Apologia pro vita sua

October 7, 2011 § 1 Comment

Well, not really, but I did want to say that yes, I’ve been popping a lot of fragments onto this site lately. I’m not ignorant of how annoying that can be, but part of the problem is that I simply have to work very hard to force myself to write anything at all. With that limitation, I figure that getting fragments up on a semi-regular basis is better than nothing at all.

I expect some more fragments in a day or two. I hope to revisit the character who cannot be named soon, who I call Nameless in my head even though Nameless is itself a name. I also hope to go back to the space opera sometime. The fantasy stuff needs more thought, so we’ll hopefully let it get that.

Okay, enough talking, on to doing.


Auric 1

October 5, 2011 § Leave a comment

Red hair, shaggy and unkempt, unwashed in weeks, soaked in his sweat and in blood. It hung in lank strips in his face as he panted and whipped back like grain in wind as he pulled to the side. The blade that would have buried itself in his eye instead dragged a line across his cheekbone. If there had been time he would have cursed his lack of a helmet. There was no time. There had been no time to put it on and there was no time to bemoan it.

Four of them, armed with swords and bucklers, in solid boiled leather. Him, no shield, no breastplate, just the leather plates on his legs. If they’d attacked a few seconds later he might have been entirely naked. Needing room, feeling the ground behind him quiver at the largest of the four tried to hem him in, he whirled and sank his teeth directly into a nose. His eyes were so close he could see the other’s pupils expand as his teeth met and he wrenched his neck back, spitting the nose back where it had been wrenched.

He was taller than any of them, and broader than all but noseless. It didn’t balance the odds. He knew he had to kill one in the next few seconds or he was certainly going to die. He shifted his grip on the knives in his hands, felt the leather wrappings scraping at his hands, and dropped into a roll to get behind one of them. « Read the rest of this entry »

Granite 1

October 4, 2011 § 1 Comment

He came upon the dead his fourth night following the heavy tracks of horse south from Agath. His own horse, huge and grey and accustomed to armored weight in the saddly, snorted and shook its massive head. A scratch behind the ears and some murmured praise steadied. Clean shaven, the rider’s face was pallid in comparison to the skin around his eyes, dark from years outside.

Scythior Gran-Hallan Manjeur was his name, but almost no one had used it in years. He hadn’t been home since his second daughter was born. Didn’t even know what she looked like, although the last letter his wife sent indicated that she looked like he had in younger days. Return was impossible, or nearly so, and yet he wondered what his children looked like. Even with that distracting him his slate eyes kept following the tracks.

Twenty on horse. Four times that many on foot. Wagons. It meant either mercenaries or bandits. Mercenaries didn’t do what he saw ahead of him as he rode Ransar forward. The mud meant he could track them easily, and could follow in the wet sloggy mire they’d pounded hard with hooves and wheels. He could go faster, could overtake, or could ride back as he was and never worry about them seeing him.

« Read the rest of this entry »

October 3, 2011 § Leave a comment

He spoke to trees.

They mocked him for it, of course. It would be a lie to say he didn’t care that the other children taunted him. He cared. But he still spoke to the trees, from time to time. He would sit in his blue hooded sweatshirt with the zipped pulled up to his pudgy chin, reading whatever book he snuck out of his grandmother’s bookcase. He read aloud and then would stop and read silently, his lips pursed. Then he’d laugh, or snort, and explain to the tree what he thought of whatever he was reading. If he didn’t have a book to hand, he’d just mutter on about whatever it was he was thinking.

It didn’t seem worth so much interest to him. He knew the trees weren’t going to respond. He mostly did it because his eyes were bad and reading aloud was easier for him, but he didn’t want to wear glasses. After a while it became habitual. Trees didn’t talk, he wasn’t under the impression that they did.

If you said he was lonely he wouldn’t disagree with you. But he didn’t think much about it. « Read the rest of this entry »

Where Am I?

You are currently viewing the archives for October, 2011 at And fallen, fallen light renew.