Novel Prologue...There's Not Really a Title

[Ante Bellum]

I'm changing a few things around, like names, etc., later. For now it's just a draft, but I want to know what everyone thinks.
I'm planning on putting in some Christian tones farther in, but it's not apparent here.
WARNING: Some mild language, and they're in a bar so there's drinking, etc. Admins can delete this if they think it's necessary. I'd say it's PG-13.


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The last day of the Season of Harvest, Cycle 5208.
That was all that was written on the back of the photograph. The statement was written in a heavy hand, impressed permanently even to this day. If the ink had faded into nothingness, the words could still be seen. It was written in an untrained hand, one unaccustomed to handling small objects like pens, and it spoke of youth and of its writer. It was written like memory’s lifeline, as if after all these years a mind could forget.
The photograph was turned over and the faces of that group faced her again.
It was aged, but the detail was still remarkable after all these years. Their uniforms, once a rich blood color, now showed as a dark, dull red-brown like the soil of iron-rich earth. The grass had faded to an olive green. But the detail showed to this day like it had been so long ago.
The group stood in three rows, standing at the back and kneeling at the front, the middle section crouching to show above the heads of the front row. The writer was at the back, her pale face framed by short, black hair. It didn’t show in the picture, but she held a pair of dark glasses in one hand, and after the picture she had returned them to their rightful position. Her eyes were exposed here: bright and cold, a pale blue, almost white, that seemed to pierce the soul. However, she wore a quick smirk that broke up any petulant look she would have otherwise had.
They all were smiling, pride showing on their faces without any effort of hiding it. There was no reason to.
The writer cringed at the memory. It had been a bittersweet moment in her history: that day had been filled with promises, but there was a darker intention behind gathering them together.
The writer placed with picture face down on the bar, hiding their faces. They seemed too carefree for that time.
“So that was your group?â€

[Esoteric]

Apparently this got buried--I hadn't noticed it until now. It's a pretty interesting beginning. Even with the breaks, it was occasionally hard to know who was speaking...perhaps because they are both female and go without names for most of the section, but over all you seem to write well. Good luck with this.

[Midori]

Yes, this is very good. It really makes me want to read more of it. Aside from what Esoteric said, the only real flaw I can see is that it begins from the writer's point of view, and ends from Mythril's point of view. If it had an omniscient point of view, this would make sense, but it doesn't read that way.

[Ante Bellum]

Yeah, I noticed that it was a little confusing as well. I am going to try and fix it when making the final changes. Currently I am a little ways into the first chapter.

[Lady Kenshin]

I like it!

[Ante Bellum]

CHAPTER 1 -- PART 1

Just a small uploaded part here, the chapter is still being written but I want to know what everyone thinks of it.
Note: This does take place before the prologue. I'm working in a calendar system but decided to leave it out for now.
Still maintains the PG-13 label. Some swearing and mentions of blood and wars.
Also, if anyone has questions I'd like to answer them. It could get a little confusing, especially between updates and such.

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The rocks and gravel were ground under her bare foot, both the same to the thick, heavily calloused soles that tread the earth. Mythril squinted towards the sky, raising her hand against the bright sun. The consistent chugging and grinding of the pneumatic presses and the occasional explosion could be heard, testimony to the long-running project to level out the hills around the Lowlands.
She was tracking the beast that had passed through this area not long before. Thermal sensors, located under her cheekbones, pulsed as she raised her face skyward. Even so, she could not pick up any traces. There was not even a faint heat trail amidst the cold.
Mythril would have tracked it from the air, but this was unfriendly territory and anything foreign was gunned down as fast as the machine guns could be loaded. It was risky to go by foot, as well, but she could keep a closer eye on her immediate surroundings.
Her sword hung from her back, as it always had. The weight had become a welcome burden, even while she carried handguns. The blade was still in the same condition it had been when it was first forged, well over four cycles prior. It was holy mythril, her namesake, and had quickly become her most prized possession. Bahchruhskrah, devilbane, was its name.
The wind picked up, sighing the names of fallen warriors who had fought in this land long ago. The Syighrin Lowlands had been a battleground in several wars, including the Brother Wars, the disastrous struggle for control between the Hiehrsh and Kyrukk. Fierce, defiant Fire and stubborn Water had nearly brought an end to the world as both continued to clash, tearing through neutral, enemy, and even ally countries.
Mythril blinked hard at the memory. It had taken years of rebuilding after the end of the war to return the world to some form of inhabitable land. The poison still seemed to cling in the air, thick and heavy. The soil looked red from the lifeblood spilt over time.
She looked forward again and sprinted over the land, legs pounding into the earth like the pneumatic presses expanding the Lowlands. Her sword slapped against her leg, protected only by the leather cloak that showed the multiple scuffs and sewn-up holes caused by the blade.
The beast shouldn’t have been too hard to track, especially through this terrain, where thick dust would have disclosed anything’s passing. There was little wind to cover any such tracks, and there had been no rain for weeks to even out the inconsistencies.
They hadn’t gotten smarter in such a short amount of time, to learn how to effectively cover tracks.
I’m late, Mythril thought as she ran. I’m too **** far behind!
Wherever it could be now, she couldn’t wager a guess.
Mythril reached for the phone clipped to her belt. Keuhaon’s number, on speed-dial, was already going through as the woman raised it to her ear.
“Right here, Mythril,” the voice answered her.
“Do you have anything? I lost it!” Mythril almost roared into the speaker.
“Hold on, let me check up on it,” Keuhaon replied. Mythril heard shuffling, as if he had to run to his computers. “What do you mean you lost it? You were only a day behind it; it’s not that fast…” he trailed off for a moment. Then: “I don’t see it, either. It’s not coming up on any radars. Are you sure your tracker’s working right?”
Mythril’s feet dug into the ground as she stopped. “No, it died a while back.” She flexed her toes to dislodge any stubborn rocks.
“That would explain it. Want me to call for Aerial Hunters?”
Mythril replaced her foot on the ground. A faint whistling caught the mouthpiece as she let the air in her lungs pass between her teeth. “Yeah, call them.”

[Ante Bellum]

Just noticed--it's supposed to be four HUNDRED cycles ago that the sword was made. Sorry.