The last Hunter stood, heart racing, breath coming out in short, shallow bursts. Twin blades hung at either side of the warrior's legs, dripping blood from the tips into small pools around the warrior's combat boot covered feet. Blood splashed camoflauge pants led up to a black tank top that hugged the fighter's compact, well-built body. Well defined arm muscles sported deep gashes that oozed blood. Auburn hair hung limply, framing a slim face worn beyond its years from stress. Eyes the color of oak leaves glared defiantly at the vampire standing across the room. Slim fingers gripped the silver wrought hilts of the twin swords. Flames danced around the room, casting a glow on the Hunter's bronze skin. A tattoo could be seen on the warrior's left hand of two snakes pinned by one sword with the words "Death of the Serpent's Children."
Brook knew in her heart that she was beaten. Her mind and every instinct in her, however, fought the truth despite everything. She was growing weak from the blood loss. Her enemy had not taken many wounds, and even if he had he would certainly not be weakening from the loss of blood. He was just too fast and too strong for her. She hated to admit it, but it was the truth. Even now he gloated over his impending triumph. She did not hear what he said, as she had long since tuned out his taunts to focus on herself. Now, as she tried to lift the swords that had served her so well in the past, she thought only of her heritage.
She had failed them all, her family, the few people she cared about in the world. Not only had she failed them, but she had failed the world. If she died now she would be responsible for the death of all humankind on the face of the planet. Her soul would surely be damned to Hell for this failure. Her family would be most displeased if they could see her now. They had all survived to old age before death took them on its dark journey. Her other failing, or her weakness as her parents had deemed it, she feared death. The rest of her line had laughed at the idea and refused to even think it possible. She, on the other hand, loathed the idea of dying so young. She had been sixteen when her parents thought her ready and passed down the family responsibilities to her. Now, at 27 she faced death in the form of a vampire named Christolph. Her mind could not take it. With every ounce of will she had she lifted her swords to engage her enemy once more. He laughed and lifted his swords to meet her. They both knew this time would be the last time their swords met in battle. Yet, it had not always been this way. . .
Brook knew in her heart that she was beaten. Her mind and every instinct in her, however, fought the truth despite everything. She was growing weak from the blood loss. Her enemy had not taken many wounds, and even if he had he would certainly not be weakening from the loss of blood. He was just too fast and too strong for her. She hated to admit it, but it was the truth. Even now he gloated over his impending triumph. She did not hear what he said, as she had long since tuned out his taunts to focus on herself. Now, as she tried to lift the swords that had served her so well in the past, she thought only of her heritage.
She had failed them all, her family, the few people she cared about in the world. Not only had she failed them, but she had failed the world. If she died now she would be responsible for the death of all humankind on the face of the planet. Her soul would surely be damned to Hell for this failure. Her family would be most displeased if they could see her now. They had all survived to old age before death took them on its dark journey. Her other failing, or her weakness as her parents had deemed it, she feared death. The rest of her line had laughed at the idea and refused to even think it possible. She, on the other hand, loathed the idea of dying so young. She had been sixteen when her parents thought her ready and passed down the family responsibilities to her. Now, at 27 she faced death in the form of a vampire named Christolph. Her mind could not take it. With every ounce of will she had she lifted her swords to engage her enemy once more. He laughed and lifted his swords to meet her. They both knew this time would be the last time their swords met in battle. Yet, it had not always been this way. . .