Luiglin
Getting worse one day at a time
Hi all, below are the first two chapters of something I've got back to looking at recently in an effort to kick start myself off. I had got to 35k words before stuttering to a halt over stupid doubts, faith in writing, ad nauseum, pardon my ancient elf. As such, I'm starting from the start again, editing those 35k in order to refresh how all the characters talk/think/act etc
It's set in the Dark Lord universe and centred on a dwarf private investigator called Skrudournurim “Short” Storsomn as he investigates a serial killer, of sorts, in the floating city of Allswelcome. It's written from his first person, excepting morsels where I take it from the killers point of view as third person.
I've not edited the below, so expect stupid grammar mistakes and stuff. It's been ages since I've posted anything to be looked at but, as before, good/bad/ugly comments are all welcome. I'm looking at peoples thoughts on the pace or how it reads. Cheers, Luiglin.
Why?
Why do they always run?
Feet pummelled the floor as the figure fled. I raised my eyes to the heavens, not to seek any answers from the Gods I didn’t believe in. More as a bad habit I’d picked up from being around humans far too long. I added a heartfelt sigh as the next question popped into my head. It appeared with the same level of welcome as a drunk who gate crashes a funeral… and forgets the beer.
Why do I always ask myself stupid questions?
My quarry disappeared from view, flitting into a side alley, the sound of his passage merging with the background hustle and bustle of the city beyond. I heaved up my pack and headed in the opposite direction at a comfortable jog.
The more pertinent question should be… why do they always run to the same hiding place… and take the long way?
My mind did not offer a reply, it already knew the answer. Even my target should have known the answer. Even the stall holders that filled the square I ended up in, knew the answer.
Ah, the Spice Bazaar. The place was a cacophony of smells that both assaulted and teased my nose. They fought their way up my nostrils like they were a bunch of dwarvern younglings playing king of the hill and wearing their fathers armour. I savoured every second of it before my sense of smell waved its white flag and succumbed to the onslaught.
It was my second favourite place in Allswelcome.
I exchanged nods, greetings and bored knowing looks. As I said, they knew exactly why I was here. I gauged where the chase had begun. Just enough time for a shop.
Three vendors later and a few coins lighter, I ended up at Kial’s neat stall. While others laid out their wares by heat, flavour, region or use, Kial’s spice pots were arranged in shades matching the rainbow. From the deep red of pure, uncut saffron, to the one shade left of black, violet cumin. It looked outstanding and confused all but the hardened spice connoisseur, pardon my elf.
He bobbed a head at a large basket to one side and gave me a bored smile, to which I mouthed a thanks. Kial had only ever used the basket once, a year back, when he had been late to open up and not had time to drop his washing off at Pristine Handkerchiefs, a halfling laundry a few streets away. Since that fateful day, it had remained a permanent feature.
Settling into position across from the stall, I waited, not that long though. My quarry came stumbling around the corner, breathing heavy and bright blue in the face. Without deviation or hesitation, he headed straight to the basket, took the lid off and jumped in. The lid caught the edge, toppling off to roll conveniently over to where I stood.
Catching Kial’s gaze, I shrugged with a grin and strolled over. The sound of laboured breathing came from within. I tapped the edge of the basket and waved the lid in the air over it. My quarry looked up, a grateful thank you on his lips that died before he could even wrap his tongue around the first syllable.
I dropped the leash in the basket and waited for him to do the rest.
Why do I do this job again?
Wakey, wakey
The last nail squeaked free and fell to the floor where it skittered to a stop amidst its fellows. The lid of the sarcophagus slid off with ease, hitting the ancient boards with a dull thump. Salty stale air wafted out from within, a soupcon of death and a dash of preservatives.
A figure, long white cloak trailing on the floor, didn’t look within. Didn’t need to. It knew whose resting place it was. After all, he’d chosen that sarcophagus with care.
Kneeling, White Cloak, unwrapped a small bundle of items to reveal a bottle, a gold disc and a pepper pot in the shape of a novelty elephant with an eyebrow raising suggestive, overlarge trunk.
It is often the case with everyday items brought back from foreign climes as gifts that they all seem to be suggestive. Even if you visited the gift shop in the Sanctity of Naje, in a country where you only had to blink to be accused of a lewd and libidinous act, you would find a teapot in the shape of the Sanctity’s famous dome. The fact that the bestselling gift also looked like a woman’s bare breast and adorned with the words, ‘Greetings from Sanctity of Naje - not too much milk for me’ was just pure chance.
White Cloak gathered the items up, placed them on the rim of the sarcophagus and took a deep breath.
It was now or never.
Opening the bottle, they walked slowly around the sarcophagus, pouring out the contents and muttering words of power. Taking up the elephant pepper pot, White Cloak repeated the circle, dusting the inside of the sarcophagus with emphatic shakes.
He wrapped the bottle and the elephant pepper pot back up before taking the gold disc. With a quick snap, and a powerful mutter, White Cloak broke the disc in two, tossing one end down to where the feet lay and the other half at the head.
Time seemed to paused, almost as if it wanted to get in on the drama.
A creak came from within. Not the creak of a floor board giving or dry hinge complaining at being opened. A creak of some something else, something that should never creak. Not now anyway. White Cloak, stepped back, breath held tight in anticipation. A skeletal hand reached out to grip the rim of the sarcophagus, the bones, lacking any sort of tendon, muscle or flesh and yet still moving as if they had.
The rest of the interred appeared, dressed in mottled blue robes that rasped as new folds were made. A large, dirty white false beard slid off the skull as it sat up, there being no ears with which to keep it in place, although the floppy, pompom ended, hat remained jammed at a jaunty angle.
“Oh, oh, oh,” said the skeletal remains, the jaw bone shifting, teeth clacking together, the words seeming to echo from somewhere else entirely. “Have you been good?” asked the remains dressed as Old Man Winter.
It's set in the Dark Lord universe and centred on a dwarf private investigator called Skrudournurim “Short” Storsomn as he investigates a serial killer, of sorts, in the floating city of Allswelcome. It's written from his first person, excepting morsels where I take it from the killers point of view as third person.
I've not edited the below, so expect stupid grammar mistakes and stuff. It's been ages since I've posted anything to be looked at but, as before, good/bad/ugly comments are all welcome. I'm looking at peoples thoughts on the pace or how it reads. Cheers, Luiglin.
Why?
Why do they always run?
Feet pummelled the floor as the figure fled. I raised my eyes to the heavens, not to seek any answers from the Gods I didn’t believe in. More as a bad habit I’d picked up from being around humans far too long. I added a heartfelt sigh as the next question popped into my head. It appeared with the same level of welcome as a drunk who gate crashes a funeral… and forgets the beer.
Why do I always ask myself stupid questions?
My quarry disappeared from view, flitting into a side alley, the sound of his passage merging with the background hustle and bustle of the city beyond. I heaved up my pack and headed in the opposite direction at a comfortable jog.
The more pertinent question should be… why do they always run to the same hiding place… and take the long way?
My mind did not offer a reply, it already knew the answer. Even my target should have known the answer. Even the stall holders that filled the square I ended up in, knew the answer.
Ah, the Spice Bazaar. The place was a cacophony of smells that both assaulted and teased my nose. They fought their way up my nostrils like they were a bunch of dwarvern younglings playing king of the hill and wearing their fathers armour. I savoured every second of it before my sense of smell waved its white flag and succumbed to the onslaught.
It was my second favourite place in Allswelcome.
I exchanged nods, greetings and bored knowing looks. As I said, they knew exactly why I was here. I gauged where the chase had begun. Just enough time for a shop.
Three vendors later and a few coins lighter, I ended up at Kial’s neat stall. While others laid out their wares by heat, flavour, region or use, Kial’s spice pots were arranged in shades matching the rainbow. From the deep red of pure, uncut saffron, to the one shade left of black, violet cumin. It looked outstanding and confused all but the hardened spice connoisseur, pardon my elf.
He bobbed a head at a large basket to one side and gave me a bored smile, to which I mouthed a thanks. Kial had only ever used the basket once, a year back, when he had been late to open up and not had time to drop his washing off at Pristine Handkerchiefs, a halfling laundry a few streets away. Since that fateful day, it had remained a permanent feature.
Settling into position across from the stall, I waited, not that long though. My quarry came stumbling around the corner, breathing heavy and bright blue in the face. Without deviation or hesitation, he headed straight to the basket, took the lid off and jumped in. The lid caught the edge, toppling off to roll conveniently over to where I stood.
Catching Kial’s gaze, I shrugged with a grin and strolled over. The sound of laboured breathing came from within. I tapped the edge of the basket and waved the lid in the air over it. My quarry looked up, a grateful thank you on his lips that died before he could even wrap his tongue around the first syllable.
I dropped the leash in the basket and waited for him to do the rest.
Why do I do this job again?
Wakey, wakey
The last nail squeaked free and fell to the floor where it skittered to a stop amidst its fellows. The lid of the sarcophagus slid off with ease, hitting the ancient boards with a dull thump. Salty stale air wafted out from within, a soupcon of death and a dash of preservatives.
A figure, long white cloak trailing on the floor, didn’t look within. Didn’t need to. It knew whose resting place it was. After all, he’d chosen that sarcophagus with care.
Kneeling, White Cloak, unwrapped a small bundle of items to reveal a bottle, a gold disc and a pepper pot in the shape of a novelty elephant with an eyebrow raising suggestive, overlarge trunk.
It is often the case with everyday items brought back from foreign climes as gifts that they all seem to be suggestive. Even if you visited the gift shop in the Sanctity of Naje, in a country where you only had to blink to be accused of a lewd and libidinous act, you would find a teapot in the shape of the Sanctity’s famous dome. The fact that the bestselling gift also looked like a woman’s bare breast and adorned with the words, ‘Greetings from Sanctity of Naje - not too much milk for me’ was just pure chance.
White Cloak gathered the items up, placed them on the rim of the sarcophagus and took a deep breath.
It was now or never.
Opening the bottle, they walked slowly around the sarcophagus, pouring out the contents and muttering words of power. Taking up the elephant pepper pot, White Cloak repeated the circle, dusting the inside of the sarcophagus with emphatic shakes.
He wrapped the bottle and the elephant pepper pot back up before taking the gold disc. With a quick snap, and a powerful mutter, White Cloak broke the disc in two, tossing one end down to where the feet lay and the other half at the head.
Time seemed to paused, almost as if it wanted to get in on the drama.
A creak came from within. Not the creak of a floor board giving or dry hinge complaining at being opened. A creak of some something else, something that should never creak. Not now anyway. White Cloak, stepped back, breath held tight in anticipation. A skeletal hand reached out to grip the rim of the sarcophagus, the bones, lacking any sort of tendon, muscle or flesh and yet still moving as if they had.
The rest of the interred appeared, dressed in mottled blue robes that rasped as new folds were made. A large, dirty white false beard slid off the skull as it sat up, there being no ears with which to keep it in place, although the floppy, pompom ended, hat remained jammed at a jaunty angle.
“Oh, oh, oh,” said the skeletal remains, the jaw bone shifting, teeth clacking together, the words seeming to echo from somewhere else entirely. “Have you been good?” asked the remains dressed as Old Man Winter.
).
