Chapter 1.
You have your whole lifetime beforehand to shape your first book. This is the start of mine. It may be a tad juvenile and require some adjustment.
Thorn's palms rested on his knees, occasionally drifting
upward to his face where he could anxiously gnaw a
knuckle. He sat stiffly and cross-legged on the hard
packed dirt floor; his eyes were closed, his breathing
light and feverish.
"What the hell am I doing?" Thorn cracked an eyelid
and shivered indulgently, he had intentionally left his
simplistic hut uninsulated so that the cold would sharpen
his senses. A breeze wafted in. He straightened his
posture and re-closed his eyes, attempting once more to
clear his mind. He bit another knuckle, this time
clenching hard enough to draw tears.
"Pain is the greatest teacher of all." Likening this
practice to what the old monks referred to as corporal
mortification, a ritual which asserted that self-inflicted
wounds were cleansing of the spirit. Thorn certainly
wasn't a monk, and this was frustratingly turning out to
be nowhere near as satisfactory a spiritual experience as
he had intended.
Gravel shifted audibly outside.
"/Oh (fuck), the Wind of Tioma- ." Thorn didn't have
time to finish his thought before the heavy ashwood door
which formed his only exit roared off of its hinges,
flying lazily through the air for a full second and a half
then tumbling in a complete circle and crashing into the
brick wall fifteen feet from its origin. Three unnaturally
tall men thundered in like an apocalyptic horizon, they
were all dressed in hooded white robes and carried crude
shields. Thorn watched these events unfurl with tired
fascination, he didn't make any attempt to move, it's not
like there would have been anywhere for him to go.
The men positioned themselves in a semi-circle before
him, stepping carelessly on the sigul he'd spent hours
meticulously carving into the earth around his
body. Two of the hooded figures looked rudely about the
desert shack, examining his markings without hiding
repulsion and a touch of fear. The one in the middle, the
tallest, merely took Thorn in and towered imposingly. Thorn
was getting impatient and worrisome, but made his best
effort to meet the behemoth's gaze and remain
expressionless. He fought the urge to bite his knuckle.
"Thornatrik of Dis, you are summoned to appear before
the Demi-Lich to answer for your crimes of heresy."
The creature boomed deafeningly. Without a single further word
out of any of them, Thorn blacked right out.
He blinked into consciousness as quickly as he had
blinked out of it gods only know how long ago. The
atmosphere was murky with smoke, it was so thick in the
air that Thorn could taste it. He looked crisply about
him.
"Great, everyone here is smoking except for me." He
was sitting exactly as he had been, palms down, knees
flat, spine upright. He briefly entertained the idea that
they had teleported him here. He tensed when it occurred
to him that this may very well be precisely what had
happened. His arms weren't tied, nor were his feet. He
wasn't bound to anything or restrained in anyway. He felt
like there may indeed be a reason to want to move or at
least risk a stretch, but something in him disregarded the
idea unhesitatingly. He thought about it again, returning
to the bald wonder that he didn't desire to move even in
the interest of rubbing his increasingly sore ankles. He
deflected the notion, deciding once more that he didn't
really want to. This must be the Demi-Lich, such
impressive manipulation! Thorn noted to study this sorcery
should he manage to convince this fucking cult to free him.
Thorn's palms rested on his knees, occasionally drifting
upward to his face where he could anxiously gnaw a
knuckle. He sat stiffly and cross-legged on the hard
packed dirt floor; his eyes were closed, his breathing
light and feverish.
"What the hell am I doing?" Thorn cracked an eyelid
and shivered indulgently, he had intentionally left his
simplistic hut uninsulated so that the cold would sharpen
his senses. A breeze wafted in. He straightened his
posture and re-closed his eyes, attempting once more to
clear his mind. He bit another knuckle, this time
clenching hard enough to draw tears.
"Pain is the greatest teacher of all." Likening this
practice to what the old monks referred to as corporal
mortification, a ritual which asserted that self-inflicted
wounds were cleansing of the spirit. Thorn certainly
wasn't a monk, and this was frustratingly turning out to
be nowhere near as satisfactory a spiritual experience as
he had intended.
Gravel shifted audibly outside.
"/Oh (fuck), the Wind of Tioma- ." Thorn didn't have
time to finish his thought before the heavy ashwood door
which formed his only exit roared off of its hinges,
flying lazily through the air for a full second and a half
then tumbling in a complete circle and crashing into the
brick wall fifteen feet from its origin. Three unnaturally
tall men thundered in like an apocalyptic horizon, they
were all dressed in hooded white robes and carried crude
shields. Thorn watched these events unfurl with tired
fascination, he didn't make any attempt to move, it's not
like there would have been anywhere for him to go.
The men positioned themselves in a semi-circle before
him, stepping carelessly on the sigul he'd spent hours
meticulously carving into the earth around his
body. Two of the hooded figures looked rudely about the
desert shack, examining his markings without hiding
repulsion and a touch of fear. The one in the middle, the
tallest, merely took Thorn in and towered imposingly. Thorn
was getting impatient and worrisome, but made his best
effort to meet the behemoth's gaze and remain
expressionless. He fought the urge to bite his knuckle.
"Thornatrik of Dis, you are summoned to appear before
the Demi-Lich to answer for your crimes of heresy."
The creature boomed deafeningly. Without a single further word
out of any of them, Thorn blacked right out.
He blinked into consciousness as quickly as he had
blinked out of it gods only know how long ago. The
atmosphere was murky with smoke, it was so thick in the
air that Thorn could taste it. He looked crisply about
him.
"Great, everyone here is smoking except for me." He
was sitting exactly as he had been, palms down, knees
flat, spine upright. He briefly entertained the idea that
they had teleported him here. He tensed when it occurred
to him that this may very well be precisely what had
happened. His arms weren't tied, nor were his feet. He
wasn't bound to anything or restrained in anyway. He felt
like there may indeed be a reason to want to move or at
least risk a stretch, but something in him disregarded the
idea unhesitatingly. He thought about it again, returning
to the bald wonder that he didn't desire to move even in
the interest of rubbing his increasingly sore ankles. He
deflected the notion, deciding once more that he didn't
really want to. This must be the Demi-Lich, such
impressive manipulation! Thorn noted to study this sorcery
should he manage to convince this fucking cult to free him.