First piece of Sample Writing

In one of the far flung barns of the town of Aiden’s Shadow, light could be seen glowing from beneath the doors and from the cracks between the planks of wood that made up the walls. Every now and again, the light would flicker and suddenly die. Soon after, the glow would return bit by bit as though it were being emitted from candles being lit one by one.


Inside, as the dark haired girl scurried back and forth like a rich man’s maid, busy lighting candles, the second occupant of the otherwise empty barn stood still as a statue, eyes closed, her brow furrowing in intense concentration and preparation. The young woman, no more than twenty, held herself with a quiet confidence, sure of her power in that room. She stood tall, her shoulder length platinum blonde hair unmoving in the stuffy, windless barn.

When the last candle was lit, she opened her eyes, jade green irises glinting in the flickering light of almost two dozen candles spaced evenly around her in a circle at uneven heights. The young woman paid no attention to the girl who had lit the candles; she seldom took notice of her younger sister except when she wanted something from the girl. What she did pay attention to was the five feet of twisted wood in her hands, topped with a savagely curved blade, gleaming evilly like tarnished silver in the flickering, pale candlelight. A common farmer’s scythe, the woman had sharpened the blade passionately till it could slice the wicks off candles; if she moved fast enough she could do it without snuffing the flame. It made a fine weapon, and one people feared as a symbol of Death; it was this weapon that had earned the young woman the nickname they chanted at the Contest, The Reaper’s Daughter.

She gripped the haft with both hands comfortably, caressing the rough wood like a lover, positioning the blade away from her towards the first candle. A slight gust of wind suddenly blew it out. Glaring, the young woman turned to her sister in the corner.

The younger girl swallowed fearfully at the angry look and hurriedly relit the candle with a single lighted taper, the instant the candle began to burn merrily she moved back into the shadows, well out of range of her older sister’s scythe blade. She had seen her sister do amazing things with that common farmer’s tool; amazing, terrible things.

The woman began to rock on her feet, testing her balance on the uneven ground, building up the spring in her step. The girl watched in awe and trepidation as the woman moved like liquid steel, shapely, yet with a strength and ruthless confidence that was frightening.

With a shriek she woman leapt, her scythe blade spinning seemingly out of control, too fast for the girl’s eyes to follow no matter how hard she tried; her sister became a whirling cyclone of wood, steel, pale gold hair and white flesh.

One by one the candles flickered suddenly and died. Some of them fell to the ground, the wicks chopped off and the flame extinguished before they hit the dry hay. Others faded suddenly as the breeze from the passing steel blew out their flame.

One by one the steel flashed and candles faded. Like a whirlwind of terrible speed and strength the scythe blade spun, its blade here, then over there, the woman warrior’s steps in perfect tandem with the flashing steel, making sure that the blade found its target, no matter where it was. Behind her, beside her, above her, below her, it didn’t matter; she was a cyclone of savagery, a merchant of mayhem, a deliverer of death.

With a final cry, the blade of the scythe was driven into a solid chopping block, the blade sinking deep into the wood hardened by decades of use.

The woman’s chest heaved as she gasped for air after the exertion. The whole episode had lasted a matter of seconds, and she could feel that she had pushed herself to the next level, if only she could remain there until the tournament began eight days from today.

I’ve come this far, she said to herself defiantly, this year I’m not going to fall behind in the third rank, I’ll make it to the top, I’ll make it to the top if I have to slice off Abe’s arms to do it!

She grinned at the thought, imagining that bitch Maranda’s face if her precious Abe came home from the tournament permanently maimed, it would be priceless, she reflected coldly, I’m going to make the fantasy a reality!

Straightening up, the blonde woman turned to her younger sister, and there was no love or affection in her icy green eyes,

“Clean up here, Mae.” Was all she said, as though she were speaking to a servant rather than a girl of her own flesh and blood whom she had been raised alongside, a girl she was meant to cherish and love.

Maella quickly and fearfully obeyed her older sister’s orders, collecting the candles scattered across the barn floor. She placed them in a trunk by the door, ready for tomorrow night when her sister would need them again. It was the same every night, and had been ever since her sister was fourteen; Mae had been ten when her freedom was taken from her.

Mae had been bullied and pushed around by her older sister her whole life, so it wasn’t really a surprise when she was put to work helping her sister to train, practicing her killing skills with the scythe. There was no doubt in Mae’s mind about what kind of a person her sister was: dispassionate, vindictive, and self centred. She always got what she wanted, no matter what anyone else said or tried to do about it. She was popular with the boys of the village only because she didn’t give a damn about the rules and expectancies of society, was always quick to convince the cute ones to run off with her for a few hours of time alone, especially if any of the other girls liked him. She wasn’t popular with the girls because of this, but she bullied and pushed them all until she had a circle of flunkies, if not friends.

Mae hated her older sister, knew her parents had no control over her, knew that she, Mae, would be beaten if she let slip even a hint of the kinds of things her sister got up to to their parents. All she could do was pray for the day her sister would leave home, and maybe at last she would be free of her.

Once the barn was tidy again, she used her taper to light a small oil lamp she kept by the door and left the barn, returning to their house, and the room she shared with the monstrous woman she called sister.