WIPineering away

Whew, I've been absent for a bit.  I won't lie.  I'm not the greatest at social networking.  I'm a bit lazy when it comes to putting in the time for it, and believe it or not, I don't always know what to say.  I missed out on last WIPpet Wednesday because I, um, *cough*sort of forgot about it*cough* and the events of said Wednesday didn't allow me to make a post until the late evening, in which case I decided to just wait until the next week.

So here I am!  For any of you who would like to join in on WIPpet Wednesdays, all you need to do is share your blog on this link of the Work In Progress you have going on, or heck, you can just decide to create one on the spot!  My Random Muse has been so kind to host this event.

Yes, I do realize the date will not *quite* say Wednesday, but I'm staring at the clock, and it's reading 11:34pm.  I really don't want to have to wait until morning where I am hauling my tired butt out of bed and half-asleep.  This is close enough, right? 

First of all, I would like to thank all of you who commented on the last WIPpet I participated in, and I apologize for not replying back to you in kind.  I appreciate your comments, your support, and I love your critiques.  After all, this is a work-in-progress, if it's going smoothly, I'd say I must be some sort of genius!  But as I don't think that's the case, I do love any bit of advice that could help me get there ;)

So, enough blabbering, because this is going to be a long WIPpet for you.  21 paragraphs!  Last WIPpet started with the beginning of book one, 'Spellbound' for my 'How You Found Me' series.  From hence forth on, I will be giving you WIPpet segments in chronological order.  As such, this next segment will be somewhat repetitive, as I have already shown it to you.  But I do want to go in order, so there are a few new paragraphs at the front and at the end to help tie in and show you where I'm going. 

How did I come up with 21 paragraphs?  Well, 18 would have sufficed, but July is the 7th month, today is the 10th, and it is 2013, which would be read something like 07/10/13.  So I did the math as follows: 7+10+1+3=21. 

Because (large) parts of this are a repeat, there are two past comments that helped utilize a few (small) changes you'll see (ahem, there is no longer a Harper's Grove Annual Massacre, though that will forever make me laugh and I wish I could keep the title for that reason alone), and the Minotaur's description has been tweaked. Thanks for your comments and critiques!

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Terry stood at the large memorial wall in Harper’s Grove Cemetery, gazing upon the names of dozens of victims etched on cold granite.  His parents had protested him moving here a month ago, but sometimes a son had to walk his own path, even if it meant walking into fire.

He’d heard the story of the massacre at Harper’s Annual Fair countless times:  Standing atop the stage and scattering local entertainment, Akira’s large emerald eyes bore down onto the crowd, glaring with fierce determination, silently challenging anyone to defy her.

“Kneel, and submit to my will!  Pledge your loyalty to me this day, and your lives will be spared.  You will know work and sweat and labor, but you will also know the freedom from frivolous argument and unnecessary warfare!  Follow me, and take pride in building a new nation that will not fall apart!” Her honey coated voice, enhanced by some sort of magic, rang through the air so all could hear.  Blank, confused stares turned into defiant expressions.  No alien was going to waltz in and declare herself ruler.    

Steve Cromwell, an older gentleman who had the reputation in town for being a heckler, shouted out, “You’re crazy!”

Almond-shaped eyes fixed their stare on him.  Akira said nothing.  Slowly, her lips pulled up in a feral smile that revealed fanged teeth while a growl rose from the back of her throat.  There was a flash, and a long bronze staff instantaneously appeared in her hands.  A half crescent moon sat on the top, hundreds of tiny emerald gems inlaid into the metallic surface.  The gems glittered dangerously as the staff pointed at Steve.  Brilliant green light shot out from the crescent moon center and hit him square in the chest.

The older man was blown backward through the crowd, the force of the blast knocking citizens down as his body carved a path.   He landed roughly on the ground, the crack of his skull echoing loudly as it smacked against the earth.  Blank eyes stared up at nothing, the jaw slanted and jutting out at an unnatural angle.  

Steve was the first casualty.

A terrible moment of silence passed, then Suzanne, Steve’s wife—her name also etched on the memorial wall—filled the air with the shrill keen of a widow’s despair.

Akira’s minions stepped out at that point, scores of them surrounding and trapping the crowd where they stood.  They were skinny, lanky gray creatures with oversized arms and hands, hard wrinkled skin similar to a rhino and just as tough. They had bald heads and melted faces with red beady eyes.

Suzanne’s cries were joined by terrified shrieks from several others, ripping the air with fear and disbelief.  Citizens scattered here and there, only to wind up face to face with one of the melted gray-faced minions, unable to escape.  Large, ape-like hands rose into the air, and when they struck down to the earth, human bone crushed and splintered. 

Stepping out next was a beast of mythical legend: the Minotaur—he was a fearsome creature with a black bull head and two great pointed horns that curved outward and were sharp as spears.  His rippling torso bulged as if the skin were ready to burst, veins popping and pulsing in rhythm to his snorts of anger. Below all of that bulk were thick stalky legs and cloven feet that danced around, demanding all eyes to turn.  Clad in bright golden armor from the waist up and a helmet around his horned head, he declared his name in a thunderous roar that rattled the ground: Goldore.  Those eyes glittered black coals of putrid and hate, targeting any human as the enemy.  Wielding his great golden sword high up in the air, devastation struck wherever it landed. 

So much bloodshed.   So much loss.

Scores upon scores of people died.  Screams echoed for miles as people scrambled to escape from a trap that snaked them in the further they tried to run.  Too many minions outflanked the citizens, holding them hostage while death claimed them in grotesque fashion.

Few found miraculous escape.  Very few, and not nearly enough.

Still, it could have been worse.  They all could have died.  No one would have known the true account of what really happened.  Akira could have taken over Harper’s Grove that very day.

She didn’t, though.  She wanted the citizens of Harper’s Grove to see her power, to taste the stench of fear and death, and to know what awaited them if they defied her.  The killing stopped.  An impenetrable shield went up over the fairgrounds, and Akira gave the town one day to gather the deceased and decide their fate—more killing and destruction, or complete surrender and willingness to declare her their new ruler.

They never needed to make that decision.

Terry wandered past the memorial wall, tipping his head in silent thanks to the souls achingly sacrificed that day.  His eyes trailed ahead, finding what held his true purpose in coming to the cemetery. 

He stopped in front of the monument of the town’s heroes, the Defenders.  Six masked champions carved from stone stood tall and upright, each holding their famous weapon of choice.  The Red Defender—the team’s leader—was at the front, legs poised to take charge, his broadsword raised up in defensive preparation to strike; the Blue Defender—second in command—held in each hand his three-pronged Sai , arms angled to impale any enemy foolish enough to slip past the first line of defense. Beside him stood the Gray Defender with a lasso in the left hand and a long-handed flail in the other, positioned to attack from the side. 

Flanking the rear was the last three of the team – the feminine curves revealing them to be women.  
The Purple Defender had her back toward her fellow comrades, her sights targeted toward the unseen enemy with her cross-bow raised and ready to fire, while the Orange and Yellow Defender finished the deadly circle, holding their bladed wheels of wind and fire that answered back to them when they flung their sharp-jutted metal teeth into the enemy’s vital organs.

No one knew their true identities—they wore masks that concealed most of their head, leaving open space for the eyes, nose, mouth and chin.  They were simply known as the Defenders, catalogued in name only by the pale, muted individual color of their uniform.  The material on their masks and suits looked something akin to thickly woven nylon mesh, yet performed like some secret militarized armor that seemed virtually impenetrable.  It was adorned with black leather straps crisscrossing at the chest and connecting to a black belt that housed their weapons.  At the center of the chest rested a gold medallion, a black D etched with bold lettering on the surface. Thick black boots and gloved hands covered their limbs.