NpPaintballer09
October 28th, 2003, 02:31 PM
thanks 4 all the advice w/ my last post.
i made some changes and included a couple more paragraphs to the beginning. o btw this is the right place to post these type of things right?
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Outwardly, the town of Henshaw was calm, tranquil even. Yet, if one looked deeper, just below the surface, one would find that there were small things, here and there, that were peculiar. For instance there have been a number of animals viciously savaged recently. The local militia (a group of crotchety, old men, long retired from the Emperor?s Service) has been unable to find any predators in the surrounding wilderness capable of such savagery. Also, there was an armed stranger seen wondering around town, as if he was searching for something.
With midnight almost in sight there were very few people in the local tavern, just the heavy drinkers and late-risers. Amidst them sat this newcomer. He had a very threatening appearance. Long black hair that just reached his shoulders and a huge black coat gave him a vagrant look. He was just starting on his soup when the serving woman came over to ask him if he wanted more ale.
"Yeah," he murmured coldly, never looking up. He didn't even bother to lift up his mug. The woman frowned, hurriedly poured him some more and moved on to another table, muttering harshly under her breath. After serving some of the other customers, she retreated to the kitchen, from where she continued to throw glares in his direction.
The man ate his soup. Consisting of sparse bits of chicken in a vegetable broth, it was not very good, but it would suffice. His work in this village would be quick. He already knew that his mark was somewhere on the east side of town. A few arrangements, then the hit, and he was gone.
He shifted in his seat. His sword rattled against the wooden table as if to let him know it was anxious to be put to use. His sword was his only friend in this world. Human relationships were a thing of the past, yet they lingered in his memory, constantly reaching out to him like a drowning child full of life refusing to die. But he cared not. His work was meant for loners, and the solitude suited him.
He stood up, finished with his meal. The noise in the tavern slowly hushed. He noticed that most people were trying not to be obvious about the way they were staring at him. He extended a callused hand and opened it. A few coppers crashed down onto the table like thunder in the silence. As he made his way to the door all the eyes in the room followed him. Most were especially fixed on the dark, intricately designed sheath that was partially concealed by his black overcoat. Dark blue lines were etched into it, and it was adorned by strange symbols. The sheath curved slightly, conforming to the curved blade it hid from view.
Normally, the man with the sword would never have attracted so much attention to himself, but his mission -- rather his plan for the mission -- required that he was seen by the common folk, so that they would pin the deaths on him. Of course he would be gone by then, but nonetheless it was necessary. He walked outside, leaving the peasants to their gossip.
It was a cold and cloudy night. Being well past sundown there was little activity in the quaint village of Henshaw. All the innocents were sleeping peacefully in bed, not knowing of the evil that awaited their town.
As he walked along the heavily wooded road that led to the outskirts of Henshaw, he thought of the past and what could have been. He had found himself doing this more and more of late and it was troubling him. He needed to focus; the most important part of this mission would take place tomorrow. He could not afford to be swallowed by the past.
He found a nice, big oak tree that overlooked a small creek near the edge of town. It was close to the road, but in small communities like this there was hardly ever bandits to be worrying about. And if his mark came after him, he would know. So he unbuckled his sword, tucked it under his arm, and lay down for a night sure to be full of haunting dreams.
i made some changes and included a couple more paragraphs to the beginning. o btw this is the right place to post these type of things right?
-------------------------------------
Outwardly, the town of Henshaw was calm, tranquil even. Yet, if one looked deeper, just below the surface, one would find that there were small things, here and there, that were peculiar. For instance there have been a number of animals viciously savaged recently. The local militia (a group of crotchety, old men, long retired from the Emperor?s Service) has been unable to find any predators in the surrounding wilderness capable of such savagery. Also, there was an armed stranger seen wondering around town, as if he was searching for something.
With midnight almost in sight there were very few people in the local tavern, just the heavy drinkers and late-risers. Amidst them sat this newcomer. He had a very threatening appearance. Long black hair that just reached his shoulders and a huge black coat gave him a vagrant look. He was just starting on his soup when the serving woman came over to ask him if he wanted more ale.
"Yeah," he murmured coldly, never looking up. He didn't even bother to lift up his mug. The woman frowned, hurriedly poured him some more and moved on to another table, muttering harshly under her breath. After serving some of the other customers, she retreated to the kitchen, from where she continued to throw glares in his direction.
The man ate his soup. Consisting of sparse bits of chicken in a vegetable broth, it was not very good, but it would suffice. His work in this village would be quick. He already knew that his mark was somewhere on the east side of town. A few arrangements, then the hit, and he was gone.
He shifted in his seat. His sword rattled against the wooden table as if to let him know it was anxious to be put to use. His sword was his only friend in this world. Human relationships were a thing of the past, yet they lingered in his memory, constantly reaching out to him like a drowning child full of life refusing to die. But he cared not. His work was meant for loners, and the solitude suited him.
He stood up, finished with his meal. The noise in the tavern slowly hushed. He noticed that most people were trying not to be obvious about the way they were staring at him. He extended a callused hand and opened it. A few coppers crashed down onto the table like thunder in the silence. As he made his way to the door all the eyes in the room followed him. Most were especially fixed on the dark, intricately designed sheath that was partially concealed by his black overcoat. Dark blue lines were etched into it, and it was adorned by strange symbols. The sheath curved slightly, conforming to the curved blade it hid from view.
Normally, the man with the sword would never have attracted so much attention to himself, but his mission -- rather his plan for the mission -- required that he was seen by the common folk, so that they would pin the deaths on him. Of course he would be gone by then, but nonetheless it was necessary. He walked outside, leaving the peasants to their gossip.
It was a cold and cloudy night. Being well past sundown there was little activity in the quaint village of Henshaw. All the innocents were sleeping peacefully in bed, not knowing of the evil that awaited their town.
As he walked along the heavily wooded road that led to the outskirts of Henshaw, he thought of the past and what could have been. He had found himself doing this more and more of late and it was troubling him. He needed to focus; the most important part of this mission would take place tomorrow. He could not afford to be swallowed by the past.
He found a nice, big oak tree that overlooked a small creek near the edge of town. It was close to the road, but in small communities like this there was hardly ever bandits to be worrying about. And if his mark came after him, he would know. So he unbuckled his sword, tucked it under his arm, and lay down for a night sure to be full of haunting dreams.