hgsouth
June 5th, 2007, 09:50 AM
Ok, this is a short beginning that I've written. I'd love any and all criticism. Just don't mindlessly bash, please :p
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~*~
She found the sword lying in the grass, half buried in the damp loam under the boughs of an old oak. She was too young at first to quite grasp the significance of what she had just found, but it intrigued her nonetheless. It also scared her.
She had been out gathering some wildflowers for her mother, a new habit she had begun only a week before, but instead of taking the path to the town she had decided to walk through the meadow behind her family’s house. Upon reaching the first line of trees of the Forest, she had begun to pick her flowers, stuffing her small fist with the stems of Lilyboughs, Red Hawks, and Never-wilts. The flowers were more scarce in the damp, shady forest, and without even realizing it she had wandered far and found herself deep in the woods with no sense of direction whatsoever.
Instead of being scared, like most girls of six summers would be, she had felt an odd sensation of wonder at the giant moss covered trunks of the old Pine and Old Sage trees that surrounded her. Bouquet left on a nearby log, she had begun to weave herself into a fairy tale filled with Hedge Gnomes and handsome Princes, characters that had often made an appearance in the bedtime stories her Granny always spun.
She had been twirling around in the imaginary throes of battle—a magnificent Elven queen fighting off a Marauder Dragon—when she had tripped over a root and flopped to her stomach in the soft undergrowth. Shouting her imaginary war-cries, she had braced herself to leap up into battle once again when her hand had pushed against something cold and hard. Immediately she had been stunned by a searing pain in her hand and blinded by a white flash that stole her vision and seemed to emanate from within her skull.
In a moment, her vision had returned and with it a stream of tears and a while later a small choked sob. She had looked at her hand to see a crimson line that was dripping blood down her arm and onto the rolled up sleeve of her brother’s old tunic. Biting her lip and fighting off more tears, she had squeezed her fist, causing even more blood to come through her fingers and cover her entire hand. As her senses returned, she had looked down to see what had caused this rude interruption to her fantasy.
And now she found herself staring at the half-uncovered blade of the sword.
Brushing a lock of brown hair out of her face, wound momentarily forgotten, she cautiously picked away a few leaves and pine clumps, clearing off more of the blade. It was burnished with age, the edges notched and worn. Cautiously, she reached out to touch the steel with the thumb of her uninjured hand. Oddly enough, the metal did not feel cool anymore—it felt almost warm. A small vibration caused her to pull her thumb back, startled. She began to pick away more pine needles and then began to try to uncover the rest of the weapon which was buried in the dirt. Occasionally her fingers would touch the metal and she would feel the peculiar vibration coming from the sword. To her it felt like a bee when you accidentally put your hand on it, just before it stung.
She had just begun to unearth the hilt and was attempting to get her good hand around the ancient pommel when she heard a strange keening sound coming through the trees. The sword had so entranced her that she had not even realized that the sun had begun its slow descent into the Eahlhorn mountains, and soon the entire forest and town would be cast in shadow.
People of the swift shadow. This was the nickname given to the people who lived under the protective wing of the vast mountain range. She didn’t think the shadow was swift at all, however. Her young sense of time perceived that from the time her mother demanded she come in from playtime to the time it actually was dark was an enormous waste of time. To her, twilight seemed to last forever, and usually resulted in her staring longingly out her window, elbows on the sill and chin in her palms.
Never before had she been in the forest when the shadow had descended, and now she realized just how dark it could become. Her grandmother’s stories were chock full of the beasts that were said to have inhabited the woods in ages gone, but now she wasn’t so sure if her granny had been entirely accurate when she said that the beasts had long since moved to more northern lands. After all, she had never said the beasts didn’t exist.
She held her breath, motionless. Her attention drawn away from the blade, she now began to feel the pain of the gash in her left hand. Looking down, she noticed that warm red blood was still coming out of the cut. She brought her hand up to her face to examine the wound—burning now—more closely. Tears started to well up in her large brown eyes and dribble down her sun-browned cheeks.
The keening cry came again. Muted from the gathering mists, it seemed to come from everywhere at once, and did not echo through the surrounding mountainside as most sounds did. Inhaling sharply, she emitted a small squeak and noticed that she was dripping blood onto the blade of the sword.
Louder now, the keening cry seemed to cut right through her body. All thoughts of the sword and her flowers now forgotten, she scrambled to her feet and started to run in the direction she thought she had come from. The dark was gathering swiftly. Her heart began to beat faster as panic—an emotion mostly unknown to her young personality—descended like a bear upon a tired salmon.
She was sobbing freely now, all thoughts of trying to be tough like her brother lost amid the torrent of fear that coursed through her body. She had to go to the bathroom, she realized in the back of her mind. This was like when she played hide and seek with Raymo and Kirs, the two boys who lived on the next farm. The frantic excitement of being barely hidden as they walked past was usually fun. This felt the same, but now all the fun was gone.
Imagination running rampant, she was convinced that a Great Bear taller than her house would be upon her in an instant. She could almost smell its acrid breath as it licked its yellow teeth—teeth like the bully dog that once chased her from Arnot’s Grove last week, causing her to run crying into the arms of her father. Oh how she longed to see the familiar sight of the meadow with her house just over the small hill! The fog was growing ever more thick, rising from the ground and curling around the trees. In a few moments she would not be able to see more than a few marks ahead of herself.
Suddenly her small legs began to feel weak and unsteady; she felt as though she were floating, although when she looked at the ground her feet were firmly planted. She slowed down to a trot, then leaned back against the damp bark of an old Sage tree. The swirling fog made her head spin, and the throbbing pain of her hand could almost be heard in her ears. Every time it hurt, she heard a dull thud. Another story of her grandmother’s floated to her consciousness. The war drums of the Dark Elf army! Panic once more shot through her mind and momentarily her pain subsided. She began to take a few more steps, then stopped short as the sound of crunching leaves from something other than her own feet reached her ears.
Horrified, she slumped to the ground, red spots dancing in her vision. A dark shape began to materialize in the fog, tall and broad shouldered, and carrying a long staff. Time seemed to slow as the figure rose up before her. Oh father…where are you? Why can’t I find the house? I’m sorry I got lost, I won’t stay out past dark again…
The figure was running now, steps becoming dull thuds that rattled her brain. I wanted to tell Ced that I found—
Blackness came on her suddenly, and she slumped quietly to the damp forest floor.
----------
~*~
She found the sword lying in the grass, half buried in the damp loam under the boughs of an old oak. She was too young at first to quite grasp the significance of what she had just found, but it intrigued her nonetheless. It also scared her.
She had been out gathering some wildflowers for her mother, a new habit she had begun only a week before, but instead of taking the path to the town she had decided to walk through the meadow behind her family’s house. Upon reaching the first line of trees of the Forest, she had begun to pick her flowers, stuffing her small fist with the stems of Lilyboughs, Red Hawks, and Never-wilts. The flowers were more scarce in the damp, shady forest, and without even realizing it she had wandered far and found herself deep in the woods with no sense of direction whatsoever.
Instead of being scared, like most girls of six summers would be, she had felt an odd sensation of wonder at the giant moss covered trunks of the old Pine and Old Sage trees that surrounded her. Bouquet left on a nearby log, she had begun to weave herself into a fairy tale filled with Hedge Gnomes and handsome Princes, characters that had often made an appearance in the bedtime stories her Granny always spun.
She had been twirling around in the imaginary throes of battle—a magnificent Elven queen fighting off a Marauder Dragon—when she had tripped over a root and flopped to her stomach in the soft undergrowth. Shouting her imaginary war-cries, she had braced herself to leap up into battle once again when her hand had pushed against something cold and hard. Immediately she had been stunned by a searing pain in her hand and blinded by a white flash that stole her vision and seemed to emanate from within her skull.
In a moment, her vision had returned and with it a stream of tears and a while later a small choked sob. She had looked at her hand to see a crimson line that was dripping blood down her arm and onto the rolled up sleeve of her brother’s old tunic. Biting her lip and fighting off more tears, she had squeezed her fist, causing even more blood to come through her fingers and cover her entire hand. As her senses returned, she had looked down to see what had caused this rude interruption to her fantasy.
And now she found herself staring at the half-uncovered blade of the sword.
Brushing a lock of brown hair out of her face, wound momentarily forgotten, she cautiously picked away a few leaves and pine clumps, clearing off more of the blade. It was burnished with age, the edges notched and worn. Cautiously, she reached out to touch the steel with the thumb of her uninjured hand. Oddly enough, the metal did not feel cool anymore—it felt almost warm. A small vibration caused her to pull her thumb back, startled. She began to pick away more pine needles and then began to try to uncover the rest of the weapon which was buried in the dirt. Occasionally her fingers would touch the metal and she would feel the peculiar vibration coming from the sword. To her it felt like a bee when you accidentally put your hand on it, just before it stung.
She had just begun to unearth the hilt and was attempting to get her good hand around the ancient pommel when she heard a strange keening sound coming through the trees. The sword had so entranced her that she had not even realized that the sun had begun its slow descent into the Eahlhorn mountains, and soon the entire forest and town would be cast in shadow.
People of the swift shadow. This was the nickname given to the people who lived under the protective wing of the vast mountain range. She didn’t think the shadow was swift at all, however. Her young sense of time perceived that from the time her mother demanded she come in from playtime to the time it actually was dark was an enormous waste of time. To her, twilight seemed to last forever, and usually resulted in her staring longingly out her window, elbows on the sill and chin in her palms.
Never before had she been in the forest when the shadow had descended, and now she realized just how dark it could become. Her grandmother’s stories were chock full of the beasts that were said to have inhabited the woods in ages gone, but now she wasn’t so sure if her granny had been entirely accurate when she said that the beasts had long since moved to more northern lands. After all, she had never said the beasts didn’t exist.
She held her breath, motionless. Her attention drawn away from the blade, she now began to feel the pain of the gash in her left hand. Looking down, she noticed that warm red blood was still coming out of the cut. She brought her hand up to her face to examine the wound—burning now—more closely. Tears started to well up in her large brown eyes and dribble down her sun-browned cheeks.
The keening cry came again. Muted from the gathering mists, it seemed to come from everywhere at once, and did not echo through the surrounding mountainside as most sounds did. Inhaling sharply, she emitted a small squeak and noticed that she was dripping blood onto the blade of the sword.
Louder now, the keening cry seemed to cut right through her body. All thoughts of the sword and her flowers now forgotten, she scrambled to her feet and started to run in the direction she thought she had come from. The dark was gathering swiftly. Her heart began to beat faster as panic—an emotion mostly unknown to her young personality—descended like a bear upon a tired salmon.
She was sobbing freely now, all thoughts of trying to be tough like her brother lost amid the torrent of fear that coursed through her body. She had to go to the bathroom, she realized in the back of her mind. This was like when she played hide and seek with Raymo and Kirs, the two boys who lived on the next farm. The frantic excitement of being barely hidden as they walked past was usually fun. This felt the same, but now all the fun was gone.
Imagination running rampant, she was convinced that a Great Bear taller than her house would be upon her in an instant. She could almost smell its acrid breath as it licked its yellow teeth—teeth like the bully dog that once chased her from Arnot’s Grove last week, causing her to run crying into the arms of her father. Oh how she longed to see the familiar sight of the meadow with her house just over the small hill! The fog was growing ever more thick, rising from the ground and curling around the trees. In a few moments she would not be able to see more than a few marks ahead of herself.
Suddenly her small legs began to feel weak and unsteady; she felt as though she were floating, although when she looked at the ground her feet were firmly planted. She slowed down to a trot, then leaned back against the damp bark of an old Sage tree. The swirling fog made her head spin, and the throbbing pain of her hand could almost be heard in her ears. Every time it hurt, she heard a dull thud. Another story of her grandmother’s floated to her consciousness. The war drums of the Dark Elf army! Panic once more shot through her mind and momentarily her pain subsided. She began to take a few more steps, then stopped short as the sound of crunching leaves from something other than her own feet reached her ears.
Horrified, she slumped to the ground, red spots dancing in her vision. A dark shape began to materialize in the fog, tall and broad shouldered, and carrying a long staff. Time seemed to slow as the figure rose up before her. Oh father…where are you? Why can’t I find the house? I’m sorry I got lost, I won’t stay out past dark again…
The figure was running now, steps becoming dull thuds that rattled her brain. I wanted to tell Ced that I found—
Blackness came on her suddenly, and she slumped quietly to the damp forest floor.