Post by Cy Skywalker on Feb 1, 2005 15:25:13 GMT -5
Ok, so I had this awesomness idea the other night, and I wrote this. What I want you to tell me about this first section is who do you think is telling it; and can you tell anything about the character of that person, what is going on with the world, and what happens at the end? There will be more to the story, I think. I just need to know how this looks.
Blythe Anwin, tomboy leader of the group. Her face is sharp, hawklike it would be described in the more flattering or martial paragraphs. Her fair hair is short and spiky despite the weeks in forested wilderness with no midievil barber within any distance as the...what is the canon term? As the marshcrow flies. She wears light black clothing, marking her a deadly serious character. A thin foil-sword hangs in its manner at her right hip, silver and gold and smooth shining. So she is left handed. Interesting detail. She walks with confidence and even steps.
Pithlit of Maars-on-Blackavar, thin scribe and compiler of the trio’s adventures. Every writer wants to be remembered, this one just makes it obvious. He is dressed in a brown tunic and tight pants, style reviled by the twenty-first century but appropriate for here, and another detail. Their maker is good. They just deserve better. Pithlit carries the typical bag of unorganized papers and scrolls, spilling them out occasionally along the road where the third traveler absently picks them up and stuffs them back in, adding to the mess. Most of it is weathered texts, maps of beautiful quality crumpled and watermarked, or the young scribe’s own little runic sentences. There is a sheathed dagger at his belt above the waistline, a cruder weapon than Blythe’s.
Maddik, the alien warrior. Well Elven, really, but in this genre the two shall the same thing. His ears are pointed, his skin ivory, his eyes blue-green and large. With occasional glances or slow smiles his feelings for Blythe are apparent, though when that passes or is shoved away he is pure hardened warrior. There is just a band across his chest with a vague blue-green and red pattern worked into it, and the musculature is all to body-builder human. His weapon is a leather whip coiled at his massive side, and his walk is that of the tamed predator. He has no background. He is far to mysterious for that.
They are traveling through a forest of oak like trees, that first of the two fantasy forest types, light and airy. The path is scrufflily fighting to not be covered by grass, and no talking is done until they have reached a stream of blue and white that rushes across the path. A flat bridge has been built across from one rock to another, but
“Looks like a fine place to camp.” Pithlit says. The dialogue is good. You could almost feel for this trio.
Skip to the future. The baddie is nowhere near as well done as the heroes, though they are only filling their stereotypical slots. He has no motive, evil eyes and black shining armor, and will beat Blythe in the dueling manner of the canon before she bravely stands up again and, by the force of her will and a never really explained system of magic that all depends on confidence, annihilalate him in a satisfyingly described explosion.
So they settle there, and Maddik breaks the plentiful dry wood, and Pithlit sits and spreads his papers out, and Blythe blows on the fire and cups her hands around it and there is a little flame.
What they see next is not uncommon in their world. It is not uncommon for someone to walk out of the darkness into the firelight, and the shadows throw themselves against the new face with flattering patterns of shadow and orange flame-natural neon.
But this one does not fit into the world. They know this, and a new kind of fear shivers through them. The eyes catch them, though there is nothing special about them. They are tints of green and yellow in this light, and black in the pupils like a smooth painted marble. Normal. The shape is human, the dress peasant’s green-brown and the cape black, skin of a hartebeast. So they see.
“Who goes there?” Blythe calls out, stammering. She will not be able to speak much more, there are no word-conduits now. No silver piping. It has been severed by a twist all the way around, warping, blocking the sequence, leaving her distant.
All of them know now.
They see the figure move foreword, and a silver sword is drawn, simple in it’s elegance. It looks long, but when Blythe comes to meet the blade it is shown to be a trick of perspective. The enemy is small.
clang
clackclackclack
The first three hits are caught on the thin blade of the foil, vertical after the initial tapping introduction. It is not foil style, and Blythe loses many steps. The enemy makes no sound, holds no stance meaning this is test or play or killing match. Simply sees the falter in that last step and, watching herself in Blythe, slides her sword down the foil and to the heroine’s handguard. A twist of the wrist.
Blythe drops her blade. Pithlit sees the cloaked one lightly move her left hand then, and fingers spread place it within touching range of Blythe’s forehead. There are ridged muscles in that hand, and many white scars. He surges from the nest of papers and runs with dagger in hand for the cloaked one, who has turned from Blythe now and settles into stance before him. Blythe is gone then, winked out. Maddik screams, but he is on the other side of the fire. Pithlit goes for the sword-bearer’s left, where the cloak falls away from her raised hand and the forearm is bare and tan.
Maddik sees Pithlit’s knife hand caught in a faultless grip, and then the scribe is on the ground and their enemy’s booted foot on his knife. The scarred hand is held down, and Pithlit never was. And the bright eyes look up and invite.
Maddik screams. He puts his whole powerful and magical being into the first lifting of the whip, but it is but a prelude to strike and already, already though he had not begun his forward run the enemy is within range and dodging that first blow that sinks into the dirt. The point of the sword hits below his armpit and bounces with a flash of colorless light. Elven magic, that, and good stuff. No uncursed blade could touch that skin, but even though it was never realized by the writer of Maddik, the shield is but a natural extension of the Elven physique. Unseen, but like an exoskeleton it protects the skin and lends to it the oceanic tint of colors.
The cloaked one spins away, and the whip comes down again beside her pivoting feet. Again she settles into stance, a movement away from the Elf. He is confidant in his success, and the whip comes up. No warrior expects the same move done the same way the second time to succeed where the first does not. Physics does not work like that.
bbvvrruuuumm
Blythe Anwin, tomboy leader of the group. Her face is sharp, hawklike it would be described in the more flattering or martial paragraphs. Her fair hair is short and spiky despite the weeks in forested wilderness with no midievil barber within any distance as the...what is the canon term? As the marshcrow flies. She wears light black clothing, marking her a deadly serious character. A thin foil-sword hangs in its manner at her right hip, silver and gold and smooth shining. So she is left handed. Interesting detail. She walks with confidence and even steps.
Pithlit of Maars-on-Blackavar, thin scribe and compiler of the trio’s adventures. Every writer wants to be remembered, this one just makes it obvious. He is dressed in a brown tunic and tight pants, style reviled by the twenty-first century but appropriate for here, and another detail. Their maker is good. They just deserve better. Pithlit carries the typical bag of unorganized papers and scrolls, spilling them out occasionally along the road where the third traveler absently picks them up and stuffs them back in, adding to the mess. Most of it is weathered texts, maps of beautiful quality crumpled and watermarked, or the young scribe’s own little runic sentences. There is a sheathed dagger at his belt above the waistline, a cruder weapon than Blythe’s.
Maddik, the alien warrior. Well Elven, really, but in this genre the two shall the same thing. His ears are pointed, his skin ivory, his eyes blue-green and large. With occasional glances or slow smiles his feelings for Blythe are apparent, though when that passes or is shoved away he is pure hardened warrior. There is just a band across his chest with a vague blue-green and red pattern worked into it, and the musculature is all to body-builder human. His weapon is a leather whip coiled at his massive side, and his walk is that of the tamed predator. He has no background. He is far to mysterious for that.
They are traveling through a forest of oak like trees, that first of the two fantasy forest types, light and airy. The path is scrufflily fighting to not be covered by grass, and no talking is done until they have reached a stream of blue and white that rushes across the path. A flat bridge has been built across from one rock to another, but
“Looks like a fine place to camp.” Pithlit says. The dialogue is good. You could almost feel for this trio.
Skip to the future. The baddie is nowhere near as well done as the heroes, though they are only filling their stereotypical slots. He has no motive, evil eyes and black shining armor, and will beat Blythe in the dueling manner of the canon before she bravely stands up again and, by the force of her will and a never really explained system of magic that all depends on confidence, annihilalate him in a satisfyingly described explosion.
So they settle there, and Maddik breaks the plentiful dry wood, and Pithlit sits and spreads his papers out, and Blythe blows on the fire and cups her hands around it and there is a little flame.
What they see next is not uncommon in their world. It is not uncommon for someone to walk out of the darkness into the firelight, and the shadows throw themselves against the new face with flattering patterns of shadow and orange flame-natural neon.
But this one does not fit into the world. They know this, and a new kind of fear shivers through them. The eyes catch them, though there is nothing special about them. They are tints of green and yellow in this light, and black in the pupils like a smooth painted marble. Normal. The shape is human, the dress peasant’s green-brown and the cape black, skin of a hartebeast. So they see.
“Who goes there?” Blythe calls out, stammering. She will not be able to speak much more, there are no word-conduits now. No silver piping. It has been severed by a twist all the way around, warping, blocking the sequence, leaving her distant.
All of them know now.
They see the figure move foreword, and a silver sword is drawn, simple in it’s elegance. It looks long, but when Blythe comes to meet the blade it is shown to be a trick of perspective. The enemy is small.
clang
clackclackclack
The first three hits are caught on the thin blade of the foil, vertical after the initial tapping introduction. It is not foil style, and Blythe loses many steps. The enemy makes no sound, holds no stance meaning this is test or play or killing match. Simply sees the falter in that last step and, watching herself in Blythe, slides her sword down the foil and to the heroine’s handguard. A twist of the wrist.
Blythe drops her blade. Pithlit sees the cloaked one lightly move her left hand then, and fingers spread place it within touching range of Blythe’s forehead. There are ridged muscles in that hand, and many white scars. He surges from the nest of papers and runs with dagger in hand for the cloaked one, who has turned from Blythe now and settles into stance before him. Blythe is gone then, winked out. Maddik screams, but he is on the other side of the fire. Pithlit goes for the sword-bearer’s left, where the cloak falls away from her raised hand and the forearm is bare and tan.
Maddik sees Pithlit’s knife hand caught in a faultless grip, and then the scribe is on the ground and their enemy’s booted foot on his knife. The scarred hand is held down, and Pithlit never was. And the bright eyes look up and invite.
Maddik screams. He puts his whole powerful and magical being into the first lifting of the whip, but it is but a prelude to strike and already, already though he had not begun his forward run the enemy is within range and dodging that first blow that sinks into the dirt. The point of the sword hits below his armpit and bounces with a flash of colorless light. Elven magic, that, and good stuff. No uncursed blade could touch that skin, but even though it was never realized by the writer of Maddik, the shield is but a natural extension of the Elven physique. Unseen, but like an exoskeleton it protects the skin and lends to it the oceanic tint of colors.
The cloaked one spins away, and the whip comes down again beside her pivoting feet. Again she settles into stance, a movement away from the Elf. He is confidant in his success, and the whip comes up. No warrior expects the same move done the same way the second time to succeed where the first does not. Physics does not work like that.
bbvvrruuuumm