Death comes in packs.
Disclaimer: I don't own LXG or any part of it, sorry guys I know your disappointed too.
A/N: What no reviews, wait oh yeah, first chapter, no wonder. Can you remedy this situation for me?
Chapter one, Prologue.
A small farming village just outside of Dublin, Ireland 1881
It was a warm night and there was a fog creeping over the carefully tended farmed hills, like a glove being placed lovingly over a hand, the fog was quickly devouring the land, as Frank O'Connor herded the last few sheep into the pen.
It had rained the night before and the ground was slick he had little trouble pushing the gate into its slot. As he looked to the sky, he took a deep draw of breath, he thought ideally that he should hurry; it was probably going to rain again soon.
He sighed and rubbed his arthritis-plagued knuckles after tying the gate shut. He was getting to old for this, he knew it, but still he kept on. He had to provide for his family, his wife Angus, and his son Thomas and his daughter Sara.
He thought of his children. His son, now twelve and a growing lad, he'd shot up like a weed, his unruly red hair was in constant disarray. He was learning to farm and had an ever-growing love for nature; he was also learning to herd, just like his father and his father before him. The O'Connor's had always been a people of the land.
His daughter just turned seven and, even now, she was turning out to be a lovely lass. Her messy brown hair was always kept in a braid, Angus claimed it would get tangled into knots otherwise, it was true the girl loved to spend time in the field helping out her father in anyway she could. She'd lift small bundles of barley or small bags of potatoes, more often than not she was in the way, but Frank loved seeing her out there with him. She has my eyes though, he thought. The girl's eyes even at the age of seven were sharp and intelligent, just like her father's.
Frank was quickly brought out of his thoughts by the baaing of a stray sheep. Frank looked into the herd he'd just put up and realized that there were only nineteen instead of twenty. He glanced about into the fog, cursing his failing vision, he wished he had some light to see by. His wish was granted. Just coming up behind the hills, a full moon cast the eerie silhouette of a sheep standing just on the crest of a near by hill.
"C'mere lassie." he cooed and took a few cautious steps in the direction of the sheep that belted in reply. "There a good lass. C'mon love." he took a few more steps forward into the fog. His attention was directed to the left at the sudden sound of a twig snapping. "What the devil?" He muttered to himself.
A sudden howl caused the old man's blood to run cold. He knew that sound. It was a wolf. The sheep frantically looked in all directions, sensing a predator near by, it belted in surprise. Frank hurried up the remainder of the hill trying to get to the sheep. But with a flash of fur and fangs the sheep was gone.
Gasping the old man looked around, he glanced around turning looking for the wolf. Another howl brought his attention to the right, then another at the left, then more. A pack! His mind screamed in horror and realization. He thought maybe it was a lone wolf. The pack never got this close to the cities. From behind him he heard the sound of the panicked sheep in the pen throwing themselves at the pen's walls in a desperate attempt to get out.
One of the wolves stepped into the moonlight and Frank saw it for what it was. "A demon!" He cried out in terror.
The thing in front of him was not a wolf it was far too massive. It stood on two legs, while the other-actual--wolves all stood back on all fours, course fur covered it's entire seven foot high body, he could see tatters of some garment hanging loosely at the things waist. Its arms were out stretched and groping for new pray the dagger like claws dancing in the moonlight thirsty for his blood. His panic stricken gaze traveled up, and up, to the wolf like head its giant gaping maw dripped with saliva and fresh blood from the sheep. One sharp, intelligent eye glared at him, the other was gone, lost in some past battle all that remained of it was a hideous scar.
Frank gasped and stumbled back, away from the hellish creature standing in front of him. He squeezed his eyes shut and though of his children.
***
Sara O'Connor sat bolt upright in bed brought out of her sleep by a bloodcurdling scream from the night. "Papa!" The young girl gasped.
It had to be him. He would be returning home, his night from the fields finished. She clambered up to the window of the bedroom, tripping over the long nightgown she wore. Glancing over her shoulder she saw that the scream had not awoken her brother. No, he still slept on, his shoulder length red hair knotted out over the pillow, and from the soft snores she heard from the adjacent room her aging mother slept on as well. So it was up to her to save her Papa. Then so be it.
She pushed hard on the window trying with all her strength to get it open, it slid up an inch then another and finally it gave and the whole thing went up. Satisfied that no one had heard the groan of the wood, as it was hard pressed to open, she hitched up her nightdress and slid herself out of the window and into the fog.
After several minutes of frantic running, the little girl finally reached the barn. Her grandpa had built it before she was born, and it still stood strong, a sharp contrast to the rounded hills that surrounded it. The fog and grown so thick it was almost palpable, she fought through it, waving her tiny fists at it like it was some cobweb she could brush away.
"Papa?" She whispered. She got no answer. "Papa?" She said a little louder. Still nothing. Sara reached into her nightgown's pocket and pulled out a little pocketknife. The thing was small, dull and useless, but she didn't know that. All the small girl knew was that she had something to slash the bad monsters with. Not that it could have cut butter if she tried but she didn't know that ether.
She heard the baaing and frantic movements of the sheep, trying to escape, trying to get out the sounds got more and more frantic, and then all at once they were gone. Sara stopped, and listened. The sounds weren't all gone. She could hear movements, footsteps, and the sound of something being dragged on the ground. She waited a moment and then that too was gone.
Creeping around the corner she could hardly see anything in the fog, she turned to face the pen. There was nothing in it. Curious she crept towards it, the pen was swinging open in the wind, banging against the side, over and over and over again. She walked up to it and out of habit, closed it. Her bare foot splashed into something warm.
She scowled and looked down. She couldn't see the color through the fog; if she had she would have realized it was blood and not a puddle of mud like she thought. If she knew it was blood Sara probably would have screamed like any girl her age would have. But she didn't know, didn't realize the danger she was in.
She looked up as the full moon came from behind the clouds once again casting its eerie silhouettes and shadows; Sara saw a two-legged thing standing on top of a hill nearby carrying something over its shoulder. Papa, she thought excitedly. It has to be him. She raced up to it into the fog.
As soon as she got in arms length of the thing she realized her mistake. And screamed. The thing standing before her was not her father. On the contrary it was carrying the mauled and mangled body of Frank O'Connor draped over one shoulder like a sack of wheat.
At the sound of the little girls scream, the thing lashed out with one of its massive clawed hands and struck the poor child across the forearm slicing open her delicate skin in three long lacerations. Sara went flying; she rolled down the hill, mud covering every inch of her small body. This was a good thing for her, the mud masked her scent and the thing did not race after her, and neither did the pack, to devour her flesh and crunch her small bones as they would have if they had caught the scent of her blood.
Sara made no sound as she slid down the mud-covered hill in truth she wouldn't if she was able to. When she had first landed she hit her head on a small rock, knocking her unconscious, another good thing, her body had become limb, if she had been tensed she would have done herself considerable harm tumbling down the hill. Finally she landed at the bottom, the clouds overhead picked up an all too familiar pattern and it began to rain onto Sara's unconscious, bleeding body.
The next day her brother would find the pen empty and covered in the blood of the sheep. The next day her mother would awake to find the bed next to her empty. The next day they would find Sara and carry her to a doctor. The next day she would tell them what had happened. The next day would make headlines. The next week there would be a wolf hunt. The next week they would find nothing. The next month Sara would have a drastic change.
Disclaimer: I don't own LXG or any part of it, sorry guys I know your disappointed too.
A/N: What no reviews, wait oh yeah, first chapter, no wonder. Can you remedy this situation for me?
Chapter one, Prologue.
A small farming village just outside of Dublin, Ireland 1881
It was a warm night and there was a fog creeping over the carefully tended farmed hills, like a glove being placed lovingly over a hand, the fog was quickly devouring the land, as Frank O'Connor herded the last few sheep into the pen.
It had rained the night before and the ground was slick he had little trouble pushing the gate into its slot. As he looked to the sky, he took a deep draw of breath, he thought ideally that he should hurry; it was probably going to rain again soon.
He sighed and rubbed his arthritis-plagued knuckles after tying the gate shut. He was getting to old for this, he knew it, but still he kept on. He had to provide for his family, his wife Angus, and his son Thomas and his daughter Sara.
He thought of his children. His son, now twelve and a growing lad, he'd shot up like a weed, his unruly red hair was in constant disarray. He was learning to farm and had an ever-growing love for nature; he was also learning to herd, just like his father and his father before him. The O'Connor's had always been a people of the land.
His daughter just turned seven and, even now, she was turning out to be a lovely lass. Her messy brown hair was always kept in a braid, Angus claimed it would get tangled into knots otherwise, it was true the girl loved to spend time in the field helping out her father in anyway she could. She'd lift small bundles of barley or small bags of potatoes, more often than not she was in the way, but Frank loved seeing her out there with him. She has my eyes though, he thought. The girl's eyes even at the age of seven were sharp and intelligent, just like her father's.
Frank was quickly brought out of his thoughts by the baaing of a stray sheep. Frank looked into the herd he'd just put up and realized that there were only nineteen instead of twenty. He glanced about into the fog, cursing his failing vision, he wished he had some light to see by. His wish was granted. Just coming up behind the hills, a full moon cast the eerie silhouette of a sheep standing just on the crest of a near by hill.
"C'mere lassie." he cooed and took a few cautious steps in the direction of the sheep that belted in reply. "There a good lass. C'mon love." he took a few more steps forward into the fog. His attention was directed to the left at the sudden sound of a twig snapping. "What the devil?" He muttered to himself.
A sudden howl caused the old man's blood to run cold. He knew that sound. It was a wolf. The sheep frantically looked in all directions, sensing a predator near by, it belted in surprise. Frank hurried up the remainder of the hill trying to get to the sheep. But with a flash of fur and fangs the sheep was gone.
Gasping the old man looked around, he glanced around turning looking for the wolf. Another howl brought his attention to the right, then another at the left, then more. A pack! His mind screamed in horror and realization. He thought maybe it was a lone wolf. The pack never got this close to the cities. From behind him he heard the sound of the panicked sheep in the pen throwing themselves at the pen's walls in a desperate attempt to get out.
One of the wolves stepped into the moonlight and Frank saw it for what it was. "A demon!" He cried out in terror.
The thing in front of him was not a wolf it was far too massive. It stood on two legs, while the other-actual--wolves all stood back on all fours, course fur covered it's entire seven foot high body, he could see tatters of some garment hanging loosely at the things waist. Its arms were out stretched and groping for new pray the dagger like claws dancing in the moonlight thirsty for his blood. His panic stricken gaze traveled up, and up, to the wolf like head its giant gaping maw dripped with saliva and fresh blood from the sheep. One sharp, intelligent eye glared at him, the other was gone, lost in some past battle all that remained of it was a hideous scar.
Frank gasped and stumbled back, away from the hellish creature standing in front of him. He squeezed his eyes shut and though of his children.
***
Sara O'Connor sat bolt upright in bed brought out of her sleep by a bloodcurdling scream from the night. "Papa!" The young girl gasped.
It had to be him. He would be returning home, his night from the fields finished. She clambered up to the window of the bedroom, tripping over the long nightgown she wore. Glancing over her shoulder she saw that the scream had not awoken her brother. No, he still slept on, his shoulder length red hair knotted out over the pillow, and from the soft snores she heard from the adjacent room her aging mother slept on as well. So it was up to her to save her Papa. Then so be it.
She pushed hard on the window trying with all her strength to get it open, it slid up an inch then another and finally it gave and the whole thing went up. Satisfied that no one had heard the groan of the wood, as it was hard pressed to open, she hitched up her nightdress and slid herself out of the window and into the fog.
After several minutes of frantic running, the little girl finally reached the barn. Her grandpa had built it before she was born, and it still stood strong, a sharp contrast to the rounded hills that surrounded it. The fog and grown so thick it was almost palpable, she fought through it, waving her tiny fists at it like it was some cobweb she could brush away.
"Papa?" She whispered. She got no answer. "Papa?" She said a little louder. Still nothing. Sara reached into her nightgown's pocket and pulled out a little pocketknife. The thing was small, dull and useless, but she didn't know that. All the small girl knew was that she had something to slash the bad monsters with. Not that it could have cut butter if she tried but she didn't know that ether.
She heard the baaing and frantic movements of the sheep, trying to escape, trying to get out the sounds got more and more frantic, and then all at once they were gone. Sara stopped, and listened. The sounds weren't all gone. She could hear movements, footsteps, and the sound of something being dragged on the ground. She waited a moment and then that too was gone.
Creeping around the corner she could hardly see anything in the fog, she turned to face the pen. There was nothing in it. Curious she crept towards it, the pen was swinging open in the wind, banging against the side, over and over and over again. She walked up to it and out of habit, closed it. Her bare foot splashed into something warm.
She scowled and looked down. She couldn't see the color through the fog; if she had she would have realized it was blood and not a puddle of mud like she thought. If she knew it was blood Sara probably would have screamed like any girl her age would have. But she didn't know, didn't realize the danger she was in.
She looked up as the full moon came from behind the clouds once again casting its eerie silhouettes and shadows; Sara saw a two-legged thing standing on top of a hill nearby carrying something over its shoulder. Papa, she thought excitedly. It has to be him. She raced up to it into the fog.
As soon as she got in arms length of the thing she realized her mistake. And screamed. The thing standing before her was not her father. On the contrary it was carrying the mauled and mangled body of Frank O'Connor draped over one shoulder like a sack of wheat.
At the sound of the little girls scream, the thing lashed out with one of its massive clawed hands and struck the poor child across the forearm slicing open her delicate skin in three long lacerations. Sara went flying; she rolled down the hill, mud covering every inch of her small body. This was a good thing for her, the mud masked her scent and the thing did not race after her, and neither did the pack, to devour her flesh and crunch her small bones as they would have if they had caught the scent of her blood.
Sara made no sound as she slid down the mud-covered hill in truth she wouldn't if she was able to. When she had first landed she hit her head on a small rock, knocking her unconscious, another good thing, her body had become limb, if she had been tensed she would have done herself considerable harm tumbling down the hill. Finally she landed at the bottom, the clouds overhead picked up an all too familiar pattern and it began to rain onto Sara's unconscious, bleeding body.
The next day her brother would find the pen empty and covered in the blood of the sheep. The next day her mother would awake to find the bed next to her empty. The next day they would find Sara and carry her to a doctor. The next day she would tell them what had happened. The next day would make headlines. The next week there would be a wolf hunt. The next week they would find nothing. The next month Sara would have a drastic change.