The Scarlet Thread_THREE WARRIORS_Treasure Hunting, Dragon Style_Freedom
Catalog Guide:
The Scarlet Thread
Today was the day I feared the most. For three months, I had been living in a good friend’s rundown apartment here in Undercity, hiding like a scared, pathetic little child. I was a hunted fugitive up there in Overworld. Each year, two citizens are randomly chosen from the government database. Our number would be called, so-to-speak, and we would report very early in the morning at the Capitol on Scarlet Thread Day. By the luck of the draw, one of us would be executed in front of the Capitol before thousands of eagerly watching citizens. Those who couldn’t be there in person watched from their...
THREE WARRIORS
BENThey got out as early as possible,www.onedoor.cc before the first light and by the first light they had covered almost two kilometers deep into the forest and hunting. Ben had a good shot with an arrow, at twenty three a good farmer and father of two, a bow and arrow weren't tools he should have been using always but he loved them and had loved and dreamt of the opportunity he was enrolled into the Sungu-sungu but missed it. Ben always practiced archery in his farm with a sense urgency in it and was good at it.Deep in the dry forest in the dry season at the river Njoro, the best place to find game. He hi...
Treasure Hunting, Dragon Style
Cramped in the dead end of a rock-walled maze, foot talons stuck in goo, wings brushing cobwebs, hand talons gripping flashlight and map, Ashley growled curses on the dragon whose directions had lead to this impasse. She was just doing her job, sent into the labyrinth to recover a treasure. Some dragons took protecting their treasure too seriously, but this guy was crazy. She’d passed taser traps, mouse-mazes, and a bucket-of-slime-over-the-door trick. Infantile stuff. Frederick Watstheprob was no genius. He should pay the bank the money he owed instead of playing silly games.Static tickled A...
Freedom
Just when I was preparing to face the fact that no one in their right mind would be stopping for a hitchhiker on the shoulder of Highway 63 at a quarter past two on a December morning, a weary looking GMC Sierra, rusty and deteriorating, veered onto the road’s shoulder, its tires crunching through the deep snow as it rolled to a stop. A snowplow was fastened to its front bumper. I held a hand across my eyes, shielding them from the headlights’ blinding beams and from the wind that somehow tasted much sweeter than all the gales I’d ever tasted before—I suppose the air in and around you...