Sacrifices: Ch. III, A Rude Awakening “Hey, wake up. Hey.”Sacrifices: Ch. III, A Rude Awakening by Neiot
Nimmix experienced a dull pain in her ribs as her wakefulness came flooding back.
“She's awake,” a voice said.
“Hey. Hey,” a second voice said, followed by a pain in the ribs.
Nimmix bust open her eyes once she became rational enough to realize there was someone kicking her, and quite hard too. It was pitch black outside of the tent; she couldn't see the dark figures properly, nor did she recognize their voices. She remained silent until another pain hit her. “Stop,” she pleaded.
“I've checked her for weapons, sir,” a third voice came rustling through the leaves around the backside of her tent. “She couldn't have set traps beyond this point. It's safe to say she's just a hiker.”
“Can't be too sure with these people,” the first male's voice uttered.
Sacrifices: Ch II, Departure “I don't want to leave, mother, but I will make you proud. I promise.”Sacrifices: Ch II, Departure by Neiot
Years past since the day she landed on Nomuehrimn. Nimmix was a young adult, and not a wee wisp of a willow wing could ensnare, entangle, or otherwise snag the long flying wraps of her periwinkle wool scarf as the image of her weeping, somber mother shrank in the distance. The howling of the winds that caused the great long line of willow trees to bend out of her way caused the thick, short braids of her hair fibers dance. Her path was sunlit. Nimmix had a dream, and in that dream, she would walk among celebrities of the highest order, protecting the indigenous tribes of this planet and the next. She practiced her walk, but there was a problem. She was alone, inexperienced, and afraid. She was afraid of failure, prejudice, and judgment. To walk among celebrities, one must have a will of a soldier's Kevlar vest, a heart of lead, and an attitude to move mountain
Sacrifices: Ch. I, Prologue “Sing, little bird, sing. Sing, little bird...Sacrifices: Ch. I, Prologue by Neiot
“Sang lieetel baird. Sang lieetel baird.”
“That's right, sweet pie. Sing little bird...
“Sang lieetel baird.”
“They're not getting us. Sing, sing little bird...
“Sang, sang lieetel baird.”
Whilst cradled in her mother's arms, Nimmix imitated the comforting sounds of her mother's voice. The song vibrated around the silver metallic interior of the ship's cabin. As fancied rumors, like rumors of asteroid collisions, sudden lacking of oxygen supply, and failed landings, were spat out of foolish others, Nimmix hid under her mother's canopying muzzle, ears flat on her head.
“Sleep... sleep, little bird, they're not getting us.”
Nimmix did not know the number of nights had flown by already, but everything looked like n