Post by The Counter Cultist(Sawyer) on Sept 3, 2013 14:02:55 GMT -5
Yeah....exactly what it says on the title. I'm sick and tired of not finishing short stories that I plan to submit because I think they're bad or I get bored with them. So I've gotten one of best friends to constantly text me to ask how it's going or to call and ask me how I feel about what I'm working on. Than I got the other one to say no every time I ask him to hang out or something no matter how much I beg.
Finally, after a few days, I've got something going on that I feel I could actually see through to the end, and get a check for. It's a fantasy piece that I sort of stumbled into as a result of watching The Fellowship of the Ring after a six hour marathon run as a Thaumaturge in A Realm Reborn. I've only put down a little under 2k words, though I was hoping to have it end up somewhere between 4-6k. It's going to be split into three-four scenes(haven't decided if I'll put the planned fourth scene in yet) depicting a raid committed by a guerrilla resistance group against an occupying Imperial Outpost. Simple, but tried and true. I've got the first part put down at a little over 1.5k, and just wanted to put it up here to get some tips, so I can fix on the fly while I work on the rest. But I've blabbered enough. Here's Part 1.
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The Raid
The Dragoon peered through his spyglass intently, focusing in on the Akkad Empire outpost almost a mile away. A member of the resistance against Imperial occupation of the formerly independent nation of Terra, the Lancer also happened to be one piece of a particular band of champions who had led the most daring raids against the empire. He remembered fondly the day the human Marcus Bromson, a human paladin, had approached him to ask for help. He had been only the third person of the nine person group to join, and had always been the most loyal to Marcus. In the two years that followed, he had trudged through rocky archipelagos, sweat in the plains and, much like he was now, laid prone for hours at a time in pouring rain. Speaking of now, the Dragoon returned his attention to the spyglass. It was an invention of their enchanter/summoner compatriot, Teana Braveheart. Using the different lenses in differing combinations, he could change exactly how far he could see clearly. Currently he was closed in all the way, observing the Imperial fort’s gate.
Lifting the second lens, he turned his attention to the walls. At this range and level of focus, he could make out five guards posted on the front wall above the gate and two more by each corner. It was a standard Imperial set up, at least for the nightime. During the day the fort walls, both on the ramparts and outside, would be overloaded by patrolling guardsman. It was for this reason that they now only raided them during the nighttime when they would be at their most vulnerable. Their very first raid on a fort had been a dramatic failure, resulting in serious injuries in two of their party, including Teana who had lost the ability to see normally. This did not stop her from enchanting her dead eyes with a sort of spirit vision, but she continued to wear a blindfold afterwords due to some shame about her scars. The Lancers current partner, an orc berserker named Malra Hammer-clan currently lying to the Dragoon’s right, was the other to be hurt, with his leg being crippled slightly. While he could still walk with it, it was at a slight limp, though adrenaline and anger in battle made this malady mysteriously disappear. Still, whether or not that was the case, there was no reason that the Dragoon could think of for not wanting the older grizzled orc by his side.
“It’s raining Cyrus,” Malra said dejectedly. “It always rains during night raids.”
“Except one,” Cyrus Lumaine thought to himself. Malra found fault with just about anything. For an orc he was surprisingly particular, complaining that food was too hot or too cold, that a raid was too risky and that it was raining. Also popular was that the damn halfling, the groups tiny little spy named Kida Sneaks-And-Grabs, had gone into his weapons stash at one of their hideouts again, or how their black mage tactician Caladrion gave him goosebumps. Still, as much as the old orc complained, Cyrus had seen how creative he could get when it came to killing. The limber spear-man still wasn’t sure how Malra learned so many ways to maim someone with a giant piece of wood, but he tried not to think on that, as he slept better when he didn't. The point was that the old orc, for all his prima-dona nature, was one hell of an ally to have at your back.
“It doesn’t always rain,” Cyrus finally responded, as he peered at the Imperial outpost through his spyglass. Occasionally he peered up at cliffs to the west of outpost. The signal they were waiting for would come from there.
“One time, Cyrus, one bloody time it didn't rain!” Malra retorted in a sort of yelling whisper. “That’s one out of ten night raids!”
“That’s still not every raid,” Cyrus responded smartly. “Meaning your statement of how it always rains during night raids is technically false.”
“Damn you elves and your technicalities,” the green skinned berserker growled.
“We live to make your lives miserable,” Cyrus retorted, a slight chuckle to his voice. He kept his scope on the outpost. The guards were twenty minutes away from changing shifts. It was at this point that they were at their lowest, with the guards on duty at their most tired, and the ones going on duty still getting prepared. Cyrus scratched his beard, which due to a lack of time to shave was quite fuzzy and scraggly, as he thought about the several days that had gone into planning this raid. Starting when they had run into a group of fellow rebels- Knights still loyal to the Terran crown- that wanted to take this place within the week, while an important dignitary coming from the south to the Terran capital to see the Occupational Governor. It was then that Caladrion had modified their standard plan used against forts of this size, believing the changes would be more efficient. It was at this time that Cyrus legitimately hoped his spell-slinging compatriot was right.
“I just hope that damn wizard’s plan works,” Malra said dejectedly.
“Caladrion’s plans always work,” Cyrus said masking his slight lack of confidence, as he moved the scope to the west again. “Maybe you should finally give him a chance.” Malra didn’t mistrust wizards, but he claimed something about their black mage companion Caladrion put him off. It didn't really interfere with their work in fighting the Empire, but much like the Orc’s aforementioned prima-dona nature, it was annoying.
It was then that Cyrus saw movement and light in the cliffs. Flicking the second lens back down he saw another elf, female, with a bow and quiver of arrows strapped to her back, and a lantern in hand. This was Valerie Lumaine, his little sister. A bit of a loner growing up, Valerie had also not understood certain social practices found in both human and elven lands. When she was little she would constantly pounce into a room either half or fully naked as if this wasn’t a problem. Her eccentricities hadn't stopped there however. She would talk to trees, think out loud, bring home strange animals. For all her strangeness, she was also a savant with a bow, able to hit just about anything from a vast distant. When Cyrus left their home in a sort of disgraced self exile to the human lands, he had taken her with, thinking she’d be better off with him than with people who didn't understand her. When he signed up with Marcus, Cyrus tried to send her back to keep her safe. Defiantly, she bypassed him and demonstrated her talent with a bow in front of Marcus and Caladrion, who both insisted she stay on. Now she was their top scout, and designated marks-elf, as she put it at least.
“Hold up Mal,” Cyrus said, teeth clenching in anticipation. “I see Val at the spot.” He felt the Orc adjust himself accordingly, getting ready to move. Cyrus wish he could do the same. Dragoons train their whole lives with their weapon, be it a spear, halberd, or even dual bladed pole-arm, creating a bond between elf and weapon that no mere warrior could ever understand. In a pre-combat situation Cyrus always felt more comfortable with his lance in hand. But, his duty required him to keep an eye on his sister, so his weapon would stay on the ground at his side; for now. Some movements through the spyglass grabbed his attention away from his thoughts again, and he returned his focus to Valerie. She had knelt down, and was setting up her own spyglass.
After peering through it for a few seconds she began looking right at Cyrus and Mal. After a few more seconds of this, Cyrus saw the faintest glimmer of a smile on her face as she raised her hand and waved. The elven lancer could not help but smile himself as he brought up his hand in response. With that he dropped the spyglass and reached to side to his own lantern. Operating the little slide, he blinked the light once. Then he quickly picked the glass back up and peered at his sister. She was looking down at the path leading up to the fort, so as to confirm whether or not she would send the one blink signal for ‘no’ or the two blink signal for ‘yes’. Finally, after several seconds, she picked up her own lantern again and blinked it twice. Cyrus felt his grin grow wider. The operation was green, and could proceed on schedule.
“Well my green skinned cohort,” Cyrus said, blowing out his lantern as he raised himself to a crouching position and laid a hand on his lance. “Time to go to work.” He looked to his right to see that the orc had risen already, and was nurturing his weapon of choice for this mission, a heavy one handed mace, in both hands.
“It’s about time,” He said, standing up in determination. “Come on my pansy ass elf assistant, let us go and hope that the wizard didn’t screw us over.”
And so Cyrus followed the berserker down to the fort. With a fire in his heart, and victory on his mind.
Finally, after a few days, I've got something going on that I feel I could actually see through to the end, and get a check for. It's a fantasy piece that I sort of stumbled into as a result of watching The Fellowship of the Ring after a six hour marathon run as a Thaumaturge in A Realm Reborn. I've only put down a little under 2k words, though I was hoping to have it end up somewhere between 4-6k. It's going to be split into three-four scenes(haven't decided if I'll put the planned fourth scene in yet) depicting a raid committed by a guerrilla resistance group against an occupying Imperial Outpost. Simple, but tried and true. I've got the first part put down at a little over 1.5k, and just wanted to put it up here to get some tips, so I can fix on the fly while I work on the rest. But I've blabbered enough. Here's Part 1.
-------------------------------------------------
The Raid
The Dragoon peered through his spyglass intently, focusing in on the Akkad Empire outpost almost a mile away. A member of the resistance against Imperial occupation of the formerly independent nation of Terra, the Lancer also happened to be one piece of a particular band of champions who had led the most daring raids against the empire. He remembered fondly the day the human Marcus Bromson, a human paladin, had approached him to ask for help. He had been only the third person of the nine person group to join, and had always been the most loyal to Marcus. In the two years that followed, he had trudged through rocky archipelagos, sweat in the plains and, much like he was now, laid prone for hours at a time in pouring rain. Speaking of now, the Dragoon returned his attention to the spyglass. It was an invention of their enchanter/summoner compatriot, Teana Braveheart. Using the different lenses in differing combinations, he could change exactly how far he could see clearly. Currently he was closed in all the way, observing the Imperial fort’s gate.
Lifting the second lens, he turned his attention to the walls. At this range and level of focus, he could make out five guards posted on the front wall above the gate and two more by each corner. It was a standard Imperial set up, at least for the nightime. During the day the fort walls, both on the ramparts and outside, would be overloaded by patrolling guardsman. It was for this reason that they now only raided them during the nighttime when they would be at their most vulnerable. Their very first raid on a fort had been a dramatic failure, resulting in serious injuries in two of their party, including Teana who had lost the ability to see normally. This did not stop her from enchanting her dead eyes with a sort of spirit vision, but she continued to wear a blindfold afterwords due to some shame about her scars. The Lancers current partner, an orc berserker named Malra Hammer-clan currently lying to the Dragoon’s right, was the other to be hurt, with his leg being crippled slightly. While he could still walk with it, it was at a slight limp, though adrenaline and anger in battle made this malady mysteriously disappear. Still, whether or not that was the case, there was no reason that the Dragoon could think of for not wanting the older grizzled orc by his side.
“It’s raining Cyrus,” Malra said dejectedly. “It always rains during night raids.”
“Except one,” Cyrus Lumaine thought to himself. Malra found fault with just about anything. For an orc he was surprisingly particular, complaining that food was too hot or too cold, that a raid was too risky and that it was raining. Also popular was that the damn halfling, the groups tiny little spy named Kida Sneaks-And-Grabs, had gone into his weapons stash at one of their hideouts again, or how their black mage tactician Caladrion gave him goosebumps. Still, as much as the old orc complained, Cyrus had seen how creative he could get when it came to killing. The limber spear-man still wasn’t sure how Malra learned so many ways to maim someone with a giant piece of wood, but he tried not to think on that, as he slept better when he didn't. The point was that the old orc, for all his prima-dona nature, was one hell of an ally to have at your back.
“It doesn’t always rain,” Cyrus finally responded, as he peered at the Imperial outpost through his spyglass. Occasionally he peered up at cliffs to the west of outpost. The signal they were waiting for would come from there.
“One time, Cyrus, one bloody time it didn't rain!” Malra retorted in a sort of yelling whisper. “That’s one out of ten night raids!”
“That’s still not every raid,” Cyrus responded smartly. “Meaning your statement of how it always rains during night raids is technically false.”
“Damn you elves and your technicalities,” the green skinned berserker growled.
“We live to make your lives miserable,” Cyrus retorted, a slight chuckle to his voice. He kept his scope on the outpost. The guards were twenty minutes away from changing shifts. It was at this point that they were at their lowest, with the guards on duty at their most tired, and the ones going on duty still getting prepared. Cyrus scratched his beard, which due to a lack of time to shave was quite fuzzy and scraggly, as he thought about the several days that had gone into planning this raid. Starting when they had run into a group of fellow rebels- Knights still loyal to the Terran crown- that wanted to take this place within the week, while an important dignitary coming from the south to the Terran capital to see the Occupational Governor. It was then that Caladrion had modified their standard plan used against forts of this size, believing the changes would be more efficient. It was at this time that Cyrus legitimately hoped his spell-slinging compatriot was right.
“I just hope that damn wizard’s plan works,” Malra said dejectedly.
“Caladrion’s plans always work,” Cyrus said masking his slight lack of confidence, as he moved the scope to the west again. “Maybe you should finally give him a chance.” Malra didn’t mistrust wizards, but he claimed something about their black mage companion Caladrion put him off. It didn't really interfere with their work in fighting the Empire, but much like the Orc’s aforementioned prima-dona nature, it was annoying.
It was then that Cyrus saw movement and light in the cliffs. Flicking the second lens back down he saw another elf, female, with a bow and quiver of arrows strapped to her back, and a lantern in hand. This was Valerie Lumaine, his little sister. A bit of a loner growing up, Valerie had also not understood certain social practices found in both human and elven lands. When she was little she would constantly pounce into a room either half or fully naked as if this wasn’t a problem. Her eccentricities hadn't stopped there however. She would talk to trees, think out loud, bring home strange animals. For all her strangeness, she was also a savant with a bow, able to hit just about anything from a vast distant. When Cyrus left their home in a sort of disgraced self exile to the human lands, he had taken her with, thinking she’d be better off with him than with people who didn't understand her. When he signed up with Marcus, Cyrus tried to send her back to keep her safe. Defiantly, she bypassed him and demonstrated her talent with a bow in front of Marcus and Caladrion, who both insisted she stay on. Now she was their top scout, and designated marks-elf, as she put it at least.
“Hold up Mal,” Cyrus said, teeth clenching in anticipation. “I see Val at the spot.” He felt the Orc adjust himself accordingly, getting ready to move. Cyrus wish he could do the same. Dragoons train their whole lives with their weapon, be it a spear, halberd, or even dual bladed pole-arm, creating a bond between elf and weapon that no mere warrior could ever understand. In a pre-combat situation Cyrus always felt more comfortable with his lance in hand. But, his duty required him to keep an eye on his sister, so his weapon would stay on the ground at his side; for now. Some movements through the spyglass grabbed his attention away from his thoughts again, and he returned his focus to Valerie. She had knelt down, and was setting up her own spyglass.
After peering through it for a few seconds she began looking right at Cyrus and Mal. After a few more seconds of this, Cyrus saw the faintest glimmer of a smile on her face as she raised her hand and waved. The elven lancer could not help but smile himself as he brought up his hand in response. With that he dropped the spyglass and reached to side to his own lantern. Operating the little slide, he blinked the light once. Then he quickly picked the glass back up and peered at his sister. She was looking down at the path leading up to the fort, so as to confirm whether or not she would send the one blink signal for ‘no’ or the two blink signal for ‘yes’. Finally, after several seconds, she picked up her own lantern again and blinked it twice. Cyrus felt his grin grow wider. The operation was green, and could proceed on schedule.
“Well my green skinned cohort,” Cyrus said, blowing out his lantern as he raised himself to a crouching position and laid a hand on his lance. “Time to go to work.” He looked to his right to see that the orc had risen already, and was nurturing his weapon of choice for this mission, a heavy one handed mace, in both hands.
“It’s about time,” He said, standing up in determination. “Come on my pansy ass elf assistant, let us go and hope that the wizard didn’t screw us over.”
And so Cyrus followed the berserker down to the fort. With a fire in his heart, and victory on his mind.
