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Edited by The First Aifos: 2/26/2022 10:49:41 PM
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Soul Hunter (Story snippet)

The sound of rainfall. The splash of feet hitting puddles, as a child sprints down the sidewalk. Dark spires reaching up to an empty green sky. The child weaves in and out of shadows, as he runs past one streetlamp to the next. He clutches his coat tightly, as his only ward against the chill of night. A voice calls out from somewhere down the road behind him. "Don't let him get away! Kill the Witch!" He grips his coat tighter, and runs faster. Underneath his coat, his fingers wrap around a brass stopwatch, squeezing tighter, and tighter, until his knuckles turn white. He takes a turn around a corner, and the dark spires give way to the horizon of a green sky. He sprinted even faster, but then stopped dead in his tracks, as the street abruptly ended, with a steep drop off into the void. He stood still, at the edge of the cliff, panting. A pair of footsteps came up behind him. Turning around, he saw one of the men who was chasing him; a man with short black hair, dressed in an ornate black coat, with gold buttons. There was a badge pinned to his chest. "Soul Hunters Association" "Nowhere left to run." The man said, drawing a pistol, and aiming it at the child. "Wait.. Wait! Don't shoot!" The child yelled, gripping his pocketwatch even tighter. "Please don't shoot!" The man hesitated, and then sighed. "You knew this was the way it would have to end the second you cast that spell." The child's expression turned from one of fear, to one of rage. "Is this how it had to end? Or just the way you wanted it to?" The man closed his eyes. "I never wanted any of this." A gunshot. A child dies in the middle of the night. His hand falls limply to his side, and a small brass stopwatch tumbles out of his palm, onto the cold pavement. Then there was a long silence, broken only by the sound of rain. ~~~~~ [i]"It was four hundred years ago. The world ended. Nobody really remembers how, all we remember is what came next. Humanity refused to face its own extinction, and made a desperate last call for help. Their calls were answered by Death, who appeared before them, and offered them one last salvation. The souls of humanity were saved, and transferred to to a grand metropolis floating somewhere in an astral void. The City of the Dead. In the City, we could live our lives like normal, with one catch. We were only souls, and to remain in a human form, we required a Keepsake. An item, that could be pretty much anything, to keep on our person at all times. They tethered our souls to this world, and allowed us to stay human, even in this world after death. But, with the Keepsakes, came one other consequence of our postmortem existence. It was possible to extract the years of someone's life from their Keepsake. To channel more years into one. Suddenly, the years of a person's life became something to be traded. Gifted. Stolen. Yet, as it always seems to, life went on. Order managed to persist, even with this new grim reality. Until they came. They were called Witches. Nobody knew where they came from, or what they wanted, but somehow, they found a way to sacrifice their own years in exchange for powerful magics. As one might imagine, this also led them to the murder of innocents, to make up for the years they spent on their spells. Death ran rampant throughout the City. Beggars were killed in the streets, homes broken into and families murdered in cold blood. All in the name of fueling their dark magics. The Ruling Council was intent on putting a stop to this, and to counter the Witches' dark magic, they formed the Soul Hunters Association. Equipped with an arsenal of elite weaponry, the SHA waged war against the Witches, driving them back to the edges of the City. Now, they're reduced to huddling in dark rooms, plotting from the shadows, and the SHA stands proud as the new saviors of mankind. That should have been the end of it, and then she rose from the ashes. The Dark Witch, Nyx. A merciless killer, and the greatest master of magic I'd ever seen. Under her guidance, the Witches have become a threat to the City once again."[/i]

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  • Hazel weakly made her way down the road. Her skin was pale, her eyes dark brown. Her head was covered by long brown hair, laced with several strands of pale white, despite her young age. She wore a ragged old gown, that once seemed to be ornate, but had long since lost its luster. Her steps were unevenly paced, coming out in sharp bursts, as she nearly slipped in and out of consciousness. Several times along the way, she had nearly collapsed onto the rain-soaked sidewalk, needing to catch herself on a nearby wall. The other people walking the roads barely gave her a second glance. Most brushed her off as some hapless drunk, and those who didn't simply assumed she'd wind up as Witch-fodder sooner or later. She collapsed again, catching herself on the railing of a nearby fence. She could see her destination from here; a dark two-story building, with a roof of exaggerated proportions, and green-lit windows. Tried to sell itself off as a haunted house--a bit of a redundant gesture in the City of the Dead. With a deep breath, Hazel steadied her shaky hands, and pushed off the railing, continuing her sporadic walk towards the building. She stopped for just a moment when she got close, looking up at the small sign hanging from the door, to make sure it was the right place. "Grim Drinks Soul Bar" This was it. Doing her best to steady her walk, she threw the door open, and made her way over to the bartender, taking in a seat in one of the nearby stools at the counter. The walls were covered with pictures of ghosts, and the lights were all a pale green, casting a dark shade on all of the bar's other residents. The barkeep didn't do much to hide his disgust when he saw her walk in, giving her a loud "Huff" as she sat down. She waited for a few moments to catch her breath, hoping he'd ask her what she wanted, but he seemed perfectly content ignoring her beyond his initial scoff. With a weak, and dry voice, she eventually spoke up. "..Seven years." The barkeep slammed his arm down on the table, and leaned close to her, narrowing his eyes. "What was that?" "I want.. Seven years." Hazel said, glaring up at him with a cold stare. She couldn't imagine she was very intimidating, though, still taking in exhausted deep breaths. "You think we're just gonna serve a stranger? You'd better got proof you ain't a Witch." "Please. I'm running out of time." The barkeep scoffed again, and pushed off the counter. She gave him a moment, hoping he was going to prepare her drink, but just as she expected, he simply went right back to polishing some glasses. Hazel's hands tensed, and she stood up from the stool, knocking it to the ground. "Give me seven years, or I'm going to take them from you!" The barkeep only stared at her, and at her threat some of the men from a nearby table stood up, and began walking towards her. One of them popped his knuckles. "You'd better get leavin', little lady. Or things're about to get ugly." "I'm not leaving without my drink." Hazel said. "And if you think you can make me, go ahead and try it." One of the men took a step closer, but before he could make a move, Hazel ducked in, and slammed her palm into his stomach. A surge of lethargy suddenly passed over the man's entire body, and he collapsed to the ground, his entire body aching. Hazel straightened her posture, still panting, and clenched her fist. The other man took a step back, realizing on Hazel's hand was a black glove, trimmed with a swirling lace of gold. A Soul Hunter's glove, able to tap directly into the soul. For a few moments, there was a silence, and then the barkeep slammed a bottle of green liquid down on the counter. "Just take your damn years, and get out of my bar." Hazel swiped the bottle, and inspected it for a few moments. Confident it was the real thing, she carelessly tossed a handful of coins onto the counter, and walked out of the building. Only once she was outside, did she let her weariness seep back in, immediately leaning against the wall next to the door. That brief spell sitting down had done her some good, yet, she could feel it. Her years were running out. She looked down at the bottle in her hands. She knew she needed it. Yet, the thought of drinking it made her sick to her stomach. She may not have taken their years herself, but these years still belonged to someone else. Shakily, she reached for the cap, but then stopped. On the far side of the road, she saw an orphan boy, begging for money. His clothes were in rags, his skin even paler than hers, and he looked like he hadn't eaten in days. After taking a moment to steady her breath, she pushed herself off the wall, and walked up to him. As she approached, he scurried backwards. Kids like him often fell prey to those looking to steal a little bit of extra life for themselves. "Kid." She said. "How many years you got left?" The kid didn't say anything, but she didn't really need an answer. She could see it just in the way he looked. With a sigh, she slammed the bottle on the ground, and tossed another handful of coins at his feet. "Well now you got a few more. Don't waste 'em." Slipping her hands into her pockets, she turned, and began to walk away. As she walked down the road, she kept the child in her sight out of the corner of her eye. He downed the whole bottle in a matter of seconds. His skin steadily returned to a more normal hue, and she could see him taking several deep breaths, as life filled his body once again. Only once she was confident no thug was going to walk up and take his years for their own, did she finally turn away, and continue walking down the road. She stopped when she reached a stone bridge, arching over a river of green water, and she stared down at her reflection. Hazel. The Dying Witch. Hunted by the SHA. Outcast to her fellow Witches. Less than a year left until she faded away. Worthless trash with nowhere to belong. Yet there was a fire in her eyes, and it wasn't one of some vengeful hate of those who threw her away, or wanted her dead. It was the fire of someone who wasn't going to let this world take her on its terms. There was one more thing she needed to get done, and if Death tried to take her before she did it, he could go screw himself. She pushed herself off the bridge railing, and stared up at the towering spire that lay in the center of the City. One more thing to do. She could feel her life dwindling with every passing second. One more thing to do, and she would hand herself to Death on a silver platter if that's what he wanted. One more thing to do.. She reached up around her neck, and gripped at the Keepsake hiding on a necklace just underneath her dress. The blade of a broken knife, barely holding on to her soul.. But it didn't need to hold on for much longer. Just one more thing to do. She just hoped she had enough time left to do it...

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