wrote this one night when I couldn't sleep. been thinking of expanding it. what do you guys think?
as the knight walked up to the dreary tower, he knew it was not a good idea. Any prison that is set up next to a Cemetery is only bad news.
especially when it housed him.
resetting himself, feeling out of place without his armor on, Sir Bendark struck the great, oak door three times, trying to ignore the ominous Draconic language engraved in stone above him. the door slowly, with great effort from its poorly greased hinges, swung open.
a man, short, but thin, stood there leering.
"we been 'spectin' ya, m'lord. the prisoner is this way. y'ell be good ter go 'soon as I have mah portion o' the gold"
in any other case, the Lord would have struck the little man for addressing him in such informal tones, but this time... was an exception, nothing more. just like working with him was.
Bendark followed the small creature deep into the tower, up and up they went, until it seemed they reached the top. to the left, a small, unassuming door presented itself, with the traditional barred window for... discussing... with prisoners.
"ah, yes... Lord Bendark, High Champion to the king himself, so I hear. you have done well, haven't you?"
looking into the window showed not a slovenly lowlife scoundrel like you would expect, but a sophisticated individual who had taste and poise, a small bookshelf sat next to the meagre bed, and the meal that had been delivered was dealt with in an almost... dignified... fashion.
"it would seem you are not doing so bad yourself, prisoner." a little harsher than intended on that last word, but he hoped it got the point accross.
"now, now... can we skip the formalities? I know you, I know what you have done, and I know that there is only one reason you would come to my little cell out here in the middle of nowhere."
the man sat up on his bed, molded his hands into an arch, and stared intently at the knight with large, blank eyes, eyes that had seen untold deaths performed by those very hands.
it's very short. I wouldn't call it a book, yet. there's very little there so far. i would definitely advise you to write more so there's something else to go on.
but there is a lot happening in a few words, which is nice.
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my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
and that is part of the problem: this is one scene. I have nothing else at all. I created it to showcase a knight of the realm doing something less savory, so maybe I could go down that road... Ill storyboard and get an answer on here tomorrow. for now, sleep.
as the knight walked up to the dreary tower, he knew it was not a good idea. Any prison that is set up next to a Cemetery is only bad news.
especially when it housed him.
resetting himself, feeling out of place without his armor on, Sir Bendark struck the great, oak door three times, trying to ignore the ominous Draconic language engraved in stone above him. the door slowly, with great effort from its poorly greased hinges, swung open.
a man, short, but thin, stood there leering.
"we been 'spectin' ya, m'lord. the prisoner is this way. y'ell be good ter go 'soon as I have mah portion o' the gold"
in any other case, the Lord would have struck the little man for addressing him in such informal tones, but this time... was an exception, nothing more. just like working with him was.
Bendark followed the small creature deep into the tower, up and up they went, until it seemed they reached the top. to the left, a small, unassuming door presented itself, with the traditional barred window for... discussing... with prisoners.
"ah, yes... Lord Bendark, High Champion to the king himself, so I hear. you have done well, haven't you?"
looking into the window showed not a slovenly lowlife scoundrel like you would expect, but a sophisticated individual who had taste and poise, a small bookshelf sat next to the meagre bed, and the meal that had been delivered was dealt with in an almost... dignified... fashion.
"it would seem you are not doing so bad yourself, prisoner." a little harsher than intended on that last word, but he hoped it got the point accross.
"now, now... can we skip the formalities? I know you, I know what you have done, and I know that there is only one reason you would come to my little cell out here in the middle of nowhere."
the man sat up on his bed, molded his hands into an arch, and stared intently at the knight with large, blank eyes, eyes that had seen untold deaths performed by those very hands.
"who are we going to kill?"
"normality is a paved road: it is comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow there."
-Vincent Van Gogh
things I hate:
1. lists.
b. inconsistencies.
V. incorrect math.
2. quotes in signatures
III: irony.
there are two kinds of people in the world: those who can make reasonable conclusions based on conjecture.
but there is a lot happening in a few words, which is nice.
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
"normality is a paved road: it is comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow there."
-Vincent Van Gogh
things I hate:
1. lists.
b. inconsistencies.
V. incorrect math.
2. quotes in signatures
III: irony.
there are two kinds of people in the world: those who can make reasonable conclusions based on conjecture.