Magnet
February 9th, 2007, 12:55 AM
Hi there. I really think I'm getting at something here, since I have got the story (mostly) pinned down. This is roughly the beggining of the first chapter. I really like how it's coming along, but let me know what you think. A writer's eye is never as careful as the readers'.
//
Hi there. I really think I'm getting at something here, since I have got the story (mostly) pinned down. This is roughly the beggining of the first chapter. I really like how it's coming along, but let me know what you think. A writer's eye is never as careful as the readers'.
//
The winter rain fell on Jer’s muddled hair. He ruffled it, splattering drops of water around him. His soaked clothes stuck to his bony frame; his sheepskin coat drenched in water. It must have been hours since I’ve been sitting here. It made no difference; he just had to wait. The decaying log he sat on was poking his thighs, but his mind was racing, and he ignored the pain.
He promised. He damned promised. He could not bring himself to leave, no matter how much his body shook, or how his eyes were unable to make anything in the clearing. Right here, I’m sure of that. He tried to look through the foliage of the trees, but the rain covered the slits a dim grey.
Yet he knew this was the right time. They had agreed on it a fortnight before, and neither were to forget. Much less I. All I gave him were three silver coins. Was that really enough?
The wind blew against the flapping leaves, filtering through the branches. They sang a tune most unpleasant to his ears. What he had on him was all he would take with him: his travel-roughened pants, his old leather boots, and his knife. His sword would have raised suspicions, he had thought, and he was forced to leave it behind.
He heard a noise, and drew the knife from his belt. He stumbled forward, and stood his ground to face whatever came, be it a guard, an army, or the damned cripple he had trusted.
But it was a squirrel. It quickly climbed up a tree and huddled in a hole high in its trunk. I wish I could do just the same, he thought as he sat again on the log. The leaves were dripping with rainwater, leaving a musky smell in the dank air. He remembered the night he had talked to the cripple.
A bird had been roasting in the fire, the skin cracking and peeling on its own as Jer approached the lopsided man.
“So, ‘tis you who wants to go with us, eh?” the cripple said with the thick accent of the Mourning Islands.
Jer looked around to see who had heard but it made no matter; he was placing his head in their hands.
“Yes.” He had to be careful to not speak too much. Luckily, he was not the questioning type. Placing his hand in his pocket, he fumbled and handed the cripple three silver coins.
“Tha’ll do.” The cripple nodded in approval, “Meet me within a fortnight,” he grumbled. “We leave at midnight.”
Compared to the rest of the men, Grott, or the Half-Foot as they called him, was taller than most. Jer’s father had told him that he had lost his right foot from an infection, though some whispered it had been during the Ruggs’ Rages, and his father knew less of him than any other gossiping townsfolk did. Either way, the man still proudly wore boots on both of his feet, though his walk was lopsided.
“Now I eat,” said the Half-Foot. A cane was firm in his hand as he strode slowly towards the other Islanders feasting around their hearths. “Don’t you forget.”
You better not forget, cripple. The rain had succumbed, but the tree leaves held enough water to drip for the rest of the night. I cannot go back to the town now. My head would be on a pike faster than I could stutter my last words. It was dark, and he couldn’t see anything. Not that he wanted to, but the warmth of a torch would be welcoming. Except the guards’ torches.
The bitter cold was coursing through his every bone, and he wished that if they caught him, they would have the pity to torch him. But I’m no witch. His lungs were burning, but he cupped his hands around his nose and breathed in deeply.
Outside of the clearing, he could hear movement. He twisted his head, and squinted his eyes, but it was near impossible to see anything. He only heard the cracking of leaves. Damned animals.
“Fancy meeting you here.” A breath rich with mead filled his nostrils. Jer’s breath caught in his throat as he clinched his knife, but a blow to his hand flew it across the clearing.
“Calm there. I’m the Half Foot, not whatever you’re fleeing.”
“How charming.” Jer tried to sound as calm, but his voice betrayed him. He could feel his throat untangling. His hand was throbbing, but he was glad for it all the same. He got on his knees and started to palm the ground, feeling for his knife.
“No, no. No weapons on the boat,” the Half-Foot said.
With that, the Half-Foot took him by his shoulder with his strong hand and pushed him up. He felt Jer's back for a sword or a shield, but he had none. He continued, passing his rough hand on the sides of his legs and hips.
“I'll inspect you later under torch light,” he said, invisible in the murky clearing, “but for now, you’ll follow me.”
//
Hi there. I really think I'm getting at something here, since I have got the story (mostly) pinned down. This is roughly the beggining of the first chapter. I really like how it's coming along, but let me know what you think. A writer's eye is never as careful as the readers'.
//
The winter rain fell on Jer’s muddled hair. He ruffled it, splattering drops of water around him. His soaked clothes stuck to his bony frame; his sheepskin coat drenched in water. It must have been hours since I’ve been sitting here. It made no difference; he just had to wait. The decaying log he sat on was poking his thighs, but his mind was racing, and he ignored the pain.
He promised. He damned promised. He could not bring himself to leave, no matter how much his body shook, or how his eyes were unable to make anything in the clearing. Right here, I’m sure of that. He tried to look through the foliage of the trees, but the rain covered the slits a dim grey.
Yet he knew this was the right time. They had agreed on it a fortnight before, and neither were to forget. Much less I. All I gave him were three silver coins. Was that really enough?
The wind blew against the flapping leaves, filtering through the branches. They sang a tune most unpleasant to his ears. What he had on him was all he would take with him: his travel-roughened pants, his old leather boots, and his knife. His sword would have raised suspicions, he had thought, and he was forced to leave it behind.
He heard a noise, and drew the knife from his belt. He stumbled forward, and stood his ground to face whatever came, be it a guard, an army, or the damned cripple he had trusted.
But it was a squirrel. It quickly climbed up a tree and huddled in a hole high in its trunk. I wish I could do just the same, he thought as he sat again on the log. The leaves were dripping with rainwater, leaving a musky smell in the dank air. He remembered the night he had talked to the cripple.
A bird had been roasting in the fire, the skin cracking and peeling on its own as Jer approached the lopsided man.
“So, ‘tis you who wants to go with us, eh?” the cripple said with the thick accent of the Mourning Islands.
Jer looked around to see who had heard but it made no matter; he was placing his head in their hands.
“Yes.” He had to be careful to not speak too much. Luckily, he was not the questioning type. Placing his hand in his pocket, he fumbled and handed the cripple three silver coins.
“Tha’ll do.” The cripple nodded in approval, “Meet me within a fortnight,” he grumbled. “We leave at midnight.”
Compared to the rest of the men, Grott, or the Half-Foot as they called him, was taller than most. Jer’s father had told him that he had lost his right foot from an infection, though some whispered it had been during the Ruggs’ Rages, and his father knew less of him than any other gossiping townsfolk did. Either way, the man still proudly wore boots on both of his feet, though his walk was lopsided.
“Now I eat,” said the Half-Foot. A cane was firm in his hand as he strode slowly towards the other Islanders feasting around their hearths. “Don’t you forget.”
You better not forget, cripple. The rain had succumbed, but the tree leaves held enough water to drip for the rest of the night. I cannot go back to the town now. My head would be on a pike faster than I could stutter my last words. It was dark, and he couldn’t see anything. Not that he wanted to, but the warmth of a torch would be welcoming. Except the guards’ torches.
The bitter cold was coursing through his every bone, and he wished that if they caught him, they would have the pity to torch him. But I’m no witch. His lungs were burning, but he cupped his hands around his nose and breathed in deeply.
Outside of the clearing, he could hear movement. He twisted his head, and squinted his eyes, but it was near impossible to see anything. He only heard the cracking of leaves. Damned animals.
“Fancy meeting you here.” A breath rich with mead filled his nostrils. Jer’s breath caught in his throat as he clinched his knife, but a blow to his hand flew it across the clearing.
“Calm there. I’m the Half Foot, not whatever you’re fleeing.”
“How charming.” Jer tried to sound as calm, but his voice betrayed him. He could feel his throat untangling. His hand was throbbing, but he was glad for it all the same. He got on his knees and started to palm the ground, feeling for his knife.
“No, no. No weapons on the boat,” the Half-Foot said.
With that, the Half-Foot took him by his shoulder with his strong hand and pushed him up. He felt Jer's back for a sword or a shield, but he had none. He continued, passing his rough hand on the sides of his legs and hips.
“I'll inspect you later under torch light,” he said, invisible in the murky clearing, “but for now, you’ll follow me.”