Originality? What madness is this?
Acceptance letter are probably the nicest thing to get in the mail, ever. *victolly!* Yes. Well, besides money. Grad school, have at thee!
Handwriting meme, for those of you all aflutter at gazing upon my writing-
I stayed up late smashing out wrote a short bit of fantasy story for my English class last night, a piece fairly cookie cutter and... well, pompous. Good entertainment, no? XD Lack of sleep tends to have that effect, and I was unduly amused at the various reactions of my classmates as they were probably not into the genre (or fandom at large, heheh).
Not sure if the examples of writing I normally run into are darker or more violent than current, er, literature, but they boggled at mentions of blood and ouchies. >_>; Give me explosions and giant swords, people! Anyways, I like playing with other people's characters better. ♥
Also, online formatting >>> print formatting.
Story:
~o0o~
The knife in his hand twists again, almost of its own accord, and he can see the long shadows across her back snap tight and tremble as she screams. He’s aimed a touch low, but cleared her ribs; the blade slides out neatly with a small rush of blood that grows stronger and slicks his hands loving red. Familiar red, like the spreading pool beneath his beloved Alexis not so long ago, or the slash of her mouth as she sighed around her last words, and he falters. His holy orders, the clipped speech of the magistrate, his son's crying eyes- they crumble as the legendary castles of dust in his mind's eye when he sees the brushed strands of pitch-dark hair stick and mat in the ruin of her shoulders.
He tires of this. No, has tired of this since it even began, but it is something that must be done, and if not by him, then another. That has been decreed, so must it be- so will it be, and he courts nothing save ruin to waver. In his hesitation, his moment of failure, Lenaire stumbles away and lands a blow across his chest that sends him sprawling back against the marble floor. Injured, but not nearly finished, and in the low light of the hall, it's hard to even notice her wound. His chance to cut short the struggle retreats without fanfare.
“So it has come to this.” Her voice carries the hoarse weight of one betrayed; he takes that burden silently as he rolls to his feet. She- she!- of all people to use that against him, when it was her own rash, driven ambitions that brought the whole shining army against her. When his promise to his wife- dear Alexis, sweet Alexis, broken and forever gone Alexis- binds him painfully even now.
The anger helps clear his thoughts and focus him- and just in time. He throws himself backwards as a shot of lightning cracks into the tiles beside him, sends shards flying up to slice across his cheek and even a few to lodge into the folds of her gown. Lenaire is ever of her loving sister's blood.
Finding cover behind the great throne, he rests his forehead against the cool slab before readying one of his throwing knives, firm and balanced in his hands, and mouthing a silent prayer. The gods may well listen and decide to curse him for what he plans to do, for what he is about to do- for is not kinslayer a high crime against their divine precedents?- but he cannot bring himself to care. There is little, so very little, for him to lose, and everything in the world for all but himself to gain. So at the next rain of light from around the edges of his shelter, he darts out to the side, slipping recklessly as his booted feet skid across the smooth stone, and flings the blade.
The gods decide to favor him.
It lands true, buried to the hilt in her upper arm. A passable strike- the offside limb now hangs all but useless, and the magic in her hand along with it. This time, she recoils, but grits her teeth and wrenches it out without comment. The weapon makes a wet squelch as it reluctantly lets itself be pulled out before dropping with a high clatter, the sound of church bells and shattered glass, at her feet. He must have hit harder tissue than muscle and skin.
Back lit by the dying embers of the fireplace, she clutches protectively at her side and seems less the Slayer of Kings and more the brash child with large, solemn eyes from across the sea he once knew. He spares a brief thought for how she sees him- a tarnished knight beyond his prime sent to slay her, her sister's foolishly devoted suitor, the Captain of the Night Guard who once turned a blind eye to their flight beyond the castle walls? Would that it mattered enough to make a difference, but it doesn't, and he gives her little time to recover.
Lunging forward, he grips the tight leather of the hilt at his side, takes solace in the way his fingers find their rests without thought, and slides the long blade through the air to cleave her neck in two. His sword edge shrieks against the flat of another, and Lenaire curves her lips at him from around their crossed blades.
The taint of ozone makes his hairs stand on end, and he can taste metal hard in the back of his teeth. She's brought her heirloom.
Handwriting meme, for those of you all aflutter at gazing upon my writing-
I stayed up late smashing out wrote a short bit of fantasy story for my English class last night, a piece fairly cookie cutter and... well, pompous. Good entertainment, no? XD Lack of sleep tends to have that effect, and I was unduly amused at the various reactions of my classmates as they were probably not into the genre (or fandom at large, heheh).
Not sure if the examples of writing I normally run into are darker or more violent than current, er, literature, but they boggled at mentions of blood and ouchies. >_>; Give me explosions and giant swords, people! Anyways, I like playing with other people's characters better. ♥
Also, online formatting >>> print formatting.
Story:
~o0o~
The knife in his hand twists again, almost of its own accord, and he can see the long shadows across her back snap tight and tremble as she screams. He’s aimed a touch low, but cleared her ribs; the blade slides out neatly with a small rush of blood that grows stronger and slicks his hands loving red. Familiar red, like the spreading pool beneath his beloved Alexis not so long ago, or the slash of her mouth as she sighed around her last words, and he falters. His holy orders, the clipped speech of the magistrate, his son's crying eyes- they crumble as the legendary castles of dust in his mind's eye when he sees the brushed strands of pitch-dark hair stick and mat in the ruin of her shoulders.
He tires of this. No, has tired of this since it even began, but it is something that must be done, and if not by him, then another. That has been decreed, so must it be- so will it be, and he courts nothing save ruin to waver. In his hesitation, his moment of failure, Lenaire stumbles away and lands a blow across his chest that sends him sprawling back against the marble floor. Injured, but not nearly finished, and in the low light of the hall, it's hard to even notice her wound. His chance to cut short the struggle retreats without fanfare.
“So it has come to this.” Her voice carries the hoarse weight of one betrayed; he takes that burden silently as he rolls to his feet. She- she!- of all people to use that against him, when it was her own rash, driven ambitions that brought the whole shining army against her. When his promise to his wife- dear Alexis, sweet Alexis, broken and forever gone Alexis- binds him painfully even now.
The anger helps clear his thoughts and focus him- and just in time. He throws himself backwards as a shot of lightning cracks into the tiles beside him, sends shards flying up to slice across his cheek and even a few to lodge into the folds of her gown. Lenaire is ever of her loving sister's blood.
Finding cover behind the great throne, he rests his forehead against the cool slab before readying one of his throwing knives, firm and balanced in his hands, and mouthing a silent prayer. The gods may well listen and decide to curse him for what he plans to do, for what he is about to do- for is not kinslayer a high crime against their divine precedents?- but he cannot bring himself to care. There is little, so very little, for him to lose, and everything in the world for all but himself to gain. So at the next rain of light from around the edges of his shelter, he darts out to the side, slipping recklessly as his booted feet skid across the smooth stone, and flings the blade.
The gods decide to favor him.
It lands true, buried to the hilt in her upper arm. A passable strike- the offside limb now hangs all but useless, and the magic in her hand along with it. This time, she recoils, but grits her teeth and wrenches it out without comment. The weapon makes a wet squelch as it reluctantly lets itself be pulled out before dropping with a high clatter, the sound of church bells and shattered glass, at her feet. He must have hit harder tissue than muscle and skin.
Back lit by the dying embers of the fireplace, she clutches protectively at her side and seems less the Slayer of Kings and more the brash child with large, solemn eyes from across the sea he once knew. He spares a brief thought for how she sees him- a tarnished knight beyond his prime sent to slay her, her sister's foolishly devoted suitor, the Captain of the Night Guard who once turned a blind eye to their flight beyond the castle walls? Would that it mattered enough to make a difference, but it doesn't, and he gives her little time to recover.
Lunging forward, he grips the tight leather of the hilt at his side, takes solace in the way his fingers find their rests without thought, and slides the long blade through the air to cleave her neck in two. His sword edge shrieks against the flat of another, and Lenaire curves her lips at him from around their crossed blades.
The taint of ozone makes his hairs stand on end, and he can taste metal hard in the back of his teeth. She's brought her heirloom.