The Nocturnalâs Blade
* A snippet of some original work. Iâm not sure if I should continue it. Iâd love to get some feedback in the comments! :)
* Background information: these characters live in a futuristic world where its military and other members of society have become nocturnal in order to ward off the vampires that terrorize humanity
For a Noturnal, the snow is as pesky as the mosquitoes that fly through the summer heat. It rids them of their natural body heat quicker; the cold latching onto their bones and muscles to create an aching stiffness, and the winter coats provided with their uniform do little against the biting cold. Another hazard the snow brought was the frost. It coated their weapons from hilt to blade. She had begun to think that showing up thirty minutes early to patrol was a mistake; a tactic that seemingly only works in the summer and fall, as she spent the last half hour swinging her scythe from left to right to dispel the snow that clung to the blade. The frost on the hilt was harder to get off, and she propped her weapon up on her knee to use her sleeve to wipe it away. Her fingers already ached from the lack of gloves, which sat on top of her desk back in her dormitory, utterly useless in the heated room. The worst of it, though, in Aoifeâs opinion, was the way it distorted her vision and made the familiar landscape of the city an undefined maze. The frost may make your weapon difficult to wield, and the cold may slow you down, but striking at a target you cannot see is a guaranteed failure. They had been provided ear muffs, but she preferred not to use them. Her enemy already didnât breathe, why make it easier for them to disguise the sound of their footsteps traversing through the snow?
She had already pulled back her hair, her fingers used to the pattern as she wove her curls back into a simple braid. It didnât do much to help clear her vision; the stars decorating the night sky provide small amounts of light, but at least she wasnât constantly moving it back.
âYouâre here early.â
Emilioâs voice lacked the usual firmness that it had throughout the night, masterfully crafted throughout the years to create the maintained image of the perfect soldier. At midnight and just two minutes before their work starts, the natural depth of his voice takes over. His spear is propped up lazily against his shoulder, and if she didnât know him any better, sheâd figure the scar that juts out from his upper lip and almost to his nostrils was from a training accident, but he was no novice. The experience Emilio carried with him allowed him such brashness.
âIâm not sure if being here thirty minutes before the gate drops is early,â She turned her gaze to the man conversing with a group of people dressed in the same uniform. âDante got here before me.â
Emilio snorted. âHe doesnât count; he has to get here early.â
They made a trade in the cold night air, with Emilio handing her the gloves she forgot, and her, a colorful folded Post-it note. Emilio snickered but unfolded it slowly; the tips of his fingers were already blistering red from the winter breeze.
âNot the best presentation, but the canary is nice,â Emilio noted, pointing at the doodle of the familiar bird near the top. âOh, and the money too, didnât see that.â
Aoife rolled her eyes as he tugged at the tape holding the money. âItâs for that record you want, we can stop by the music store after work.â
He smiled, folding the Post-it note and tucking it into his jacket pocket.
Since they were in the academy, Emilioâs most prized possession has always been a busted-up record player that skipped at least one portion of every song it played. He never seemed to mind and continued to buy song after song. His room was covered with posters of album covers that belonged to a world long forgotten; an addiction to the old world was something she never quite understood, but she respected his dedication to the craft. She wanted to save up for something special for this day, like a guitar or a new record player. But relics from the old world were expensive, and the shop owners who spent all night bargaining and dealing with hagglers were hesitant to give them away. She requested more shifts to pay for one of them, but had been denied. Because every request has to go through that soldierâs squadron leader, and it seems Dante Kalladova didnât believe that she was skilled enough to work with another leader for a few days out of the week.
The thrum of Danteâs sword was familiar in the night air, humming with the power of something entirely man-made. Its iridescent glow was covered by the sheath that Dante had placed at his hip.
