Wait, really on the goats?

Please don't let it be goats. Really.

I like variations on dark myself. Because everyone's interpretation of it can be so different, including dark as a form of light, if'n you grab my meaning.

Okay, well here is the current, well maybe not quite current, but it gets the idea.

- - - - - - -

Demons. Aimee didn’t fight demons. For that matter, she didn’t fight anything. Her job entailed constructing devices at her workbench, with the care her perfectionism demanded. Yet here she was, heart thudding and sweat dripping off the tip of her nose. On the other side of the wall, she could hear the ponderous footsteps of whatever had torn apart at least a half dozen soldiers.

Something sniffed like a hungry animal hunting prey. Ten feet down the hallway, the grisly remains of a soldier lay in the doorway, chest ripped open on the left side. Despite the blood soaking his tunic, she recognized the image of crossed swords in silver that adorned her own uniform. The blank eyes and torn face belonged to Gaston, a fellow member of the Imperial Guard. At least it isn't Curtis. Guilt followed the thought; Gaston may not have been a good friend, but he had still been a fellow Guardsman.

Another footstep sounded on the floor. The demon on the far side of the wall was moving again. Aimee crept toward the doorway, her latest invention clutched in her hands. What appeared to be a rune covered copper tube with a wooden handle, represented five years of hard work. The simple looking device packed more power than anything Aimee had ever Crafted before, with one drawback: it had never been field tested. Soon, it would be.

Footsteps echoed on the tile floor behind her.

I think I'd have to pass on the goats. But otherwise I might do it.

Here is my experiment, I wrote it in about 30 minutes last night, but it gets the idea. - - - - - - -

Aimee decided she made a mistake. She cowered next to a rough brick wall, heart thudding and sweat dripping from her nose. Like the center of most towns in the Empire, the buildings pushed up against each other, making a brick canyon surrounding a narrow cobblestone way. Every shouted order and every scream of pain echoed down the street, a wave of noise washing over her.

She gripped the handle of her incinerator with an intensity that made her hands ache. The device looked simple--a short copper tube attached to a handle--but it packed more mystical power than anything she had ever Crafted before. The weapon provided only the merest measure of reassurance.

When she and the other members of the Imperial Guard left headquarters in the flyer, the report stated the town milita spotted a demon, one gihaft. None of them expected a battle like this. Captain Gallius and the others rushed to help the milita the moment they set down outside the town. Aimee knew the Captain wanted her to stay out of it, but in his haste, he forgot to order her to stay near the flying machine.

Why didn't I have the sense to do what he wanted? Why did I think I needed to prove myself and my new contraption? Fighting isn't my job in the Guard.

Screams saturated with pain spilled out from the open door of a nearby manor. Moments ago, a half dozen of the town milita rushed past her hiding place and plunged through that door along with two of her fellow Guardsmen. She intended to follow, but fear glued her to the wall as if somehow she could melt into the stone and be safe. Yells, growls, and more of the horrific screams poured out of the door as the battle inside raged.

Time to be brave and help them. Fighter or not, the duty of the Guard is to protect.

Aimee took a deep breath and peeled herself away from the solid reassurance of the brick at her back. In the seconds that passed before she crossed the threshold, the sounds of battle died. She found herself in a hall standing on dark gray tile, the plaster walls sported glow globes on iron brackets and two rich tapestries. At the end of hall, two open doorways led to parts of the manor unknown.

A body in a pool of blood lay halfway through the left opening, chest ripped open revealing fragmented ribs. The blank eyes belonged to Gaston, a fellow Guard member. He always had a grin on his face and a boast at the ready. To be honest, Aimee didn't like him that much, but she still couldn't believe she'd never hear another one of his self-aggrandizing stories.

An odor hammered her senses, something between the scent of a wet dog and rotting flesh that raised bile into her threat and threatened to make her retch. Wet crunching noises wafted through the left opening punctuated by a sort of snuffling. The stench and sounds erased her shock. She decided to get the hell out of there. Footsteps echoed on the tile behind her.

The adventures of Goatman and Billyboy.

Gud, I like the first one better, honestly. I feel like you're packing too much into the second one. But I have no context for this at all, so I could be way off.

I think the first one is tighter. Some of the additional detail from the second could be added but I was able to visualize and feel the emotion in the first one quite well. It flowed better for me.

I would love to try my hand at writing something. Maybe it shouldn't be about goats, though.