Wars of the Aoten
It’s done! It’s done! It’s done, it’s done, it’s done!
It’s finished! It’s done! So stick a fork in its bum!
It’s done! It’s done! IT’S DOOOONNNNNNNE-NUH!
130,000 words of Golden Prose. Now all I have to do is set it aside for a month then edit it. Ugh! I don’t even remember the beginning.
EXCERPT:
Lauræl kicked off her shoes and began her ascent. It should come as no surprise that Rufoux women were encouraged to be fit and strong. Slowly she made her way up the standancrag, pulling with her hands, pushing with her feet, Artur close behind, until both were sitting in the little enclave. Scattered leaves and straw covered the dry, smooth floor, and a small row of stones acted as a low wall around the ledge. The edges of the opening rose gently sloping outward, until they merged again into the side of the standancrag. The whole space was no more than the size of an oxcart.
“This is my private retreat, my haven. Today I give it to you as well,” he said.
“It is like a castle in the sky. Like a Raspar city,” she replied.
“Never has there been a day like today. I feel like all of creation is in my lungs,” said Artur, beaming at his beloved.
“Oh, Artur, I love you so. Why were we born the same year? Could anyone be more blessed than to be born the same year?” Lauræl gently caressed his head with both hands, letting his hair run through her fingers.
“Who can say? Why did my father have another child at his great age?”
“I don’t know, but I’m glad he did. It is wonderful that only Rufoux of the same age are betrothed.”
“True, that, or you might have gone to another. I would have had to kill him, poor chap. Father says I am to be the greatest of his sons.”
“I already believe that. You are a sight in that armor. I have never seen anything like it.”
“Yes, it is a glorious gift.” Artur leaned back upon his hands and looked down at his gleaming breastplate, but of course from his angle he couldn’t see its designs. “How does it look?”
“Just the most dazzling thing a girl could ever see, that’s all,” Lauræl said playfully. “Just the most impressive show of manliness ever. But I know your weak spot.” With her finger she traced the delicate engravings at Artur’s chest.
“Oh, do you? You think you could hurt me?” Artur returned, smiling slyly.
“That armor will do you no good against me,” and she kissed him lightly.
“Come on, then, give it your best shot,” said Artur, not letting go of the game.
“What?”
“Give me your best, wench, or I’ll have you for a scullery maid,” he said with overdone bravado, puffing out his chest as best he could. He gave the breastplate a couple of raps with his knuckles.
“All right then, have that!” Lauræl threw a couple of small stones at him lightly.
“Is that all the better you can do? Really, how can I do battle for the Rufoux if this is all the training I am to get?”
Lauræl grinned mischievously and stood up. “All right, then, Sir Artur, prepare to meet your destiny.”
She looked about for another small stone, and found one the size of an egg. She took it in her right hand and let it fly, throwing awkwardly from her elbow and off-balance. The stone bounced off Artur’s armor and flew back at Lauræl, catching her just upon her eyes.
The next second proceeded in slow motion before Artur’s unbelieving gaze. Lauræl stumbled at the blow and twisted her ankle badly on one of the larger stones. “Artur!” she cried out as she lost her balance. Her arms reached desperately into the empty air, and then she disappeared.
Artur lunged for her, reaching, pleading with both hands, landing heavily on his chest and scattering stones off the ledge. He lay there like a wet rag. His head and outstretched arms hung limply over the edge of the grotto, his haven, his sanctuary, as he stared at the broken body of Lauræl below him.
It’s finished! It’s done! So stick a fork in its bum!
It’s done! It’s done! IT’S DOOOONNNNNNNE-NUH!
130,000 words of Golden Prose. Now all I have to do is set it aside for a month then edit it. Ugh! I don’t even remember the beginning.
EXCERPT:
Lauræl kicked off her shoes and began her ascent. It should come as no surprise that Rufoux women were encouraged to be fit and strong. Slowly she made her way up the standancrag, pulling with her hands, pushing with her feet, Artur close behind, until both were sitting in the little enclave. Scattered leaves and straw covered the dry, smooth floor, and a small row of stones acted as a low wall around the ledge. The edges of the opening rose gently sloping outward, until they merged again into the side of the standancrag. The whole space was no more than the size of an oxcart.
“This is my private retreat, my haven. Today I give it to you as well,” he said.
“It is like a castle in the sky. Like a Raspar city,” she replied.
“Never has there been a day like today. I feel like all of creation is in my lungs,” said Artur, beaming at his beloved.
“Oh, Artur, I love you so. Why were we born the same year? Could anyone be more blessed than to be born the same year?” Lauræl gently caressed his head with both hands, letting his hair run through her fingers.
“Who can say? Why did my father have another child at his great age?”
“I don’t know, but I’m glad he did. It is wonderful that only Rufoux of the same age are betrothed.”
“True, that, or you might have gone to another. I would have had to kill him, poor chap. Father says I am to be the greatest of his sons.”
“I already believe that. You are a sight in that armor. I have never seen anything like it.”
“Yes, it is a glorious gift.” Artur leaned back upon his hands and looked down at his gleaming breastplate, but of course from his angle he couldn’t see its designs. “How does it look?”
“Just the most dazzling thing a girl could ever see, that’s all,” Lauræl said playfully. “Just the most impressive show of manliness ever. But I know your weak spot.” With her finger she traced the delicate engravings at Artur’s chest.
“Oh, do you? You think you could hurt me?” Artur returned, smiling slyly.
“That armor will do you no good against me,” and she kissed him lightly.
“Come on, then, give it your best shot,” said Artur, not letting go of the game.
“What?”
“Give me your best, wench, or I’ll have you for a scullery maid,” he said with overdone bravado, puffing out his chest as best he could. He gave the breastplate a couple of raps with his knuckles.
“All right then, have that!” Lauræl threw a couple of small stones at him lightly.
“Is that all the better you can do? Really, how can I do battle for the Rufoux if this is all the training I am to get?”
Lauræl grinned mischievously and stood up. “All right, then, Sir Artur, prepare to meet your destiny.”
She looked about for another small stone, and found one the size of an egg. She took it in her right hand and let it fly, throwing awkwardly from her elbow and off-balance. The stone bounced off Artur’s armor and flew back at Lauræl, catching her just upon her eyes.
The next second proceeded in slow motion before Artur’s unbelieving gaze. Lauræl stumbled at the blow and twisted her ankle badly on one of the larger stones. “Artur!” she cried out as she lost her balance. Her arms reached desperately into the empty air, and then she disappeared.
Artur lunged for her, reaching, pleading with both hands, landing heavily on his chest and scattering stones off the ledge. He lay there like a wet rag. His head and outstretched arms hung limply over the edge of the grotto, his haven, his sanctuary, as he stared at the broken body of Lauræl below him.
posted by Crrrrrrraig | 8:55 PM
1 Comments:
In the immortal words of Stimpy, "happy, happy, joy, joy."
I am so excited. We should have a party to celebrate, or something. Great work. I can't wait to read more. I hope it isn't all this tragic, though. If I wasn't on medication, I might have cried from reading this excerpt.
Seriously, though Craig, great work. Congratulations.
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