Zevandir's Stories

Hey everybody,
I have decided that due to the fact that I am not very decisive and often struggle to stay on the same track for very long, I have decided that instead of trying to write a long story, I will have just one topic, this one. I will post all my Stories here as I write them, and they will remain in whatever stage of completion I decide, as I probably won't end up finising most of them. Also, they are gonna be in segments, as chapters seem to convey length, like there are going to be many or something. So yeah, can somebody delete all the posts please(except for the posts I make of new stories, which will probably be up before someone finds this post.)? I want to have it set out quite cleanly.

So, below is the story formerly known as 'Boom Story'. Renamed more appropriately. :p Enjoy Badda Booma friends.

Special Tactical Squad of Alpha Company, 1st Division
Segment 1-

A small squadron of soldiers huddled beneath a broken wall, bullets smashing the stone above their heads. Cream coloured stone chips flying everywhere, a soldier cursed as one of the chips lodged into his arm. The desert heat was oppressive, and flies buzzed annoyingly around the soldier’s faces. The squad was pinned down by the enemy fire, and the commander of the group was getting edgy, his tactical squad was supposed to be back at base by now. The equipment of the squad was extremely personal and diverse, grenades, knives and pistols all personal to the soldier, the standard issue rifle was stock standard though, as the tactical squads often lost them running through the tight-cornered city. The insurgent fire continued, and the commander sought an answer, before the insurgents walked to the wall and slaughtered the marines. Spying the arsenal of grenades on a soldier, the commander motioned to a young soldier.

“Danny, move out, see if you can get into that building,” The commander said, “We’ll cover you with flash bangs.”

“Yessir” the soldier replied, tightening his grip on the standard issue marine pistol.

The commander motioned the go signal, a closed fist jerked forward, and the men threw their grenades, Danny counted to three, giving enough time for the flash bangs to take affect, then sped off, crouched low he tried to present as small a profile as possible to the enemies round at the end of the alley, the sound of his boots crunching in the dirt seeming amazingly loud. Making it to the doorway of the allotted building, Danny glanced back at his fellows, like he, they were all outfitted in the loose desert fatigues without the usual marine helmets, dust streaked faces and mostly black hair greeted his eyes. The division carried multiple pistols each, perfect for different tight corner situations, and with the advancement of the Zeppelin armoury, the pistols were now a lethal medium-long range weapon, scopes and laser sights enabling small sniping. The marines also bore many different types of specialist equipment; explosive kits and stealth armament were only two of the squad’s specialist choices. Looking towards the commander, Danny signalled a question,

‘What now?’

The commander replied by recklessly standing up and shooting down the alleyway, blasting an insurgent’s head wide open with the 7.62 millimetre rounds. Quickly crouching into cover once more, the commander signalled Danny to do the same. Danny crept through the open doorway and peered into the vacant building, bleak brown walls meeting his cautious eye. Danny moved quietly through the house, aiming his pistol in front of him should anything come through. After ensuring there was no-one in the building, and that the only entrance was covered by his comrades, Danny crept up the short flight of stairs onto the roof of the low Afghanistan building. There was a low brick wall and Danny dropped flat and crawled to the edge, taking a breath, he moved to a crouching position and fired four heavy rounds from his pistol, the 12.7 millimetre bullets ripping into the skulls of two insurgents and blowing a hole in another. Danny dropped flat again and listened as the angry Arabs started firing back and yelling with crazed panic. The commander shouted and a salvo of rifle rounds decimated the insurgents. Cautiously peering over the lip, Danny counted thirteen dead Arabs, their white desert robes shredded by the vicious marine barrage. Vaulting over the low wall, Danny hit the ground and rolled, coming up to his feet with the Z6D, semi-automatic, pistol pointed straight down the alleyway. The alley was small, barely nine feet across, the commander and the other soldiers coming up behind him.

“Good work there, Marine.” The commander said gruffly, pride evident in his voice for the soldier he had trained for over ten years.

The commander set off down the alley again, the soldiers following. Danny thought that the uncovered advance down the alley was reckless, but followed anyway. The squad stopped dead as the sound of incomprehensible jabber floated round the bend in the, signalling the arrival of more insurgents. The squad reacted with experience, slipping into the cover of the wall beside them, moving down the alley and drawing SOCOM silenced automags and an arsenal of personal combat knives. A soldier almost as young as Danny pulled a standard issue combat knife from his belt and gripped his SOCOM with shaking hands. The commander reached over and slapped his back affectionately.

“It’s alright Tom, we ain’t dying today if I can help it.”

“Thanks sir, I never ‘bin in close combat before, was one of my bad points in training.”

“I know boy, time to learn though ey?”

The squad fell silent, slipping inside an open doorway in single file, they took up position inside on either side of the doorway and prepared to ambush the insurgents. The pounding of boots came round the corner, and the shadow-hidden commander counted silently, three….four….five….six…. The last insurgent passed the doorway and the commander signalled to his men to move out, the squad slipping out the doorway like shadows and ran up to the insurgents, concentrating on silent movement. The first insurgent went down without a cry, a heavy, Damascus-Steel Bowie of the commander plunging into the side of his neck. Catching him, Danny laid the insurgent quietly on the ground, pointing his automag at another insurgent in sync with the rest of the squad, pumping silenced rounds into five insurgent heads. As the bodies thumped to the ground, a score (twelve) of heavily armed insurgents ran around the corner of the alleyway, but stopping shocked as they saw a squad of marines standing over the bodies of their dead comrades. The shock did not last, and both sides engaged, the marines rolling to whatever cover they could find, Danny and Tom crouching in a large open doorway, the commander and another soldier leaping behind a truck. The last man simply stood their and opened fire, two insurgents fell, but the marine was quickly cut down in a hail of bullets. Watching his man fall, the commander holstered his pistol and drew the heavy rifle, standing up and firing a salvo into the insurgents over the tray of the truck. His fellow was doing the same, but with well placed pistol rounds tearing through vital organs and soft brain tissue. They both ducked behind the truck as an answering volley came back, watching the insurgents try to creep around the truck, Danny switched his SOCOM automag to full auto and turned a few insurgents into Swiss cheese. Tom ran further into the building and leapt to the window, seeing the insurgents firing back at the separated squad of marines. Tom heard a strangled cry and looked back to see Danny clutching at his leg, blood leaking out of the Desert Camo fatigues.

“Danny! You ok mate?”

“Are you kiddin’ me? Do I flippin’ look alright?”

“Sorry mate, let’s get ya inside.”

Tom dragged Danny into the building, the commander had seen what happened and stood up in rage to shoot down another insurgent. Tom moved back to the window and joined his commander, cutting down an insurgent with a well-placed round through the temple, the bullet spinning out to lodge itself in another insurgents shoulder. The other marine near the truck unstrapped a handful of small pellets and threw them at the insurgents, watching with glee as they exploded, the shrapnel charges sending insurgents to the ground, clutching at their legs and feet. The insurgent still standing turned tail and ran back the way he had came.

“Tom, follow him!”

“Yessir!”

Tom exited straight out the window, pursuing the insurgent at full sprint. Catching sight of him around the corner, Tom stopped and took aim. The only sound was a whisper of disturbed air, the bullet leaving the suppressed barrel without a sound, plunging through the insurgents head and fracturing into deadly fragments, courtesy of Zeppelin Low Explosive, Fragmentation rounds, designed to explode inside the target and cause more damage. The insurgent dropped to the ground and Tom ran to the body, picking up the battered rifle and taking any ammunition on the body. Tom turned and ran back to the rest of the squad, now huddled in the captured building, attending to Danny.

“Get him, Tom?”

“Yessir, here’s the gun and ammo.” Tom said, dropping the captured weapon.

Danny couldn’t walk, his femur was shattered and the shrapnel was not yet removed. The commander radioed the base and called for backup, explaining the predicament and Danny’s condition. The result wasn’t good. The Special Tactical Squad of Alpha Company 1st Division settled in for a long wait.

Segment 2-

Tom peered cautiously around the edge of the building, glancing at the rubble and refuse of the ghetto. A sickening smell drifted into his nose, brushing against the sinuses and causing Tom to bend over and dry-heave, desperately trying not to throw up. Regaining his composure, Tom lifted his pistol alongside his head, marvelling at the feel of cold steel in his hands. Tom thought back to about an hour ago, when he had been briefed by the commander.

~
“Tom!”

“Yessir!” Tom said, snapping his arm in a salute.

The commander smiled at the regulation respect, “At ease, soldier, no time fro that crap now.”

“Yes, sir.” Tom dropped his arm.

‘We have one dead and one wounded, three able bodied soldiers, I’m a commander and I ain’t sending a heavy-demo expert out on god-forbidden mission, so you’re up, matey mate.”

Tom felt his gut drop in anticipation, a mix of fear and excitement. “Where to, commander?”

“To the ghettos, soldier, you are to take care though, no unnecessary killing of innocents…” the commander’s voice drifted off.

“Sir?”

“Sorry, bud, thinking about old times. Now, your primary mission is to get back to base, and through the ghettos is the fastest way, probly either the most dangerous or safest too… dunno which. But you’ll need ta take this package, imperative it gets to base, matey mate.”

Tom felt excited “When do I go sir?”

The commander grinned, “Why haven’t you left yet?”

Tom crouched down, then sprang back up and launched to the cover of a empty shack, a bit like a rugby tackle on thin air, Danny rolled to absorb the impact, coming up in a crouch, back against a wall and pistol at the ready.

~
A young boy in a different ghetto saw Tom, and poked his companion, “That Australian soldier just jumped like a stuper-hero.” the boy laughed.

His companion didn’t get it, “Stuper-hero?”

“Idiot, it’s a mix of Stupid and super hero, see, stuper-hero.”

His companion turned around and punched him across the mouth, knocking him flat and out cold
“You’re the idiot…”

~
Tom stood up, and walking in the shadow of the crowded ghetto block, feet kicking up dust in the dry Arabian heat. Tom kept moving, and eventually wound through the ghetto until it narrowed out, a small alley of good buildings with multiple shacks leaning against it. The alley was long, and Tom began to feel uneasy, he was an easy target for any insurgent mob that should walk down the alley, as if in response to his fears, a single insurgent left a doorway, AK-47 held in one hand, hanging by his side, watching the door close, Tom smiled. The pistol came up, long silenced barrel pointed dead on at the insurgents temple. Bang. The insurgent dropped, Tom smiling happily. He ran to the body and dragged it to a different ghetto, taking the ammunition and putting it into a pouch on his back. Tom moved on.

~
Hours later, the commander watched as a triple-score (36) of insurgents marched towards his hiding place, no doubt informed of the squad’s position by locals. The commander smiled grimly, and reached over to slap the demolitions expert awake,

“Get up mate, triple-score on the way.”

“Yer bloody jokin’!”

“Nuh, now let’s get Danny and bail the hell out!”

The pair ran to their comrade and lifted him easily onto their broad shoulders, running out the back door and into a large building, taller and wider that all the others. The crept inside and ran to the stairs, making haste for the top of the building.

“Where we goin’, boss?”

“We’re gunna hope to bloody hell that the chopper comes and gets us, or we’re stuffed mate. But we’re probly gonna die, the chief probly won’t give us a chopper, so it’s fight or flight and there’s no way out.”

“Ah well, at least if we die, Tom’s got the package, we’re old buggers, but it’s a bit of a shame ‘bout Danny.”

‘Can’t save him boss?”

“Yeah we can…wanna try?”

“Let’s save the little fella.”

“That’s the spirit bud!”

“We’re gonna stash him, tell the HQ where he is, then go let all hell onto those bloody insurgents!”

“Amen to that.”

“You’re a Christian?”

“Nah.”

“Funny…”

“Yeah, definitely.”

The commander laughed, “Whatever Chris.”

Chris walked to the stairs and walked down, looking for somewhere to hide Danny. He saw a small stair-cupboard, like the one that Harry Potter used to live in when he was in the first movie. Running back up the stairs, the commander helped Chris to drag Danny down, stowing him carefully in the cupboard with his weapons and kit. The commander radioed base, telling them the situation and their chosen course of action, he looked at his brother,

“Ready Chris?”

“Not to sound corny or clique but, as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then let’s do this!”

The brothers walked back up the stairs to the roof, quietly this time.

“Got your RPG, Chris?

“Yeah, it’s in my pocket.”

Chris’s pocket was not exactly that, it was more like a built-in backpack, stitched onto the back of his shirt. Chris pulled the green metal case out of his ‘pocket’, and assembled the lightweight, multiple-round RPG launcher. The launcher had a magazine, if you could call it that, contained five RPG’s, rocket propelled grenades. Lifting the gun to his shoulder, Chris looked down the sight, at the building that they had been hiding in minutes earlier.

“Go for it.”

“Badda Boom Badda Bang.”

Chris fired the first grenade, it hurtled it an erratic pattern, but still straight into the building. The building exploded into heap of rubble, crushing the few insurgents who were still inside the building. The insurgents all looked up, spying the two tactical Squad Commandos, they screamed incomprehensible jabber, and lifted their motley collection of weapons. The commander and his brother ducked behind the rooftop wall, Chris setting the next RPG in place. He crouched, ready to spring up and fire the RPG. The commander lifted his Determined Marine Rifle, DMR, to his shoulder, and motioned to his brother. They both stood up, two RPG’s and a hail of 7.62 rounds laying waste to the insurgents, but still many white robes moved, the Arabs reaching the base of the building.

“Chris, put that away, there’s no point blowing ourselves up with that, use your DMR.’

“Yessir.”

“We’re about to die, brother, so I don’t want that.”

“Whatever you say, bro.”

The duo stood up once more, spraying rounds into the insurgents below their position, the insurgents were ready, however, and a bullet caught Chris square between the eyes.

“CHRIS!”

The commander leant over and caught his brother, cradling his head in his arms.

“Cya later mate, I’m gonna go see mum.”

“No! Buddy, stay with me, I need you!”

“No yah don’t, take care bud.”

Chris went limp, his head dropping onto the hard stone of the Arabian building. A single tear fell from the commander’s eye, and a cold-steel resolution came over him. The commander dropped his rifle and unsheathed his knife, his brother’s too. A Damascus-Bowie glowed darkly, and a blue-tinted steel Kukri glinted in the sun, the bowie angry and hard, the Kukri roaring for a fight. The commander walked down the stairs, and at the bottom, he walked t the front door, waiting for the insurgents to break it down.

~
Tom burst through the door to the HQ, breath coming hard in his chest and blood trickling down his side and face.

‘Chief! I’ve got the package, but Danny, Boss and Chris need an airlift pronto, I heard an insurgent talking in English to another, said that a triple-score of ‘protectors’ were heading to capture some marine squad. I think that’s our boys.’

“It was Tom, but they’re dead. The insurgents were found dead at the doorway to an old hospital an hour ago, multiple stab and slash wounds on each suggesting death by knives, we found Danny alive and he’s in med. Care.”

“Who killed the insurgents, and did you find Commander?

“He killed em, and we found him on top of the pile, bullets throughout his body, one in his brain.”

Tom was silent, unsure of what to do next. The chief came forward and took the package, patting Tom on the back as he did so.

“It’s ok son.”

Tom gave a stiff salute and walked slowly from the room, dusty boots clacking against the metal floor. Tom opened the doors and kept walking, down a hallway and into a courtyard. The courtyard was bordered by brown stone walls, and filled with hardy trees and a pond, Tom sat by the pond, cleaning his pistol. Once it was clean, Tom loaded a single round, and put the cold barrel to his head.

‘Not cold for much longer.’ Tom thought.

He squeezed the trigger.

A story of Hunters.

Chapter 1: The Hunter

The night was dark and deathly quiet, the unnatural silence broken only occasionally by the sounds of the river lapping gently against its banks. A shadow, dark as the night itself, slipped silently and surreally from one tree to another, hunting an unseen prey. The forest alone bore witness to the spectacle of the shadow on its path to whatever lay ahead, golden hair and a glint of cold steel the only hints at something gliding through the forest.

The band of zardmen and fish-bait spoke in guttural tones, their scaly hides glinting sickly in the light of the fire that burned dully in a bed of ash. The refuse from weeks of habitation were evident in the surrounds of the camp, shed skin and broken scales littered the ground, whilst food scraps and blood fed the underlings of the river-side forest. The glow of the fire was barely visible through the forest trees, the thick undergrowth cutting of the light until only a trickle of the golden glow could be seen from the river. But seen from the river the fire was, and the shadow-garbed hunter stalked ever closer to his feral prey.

A soft snap, that of a twig being broken underfoot, reached the ears of a zardman, and he knew it was not his own warrior, for the zards and fish had become lax in their sentry duties throughout the duration of their stay. A harsh grating sound that must have been an order was quickly spoken and a zardman moved from the ring of the fire. The guard was gone but a few second, before he staggered backwards in a drunken walk, falling to the ground, the shadow black flights of a bolt could be seen protruding from its neck. The zardmen and fish-bait had no time to react, before the shadow garbed hunter was among them, twin contraptions of cold steel spitting hot iron into the bodies of the warriors. Four Zardmen were dead before any had even taken the situation into their conscious minds, but the fish had taken no casualties were quicker and leapt towards the hunter. The steel-spitters were tucked into holsters and a bladed musket came forth, death exploding from its mouth as the jagged bayonet slashed into the scaly hides of fish and zards, reaping death like wheat before the scythe. It was over in the space of a few bare minutes, a full score of foemen slain beneath the fiery spit of the hunters weapons, his shadowy visage remain cold and hard throughout, devoid of emotion, though his eyes sparked with a fire as the retribution had begun.

The hunter moved quickly towards the bodies, his fiery weapons had kept a distance between him and his foes. The bodies were roughly searched, the hunter looking for something of obvious importance, his gaze growing desperate as he neared the final zardman. It too was searched and after a fruitless 30 seconds, the hunter’s knees collapsed with despair, a primeval scream ripping from his throat to startle the birds into flight and send the animals bolting for homes as the sound of coming death reached theirs ears.

The hunter once again moved through the forest aside the river, but this time, it was without stealth or care, an aura of death emanating from his person as he strode with violent purpose towards his goal, a wooden fortress, fish and zardmen standing watch on the walls and manning the towers. The forest 60 yards from the wall was cleared, providing a field of view that would not conceal a lone attacker, never mind an army. The hunter left the cover of the forest with the same violent abandon he had shown moving through the forest on his second journey. Fish-bait screamed in guttural unison with zardmen, a show of defiance and strength, but the unmistakable tone of fear chilled the lone watcher to the core. The hunter moved with deadly purpose to the front gate, loading his powerful speargun with a blue tipped rocket, flighted with cold steel and shafted with stone. The hunter was now only 30 yards from the gate and fish-bait began launching forks and stones at him as zardmen sharpened axes and tied clubs. Catlike grace was the hunters ally, slipping beneath forks and drifting away from the rocks, mid-stride the hunter raised the gun to his shoulder, squeezing the trigger to unleash a roaring dragon into the gate, shattering the rocket tip, igniting an explosion of epic proportion that obliterated the gate and reduced the surrounding walls to rubble. The hunter moved with deadly speed, reloading and firing the speargun in less than a second, the seemingly unending amount of arrows in his quiver hissing death as they flew, each one finding its mark. The walls were quickly cleared as the flying death wreaked a staggering toll against the defenders on the gate, fish and zard fled to the safety of the old stone keep, barring the door. Once again, the hunter did not pause, unholstering revolvers in the same motion that it took to slam an armoured boot against the door, shattering a hinge, again the boot crashed against the door, the defenders fear stinking in the midnight air. A BOOM followed the third crash as the door flew inwards, taking a zardman in the chest and propelling him backwards into the wall with a sickening crack. The air exploded with cracks and sounds of blood and pulped flesh splashing against the walls, the revolvers in the expert hands of the hunter felling zardmen and fish in scores. A silence was strange in the aftermath of the slaughter, the click, click, click, the sound of the firing pin slamming against empty bullet housing the only sound. The lone zard roared, a beast of epic proportions, armoured to the teeth and hosting a huge number of scars. Again it roared, but this time it charged, axe held high. The hunter smiled, more of a grimace with its current lack of warmth. In a blinding motion the musket was in his hands. As the great beast neared, the hunters smile only broadened, the axe came crashing down, only to stop abruptly, millimetres from the hunter’s head. Time seemed to slow; the beast falling back with a sickening slicking sound, a sucking POP s the jagged blade left the giants stomach. The crash was deafening as the zardmonster hit the ground, dislodging a small ball hidden in an alcove that rolled ever so slowly, before falling to the ground. A metallic ting sounded as the ball hit the ground, and began to glow a deep gold, emanating an aura of immense power and importance. The hunter bent quickly to retrieve it, studying it with deep affection and longing, before tucking it hurriedly into a pouch at his waist.

The light of the torch fully illuminated the hunter, clothed in a tight fitting black suit with many pouches and pockets. An ammo belt of black leather was slung across his chest, full with musket shells and revolver rounds. A shadow quiver was hung across his back, flighted with shafts of the deepest red, their tips hidden in the bottom of the quiver. The two brown leather holsters hooked onto his black belt revealed the silver handles of twin revolvers with inventive ammo clips that could hold more than the standard 6 bullets. Next to the quiver were twin clips for the speargun and bladed musket; both now back on the hunter’s back. The hunter’s armament did not stop there, however, and two small knives were strapped to either calf, close range weapons for dire situations. The sound of a creaking step brought a revolver to his right and a knife to the hunter’s left hand, instantly armed and dangerous. A small figure poked his head ‘round the wall of the stairwell, revealing white and wispy hair, above a face and eyes of impressive intelligence, the old man was clothed in blue-grey robes which flowed with his movement, the soft rustling soothing to the ears.

“Hullo there young man, can I help you?” the voice of the old man was rich and musical, matching his clothes.

“Erm, no thanks, I found what I came for.” The hunter’s voice was low and deadly, like a deadly predator on the verge of removing a nuisance. The old man either did not understand the meaning of this tone, or simply did not care.

“Are you sure, don’t you want to stay for tea?”

“Yes thank you, I’m sure I don’t want to stay for tea, now I really must be going”

“Ok, then I guess I’ll just come with you to wherever you’re going, might be fun, y’know?”

“No. Thank. You.” The hunter’s voice was low and extremely deadly now, but still the old man did not seem to notice.

“Oh don’t be such a pushover, I’m coming and that’s it!” the old man too raised his voice.

“NO!” The hunter shouted, ripping the second revolver from his waste and beginning a deathly dance, firing scores of bullets, intent on shooting the leaping and twirling man who seemed to cheat the death of bullets at every turn.

“Aaaaaah!” The revolvers hit the ground with a clang and the musket took their positions, breathing fire and flame at the man in the form of iron missiles. Still the old man jumped and twirled, occasionally waving his hand to brush aside the flames and bullets in a display of arcane power. Finally, the bullets were spent and the hunter seemed to slump, almost on his knees.

“Who are you?”

“I am a magician who decided not to age with the typical stiffness.” The old man replied, his eyes twinkling in joyous mirth.

“Very well then, come along, I guess you might be useful to me after all.” The hunter said with obvious ease, as if he was neither bothered nor perturbed by the display of the magician, though the night had taken its toll on the hunter, and he was tired beyond measure. As the sun crested the horizon and light shone into the keep, the hunter slumped forward, hitting the ground with a soft thud, asleep before he touched the ground. The old man shook his head, laughing quietly, as he lifted the hunter in his scrawny arms and carried him to a soft bed upstairs in the keep, the beasts below disappearing with a wave of his hand.

Segment 2-
The next day, at the moment the sun rose up from its slumber below the horizon, the clouds burst out from the darkness in a brilliant display of red and vibrant anger, the spilt blood of those slain that night tinting the sky and the day a deep, angry red. Another man, his hair a deep indigo, slashed through with steaks of shining violet, a softly browned face shining with good humour as he ran through the forest air, scars criss-crossed across the man hands and slightly exposed forearms, which were bandaged from the wrists to the elbows in white wraps. This man too moved with the deadly feline grace of a hunter, and his suit of the deepest black was identical to that of the hunter who had passed through the forest in the night. The man’s canines were very slightly pointed, and the tips glowed a very faint green, as if tipped in poison. As the hunter sped through the forest with inhuman speed, the leaves rustling with only the barest trace of his passage.

Many hours later, this hunter came upon the campfire where the troupe of zardmen and fish men had camped before their brutal destruction by the first, vicious, hunter. It was burning out of control, consuming the surrounding forest in a blazing inferno. As the hunter came upon it, he was shocked by the hugeness of the fire and the carelessness of his fellow hunter. The normally cheerful hunter muttered what appeared to be a magical incantation, but the only affect was an explosion that succeeded only to increase the fire from a relatively small inferno to a beast hell bent on the destruction of the entire forest.

“Guess that didn’t work….” Muttered the hunter, running to the river with a small lump of plastic in his scarred and burned palm.

The hunter threw the piece of plastic in a blur of his arm, launching it into a high arc that peaked and fell in the middle of the river, before it touched the water, however, the hunter had a revolver pistol in his hand, and had fired a round at the surface of the water, in a the space of a heartbeat, the round and plastic met in an explosion to rival the creation of the universe. Water exploded upwards and towards the fire, dousing the forest and quenching the inferno. The hunter grinned, remembering his tuition in the college of firearms; a secret school that only privileged young warriors were schooled.

“So it does work, eh?” he said happily to himself.

The hunter was armed in much the same way as the first, two revolvers, a quiver of shooting spears and a speargun. But instead of the brutal rifle and bayonet of the first hunter, this one’s choice armament was a gold hilted hunter’s dagger, sharp as the teeth of a vicious pike that haunts the rivers and light as the wasp’s sting after which it was named. Karibachi Sasu (wasp sting). These weapons were very simple and common, but that which was the hunter’s primary melee weapon was a whip of razor-sharp steel blades, shaped like small trapeziums held together by flexible steel. The entire whip pulsed with violet light, emanating power and mystery.

Now that the fire was out, the shadow-garbed hunter bent down, and walked slowly around the campsite, searching for any clues of the darker hunters passage. The campsite was blackened and the tents, bodies, and any other items were either completely destroyed or reduced to little more than charred scraps. The night emerged from the horizon to remove the daytime light and bathe the landscape in the moons silvery glow. The night strengthened the power of the hunter, his footsteps quieter, his eyesight clearer, and his emotional sense heightened. The hunter could feel the emotional residues of despair, fear and anger of the previous nights activities. The emotions were like a bright path though the forest, and the hunter sped off through the night with careless abandon, searching for his fellow hunter.

~
Earlier that day…
“Wake up boy!” the old magician yelled, slamming the floor with a large staff.

“Ehh….” The golden haired hunter moaned, rolling over in his sleep and slamming the pillow over his ears. The old magician moved back downstairs and into the kitchen, directly below the hunter’s bed.

“Get up boy!” the magician yelled again.

“Let me sleep…” grumbled the hunter.

At this the old magician began a ditty as he cooked dinner, accentuating the song with beats of his staff on the roof. The hunter woke fully at that point, aware and alert, still clothed in his multi-purpose suit, suitable for sleeping and clothing in all situations and terrains. The weapons of his dangerous profession were laid out in disarray on the bedside table, dumped with little regard or care. This treatment of the hunter’s life was an affront, causing him to anger and blast a shot from his musket through the floor, in the direction of the magician.

“Hahaha, not even close boy, you really are an amateur.”

“You bloody insolent old man!” the hunter screamed, barrelling downstairs.

“Woah, hold up a minute there.” Said a pretty young lady, “but thanks for getting rid of those zards yesterday, my father was asleep and said someone would come to get rid of them sooner or later…”

“That insolent and rude idiot is your pa? The hunter asked, incredulous.

“Why yes, he is, although, I think I take after my mother rather than him I guess.” The lady said, eyes a twinkling.

“Well, then, I apologise for not introducing my self sooner, I am Valeran, the crimson bullet.”

“And I am Cyndy, most commonly called lady keep.”

“Why?” asked Valeran

“Simply because the keep and I are one and the same, each lives within the other.”

Valeran looked baffled, but was prevented from asking further question by the timely arrival of the old man bearing a delicious breakfast of sweet fruits, toast and a small selection of perfectly cooked meats, sausages, chicken and bacon.

“Mmm…” mumbled Valeran “smells awesome.”

“Hahaha, and that’s all that you get from it, a sniff!” the old magician laughed gleefully.

“What!?”
“Yours is over there, boy.” The magician pointed to a bowl of slightly burned porridge, now cackling manically. The hunter’s hand once again shot to his revolver, and once again Lady Keep restrained him.

“He’s just kidding, Valeran, don’t get your knickers in a knot.”

“What the ****?”

The three moved to a table inside the kitchen and began to eat, Valeran’s right hand feeling the soft lines of the grain and wondering at the type of timber as his left hand jammed food into his mouth at breakneck speed. The magician ate a little more politely, but still exuded immense mirth and glee at the hunter’s discomfort and anger. Cyndy of the keep ate very little, but a small smile played about her delicate rosy lips the entire time, quietly mirthful.

Valeran’s knife smashed into his plate, seeing something black and shadowy flitting through the window. The reason for the hastily dropped knife was soon apparent; a revolver had taken its place. Valeran dashed through the doors of the kitchen and sped outside, now both revolvers were drawn. The shadowy creature had stopped upon hearing Valeran’s uncustomary approach.

“Wraith, you die now!” Valeran screamed, hatred vibrating through his voice.

“Why, if it isssn’t Valeran, the crimsssson bullet.” The wraith hissed in obvious pleasure.

“I will kill you!”

“Try boy, and we will sssee which of your loved ones die!” menace and dire threat was thick in the wraiths sibilant serpentine voice, a shadowy forked tongue flicking out. The revolvers came up in blinding unison, triggers squeezed and bullets flying before the wraith had time to react, but they both sped through it to smash into the walls behind, little more than wispy disturbances as a mark on the wraith. Valeran paled, golden hair blazing. At this point, when Valeran’s mask dropped with his fear at the wraiths imperviousness to his bullets, it was revealed to the old man that Valeran was little more than a boy, barely 19 years of age and already consumed by burning hatred and fear for those who slew his family. His features were worn by the weather and grief, lined with immense age on the face of one so young. In time, the old magician would come to realise that all of his guild, who were little more than a handful, all looked the same and had suffered similar horrors. By privileged, the school did not mean money, riches or fame, but the chance at a new life, albeit a short one.

“Die boy, I think I have let you fear long enough.”

Valeran’s eyes cleared, remembrance opening his mind and proving a hope.

‘….a wraith can be harmed by no natural means, for they are not of this earth, and cannot die from this earth…’

The wraith charged, but it was more of a glide, ugly and fearful, rather than serene and graceful.

“Valeran!” Lady Keep screamed, as the wraith plunged over him. A heartbeat thudded throughout the land in the space of a second, before a bayonet shining crimson burst through the wraith, light pouring out from the rip in tis putrid chest.

“Did you think I was dead, wraith? I don’t think so.”

The wraith exploded in a flash of light, sinking into the ground, the light did not dim, but shone for seconds, and Valeran collapsed, head lolling forward to his chest and knees giving up beneath him. There was no blackness closing in, simply a flash of understanding, before everything disappeared and his mind slipped from the air into unconsciousness.

Segment 3- Rocky Reunion

The cheerful hunter slowed as once again, the day arrived over the horizon, his eyesight dimming, and power moving back to normal. The curled whip hanging from the hunters belt too dimmed, its shine that had been prominent through the night returning to its usual Indigo glow. The Hunter looked across the river, at the forest on that side. It was dark and eerie, dark beasts lurking inside. Werewolves and vampires fought a constant battle. The forest of Darkovia. The hunters lip curled up in disgust at both, the feral wolves who were mangy and disgusting, and the bastard vampires who had drained and turned his beautiful mother, accompanied by a wraith that had killed his father, his mother had lived long enough to birth him, one eye slitted yellow and the other not far off. She had tried to kill him that day. Her mind and body ravaged by the vampire, she was consumed with hunger for blood and his was fresh and new. His mother had not even touched him, her new son, for as she leapt, teeth bared and snarling, a silver bullet had ripped through her chest, killing her almost instantly, for she had screamed, softly and humanely, for her son. The men in black had barely caught the young infant as he fell backwards of the bed, the men carrying him away.

A scream ripped through the hunter’s mind and ears, waking him from the memories. He glanced about quickly, determining the location of the scream. The forest. He sped of, Dhampyre blood speeding him along. The river loomed below the bank and the hunter leapt, soaring through the air to land with catlike grace on the opposite bank, a good 30 metres away. The scream sounded again, woman’s scream. The indigo-haired boy sped off through the forest, swaying out of the way as trees sped towards him. a wolf howled and began pursuit, but never saw the bullet that ripped it apart, courtesy of the hunter. The Hunter arrived at a small clearing, a woman was hiding behind her husband, who was desperately trying to fend of a snarling trio of vampires; they were playing with him, speeding in to nip at his arms and torso, slowly and cruelly killing him. The hunter, normally cheerful and carefree, lost control, revolver disappearing in the wake of the whip, specially created to thirst for vampire blood. The hunter’s vision blurred with the rage, something that most hunters possessed, born from grief and instability. The vampires snarled at the prospect of even more blood, two leaping at the hunter as the third dealt the final blow to the man, swinging a hooked hand across his neck, the man crumpling without a word as his wife screamed. The hunter’s eyes reddened further, the whip slashing out across the first vampire, barely dodging back as the hunter matched its feral speed. The second vampire attacking the hunter paled in fear, calling to his companion to help. Now it was three versus one, an unfair fight.

“Why there boys, not very fair hey? Scared are you?” The hunter said, provoking the vampires to attack, but slashing out as they did so, slicing one across the neck ripping, it open. The wounded vampire gurgled in pain, vampiric blood spurting from the cut.

“You killed Balthis!” one vampire hissed, “Filthy human!”

“You’re next, snake eyes.” True to his word, the hunters whip slashed out a second time, Indigo light pulsing in a sudden flash, ripping around the vampires head. With a sudden violent jerk, the hunter tore the vampires head from its shoulders, thick, black blood covering the floor.

“Bye human, I’m not staying!” the vampire said, spinning around and fleeing.

“Oh yes you are, disgusting beast.” The whip curled and moved back to its hook on the hunter’s belt, in the same movement that it took to unhook the speargun on the hunter’s back. A spear was already loaded, and now the feather flights were revealed, a deep indigo colour, slashed through with a lightning bolt of regal purple. The heads were silver. The spear slashed through the air, whistling its deathly tune, the hunter’s Dhampyre blood gave him the speed and the strength of a vampire, his speargun far more powerful than any others. The vampire quarry twisted violently, attempting to dodge the spear, dodging at incredible speeds. Not fast enough. The silver head impacted with an explosion of dust and vampire blood, splashing the trees with it, the spear stopping with the head deep in the vampire’s chest. The hunter moved to the vampire’s side, kneeling down to whisper a vampiric curse upon it. The vampire screamed in agony as the silver spear was wrenched from its chest, more blood exploding out to leave a sizzling line across the hunter’s face. The hunter appeared to be blowing softly upon the spear, but the blood flew off in a burst, adding to the painted trees. The woman began to cry, softly at first but then louder, escalating to a wail of pain.

“No, no, no, no….”

“I’m so sorry…” the hunter whispered

“It wasn’t your fault; you still saved me and my children…”

“Nevertheless, let me help you, take you somewhere safe.” The hunter suddenly looked puzzled, “Why are you living here anyway?”

“My husband was a ranger, we used to live in small village but about 10 years ago, vampires ransacked the ranger villages, killing them and taking the stronger ones for their queen.” The woman sobbed softly, “They were building an army.”

“So why did you stay in the forest?”

“It was our home, we didn’t have anywhere else to go…”

“Well, now I’m going to take you and your children away, you can’t stay here.”

“Please, we can’t leave…it’s our only home…I love it here, my children will be rangers…”

“Fine then.” The hunter said, agitated, he took a ball from his pocket, and smashed it in the middle of the clearing, an indigo bubble spreading outward to encompass the entire glade, shimmering softly. Suddenly running feet could be heard and the woman screamed,

“Vampires!”

The hunter laughed, “Don’t worry about them.”

“Are you mad?” The woman screamed.

“Quite, but that has nothing to do with it.”

The woman began to scream again, but it was suddenly drowned out by a deafening CRACK! The first vampire had made contact with the bubble, and a bolt of electricity had exploded through him, instant death and a warning to others.

‘Although it’s a little too late for that’ the hunter thought, chuckling manically, as four more vampires died a similar way, and their bodies made a conductive chain, their clan members dying as they tried to drag them off. Soon, scores of vampires lay dead around the clearing, others hissing and screaming curses at the woman and man inside the bubble.

“Well then, I best be off, good day ma’am.”

“Wait! How will you get out, you can’t take the shield away!”

“Don’t worry,” The hunter thought he seemed to be saying that an awful lot lately, “it only fries those of ill will to you and yours.”

“W-well g-goodbye th-then…” The woman suddenly flung her arms around the hunter and cried out her pain and tears. The hunter, unused to such a show of emotion, stood stiffly, then when she let go, turned and left without a word, jumping into the nearest tree and making his way through the air, back to the river.

Julyas the Dragoneer

Segment 1-
A dragon flew in silence over the land, its mind seeking anyone who could help it, someone to pass along its lore to. To tell them of the coming peril.
‘Help me! For the peril arrives on this world’
The dragon flew on, passing empty cornfields, screaming again and again for anyone to hear him, for anyone to respond. Further and further he flew on until he passed a cornfield that was not so empty.

A young peasant worked his field that as his father had instructed, black locks of slightly curled hair covering his eyes and shadowing striking blue eyes, shining with a dulled and damaged intelligence, visible to none but the most perceptive of beings. The peasant worked, tending the corn and killing the bugs. His simple mind bored beyond comprehension, repeating a task he had done every day for five years, since he could lift the heavy rake and shovel. At first the faint voice, did not seem real, calling for help as it was. Glancing upwards into the sky, the boy saw something amazing. A great beast flew overhead, violet scales glinting in the sky. A great wound was visible to the peasant, and from it, a single drop of blood fell, splashing into the peasant’s eye. He screamed, and so did the beast, plummeting down. The peasant did not see, his pain unbearable, until the visions and memories of the dragon entered his mind.

…a mighty battle raged over an ancient canyon in the ancient home of those who rode dragons. Those who were supposedly the controllers and masters of the dragons. Two combatants were high in the air, locked in a deathly embrace, both fighting for their lives and the wills of their lords, both losing. The dragons bore saddles upon their backs, tied tightly to the armour that each dragon wore. The saddles were empty, clear proof that no-one could control such a mighty beast as a dragon. One dragon screeched in pain, a single violet scale falling below to land in the river at the base of the canyon. A deep rent was visible in the amazing beast’s indigo armour. The other dragon was crimson, deep, black armour covering its body. The violet dragon seemed to gain an upper hand, pain fuelled strength slashing a tear in the red dragon’s side, but then, a mistake. A terrible mistake. The mighty red paw, tipped with black talons arced in a powerful slashed towards the violet dragon’s weak belly, slashing deep and harsh. Another fierce roar lanced through the canyon, the red dragon bellowing triumph. The violet beast plummeted to the river below, red flying high.

‘It is done my lord, the last beast is dead, and the skies are mine.’

‘Good, Vilmarne, good.’

‘Dead, am I?’ The indigo-armoured dragon shot upwards, a violet blur of pain, despair, and retribution. Once again the beasts clashed, armour slamming together in a ringing cacophony of battle. The red dragon, was shocked, and reacted a second too slow. The violet dragon’s jaws snapped together, as if creating silencing in the wake of the crimson dragon’s death, it’s neck broken, red blood slowly trickly between the violet’s jaws...

The boy’s eyes opened again, the dragon’s memories within him forever. The boy leapt back, shocked. The violet dragon stood before him, blood congealed and crusted upon its stomach.

‘You boy, you have seen my memories, you know what happened.’ The dragon said, using its mind as a bridge between the boy and dragon to convey its message.

“H-how do you know?” the boy whispered, shaking.

‘Why boy! They are my memories!’

“Oh…”

‘Yes and not mention your eye is now the colour of my scales, and bears the tear drop of blood, a marking scar.’

“m-my, eye, is…purple?”

‘NO! It is not purple boy, it is violet.’

“Oh…”

‘Now listen boy, for my time is nearly over.’

“Ok…”

‘The world is at peril, there are no dragons left on this world, for I am the last. I have slain the one who was last before me, and now…I am leaving too.’ The dragon shifted its weight, the violet scales glinting dully, the congealed blood of its injury cracking open, more blood flowing freely. ‘The goblin hordes are nigh, soon they will attack your kingdom, and attack your king.’

“But what can I do?”

‘You are not a hero boy. This is not a childhood fairytale. You can do NOTHING!’

‘Now I die, in my place will be a stone. Take it and care for it, do not show it or tell anyone about it.’

“I understand…”

‘You will never understand, boy.’ The boy was shocked, and in his stupor he said nothing, the dragon breathed deeply, then simply drifted away, a small stone lying in its place. The boy picked it up, watching as it melted into his hand, leaving nothing more than a small, blue tinge on is skin. The boy ran, fleeing the field until he came to the river by his house, the waters clear and cool, sparkling softly. He sat quietly, alone with his thoughts.

‘Was that just a bad dream, or my imagination dreaming of excitement?’

‘There is nothing left, the smallest of colour upon my palm, might only be a bruise.’

‘Will I ever know?’

‘I guess not.’ The boy thought, his mind sinking into the river, letting it calm him and cool him, taking solace in the waters. He shifted, and a pebble fell into the river with a small splash, but the water hit his face and entered his eye.

‘My Eye!’ the boy thought, glancing down and staring at his reflection in the water. He saw that which glanced at him every morning, dull blue eyes, not a trace of the dragons passing.

‘It was just a dream?’ the thought was sad, and despairing. The boy turned and left the river, moving back to his house where his mother greeted him with fresh food and a hug, asking where he had been.

“By the river mother, nothing more.”

“Oh, well that’s good then; you are just in time for lunch and to help me clean the dishes.”

“Very well, mother.”

“What a good son you are.” She said fondly, ruffling his hair with a hand.
The afternoon passed, the boy helping with dishes before feeding the chickens and milking the cows, simple jobs for a simple boy. There could not possibly be anything exciting in his life…

Segment 2-
The most annoying of roosters crowed its morning call, shouting twice, before its voice finally cracked and sent the pathetic bird into a flurry of annoyance, clawing and scratching its throat until eventually it decided that wasn’t going to work. By now, the rooster had made enough to noise to at least wake the dark haired boy from his slumber. Cutting of the dream that sent the boy’s mind into a whirlwind, he flew with dragons and then melted into the sea, flying high and swimming deep, tasting freedom.

A crack of light peeked into the bright blue eye of the peasant boy, slipping in past the barely opened lids and lashes to rouse the boy further from the abyss of sleep. A breeze blew through the open window, brushing aside the curtains and letting in the day. Getting out of bed, the peasant boy tugged on some worn and old trousers, their original white colour stained with dirt, animal crap and blood, died a deep reddy brown. The boy stooped low as he went to his draws, the sloping roof of the second-story attic only barely allowing for room to place the small chest of draws. Reaching inside, the boy pulled out a cotton shirt, hard and rough by badly made wool, stripped from the day-old carcass of a mutton sheep. The shirt was a faded blue, not yet stained by hard work, a rather decent shirt considering the fortunes of the small boy. He moved across the floor, the floorboards creaking softly under the weight of a barefooted boy, too poor to afford anything better. There was no door on the boy’s room, simply a wooden ladder with only half the safe amount of nails holding it up, yet another courtesy of Lady Luck. Swinging down onto the first rung with almost catlike grace, the boy leaped of backwards, arcing downwards, head flying first. The boy fell in the spear of his body past the second floor landing, deftly reaching up to catch the bottom of the safety rail and swing lightly into the kitchen. The boy grinned in ecstasy, rarely was he allowed to do that, especially not when his father was around. The boy darkened visibly, angry at the mention of his father, a small heat glowing in his tinged palm.

A woman peeked her head ‘round the corner of the stairwell, glancing at her small son cooking himself a breakfast of a single egg, a small scrap of bacon and a slice of butter less bread.

“Good morning son, sleep well?”

“Yes thank you mother, would you like something to eat?”

“No, son, eat up, we’re going to town today and I can’t afford to have you begging for food at every turn.” She said, eyes twinkling in mirth.

“Ok then, sure?”

“Yes, now eat!”

Breakfast was a silent affair, the boy’s mother sitting and looking out of the window, ribs poking through her gown, cheek bones stretching the skin tightly against her face. The boy ate quickly, downing the bread in few bites, but the meal doing little to ease the constant pain of hunger.

“There he is, the bloody oaf…” the woman muttered.

“Is he drunk mother?”

“Yes he is son, very…”

The door slammed open, crashing against the wooden wall, dislodging a precariously hung painting, which fell to the floor with a clang and a smash, the ceramic frame shattering into a thousand pieces.

“Stupid drunk fool, you drink away all our money and then come home and drunkenly break more, Idiot!”

“Don’t talk to me like that, woman!” the man crossed the room and slapped the boy’s mother, hard. She burst into tears and ran from the room, a purple smudge already blossoming on her cheek.

“I hate you! If I could change it, I would never have married you!”

“Stupid woman….”

“My mother is not stupid!” the boy shouted, his eyes flashing with unclouded fury, a heat growing on his palm and spreading up his arm, growing in heat and intensity, until it was a burning flame, concealed only by the flimsy barrier of skin.
“Even if she is not, you must be, stupid boy!”

The drunken idiot took a looping, overhand swing at the boy, intending to knock him down and deliver brutal punishment. But the boy slipped aside, the blow sailing past his left ear and into the kitchen table. A sickening crunch accompanied the man’s screams of agony.

“I’m going to kill you boy…” the fool picked up a razor sharp carving knife, sharpened to barely an inch of width, but razor sharp and deadly.

“Please….don’t…..No!” the knife slashed down, the boy unmoving in the glint of the blade.

Snap.

The knife was broken, the blade and handle resting separate on the boy’s palm, shining bright violet and burning with heat. Shocked, the boy lifted up his hand and looked deeply into his palm, a single, violet eye reflected back at him in the shining sheen.

“Boy, you were my son, but no longer. Julyas, get out, you are my son no longer. No longer.”

The man did not seem so drunk anymore, just cold and hard, a cruel and terrible man. Julyas ran out the door, the heat in his hand fading, tears streaking down his face. The grass was cool under his bare feet. The stone path racing next to him, the boy fled down the lane, out the white picket fence bordered on either side by forest. The road stretched on, a wide world of danger and uncertainty, the young boy barely fourteen and hardly mature thrust harshly into the open, unprepared and unequipped. The cobblestones were hard and Julyas’s knees and elbows were raw and bleeding by the time the crossroads came into sight. A great, ugly sign stood in the centre, the south reading Vladmir and Family Farm. To the east was the town that Julyas had visited as a child, west was yet another small village. North read ‘Wilderness, beware.’ The boy’s palm glinted, and he remembered his encounter with the most magical and mystical of beings. Julyas hardened, steel shining his eyes, the sweat and fear leaving him, standing straight and true Julyas strode forward into the world. North.

Segment 3-
Julyas shivered behind the stone-grey boulder, a small knife of iron clasped tightly in his hand, sweat trickling down his neck. The sun beat down upon the wilderness of boulders and sand, shining brightly into the eyes of a small band of misfit men, armed with rusty swords and a few dried-out bows. The valley they crept through was particularly rocky, many crevasses were covered with stones, but many were not. A man screamed a sudden, high-pitched noise of terror as he fell through a loose covering of shale into a crevasse below.

“Zepden, you ok?” a scrawny man shouted to his fallen companion.

“Y-Yeah, I think so…” Zepden called back, “Throw me a rope, willya?”

“Stop. We wait for no-one” A brawny man at the front of the band said quietly, still moving forward.

“But sir, how will Zepden get out?”

“Let him figure that out.”

“Sir please, throw me a rope!” Zepden screamed.

“No!” the leader bellowed, stalking away, the other three men following quickly.

“No, No! No! Please, come back! Help Me!” Zepden pleaded. The men continued walking and Zepden began to scream louder, wailing like a banshee.

Julyas shivered with terror, they had left their own man, what would they do to him? Reaching into a dirty pocket, the boy pulled out small locket, pure gold with silver inlay and a few precious stones, hung on a fine golden chain. Sure that it was still safe, Julyas tucked it away once more, remembering his acquired possession of the wonderful object.

The men from Vingis had been travelling through the Southern Wilderness on their way east to Vileth, their sister city close to the furthest border of the Viloan city-state, their homeland, and Julyas’ too. Most Viloan men were stupid and violent, and typically had left the tents on the wagon and slept in their blankets on the cold and sandy floor of the open wilderness, not even bothering to assign a man to stand watch. Julyas had stumbled by, well accustomed to travelling at night through the wilderness in a state of semi-awareness. The sight of a wagon of goods and a dozen sleeping men were curious and rare, so Julyas poked around and found a locked chest filled with golden goods, picked it open and ran off with the locket. The merchant had awoken a few hours later to find his guards all asleep and his chest open, missing the locket. The merchant had sent out his men to retrieve the locket and kill the presumed thief.

The iron dagger was warm in Julyas’ hand, sweaty and slippery. The crunching sound of boots on rock growing ever closer. Sitting up a little, Julyas shifted his hold on the dagger, swinging it down so it was held backwards in his hand, ‘good for stabbing and slashing, but not much good if you didn’t know how.’ Julyas thought grimly, a horrible humour creeping up inside him. Julyas stood up, and ran down the valley. The band of men behind him screaming their fury and indignation. He stopped for nothing, running for hours through the narrow, rock littered vale.