Ninja Writer

Short Story

Fantasy Brawl

Another writing prompt!

Tsss! Flames sizzled past Liriel as he leapt up and grasped the tree branch. His heart thudded in his chest as he pulled himself up and swung his head downward, staring at the path the fireball left in its wake. Leaves blazed in the trees, ash fluttered to the ground, and the mountain boasted a new fiery, smoking pit. Liriel’s eyes widened as he pushed himself up to his feet on the next branch up.

“Come down here now!” Teras shouted up at him as she stomped her heel into the ground. She lifted her staff, eyes flashing and jaw set.

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Error, Error, Error

Please note that this scene involves abuse. Read on at your own discretion.

You failed,” Angelo said, striking him with the back of his hand. Heavy gold and silver rings bit into his jaw and cheek and Shin Il had to fight the urge to smile. Clearly, Angelo wasn’t thrilled about what happened. He sent the word down to kill that bastard, Myo In Sung and here Shin Il was, unable to kill him. No, he got away. Sneaky bastard. Somehow, he managed to get away and although Shin Il tried to hunt him down for a good few hours afterward, he couldn’t find him. The city was too large and even though Shin Il knew the area well, he still wasn’t able to ferret out any possible hiding places. He deserved every smack he got, every derogatory term…

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Nothing

He’s never been much. He doesn’t like sticking out in a crowd and he never meets the gaze of another person unless bidden to. Even then, the contact is brief, fluttery, such that one probably wonders if their eyes are playing tricks on them. His master has always said that he will never amount to anything. He is the Sacrifice to his Destroyer. He will never be anything else.

He doesn’t say much. Nobody wants to hear him. When somebody speaks to him, he wonders why and he can’t help thinking there must be an ulterior motive. Years of being cuffed on the back of the head and flicked on the temple have taught him to stay on his toes. He can’t say the wrong thing, he thinks. If he does, pain will be inflicted. It’s not the pain that bothers him, though. It’s the rosy color that creeps up his neck and over his cheeks, that feeling of the lowly dog being caught in the act of sneaking scraps from the table. He feels impudent. He feels foolish and stupid.

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