The Spirit Bird

One moment, the ashen earth was still, not even the rustle of the bushes or the birds’ mournful chirps. Then, the deep cinereal clouds opened up and, drop by drop, droplets of water began to patter what was left of the lifeless wasteland.
From a jagged rock clinging to the steep mountain, lay a pitiful young women, alive but barely. Crusted blood coated her scarred hands, and a patch of her auburn hair was charred and shriveled.
As the rain began to fall more briskly, the woman’s blistered lips began to quiver, and in less than a minute her eyelids twitched and slowly they opened. The woman’s name was Ovelia Falck, and in the life she had once known, her surname was acknowledged by every human being across her country. But now her country was no more, and now so was her name.
Ovelia lifted herself up with shaking arms, coughing very severely. A bump began rising on her scalp, right where the patch of hair had been burned.
She then got slowly to her feet and peering around her in horror. The tens of thousands of bodies that had originally been lying there on the green grass were now covered in terrible, thick ash. The atmosphere smelled acrid, just like decomposing flesh and the putrid fumes of lava.
I’ve done it. The thought was not sorrowful, but relieved. She sighed contentedly, followed by a fit of coughing. The rain was still falling, slowly washing out the smell of death.
Just then, a perceptive chirp sounded from above, and Ovelia looked in the direction of the noise. A strange, multicolored bird was descending from the gloomy heavens, oblivious to the water hitting it. Ovelia’s eyes widened- this was not part of her plan. The bird trilled a wise warning, looking at her with oppressive red eyes.
Ovelia tripped on the rough, scaly stone, reeling backwards but catching herself before she fell into the ash. The bird flew in circles above her head, chanting Your time has come... Your time has come.Ovelia shook her head furiously. You don’t understand; she whispered, I didn’t kill my people for nothing. They were sick!
The bird answered, Liar, they were not sick. You killed them to satisfy your own evil nature. Ovelia clenched her teeth, sparks flashing in her obsidian eyes. You can’t do anything now...
Wrong, the bird replied, and clawed at Ovelia’s skin. Ovelia screeched, but then was still. Her body kneeled over backwards, tumbling into the bottomless ash that she herself had caused. The bird, on the other hand, flew away, carrying the spirit of Ovelia Falck to the dungeon where she belonged.

Utgangen (End)

Which One?

I've decided to finish one story. But the problem is... which one?
Which story is worth finishing?
Please COMMENT and tell me which is your favorite:

A Visitor At Dawn

The Door Of Immortality

The Rider

"Is It Time Yet?"

Isolated

Isolated

The caravan reached the little village of Dusken an hour past sundown. The air was still intensly dry, dusty, and so hot that the oxygen was hard to breathe.
Altogether there were nineteen camels in the caravan, each with a turbaned rider clothed for the long journey across the scene less desert. And that included Rahul, the lanky man with an olive-tone complexion, shaggy, dusty black hair that shone with sweat without the heavy-some material that usually covered his head, and the shaggy, greasy beard that he left unshaved.
Dusken was, unexpectedly, isolated. The streets were actually even and well kept, and the cabanas and mud-slapped buildings were not very old. Only human presence was missing.
Rahul dismounted his camel once the caravan stopped, feeling the blood flow back into his legs.
He took off his yellowed turban and wiped it across his sweaty hairline, then reached for his canteen, squeezing the last gulp of warm water onto his dry tongue.
There was some general confusion up towards the front. Adnan and Professor Ab del-Hali, the leaders, were arguing expressively about why their coming was not welcomed, and why there weren’t even any people, despite how healthy and recent the footprints in the sand were. They had important merchandise that they could clearly not sell to nobody, so in just a few moments, Professor Ab del-Hali decided something with his companion and began explaining to the group that they would be continuing on to the inner city, about four miles west of Dusken.
Rahul gazed around at the empty cabanas, having a strong impression that the sleeping mats were, possibly, still slightly warm from the owners' bodies pressing into them.
While the caravan began to move away, Rahul absconded from his friends and led his camel into the village. He knew the way to the inner city, so he was not worried about catching up to them.
Suspicion and a great deal of curiosity led Rahul to the cabana he knew so well. It was his childhood home, and old memories of his youth, before he had become a shephard and then a member of caravans, overwhelmed him.
Rahul stooped low in the doorway into the little room, waiting for his eyes to adjust. And when they did, they roamed over to the single mat on the dirt floor, where his brother lay, sleeping fitfully in a tangled position.