Sworn-Exile

PART THREE Her body was shaking violently. Her eyes were still focused on her brother’s. She watched his face growing pale and she let her tears flow silently down her cheeks. Her head was pounding from all the dehydration, and she was losing all hope. Zak was gone. She was alone... all alone now. Her almost catatonic state was suddenly diminished when she heard a series of gunshots from outside the jail room. The door was flung open and the lead guard stumbled backwards and onto the floor with a perfectly shaped round hole in his forehead. Estie moved to the bars and tried to peer out to see what the hell was going on. A tall, dark ha

PART THREE The port of Trieste – a bustling trading post and rest point for many ships and their crews, the air filled with shouts and cries from market stalls as well as from dockyard workers who moved heavy equipment and supplies from one spot to the other. Seagulls traversed the skies overhead and a few dogs ran about wildly interrupting people’s movement. It seemed to be a busiest day of the week as people from outside of town were coming in to view the market stalls to see what they had to offer. Zoran pushed a hand cart along which carried his slain parents and had covered them up with a large blanket to stop them from being

PART TWO It was mid-morning when he reached South Rock Falls. Glorified with the sight he beheld, Zoran unloaded the pack from his back and set it down on top of a rock before he sat on it as well. His lungs breathed in the crisp, moist air around him and he had more or less forgotten the annoyance of actually coming to this place. He decided to venture down to the base of the waterfall and clean his hair and rest for a while. He found a small path leading down to the pool at the bottom and used it to make his way there. He carried his pack in one hand and used his other to steady himself as he moved. The water was clean and untouched, look

PART ONE It was a day saturated with clear skies and sunshine in a small Austrian village not far from the southern border of the country. A young, fresh-faced 19-year-old Zoran Fenrir traipsed through the long grass, which lay to the west of the village, and headed back after going to collect firewood for a fire. His jungle-green eyes glanced around the peaceful atmosphere that surrounded him and he breathed deeply with satisfaction. Zoran wore leather boots along with brown combat trousers and a dark green t-shirt along with a sheath on his back for his oriental sword. His feet found their way back to his home and he walked through the oa