NaNo Snippets

[Gryphos]

I quite like this little bit I just wrote.

Hunter pinched the bridge of her nose, battling with her better sense. Sense was a burden no one else would carry — not Fletcher, not Archer, definitely not Erwin. They discarded their sense onto the side of the road and Hunter could do nothing but reluctantly pocket it all for herself, until it became like an overbearing landlord, or maybe a stray dog that ends up being far too much trouble than it was worth to take in.

 

[Chessie]

Gryphos, what kind of story are you writing?

 

[Gryphos]

Gryphos, what kind of story are you writing?

I guess you could call it heroic fantasy, following the quest of the three Butcher siblings (Hunter, Fletcher and Archer), as well as Hunter's squire Erwin and an ogre, to track down the assassin who massacred their mother Earl Butcher's feast with his 'doom-spitter' (basically a machine gun). And it's set in a world where there are literally giant eyeballs floating in the sky which are worshipped as gods.

 

[Chessie]

It sounds interesting and creative (totally enjoying your snippets here). I like all of your characters' names.

 

[Caged Maiden]

Don't know if this one's any good without context, but two friends are talking about a guy:

“He’s the best bard in Brazelton. Why wouldn’t he come to the biggest Longnight party in town?”
Raisa sniffed. “He’s a mediocre bard at best.”
“His voice is a lovely tenor,” Cherie continued.
“I’d sooner listen to cats howl.”
“He’s good-lookin’.”
“For an orc, perhaps.”
Cherie laughed. “I’ve seen him up close. His eyes are green like the sea and his skin gold, like honey. He smells of rosemary.”
The far-away look in her charge’s eyes made Raisa consider throwing a pillow at the girl’s head. “So he has eyes like dirty water, skin of bee saliva, and he smells like sausage?” She managed a broad grin. “I’ll remember to tell him so.”
“That’s not what I said.” Cherie crossed her arms. “The whole household's talking about him and not just the parlor ladies. Mairi called him a tasty morsel. Come to think of it, she was cooking at the time, so maybe she wasn’t talking about Martin.” Cherie furrowed her brow. “You don’t think he’s just a little handsome?”
“I’d rather stare at a horse’s lifted tail than watch his ridiculous spectacle while eating. It’ll take all my grace and cunning to not vomit on the table.”
Cherie’s sweet smile gave way to a devilish grin. “You’re over-egging that pudding.”
Raisa didn’t feel the need to justify her disdain.
“I might tell him you want to see him here, for a private performance.” Cherie smirked in satisfaction, smoothing her skirts as if her suggestion might have some innocent connotation.
Raisa scowled. “If you did that, I’d flay you myself.”
Cherie burst into laughter. “I know you don’t like him, I juston’t understand why. He’s a perfectly nice man.”
“That only shows you don’t know anything about men.”

 

[Nimue]

What I wrote today isn't suitable for this site, even though there's quite a bit of dialogue in it (My character's thoughts in that scene are very crass). Instead, I'll share a paragraph of what I wrote yesterday:

He was handsome, with a jawline and cheekbones that could’ve been carved from slatestone, stout and strong looking like most Mirovinian men his age that lived higher up in the mountain provinces. His black hair was long, sitting just above his shoulders in undulating waves, which matched a pair of bushy eyebrows complementing his kind, deep set eyes. The black robes he wore had some wear on them, with specks of mud decorating the sleeves and hem just above his leather boots. He had a familiar energy to him, almost melancholy, emitting the sense that she’d seen him before somewhere and somehow, she knew him.

I'm a sucker for character description. And do I spy a name inspired by the Merovingians? Frankish/Gothic names are the best!

 

[Gryphos]

Man, I love writing banter.

On the fourth day, at around noon, the heroes stopped at the side of a river. There Erwin had the excellent idea that he should spend some time practising his sword skills. Hunter was only too willing to oblige.

“Sadly, we didn’t bring any sparring swords,” said Hunter, “so we’ll use real ones.” She drew her longsword and gave it a few showy twirls.

Erwin stood there like a plank propped against a wall, eyes wide. “Real swords?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t kill you.”

“I wasn’t worried about me.” Erwin’s face changed in a flash to a smug grin.

Hunter gave him a thoroughly unimpressed look. “Probably. I probably won’t kill you.”

“Go on, Erwin.” Fletcher sat herself down in the grass at the sidelines. “Kick her arse.”

“Actually,” said Hunter, “I make no promises, Erwin. Maybe I”l kill you, maybe I won’t.”

“Thanks, Fletcher.”

 

[Chessie]

Aye, thank you Nimue. Yes, these people are inspired from the Merovingians, except there's more of a Slavic intention to the world than a Frankish one (world building is not my forte).

 

[Caged Maiden]

Jarren leaned forward to place his elbows on his knees and clasp his hands. The sleeves of his loose robe slid down, exposing a mark on his forearm–a brand, Leomere decided. “I lost contact with my nephew after a very brief message, and haven’t heard from him since.” The sincerity painted on his face was authentic. Leomere wasn’t sure anything about Jarren was forthright, but in their short acquaintance he’d learned a fair deal about trust.


There were only two kinds of people who bore brands–and only in the east, where the practice wasn’t outlawed–prisoners facing execution and slaves. Of the two, it was clear which Jarren had been. Just another curious detail about the man who introduced himself as a priest.

 

[Nimue]

Been getting plenty done (by my standards), but not a lot I'd like to quote from. I do like this first line, though:


The sweet, cold wind embraced her, finding the dampness in the roots of her hair and the tears that spilled suddenly down her face. She lifted her head and stared up at the Frost Moon, and the stars that hung over the stable-yard and the black roofs of the town, like silver gilt on a wedding veil. The coming winter and her child were the only things that kept her from running into the dark welcoming wild again, that made her suffer fear for the firelight of a warm room.

 

[SugoiMe]

700 words done today. I'm convincing myself that this is a first draft and is entitled to be rough.


“What I gone done? I killed a man. I done gone killed a man…”

He turned around, and seeing Doken still holding his hands to his eye, ran to him.

“Dernit, good buddy, you alright?”

“Gah, it hurts!” Doken yelled. “Stings like a poison critter’s tail to the eye! Can’t see worth a darn; don’t want to.”

Ruter turned this way and that, unsure of what to do. Then he saw the woman they had saved who was still crouching by the wall. She was weeping.

“Hey, lady! My buddy needs help.”

Barely after the words left his mouth, a dark, misty shape rose from the fresh corpse. From it echoed a crude, sinister laugh that sent chills down Ruter’s spine.

“What in all—“ Doken started, whirling his head around to see with his good eye.

“Yer kidding me,” Ruter gasped.

The upper half of the shape took form, showing a crude face fixed with the two yellow eyes that had been the possessed man’s.

“Living flessshhhh,” it hissed. “Give me living flessshhhhh.”

It rushed toward the men, squealing with pleasure.

 

[Caged Maiden]

She hurried through an elegant entry hall toward a stairway that curved gracefully up to the floor above. The room hadn’t seen a ball in more than a decade--the dons having apparently little use for high society parties. Instead, they used the palatial ballroom for gambling. Her heels clicked as she made her way across the marble floor, creating quite an echo when the hall wasn’t packed full of men with cigars hanging loosely from their lips and servers with trays full of booze, plying the weak with alcohol until their pockets were as empty as their drug and drink-filled heads.


Though the dons gambled and engaged in indulgent behaviors at every occasion, Raven insisted Longnight be the one holiday that saw the card tables folded up and the kitchen staff holding nothing back. Longnight was a feast, a time for songs and revelry, not a time to place bets or throw dice.

 

[Gryphos]

I swear when I came up with the character of Lord Sobaka he wasn't meant to be important or even that interesting, but now that I've started writing him I've discovered that he's charmingly awkward and I like him a lot.

“This is my study. Take a seat.” Lord Sobaka went striding across the room to his desk, before perching himself on its edge all casual-like. “Ah.” He noticed in that instant that the Ogre was still outside, unable to fit through the human-sized door. “Can you hear me alright from out there?”

“Quite clearly.” The Ogre leant against his staff, off of which he’d hung his hat. It was a good thing Castle Kennel had high ceilings.

“Ahem,” said Fletcher, raising her arms and then dropping them at her sides. “There are no seats.”

“Bugger,” said Sobaka. “In which case, just stand. Standing’s fine. Although, if you’re standing, then I should be, too.” He got to his feet, and once it became apparent that there would be no more complications, he clapped his hands together. “Discussion! Let’s have that discussion. Wat is this mission you spoke of?”

 

[Nimue]

I continue to not really have any good bits to share out of context, but whatever, maybe this makes some kind of sense.


When her gaze flickered up again, Avalind was staring at her with hurt and distrust stirring in her eyes, at this slander of her golden king. Gods, she was transparent as crystal. Such a beautiful thing. A man would need to be not just careless but cruel to hurt her...

 

[Gryphos]

I will say, I'm quite fond of the way one of my characters (who comes from another dimension) is completely knowledgable about scientific babble and will nonchalantly drop it into conversation with his companions.

Upon picking the last scrap of meat from a pheasant leg, Erwin looked up at the Ogre. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Never,” he said. “I don’t eat.”

“You don’t sleep, you don’t eat, you don’t age…” Hunter took a sip of ale. “Why is it that you’re not constrained like us mortals?”

“Are you asking why I don’t sleep, eat or age, or why you do?” asked the Ogre. “Because I can tell you all about energy transference and cellular respiration and homeostasis and cognitive processing, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand much.”

“Yeah, you”re probably right,” said Hunter, knowing some of those words.