Gather round children, it's time for Pat's storytime that will scar you for life!

excerpt from tavern scene

The tavern’s soft glow soaked into every corner. It was a dramatic change from the outside, where the storm raged in the night. The startled someone as it slammed open, lightning illuminating the figure that stood at the doorframe. Wind swept through the room, carrying rain from the storm with it. The figure moved inside the room, stamping the mud-caked boots near the door. His cloak swirling with the wind, he entered, not removing his hood. The wind whistled as it whirled around him, slamming the door shut with a tremendous bang.

To some observers, it seemed that though the door was shut, the storm still raged in the space. The man had an air about him that suggested that the storm had taken on a human form and now walked among them. Without a word, the stranger sat in a corner, still not removing his hood As the serving girl approached, the hood moved, it seemed that he was searching for something.

“What can I get you sir?”

The hood swiveled at the noise, looking at the girl that had spoken. She caught he breath as she peered in to the hood, trying to see the stranger’s face. Two eyes, glowing golden in the light of the lamps, peered out at her. Eyes that she had only heard tales about, rumors and legends that only the storytellers knew. Eyes, golden eyes, with a slitted pupil, like those of a cat. Original. He had original blood in him. Men who had the legendary eyes were said to be psychotic killers, that the blood interfered with their ability to connect to reality.

He held her gaze for a moment, and with a crash, she stumbled back, smashing into the table behind her. Spilling food and drink, she fell to the floor. The patron jumped up, soaked with spilled beer. She felt a hand grasp her wrist, and the soaked patron yanked her up with a jerk.

“Hey, hey hey hey hey hey what’s this bitch doin’?” He slurred, obviously drunk.

“How you gonna pay for this? Ya got money to pay for this expensive coat?” She glanced at the coat, a dirty, ragged old thing.

“Weell?”

“Sir, that coat isn’t…”

‘Isn’t wha? You think my coat is worth less than your hide? You don’t got the money, I’ll take it out of your flesh.”

He pulled his belt knife out, brandishing it at the startled girl. Someone screamed. It was her.

The cat eyed stranger, who had remained motionless during this exchange, suddenly shot out of his seat in a flurry of motion. His cloak billowed out around him, exposing a body nearly covered in weapons. His hands a blur, something shot out. The threatening patron suddenly dropped the knife which dropped with a musical chime as it collided with the floor. Three separated throwing knives bloomed in his hand, chest and head. Crashing to the floor, the blood pooled around the corpse. Reaching down, he tore the knives out, placing them carefully in their respective places. He offered a gloved hand to the frightened girl, now cowering behind a chair. Hesitantly, she reached out, not sure of his intentions. He said not a word, just held his hand out, as if waiting for an eternity would not bother him in the least. Tentatively, she reached out, and he grabbed it, hauling her to her feet.

The silence that had begun at the start of the fight suddenly ended, people talking as if it had never happened. However, if one were to look closely, not a one glanced at the body, as if it didn’t exist.

The bartended came over and shouldered the body, taking it into the back to dispose of it. The stranger sat back down, seemingly undisturbed by the fact that he had just extinguished a man’s life. The bartender came back and stared at the stranger, as if willing him to get up and leave. If the man noticed the stared boring into him, he gave no indication.

The serving girl, gathering up her courage, approached the man once again. She approached warily; she knew what she was dealing with now.

“Thank you sir, you know, for helping me.”

The eyes stared out at her.

“Um, what can I get you? It’ll be on the house. As thanks for saving me.” She added.

The eyes went out of focus for a second, as if he was in deep thought.

“Lamb, I think, the lamb seems to be good tonight, seeing as how many people have ordered it.” He stated

His voice was calm, almost mellow. It was deep, melodious. It didn’t sound like a killer, but the blood soaked floor said otherwise. She stared, she’d been serving everyone all night, and she hadn’t noticed how many had ordered it.

“Right away, sir.” She hurried off to tell the cook,

The stranger waited, as if in deep though, lost in some unknown memories. Soon the smell of freshly roasted lamb approached, and he looked up. The serving girl was placing a large plate of it in front of him. Thanking her, he tossed her a gold coin, giving her more money then she’d probably see in a year. He ate quickly, stood, and walked out into the storm. As the candles flickered in the wind, the patrons stared at one another, thinking that the apparition must have been a dream. But as they each looked down at the drying blood spilt over the floorboards, they realized that it was all the proof they needed.

Here's an excerpt from a story I've been working on recently. It should be noted that some material in not suitible for young children or faint of heart.

Ok, I warned you.

berserker episode

Hiding behind the trees, he eyed the town. So close, yet so far. The opposing force currently occupying the town had cleared the area of the surrounding forest, to prevent ambushes like the one that he was to try. In addition, 40 feet of stone quarantined the town off from the rest of the world. After all, the soldiers had announced that anyone leaving would be executed instantaneously. Checking his gear, he reached deep within, calling the power that plagued him. Sometimes, he thought even a curse can be a blessing. Something shifted in his demeanor, and as he glanced up at the silent gates surrounded by torch light, it seemed that in the glow, that his eyes had a reddish tint in them. He ripped his weapons out, the light catching on the two blades. He charged at the gates. As he left the shadows of the night and the cover of the forest, one of the guards spotted him. The guard shouted something, probably halt, but no one shall ever know, his cry died away in a gurgle as a knife appeared in his throat. It seemed like it belonged, or had always been there, so quickly did it appear. With a spray of pink mist, the soldier fell to the ground, eyes bugging out as he drowned in his own blood.

With a howl, the man shot toward the gate. The Rage was in control now. Reduced to a monster within a human shell, his crave for violence knew no bounds.

At the howl, more guards were alerted to his presence, quickly rushing to the aid of the gate. The iron bound wood creaked and squealed in protest as the soldiers poured like water to confront the attack on their prize of a town. Seeing the hunched figure leaping through the air at them, the raised their assorted weapons in defense. Slashing anything that moved, he pushed the defenders back as his continued strikes reduced their defense to splinters and scrap metal. They had no hope to stand up to the swords that the man had in his possession. They had stood the test of time, made by the finest smiths money could buy, never losing their sheen, or their edge, even after all the years that they had existed.

As the weapons were destroyed, his blades were greeted by flesh and bone. As he hewed his way through, hacking off limbs, he didn’t notice until the spewing blood covered his face. Turning, he raised his hand, slicing off his opponent’s hand in the process. Smashing his hand down, he was rewarded a warmth, drenching him in a rain of blood. Moving like the wind, he flitted between guards slicing, ripping through wood and metal, cloth and mail, flesh and bone. It seemed the world was reduced in motion, so fast was he. Snapping his wrist, he brought his blade spinning into a near body, watching intently as blood shot out of the wound he had created, splattering across the ground, turning the dust into a hellish type of mud. From another point of view, it seemed a sphere of solid air, with streaks of silver spinning ‘round. As more men fell the whirling blades, the streaks of silver slowly turned crimson. Amid the cracking bones and spraying blood, the man was like the eye of the storm. In the center, fury raged, but on the surface, all one could tell was the chaotic smile. Around his body, chaos reigned. Men fell, disemboweled, dismembered, beheaded. And among it all, the smile, fixed in place. Genuine, but tainted with the glee his killing spree endowed him with. His destruction left onlookers speechless, that is, until his blades found them as well.

And suddenly, silence. The man stood, the only one left, amid the carnage that he had created. As nothing was moving, the demon had been satisfied, and slowly retreated into the depths of the man’s soul, awaiting the point when it would be called again.

As light returned to the man’s eyes, he glimpsed the slaughter that he stood in. Realization came over him, and as he saw, his legs failed him. Falling to the ground, the man wept, tears of horror leaked down his face. The intense joy was no longer there, and he felt empty. No, not empty, he felt hatred, hatred for what he had done.

"Insert obligatory introduction sentance here"

I figued that this was a good place to post this story that I'm working on, so here is a sample of one of the scenes. Not violent, but i needed scenes with characters that didn't involve death and destruction. I think it sets a change of pace that is quite refreshing. If anyone has any critisism, I'll listen to them, I might not act on it, but i'll listen.

Bus Stop
by patrick Ridout

As the downpour began, they broke out in a sprint. Still, by the time they reached the shelter of the bus stop, they had been soaked. Hair dripping, they panted together as water ran off their clothes in small runnels. Reaching for a cigarette, the box damp but still workable, Gabriel prayed that his lighter wasn't soaked through. Luckily, it wasn't. Lightning flashed in response to the flick of flint against steel.

"You look like a wet dog."

He stared at Sarah in disbelief. As wet as she was, he couldn't have been any worse. The drenched shirt clung to her like a second skin. Her dark hair curled in response to the saturated air. He looked at her, noticing that with the clinging shirt, he could make out the details of the bra that she wore. She caught him looking and playfully hit him in the chest. The contact made a squelching noise as water leaked around her fist.

"See something you like?"

He didn't say a word, just pulled his cigarette from his lips and blew a cloud of smoke that wreathed his head in the enclosed space.

The torrent of rain continued. He stared out, barely able to make out the buildings across the street. Collapsing on the bench in the back, he sighed. The bright yellow of the ad pasted onto the side of the stop was jarring in comparison to the grey of the rain world that they seemed to exist in. He grunted as she plopped down on his lap, curling into a ball on top of him.

"Mmmm...warm." She cooed.

Resigning himself to the role of heater, he pulled his soaking coat over her. She nearly disappeared in the tan folds of the sopping wet material.

He looked down. Now this was a wet dog. Her big brown eyes, so like a puppy's stared up at him through a mass of tangled hair. He laughed.

"What?"

He didn't respond, knowing how she would react. Instead, he leaned down and kissed her, engulfing her lips with his. She hesitated a moment, the old fear of being intimate in public rising in her, but then melted in his arms and returned it.