full grin. It had to; it was suddenly full to bursting with avarice, resentment, anger, and self-satisfaction.
"Because, cabron. Because he loved you more."
The pistol fired again. And again. And again.
Jorge fell to his knees, his stomach squeezing his supper enough to make it into a fountain of bile and filth. It made good on that threat, and only by shoving aside his neighbors did Jorge manage to avoid dousing them in his vomit. That- thing. It was- It was unnatural, he was certain. What was it doing here? What even was it?
And why did that girl from the Inn, that Eliza, treat it like- like it was a loved thing? No, it was a thing that Shouldn't Be. Jorge longed as he had longed for nothing else in his life to run screaming from the scene, disgusted by the very presence of that vile thing. Yet curiosity took him once more, and he returned for a closer look.
He should not have. He should have leaned into his inclination and left, returning to his bed with a bottle of tequila to drown the memory. Or, were that insufficient, he should have given himself to the wilderness, taking his chances. He later wished he had.
He pushed to nearly the inner-most circle, the crowd seeming to make easy way for him. The beast's eyes caught his own immediately. They seemed to look right into them, supernatural in their knowledge of his sordid past. They judged him, did those eyes. They knew. His deepest, worst offense. The one that, someone, the Law had never learned. He'd carried the memory around in his head, a secret weight; as far as his companions had known that night, the man he'd murdered was some random, poor rancher. No one knew that it was his-
But those eyes knew.
"You did not warn enough then, anciano."
Who the hell knew what the man was talking about? Jorge's own response came as a surprise to him, focused as he was on the corpse. Waiting- for what? No one appeared to want to act, to do anything. This girl, Eliza. She should not be sitting there like that. Even Jorge, for all his misdeeds, knew that. With a muttered mierda, he stepped forward and grabbed her by the back of the shirt collar.
"Come, muchacha. This is not a thing for you to see."