just2day:
Quite an interesting, expansive and ambitious world you are attempting to build

That said,

Though there's nothing wrong in being a wordsmith and showing of your extensive vocabulary, it becomes glaring when it is not used properly; turning your work into a turbulent read rife with syntax, tenses and grammar problems.

It is especially heavy in the prologue but with each chapter you tamp it down bit by bit leading to less and less misuse which invariably makes for a better rhythm and flow to the story.

Rereading your story out loud sometimes helps

Goodluck, i'll check in for your next update

Am glad you do enjoy this, and I'm sorry I had to break into diction vault, and you have to bear with me.

Fontaine led his team into the five demesne premises of Nelson's high while the pilots sat by in the craft within the perimeter, warding off the quizzical stares of the cheerleading girls, the glares of the ball playing boys, and the whispers of pack bundled around bleachers or hallways as they marched headlong to the Director's office on the east wing of the school's tumid building.

At the sight of her unexpected guests, the director, a low-set woman with hoary hair worn in an outré way shoot up from her seat by a table, loaded with files, tape dispensers, folders and the sorts. She dared a keen look at them, muttering in a pinched voice. "Welcome ladies and gentlemen, you can have your seat."

Fontaine shoot a glance at the older woman, whose sage-green eyes roamed over he and his team, before subsiding into a plush cushioned chair from across her. "Thank you madam." He said with a slighty smile and watched the woman flumped back in her seat. "Am captain Fontaine from the PHS and this are my team." He flagged her his badge.

She gave him a knowing smile with a stroke down her seamed throat. Sure he was indeed a captain from the PHS, the red flash sewn on his right arm denoted him as an operative. "Allison Willow. So, how may I help you captain?" She said maintaining an urbane ring in her voice while also scanning the faces of the figures, who had pointedly cut her request of getting seated, opting to stand right behind their captain.

"I'll love to know if there's something unusual here today Mrs. Allison." Fontaine came straight out.

"I'll prefer you call me Allison, captain."

"Aight, I'll love to have some tips, Allison."

"There's nothing out of the ordinary since the start of today, save for the case of Mr. Malcolm Selwyn, a ninth grader." She sat straight in her seat with her hands pillowed on the table before her.

"What 'bout him Allison?" Fontaine enquired curiously.

"We feared Mr. Malcolm attack some of his mates in a cubbyhole with an unusual force never seen before. They're all lock in the infirmary."

Fontaine twirled around in his seat, tossing his team a revealing glance. "Can we see Mr. Malcolm, please?" He asked, turning to face her.

"Of course, you can." She gave the green light.

"Alright, we'll follow your lead Allison."

Fontaine handed his team down to the pad on the rooftop of the tower, overlooking the vast reaches of the district refined milieu and the traversal of airbuses and fast-flying solar powered cab that trapped energy on their roof-racks. They were ushered into an hovercraft by two pilots, who hurriedly took up a place in the cockpit, ready to trigger the lift off.

"Always an exciting adventure, isn't it?" Johannes said to Mona with a sunny smile as they sat snugly in the hovercraft. Soon, they will be soaring high as the eagle, the thrill of which gave him gooseflesh all the time when granted the chance to have the panoramic view of the city. It was a fortune he chanced upon in a world crowding with few that could channel the access, on the account that little power could be generated here in Oberon, for many crafts to be fabricated. The best access of conveyance for the great unwashed being the fewer airbuses and flying cabs. A cardinal operative like he was could only earn such invaluable wealth.

"Always always, Johannes." Mona said pro forma as she felt a shift in her gut as the aerofoil impelled them into the atmosphere.

Greg, to the contrary crisped his face as the rankly feel of kinetosis set on him again.

"You're gonna be fine." Fontaine said to him, stroking comfortingly on his thigh with his firm hand.

"Yeah, I should." He grinned his thanks amidst his inner struggles to squelch the nauseous feeling.

"Will you ever be able to skin this demon of yours Greg?" Johannes asked tauntingly.

"Not your business fat-mouth." He retorted sharply, narrowing a grouchy look at Mona, who giggled softly beside Johannes.

"Wouldn't mind taking that with a good spirit."

"You can do the hell you like Johannes." He sputtered.

"Well, good for me." He shrugged his shoulders abjectly.

"What's the status on target?" Fontaine enquired this time, clasting the wall built by Johannes irrelevant comment.

Mona plopped her tablet computer in her laps, quickly interacting with its interface with fast-swipe gestures. "Target still engaged in location." She came back after some moment.

"Good. Plan is still on course guys, till this go otherwise. We keep our cool, and if targets get hostile don't hesitate to bring them down."

"Aye captain!" The chorused with Mia in exception.

The hovercraft glided past at transonic speed with the vista of the city below blurring along. It was only six minutes since their take off and they had covered five hundred miles, a feat breezily accomplished as a result of their running start. The flyspeck figures of buildings and people escalated as they edged closer to Whitehall, a borough occupying mostly the phronistery institutes, issued by the Cardinals for proper erudition of every child.
."We're landing; ETA: Sixty seconds." The pilot radioed in on the intercom, with the craft steeping low from high altitude, ready and longing to land in seconds.

"We're here guys, ready to rock n roll?" Fontaine said.

"Like hell, am damn ready." Johannes responded curtly, with a smile patently emblazoned on his face. "And I guess we all are ready." He added poutingly.

Fifty miles south to the eye of Edinburgh sits the imposing PHS towers, which spired high up to five-hundred and ninety feet, with three paned sides flimsily slanted into the face of the terra firma. The building had been reared five years back by a private construction house, who built in state of the art in construction, in conformity with the Cardinals' scheme of having the building set up here in Edinburgh, a wide urbanized street stretching as far to Mona Capitolinus, where the capitol was set. To the starry-eyed, the PHS tower was a building of the Cardinal's administrative unit, but within the depth lies the inherent purport of the organization, whose proles in jumpsuit care has nothing to do with an audit, nor administration, but to run with the high-tech contrivance at their disposal as the Cardinal's operatives, cloakedly insuring that the vestige of 'PROJECT VESUVIUS' are walled up with squalid measures.

An elevator car pinged to a halt on the fiftieth level of PHS tower, and regorged its only content with a moan as the automated double door coast open. A whitewashed face man of gargantuan bod emerged from the car with firm steps, his greyly-silver hair was permed and matted against his brow, tar-black eyes stared owlishly ahead at the stretch of the hallway opening to the staging room. The black jumpsuit he was assumed in fit snugly to his skin, ostentatiously telling of the two great hills bore on his six-feet-two frame. The clicks of the buskin wore halfway to his knees telltale the snappy pace of his walk down the silent hallway.

His tiring walk down the hallway, spanning five minutes came to a stop by a cybernated door that dissevered to let him walk-into the belly of the staging room.

On sighting the strapping man of two decades and five years➖Captain Fontaine Dowding; a tops pugilist with two belt to his name. The four operatives circled round the compact table set at the center of the sizable staging room, geared up in mod con and accessorized with fast-paced computers fastened against the wall sprang to their feet, with heads straightly set and chest puffed out firmly.

"What've you got?" Fontaine asked straight off as he made floatingly to the table.

Mona Vasari, an abasic young woman on a wheelchair with loopy dark hair gave an abrupt reply to his question. "Arthemia found an activity five hundred mile radius from here." She propelled the wheelchair forward at a rattling rate, stopping few feet away from a large touch-screen computer.

"Give me the read Mona." Fontaine said to the tech-savvy in his team in his crisp signature, watching as the software programme dubbed 'Arthemia' fast tracked under the adept guidance of his favorite team member.

Artemia had been initiated along with the onset of 'PROJECT VESUVIUS' to track down and pinpoint supernaturals around the universe, just as he and his team of operatives are charged on snooping out the psychics and parceling out the reprisal under their jurisdiction.

"I have a location." Mona informed as fast-breaking windows darted on screen. " Nelson's high on Whitehall street is our location."

"How many target do we have out there?" Greg, the tallest of all in the room asked. He stood supplely at six-feet-five with huge, clear blue eyes, that could enthrall most hard-hearted ladies. His long fluxive hair bordered strong jaw, etched out of a luscious face.

"Apparently, target figures are unknown." She answered with eyes still fixed on the screen, stippled with markers indicating location on the azimuth of Oberon. "But with the wave of signal reflection, I guess we're having something real big out there waiting."

"We should grab our gears and hit location asap." Johannes, the exact reverse of Greg imputed. He was a butterball that bore two hundred and twenty pounds on his five-nine frame, flaccid around his mid-section, cheery round every tick of the clock, quick-witted, a crackshot and chivalrous as need might ask.

"No, not this time Johannes." Fontaine fenced, resting his steely arms on the tabletop. "We don't wanna go in there and scare the wit outta those kids."

Mia, a yellow-skinned lady with bunch up brown hair and stone-grey eyes has her first mention in the talk. "I'll say we go out there as real cool guys, have some words with the school authority and bring in our targets."

Fontaine gave a slight jerk of his head in concurrence with her opinion. This was life with his team, and he couldn't be more than appreciative for having them at his disposal. As a leader, he had the abilities of his team members keyed out: Mia was the witty one, an introvert and open hearted. Mona, on the other hand, was well-informed, partially distant and a partisan to her call. Greg was the philanderer, and the get-up-and-go case, while on the crest of the rung seats the jocular Johannes, who spent his hours cooling his heels and entertaining the room with his bantering remarks.

"Let's have it Mia's way." He said with a final note of injunction. "Let's get air-borne team." He took a flying glance at their faces, before marching out of the room while they followed in his wake.

I will invite few people on this platform, am hoping you guys are gonna help to invite more. Divepen1, souloho, meneski, Erf, galacious1, chrisbaby24, stephengee12, Apollux

What do you guys think of this piece already?

"Why would you stay out of class?" Malcolm asked Munro. He had found him morosely seated in a cubby while foraying into alcoves and basements in seek of a solitary place. His bag sat idly beside him as he shrank against the drab wall of the cubby, with his head cradled in his palms, and knees propped up to support his arms. His green luminous eyes planted in a glare on Malcolm's molten brown own. Malcolm has made his stand lucid to him, he wants to be his sympathetic ear, the rose in his vicious world of thorns.

"You wouldn't understand, would you?" He asked glumly, keeping a rein on the rush to tear.

Malcolm suppressed the stirring urge to laugh at his lumpen countenance, setting his visage in a cloaked stern look. "Trust me I would, just spill it all out already."

"Have you a feel of never hoping to see the light of another day before? Do you know what it feels like to be at the receiving end of a whole lot of ridicules, jeers and taunts? You don't and I'm skeptic you would ever feel the anguish of being bullied day in day out, and what of being an outcast, the tainted one?" He demanded desperately as he was swept away by the throes of his disconsolate experiences.

Malcolm watched in gorgorian asperity as tears fluxed down his cheeks, his heart sunk deep in his chest and it takes every ounce of strength in him to bolster his heartstring from snapping. "I wouldn't know of any of that." He conceded in a hoarse tone, impulsively reaching out for him, and sealing him in a consolatory embrace. "Everything will be fine." He whispered, stroking down the length of his back.

"No, all could never be fine." He protested.

"You've got to believe in that, anyway."

Munro disengaged from the embrace, and look him square in the eye. "Somethings couldn't be right Malcolm, not in this world. There'll always be heads and tails, and I guess I'm nothing but a tail, a piece in every game."

"No, I quite disagree with that." He contended with a shake of his head. "All we need is take a stand, and right the wrongs piled up in this world."

Feeling a need for divagation in the course of their confab, Munro knavishly tossed him a question. "How's history class today?"

Malcolm was balled over by the flukiness in his demeanor; his gaze had swiftly turned flinty, his countenance steely-hard, and his lips rucked in a grim set. "Hmmm, well great. Mr Hughes had the attendance without you."

"I blinking hate to miss out on his class, but I couldn't summon the courage to show my face."

"I get it, now you wouldn't have to worry about Neal and his pack of hellions." Munro gave him a smile taken as agreement by him. "We can get to have a nice time-out in here." He said with a balmy smile and later heard the tramp of booted feets approaching the cubby doorway.

Munro funked deeper against the wall, his defences fragmented, and his collected mien already lapsed into a tensed state. "They're here, they must've made us, they've come for me again. Look out!" He had his voice inflected into a whisper.

Malcom heard the opening of a door and whirled around in time to level his gaze with Neal's➖His face upturned in a smirk as he schlepped into the room, winged at both sides by two steeplejacks.

"See who's hiding over here." He said with an even broader smirk on his face. "Why would you miss out the class Munro? Afraid of me, huh? I would really enjoy it if you could say that to my face."

Malcolm felt a kick of apprehension in his gut, but quickly shove it down the depth from which it sprang. If there was anytime to play Munro's backbone, now would be the better. With a gutsy feel, he sprang to his feet, barring Neal from taking further steps. "What's it you guys want with him this time?"

"Got yourself a knight to act your hero this time, huh?" One of Neal's sinewy hellion returned a question deridingly.

"You'll have to get through me to lay a hand on him." Malcolm had his hands bunched into a fist at his side.

"I don't have a game to pick with you, so stay clear of this Mulatto." Neal said indignantly, his facial muscles convulsed in rage. His steely fibres of muscles evidently rising through his blue leotard.

Mulatto. The word looped a thousand time in his head, tincturing his long, thin nose red with miff. He had known the meaning of the abusive slang to be the offspring of a white and black parents in one of his English class in seventh grade. He really was a mulatto, his brown skin was an attestant to that, and he would have let the remark slide if it was anyone but Neal, a kid notoriety known for bullying. This was his first of crossing his path, and would definately marked his last.

"You shouldn't have said that you know." He bit out umbrageously.

"You shouldn't have cross my path, either." Neal returned in self-same furror, shrugging him off to a side with his massive arm like he weigh no more than a paper. "Would you be kind enough to admit it to my face now that you have yourself no hero to save the day." He scrunched up beside Munro, who recoiled at the closeness of him. "Admit defeat, will you Munro?"

"No! He wouldn't bow in defeat before you." Malcolm yelled as he walked up close to Neal, tugged at the collar of his cat suit, and pulled him to his feet.

"That was daring, I must admit. But, you've gone too far this time to bring the story to a sad end." Neal's rageful eyes swept over him as he clumped his fingers into a monolithic fist, drew his arm back in a fleet, ready to connect a wild swing with his head.

Before the impact of the swing deadened his senses, he felt a surgent charge of strange feeling from the depths of his being. His mind blanked out within a span of nanosecond, and that very nanosecond was all it takes for the vile feeling that was the offshoot of the strange feel to garble out into a floodtide of a force, greater than that of a megaweber. He watched Neal's balled fist stopped a whisker from his head, and as he was sequentially tossed away with his confederates to oblique angles of the cubbyhole by an unseen force field orbed around him. Afterward, he turned and met the askance look on Munro.

"How'd you do that?" He mumbled out.

"I didn't do that." He managed to answer in a slur, before the quesy feeling doubled him over and sent him reeling against a wall. Fagged, he toppled to the ground and conked.

"Yes, real cool Mr. Hughes." The class chorused.

"Good. Moving on to what's next." He had a picture of a blunt javelin materialized on screen at a flick of his finger across the tablet.

"That's a sort of spear, Mr. Hughes." A walleyed boy with soil-brown hair cited.

"You're definately right Mr. Dirk. The image displayed is that of a blunt javelin used by Levant folks in mock fights from time immemorial." He sighted a raised arm at the far back and motioned the blubbery figure of a girl to her feet. " Go on and ask your question Miss Enaud."

"What's that called Mr. Hughes?" She asked bashfully.

"Djereed. You can have your seat Miss Enaud." He continued. "It's also used in military games in most Moslem countries..." The tinkling of the bell trumpeting the end of the class knocked his socks off, making him cursed under his breath.

"History class is off for today, I guess." Neal sputtered with a titter.

"No, Mr. Neal, not until I say it's over." He rejoindered sharply, his visage betraying the hint of calmness in his voice. " Now, I'll deal out assignments." There was a sudden wave of fizzles in the class as he landed his shocker. "I want the names of the countries occupying the eastern Mediterranean geographical zone. Every books must be submitted on my table before your first class tomorrow, do that and you don't have to see the other side of Mr. Hughes, prove otherwise, then you leave me no choice but to cross the line of sanity. Good day class." He ended in a final note and marched briskly out the door.

Malcolm scrabbled on his notepad, he had sheerly been silent all through the History class. In normal times, he would have had a mention in class, but today, he was a bit off to care to have a say. And besides, he had something pressing on his mind. In no time, he wrapped up his writing, retrieved his notepad off his desk, and slipped it back in his bag. He was willing to short-circuit the frenetic task of pressing out the doorway, along with his mates, the shoves and nudges are quesy enough, and owing to his saturnine comport today, he wasn't ready for any of it.

Soon, he bolted for the door at a pace that could rival that of a bullet, out of the classroom, in seek of solitude, knowing he could never be tired of himself.

Y'all should feel free to drop ya comment, criticism is also allowed, please.

Irked by Mr. Hughes impudent response, Neal sat back in his chair hissingly, his face masked his utter mortification.

"May I have your attention now?" Mr. Hughes demanded in high-geared voice, and what followed in a shot was, an eery silence that gripped the class. "Now I'll continue; The Nazi regime was wholly responsible for the genocide of at least 5.5 million Jews➖a figure of victims deemed as Untermenschen(Sub-humans), and death of an estimated 19.3 million civilians and POWS, likewise an unprecedented figures killed in World war II which has never been recorded in the history of Warfare."

"The Nazis must be monstrous like the Gorgons, Mr. Hughes." Another kid of colored skin interjected.

"It's not in our best choice to criticize the Nazis, Mr. Geremi. Our only task here is to learn from their mistake, that no man his better or a sub to the other in the face of man and God." He shrewdly discerned on the spot that his message was getting across to them, on having a clutch on their attention, he forged ahead to nail in more riveting point. "Look about you; you all are of different races, religions and colors, and with all these patent differences, you're willing and ready to put them behind you to sit together as brothers, not as factions. That you see is the change in our sphere, the breathe of peace brought on by love, the gift of God to man." He paused, sucked in some air and added glibly. "That's pretty cool, isn't it?"

[CHAPTER ONE: LIVE AND LET'S LIVE]


Malcolm Selwyn sat pasted in his chair in the ninth grade classroom, beautifully appointed with indispensable gizmo needed for contemporary erudition, with molten brown eyes locked on the projector screen strapped against the wall from across him, and arms lithely folded to his chest. He listened flippantly to Mr. Hughes's history class while his mind swan off to a distant land. He was unhinged by an unshakeable thought weighed on his mind➖Munro, his only acquaintance amidst the caboodle in class was absent this early morning for reasons unsung to him. Not that they're real best chums, but they're mileage from being sworn foes. Munro was a pariah in class, an easy prey for the bullyrags in class and their ridicule. Malcolm pretty badly wants to pal up with him on several occasions as he was large-hearted, but the deplorable part was; Munro wouldn't give the room for such, he had the threshold to his heart barred, and won't give concession to draw him into the small circle in the depth of his soul. He had his feelings introverted and lived alone to himself. This hurts so bad, but he hadn't a choice rather than taking the bold step of sympathizing with his individualism, that they say is the fruit of friendship.
Stuck on the spot, he drum up the strength to shook the thought of him and focused on Mr. Hughes class. It could all wait till the history class lapse out, he thought quietly.

"Earth used to be our home, before the incursion of the Gorgon army." Mr. Hughes said in his clipped accent as he traipsed along the row of chairs and desks with a tablet computer in his webby veinous hand. He swiped a finger across the face of the tablet and watched as a three-dimensional image of earth flitted on the screen. "Earth is a world of different man, of different races, skin colors, beliefs, cultures, heritages and religions. All these helps in our furtherance as humans, and just like everything has its bad side. It creates schism, that later wind up our world to a sad end. Killings, bombings, terrorism and wars are its offshoot." Mappings blipped across the screen in a new window. "Now that earth is lost to the Gorgons, we have ourselves a new creed, a new world in which we put our differences aside and embrace the only truth there's; love➖in it lies our strength, and with it we put up a strong front that waxes like the moon. It has taken us the loss our precious home to get to this, and now that we have learnt to live as brothers, we'll never let go of love."

A yawn in the class stole his attention, and with face mapped with rage, he strode briskly to the front of the class. "Mr. Neal, it will be right nice of you to stifle a yawn while the class is on."

"Couldn't help it Mr. Hughes." The boy returned indifferently, his tubby features scrunched in a smirk.

"Fair enough, I bet next time will be a little better." He watched as he gave a curt nod of his head. "Would you sit upright, please?"

"Alright Mr. Hughes." Neal slurred his response and reluctantly sat stiffly in his chair.

Mr. Hughes put up a faint smile and continued. "Different folks has variant article of faith, which they adhere strictly to, no matter how bigoted this apparently may be." He projected an image of a red cross with the arms bent at right angles in a clockwise direction on screen. "This emblem class is called 'Swastika' or otherwise known as the 'Hekenkreuz' . It is the official emblem of the Nazi Germany, a form of political socialism featuring racism and expansionism and obedience to a leader: Third Reich, under this man Adolph Hitler, which spanned twelve years; 1933➖1945." A monochrome image of a man with toothbrush fluttered on screen.

"Mr. Hughes." A voice called out from the bunch of students in the classroom.

"Miss Rodriguez, how may I help you?" He asked in a politic demeanance, his gaze sweeping across the class like that of an eagle perched on a bough, scanning and waiting on its prey.

"What's that on his face?" The slight-figured girl wearing her hair in a ponytail asked in a thin winsing tone. "That doesn't seem to me like a moustache. He looks grotesque to me like some freaks have seen on screen." The class burst out laughing at her remarks.

"Enough!" He yelled and watched the class blanketed by silence. "Miss Rodriguez that may be true to you, but that simply was the voguish style back then, and it's called 'the soup-strainer'. Many a man wore that on their faces back in time."

"But why would they do that? It seems a bit off." Neal objected this time.

"I guess they did for same reason you had that cuckoo barb on your head." Once again the class went into a paroxysm of giggling and sneering.

Fellas you oughtta check this out! It's a new piece from me, a foray into a different house of literature; Sci-fantasy

PROLOGUE}

In the beginning, there was nothing but mist and void, until man rise on the planet for the onslaught of the process called 'Living'. Ever since the ascent of man on Earth, they had revolved into what is now called 'History', the only relic of their years.

The history of man could best be chronicled by war, and war, by the gory tale of battle fought by men. Time they is a continuum, just as the tussle of man on Earth is infinitum. To keep balance with the flux nature of life, man had to step up against the tidal flow of their world. Against the inclement weather, they sought the solace of raiment; while against the brocks' with whom they struggled for dominion, they had themselves crude weapons. This had been the evolution of man from the stone age to this millennium. Higher animals as we really are, there's always a hunch to tug for dominion, a call to fight for and keep what deemed ours, a spoil to seek further for more turfs. Owing to this; men had graduated from honed stones, spears, javelins, fledged arrows to battering rams, trebuchets, canons, artilleries and to the crest of the echelon, where lies the WMDS and its kith and kins, with which many blood are spilled and sundry lives taken for the acclaimed purpose of seeking freedom, for the better tomorrow of posterity, the promise of melioration of a far future, all for which men had turned death's incarnate.

In present time:2096AD, earth has fallen to the itching clutch of an ogre heretoch and his horde➖an interbreed of man and demon marauding across the planets and astral bodies for ascendance, and dead-set on claiming every empyrean sphere. On making headway against the human race, Taranis had many men compelled against their will, quashed to no resistance for them to do his bidding.

Long before the intrusion of the Gorgons on earth, the world powers had machinated a scheme to decimate the supernaturals that has fraughted every acres on earth, due to their preconception of the threat they posed to the human race. But years after the black operation dubbed 'PROJECT VESUVIUS' brought on from the tale of Pompeii, an ancient city to the southeast of Naples that was buried by a volcanic eruption of the same name; the fate of mother earth may once again rest on the shoulders of the spurned supernatural beings.

Also, before earth and her governance systems was usurped by this darker force, the world powers had an objective rolled in motion for their fear of an imminent danger that might beset earth. 'MAYDAY' was a space program assigned to a small circle of cosmonaut, to seek out an asylum in the case of any inadvertent danger that might set upon man and their abode. As the tread of life was loomed, the program paid off prettily, for it served as a means of flight for many blue bloods of the world and hundreds of millions, fortunate to channeled into the escape route long forged after the success of 'PROJECT MAYDAY' and be conveyed by a capsule to a new planetal bodies.

Once again, man found himself as a commorant of a new planetary systems that comprises seven planet gears running a course of epicyclic train around the sun's twin (). The planets are: Althasia, Demetus, Eleggua, Oberon, Azion, Brynhild and Ramessses, from which OBERON suited man most. Again, man must build from scratch, stay true to themselves and a cause➖to repossess earth before their short time frame on Oberon tick off, leading everything amuck.

'They're humans like we are, with the same red fluid surging through their bodies, and down a cycle to their veins; the only difference with them is, they're tinctured with orphic powers from nascency. They're detested among men, spurned by the society and hexed by their own cord from birth. Long since their emergence, they'd always been drummed out by their own race, yet they keep rising like a phoenix, burnt from its own blood...'



BLURB
Earth is under siege to a turm of greater evil forces than man could ever be➖the Gorgons, marshalled by a roughshod heretoch;lord Taranis, held an undisputed dominion over our planet, and have hundred of millions of surviving humans in flight to a far unreachable planet, after their incursive campaign on earth. While hope seemed bleak and each passing seconds drill in despair, the human race must come together like never before, stay united for an only noble cause➖to reclaim their true abode, and redeem their respect and glory. Will the human race reclaim mother earth? Or lose out to Taranis 's monstrous host, who has earth nabbed with a leash?

Thanks for this man, anyway I believe this can be discuss when there's any ready to work it out with me.

Pretty in need of this

[color=][/color]Dearest nairalanders,
I'm a young aspiring writer on this platform with a crime fiction thriller 'Enter the mob'. I'm in need of an editor within the radius of Ibadan; A tops at it. Any editor within this orbit should zero in on me on this number:09038212820. Indicate right here on this thread, or add me up on my Facebook account: MZEE ARKYUB.

Thanks fams.

I'll update with this account, please bear with me