The opening from my latest short story. It's in a less flowery style than the celtic one. Not sure about it. Any comments appreciated.
Ghen-Tao; Kills a Man, Eats
Ghen-Tao was hungry. Very hungry. When hungry he was liable to be short-tempered and old Soldiers are not rich men, no matter how swift the blade, how strong the arm.
Noodles and Broth. Again.
Three-Blossom Tea House was a fine place, clean, the food good. More important Ghen-Tao was known there and left in peace, his fame was never a problem in the Three-Blossom tea house.
The owner was a good friend of his but business was business, so noodles and broth again and tea not wine. Even so that would empty his purse but better an empty purse than an empty stomach.
He pulled his red sash tight around his shrinking gut, adjusted the heavy war sabre that hung at his waist and headed for the tea house. Dust from the road, tramped up by his worn sandals clung to the damp ragged hem of his tattered robes and the sun beat down midday high and hot on of his shaven head and made him squint against its brightness.
Fast as he walked he was unable to shake off the cold ache in his bones, fresh from his dew damp tombstone bed of the northstar cemetary.
The Three-Blossom tea house was in a district not poor, but not wealthy and entirly too near 'the pillow world' to be considered respectable.
Seldom busy, less than luxporious, the tea house and it's friendly rowdy clientel suited Ghen-Tao.
At the opposite end of the street Gehn-Tao spotted a youth.
The youth walked tall and straight-backed proud, as if he owned the street, the district, the whole city even.
He was the very opposite of Ghen-Tao. Where he was short and skinny from poverty and hunger, rugged in his simple black robes, the youth was tall, muscular, well fed with wealth, dressed in fine silks of emrald green, and fine red calf-skin boots. Ghen-Tao looked at his fall-apart sandals and sighed.
Ghen-tao had the shaved head of a soldier, the youth's hair, tied in a high tail oiled and perfumed, was as black as the jet neclace that hung around his too clean neck.
Greater than than all this their swords spoke of their differences. Ghen-Tao's was a large curved broad saber. Stufed in his sash, the blade bare. The youth wore a gentleman's sword. Long, thin bladed and straight, sheathed in an intricate bright blue scabbared that glinted in the sun and spoke of wealth.
Ghen-Tao took all this in and knew the youth for what he was. The youth took one dismissive look, his lip curled. It was clear he did not see Ghen-Tao. Not for what he was, who he is.
The wealthy youth hurried into the tea house ahead of Ghen-Tao as if he might catch his poverty if he lingered.
Ghen-Tao did not like the look of the youth, knew the boy was trouble. He considered walking on, past the entrance of the tea house, on to the temple gardens but his empty stomach yowled. Cursing the lot of an old soldier he stepped into the shade of the Three-Blossom tea house.
Ghen-Tao; Kills a Man, Eats
Ghen-Tao was hungry. Very hungry. When hungry he was liable to be short-tempered and old Soldiers are not rich men, no matter how swift the blade, how strong the arm.
Noodles and Broth. Again.
Three-Blossom Tea House was a fine place, clean, the food good. More important Ghen-Tao was known there and left in peace, his fame was never a problem in the Three-Blossom tea house.
The owner was a good friend of his but business was business, so noodles and broth again and tea not wine. Even so that would empty his purse but better an empty purse than an empty stomach.
He pulled his red sash tight around his shrinking gut, adjusted the heavy war sabre that hung at his waist and headed for the tea house. Dust from the road, tramped up by his worn sandals clung to the damp ragged hem of his tattered robes and the sun beat down midday high and hot on of his shaven head and made him squint against its brightness.
Fast as he walked he was unable to shake off the cold ache in his bones, fresh from his dew damp tombstone bed of the northstar cemetary.
The Three-Blossom tea house was in a district not poor, but not wealthy and entirly too near 'the pillow world' to be considered respectable.
Seldom busy, less than luxporious, the tea house and it's friendly rowdy clientel suited Ghen-Tao.
At the opposite end of the street Gehn-Tao spotted a youth.
The youth walked tall and straight-backed proud, as if he owned the street, the district, the whole city even.
He was the very opposite of Ghen-Tao. Where he was short and skinny from poverty and hunger, rugged in his simple black robes, the youth was tall, muscular, well fed with wealth, dressed in fine silks of emrald green, and fine red calf-skin boots. Ghen-Tao looked at his fall-apart sandals and sighed.
Ghen-tao had the shaved head of a soldier, the youth's hair, tied in a high tail oiled and perfumed, was as black as the jet neclace that hung around his too clean neck.
Greater than than all this their swords spoke of their differences. Ghen-Tao's was a large curved broad saber. Stufed in his sash, the blade bare. The youth wore a gentleman's sword. Long, thin bladed and straight, sheathed in an intricate bright blue scabbared that glinted in the sun and spoke of wealth.
Ghen-Tao took all this in and knew the youth for what he was. The youth took one dismissive look, his lip curled. It was clear he did not see Ghen-Tao. Not for what he was, who he is.
The wealthy youth hurried into the tea house ahead of Ghen-Tao as if he might catch his poverty if he lingered.
Ghen-Tao did not like the look of the youth, knew the boy was trouble. He considered walking on, past the entrance of the tea house, on to the temple gardens but his empty stomach yowled. Cursing the lot of an old soldier he stepped into the shade of the Three-Blossom tea house.
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