Children are moving?

Yes! Yes! my dear fans (or new people) I'm anouncing today that Children of London is being moved to its own Blog! Yepper! This was decided after I annouced that it will be reworked as a play that will begin its casting motions in November! Yippy! so visit http://childrenoflondon.webs.com/ if you want to get more info including character bios, setting info and even samples of what the story and summary!

This is a logo I did for power trip SDK (SounDtracK) A little side thing I've been thinking about for a little bit.

Children of London

Yet regardless of how I feel, I can't understand what made you decide to leave us darling. Drifted to the desert to pursue the never-ending sand. Fearful of the atrocities that had occurred when you were present.... Like a breeze you to blew the sand from the desert... and in it you say you found a diamond... Regardless of how I feel... I just hope that you are happy... truly....

To my Sister's sister
Shane S. Kane
Son of London

Shane sits at his desk, eyes staring intently at the frail piece of paper. Though the letter was finish, the deed done, he feels its emptiness. Something was missing. Something he could not put his finger on. And though wanting to, there was nothing he could do. He smiles and thinks of her, her pitch-black hair, and piercing green, judgmental eyes. He shudders, and then pricks his finger and he seals its envelope with his blood. He turns to his assistant.

"Make sure this makes it out of the city before dawn." Shane whispers "Heaven forbid the others discover the horrid thing I've done."

"Of course sir." His assistant says, frank and respect. Shane smiles and stand up. "Anything you need of me before I leave?"

"No. That is all." He grabs his jacket from the chair and his hat from his desk. "Just make haste. Deliver under the cover of dark."

"Of course sir." And she too grabs her jacket from the coat rack. She stuffs the letter in the upper, inner pocket, and then grabs her hat. Shane made haste to open the door and follow her out.

The chilled wind, and soft white snow that fell from the sky left a feeling of sorrow and bleak on Shane as he locks the door of his office and called it a night. He waits but a few minutes as he watched his secretary get in her husband's car. Shane admired that. The two had been married for twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven years of bliss, happiness and working for his family. Yet he had never met her husband, nor did he want to. He merely smiles and waves as the two toned truck drove down the snow-covered street.

His smile melts away and is replaced with a frown. For there was nothing waiting for him but the chauffeur and the cold chills of the night. So with a sigh, he slowly makes his way to the Limo. The chauffeur opens the door, gives a simple bow, and makes his way to the driver seat.

"You're right on time." Shane says. He then he pulls out a cigarette and took a long drag as he lit it. "Think you could do a better job than Edward?" The chauffeur looks into the rearview and smiles.

"I can only try,” says the Chauffeur, and then he begins to drive. As the car makes its way up the slippery road, the two remain quiet, taking a moment to glance at one another before returning back to there own worlds. The chauffeur could feel Shane's nervousness, anyone could. But rather than concern himself with Shane's affairs, he merely clears his throat and swallows his spit.

"Its a little chilly in here" says the Chauffeur, trying his damnedest to force a conversation. "Would you like me to turn on the heat sir?"

Shane looked at the chauffeur and smiled. He then put out his cigarette and throws the half-burnt stick out the window. Edward watched as he lights another.

"That is just fine." Shane continues to smoke his cigarette, taking casual drags, as to savor the taste. Or to calm oneself "So. What's your name?"

The chauffeur looks into the rearview yet again. "Edward Jackson, junior sir"

Shane frowns, and then takes a long drag from his cigarette. He then looks out the window "I give you my condolences. Your father, he was a good man. It saddens me to think that after thirty years of dedication. A good man would bring his own end. He seemed so happy." He then takes out a cigarette. "Smoke?"

"Trying to quit. But thank you for the offer."

"That’s a wise choice. For you and your wallet"

"That is true" Edward then glances in the mirror yet again, then stares forward. "You might want to follow suit. Not to sound out of line."

"You might be right" Shane reaches into his upper pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment paper. "Or it might be in your best interest not to concern yourself with me. We shall see at the end." Shane then hands the parchment paper to Edward.

He takes the paper and slowly begins to unfold its fragile corners. He then looks back into the rearview. "A map?"

"I would suggest you memorize it." Shane says, "For these are the only places I will ever need to go." At the next corner, Edward glances it over, as though he were studying it as hard as possible. Then he folds it and puts it in his top pocket.

"Done" Edward says, and then he looks in the rearview and smiled. "Where will I be taking you today, Sir?"

"You're a quick study." Shane smiles and puts his cigarette out. "You'll go far in this family."

"I try Sir." Edward says with a chuckle in his voice.

"Good." Shane begins to light another. "Take a left here. We're going to See Marina."

"Yes sir!" Says Edward, and with a slight of hand, he turns down Viridian Street. The moment Edward turns down Viridian Street he feels a chill. Now whether it was the wind, or an ominous sign, that remained to be seen.

<<<<>>>>

Viridian Street was an odd one. It had tall grey trees that seemed to tower over the street. In all other seasons, this place would be a most beautiful sight. The gorgeous leaves shimmering in the sun of a warm and beautiful day as it cooled the grass. In the winter this was not at all the case, but rather a bleak and unattractive world it made.

A job is a job.

Edward makes his way up the bleak and unattractive street, the road slippery with ice and snow. As he drives, the street, as well as the ride itself, is quiet and still. Not a peep came from either. The deeper into the horrid street he went, the more uncomfortable Edward feels. This was definitely not the wind that brought the chill, but the street itself.

After a long while of silence, the drive eerie as it is, Shane sighs. “The blue house at the end of the cul-de-sac, park in the driveway.”

“Of course” Edward says with a shutter. He slowly turns his way into the driveway, slow and steady, no need for rush or no desire. Once he parked he turns back to Shane. Shane hands him a cigarette.

“Light it.” Shane says. Edward saw in Shane’s eyes uneasiness, or fear, that made him believe that he might need one. He slowly put the cigarette to his lips and lit it. “Good… now listen up, for what I’m about to tell you are important if you want to drive for me… okay.”

“Sure. I’m listening” Edward puffs on his cigarette.

“Okay” Shane smiles, then he hands him a pen “Take a pad. And listen clear.” Edward fumbles for a pad and reaches for the pen. “Do not, under any circumstance allow Marina to leave your sight. For any reason! Get the picture?”

“Got it.” Edward says with a smile. Shane frowns.

“Do you?”

Edward clears his throat and swallows his spit. “Is there something I should know about her?” His imagination begins to run wild. Had he started work on the wrong day?

“Um. No. Nothing that will hinder your work” Shane says as he climbs out of the car. “Come. You’ll understand when you see her.” Edward follows Shane up the walkway, to the blue house. The closer he walks to the door, the colder it seems to get, like something, something inhuman lied inside. Strange. Though Edward’s gut told him not to go any further, yet his legs kept moving. Was this the feeling that his father warned him about.

<<<<>>>>

“Son. Our family has served The Kane Family for over one hundred and fifty years. But, if at any point you feel that something is not right. Rests assure. It is not."

<<<<>>>>

But no time to think of that. He is already at the door. No going back now. He stops behind Shane as he makes his way to the large black wood doors. Blue house and a large black door. Shane turns to Edward.

“Before we go any further. I must ask you,” He says, tapping his cigarette On top of a tall, bluish green flower that sat next to the door. The flower slowly opens and devours the cigarette. Edward stares in shock. “Are you able to be on time. All the time?”

Edward smiles. “If I wasn’t. I wouldn’t be here.” He immediately thinks of his older brother, Billyando, who couldn’t drive for shit. Always getting lost in downtown London. Sad but true.

“Why that is good to hear. “Shane says as he gently knocks on the door. He only taps twice. That is all he needed. Before Edward had realized it, the two large doors flew open. And there she stood.

She was short. Give or take Five foot four. Edward would give her about fifteen or sixteen years, and he was rarely wrong. He in fact could care less about any of those things. Her hair, her skin, her height, that docile, yet cute frown that ruffled her nose. But her eyes. A piercing green gaze that made him back up and stop dead in his tracks. She stares Shane in his eyes, almost leaning into him.

She slowly sticks her hand out to the plant that seemed to cower as well, in the corner. "Mange pas ca!"

The plant slowly, fearfully, spits the cigarette into her hand. It shrivels up into its pot, as to punish itself.

Slap.

Shane stood stunned, as would any person would.

"Quel est votre problème?" What a power her voice packed. “ As-tu compris, je ne veux pas il manger une cigarettes!” She puts the cigarette butt in his hand. She then looks over his shoulder where Edward stood, a fear that was brought on by an awkward situation.

<<<<>>>>

“Bonjour!” She said with her smile that would make anyone’s heart pound. “Je m'appelle Marina Viridian. La Maitresse de France”

“Now now, Marina. No need for formalities.” Shane says as he sits at the cherry oak dinner table. “Besides, I doubt he understands you. Am I right Edward?”

“Right. Sorry Marina”

And that’s all it took. Before long Marina began to pace the dining room, flustered and uneased. She stopped but a moment to stare at Edward, a look of bewildered misery.

“Is she going to be okay?”

Shane sips on his tea. “She’ll be fine. She is just looking for words. Either that or throwing a tantrum. She does from time to time.”

“I… Am… Ma…rina…. What… Do…. They… Call… You?” Marina said breathing like someone had just got into a fight with there own brain. Shane clapped. The butler and the maids even clapped.

“Bravo, Marina. Bravo!”

She gives a curtsy toward Edward that seemed quick and forced. He got the impression that maybe it was routine. Yet adorable. What possessed him to think in such a manner? He had at least two years on her, or so he thought. Yet he felt uneased as she stared him in his eyes. The whole room waiting for a response. Quiet and eerie. That’s the word. There was something eerie about Marina. And the source of the cold had been found.

<<<<>>>>

“Care for a drink?”

“Um. What do you have sir?”

“The best red wine that Europe has to offer. Or. If you’re feeling curious, we have a black wine that is in a league or its own.”

“Um, think I will stick to scotch. But thank you for the offer sir.”

Shane threw a log on the fireplace, and then sat back in the plush red chair. On the opposite side of the room, sat the butler. Edward could tell he was nervous. He sat, a letter clutched in his right hand, his eyes never wavering away from it.

“Donavan!”

He looks up. “What is it sir?”

“You haven’t delivered the letter yet?”

“No. No sir. I’m waiting for morning sir. That way I can see where I’m going. I have bad eye sight as you know.”

Shane hands him a lantern “Marina will be most upset if you don’t deliver it as soon as possible. She is waiting for a reply from Maxita tomorrow.”

He looks at Shane as he swallows another gulp of wine. Shane looks back at him and smiles.

“Would it be any trouble for you to deliver that letter on time?”

The man looks at the letter, then the lantern. “Of course not sir. I will go get my coat.”

Edward saw it as strange that the man would wait for so long to deliver a letter that he had gotten at dinner, a few hours ago.

“Would you like me to accompany him, Sir?”

“No. Frankly he has become. Lazy lately.” Shane lights a cigarette. “If he would have delivered the letter when he was supposed to. Maybe he would have your company. But he didn’t. Let him live with his mistake.”

“Pardon me for being frank Sir. But isn’t that a little harsh.”

Shane looks at Edward. “ True. But all I ask of anyone is to be on time. Nothing more.”

Slam.

“Edward. Take a pad will you?”

“Of course sir.”

“ Tomorrow morning I need you to take Marina to get her violin fixed at the shop. Every time she goes on her own, she always…” Edward stopped writing. He heard a sound. A song of sorts. It echoed through the hall. It echoed his head. Before he knew it, he had made his way into the hall and followed it through the hall. Left. Right. Up the stairs. It called to him. Beckoned him. Like some lullaby made only for him. Or did he?

“Edward? Edward!” Shane stares at Edward, whose eyes seems fixed on the hall. Edward turns back to Shane.

“Sorry sir. It’s just thought I heard music playing”

“Of course you did.” Shane stands up and leans his head out into the hall. “Oh Marina? Would you mine joining us?” Edward watched as Marina made her way into the room. Her shy, yet content smile. Her feverish blue nightgown and black curls seemed to make her a bit pale, like a glow pale. Moonlight glow. It was as if he were dreaming.

“Marina. Our driver is enticed by your song.” Shane spoke, pouring another drink in his glass. “Would it be too much to ask you to play another? I know it is a little presumptuous.”

To be continued.....

The Guardian Teaser

CHAPTER ONE
Dark and Gloomy. Weeping Willow

They say your only as important as the people willing to die just to protect you. It isn't just saying you will, but to actually do it is something different. I never would have imagined that someone would... would die for me. And though she may not seem Important to you... she was sure important to him. And that's all that mattered to me.

I remember that night. Cold, yet windless. Busy, yet quiet. I merely sat there and cried at what lied in front of me. There she lied, my angel, my savior, my Guinevere. Or my father's to be exact. See what made me cry even harder, was thoughts of how my father would feel when he realized his true love Guin died, died defending me.

Her brown skin all but perfect. Her hair, an odd misty black that seemed to shine in the light of the full moon. Her eyes a bloody red. She laid there, arms stretched out, like some crucifix that hung perfectly from the ground. I think of its Irony, because up till now, her name and the word Harlot seemed to make up the sentence of her life. At least that's what everyone kept drilling in my head. But not my father. No he.

Well aren't I getting ahead of myself.

#

I was born Christopher, which was weird enough considering that it is a boy's name, and I'm, in fact, a girl. I was born to Douglas Christopher Wells and Annabelle Tao Ming. They called my birth a miracle. Two very powerful families in the world giving birth to a child who would one day inherit all of it. Talk about holding all of the cards.

But I digress.

Most people called me Kimera, due to the fact that, well for lack of a better word, I am inter. Inter. Inter? Well I was from two cultures. This fact made my younger years in Britain lonely ones.

I remember the first day of class, when all the other kids threw my lunch box over the fence, where a homeless man stayed. He was old and shabby, smelling of sea salt and a powerful second smell that seemed indistinguishable. Liqueur? Piss? I couldn't put a name to it, but it made me choose death over hunger. Or hunger over the smell? Yes, that's it.

Well anyways, I had left class early and ran home, tail between my legs, and eyes full of tears. I spent the remainder of the day, crying in my mother's lap, waiting to grow up so I wouldn't have to go back ever again. I prayed, with all my heart, that I would never have to go back. My mother brushed my silky brown hair as she handed me another tissue.

"Don't worry my little Kimera," She whispered (like repeating it would make it hurt less) "They just don't understand. Your unique."

"But I don't want to be unique" I cried back. "I just want to be like everyone else. Why can't I be like everyone else?" And I wept in her lap. Like a low hanging willow? A weeping willow. And no matter how long my mother tried to soothe my little, aching (metaphorically and strangely physically speaking) heart, the worst it got. Finally she gave a sigh, for she knew she could never do it. Not like my father.

"Come on. Lets tell your father about it" She smiled, as though to cover up her failure. "I'm sure he'll be able to help."

I always found it strange. She had the beautiful sea blue kind eyes. Gentle black hair with vanilla skin that reminded me of ice cream. She never wore make up and wasn't the most pretty, but. She had a kind heart and soft pink lips. I liked the fact that I saw her everyday. Doing what mother's do best. But even though I rarely saw my father, she could never calm me like he does.
#

Maybe it was because I rarely saw him. He was always gone. Working. He was. How should I describe it? A cortege or guard for other people. From other important and powerful families from other places. Other places. But not here.

It used to make my heart sink into my stomach whenever we got visitors at our house. They never came to just "visit", but they always wanted something.

"Guard me while I visit [blank]"

"Aid me in [blank]"

"Protect me as I [blank]"

It was always the same, every one of them. But in truth it wasn't the act of him leaving that saddened me. It was the look on his face whenever he agreed. It was always the same. He would slowly push his brunette hair behind his ears, and then put his cigarette out in his cup of brandy. Then he would sigh.

"Alright. I'll do it," He would say in a way that would drain the life out of every person in the room. Everyone but the person asking. They would thank him over and over as though they had just won some sort of award. It made me sick. The nerve of those ungrateful bastards.

Sorry, I got a little carried away there.

But it was because of him I love the smell of clovers. When ever he returned he would stick to the routine. He would walk in the door, light up a clover cigarette, and then kick off his white buckled platform shoes. He would then take of his black trench coat, and hang it on the coat rack.
He would make his way to my mother, who waited patiently like a dog at the door for him. She would kiss him on his cheek, then watch as he drifted pass her. He would then pat me on the head and make his way to his office. Not to be seen until the next meal.

It was strange to me. I never once saw them do anything. Together. My mother would always tell me stories of how when she was younger growing up in China, he would make things. She said he once took a bottle of pink and purple dust, and threw a lit match into it. It exploded into a heart shaped cloud. She said it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Yet I don't think she is talking about the same person. Now it seems he spends more time in his office than with her.

#

But I loved his office. It was different. Like me. The rest of the house was a light brown, wood with a brown, green, orange earth ensemble going on. Which I liked (I hate pastels). We had a glass roof which was the most beautiful, most free spirited, most warming. It was long and, and short, like a bungalow.

But my father's office was different. The main hall seemed to creep up to his door. His door was a dark blood cherry oak, with a large burned silver knocker. He had red plush carpet, and bookshelves lined up, like some sort of library. It was strangely tall, and had a fireplace.

I used to come in every time my mother went shopping or when she slept in her large yet lonesome bed, and read a book or two by fire before I slept. Stories about things that happened on his trips. Not so much stories, but journals and records of how things played out. But of all the stories he had, nothing caught me more than the stories in the black books. Those few forbidden ones locked in the dark corner of my father's office.

Invoking.

Necromancy.

Star gazing.

Abjuring.

Neopaganism

Entrapment.

These black books made my eyes twinkle. Something about them made me wonder. They made me twinkle simple because my father took great care of them. There condition was near mint, not at all like the other books in his narcissistic library. They looked down upon these black books like one would look down upon a germ. They shunned them. Feared them. I loved that.

I became so engulfed in these books that I began to take them everywhere. I remember my fourth week of summer classes I began to take the books with me. My teacher bored me. She would sit there and go on and on about shapes and ridiculous mathematics. I don't think she realized that it was a private school. To sit here and waste our time and money was down right.

But I'm getting off topic here.

I would read the recipes and techniques in each and every book. I marveled at there complex nature and wondered at the level of brilliance that would be required just to write them. My obsession and grown to the point where it no longer satisfied me to just read. I had to practice. I must practice. The curiosity filled my bones. But just when I found what I was looking for, my book suddenly disappeared from under me. I looked down then looked up. Kimberly Ann Reynolds.

#

She had a tendency to come at me for no reason. Daughter of some CEO and an Actress from some show I could care less about. This incomprehensible little. Little. Bitch. Found her entertain by coming over to my desk and taking something off. It was strange. Never anything important. A pen. A piece of paper. A copy of a worksheet she already had completed. Just the most ridiculous things. But what made it worst is not only would I not get it back, but also what ever she took would always come to bite me in the ass later on.

For example. The fifth. No. Sixth week of the summer class, this annoying little girl had passed by my desk. Casually picks up my pencil and in one chomp. She bit off the eraser on the end. All of it. She chews on it and smiles.

"Well Kimera!" she said with her slurish, choppy. Incomplete , and hard to understand accent. "Same time tomorrow?" and she skipped away from my desk. The other students watching her like she had loss her mind.

At the end of the summer class, we had a test to decide what first grade class we would be placed into. I had rushed through the test with ease. I decided to double-check my work and I had run into mistake. I had misread the exam question. A ridiculous one it was. (There are four apples. And one orange. How many total vegetables are there?) So I laugh at the easiness of the question, and the fact that I had missed it. I turn my pencil over and. No eraser.

Because of that answer I had passed the test. But failed the Exam. And I ended up being placed in the same class as her.

"Aren't you glad." She said with a mocking (maybe not, I could never tell with her) joy. "We get to see each other for another year. I'm utterly giddy with excitement!" Then she skips away, with my ruler. It was like she had planned this out from the beginning. Always me. Never anyone else.

So now she stands over me. Pawing through my book. As she reads it, she gives a yawn, as though she was trying to upset me. She closes the book, and stares at me. I know what is about to happen. But I can't do anything about it.

I..................

Necromancy.

Star gazing.

Abjuring.

Neopaganism.

Entrapment.

#

I made my way home after class. My heart racing for I knew that my father would be upset if he discovered what had happened. When I made it home. The moment I walked in the door, I took a big breath and sighed in relief. He wasn't here.

Later that night I continued my nightly ritual. This time I began to read Entrapment. This book was probably my favorite. It was simple. Not all that complex and had very fun stories. One specific story that I found fascinating was called. Butterfly in the Invisible Jar.

December 13, 1973: It Guinevere's birthday in a week. She always seems to shine around this time. But she's always complaining about how she can't wait for spring. Like yesterday when we sat around the fireplace. She goes on and on about how cold it is and how she wishes she could leave Chicago and live in Los Angeles, like when we were younger. So I've decided. I'm going to call Frank and ask him to send me 17 butterflies.

December 17, 1973: So I receive the butterflies in priority shipping however, 10 of them died on the way here. The company that delivered them isn't going to refund them. They say that I should have known the risk and that there not responsible for damaged goods. Bullshit. But regardless, I still thank Frank for going out of his way. He says it was no trouble. Apparently he was put in charge of the church's youth program and was able to work it into the schedule (I hope he didn't use those poor kids.)

December 20, 1973: This is terrible. Guin's mother accidentally let the butterflies loose. Apparently she went to the attic to get the Christmas decorations and accidentally grabbed the box with the butterflies inside. She opened it and was so shocked that she killed all but one that managed to fly out the window. Later (after being scolded), I went out and searched for it. I found it perched on a tree. I decided to use the invisible jar Guin and I made in July. Once entrapped, the butterfly should, if as expected, never die.

December 21, 1973: Guin was so excited when she got the butterfly. She cried for hours. No matter how sassy and angry she acts, she always does something to remind me how much I love her...

Up till now, I could never imagine my father going out in the snow to get a butterfly. But from the writing. The passion. The emotion in other wise simple piece of work. He was truly happy. This Guinevere must be some person. But for some reason I knew my mother might not wish to talk to me about it.

But eventually she would have to.

I spent the next few days. In a mimic mood as one would say. I kept reading that story, trying to understand not just the words, but the pictures. I knew it had to be the pictures. But what. What does it mean? Because I'm young, will I not understand?

I sat in my fall class, the book in front of me. Going over it like it was some sort of riddle. With the time I wasted, I broke it down to a simple equation. I picked an excellent time to do it as well, because Kim was no where to be found. Or so I thought.

<<<<>>>>

Project in the making: The Heart of the Prince

How does a phychopathic, self-centered Lady run a company, all the while saving her world?

We have no idea, yet Kim K. Reynolds (aka Kay, aka Kim Lee, aka yada yada yada) does it and makes it look so damn easy. After Kim announces her conquest of becoming the CEO of Droganot Corporation, all hell breaks loose when it becomes threatened by dividing factions, ruthless killers and a tree hugging, radical organization bent on doing what ever to stop this company from destroying mother earth. As the odds stack against this some what Schizophrenic, Hypo manic nut job, Kim finds no stress in this high contact world.Shooting through anyone that stands in her way. But who is a bigger threat to the company?

Take a dive into the mind of Kim K. Reynolds, self proclaimed Nut Job, and the president of Droganot Corporation. Whether it be building and designing weapons to sell in the arms race, or killing off some time by driving a car through a restaurant (Yes she did!) This girl spares no time asserting her dominance.

"I spare your life today, not out of some since of ridiculous... OH PLEASE HAVE MERCY ON ME!.... no I spare you because your adorable... and I love adorable people. Makes me feel more terrible about myself."

Kim K. Reynolds

Maxita Roseline
Behind the eyes of the fallen

Maxita Roseline is an Immortal, like her mother and father before her. It’s hard
to understand, but at one point, she was happy. She cared. She loved. But she like the
seasons changed.

Maxita (Maxi for short) spent most of her life drifting with her mother, watching
the heroics of her mother as a young kid. She used to stand in the crowd as her mother
planned an assault on the enemy, or when she sewed up a wounded comrade. She
watched with joy and glee as her mother was hailed a hero in the eyes of other. And
Admired that. But things changed. Not for the good.

Ten years passed and her mother returned, along with Jameson and Chimera
from the Pyramid of Night. Though her love was there, it was hollow, different, and
almost pulled the happiness out anyone, including maxi. She watched the cheerful crowds
diminish, and in their place, fire grew. The sounds of cheering, replaced with the sound of
pain and agony.

On fateful day, sounds from the night awoke Maxi in her sleep. It was a bleak
early morning and she emerged to discover her mother at the point of Jameson’s sword.
And with a swifts push, Maxi’s world collapsed. The princess of the once prominent
Crimson Regime, watched her world die away. And wept.

For five years of her life, she drifted the world, seeing the devastation caused by
war and famine. The more she saw, the darker her heart grew. She began to record he
world around her, on what ever was available. And she analyzed what she wrote. And
one day, she saw her opportunity to act.

In a small city outside of Crimson Territory, Maxi saw a gang of mercenaries
from the Dragon Camp attacking the city. She watched for quiet sometime, waiting for
the last man in their group to enter the city. When he did so, Maxi sprang into action.
She ran as fast as she could and cut them off at the gate. With out second delay, she
charged the leader head, a foolish mistake for any person. And in a flash, Maxi was stuck
in a bind. Her sword, deep in his heart. His sword, deep in hers. In that instant she
discovered something. He was dying, yet she wasn’t. But that wasn’t all she learned that
day. She stared at the crowd of people who stood horrified at her.

Death was death. And with that she gained a new understanding of her mother.
Later that night, as she watched the city burn to the ground, good or evil, burning with it,
she smiled for the first time in her life…. Life and Death… Same thing…