Post by Hiko on Nov 1, 2010 5:32:06 GMT -5
I've been playing around with ideas for this year's NaNo, and figured I'd post the scrapped ones here. :3
It was snowing.
Why did it have to be snowing? Amelia hated the snow. The crunch of it under her thick boots, the heavy drifts of debris, the chill it always presumed to bring with it – Amelia couldn't fathom why such a thing as snow should exist in nature.
The white flakes grudgingly moaned and ached beneath the soles of her boots as she strode toward the lamp post, arms hugged against her thin frame in a tight grip and carry-on strapped to one shoulder haphazardly.
It was for times like this that she could find reason to hate Daniel.
“Aren't you done yet?” Amelia asked in a tone harsher than she'd initially intended.
Daniel cringed, mid-crouch, “Apologies, Darling, but this sort of magus takes time if I hope to get it right.”
Amelia leaned against the post, legs crossed and lips grinning despite her discomfort. Daniel could spout affectionate names all he liked, but his wife knew the man to be utterly devoted to his craft. And, truth be told, she was curious as to what he could achieve in such dreary accommodations. “As you were, then, Maester.”
Daniel grunted absently. Amelia doubted he'd heard her. The man was too busy drawing patchy patterns into the pink-tinted snowfall before them.
Though the body had been moved to preserve it from hungry wildlife, Daniel had hoped to use the remaining soil to track whatever had claimed Jonas Hedgens' life. As resident Maester of Raen, it was Daniel Silvan's undying task to see to all untimely deaths and ascertain as to if the cause of bloodshed was of animal or human guilt. As resident pack mule for the Maester of Raen, it was Amelia's undying task to make certain that her husband had everything he needed for his craft. Most nights, it meant field work of a more gruesome nature. An attack during the day was a morbid relief for the woman, as it meant less to carry to a scene. No need for a torch when the sun gave enough reflection off the snow to light small villages for a season.
Amelia shifted her shoulder so as to allow the satchel to slide down with minimal effort. Daniel grabbed for it with one hand, not once glancing over to assess its distance to his grasp. The other hand deftly continued its markings in the blooded ground.
“Hn,” the man grunted again as he lifted his hand from the snow. As he began to dig through the cloth bag, he looked up. “You forgot the torch.”
“You hardly need it,” Amelia replied, gesturing to the sky.
“It wasn't for the light, dear heart. It was for the wolves.” Was that concern in his tone?
Amelia stifled a laugh, “There haven't been wolves in Raen for hundreds of years. The Trivalts hunted them from the borders, remember?”
“And when they killed the adults, they took the cubs for domestication.”
This time, Amelia did laugh, “Surely you can't believe that old wives' tale!”
Daniel remained quiet, instead pointing down to the snow at her feet. “Then explain to me the tracks you seem to be standing on.”
Amelia stepped back involuntarily as she shot her stare down to her feet.
Surely, those were fox prints – but did foxes even get that large? No, it had to be the duke's dogs. Edmund employed far too many of the thick-boned beasts.
Daniel shook his head, as if already having dismissed those same notions. “His dogs are leaner than what those tracks would lend. Come, we'd best not stay.”
“B-but what about the magus?” Amelia heard herself say. Was she actually wanting to remain in potential barbarian grounds?
“I don't need the craft to tell the duke the trouble brought to his lands. Take the bag and let us return home. The winds are whispering more gossip than I'd like to hear at the moment.”
Amelia quickly gathered the satchel and clutched it to her chest as if for protection. She made long strides to meet her husband's quickening pace. He seemed nervous, and Amelia didn't blame him for making distance from the scene – when a man is gifted with nature's magus, one rarely argues the words he hears. “What do they say?”
“Jonas wasn't the first.”
“Will he be the last?” Amelia asked in vain.
Daniel stopped only long enough to give the woman a hard look. “Trivalt's on the move.”
As it currently stood, the duchy of Raen held four thousand, five hundred, sixty-four – no, sixty-three, now – citizens under the direct ruling of Edmund sar Raen the Third.
During the last Tribe War, Edmund's great-grandfather had seen more than twice that number die at the hands of the Trivalt.
When Maester Silvan had returned with news of wolves on the borders, Edmund had thought to discredit the man's worried tone and worrisome beliefs as a magus in need of retirement or replacement. It was Silvan's wife's stoic features that swayed the duke's hand. He knew his sister to be a skeptic to the bone, and if Amelia was shaken from what the couple had seen, there was some truth to the claim.
---
Title: Wolves at the Gate
Word Count: 882
Title: Wolves at the Gate
Word Count: 882
It was snowing.
Why did it have to be snowing? Amelia hated the snow. The crunch of it under her thick boots, the heavy drifts of debris, the chill it always presumed to bring with it – Amelia couldn't fathom why such a thing as snow should exist in nature.
The white flakes grudgingly moaned and ached beneath the soles of her boots as she strode toward the lamp post, arms hugged against her thin frame in a tight grip and carry-on strapped to one shoulder haphazardly.
It was for times like this that she could find reason to hate Daniel.
“Aren't you done yet?” Amelia asked in a tone harsher than she'd initially intended.
Daniel cringed, mid-crouch, “Apologies, Darling, but this sort of magus takes time if I hope to get it right.”
Amelia leaned against the post, legs crossed and lips grinning despite her discomfort. Daniel could spout affectionate names all he liked, but his wife knew the man to be utterly devoted to his craft. And, truth be told, she was curious as to what he could achieve in such dreary accommodations. “As you were, then, Maester.”
Daniel grunted absently. Amelia doubted he'd heard her. The man was too busy drawing patchy patterns into the pink-tinted snowfall before them.
Though the body had been moved to preserve it from hungry wildlife, Daniel had hoped to use the remaining soil to track whatever had claimed Jonas Hedgens' life. As resident Maester of Raen, it was Daniel Silvan's undying task to see to all untimely deaths and ascertain as to if the cause of bloodshed was of animal or human guilt. As resident pack mule for the Maester of Raen, it was Amelia's undying task to make certain that her husband had everything he needed for his craft. Most nights, it meant field work of a more gruesome nature. An attack during the day was a morbid relief for the woman, as it meant less to carry to a scene. No need for a torch when the sun gave enough reflection off the snow to light small villages for a season.
Amelia shifted her shoulder so as to allow the satchel to slide down with minimal effort. Daniel grabbed for it with one hand, not once glancing over to assess its distance to his grasp. The other hand deftly continued its markings in the blooded ground.
“Hn,” the man grunted again as he lifted his hand from the snow. As he began to dig through the cloth bag, he looked up. “You forgot the torch.”
“You hardly need it,” Amelia replied, gesturing to the sky.
“It wasn't for the light, dear heart. It was for the wolves.” Was that concern in his tone?
Amelia stifled a laugh, “There haven't been wolves in Raen for hundreds of years. The Trivalts hunted them from the borders, remember?”
“And when they killed the adults, they took the cubs for domestication.”
This time, Amelia did laugh, “Surely you can't believe that old wives' tale!”
Daniel remained quiet, instead pointing down to the snow at her feet. “Then explain to me the tracks you seem to be standing on.”
Amelia stepped back involuntarily as she shot her stare down to her feet.
Surely, those were fox prints – but did foxes even get that large? No, it had to be the duke's dogs. Edmund employed far too many of the thick-boned beasts.
Daniel shook his head, as if already having dismissed those same notions. “His dogs are leaner than what those tracks would lend. Come, we'd best not stay.”
“B-but what about the magus?” Amelia heard herself say. Was she actually wanting to remain in potential barbarian grounds?
“I don't need the craft to tell the duke the trouble brought to his lands. Take the bag and let us return home. The winds are whispering more gossip than I'd like to hear at the moment.”
Amelia quickly gathered the satchel and clutched it to her chest as if for protection. She made long strides to meet her husband's quickening pace. He seemed nervous, and Amelia didn't blame him for making distance from the scene – when a man is gifted with nature's magus, one rarely argues the words he hears. “What do they say?”
“Jonas wasn't the first.”
“Will he be the last?” Amelia asked in vain.
Daniel stopped only long enough to give the woman a hard look. “Trivalt's on the move.”
-
As it currently stood, the duchy of Raen held four thousand, five hundred, sixty-four – no, sixty-three, now – citizens under the direct ruling of Edmund sar Raen the Third.
During the last Tribe War, Edmund's great-grandfather had seen more than twice that number die at the hands of the Trivalt.
When Maester Silvan had returned with news of wolves on the borders, Edmund had thought to discredit the man's worried tone and worrisome beliefs as a magus in need of retirement or replacement. It was Silvan's wife's stoic features that swayed the duke's hand. He knew his sister to be a skeptic to the bone, and if Amelia was shaken from what the couple had seen, there was some truth to the claim.
