I’m debating whether or not I should post excerpts of my manuscript on here. It’s the sort of thing that people gobble up on blogs, and it’s appropriate for the site. But the artist in me (which is most of me) doesn’t want to show any of the story in its early form. Oh well, this may be the only post of its kind (if you really like this, give a holler).
I’ve only managed to write one page of the second draft (one notebook page, it’ll probably be shorter when typed up). Can’t it technically be called a “second draft”? I guess. At its core is the original story, but so much will be face-lifted, it won’t resemble the original creature in the end. Anyway… here it is. No explanation. Just figure out what’s going on. (This cannot be reproduced online or anywhere, by the way).
“A Tale of Alborea” Chapter One:
I reached into the pile of corpses to find him. My hands grazed over the sticky slick shards of armor and clumps of bloody flesh. Any moment a broken sword or protruding arrow might have stuck me. I was barely cognizant of the danger. I had to find him. I had to say goodbye.
Among the gory heap there were faces, faces of young men freshly plucked from childhood. And garrish faces of dark, inhumanity—the faces of our enemy. I lifted body after body, until my arms grew numb again. I wiped the trickling sweat from my brow with a grimy, unholy hand. These stains may never wash away.
In the distance someone was shouting my name. Wilston waved his arms excitedly. His nervous energy was misplaced in the scene of sombre horror. Slowly I waded through the mire—a dread in the pit of my stomach. Atop a low grassy knoll they found him, still clutching the hilt of his sword—which he plunged into the last enemy.
“The Truthfinder,” Wilston said, swaying slightly beside me. “By right it’s yours.”
“No,” I said, my voice low with grief and weariness. “It’ll be buried with him.”
“B-but, Lord Thomas,” Wilston said, stuttering. “It’s what he would have wanted.”
“I don’t care,” I answered as I knelt beside the body. I took one of his hands and held it briefly. “I will not rob from my father.”