#2 Conor Lowell

The golden city before him seemed to mock Conor as he looked at it.  It seemed to large, so close, but it was still so far off, bright and glowing against the smog filled sky. It was a place untouched by black, and it was where all that lived below it wanted to be. Conor was no exception to that wish.

However, unlike so many other dreamers, Conor knew that he was unlikely to get there. He was a hound, hired muscle to guard and protect, bound through promises made of words and promises made of mystical design. He was not in control of his fate unless the holder of his leash broke their bond, freeing him to attempt to breech the golden city’s walls.

Conor palmed the static spear on his back. It was an item that he was lucky to find, a great weapon, that, nonetheless, was troublesome in it’s own ways. It felt solid and strong against his palm; the switch was a heavy thing that wouldn’t be turned on if it were accidently brushed. It was a delicate weapon though, with just as much a chance to backfire and harm the wielder as a chance to harm the intended target. That was why he used it, after all. The danger his weapon posed to himself was just as intoxicating as fighting was for him.

And he would fight. He was a hound. Fighting was what he did.

Iris might not like it, especially when he came back with blood stains on his clothing and hands, the smell of another woman on his skin (he hoped that the second went ignored or not found… but the way that her face would pinch… she probably knew), but she would accept it. She always did, or seemed to.

Conor focused again on what was in front of him as his fellows shifted from wary relaxation, to wary observation. The static spear seemed to fly to his hand as he readied himself and took point. The spasm was coming, the bloodlust bubbling up from the pit of his soul.

The target turned the corner.

Conor switched on the spear. The electricity glowed on his face, giving it the cast of a demon’s.

Category: 2011, Drama, Fantasy, Steampunk