As I've mentioned in the Introduction thread, I am an "author-in-progress" so to speak. I tend to have many ideas, and never the time to sit down and write them out properly. So I am only able to write in spurts.
I hope my new method of planning will help with this.
If you like, I offer a small sampling of my prose. Please, PLEASE do not steal any of my ideas, names, etc., as I plan to publish the material.
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The temperature dropped fast. The vast study, with its books strewn about, plummeted into a flickering darkness. He stood just below the coldly glinting chandelier in the center of the room.
“You come to me now?” A cloud of breath billowed from thin, bloodless lips. He turned slowly, dramatically, to regard the man hovering in the doorway, “You come to me now, to kill me?” He asked again, a mocking lilt edging his voice.
“To kill you,” The man in the doorway replied, drawing a sword from his side. The blade slid out and the edges gleamed coldly, “To have my revenge for this madness, I will kill you Ibial.”
Ibial laughed then, his hands sweeping outward to gesture to an invisible audience. He spun around, his velvet black robes twisting about his sickly frame, “There is method in this madness!” He brought a long, pale hand to his chin, half-covering the bemused smile upon his face.
“You will die.” The sword came up, to point accusingly at the Magi in the middle of the room, “You will die, accursed magician, I will be the one who will kill you! Your blood will be upon my blade!”
“You are upset now. Poor ignorant Riléc,” Ibial’s back still faced Riléc, who stood in the doorway. He could strike at any time. He did not. Ibial turned his head back toward the sword wielding man, looking over his shoulder, “How can you kill me…. when you are already dead?”
~
The stubs of candles on the mantelpiece flickered as a sudden wind blasted in through the door with a bang. The patrons of the inn shivered as a heavily cloaked man wrestled with the battered hulk of a door. The icy wind halted, and the man heaved a huge sigh, leaning heavily against the wall.
“T’sa bigg’in.” He announced in a deep grunt, “Knew winter was cummin’, but came too fast ‘f ya ask me.”
“Hail ye ta that,” The barkeep agreed, scrubbing at a grimy glass, “So what brings ya t’ these parts, Crais? No noblemen ‘r in need of yer sword right now, aye?”
“Aye.” Crais removed his hood and pulled off his cloak awkwardly, “Yew remember that youngling boy I brough’ in, say ‘bout ten years back? Y’know, th’ boy who could only speak tha’ Elvish language, er whatnot?”
The barkeep scratched at his short, graying beard, “Ah, th’ boy, Riam, was’is name, tha righ’?” He noticed Crais’s hair, which had been chestnut brown the last time he had seen him, was now highlighted by multitudes of grey.
“Aye,” Crais nodded, “Tha’s th’ one. I hear ‘is name now ‘n then, somethin’ ‘bout th’ rise of th’ Gods.” The barkeep’s steady polishing slowed, until it stopped completely. He regarded Crais with steady eyes. Crais rubbed his chin, scratching at the stubble with blunt fingernails.
“Nay, never heard nuthin’ like that,” He frowned and picked up the glass again, not really putting much effort into polishing it. Crais looked thoughtful, leaning on his elbows, “Why would that learn’d boy trouble ‘imself with Gods an’ Temples ‘s? ‘S beyond me. His swordsmanship was fine, finer, almost then ye.”
“I dunna,” Replied Crais, shrugging out of his broadsword. He was safe in the Inn, there would be no need for a sword. At least, he hoped. The rumors of war had been growing, and the march of the third battalion of the Imperial Army was troublesome.
“So why were ye lookin’ fer ‘im?” The bar had gone almost deathly silent.
“I dunna…” Crais said again.
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Thank you for reading. <=) Ibial's name, in case anyone was wondering, is pronounced Ib-ee-uhl, I as in "ick", two syllables [Ibi-al].
~N.W.
