I posted in another thread about my experience in a Live Action Slush exercise at a local genre fiction convention. I figured I may as well post the manuscript opening I submitted for the exercise. For bonus points, you can guess where the panel stopped the reading.
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The Embers of Legend
The greaves were the smallest he could find in the armoury, and they were still too large. By the time he reached the base of the hill, the straps around his calves had loosened and hard bronze bit into the joint of his foot. He would need to tighten the straps at the sanctuary, and wrap his feet in cloth again under his sandals. Until then he could endure.
The route around and up the hill was familiar to Aretus. His legs knew the tempo of kneading up the steep slope, and the shield on his arm swayed with each stride. An already fierce sun pressed down on the track.
One last run. One final push. Then the Nemean Games.
Aretus gasped the final strides to the top of the hill, threw down the shield, and bent to one knee on the cracked flagstones of the sanctuary. His head burned like a furnace. Only after he had poured a libation at the marble feet of the Watcher did he drink some of the watered wine slung around shoulder. This was the last time he would be here before leaving for Nemea. He gazed up at the timeworn statue that held court among weeds and toppled columns, and drew resolve from its empty, unblinking eyes.
He was a god-born of Arathia. This was his ancestor. The Targeans had their own hero-god, The Rider, with his splendid temple atop the citadel piled high with precious trophies of war. The Watcher had a great temple in Arathia. But here in the lands of the Targeans, he was a minor and neglected god. A shepherd passing a day on the hill with his flock might toss a date at the foot of the Watcher out of superstition. Otherwise, Aretus was the only visitor to this stony and haunted place.
The men in Targea said the distance to the sanctuary and back again was too far. He would over-train, especially when he insisted on wearing armour when he ran. It seemed to Aretus that they knew he was not one of them, and never could be one of them, and yet they didn’t understand what that meant. If he could not return to Arathia, then he would go to the sanctuary of the Watcher and stand in his shadow. And remember.
Aretus drank the rest of the wine. Then he tightened the straps on the greaves, picked up his shield, and set off back to Targea at half-pace. The morning haze had burned off and he could see across the valley to the mottled green and dun hills where Targea stood. He loped down the path and welcomed a sigh of wind that cooled his sweaty back and calves. Several birds flapped up from the gully on his left, squawking. In their wake came an unpleasant smell. Fresh offal.
Without slowing, Aretus turned his head and peered into the gloom of the gully. Something bulky shifted in the shadows. Yellow eyes flashed. Aretus had to stop and turn to keep it in sight. The bulk rose, flipping a long tail. A twisted kill at its feet buzzed with flies.
He fought off the frantic urge to sprint away. Instead, keeping his eyes on the lion, Aretus raised his shield and backed up the hill briskly, sandals scrabbling on the hard path. He must not run, must not become prey. The kill was fresh. The beast should be satisfied. No need to rouse itself to stalk this new prey, tall and wary.
But the beast padded out of the shadows, eyes fixed on Aretus, its muzzle stained deep red.
He had heard in recent weeks that a lion stalked the region. Stories in the agora of sheep taken, dogs savaged. Two hunting expeditions had set after the beast and returned disappointed. No overbold cub, this, but a devious old creature, wise to the ways of men. Aretus must have passed it on the way up the hill without rousing it.
***************************************************************
The Embers of Legend
The greaves were the smallest he could find in the armoury, and they were still too large. By the time he reached the base of the hill, the straps around his calves had loosened and hard bronze bit into the joint of his foot. He would need to tighten the straps at the sanctuary, and wrap his feet in cloth again under his sandals. Until then he could endure.
The route around and up the hill was familiar to Aretus. His legs knew the tempo of kneading up the steep slope, and the shield on his arm swayed with each stride. An already fierce sun pressed down on the track.
One last run. One final push. Then the Nemean Games.
Aretus gasped the final strides to the top of the hill, threw down the shield, and bent to one knee on the cracked flagstones of the sanctuary. His head burned like a furnace. Only after he had poured a libation at the marble feet of the Watcher did he drink some of the watered wine slung around shoulder. This was the last time he would be here before leaving for Nemea. He gazed up at the timeworn statue that held court among weeds and toppled columns, and drew resolve from its empty, unblinking eyes.
He was a god-born of Arathia. This was his ancestor. The Targeans had their own hero-god, The Rider, with his splendid temple atop the citadel piled high with precious trophies of war. The Watcher had a great temple in Arathia. But here in the lands of the Targeans, he was a minor and neglected god. A shepherd passing a day on the hill with his flock might toss a date at the foot of the Watcher out of superstition. Otherwise, Aretus was the only visitor to this stony and haunted place.
The men in Targea said the distance to the sanctuary and back again was too far. He would over-train, especially when he insisted on wearing armour when he ran. It seemed to Aretus that they knew he was not one of them, and never could be one of them, and yet they didn’t understand what that meant. If he could not return to Arathia, then he would go to the sanctuary of the Watcher and stand in his shadow. And remember.
Aretus drank the rest of the wine. Then he tightened the straps on the greaves, picked up his shield, and set off back to Targea at half-pace. The morning haze had burned off and he could see across the valley to the mottled green and dun hills where Targea stood. He loped down the path and welcomed a sigh of wind that cooled his sweaty back and calves. Several birds flapped up from the gully on his left, squawking. In their wake came an unpleasant smell. Fresh offal.
Without slowing, Aretus turned his head and peered into the gloom of the gully. Something bulky shifted in the shadows. Yellow eyes flashed. Aretus had to stop and turn to keep it in sight. The bulk rose, flipping a long tail. A twisted kill at its feet buzzed with flies.
He fought off the frantic urge to sprint away. Instead, keeping his eyes on the lion, Aretus raised his shield and backed up the hill briskly, sandals scrabbling on the hard path. He must not run, must not become prey. The kill was fresh. The beast should be satisfied. No need to rouse itself to stalk this new prey, tall and wary.
But the beast padded out of the shadows, eyes fixed on Aretus, its muzzle stained deep red.
He had heard in recent weeks that a lion stalked the region. Stories in the agora of sheep taken, dogs savaged. Two hunting expeditions had set after the beast and returned disappointed. No overbold cub, this, but a devious old creature, wise to the ways of men. Aretus must have passed it on the way up the hill without rousing it.
