Lacedaemonian
A Plume of Smoke
This is my first attempt at adopting a wuxia style for my elves, and a first chapter from the perspective of the elves. I hope that it works.
He was Ferol Blu, an Arrowfoot knight of Wheeling Swallow. His mission; cut the head from the snake. He peered down into the woodless valley where lay the snake, the Dukes northern army barrack. Ferol Blu knew all too well the gravity of this quest. He skipped out from the white blossomed branch, and floated down to the moss soft woodland earth. He reached inside his tunic and drew out the water-glass amulet that hung from his neck by a silver chain. Ferol Blu had done this ritual half a hundred times over the past year. He dug a hole beneath the gnarled roots of the blossom, kissed the water-glass amulet and placed it into the soil sanctum of the blossom tree. ‘May the spirits forgive me.’ He turned the clump of moss in both hands then placed it back into the hole. ‘And my courage arm me for this crime.’ He slipped his soiled hands into his brown mole skin gloves and covered his face with the hood of his cloak.
His grey cloak pulled tight across his breast, he skipped from rock to rock, his canvas soled shoes barely glancing with each stride. He came down hard on a fist of granite and sprang one hundred foot into the air, his feet scissored, and his hands held still - both gripping the willow wood handle of his silver starred scimitar. As his grey blue reflection glimmered from the pale ripples of the Twil’ Fil he folded over and plummeted into its frozen folds.
Three hundred yards away, Ferol Blu flew out of the water thirty foot into the air, somersaulted and came down silently landing in Still Heron form his right hand tucked inside his cloak, his left arm aloft with hand ready to strike. Startled, two guards fifteen foot away struggled to unsheathe their swords. They were dead, throats cut deep slumped to the gravel. Ferol Blu stooped over their lifeless forms and placed a sprig of lavender on their still hearts, “May the spirits forgive me.”
He span and sprinted on the toes of his feet toward the sandstone barrack walls. Not slowing he met the wall with a spring and danced upward landing atop of it in a heart beat. The yard below was quiet but not dead. Twelve young recruits were practising manoeuvres. Oh mercy! He floated down into the yard with both scimitars pointed earthward. “Arm yourselves boys.” The recruits drew their swords almost in unison. “Please forgive me.” They came at him brazen. Moving into Weeping Wolf, he flew into them his blades twirling. He slew them all. Twelve sprigs of lavender flew up into the air and floated down to land softly on the still hearts of each of the lifeless twelve recruits.
A tear trickled down Ferol Blu’s cheek as he strolled toward the barrack doors. He had not planned for this encounter. I must be done with this! His canvas soled shoes slipped silently through the stone corridors, and he thanked the spirits that he met nobody on his way. The heavy ash wood door creaked open, and the captain sat wakened amongst the folds of his bed.
“Who in hells name are you?”
“I am a messenger sent forth by the Deerwood council.”
“And what is the message?”
“Please forgive me.”
He was Ferol Blu, an Arrowfoot knight of Wheeling Swallow. His mission; cut the head from the snake. He peered down into the woodless valley where lay the snake, the Dukes northern army barrack. Ferol Blu knew all too well the gravity of this quest. He skipped out from the white blossomed branch, and floated down to the moss soft woodland earth. He reached inside his tunic and drew out the water-glass amulet that hung from his neck by a silver chain. Ferol Blu had done this ritual half a hundred times over the past year. He dug a hole beneath the gnarled roots of the blossom, kissed the water-glass amulet and placed it into the soil sanctum of the blossom tree. ‘May the spirits forgive me.’ He turned the clump of moss in both hands then placed it back into the hole. ‘And my courage arm me for this crime.’ He slipped his soiled hands into his brown mole skin gloves and covered his face with the hood of his cloak.
His grey cloak pulled tight across his breast, he skipped from rock to rock, his canvas soled shoes barely glancing with each stride. He came down hard on a fist of granite and sprang one hundred foot into the air, his feet scissored, and his hands held still - both gripping the willow wood handle of his silver starred scimitar. As his grey blue reflection glimmered from the pale ripples of the Twil’ Fil he folded over and plummeted into its frozen folds.
Three hundred yards away, Ferol Blu flew out of the water thirty foot into the air, somersaulted and came down silently landing in Still Heron form his right hand tucked inside his cloak, his left arm aloft with hand ready to strike. Startled, two guards fifteen foot away struggled to unsheathe their swords. They were dead, throats cut deep slumped to the gravel. Ferol Blu stooped over their lifeless forms and placed a sprig of lavender on their still hearts, “May the spirits forgive me.”
He span and sprinted on the toes of his feet toward the sandstone barrack walls. Not slowing he met the wall with a spring and danced upward landing atop of it in a heart beat. The yard below was quiet but not dead. Twelve young recruits were practising manoeuvres. Oh mercy! He floated down into the yard with both scimitars pointed earthward. “Arm yourselves boys.” The recruits drew their swords almost in unison. “Please forgive me.” They came at him brazen. Moving into Weeping Wolf, he flew into them his blades twirling. He slew them all. Twelve sprigs of lavender flew up into the air and floated down to land softly on the still hearts of each of the lifeless twelve recruits.
A tear trickled down Ferol Blu’s cheek as he strolled toward the barrack doors. He had not planned for this encounter. I must be done with this! His canvas soled shoes slipped silently through the stone corridors, and he thanked the spirits that he met nobody on his way. The heavy ash wood door creaked open, and the captain sat wakened amongst the folds of his bed.
“Who in hells name are you?”
“I am a messenger sent forth by the Deerwood council.”
“And what is the message?”
“Please forgive me.”
You need to change a couple of words here and there, but it's really well written. I think span should be spun, and 'on the toes of his feet' feels redundant somehow, you could afford to lose it. The overall effect is really good though. More please!
