Mythruna

Chapter One, 2011
The darkness comforted him. There was next to no light around him as he walked through the alleys connecting the busy city streets. It felt good, the shadows seemed to drape around him as though they were a loose-fitting jacket. The bright daylight so beloved by mankind had always made him feel naked. Exposed. But this was comforting, it calmed him.
A scent caught his nose. The sweet smell of temptation walking down the alleyway in the opposite direction. It wasn’t until he’d picked up that delightful odour that he noticed the sounds she was making. The over-loud clicking of her footsteps on the ground. Her handbag tapping lightly against her waist with each step. The soft clicking of the buttons of her phone as she drunkenly texted whichever lover, friend or family member she thought would be able to decipher the message. She was definitely intoxicated, he could smell the alcohol both on her breath and in her blood. Once she was almost 30 feet away he could even taste her, almost feel his fangs piercing her skin. Then instinct kicked in. His broad, six foot tall form shrank as he crouched. He slowed down and edged into the shadows as he walked.
20 feet away. He could hear her heartbeat now and that only made her more irresistible. It also gave him even more of an advantage. He could hear her tiredness in the slow beating of her heart as it pushed blood through her slim, delicate system. He stopped, hidden in an even darker shadow of the alleyway, and waited.
10 feet away. Her scent, her heartbeat. So strong now it made his mouth water. He forced himself to remain still. He wanted to strike at the exact and most perfect moment. He wanted her to die before she knew what was happening.
5 feet away. Not long now. In a few seconds he could strike. He will strike.
She walked by him. Then, within half a second he made his attack. He moved behind her so fast it was hard to conceive any movement had been involved, he craned his head over her right shoulder until he almost reached her left and then pulled his head back to the right of her neck, slicing open her throat as he did. This lost him some of the delicious crimson liquid he’d been longing for. Thirsting for. But it prevented her from screaming which meant he could drain all of the remainder without being disturbed.
His fangs sank through the flesh of her neck, finding her Carotid Artery with ease. Every sense delighted as he drained her. The unique taste of her specific combination of essential minerals in her life-giving fluids engulfed his taste buds as the metallic aroma that wafted from it stimulated his nasal passage. The sight of the deep red elixir as stray droplets crawled into view, making their path from the twin piercings toward the ground, lightly caressing the contours of her body until they were each absorbed by the low-cut top loosely hanging from her breasts. The rushing of blood through the artery into the hollows of his fangs as it poured from her system to his, taking with it all its nourishment, its hidden strength and even her life. Even the sound. The sound only ears like his could pick up. A fast, strong rushing. Like some spectacular waterfall.
The feeding, unlike the initial strike, took minutes. She struggled at first but with his tight grip on her shoulders keeping her in place coupled with the enormous strength those hands possessed he hardly noticed. His senses were too overwhelmed to care about the light tapping of her fists and feet attacking his body. He didn’t even realise when his grip went from restraining to supporting. When she lost all her energy and died in his hands.
Once she was dry he took a deep breath, savouring the moment, and tossed her to the side. Wiping his mouth as he went he made his way to the end of the alleyway and back onto the unfortunately bright streets of Brighton.
He started walking home, a warm feeling in his cold motionless heart.

The darkness comforted him. There was next to no light around him as he walked through the alleys connecting the busy city streets. It felt good, the shadows seemed to drape around him as though they were a loose-fitting jacket.

The bright daylight so beloved by mankind had always made him feel naked. Exposed. But this was comforting, it calmed him.

A scent caught his nose. The sweet smell[aroma, maybe?] of temptation walking down the alleyway in the opposite direction. It wasn’t until he’d picked up that delightful odour that he noticed the sounds she was making. The over-loud clicking of her footsteps on the ground. Her handbag tapping lightly against her waist with each step. The soft clicking[repeated clicking, makes it awkward] of the buttons of her phone as she drunkenly texted whichever[some] lover, friend or family member she thought would be able to decipher the message. She was definitely intoxicated, he could smell the alcohol both on her breath and in her blood. Once she was almost 30 feet away he could even taste her, almost feel his fangs piercing her skin.

Then instinct kicked in. His broad, six foot tall[six foot tall breaks the rhythm] form shrank as he crouched. He slowed down and edged into the shadows as he walked.
20 feet away. He could hear her heartbeat now and that only made her more irresistible. It also gave him even more of an advantage.

He could hear her tiredness in the slow beating of her heart as it pushed blood through her slim, delicate system.

He stopped, hidden in an even darker shadow of the alleyway, and waited. 10 feet away. Her scent, her heartbeat. So strong now it made his mouth water. He forced himself to remain still. He wanted to strike at the exact and most perfect moment. He wanted her to die before she knew what was happening.
5 feet away. Not long now. In a few seconds he could strike. He willwould strike.
She walked by him. Then, within half a second he made his attack. He moved behind her so fast it was hard to conceive any movement had been involved, he craned his head over and past her right shoulder until he almost reached her left and then pulled his head back to the right of her neck, slicing open her throat as he did.

BenKenobiWan, that's possibly the best and most detailed critique I've ever had. Thanks, man. I'm actually tweaking it now based on what you've said.
Seriously, man. I really appreciate this.
Interested in the second chapter?

Chapter Two, (1574)
The bright sunlight reigning over the skies above illuminated the world. The colours of the landscape were bright and vivid. From the overwhelming green of the grass to the yellow of the delicate buttercups dotting the land. Fourteen men led by a tall man in silver plated armour destroyed the beautiful landscape with their footsteps as they made their way toward a cave by a riverside.
The man in silver armour, along with four others of the front 6 men in the pyramid formation were knights, the others were travelling slayers with great skills in various fields. All of these men had devoted their lives to destroying the very creatures they were about to encounter. They had been preparing for this day, this moment, their entire life. No more than ten feet from an old door of rotting wood at the entrance to the cave the man in silver armour held up an open left hand and stopped. The rest of the formation stopped behind him. He pointed to the door and made use of his perfectly enunciated, eloquent voice “Mr Gray. If you will?”
Mr Gray, a slight and grey-robed man at the back of the formation walked around the group of men and up to the door. Crouching by the wooden door he took two cloth satchels from the multitude tied around his waist. Of the many different colours the two he selected were black and bright orange. He undid the black one revealing a tinderbox and a small amount of hay and, placing the fuse of the orange satchel below the small pile he made with the hay, started a small fire. The fuse lit and he picked up the orange satchel. He stood up and faced the door whilst watching the fuse burn. When only an inch or two of fuse was yet untouched by the flame he kicked open the door and threw the small explosive inside.
A loud bang accompanied the bright light flooding the cave and in less than a half second the light dimmed, staying bright enough to keep the interior of the cave illuminated.
As the group entered the large cave they drew their weapons. Mr Gray and another man of similar figure and dress had brought out stone devices, as thick as a strong man’s wrist, with a sharp wooden point at one end, the other end they filled with a powder from a red bag from each of their waists. Four muscular men wearing armour covered in forest-green scales loaded large, modified crossbows with short, thick, wooden stakes. Once their right hands gripped fully loaded crossbows they also equipped their left hands with longer stakes. Another four men, tall men with no armour but their shirts and their clan-tartan kilts, wielded long thick stakes in each hand. Four of the knights drew silver-plated longswords from the hilts at the waist of their steel armour.
The man in the sliver armour drew a solid silver Highland Claymore from his waist. The only part of the claymore that was not silver came from the back of the hilt, where a solid oaken stake protruded.
The cavern was huge, considerably larger than it appeared from the outside. There were a dozen flaming balls lay by the cavern walls, illuminating the thirty or so coffins around the room. One of the older Scotsmen turned to Gray; “Saothair deagh.” Gray looked at him, apparently confused, for a few seconds before another of the Scotsmen, this one younger, clarified.
“Cannae say a word o’ yar tongue. Says ‘at’s good work. Tho’ fireballs o’ yars.”
Turning to the older Scotsman Gray replied in the man’s Gaelic tongue “Taing.” He then stepped over to a coffin, everyone else in the room followed suit. Those who hadn’t already drew a wooden stake and they all held them, point down, over a coffin each.
The man in silver armour looked about the room, everyone was in place. Half the creatures would start dying before they even knew what was happening. “Three.”
They all rose their stakes ready to strike.
“Two.”
A few of them adjusted their grip, ensuring they could make the lethal blow.
“One”
The stakes rose, in unison, a little higher.
“Now.”
All fifteen stakes came down, through the coffins and into the dead hearts of their occupants. And, all at once, fifteen horrific, blood curdling shrieks filled the air as the dying vampires screamed both in pain and in warning to their comrades.
18 coffins opened. 36 black eyes turned to look at the group of humans that had just slaughtered half of their family.
The fifteen slayers readied themselves.
The vampires lunged.

Also, OMG I've been promoted!

dude book to short only like a page my friend wrote a 50 page book on pages in a month

I like the plot... Oh and different time periods? This is getting very interesting... *rubs hands together*

Cool story, this is actually quite promising. My only qualms are based on realism really... In the second chapter, it says that one Knight had a "solid silver highland claymore." Now,
I get that it's silver because silver is a pure metal, kills undead, etc, etc... But I find the idea of someone making an entire claymore from silver abit far fetched. Those things hit hard, and silver isn't exactly the strongest material... It would make more sense for the claymore to be silver-chased, or blessed... But that's just my opinion, and that kinda thing also only seems to bother me. Quite promising though  ;D

1.Sir Gate's sword in particular is designed for killing vampires and killing vampires alone, a sword with less silver would be less effective and this sword doesn't need to cut down anything else.

Nor could it.  A real sword would cut it in half.  Anything else it struck (without taking advantage of its magical vampire slicing qualities) would bend it or dent it beyond repair.  It's essentially as soft as gold from a hardness perspective.  Softer even than bronze as I recall.

Exactly. He, as a dedicated slayer uses what is, to him, the perfect weapon but to anyone else is useless as anything else but a display piece.
He doesn't want to cut or hit anything else with it. All that matters is killing vampires.

As far as I can remember off the top of my head there are exactly four vampires in the world who carry a sword, one of them isn't around at that time, one isn't a vampire at that time and the other two are on the other side of the world.
Sir Gates is safe from that threat :L

Really?
Your book was hardly longer. This is only 1/4 of JKy's book.

said my freind

The bright sunlight reigning over the skies above illuminated the world.

The colours of the landscape were bright and vivid. From the overwhelming green of the grass to the yellow of the delicate buttercups dotting the land.

Fourteen men led by a tall man in silver plated armour destroyed the beautiful landscape with their footsteps as they made their way toward a cave by a riverside.

The man in silver armour, along with four others of the front 6 menWhat's special about the other two front men? in the pyramid formation were knights, the others were travelling slayers with great skills in various fields. All of these men had devoted their lives to destroying the very<unnecessary creatures they were about to encounter. They had been preparing for this day use hyphens - this moment - their entire life. cutNo more than/cut ten feet from an old door of rotting wood at the entrance to the cave the man in silver armour held up an open left hand and stopped.

The rest of the formation stopped behind him. He pointed to the door and made use of his perfectly enunciated, eloquent voice “Mr. Gray. If you will?”
Mr Gray, a slight and grey-robed man at the back of the formation walked around the group of men and up to the door. Crouching by the wooden doordoor door he took two cloth satchels from the multitude tied around his waist. Of the many different colours the two he selected were black and bright orange.

How about, "Fourteen soldiers, led by a tall man in silver plate armour, trampled the serene landscape as they made their way toward a cave by a riverside."

I feel the same way about "the riverside" better than "a riverside". But the question "What riverside?" would arise. (What kind of riverside)