Author's Note:
Lately I found my writing style change, and not exactly in the good way, I think. The numerous single lines annoy me to utmost limits. I'm trying my hardest to get rid of it, but.. Anyways, what do you think? Good, bad?
Eighth Feather
Riki could feel his feet numbing.
This shouldn't be happening.
No. No. No.
Quinn's hands were roped to a wooden cross. His eyes were bloody and bruised. Eye sockets - empty. Not a single stitch of clothing covered him except for the white loincloth. Puffs of feathers were glued randomly on his chest. His neck carried the mark of strangulation. Mouth blue and purple, with blood dripping like ribbons.
And a gaping hole where his heart was supposed to be.
Present trainees murmured around him; a circle of buzzing bees, and that faint sound of some captains shouts.
They found out?
Danger, danger, danger.
Was Quinn killed by these people?
The smell of rotting flesh stung at Riki's nose.
He heard footsteps behind him. Then the warmth of a wide chest stuck to his back. He blinked.
Am I going to die?
Riki turned. Slow and his hand pervaded by tremors.
Black glued to blue. Sharp, steady, sizzling.
"You are coming with me." Iason said.
A command.
Riki started. "What..." Iason sneered. His hand closed on Riki's shoulder. A friendly gesture from out, iron tongs from within.
Despair for escape.
"We'll be talking a lot from now on," Then a drawl and a cursive tone on his name. "Riki."
Riki gulped.
Am I going to die by these guy's hands?