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OOC: Boo!

IC: War had indeed
ravaged the fort, but now there were beasts walking about,
identifying corpses and bearing them away on stretchers. Arrows, many
charred by fire, lay scattered about, stuck in the ground or imbedded
in bodies and buildings. The moat had turned even darker than its
former hue, literally black with blood and ashes. Suddenly, its
waters stirred. Some huge beast, smaller than a badger but larger
than most others, was swimming to the bank, thrashing about. Where it
had come from was any beast’s guess; a beast who didn’t
know better would say it came from under the walls.

At last, the huge
creature reached the bank, half of its body lying in the mud while
its lower body and legs disappeared into the murky shallows. A
throaty, hoarse groan reached the otter’s small, rounded ears
as she climbed up the wall. The beast dragged itself all the way onto
the slimy bank after a few moments’ rest. He was a large
hedgehog, but with a lean, withered look about him. The strength had
faded slightly from his massive muscles, and his once portly girth
was now sunken and scrawny.

The hog had a pale look
about him like one who has been underground for a long time. He was
clad only in a ragged tunic, once green but now faded and dull, which
clung to him only because it was soaking wet and was bound at the
waist by a loose, woven belt, which had also lost its color.

It had started several
days before, when the battle was still raging. A weasel’s
arrow, crafted of pinewood with black flights and a flint tip, had
shot up at Erinac while he stood on the walls, leading the soldiers
of Fort Ruddler in Teltoli’s absence. It had pierced his side,
going into his stomach partway, and, unconscious, the Major General
had fallen into the moat. There the water had awakened him, and he
thrashed about, trying to reach land. But by mistake, Erinac had
discovered and entered a tiny cavern deep under the walls, made by
who knew what. There he had lain for all these days, eating lichen
and luminous mushrooms and regaining his strength. Today he had
decided: he would try to find his way to the open air.

Now Erinac lay there,
mind shattered by the cruelty of vermin. He wanted one thing: to kill
them.

Heckler and Ludwig

Chapter I

Once upon a time
there were two gnomes who lived deep in the heart of a dark,
unwelcoming forest. One was named Heckler, and one was named Ludwig.
They lived in a cave inside a giant rock knoll.

One day, Heckler was
fishing. As usual, his strangely shaped pipe was in his mouth, a thin
ribbon of smoke twirling away with the wind. He wore his patched hood
on his head, the end of which bobbed when his head moved. This was
probably from the excess amount of dirt and bugs and whatnot that had
collected in his hood. Suddenly he felt a jerk on his line.
Struggling upright, the gnome began playing the fish wildly. He
nearly lost his pole as the fish pulled away, but finally he landed
what happened to be a large piece of wood that had become attacked to
the string by a twig. Heckler angrily threw it in the river.

“So I guess
this is it – happily ever after. What now? Does nothing come
after this?” contemplated Ludwig.

“Well, we
could always use that spell-book Matilda gave us and become
enchanters again,” said Heckler.

Ludwig grinned and
exhaled through his snub nose in a sort of chuckling snort.
Straightening up from his leaning position against the oak tree, he
walked over and fished about in their haversack. Producing the old,
leather-bound tome, he walked over and handed it to Heckler. But then
he picked up his staff and slung the sack at his back again. “I’m
sorry, friend. I can’t do that.” The gnome put his hand
on Heckler’s shoulder. “May we meet again. Now I must say
goodbye.” Ludwig buckled on his sword. “Farewell.”
He walked off north, waving over his shoulder.

“Where are you
going?” called Heckler.

“To find
someone.”

THE END

Exercise 1

Writing I

I am Steve. Steve makes
me think of a tall, thin person who waves their hands and arms wildly
about when talking; like my uncle John or Chris Thile. I am
sensitive. When I think of doing or saying (usually saying) something
bitter and cutting, it makes me sad. I derive pleasure from being
sad, or imagining sad things. I feel hurt when people do these sort
of things to me, but my other side, my New English shell, feeds on
the pleasure of biting back and inventing cutting, sarcastic remarks.
Or is it just my sinful nature? I feel annoyed with non-sensitive
people.

Writing II

Love. What is love?
Love is not explainable. When one thinks of a loved one, one thinks
of that person as something misted by a golden light or veil of sheer
happiness and perfection. Love is something that one can not account
for, like by saying, “It’s because.” There’s
no because. It’s all a trick played by cupids. Not really, of
course. That was a metaphor. But it’s not an ordeal of
“choosing.” “Liking” is a matter of choosing.
Boyfriend/girlfriend/crush relationships are a matter of, “I
think I like him/her specifically because s/he is handome/pretty and
intelligent.”

Writing III

Josh Ernst. He will
become a pilot when he grows up. It’s not something I hope for.
It seems like destiny. I would be sad if he died in war. But he will
miss a lot when he’s away. I worry for him about that. When
will he marry? I hope he doesn’t break _______’s heart
and marry some pilot chic. But that would not be Josh. It’s one
of those “go off on a noble quest and then struggle to return
and find the heroine so he can marry her and she’s been pining
away, single and hopeful” things. I hope _______ doesn’t
marry Ned or someone. Ned needs to marry _______, anyway.

Writing IV

Wright brothers. Flying
goggles, etc. Get to work and write! Right. That’s right.
Rrright. Yeah right. No…write a letter. Write to me. Peter
Gaultney hasn’t written back. A novel; an author wrote this
epic novel in 19__. Sort of historically. Or on the back of a book.

Practice1

Chapter 1

The
creature that sat astride a black horse amidst the flurrying snows
was of average build and height for a full-grown human, though tall
and thin; yet no one but a foreigner would mistake this khoron
for a man––nor would they dare approach him. The only
physical features that clearly distinguished him from a man were an
unnaturally long, straight nose and large, round ears. Brown spots
all over every inch of his skin added to his ugliness. Few would get
close enough to see him however, for the khoronu were skilled
archers. Across his back was an un-strung, re-curved short bow, as
well as a quiver of cruelly barbed arrows.

Kreev, for thus was
the khoron’s name among his people, sniffed the cold,
snowy air and glanced about through narrowed eyes. The khoronu
could sense danger in the air, as well as strong emotions; and Kreev
indeed sensed danger. Snarling and showing crooked, yellow teeth, the
khoron un-slung his bow and strung it with practiced ease.
Thumbing through his arrows, he selected one and drew it, nocking it
on his bowstring.

Suddenly, Kreev
heard hoof beats. It was a heavy horse, not like the light, sinewy
mounts of the khoronu; Kreev’s glare deepened. Through
the veil of falling snow, he saw: a cyngyr. The cyngyrs
were the most hated foes of the khoronu––though
simple country folk, they were also brave warriors. Instantly Kreev’s
bowstring twanged as he released the arrow and turned his horse
about, riding back towards the khoron war camp he had come
from.

There was a gasp
from behind him, but Kreev knew it would take more than one arrow to
kill a cyngyr. He also knew, though, that it would not be wise
to stay and finish him off, for more would come, and they could
overpower him by sheer numbers, even if not by superior strategy.
Besides, he should gather more khoronu so they could return
and kill these cursed cyngyrs.