cyphus4
Member
- Joined
- Jun 3, 2006
- Messages
- 16
Thanks for all the help everyone gave last time on my post. Dustinzgirl had mention that I needn't to get deeper into the characters and how they react, so here is my second stab. It is slightly changed, but most of all it has been rewritten from the guard's perspective. Let me know what you think about it this go around. I am personally happier with it this, but I'm sure it could use some definite critiquing. Thanks, guys.
The beast hurried through the woods with unnatural speed. Two hours had passed under this canopy of green and black, but still the beast had not found its prey it has sought for centuries. How old is this beast? The creature’s appearance reveals no clue, but the hunkered posture and stiff movements may be a sign of years on the hunt. Regardless, the creature has killed for centuries, and age will not prevent it from following instinct. Remarkably silent, it races under the thick, robust branches and over the leafy underbrush. After several more hours, the creature has finally reached his destination, the town of Parish. Tonight, he would face the foe he hunted for so long. His torment will end.
The old soldier hates these sorts of evenings. “Drudgery” is the best word he can find for it. A midnight sky so void, that the hope of seeing a dim light in the black clouds is nonexistent. Stars hide and moons lazily take refuge behind the horizon. The veteran’s thoughts float back to a time years past, when standing on these walls at the deepest of night was not only a duty, but an honor. This night reminds him as to why he should have joined the Holy March decades ago. The armies of Zhaal pressed at these gates, but now…nothing. He tightens grip on the steel hilt of his blade, a natural reaction to memories of battle and heroism. He was a hero once, but time and age take their toll.
Just another long night.
He loosens his grasp on the sword, and turns back, gazing at the quiet cottages and courtly manors inside the sturdy, stone barriers. Leaning against the rising on the outer wall to the city, he relaxes. Trying vainly to rationalize his mistakes, he ponders his reasoning when he had decided to live out the rest of his life in this small hamlet. His only answer to his inner machinations is a sigh of boredom. His eyes catch a gander of a soft, split timber beneath his feet. A weak expression of apathy stretches across his lips, “Someone should fix that.” Silently and cautiously, he steps over the cracked board and marches to the east, following the outer edge of the northern catwalks.
His mind pulls his focus elsewhere to earlier this eve, dancing with his daughter only minutes after she wed the young merchant’s son, Cavaus Donaer. It is reassuring to him that he never has to worry of his daughter’s well being. To never have to go hungry such as he did so many years ago. Cavaus is a good man to boot, and his family is respected in all of Parish. Respected, but certainly not loved. His ole’ crow of a father is one of the most hated figures in town, but the crow managed to rein in almost every trade good Parish deals in his silver palm.
The bristly evening wind picks up, whistling over the stony wall and slapping hard against his armor. The biting chill is more like an eerie call, just as every gust that passes over after the moon shines high in the sky. Listening to the breeze, most green recruits catch whispering tales of dark creatures, lurking beneath every catwalk. The creaking wood of the withered stints doesn’t help matters. Some fresh faces leave in the mornings wrapped in a cold sweat, but his isn’t a fresh face. Every evening, he dismisses the dreadful tales, because he had grown accustomed to the rants of the wind. Some most likely would call him composed, and others would probably prefer calloused.
Another hungry gale rolls over the wall, a distinguishable ghostly howl carried with it. Odd it seemed to him, and he immediately turned, recognizing that spectral sound as more than a mind trick. His adrenaline began to flow, and the notion of tales elapsed. Calmly, he honed his ears, listening intently for its origin. How real it had sounded. The howl cited his memory to stir, searching for which he believed was inescapably familiar. It reminded him of the wolves of Callum, but such thoughts were impossible.
His frame stiffened as he peered deep into its menacing eyes. The red pupils stared directly at him. The beast revealed itself, but from its stance and snarl of his snout, it seemed as if the creature preferred it that way. Veteran soldiers take pride assertive action, but he could simply stare. The creature leaped forward into the light of his torch.
“Wolf! All men to the North Wall!”
At the end of “wall”, the lupine beast landed on his chest, hurling his feet outward and smashing him into the weak, wooden planks. The creature stood as a human, taller than even himself. He braced his shield over the front of his torso, bouncing aside to two vicious rakes. It had strength that he had never witnessed before, and he knew that his buckler would snap soon.
The beast hurried through the woods with unnatural speed. Two hours had passed under this canopy of green and black, but still the beast had not found its prey it has sought for centuries. How old is this beast? The creature’s appearance reveals no clue, but the hunkered posture and stiff movements may be a sign of years on the hunt. Regardless, the creature has killed for centuries, and age will not prevent it from following instinct. Remarkably silent, it races under the thick, robust branches and over the leafy underbrush. After several more hours, the creature has finally reached his destination, the town of Parish. Tonight, he would face the foe he hunted for so long. His torment will end.
The old soldier hates these sorts of evenings. “Drudgery” is the best word he can find for it. A midnight sky so void, that the hope of seeing a dim light in the black clouds is nonexistent. Stars hide and moons lazily take refuge behind the horizon. The veteran’s thoughts float back to a time years past, when standing on these walls at the deepest of night was not only a duty, but an honor. This night reminds him as to why he should have joined the Holy March decades ago. The armies of Zhaal pressed at these gates, but now…nothing. He tightens grip on the steel hilt of his blade, a natural reaction to memories of battle and heroism. He was a hero once, but time and age take their toll.
Just another long night.
He loosens his grasp on the sword, and turns back, gazing at the quiet cottages and courtly manors inside the sturdy, stone barriers. Leaning against the rising on the outer wall to the city, he relaxes. Trying vainly to rationalize his mistakes, he ponders his reasoning when he had decided to live out the rest of his life in this small hamlet. His only answer to his inner machinations is a sigh of boredom. His eyes catch a gander of a soft, split timber beneath his feet. A weak expression of apathy stretches across his lips, “Someone should fix that.” Silently and cautiously, he steps over the cracked board and marches to the east, following the outer edge of the northern catwalks.
His mind pulls his focus elsewhere to earlier this eve, dancing with his daughter only minutes after she wed the young merchant’s son, Cavaus Donaer. It is reassuring to him that he never has to worry of his daughter’s well being. To never have to go hungry such as he did so many years ago. Cavaus is a good man to boot, and his family is respected in all of Parish. Respected, but certainly not loved. His ole’ crow of a father is one of the most hated figures in town, but the crow managed to rein in almost every trade good Parish deals in his silver palm.
The bristly evening wind picks up, whistling over the stony wall and slapping hard against his armor. The biting chill is more like an eerie call, just as every gust that passes over after the moon shines high in the sky. Listening to the breeze, most green recruits catch whispering tales of dark creatures, lurking beneath every catwalk. The creaking wood of the withered stints doesn’t help matters. Some fresh faces leave in the mornings wrapped in a cold sweat, but his isn’t a fresh face. Every evening, he dismisses the dreadful tales, because he had grown accustomed to the rants of the wind. Some most likely would call him composed, and others would probably prefer calloused.
Another hungry gale rolls over the wall, a distinguishable ghostly howl carried with it. Odd it seemed to him, and he immediately turned, recognizing that spectral sound as more than a mind trick. His adrenaline began to flow, and the notion of tales elapsed. Calmly, he honed his ears, listening intently for its origin. How real it had sounded. The howl cited his memory to stir, searching for which he believed was inescapably familiar. It reminded him of the wolves of Callum, but such thoughts were impossible.
His frame stiffened as he peered deep into its menacing eyes. The red pupils stared directly at him. The beast revealed itself, but from its stance and snarl of his snout, it seemed as if the creature preferred it that way. Veteran soldiers take pride assertive action, but he could simply stare. The creature leaped forward into the light of his torch.
“Wolf! All men to the North Wall!”
At the end of “wall”, the lupine beast landed on his chest, hurling his feet outward and smashing him into the weak, wooden planks. The creature stood as a human, taller than even himself. He braced his shield over the front of his torso, bouncing aside to two vicious rakes. It had strength that he had never witnessed before, and he knew that his buckler would snap soon.
