Ahoy, it's been a while.
If there's still anyone roaming these forums that remember this text, or even
remember that I used to post written works in this forum far more frequently,
I'll have you know two things: Firstly, this chapter is completely rewritten
(probably not for the last time) and secondly; as I get more and more serious
in my writing, I feel a more and more pressing need to keep some secrets, to
not share too much.
But here is an excerpt of the first part of the first chapter of the first book I
plan to write. I'd love some feedback on what you think of this as a first
impression to a book and the flow of how I write. Or any feedback at all of
any kind too, really. And if not: I hope you have an enjoyable read
The Makeshift
In the shadows of a worn down warehouse somewhere along the Makeshift two silhouettes were hiding among cargo and cobwebs. One peering through the remains of a cracked window while the other was attempting to murder a spider - with a dagger. They were a curious duo: One squat, fat, fellow adorned in fine silks - and one tall, striking, individual dressed to rob a baron’s coach in the darkest part of a dark corner somewhere along the crown road. More curious still was the fact that anyone who’d recognized one, either or both of these individuals would without a doubt cry for spectacles and blasphemy at the prospect of their companionship. The one dressed as a thief was the son of the lord of all elves, and the one dressed like nobleman was the son of a “lady” of a brothel. A prince and a thief hiding together in a broken house along one of the busiest streets in Celon, the capital of Delión.
“Looks as buzzy as any busy morning this bustling city has ever seen, Chance.” Khaine, the tall one, mused as he beheld the overwhelming current that was the massive body of carts moving leisurely along the wide street below him. Considering what he was about to do, that current looked like a terrible torrent posed to swallow him completely as he peeked through the broken window. He steadied himself on the windowsill, imagining his hands were trembling terribly, hoping his companion wouldn’t notice the hesitation that must be in his voice. He looked over his shoulder, vaguely noticing that the stout man behind him wasn’t even paying him any heed, he gave an inward sigh of relief. And as he warily stepped back from the window, the tiniest glimmer of reflection danced off the broken window glass and across the room. This new source of light, which had previously been blocked by Khaine, shot rays through the shade like a bonfire in the night. Chance sang a moan of complaint as the sudden burst of brightness blinded his eyes for an instant, only to notice that his skittering nemesis of the moment had vanished in his second of weakness. Sighing, he turned to his prince and nodded his feathered hat.
“Khaine Lejiou Cuovie – royal pest conservator all across Delión” he remarked, gazing daggers at the prince “you are unfailingly despicable as always, my liege.” For a tense moment, Khaine held the eyes of this impudent commoner who presumed to address his lord, the son of the Arca himself, in a way that would cost him his life. Then his mouth started curling upwards, the dread of what was to come completely left him, as he shook his head and silently laughed at the sheepish expression that had transfixed itself onto Chance’s face.
“Despicable now, is it?” Khaine asked, raising his eyebrows and smiling sardonically, blessing the plump little man as he leaned against the side of the window. They weren’t necessarily in a hurry, and he needed to calm his nerves before the stunt. “Only a moment ago it was ‘uncomely’ – you certainly progress quickly, my fat little friend.” He gibed, curling the end of his fake moustache as he eyed his companion with merry eyes.
“They call me Mr. Wheel” Chance retorted, spinning his finger in circles and whistling to the tune of the commoner song “The Wheel”, a popular song in most Celloni taverns. “And no” he continued before Khaine got the chance to say anything “that was not a reference to my strikingly beautiful vessel of grace” he winked, letting one hand fall down to pat his stomach while the other shot out to the side. In a quick curling motion, he turned what would otherwise look like porker appreciating his fat into a gracefully accurate bow to the waist, with the proper angle of his outstretched hand. Khaine grunted. Although he hadn’t known this curious man for a very long time, he was already taking a liking to him. Where Khaine was hesitant and nervous, Chance always seemed so sure and certain. And where other men would look like fools, Chance had a near magical ability of always seeming graceful. A trait Khaine was awfully envious of, his mother always pestered him in court for all his shortcomings in etiquette. And here was a man who’d never stepped a foot in a court, as far as Khaine knew, who had ten times the grace he could ever muster. As he contemplated these things, he noticed that he could suddenly see Chance’s bald head slowly appearing as the hat on his head was slowly gliding off. As it fell Chance dove forward, snatching the hat out of the air and rolling on the floor. He crashed into the parapet of the stairwell that was between them. With all his weight pressed against it, the parapet started creaking violently “It just so happens---” Chance began saying coughing and placing a hand on the parapet to get up. And no sooner had he laid his hand on the railing, that it gave way and Chance dove down the stairs. Khaine’s eyes went wide and he quickly ran over to his side of the stairwell. “---that I am terribly on my way down these stairs!” he coughed and stuttered as he half fell, half ran, down the stairwell and disappeared in the shadows. “Right then” Khaine whispered silently to himself as Chance didn’t return. The game was afoot. He turned and looked out the window, waiting for the right moment. A heartbeat later, he braced himself against the railing and ran across the room, disappearing through the window and into the light.
If there's still anyone roaming these forums that remember this text, or even
remember that I used to post written works in this forum far more frequently,
I'll have you know two things: Firstly, this chapter is completely rewritten
(probably not for the last time) and secondly; as I get more and more serious
in my writing, I feel a more and more pressing need to keep some secrets, to
not share too much.
But here is an excerpt of the first part of the first chapter of the first book I
plan to write. I'd love some feedback on what you think of this as a first
impression to a book and the flow of how I write. Or any feedback at all of
any kind too, really. And if not: I hope you have an enjoyable read
The Makeshift
In the shadows of a worn down warehouse somewhere along the Makeshift two silhouettes were hiding among cargo and cobwebs. One peering through the remains of a cracked window while the other was attempting to murder a spider - with a dagger. They were a curious duo: One squat, fat, fellow adorned in fine silks - and one tall, striking, individual dressed to rob a baron’s coach in the darkest part of a dark corner somewhere along the crown road. More curious still was the fact that anyone who’d recognized one, either or both of these individuals would without a doubt cry for spectacles and blasphemy at the prospect of their companionship. The one dressed as a thief was the son of the lord of all elves, and the one dressed like nobleman was the son of a “lady” of a brothel. A prince and a thief hiding together in a broken house along one of the busiest streets in Celon, the capital of Delión.
“Looks as buzzy as any busy morning this bustling city has ever seen, Chance.” Khaine, the tall one, mused as he beheld the overwhelming current that was the massive body of carts moving leisurely along the wide street below him. Considering what he was about to do, that current looked like a terrible torrent posed to swallow him completely as he peeked through the broken window. He steadied himself on the windowsill, imagining his hands were trembling terribly, hoping his companion wouldn’t notice the hesitation that must be in his voice. He looked over his shoulder, vaguely noticing that the stout man behind him wasn’t even paying him any heed, he gave an inward sigh of relief. And as he warily stepped back from the window, the tiniest glimmer of reflection danced off the broken window glass and across the room. This new source of light, which had previously been blocked by Khaine, shot rays through the shade like a bonfire in the night. Chance sang a moan of complaint as the sudden burst of brightness blinded his eyes for an instant, only to notice that his skittering nemesis of the moment had vanished in his second of weakness. Sighing, he turned to his prince and nodded his feathered hat.
“Khaine Lejiou Cuovie – royal pest conservator all across Delión” he remarked, gazing daggers at the prince “you are unfailingly despicable as always, my liege.” For a tense moment, Khaine held the eyes of this impudent commoner who presumed to address his lord, the son of the Arca himself, in a way that would cost him his life. Then his mouth started curling upwards, the dread of what was to come completely left him, as he shook his head and silently laughed at the sheepish expression that had transfixed itself onto Chance’s face.
“Despicable now, is it?” Khaine asked, raising his eyebrows and smiling sardonically, blessing the plump little man as he leaned against the side of the window. They weren’t necessarily in a hurry, and he needed to calm his nerves before the stunt. “Only a moment ago it was ‘uncomely’ – you certainly progress quickly, my fat little friend.” He gibed, curling the end of his fake moustache as he eyed his companion with merry eyes.
“They call me Mr. Wheel” Chance retorted, spinning his finger in circles and whistling to the tune of the commoner song “The Wheel”, a popular song in most Celloni taverns. “And no” he continued before Khaine got the chance to say anything “that was not a reference to my strikingly beautiful vessel of grace” he winked, letting one hand fall down to pat his stomach while the other shot out to the side. In a quick curling motion, he turned what would otherwise look like porker appreciating his fat into a gracefully accurate bow to the waist, with the proper angle of his outstretched hand. Khaine grunted. Although he hadn’t known this curious man for a very long time, he was already taking a liking to him. Where Khaine was hesitant and nervous, Chance always seemed so sure and certain. And where other men would look like fools, Chance had a near magical ability of always seeming graceful. A trait Khaine was awfully envious of, his mother always pestered him in court for all his shortcomings in etiquette. And here was a man who’d never stepped a foot in a court, as far as Khaine knew, who had ten times the grace he could ever muster. As he contemplated these things, he noticed that he could suddenly see Chance’s bald head slowly appearing as the hat on his head was slowly gliding off. As it fell Chance dove forward, snatching the hat out of the air and rolling on the floor. He crashed into the parapet of the stairwell that was between them. With all his weight pressed against it, the parapet started creaking violently “It just so happens---” Chance began saying coughing and placing a hand on the parapet to get up. And no sooner had he laid his hand on the railing, that it gave way and Chance dove down the stairs. Khaine’s eyes went wide and he quickly ran over to his side of the stairwell. “---that I am terribly on my way down these stairs!” he coughed and stuttered as he half fell, half ran, down the stairwell and disappeared in the shadows. “Right then” Khaine whispered silently to himself as Chance didn’t return. The game was afoot. He turned and looked out the window, waiting for the right moment. A heartbeat later, he braced himself against the railing and ran across the room, disappearing through the window and into the light.
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