Yup. I write sometimes. Now for a little back story, This project has been a product of not getting to write anything good thanks to terrible high school teachers. thanks for that. So, I have decided to start writing an anthropomorphic-kind-of-steampunk-kind-of-western-fantasy-that-eventually-goes-into-ancient-Roman-coliseum-mentality-slash-fight-the-governtment-slash-Hunger-Games-slash-Battle-Royel-slash-that-Russel-Crow-Gladiator-movie-that-won-a-lot-of-rewards-and-other-fun-stuff. So yeah, this is gonna be all over the place. Any way, here's a taste of what the story is gonna be like. I want to get a good part of the book done before I start releasing chapters so I don't have the pressure of people wanting updates on me and I start to sacrifice quality for quantity. Without any further a due, here is memory 1 part 1 of The Chronicles of Regret;


“Those who have not a ounce of their being plagued by ignorance would say the laws of the universe deny the existence of deities. However deities whom walk among us deny the laws of universe without a shred of such arrogance.” -Oracle

The Chronicles of Regret
Memory 1

I awoke to a hard, constant light. Beating down on my face from the window. I froze a moment. My heart stopped. I sat up in a rush and looked around the room in a semi-lucid daze. Where am I? I looked to my side and saw my revolver in it's sheathe and belt. My hand reached for it but stopped. There was a watch next to it. A pocket watch. Where did I get a pocket watch? In an instant the previous day's events flooded back to me. Seeing the town in the middle of the desert from the distance was like finding a life raft while drowning in the middle of the ocean. Going to the bar to quench my thirst and fill my flask. Getting thrown out of the bar. Checking into the inn. And finding the watch under the pillow. I pushed the covers to the side. I slept in my clothes. Again. And lifted myself to the floor. The planks creaked subtly under my paws, my ears perked up, the sound felt like old, dry timber. I stood up in the light, my dull, black fur glistened like the night, speckled with stars. I grabbed my gun belt and buckled it around my waist, walked over to the dusty mirror at the dresser and looked at my unkempt face. My hair grow in long, straight, dark locks. Strands of it flowed from my scalp, cascading down my back and shoulders, and draped over my fore head, just on the fringe of my eye line. I leaned on the dresser, both arms on each corner. Before me was a ceramic basin of stale water, a bottle of blue cologne, a pair of tarnished scissors, and a fine wire brush. Hardly a beauty station, but I would be the last to complain. That's when I heard it. I took out my gun, a heavy, five shot steel hunting revolver that may have been a useful piece if you wanted to take down a feral grizzly. It would likely prove less than useless against someone with half a brain and an actual pistol that was meant to be quick, fast, and for firing in succession. With gun fights frequent in this region, you had to carry something, or put a sign on back labeling you open for target practice. I knew in the back of my mind that going up against an actual gun fighter would be the end of me. I turned the cylinder, it clicked with each chamber it passed. I pushed in the button on the side for which I knew no name for, turned it to the side, the cylinder popped out reveling all five slugs. I jerked the gun forward, or a slip second the large bullets remained suspended in the air, in a perfect circle, until they dropped into my other hand. I picked one and placed the rest next to the cologne. I took the one bullet and put it between my index, and middle finger. I pushed the bullet into a chamber with my thumb, and flicked my wrist to the side. The caliber snapped in place with a loud click. I pressed my thumb to the side of the cylinder and spun the wheel. It turned over and over for five seconds, clicking with each chamber passed. When it stopped I paused. I rose the gun so I could see it next to my face in the mirror and pointed it to the ceiling. I closed my eyes, and put the barrel of the gun to the side of my head, pointed at the left temple of my brain. I paused again. The sound grew louder. Intangible noise that vaguely resembled the voices of people I've never heard before. It got louder. I drew back the hammer. Louder. I put my finger on the trigger. Even louder. I squeezed gently on the gun. The sound became unbearable. My eye lids threw themselves open. Whether it was because the sound rattled them ajar or because I wanted to see the slug enter through one side of my skull and exit leaving a crater the size of a large tropical fruit on the other, I don't know. I pulled the trigger, the hammer flew forward and made contact with the chamber. CLICK. The voices stopped. There was nothing but a sharp, high pitched ringing. My brains weren’t scattered on the wall. My entire body trembled. My twitching eyes were wide and blood shoot, my teeth sore from crushing themselves together, and my right hand had gripped the dresser so hard my claws splintered the wood. I sighed, then pulled out my claws and calmly sheathed the gun. As the sweat subsided I whispered to myself.
“Not today”
I grabbed my belongings, and promptly left the room behind.

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