Victor De Almeida
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Stories (3/0)
Zín Urdur
There weren’t always dragons in the valley, Ludwig Urdur thought as he sat upon his white elk, his blood-stained armour gleaming in the evening sun. He turned to look at the carnage they had wrought upon the race of the dwarves on the planes of Grren Túrnvír. After every few Dwarven corpses there was one Elven. The sight of his dead brethren caused Ludwig much pain. The elven king dismounted from his elk and strode across the blood-soaked terrain. He saw many faces which he recognised, some had been loyal to his brother Zín, and such had been their devotion that they had accepted death. As Ludwig resisted his feelings of sorrow, he reminded himself that those elves had betrayed him, that they had betrayed their God, and that they had to be severely punished for that treason.
By Victor De Almeida2 years ago in Fiction
Ignacio
I remember 1929 better than any other year, and of that year, I remember the 23rd August better than any other day. It was day number two-hundred and thirty-five of the year, a Friday. Of that day, I remember standing on the corner of Isabel La Catolica and watching cars zoom by and people stroll past. I stood there so long that after a while everything blended together, my mind was unable to separate what was man from what wasn’t. Nobody looked at me, nobody stopped to talk to me, nobody cared.
By Victor De Almeida2 years ago in Fiction