Faded Ambition
It seemed almost funny the naive way I believed I'd be a writer when I was a boy. I doubt anyone could have predicted my profession. Anyway, I was trying to organize my hopelessly cluttered hard disk when I came across past literary attempts.
Here's one of them:
The tavern was bustling with patrons, the air rank with the smell of sweat and vomit. Ironworkers from the nearby mines formed the main part of the crowd, most of them having just finished work for the day.
At the doorway, Raine surveyed the premises and, finding conditions favorable, blended quietly into the crowd. The ironworkers were too tired and too drunk to pay her much heed, preferring to guzzle down their ale and chew on their roasted boar. Their faces were smeared with soot and they groped at the barmaids at every available opportunity. The barmaids themselves, however, seemed unperturbed by the unwanted attention.
An ominous figure sat at the corner of the tavern, nursing a jug of mead. He wore a heavy cloak in a hue that reminded her of dried blood. An untrained eye would not have noticed the leather armor and dagger it concealed. She had a feeling that he had been watching her the moment she had stepped into the place. She approached the man slowly, as one might approach a highly venomous serpent, consciously taking her hand off the hilt of her sword so as not to provoke unnecessary tension.
"Skie," she said.
The man took a swallow from his mug and nodded. He poured her a mug of mead. "Sit down, please."
Raine sat down and placed a plain black scabbard the size of a large dagger on the table. She picked up her mug of mead and drank. It was an unspoken sign of trust. Skie had offered drinks to many people in the past, and it was not often that the result wasn’t fatal.
Picking up the scabbard, Skie unsheathed the blade and looked at it thoughtfully. The blade was plain and unmarked except for the emblem of a skull at the base. It was the sign of a Minax assassination. He drew his thumb across the cutting edge, barely touching it.
“Do give my regards to your brother,” he said, looking satisfied. “He is getting better at his craft. This blade will slice through chainmail.”
“He sends his regards,” Raine replied.
Skie lifted the side of his cloak, revealing numerous pouches and vials that are held in place by a specially made leather belt. He removed a small bottle the size of a baby finger and placed it on the table. With a deft movement he emptied the contents of the bottle onto the blade, holding onto it by the hilt and quickly rotating it so that the liquid spread evenly across its entire length. The liquid emitted a wisp of smoke as it dried, and Rain caught a whiff of charred metal. Skie let a moment pass before sheathing the blade and placing it back onto the table.
Raine drained the rest of her mead and slung the blade across her back, replacing it with a pouch of gold coins. “With gratitude,” she said as she stood up to take her leave.
Skie nodded and said, “Good luck.”
He continued to observe her as she made her way out of the tavern. He took his time to finish the mead, eventually paying for the drink with her coins when he was finished.
Makes me feel like picking up the pen again someday.
English was pretty much the only thing which I excelled in back in school. And history.
If only I could take a look at my O level English paper!
Here's one of them:
The tavern was bustling with patrons, the air rank with the smell of sweat and vomit. Ironworkers from the nearby mines formed the main part of the crowd, most of them having just finished work for the day.
At the doorway, Raine surveyed the premises and, finding conditions favorable, blended quietly into the crowd. The ironworkers were too tired and too drunk to pay her much heed, preferring to guzzle down their ale and chew on their roasted boar. Their faces were smeared with soot and they groped at the barmaids at every available opportunity. The barmaids themselves, however, seemed unperturbed by the unwanted attention.
An ominous figure sat at the corner of the tavern, nursing a jug of mead. He wore a heavy cloak in a hue that reminded her of dried blood. An untrained eye would not have noticed the leather armor and dagger it concealed. She had a feeling that he had been watching her the moment she had stepped into the place. She approached the man slowly, as one might approach a highly venomous serpent, consciously taking her hand off the hilt of her sword so as not to provoke unnecessary tension.
"Skie," she said.
The man took a swallow from his mug and nodded. He poured her a mug of mead. "Sit down, please."
Raine sat down and placed a plain black scabbard the size of a large dagger on the table. She picked up her mug of mead and drank. It was an unspoken sign of trust. Skie had offered drinks to many people in the past, and it was not often that the result wasn’t fatal.
Picking up the scabbard, Skie unsheathed the blade and looked at it thoughtfully. The blade was plain and unmarked except for the emblem of a skull at the base. It was the sign of a Minax assassination. He drew his thumb across the cutting edge, barely touching it.
“Do give my regards to your brother,” he said, looking satisfied. “He is getting better at his craft. This blade will slice through chainmail.”
“He sends his regards,” Raine replied.
Skie lifted the side of his cloak, revealing numerous pouches and vials that are held in place by a specially made leather belt. He removed a small bottle the size of a baby finger and placed it on the table. With a deft movement he emptied the contents of the bottle onto the blade, holding onto it by the hilt and quickly rotating it so that the liquid spread evenly across its entire length. The liquid emitted a wisp of smoke as it dried, and Rain caught a whiff of charred metal. Skie let a moment pass before sheathing the blade and placing it back onto the table.
Raine drained the rest of her mead and slung the blade across her back, replacing it with a pouch of gold coins. “With gratitude,” she said as she stood up to take her leave.
Skie nodded and said, “Good luck.”
He continued to observe her as she made her way out of the tavern. He took his time to finish the mead, eventually paying for the drink with her coins when he was finished.
Makes me feel like picking up the pen again someday.
English was pretty much the only thing which I excelled in back in school. And history.
If only I could take a look at my O level English paper!