(Page 1 of 4) Sons of Hope I: The Rise of Evil by Curtis Brophy
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SUMMARY: The first chapter of the sequal series of Havon: The Histories.
Sons of Hope
Ancestors I
Curtis P. Brophy
I
The eyes of a man bent on hatred stared out upon the farm in the dead of night. To his right the other stood just behind, waiting for his master to give the signal. Behind him they stood. They were a part of the darkness because they had been trained to be as such. On their sides the swords where sheathed, but in their hands they held something far more destructive: explosive weapons that could take a life with only one shot and could make someone morn someone while the dead's empty face stared back at them.
Guns.
Although hard to come upon, this group of misfits had come upon them in one of their raves. They stole them and studied them until they figured out how to make the black powder ultimately make the gun work. They were noisy, but it didn't matter. No one cared if they were identified from the guns going off for they would be gone and out of the picture before anyone could ever recognize them for who they were.
Besides, this group was not the only ones who pillaged the farms found in Marshland. No, they were only the best at it.
Tonight though, was going to be a bit more personal. Tonight, they stood just outside the birthplace of the group's leader. For reasons unknown to the group they had practiced there way of attacking for many years before they now stood just outside the farmstead that had such personal appeal to their leader: Lachlann Naomh.
They all could see Lachlann's eyes glance over his shoulder. The whites of his eyes glimmered in the darkness and were the only thing they could clearly make out beyond the shadow of his own body. Their leader had taught them how to become a part of the darkness and strike with intensity beyond any understanding. Lachlann was the one who had studied the Histories. He was the one who had told them about the Rogues; a group of Moerlfs who had been lead by a man known only by one name: Noah. It was this man who had formed a group of Moerlfs who were outcasts of the Histories Lachlann had introduced the group to. Copies of the Histories were few and far between, but what copies had been found had done so by those searching for understanding.
It was one of these groups that Lachlann Naomh had emerged from. With scars on his back and one carving down upon his cheek he had emerged from the group.
And now, he had returned to the group. The group known as the Seed of Hope. Each and everyone carried a name that was similar to the one boy that their group's name related them back too. Each one had a name similar to Nevin. As for Lachlann he had come from a family that lived in the western part of the Northern Alliance. They spoke with a strong Gaelic accent that had originated hundreds of years before. In joining the group they had left behind their names of old and taken upon themselves a Gaelic derivative of the holy name of Nevin. Naomh.
A single tear rolled down Lachlann's cheek making itself a part of the scar that seemed to be made from the tears he had cried before.
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