

The Fall of the Morningstar The Angel of Death stood silent and statuesque, his gray hood cloaking his face in shadow. He stared at me, his dark eyes glinting in the firelight cast by his burning greatsword. He flared his wings and rose, otherwise motionless, effortlessly covering the foggy battlefield we occupied. My hands tightened around my silver trident. He dropped altitude abruptly, swinging his enormous, flaming blade over his shoulder and downward, arcing it toward the crown of my head. I dropped back a pace and jerked my own weapon overhead, locking my shoulders and gritting my teeth. He bounced backward in a hail of embers and feathers. I joiThe Fall of the Morningstar


The Death of the Nikolayevich I stare up at the sky, blood gushing out of my chest. The average weight for nine-millimeter ammunition is 115 grams per lead bullet. They travel in excess of three hundred thirty-five feet per second, with each cartridge bearing fifteen shots. I lay flat on my back, watching the clouds pass, all this math swimming in my head. Five of them, fifteen bullets each, and since theyre not firing anymore, Im left to deduce that they fired 75 shots. No. It was more than that. They must have had two each. 150. One-hundred fifty bullets, and I only got caught by five. One-thirtieth! Im lucky, really. SomeThe Death of the Nikolayevich

Devious Comments
Previous PageNext Page