11-17-2006, 02:31 AM
OOC: For now, this story conclued the prologue of my first series of the Marshall Chronicles, The Dark Spire Warhound. I know I haven't wrote anything plasuible in a while, so bear with me while I get my bearings... (And yes this may seem vaguely attached to digimon for now, but there is a reason behind it). Just give me your honest opinion and I will work from there.
IN:
The Marshall Chronicles
Tome One: The Dark Spire Warhound
His Last Wishes
In the crypt of the subway tunnel, Commissar Alistair Lorne heard the Gaurd.
Their footsteps reminded him of music. Rubber soles scraped like a finger caressing a guitar string, sharp and hallow throughout the platform. Young leather chaffed in a startling contrast of trumpets playing underwater. When it dissipated, the shoestring tips, made of penny-brass, chimed against the floor because the strings draped out from their knot.. Rust Maracassed underfoot.
Heronimov's 13th separated the shadows and crossed the platform. Alistair counted twenty-five men, adorned with Warmaster Heronimov's eagle head on their shoulder guards, sifting towards him. Seven limped over fallen debris, favoring either leg. Their visors looked busted and cracked. Fatigues were frosted gray from cement dust. Rifles hung loose on shoulder straps, glittering with scratches, and electrician's tape rolled tight over their muzzles.
The closest soldier saluted Alistair. "Heronimov's 13th reporting Commissar Lorne."
"Where's the Warmaster?"
He pointed towards another subway entrance. "Him and his retinue are coming eastward, along the city power grid." His voice strained. "He deployed the 104th Armored to keep Machinedramon busy, but frankly, I don
IN:
The Marshall Chronicles
Tome One: The Dark Spire Warhound
His Last Wishes
In the crypt of the subway tunnel, Commissar Alistair Lorne heard the Gaurd.
Their footsteps reminded him of music. Rubber soles scraped like a finger caressing a guitar string, sharp and hallow throughout the platform. Young leather chaffed in a startling contrast of trumpets playing underwater. When it dissipated, the shoestring tips, made of penny-brass, chimed against the floor because the strings draped out from their knot.. Rust Maracassed underfoot.
Heronimov's 13th separated the shadows and crossed the platform. Alistair counted twenty-five men, adorned with Warmaster Heronimov's eagle head on their shoulder guards, sifting towards him. Seven limped over fallen debris, favoring either leg. Their visors looked busted and cracked. Fatigues were frosted gray from cement dust. Rifles hung loose on shoulder straps, glittering with scratches, and electrician's tape rolled tight over their muzzles.
The closest soldier saluted Alistair. "Heronimov's 13th reporting Commissar Lorne."
"Where's the Warmaster?"
He pointed towards another subway entrance. "Him and his retinue are coming eastward, along the city power grid." His voice strained. "He deployed the 104th Armored to keep Machinedramon busy, but frankly, I don