NaNo Excerpt of the Day - 1
Nov. 1st, 2011 11:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zenelly(Haah, I say excerpt and what I really mean is EVERYTHING I WROTE TODAY)
Today's Word Count: 1819
Total Word Count: ...1819, nurr, first day o' NaNo!
Title: Symphony of Metal and Trees
Summary: Don't have one yet, oh my god, I'm so bad at this
* * * * * *
Prologue
* * * * * *
The inside of the tavern is smoky, dull, covered in soot, just like the rest of Sorna. There is a low hum of voices from around the fire, men crowded close together as they nurse their drinks. Younger men sit at tables, legs stretched out, arrogent and brash and loud, boasting and making grand gestures while drinking heavily.
Nash knows all of them, in some way or another. People in Sorna very rarely go outside their comfort zones without good reason. He wipes down his bar as he waits for more refills to be called, eyeing the low ceilinged room as he does. Regulars, all of them. Nothing new. Sighing, he taps his ring against the bartop, stretches his aching joints. There is a gust of wind as the door is opened, and all the noise pauses, every head in the tavern turning to eye the newcomers, Nash's included.
A tall man, hooded and cloaked, stands in the doorway. He steps inside to allow his companion, a slender woman, by as he turns his hood back, shaking his deep brown hair free. The man looks around the room imposingly, bright eyes darting over everyone before settling on an empty table. His cloak, Nash can tell as he strides past, is finely made, expensive, as are the rest of his clothes, even though they are stained with travel
And yet here he is, in some dive near the nasty parts of Sorna.
"Stupid noblemen," he thinks with a sigh, turning away and grabbing a glass to clean. "Don't know what he's gettin' into, comin' to these parts."
"Barkeep, I need two of your best ales."
He turns around to face the bar, raises an eyebrow at the lady before him, raking her slight frame deliberatly with his eyes. "Can ye handle your drink, miss?"
She tilts her head back to glare at him properly, and her eyes are imposing, hot orange like some bird of prey, daring him to doubt her further. Nash shudders and nods without asking any more questions, pouring two of his finest ales for her before holding out a hand. "Eight silver pips."
"For this swill?" The woman takes a sniff of the ales and wrinkles her nose. "Please. It's worth two at best."
"Y' asked for my finest, and that's what ye get, lady. Eight pips." Nash refuses to move his hand, even when she glares at him again. With a short curse under her breath, she passes over the money, muttering to herself as she takes the mugs over to her companion.
Nash watches them for a bit, watches the man laugh at her for something and talk her into sitting down and drinking the ale quietly, watches the way the woman's eyes dart around the room constantly. Something is off about her, he can tell, and he reaches under the bar to brush his fingers against the engraved sigil against evil, the harsh lines comforting to his touch.
The woman's head jerks up, predator eyes locking in on him.
There is a call from the group around the fireplace, and Nash shakes himself, fingers sliding off the sigil as he grabs the group's drinks and hurries over to them, the woman's gaze on him the entire time.
"Nash! C'mere and help me prove that I'm tellin' the truth!" a large, white-beared man shouts, slapping his knee with one hand.
Nash smiles and shakes his head, stroking his own beard - not yet entirely white - as he does. "I dunno, Gim. You tell tall tales all the time, an' it ain't suprisin' if they don't believe you."
Gim bellows out some laughter, cheeks ruddy from the amount of mead he has consumed, and agrees, "Aye, that's fair, but you know the one I'm talkin' about! You've seen him!" At Nash's blank look, Gim rolls his eyes and elaborates. "Y'know. Spitfire."
The room's lights darken at the mention of the name and the logs on the fire let out a huge crack. Several of the men brush themselves off and look around, pretending like they didn't just jump in the air at the noise. Nash rolls his eyes at them, but he pulls up a chair anyway. "What do ye want to know, Gim?" he sighs out, sitting down with a groan as his left knee pulls painfully. "There ain't much to say."
"Is it true that he's just a kid?" comes a curious voice, one of the younger men around the circle, recently admitted.
Nash nods, and as he does, he notices that the pair of odd travelers are looking his way (and the woman's eyes are practically glowing in the reflected firelight). "Aye, that's true. Spitfire is barely a boy. He's the leader of the gang that runs nearest here, and he ain't even a man grown. Done more with himself than you lot." The younger boys around the bar are starting to converge on him, pulling up chairs of their own so they can hear the story too. "He's a slight thing. Barely eats, almost never sleeps, and can still take on anyone. Even when he hasn't eaten in a month." Nash leans back in his chair sagely, crossing his feet. "An' I do mean that. He comes in here to get food fer himself. Ne'er more th'n once a month."
There are murmurs around the room, indistinct and disbelieving, and Nash waits for his audience to come around, stiff fingers rubbing at his knee. "No way," someone finally protested. "He has to get food other times too!"
"Not if he's magic," Nash says, and the sudden silence is deafening. He looks at the circle of people around him and snorts. "What? He's a boy, barely has any muscle to 'im, yet he can fight and hold his own with the best of 'em when he doesn't eat and sleep? Smells like magic to me." Nash taps the side of his nose, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. "Besides, he's marked by the gods too. Red scar on his cheek in some weird shape, like a fiddle's body, y'know. Weird red runes all up and down his arms. And I'll tell ye this much too.
"They move."
The fire pops again, and there are more ill-disguised jumps. Gim shakes his head at them, grouses out, "Marked by the gods, don't have to eat or sleep. Sounds like Spitfire is a Mancer. 'as he called up anythin' yet?"
"Not yet." Nash pushes himself to a standing position, wincing when it sends a dart of pain down his leg. "But he might soon. Ye never know with the Trueborn. Do any of ye want another drink?" He counts the number of raised hands and nods, and he hobbles back to his bar, shuffling through jugs to get the right kinds of mead and ale for his customers.
He hears a step behind him and Nash turns around to find the travelers right there, the lady leaning against the bar idly. "So, Spitfire, his name is?" the man asks, and he's not looking at Nash, he's watching the jugs of ale and mead and wine behind the bar, and his voice is too casual. "Sounds interesting."
"Aye, but I won't be havin' any trouble for the boy, ye hear. He does his part to protect people."
The woman snorts, glaring at the rest of the bar. "From what we just heard, he's a gang leader. Isn't that a big problem in Sorna?"
Nash shuffles the jugs he is dealing with stiffly. The ones under his left palm are ale and the ones under his right are mead, and he knows them all by touch now, grasping their handles in his large-knuckled hands. "Not in the slums, it ain't. Leaders protect their territory, their people. An' nobody nearby crosses Spitfire."
"'Nobody nearby'," the woman pounces on the opening swiftly, her voice barbed even though her body language is loose. "What about the people not nearby?"
With a sigh, Nash hoists the jugs and starts the trek across the tavern floor, limping as he delivers the drinks to the chattering group of men. He ignores the two travelers for the time being, disliking their questions and their attitudes enough to let his hospitality slip. But when he gets back to the bar and grabs his cloth to clean the surface, they're still waiting for him, and now the man has a coin, spinning it idly.
"Look," Nash drawls out, sighing roughly, "Spitfire ain't caused much hurt to nobody. The territory he's in ain't much to look at, which is why nobody goes after it, see? But it used to be hot country. People fightin' over the borderlands, ye know? Since he's got it, no one's bothered, so the people livin' there are safe. He don't ask for much in return."
The man and woman trade glances. "And he doesn't need to sleep or eat?"
Nash sighs again. Do these people not listen? "Aye, didn't ye hear what I was saying all that time? He comes in maybe once or twice every two months. Don't seem to be any ill effects for 'im."
"Do you think...?" The man spins the coin on the bar-top again, glances significantly at it. Nash takes a peek himself, but it just seems to be a plain brass coin, no markings or filings to designate country or currency. There are raised symbols on each side, but Nash doesn't recognize them.
The woman nods. "We couldn't find anything anywhere else, and it's reacting to something in this city. It's worth at least a shot."
Nash looks between them, suspicions confirmed by their odd conversation. "Now wait just a second. You two're..."
Looking at him with her orange predator's eyes, the woman raises an eyebrow. "Ah. He does have some sense to him. Now, barkeep, where exactly can we find Spitfire?"
"... Near the river," Nash says quietly. His hand darts under the counter again, brushing the sigil with careful fingertips. "Don't ye hurt him now."
She snorts, tossing her long black hair over one shoulder. "Please. We're not going to hurt him. We're going to recruit him."
The man nods at Nash as he puts down eight more silver pips. "For the information. Also, you might want to get that ward updated. They found a flaw in it." He pulls his hood back up and nods to his companion. "Come on, Aletha, let's go."
"Alright, Xin." Aletha looks around the bar again - silent now with every ear straining towards the travelers. With a smug smile and twirl of her cloak, she follows Xin out of the bar, the door slamming shut behind them.
The silence is deafening.
Nash leans heavily against the bar, shaking slightly as he does. He hears chairs scraping, and Gim's large hand claps down on his shoulder, steading him. Gim rumbles, "Nash, were those...?"
And Nash nods.
"Mancers."
* * * * * *
Haaaah...
Um. Yeah.
So. Prologue.
taadaaaaaa
I think it'll get more interesting from here on out?
Today's Word Count: 1819
Total Word Count: ...1819, nurr, first day o' NaNo!
Title: Symphony of Metal and Trees
Summary: Don't have one yet, oh my god, I'm so bad at this
* * * * * *
Prologue
* * * * * *
The inside of the tavern is smoky, dull, covered in soot, just like the rest of Sorna. There is a low hum of voices from around the fire, men crowded close together as they nurse their drinks. Younger men sit at tables, legs stretched out, arrogent and brash and loud, boasting and making grand gestures while drinking heavily.
Nash knows all of them, in some way or another. People in Sorna very rarely go outside their comfort zones without good reason. He wipes down his bar as he waits for more refills to be called, eyeing the low ceilinged room as he does. Regulars, all of them. Nothing new. Sighing, he taps his ring against the bartop, stretches his aching joints. There is a gust of wind as the door is opened, and all the noise pauses, every head in the tavern turning to eye the newcomers, Nash's included.
A tall man, hooded and cloaked, stands in the doorway. He steps inside to allow his companion, a slender woman, by as he turns his hood back, shaking his deep brown hair free. The man looks around the room imposingly, bright eyes darting over everyone before settling on an empty table. His cloak, Nash can tell as he strides past, is finely made, expensive, as are the rest of his clothes, even though they are stained with travel
And yet here he is, in some dive near the nasty parts of Sorna.
"Stupid noblemen," he thinks with a sigh, turning away and grabbing a glass to clean. "Don't know what he's gettin' into, comin' to these parts."
"Barkeep, I need two of your best ales."
He turns around to face the bar, raises an eyebrow at the lady before him, raking her slight frame deliberatly with his eyes. "Can ye handle your drink, miss?"
She tilts her head back to glare at him properly, and her eyes are imposing, hot orange like some bird of prey, daring him to doubt her further. Nash shudders and nods without asking any more questions, pouring two of his finest ales for her before holding out a hand. "Eight silver pips."
"For this swill?" The woman takes a sniff of the ales and wrinkles her nose. "Please. It's worth two at best."
"Y' asked for my finest, and that's what ye get, lady. Eight pips." Nash refuses to move his hand, even when she glares at him again. With a short curse under her breath, she passes over the money, muttering to herself as she takes the mugs over to her companion.
Nash watches them for a bit, watches the man laugh at her for something and talk her into sitting down and drinking the ale quietly, watches the way the woman's eyes dart around the room constantly. Something is off about her, he can tell, and he reaches under the bar to brush his fingers against the engraved sigil against evil, the harsh lines comforting to his touch.
The woman's head jerks up, predator eyes locking in on him.
There is a call from the group around the fireplace, and Nash shakes himself, fingers sliding off the sigil as he grabs the group's drinks and hurries over to them, the woman's gaze on him the entire time.
"Nash! C'mere and help me prove that I'm tellin' the truth!" a large, white-beared man shouts, slapping his knee with one hand.
Nash smiles and shakes his head, stroking his own beard - not yet entirely white - as he does. "I dunno, Gim. You tell tall tales all the time, an' it ain't suprisin' if they don't believe you."
Gim bellows out some laughter, cheeks ruddy from the amount of mead he has consumed, and agrees, "Aye, that's fair, but you know the one I'm talkin' about! You've seen him!" At Nash's blank look, Gim rolls his eyes and elaborates. "Y'know. Spitfire."
The room's lights darken at the mention of the name and the logs on the fire let out a huge crack. Several of the men brush themselves off and look around, pretending like they didn't just jump in the air at the noise. Nash rolls his eyes at them, but he pulls up a chair anyway. "What do ye want to know, Gim?" he sighs out, sitting down with a groan as his left knee pulls painfully. "There ain't much to say."
"Is it true that he's just a kid?" comes a curious voice, one of the younger men around the circle, recently admitted.
Nash nods, and as he does, he notices that the pair of odd travelers are looking his way (and the woman's eyes are practically glowing in the reflected firelight). "Aye, that's true. Spitfire is barely a boy. He's the leader of the gang that runs nearest here, and he ain't even a man grown. Done more with himself than you lot." The younger boys around the bar are starting to converge on him, pulling up chairs of their own so they can hear the story too. "He's a slight thing. Barely eats, almost never sleeps, and can still take on anyone. Even when he hasn't eaten in a month." Nash leans back in his chair sagely, crossing his feet. "An' I do mean that. He comes in here to get food fer himself. Ne'er more th'n once a month."
There are murmurs around the room, indistinct and disbelieving, and Nash waits for his audience to come around, stiff fingers rubbing at his knee. "No way," someone finally protested. "He has to get food other times too!"
"Not if he's magic," Nash says, and the sudden silence is deafening. He looks at the circle of people around him and snorts. "What? He's a boy, barely has any muscle to 'im, yet he can fight and hold his own with the best of 'em when he doesn't eat and sleep? Smells like magic to me." Nash taps the side of his nose, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. "Besides, he's marked by the gods too. Red scar on his cheek in some weird shape, like a fiddle's body, y'know. Weird red runes all up and down his arms. And I'll tell ye this much too.
"They move."
The fire pops again, and there are more ill-disguised jumps. Gim shakes his head at them, grouses out, "Marked by the gods, don't have to eat or sleep. Sounds like Spitfire is a Mancer. 'as he called up anythin' yet?"
"Not yet." Nash pushes himself to a standing position, wincing when it sends a dart of pain down his leg. "But he might soon. Ye never know with the Trueborn. Do any of ye want another drink?" He counts the number of raised hands and nods, and he hobbles back to his bar, shuffling through jugs to get the right kinds of mead and ale for his customers.
He hears a step behind him and Nash turns around to find the travelers right there, the lady leaning against the bar idly. "So, Spitfire, his name is?" the man asks, and he's not looking at Nash, he's watching the jugs of ale and mead and wine behind the bar, and his voice is too casual. "Sounds interesting."
"Aye, but I won't be havin' any trouble for the boy, ye hear. He does his part to protect people."
The woman snorts, glaring at the rest of the bar. "From what we just heard, he's a gang leader. Isn't that a big problem in Sorna?"
Nash shuffles the jugs he is dealing with stiffly. The ones under his left palm are ale and the ones under his right are mead, and he knows them all by touch now, grasping their handles in his large-knuckled hands. "Not in the slums, it ain't. Leaders protect their territory, their people. An' nobody nearby crosses Spitfire."
"'Nobody nearby'," the woman pounces on the opening swiftly, her voice barbed even though her body language is loose. "What about the people not nearby?"
With a sigh, Nash hoists the jugs and starts the trek across the tavern floor, limping as he delivers the drinks to the chattering group of men. He ignores the two travelers for the time being, disliking their questions and their attitudes enough to let his hospitality slip. But when he gets back to the bar and grabs his cloth to clean the surface, they're still waiting for him, and now the man has a coin, spinning it idly.
"Look," Nash drawls out, sighing roughly, "Spitfire ain't caused much hurt to nobody. The territory he's in ain't much to look at, which is why nobody goes after it, see? But it used to be hot country. People fightin' over the borderlands, ye know? Since he's got it, no one's bothered, so the people livin' there are safe. He don't ask for much in return."
The man and woman trade glances. "And he doesn't need to sleep or eat?"
Nash sighs again. Do these people not listen? "Aye, didn't ye hear what I was saying all that time? He comes in maybe once or twice every two months. Don't seem to be any ill effects for 'im."
"Do you think...?" The man spins the coin on the bar-top again, glances significantly at it. Nash takes a peek himself, but it just seems to be a plain brass coin, no markings or filings to designate country or currency. There are raised symbols on each side, but Nash doesn't recognize them.
The woman nods. "We couldn't find anything anywhere else, and it's reacting to something in this city. It's worth at least a shot."
Nash looks between them, suspicions confirmed by their odd conversation. "Now wait just a second. You two're..."
Looking at him with her orange predator's eyes, the woman raises an eyebrow. "Ah. He does have some sense to him. Now, barkeep, where exactly can we find Spitfire?"
"... Near the river," Nash says quietly. His hand darts under the counter again, brushing the sigil with careful fingertips. "Don't ye hurt him now."
She snorts, tossing her long black hair over one shoulder. "Please. We're not going to hurt him. We're going to recruit him."
The man nods at Nash as he puts down eight more silver pips. "For the information. Also, you might want to get that ward updated. They found a flaw in it." He pulls his hood back up and nods to his companion. "Come on, Aletha, let's go."
"Alright, Xin." Aletha looks around the bar again - silent now with every ear straining towards the travelers. With a smug smile and twirl of her cloak, she follows Xin out of the bar, the door slamming shut behind them.
The silence is deafening.
Nash leans heavily against the bar, shaking slightly as he does. He hears chairs scraping, and Gim's large hand claps down on his shoulder, steading him. Gim rumbles, "Nash, were those...?"
And Nash nods.
"Mancers."
* * * * * *
Haaaah...
Um. Yeah.
So. Prologue.
taadaaaaaa
I think it'll get more interesting from here on out?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Mancers
Date: 2011-11-03 01:54 am (UTC)Re: Mancers
Date: 2011-11-03 01:56 am (UTC)