I am one of whose brain is constantly working; it’s constantly throwing up new ideas, and I am constantly going, “Damnit, not again!”. Rebekah and JK accuse me of stealing all the ideas in the country. They make me laugh; they’re good like that. They’re also very good at picking me up when I am having a down day and ask the dreaded question of “do you think I am a good writer?”

I have enough WIPs going at the moment, so I am not going to be starting anything any time soon. Well, not gonna start anything properly. But sometimes you just gotta scribble something down just to get it to shut up. I find prologues are good like that.

So, have a scribbly prologue, as an early Christmas treat. It’s very rough, but it sort of shows what my brain leaks out when I try and keep it shut. I’ll try and put up the beginning of Lionheart later in the week.

That night, a hero died.

His battlefield was not some strange and sandy place, some country on the other side of the world. No, his battlefield was his home, that place he had chosen to protect, and had risen up out of the darkness to protect those who could not protect themselves.

The battle had raged on the tops of roofs, that spot out of reach from the common person. It raged in the early hours of the morning, when every, it seemed, other sane person had long since turned off their lights and gone to bed.

This was insanity, and he knew it. But somebody had to do it. Somebody had to go out there, face hidden from the world and save it while it slept. Well, perhaps not the world, but this city at least.

The fight was brutal, blows coming thick and fast. Sometimes he landed them, and sometimes they were landed on him. One blow – was it lucky? Not for him at least – struck him on the corner of the eye, and he staggered, just for half a second.

But still, half a second was still half a second too much. It was just the opening his opponent had been waiting for, and both sides knew it. A few more blows and he was flat on his back, staring up at the person who had defeated him. A boot pressed down against his throat kept him from struggling too much, although it did not keep him from trying.

The victor reached behind them and withdrew the gun. The hero closed his eyes – it was not cowardice, he told himself in his last moments. Nothing he had done these past thirty years was cowardice.

“Take a bow, Nightshadow.”

The gun went off, and there was one less hero protecting the streets.