The Forsaken Hero
I closed my eyes and let out a shuddering breath. My fingers were numb and cold, my arm aching where the needle pierced the vein. Something clattered onto the pavement, and I looked down to see the needle. It had slipped out of my hand. Nothingness swirled around me, bringing the first sense of peace I'd felt in my short, miserable life. There was no one to miss me, and no one I would miss. There's always someone else to beat or rape. The regulars would move on quickly. I died. Only...wasn't death supposed to be dark? And since when did 'nothingness' have so many gods? Discord: https://discord.gg/PX3xqJdZMY
Grip of Winter
The soft crunch of the snow beneath our feet echoed hollowly through the village, bouncing off the frozen walls and returning to our ears. A large mound of snow dominated the village square, rising as high as any of the single-story homes. Unlike the pure frost coating the ground, the pile seemed much darker, crimson almost.
"They didn't…" Soltair muttered, kicking into the pile.
A sharp clatter rang out as several fragments of bone scattered before his boot. Surprised by the sudden stench of blood, which wafted through the break in the snow, I took several steps back before I steadied myself. Surely, this entire pile couldn't be…