Onward

So after the worldbuilding insanity died down a bit, I realized I hadn’t done my writing exercise today. I’m trying to learn a bit when I have time to try new things, so it mattered. A lot.

I went to Holly Lisle’s site to see what she had to say about description, something I know I need help with.

Here’s “start with the biggest gun you’ve got,” using whatever jumped into my fingers from what has been milling around in my head all day.

*****

Disease or curse, his own sin or the Will of Lork, Nelit refused to just meekly die. He had left his family, abandoned his tribe, to find a way to live. Travelled months across the face of Tikrops searching for a way. Found companions and lost them, fought and fallen and got back up and simply refused to die. He was not giving up now.

Not even if ten not-human short little gold guys did want to put him in a box that hung from a rope and hoist him up a hundred feet to talk to their Master Artificer, a–man?–who had blown himself up in the pursuit of knowledge twelve times.

Or so his people boasted, anyway.

*****

Here’s my attempt at using action to convey setting.

*****

“Ah, but you have not seen,” Hafidr objected. The artificer snapped his fingers–Nelit noticed his right hand was a paler yellow than the rest of his golden skin–and pointed at a device. “This will show you.” He grabbed Nelit’s wrist and held the tribesman’s hand over the–spiked copper ball? Caught in a gentle vice, Nelit could only stare as the object flared with a red glow. “You see?” Hafidr asked as the thing let out a warning whistle and the fire on the hearth jumped and surged so wildly Nelit considered jumping out the window though they were six flights up in the cliff-face housing. “Flame responds.”

“Yes, I see!” To Nelit’s relief the Gnuj released his hand; he jerked away and the room settled.

The pale hand was not real, he realized as he rubbed his wrist. The inventor had a false hand. A miraculously life-like, extremely strong, incredibly dextrous false hand. Nelit could not believe Hafidr had made it; the master was too…scattered to have done such work. Perhaps the Gnuj were not all insane?

Just every single one he’d seen.

A mage with the skill to make that hand might be able to stop disease.

Here’s what I came up with.  No, it will probably never get any longer.  Unless a plotbunny attacks.  Plotbunnies change everything.

“You are not Robin Hood,” Elys growled. Her eyes sparked when she was angry, Steven noticed.

“Never said I was.” And he walked around her. No point in explaining, after all. She’d never concede. But maybe someday she’d forgive him.

Now she chased him, whirling so fast her skirts caught at his ankles before swirling back.

“Have you even considered how well we could live on–”

“And have you thought about how we would explain where our money came from?” Five more minutes. If he could keep her arguing for five more minutes…

“We are guild. We explain to no one.”

“Until a guildmaster does the asking.” Steven wanted to hurry, but that would ruin his plan. Make Elys run, and she would make him pay. Before he was rid of the gold.

A cold breeze ruffled the leaves on the King’s Road, stirring nature’s gold about his boots. Despite himself, Steven quickened his pace. She could die. The curse could harm him, certainly, make him miserable his whole life–but she was witchfolk. She could die the final death. And he could never make her fear that a power might be greater than hers.

“Steven Ilksback, do you regret your promise?”

“Never have I, and never will I. Even when I was green,” and hadn’t that been the experience, croaking on a lily pad! “Even when I was green, I was grateful that I could still look upon you.”

“You are a flatterer, Steven.” Her tone was softer. That wouldn’t last.

“Truth flatters you, Mistress.” Damn. Should not have said–

“If mistress I be, why do you still walk?”

Yeah, guess what I’ve been doing all day?

All right, so here’s the almost-completely re-worked hook. Tell me what you think.

New hook.

And here, on Miss Snark’s blog, is the old hook , with comments.

What do you think?

Five-minute sprint challenge.  I don’t know who the characters are.  I don’t care. 

***** 

Her head hurt. So what else was new? It seemed like forever since it didn’t hurt.

Yeah, so this was different. What had started as a throb behind her eye, had moved to a stab behind her ear. That was odd. It had never—

“Come on, stop sulking. What do you want to do that doesn’t involve killing anyone?”

“Depends.” She reached for the new beer delivered by her supposed friend. “Is maiming out too?”

A snort of laughter brought back the throb. Great, now she had both.

“What’s got you so out of sorts?”

“Do you want the list alphabetically, by priority, chronologically, or in Greek?”

“I’ve forgotten most of my Greek. How about, what do we do to fix it?” She opened her mouth, he beat her to it. “Yes, killing is still out. So is maiming. Sorry.”

“Then we go the hell away and let me drink.”

“No can do, little one. Orders. I don’t get to go home unless I bring you with.”

“Add that to the effing list.”

“Okay, I’m giving you one more beer to get more cooperative, then I’m carrying you.”

She twitched her coat back, clearing the path for a grab at her belt. “Don’t make me break the rules.”

“Since when—oh, you mean my rules.” He sighed, gusting foam from his own beer onto the table. “Okay, two beers. Three, if you’ll pass the hell out and I won’t have to risk life and limb carrying you.”

Pass out. She could do that.

What the hell. At least she’d have a headache for a damned reason, come morning.

I don’t know who this is, or where she fits. But I couldn’t write anything else, so I came here to write a throwaway. But I like her. So I guess I’ll keep her.

Cara huddled in a ball and made it all go away. She knew better than the other children, she didn’t imagine food. That only made things worse. Cara imagined adventure, danger, the toe-curling excitement that made her appetite go away.

There had been a climber in the market last week, talking about trying the Death Face. Cara had cowered in delicious terror, but now she imagined she had offered to guide him.

The first few days had been easy. She could handle the hiking, when the reward was three whole meals–don’t think about food!

Now she stood at the foot of the path, the one made by morbid curiosity-seekers and the occasional obsessed climber. Her employer stood staring up at the Death Face, grinning. Cara shivered and stepped closer to the tall dark man who had come to be a friend. He was kind, and she didn’t want him hurt. But the Death Face wasn’t looking at him. They said the cliff chose its victims, before they even set foot on it…

“Well, Cara,” he said in that gentle, lilting voice, “Don’t you think–”

“Hey, Rat!” Cara’s bunk jolted, jerking her back to her gnawing stomach. “Got food, Rat?”

Damn. Pritch. And friends. Cara stayed in her protective ball. It hurt less that way. “No,” she answered, and wondered why she bothered. They wouldn’t leave till they’d made sure.

I’ll probably continue it. Eventually. Any guesses how I’m feeling today? And no, I’m not hungry.