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The Secton ClansLa Nagas:
Native habitat (origin, where found most often): Forests
Length (tail): 12-16 feet
Colors (most common): Shades of precious gems/metals (Emerald, ruby, steel, etc.)
Population (at last count, variable): 10-15
Disposition (on a scale from 1 to 5, 1 being the least aggressive): 5
Easily the most bloodthirsty of the clans, the la Nagas typically are nomads who move from forest to forest. While most nagas have a certain sense of pride, the la Nagas have taken it to the extreme of supremacy. Racist and cocky, their history is full of wars, the majority of them lost due to being vastly outnumbered. Now they are at the brink of extinction altogether, just one more war away from being gone forever.
Native habitat: One particular, albeit sizeable, swamp
Length: 22-26 feet
Colors: Muted spectrum, usually brown, a dull copper, a sickly green, or a dim purple
Unlike most nagas, the de Nagas are civil, peaceminded beings. Even if the saying goe
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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