Omega11
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- Joined
- Apr 20, 2007
- Messages
- 388
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Night had fallen, as it usually does around this time. It had been a long, uneventful day. Following what had become a standard routine, I patrolled the abandoned streets. In the day, Ravenholm almost resembles City 17, but hints at little distruption from the Combine. Even the demons that stalk the night seem to hibernate during these hours.
For the past few months, I've made this my sanctuary. No combine seem to come by here, and it is almost safe here, so long as you're not ot at night. I once made that mistake on my first trip. The memory is vague, but I still remember my astonishment when I first came here. It was a long time ago, before many people were at Black Mesa East. Before even the combine had begun taking over the dams and canals. I suppose that is what made the trip here so easy.
The combine had taken everything. My old city, my friends, I even remember the last time I saw my father, back when the Citadel was still its siny blue and the walls they had placed were not far from its center. I tend to try and think about what it must look like now. Surely the citizens have begun to rebel.
It was only a week ago, but one night had caught my attention. I was no stranger to the vigorous howling laughter of the man who shared this village with me. But one night, there had been mre gunfire than usual. Had the combine found this place? That thought ran circles in my head all night. I went hungry the next day, I could not bring myself to look outside or leave the small deserted room I now called my home. Even though food was scarce these days, the absence of any substance made my day hell.
It was not until that night, in the absence of the laughter and gun fire, that I dared even look out my window. I was surprised by the destruction, and in some cases, lack of it. Things seemes different; there were less barrels, the traps set by that man had all gone off, and all or most of the windows seemed to be either broken or cracked. Bullet holes and burn marks dotted most walls. Some one had gone through here, even the saw blades seemed less abundant.
Sleep that night was terrible, even on one of the few decent matresses in all of Ravenholm. But the next day, I some how found the energy to step outside. Whether it be from curiousity, or from the need of food that pounded in my gut, I'm not sure. But what I found was both useful and useless. I found a bit of food, a few small packets of rations were found near broken crates. But what intrigued me most was my walk through the graveyard. The only line of defense I had ever known was a 9mm pistol I had retrieved on my voyag here. There was once a surprising abundance of ammo, but I still used it sparingly. It was that day that I found another tool. A classic and almost primitive shotgun was laying by a corpse, still clutching the gun closely. In spite of the wounds and burns, I realized the maniacle expression of the man who haunted my dreams. Little had I ever known, that he was indeed a priest.
That night was more quiet than usual, but seemed more secure. Perhaps because of the shotgun I now kept near my crude bed. The nights since then have always been quiet. There were times I even ventured outside to see what I could. And indeed, there was almost nothing. Whoever had come through here, was hardly conservative. No more ammo was found, no more med packs could be gathered in case of an emergency. But at the same time, there was no howling, no growling. Ravenholm was all mine, my sanctuary from the combine, but... for how long?
By a lost citizen,
_______________________________
Yeah, I wrote that, and it's probably not as good as it seemed 30 seconds ago XP.
Anyways, editors start your keyboards, and critics start your criteria =P.
For the past few months, I've made this my sanctuary. No combine seem to come by here, and it is almost safe here, so long as you're not ot at night. I once made that mistake on my first trip. The memory is vague, but I still remember my astonishment when I first came here. It was a long time ago, before many people were at Black Mesa East. Before even the combine had begun taking over the dams and canals. I suppose that is what made the trip here so easy.
The combine had taken everything. My old city, my friends, I even remember the last time I saw my father, back when the Citadel was still its siny blue and the walls they had placed were not far from its center. I tend to try and think about what it must look like now. Surely the citizens have begun to rebel.
It was only a week ago, but one night had caught my attention. I was no stranger to the vigorous howling laughter of the man who shared this village with me. But one night, there had been mre gunfire than usual. Had the combine found this place? That thought ran circles in my head all night. I went hungry the next day, I could not bring myself to look outside or leave the small deserted room I now called my home. Even though food was scarce these days, the absence of any substance made my day hell.
It was not until that night, in the absence of the laughter and gun fire, that I dared even look out my window. I was surprised by the destruction, and in some cases, lack of it. Things seemes different; there were less barrels, the traps set by that man had all gone off, and all or most of the windows seemed to be either broken or cracked. Bullet holes and burn marks dotted most walls. Some one had gone through here, even the saw blades seemed less abundant.
Sleep that night was terrible, even on one of the few decent matresses in all of Ravenholm. But the next day, I some how found the energy to step outside. Whether it be from curiousity, or from the need of food that pounded in my gut, I'm not sure. But what I found was both useful and useless. I found a bit of food, a few small packets of rations were found near broken crates. But what intrigued me most was my walk through the graveyard. The only line of defense I had ever known was a 9mm pistol I had retrieved on my voyag here. There was once a surprising abundance of ammo, but I still used it sparingly. It was that day that I found another tool. A classic and almost primitive shotgun was laying by a corpse, still clutching the gun closely. In spite of the wounds and burns, I realized the maniacle expression of the man who haunted my dreams. Little had I ever known, that he was indeed a priest.
That night was more quiet than usual, but seemed more secure. Perhaps because of the shotgun I now kept near my crude bed. The nights since then have always been quiet. There were times I even ventured outside to see what I could. And indeed, there was almost nothing. Whoever had come through here, was hardly conservative. No more ammo was found, no more med packs could be gathered in case of an emergency. But at the same time, there was no howling, no growling. Ravenholm was all mine, my sanctuary from the combine, but... for how long?
By a lost citizen,
_______________________________
Yeah, I wrote that, and it's probably not as good as it seemed 30 seconds ago XP.
Anyways, editors start your keyboards, and critics start your criteria =P.
