Pure Blood

by B.M. Green

  Chapter One

  The bitter rain dripping off of his long, dark hair fell onto his pale lips as he revealed his face from underneath a hood. The cold, musty night air turned his breath into ice. He looked up toward the night sky as a clap of thunder sounded overhead. A bright flash of lightning followed, which illuminated the dark sky, revealing the outlines of the heavy clouds above and the tiny village below.

  As he looked back toward the sleeping village, the lightning still flashed overhead, reflecting the gray in his eyes. His pallid skin was concealed beneath a brown wool cloak that covered everything except for his thick boots, which could only be seen through the small gap in the front. He pulled the hood of his cloak back over his head. The cold rain pelted the thick clothing like an animal trying to get to its prey.

  He trekked forward toward the expecting village. His cloak skimmed the mushy ground as his boots clomped into puddles of mud, splashing onto the hems of his cloak. His eyes pierced through the blackness of the night as he neared his destination. The fishy smell of the village filled his nostrils, but did not faze him.

  He continued walking at a slow pace, entering the old village. He looked at each building as he passed them. They were rundown, the paint peeling off of the sides and bits of the roofs lying on the soggy ground. The wind howled as it blew open several doors belonging to small businesses.

  He stopped in front of a building that looked in fairly good condition compared to the rest of the village. The paint was still on the wood. None of the hinges on the doors and shutters were falling off. The building had three small floors. He peered up at a wooden plaque hanging above his head, creaking in the storm. It was swinging in the menacing, icy wind as a streak of white lightning illuminated the dull, blue letters written on it. Oceain Inn. He lowered his head and stared at the badly warped door: bumps covering it from all of the moisture and rain.

  He started to slowly turn the knob. It creaked open, begging for oil, and all of the occupants that were inside became instantly quiet. About a hundred thirteen and fourteen year old kids sat at old round, wooden tables, drinking root beer and hot chocolate. Some of them were soaked from the rain, while others had beaten the storm. They all sat their drinks down on the tables and turned to look at the cloaked stranger. He slowly looked up, water dripping from his long hair. His eyes were on the ground.

  “The ocean’s calling…” His voice was deep and hollow. He slowly raised his eyes and stared straight into all of theirs. “…are you ready?” They stared at him for a few minutes, mesmerized by his gray irises. Then he turned around, walked out of the inn, and back into the roaring storm. The kids all got up at once and followed him out of the inn, forgetting their things. Some of them grabbed jackets to pull on, while others just decided to not even try from getting wet. They followed the mysterious stranger, but stayed at least twenty yards behind him. They were half intrigued by his appearance and half afraid. They walked for about an hour in the freezing rain, before they saw a path, lined with trees. Half of them were frozen. The other half had stitches in their sides. The cloaked man led them down the wooded path, the ends of his cloak brushing the ground as he walked at a steady pace. He said nothing to them. He didn’t look at them. He acted as if they weren’t even there. Then he stopped abruptly and turned around, his face still covered by his hood. The kids all stopped and looked at him. Then they saw what was behind him. A huge building loomed over the man as if it wanted to consume him. Lightning streaked across the sky and illuminated the sky-high building. It was built with brick and stone, with some vines growing around it. Then a loud clap of thunder followed and made all of them cover their ears. The man turned around and continued walking. He walked up to the building and paused just enough to let the sign over the front doors sink into the kids’ minds.

  Watmire Whagni’s

  School of Skills

  The double oak doors opened by themselves and they walked inside. They walked down a dark hallway, lit only by torches hanging on the walls. The strange man continued walking, until they reached a circular room. They all gathered inside the room, waiting for instructions or a welcome or something. The man turned around to face the kids, but said nothing. Some of the kids looked around the room. It was plain. There were only four doors leading to other rooms and four torches lighting them. The floor was made up of maroon, almost a blood color, stones with gray and blue stones mixed in with them. The ceiling was high. The top could not be seen because of the darkness that hid it. Then they all looked back at the man and saw him disappear before their eyes. They turned around to go back the way they had come, but all that stood there now was a wall. There was nowhere to go but through those four doors, and none of them knew what was behind them. They just stood there, frozen from the rain and frozen from fear; fear of failing; fear of betrayal; fear of being alone.