Vroomfondel
November 10th, 2001, 05:35 AM
Please let me know what you think of this prologue that I've written, and please don't hold back criticism. Thanks. http://www.sffworld.com/ubb/smile.gif
PROLOGUE.
Old and wiry, Gradner Plank surveyed the scene with disgust and disbelief. His ramshackle wagon had fallen off of the small, hard-packed dirt path and into a murky puddle of the surrounding swamp. Cabello, Gradner’s horse, was placidly chewing a morsel of grass, up to her hooves in slime. The left wheel and the twelve sacks of grain which had fallen off of the cart moments before, was no where to be seen. The sky was obscured by an ugly gray blanket of clouds, although here and there a small patch of
ar-sprinkled firmament was visible. Dead trees, even more gnarled than old Gradner, protruded from the soil, their bare, spindly branches reaching upwards like damned souls cursing their god with raised arms and cclenched fists. Milkweeds and cat’s tails
psprouted near the edge of the path, fringing pools of thick, murky slime. A heavy fog shrouded the swamp in an impenetrable cloak, from which the sounds of crickets and frogs echoed distantly. The distinct, putrid scent of marsh gas hung in the air like a llimp rag, where it assaulted the nose of Gradner and any other unfortunate souls lost in the Crochet Swamp.
Gradner wrung his bony hands together in dismay. He’d been one of the farmers selected to bring the levy of grain from Weedpatch to the capital city of Lamath. Every year the able-bodied villagers drew straws to see who would go to deliver to the tribute; this year Gradner had been selected. How he wished how he’d listened to his wife when she pleaded that he stay behind, that he was too old, that the villagers select someone eelse.....
But that had never been his way. He was always fiercely independent, and though he might regret his hasty decisions now, that never kept him from jumping ahead to do what looked like a good idea at the time. And buying a map to Lamath from a grizzled old troll had seemed like an excellent idea to Gradner, especially with that attractive shortcut through Crochet Swamp on it. So here he was: in the middle of the night, completely alone, with a broken wagon, no food, and in the Crochet Swamp of all places.
An ominous sound reverberated across the murky lake and slime pits of the Swamp, chilling Gradner to the marrow of his bones. He gripped the remnant of his wagon until his knuckles turned white. He cowered like a rabbit, crouched down with his eyes app
hensively scanning the perimeter. When the noise returned it was almost enough to make Gradner scream, until he recognized it for what it was: the hooting of an owl.
He exhaled as relief swept over him like an ocean wave, his heart thudding against his chest. He mustn’t let his imagination do that to him, he had to get a grip and figure out how to either leave the swamp or spend the night. But that wasn’t easy, when your heart beat like a company of drummers and you kept thinking of every story you ever heard involving ghouls, ghosts, and netherworld demons.....the smell didn’t help you think much, either, thought Gradner as he wrinkled his nose in disgust. This pl
e smelt worse than a privy. It was said there was so much gas in Crochet Swamp that if you were to light a torch, the entire continent would explode. Gradner never believed such an exaggeration, of course; he figured that only about half of the swamp would explode.
Suddenly the wall of silence that encompassed the area was shattered by a strange, low noise: HHHHHSSSSSSS..... Gradner gripped his wagon once again even as the cold hand of fear gripped his heart and squeezed in an icy handshake. His knees shook uncon
ollably. Sweat poured down his face in huge quantities. What the hell was that? Whatever it was, it was definitely no owl this time. It sounded not unlike a snake, but what kind of snake was large enough to produce a sound that loud? Gradner shuttered to think of it.
HHHHHHSSSSSSSSS.......
The noise returned, stabbing through the air like a poniard. Gradner couldn’t help himself. He sank to his knees on dirt path and moaned. There was a rustling in the bushes nearby, and a low growling followed by the mysterious HHHHSSSSSSS..... this time
much closer than before.
Gradner fell down on all fours, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. He was, in the farthest corner of his mind, behind the fear, the fear that enveloped all thoughts and emotion, aware of the indignity of his current position, on his hands and knees like an animal, scared out of his wits.
HHHHSSSSSSSS.....the noise returned, this time so close that the thing--whatever it was--couldn’t be more than a few meters away. Gradner never had the time to reflect that while the rest of his body was paralyzed with fear, his head somehow was able to lift itself up.
The omnipresent mist obscured the shape of the creature, but two eyes, glowing red like peepholes into hell, glared at Gradner with the intensity of miniature suns. For a moment, their gazes locked: the primal, despairing stare of the prey as it looked up into the eyes of its hunter.
The beast was on top of him before he could scream.
PROLOGUE.
Old and wiry, Gradner Plank surveyed the scene with disgust and disbelief. His ramshackle wagon had fallen off of the small, hard-packed dirt path and into a murky puddle of the surrounding swamp. Cabello, Gradner’s horse, was placidly chewing a morsel of grass, up to her hooves in slime. The left wheel and the twelve sacks of grain which had fallen off of the cart moments before, was no where to be seen. The sky was obscured by an ugly gray blanket of clouds, although here and there a small patch of
ar-sprinkled firmament was visible. Dead trees, even more gnarled than old Gradner, protruded from the soil, their bare, spindly branches reaching upwards like damned souls cursing their god with raised arms and cclenched fists. Milkweeds and cat’s tails
psprouted near the edge of the path, fringing pools of thick, murky slime. A heavy fog shrouded the swamp in an impenetrable cloak, from which the sounds of crickets and frogs echoed distantly. The distinct, putrid scent of marsh gas hung in the air like a llimp rag, where it assaulted the nose of Gradner and any other unfortunate souls lost in the Crochet Swamp.
Gradner wrung his bony hands together in dismay. He’d been one of the farmers selected to bring the levy of grain from Weedpatch to the capital city of Lamath. Every year the able-bodied villagers drew straws to see who would go to deliver to the tribute; this year Gradner had been selected. How he wished how he’d listened to his wife when she pleaded that he stay behind, that he was too old, that the villagers select someone eelse.....
But that had never been his way. He was always fiercely independent, and though he might regret his hasty decisions now, that never kept him from jumping ahead to do what looked like a good idea at the time. And buying a map to Lamath from a grizzled old troll had seemed like an excellent idea to Gradner, especially with that attractive shortcut through Crochet Swamp on it. So here he was: in the middle of the night, completely alone, with a broken wagon, no food, and in the Crochet Swamp of all places.
An ominous sound reverberated across the murky lake and slime pits of the Swamp, chilling Gradner to the marrow of his bones. He gripped the remnant of his wagon until his knuckles turned white. He cowered like a rabbit, crouched down with his eyes app
hensively scanning the perimeter. When the noise returned it was almost enough to make Gradner scream, until he recognized it for what it was: the hooting of an owl.
He exhaled as relief swept over him like an ocean wave, his heart thudding against his chest. He mustn’t let his imagination do that to him, he had to get a grip and figure out how to either leave the swamp or spend the night. But that wasn’t easy, when your heart beat like a company of drummers and you kept thinking of every story you ever heard involving ghouls, ghosts, and netherworld demons.....the smell didn’t help you think much, either, thought Gradner as he wrinkled his nose in disgust. This pl
e smelt worse than a privy. It was said there was so much gas in Crochet Swamp that if you were to light a torch, the entire continent would explode. Gradner never believed such an exaggeration, of course; he figured that only about half of the swamp would explode.
Suddenly the wall of silence that encompassed the area was shattered by a strange, low noise: HHHHHSSSSSSS..... Gradner gripped his wagon once again even as the cold hand of fear gripped his heart and squeezed in an icy handshake. His knees shook uncon
ollably. Sweat poured down his face in huge quantities. What the hell was that? Whatever it was, it was definitely no owl this time. It sounded not unlike a snake, but what kind of snake was large enough to produce a sound that loud? Gradner shuttered to think of it.
HHHHHHSSSSSSSSS.......
The noise returned, stabbing through the air like a poniard. Gradner couldn’t help himself. He sank to his knees on dirt path and moaned. There was a rustling in the bushes nearby, and a low growling followed by the mysterious HHHHSSSSSSS..... this time
much closer than before.
Gradner fell down on all fours, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. He was, in the farthest corner of his mind, behind the fear, the fear that enveloped all thoughts and emotion, aware of the indignity of his current position, on his hands and knees like an animal, scared out of his wits.
HHHHSSSSSSSS.....the noise returned, this time so close that the thing--whatever it was--couldn’t be more than a few meters away. Gradner never had the time to reflect that while the rest of his body was paralyzed with fear, his head somehow was able to lift itself up.
The omnipresent mist obscured the shape of the creature, but two eyes, glowing red like peepholes into hell, glared at Gradner with the intensity of miniature suns. For a moment, their gazes locked: the primal, despairing stare of the prey as it looked up into the eyes of its hunter.
The beast was on top of him before he could scream.