Shadows of Vengeance

[Valhalla Erikson]

True love last forever

[superkamiguy1]

Mar 15, 2024 2:12:43 GMT Valhalla Erikson said:

True love last forever

The Birds Of Vengeance Take Flight!

[Valhalla Erikson]

[superkamiguy1]

Mar 17, 2024 0:51:33 GMT Valhalla Erikson said:

BRO!

THOSE ARE SOME ABSOLUTELY BOSS DESIGNS! 

[Valhalla Erikson]

“I don’t have to worry about fearing death anymore. I’m dead already.”
-Billy

[Valhalla Erikson]

Prologue
Death Rides A Horse

Hoyt exploded out of the warehouse like a wild animal fleeing a burning cage. The air behind him was filled with the staccato of gunfire, the guttural cries of men fighting for their lives, and the ominous thud of explosions tearing through the metal walls. The building groaned like a dying beast, flames licking at its edges, casting eerie shadows across the wasteland. Hoyt’s heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he sprinted toward the motorcycle waiting outside, the only lifeline he had left.

He threw himself onto the bike, his hands trembling as they grasped the handlebars. The machine roared to life, a defiant scream against the chaos he left behind. Without a second glance, Hoyt gunned the throttle, the tires spitting gravel as he tore away from the carnage. The headlight cut a narrow path through the dense fog that clung to the ground like a curse, swallowing everything in its path. The night was endless, the sky a black void that offered no comfort, no stars, no moon—only an unyielding darkness.

The wasteland stretched out before him, an endless expanse of twisted metal and broken earth. The fog was thick, almost alive, curling around the bike’s tires like ghostly fingers trying to pull him back. Hoyt could feel the cold creeping into his bones, the chill of something far worse than death pressing in on him from all sides. He pushed the bike harder, the engine screaming as he tried to outrun the terror that clawed at his mind.

Then, a crack echoed through the night—a single gunshot, sharp and precise. Hoyt felt the bike jerk violently beneath him, the back tire exploding in a shower of rubber and metal. The world spun out of control as he was thrown from the seat, hurtling through the air before crashing down onto the gravel-strewn ground. Pain erupted through his body as his shoulder slammed into the earth with a sickening pop. A scream tore from his throat, raw and primal, as he rolled to a stop, the world a blur of agony and cold.

He lay there, gasping for breath, the fog curling around him like a living thing. Every inch of his body screamed in pain, but he knew he had to move, had to get up. But as he tried to push himself up, a shadow fell over him. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and unnervingly calm. They echoed through the silence, growing louder, closer, until Hoyt could hear nothing else. Each step felt like a countdown to his end.

He squinted through the fog, his vision blurred by pain and panic. Two figures emerged from the gloom, their outlines hazy and indistinct. But even through the murk, Hoyt could sense the wrongness about them. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, his face obscured by the brim of a wide hat. The woman at his side was slender, almost delicate, but there was nothing soft about her. They moved with an unnatural grace, their steps too precise, too measured, like they weren’t entirely human.

Hoyt’s heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat of terror. He tried to scramble backward, but his body refused to obey, the pain too much, the fear too great. “Please,” he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. “I'll stop—whatever it was, I didn’t know—please…”

The man stopped a few feet away, his gaze fixed on Hoyt. Those eyes—cold, empty, like the eyes of a corpse. Hoyt felt a shiver crawl up his spine as the woman stepped forward, her hand resting on the grip of a gun holstered at her side. There was a strange beauty about her, something otherworldly, but it was twisted, corrupted, like a flower blooming in poisoned soil.

She didn’t speak as she drew the gun, the metallic click of the hammer echoing in the stillness. Her eyes, dark and devoid of mercy, locked onto Hoyt’s. She raised the gun, aiming with a steady hand, her movements deliberate and final.

“It’s too late,” she said, her voice soft, almost kind, as if she were offering a mercy.

The last thing Hoyt saw was the flash of the muzzle, a brief flare of light in the eternal night, before everything went dark. The fog closed in around him, swallowing his final breath, leaving nothing behind but the cold, empty silence.

Note: The Crow is out, and you know what that means!

[superkamiguy1]

Aug 23, 2024 14:47:26 GMT Valhalla Erikson said:

Prologue
Death Rides A Horse

Hoyt exploded out of the warehouse like a wild animal fleeing a burning cage. The air behind him was filled with the staccato of gunfire, the guttural cries of men fighting for their lives, and the ominous thud of explosions tearing through the metal walls. The building groaned like a dying beast, flames licking at its edges, casting eerie shadows across the wasteland. Hoyt’s heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he sprinted toward the motorcycle waiting outside, the only lifeline he had left.

He threw himself onto the bike, his hands trembling as they grasped the handlebars. The machine roared to life, a defiant scream against the chaos he left behind. Without a second glance, Hoyt gunned the throttle, the tires spitting gravel as he tore away from the carnage. The headlight cut a narrow path through the dense fog that clung to the ground like a curse, swallowing everything in its path. The night was endless, the sky a black void that offered no comfort, no stars, no moon—only an unyielding darkness.

The wasteland stretched out before him, an endless expanse of twisted metal and broken earth. The fog was thick, almost alive, curling around the bike’s tires like ghostly fingers trying to pull him back. Hoyt could feel the cold creeping into his bones, the chill of something far worse than death pressing in on him from all sides. He pushed the bike harder, the engine screaming as he tried to outrun the terror that clawed at his mind.

Then, a crack echoed through the night—a single gunshot, sharp and precise. Hoyt felt the bike jerk violently beneath him, the back tire exploding in a shower of rubber and metal. The world spun out of control as he was thrown from the seat, hurtling through the air before crashing down onto the gravel-strewn ground. Pain erupted through his body as his shoulder slammed into the earth with a sickening pop. A scream tore from his throat, raw and primal, as he rolled to a stop, the world a blur of agony and cold.

He lay there, gasping for breath, the fog curling around him like a living thing. Every inch of his body screamed in pain, but he knew he had to move, had to get up. But as he tried to push himself up, a shadow fell over him. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and unnervingly calm. They echoed through the silence, growing louder, closer, until Hoyt could hear nothing else. Each step felt like a countdown to his end.

He squinted through the fog, his vision blurred by pain and panic. Two figures emerged from the gloom, their outlines hazy and indistinct. But even through the murk, Hoyt could sense the wrongness about them. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, his face obscured by the brim of a wide hat. The woman at his side was slender, almost delicate, but there was nothing soft about her. They moved with an unnatural grace, their steps too precise, too measured, like they weren’t entirely human.

Hoyt’s heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat of terror. He tried to scramble backward, but his body refused to obey, the pain too much, the fear too great. “Please,” he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. “I'll stop—whatever it was, I didn’t know—please…”

The man stopped a few feet away, his gaze fixed on Hoyt. Those eyes—cold, empty, like the eyes of a corpse. Hoyt felt a shiver crawl up his spine as the woman stepped forward, her hand resting on the grip of a gun holstered at her side. There was a strange beauty about her, something otherworldly, but it was twisted, corrupted, like a flower blooming in poisoned soil.

She didn’t speak as she drew the gun, the metallic click of the hammer echoing in the stillness. Her eyes, dark and devoid of mercy, locked onto Hoyt’s. She raised the gun, aiming with a steady hand, her movements deliberate and final.

“It’s too late,” she said, her voice soft, almost kind, as if she were offering a mercy.

The last thing Hoyt saw was the flash of the muzzle, a brief flare of light in the eternal night, before everything went dark. The fog closed in around him, swallowing his final breath, leaving nothing behind but the cold, empty silence.

Note: The Crow is out, and you know what that means!

It means a fire so goddamn big, the Gods'll notice us again, that's what I'm sayin'. It means that I want all of you boys to be able to look me straight in the eye one more time and say: ARE WE HAVING FUN OR WHAT?

Jokes aside, that was a badass start to the story man! Just hunting the scumbags down like dogs and wiping them out with quick and efficient brutality! You love to see it! This is how professionals handle business! Malevolence tempered with cold efficiency!