Hello again. I’m here again to share more of my old writing excerpts that I did just over a year ago. Just in case you didn’t see my last post and you’re confused, I’m putting up pieces of writing I used to do as practice. It can be really fun to write a piece of a scene, without context, just to let out some creative steam. I like looking back at them after time has passed just to see how much I’ve actually grown both in skill and mentality.
But let’s not start getting too deep over random bits of writing. Again, don’t take these pieces as finished works, because they’re not even close!
Being lost is something of a complicated subject. When you’re without knowledge of where you are, surrounded by naught but a shrouded darkness encasing your eyes, mouth, ears, and every sense you can muster, then perhaps you are truly lost. Though, even this may not always be the case, for if your location is unknown, you may still have an idea of where you should be. There are many ways to define the word in question. But if you think too muchly of it, then you may become actually lost. Be careful when you tread amongst the void, and hold close to your heart your destination, and perhaps one day, you will escape the fear that is being lost.
Unless it was a cruel act performed by an all-powerful being simply wishing to spite those less fortunate, luck was definitely lost that day, for the rain had not poured down so heavily and for such a lengthy amount of time in months. Farmers would be cheering, but not those who had no roof above their head, and even more dangerously, not a care for their own well-being. It’s one thing to be left forgotten on the edge of society, but it’s much worse to no longer worry about yourself enough to care you’re freezing, hungry, and alone.
The woman was short, skin as green as a field of grass in the morning, but covered in water even moreso than simple dew. Streets of busy port towns are rarely as empty as they were during that time, and it was strange. A building’s wall held up her back, yet she still slouched, and to either direction she saw not a movement behind the splashing of heavy rain drops against the wood below her. Booty Bay was quiet, yet seemingly deafening at the same time with the storm’s white noise.
She shivered periodically but didn’t even notice. Her ragged clothes were drenched but she cared no longer for even a regular patching job or a plank of wood to raise above her head. To her, everything had abandoned her, so she paid no mind to anything in return.
For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, the woman saw something, yet for a long moment she refused to believe anything or anyone could have stopped to acknowledge her. A tall man stood before her, though after a double-take, he looked to be even worse off than she was. His clothes were ripped, old, and she had a hard time believe they were ever worth something.
Above his head was a large piece of fabric held up on a post like a home made umbrella. It had holes—leaks trickling water down against the skin of his forehead and off the tip of his sizable nose. When she eyed him over after doing her best to wipe away the wetness of her face, she realized she was almost looking back at herself.
When he offered a hand to help her up, she was hesitant, took the gesture firmly.
Dagron found himself gripping his hands tightly on an old hempen rope which was securely by a steel piton right below the top ledge of a cliff so high he could hardly see the roaring waves of the ocean below him. Well, he only hoped it was secure, and he could see the ocean, but he simply didn’t want to look down. He may not have sees that either, because his friend Zark was helplessly dangling from the rope as well below him just out of reach of his boots to rest upon his head.
Above the two was the aimed pistol of a furious man, glaring down with a putrid grin as the two young men struggled in the precarious and exhausting hang. There wasn’t much either of them could do—two rabbits in a hunter’s viscious trap.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to front-flip up, and take on that guy before he kills us, huh?” Zark said through his worried grin, seeming to be likely masking a deep inner fear of a man waiting to die.
“Afraid not,” Dag replied.
“This isn’t much like the stories of heroes I’ve he–” but Zark is quickly cut off by his companion’s response.
“Life isn’t a story of heroes,” he said through a grunt as he readjusted his position on the rope, now releasing his right hand to begin rustling about beneath him as if searching for something. The man still stood above them, chuckling as if he was taking a sick pleasure from the futile struggling like torturer prodding and tormenting his captured victims. Both of them were red in the face, and even moreso in the hands. Two rope itself was quite course and painful against their skin, but when one is faced with death, there isn’t much time to worry about small difficulties.
“You grow up believing you can easily fight dragons, rescue damsels, and become adored by the people.”
“What else are simple townsfolk going to believe to draw strength from but tales?” responded Zark as he squeezed the rope more tightly, though it was obvious he was losing his strength.”
“You’re exactly right. But sometimes there comes a moment when you need to believe in something else.”
“Yourself, justice, or your friends?”
“Believe in a fool’s luck,” Dag said, thrusting his dagger underhandedly at the two boy’s life support straight below the piton. The hunter was caught completely off-guard, firing his shot but merely filling the air with a deafening bang as the helpless duo plummeted towards the ocean’s violent embrace what seemed like a thousand feet below.
All around him was raging bursts of fire and intense heat like rolling hills of flame and smoke. Despite the never-ending inferno around him, he was not burnt, nor was he uncomfortably warm. The feeling was actually quite pleasant, and as the boy continued across the land he noticed the fires shrink. Eventually, the world around him seemed to flatten out, and no burst of red rose up higher than the height of a child.