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The Chocolate Box
The Chocolate Box will be under Probation. So if anyone acts up badly and abuses the chatbox we will reserve the right to remove it without warning.
Joshua (Homer) is going into hibernation (some of you probably think that's my normal state of being :)). No, I’m not leaving Inklings (far from it), nor am I going to stop writing Writer’s Talk, nor am I going to stop reading your stories and commenting on them. I’m simply giving writing a rest. For now. However, if I write something short, or dabble, or something, I'll still post that up.
I am going to commence a historical fiction novel on Hannibal, “The Man Who Marched Elephants Over the Alps”. For now, it'll go under the ingenious title "Hannibal". This is going to require a lot of research- “What did they wear?”. “How did they fight?”, “What did the buildings look like?”, “What are the details of Hannibal’s life?” “How did these people think and express themselves?” and the biggest of all, “WHO was Hannibal himself? What made him tick? What drove him to his life-long war against Rome? Hatred? Patriotism? What were his foibles? WHO was Hannibal?”
All those questions need to be answered before I commence the story, and that is going to take some time. After that, I’m going to outline the storyline, so I know where I need to go, how large the chapters need to be, etc. Then I’ll start writing, and posting it on Inklings for editing as I write it up. I would appreciate it if you guys could stir me on occasionally, ask how it’s going, keep me motivated. Guilt would work. And I’ll keep you updated via my blog. But regular motivation would be very useful for such a large undertaking.
Yay, I logged in! No, actually that is really something of an achievement for me... which is really embarrassing. It took me about 5 tries to get the password accepted! So I always feel accomplished whenever I log in... very concerning. Any way, our internet was down, now it's up again and I see this deluge of new bloggers and new stories... sighs. Gets out editor's glasses and gets comfortable.... So maybe that means I should get out and start writing... just maybe.
Has anybody else had problems with the categories? It seems that whenever I open up a catergory such as "Homer's Posts" I don't actually get all of my posts, instead I just get the normal blog page. Which is tricky for finding old parts of stories that I need to catch up on. Does anyone else have this problem, or know how to fix it?
"The men of the village then scattered, some towards tools to bury the dead men, others to drag the bodies towards the mass grave- not before Tries confiscated the armour of the guards, as he was a leading citizen and the only one able to “appreciate such art.” Robert examined the bodies. Expressions of mixed horror, shock, fear and surprise registered on all their faces- a look they would now maintain forever. Burnt beyond use, the wagon was left to disintegrate and cool down for a while before it was removed.
It only took the concerted effort of the villagers 5 minutes to bury the dead (noticeably without any rites) and tidy up afterthe scuffle. Tries was triumphant.
“A sign of the times! A sign of the times I tell you Robert! A new age! A new nation! Yes! A new nation! A new nation for our generation! For our children! A new age!”
Crowing off such nationalistic slogans, the burly blacksmith allowed Robert to guide him into the privacy of Tries’ hut.
Tries’ hut was not very spacious- designed for the needs of one messy bachelor as it was. However, there was, miraculously enough, a table and two chairs, at which Robert sat his friend down and looked him in the eye.
“Just what was that all about Tries? Calm down, calm down, what was it all about?”
Tries finished his exultant catchphrases and took a few deep breaths.
“It’s a revolution.”
Robert looked at him warily. As a force of habit, he rarely became involved in politics; it made enemies of potential customers.
“It’s a revolution against the king at Merschall. It’s a revolution against the tyranny, the despotism, the…”
“Okay Tries.”
“Sorry, I get all fired up when I think of…”
“Who’s leading the revolution?” Robert shot out, trying to lead Tries onto more fruitful conversation.
“The Red-neck, he’s a robber baron out bush somewhere. He leads an entire army of bandits, preying on the despot’s tax men…”
“Is he a risk to peace and order?”
Tries snorted. “Of course he is. He’s a warrior! He’s a rebel! And he’s going to bring down the government. A new, fierce light entered Tries eyes, and he thumped his large fist down on the table. Robert flinched. “Which side are you on, Robert? Which side? Ours… or theirs?”
Hello everyone. As it's been a week since I last posted, and people might have forgotten where this story was going, do you guys think it would help if I posted on the last paragraph of the last part I posted to get everybody up to speed on the story? Or would it be better just to scroll down and read, as more information is needed than just one paragraph? What do you think, cyber-editors?
Previously, on Grasslands...
The soldiers were the usual sort; thick-built, strong, and looked over all rather coarse. There was however, one other man other than the coarse soldiers or the pompous tax collector; he was a young man, dressed sensibly for the hot climate- a loose shift and breeches, and bore no weapons. Instead he carried a stylus and parchment, and was hurrying around seeing that the booth and all other equipment were set down carefully. He had blonde hair, and deep brown eyes, and was neither tall nor strongly built. It seemed that he was some kind of scribe, and was definitely a very zealous understudy of the older, less professional taxman. Finally, the tax collector’s booth was set up, the various papers were laid out, mostly by the bustling young scribe, and the tax collector sat down on his stool and awaited business.
Please insert theme song here...
GRASSLANDS, PART THREE
The farmers were slowly coming in from their work, muttering and eyeing up the soldiers. While the tax collector seemed to be one never wroth to take things slowly, the scribe started immediately, while most of the farmers were yet to arrive. He stepped forwards briskly over to Tries and Robert.
“You sir, the blacksmith, Tries of Shwalloum, I believe? May we examine your tax value?” He spoke politely, but firmly, as if he expected resistance. Moving on immediately, he examined his papers.
“you owe a total of… let’s see… oh, yes, 15 shillings. Can you please present the funds immediately and surrender them to the tax officer over by the booth? Thank you.” The young scribe was very set on protocol and formality, and seemed to be reading from a script. While Tries grumbled and trundled off to collect the funds, the scribe moved his studious attention to Robert. Robert sighed and started to display his collection of goods to the zealous scribe for “tax valuation”.
“You say this is all you sell?”
“This is my entire stock. I occasionally deal in other products but not much; as this is my main range, and well priced it is too. Would you like to examine my collection of writing inks? I have a couple of jars of black here, and even a blue and a red. May I give you an example of the product on the back of one of your parchments?” Robert displayed the varied range of inks to the young scribe, who had to smile at the irresistible merchant who was trying, in the middle of a tax valuation, sell some of his stocks before they were taxed.
Tries had just stepped out of his house, a bag of 15 shillings in his hand, when a shout broke out from the nearby scrub next to the town. The whole countryside of Varana had thick, tall grass undergrowth, with trees loosely scattered over the whole scrubland. Next to the road the spear grass was very tall, taller than a man, and quite thick, so that nobody could see through it. Out of there a brown horse, with a rider, burst out. He wore loose, yellow clothing which blended in with the surrounding countryside. In his right hand he held a small round wooden shield and in his left a heavy, metre long sword, weighted at the end.
“Freedom! Up and at them lads!” The mysterious rider bellowed at an unseen company.
The affect this appearance had on the village was dramatic. Some women screamed, while others, more collected, quickly gathered their children like a mother hen and rushed them inside the nearest hut. Soon all the women and children were hurrying like little hens towards the nearest cover, while the soldiers, a moment before slothfully relaxing, jumped to attention and grouped together. The scribe, who seemed to keep his head made a flying leap and landed underneath Robert’s wagon, and pretended to be dead.
Sorry if I've been a bit non-existent and un-responsive lately; we've just come back from holidays and internet was a little tricky. So, here is part two of Grasslands. Enjoy! And once again, any critquie or editing would be appreciated! Thanks!
Homer
“That’s enough horse shoes to shod an army of horsemen, Tries.” Robert spoke up, breaking the silence. Tries jumped, and turned. Subconsciously his hand gripped a horse shoewhich lay nearby, then his eyes widened and relaxed.
“It’s you Rob. I heard you were in town.” Tries laughed rather nervously.
“you can put that horse shoe down, Tries, I won’t rob you.”
Tries laughed, and dropped the horse shoe. “Guess one gets nervous, with all these robbers around. I though you were trouble, creeping up on me like that.”
Robert nodded. He had heard tales of bandit trouble, although he hadn’t thought it to be in this district. Maybe it had.
“So, how’d you been?”The trader asked.
“Fine, business has been a bit…” Just outside, in the village square, a trumpet flourish interpreted the burly blacksmith.
“Sounds like the royal tax-man himself.” Tries muttered as he strode outside to meet the summons.
Robert followed his friend out, as a merchant; he often simply travelled wherever the tax-collectors weren’t, so to speak, but if a tax-man did turn up, he simply paid his taxes and moved on. Varana was nominally ruled, and had been so for fifty years, by the king of Mershell, who had established minor barons to rule over the newly conquered territory under the feudal system. Unfortunately, the natives had been troublesome, and the barons’ control was limited to a few pockets ruled by iron men. Tax collectors, however, were sent out to the scattered villages by the minor barons, to collect their rents. The semi-nomadic, tribal communities of Varana made the traditional system of feudal service an interesting conundrum for the king’s officials.
The sight that met Robert’s eyes was a little discouraging, and a little humorous at the same time. The tax-man was a short, fat man with narrow eyes and a large fist, and was sweating considerably as he set up his little booth next to the wagon which had just ridden up, driven by the baron’s men. Most of the men other than the tax collector were soldiers; armed in typical Mershellian fashion, with the gear soldiers used down south in Mershall. They were armed with a kite-shaped shield; a one-handed sword and most also had spears. Their helmets were simply metal caps with nose-guards, and they also wore armour. Their armour was the usual mail issue- mail rings linked together to form an protective garment which covered the chest and past the waist, where it ended in a skirt. The legs and arms were also covered in mail, but with leather mittens, instead of the normal mail ones worn in Mershell. Every soldier also wore a surcoat, which both allowed another chance to display their lord’s coat of arms, and also deflected the hot sun off their armour, which became like a metal oven when the sun was hot. The surcoat, and the emblem painted on the shields, was a dark red, with a white vine curling upwards.
The soldiers were the usual sort; thick-built, strong, and looked over all rather coarse. There was however, one other man other than the coarse soldiers or the pompous tax collector; he was a young man, dressed sensibly for the hot climate- a loose shift and breeches, and bore no weapons. Instead he carried a stylus and parchment, and was hurrying around seeing that the booth and all other equipment were set down carefully. He had blonde hair, and deep brown eyes, and was neither tall nor strongly built. It seemed that he was some kind of scribe, and was definitely a very zealous understudy of the older, less professional taxman. Finally, the tax collector’s booth was set up, the various papers were laid out, mostly by the bustling young scribe, and the tax collector sat down on his stool and awaited business."
This is a fantasy novel I am writing, called Dragon's Flame. Of course ,this is only the beginning, but there will be more. It's about an Elf named Gurthsboar who needs to recruit more warriors to lead into the war in the East against a Sauron-like enemy. Along the way he meets several humans, including the youthful Gerry Turrsbourgh, who begin to change his frosty, business-dedicated approach to life. I would really appreciate editing helps and prompts- you know, take it apart and tell me what was good, and what should probably be changed.
For now, I transport you to Runa, somewhere in my own universe...
PART ONE
Gurthsboar stood watching at the entrance to the cave he had spent the night sleeping in. Before him was a small village, with fields of half-ripe corn bending slightly in the light, refreshing breeze. A few robins played amidst the ears, holding on to vertical surfaces as if they were level floor. No clouds were to be seen in the beautiful blue summer sky. It was not the charms of nature, however, which had caught the Elf’s attention; it was the small band of soldiery, all mounted and armored who were on the opposite side of the crest of a ridge to the village, whose inhabitants were working peacefully in the fields. The men were obviously knights and their mounted vassals, there were many different designs on their shields, indicating who the noble knights were, but the most common design was that of the Eagle, red on a black shield. The men holding that design were either members of the family to whom the heraldry belonged or lower-born men, whose families did not have a heraldic design. There were about 20 men all told, who were all armed with a 3-metre ash lance, a shield bearing their device and mail armor. They also carried lighted torches, for the burning of the corn.
As these raiders were behind the unsuspecting farmers, so was another band, smaller then the first, behind the mounted raiders. They composed of eight men, including their leader, a youth in his mid-twenties. They were no less well armed but were dismounted, for some reason none, but the leader, had a horse. That they intended to attack the raiders before they raided the peaceful village, to whom it probably held allegiance to the family this second party also held allegiance to was plain. How eight men on foot intended to set 20 men on horses fleeing the county was less plain. Gurthsboar calmly descended down the ridge he had spent the night in towards the second concealed party.
Gerry Turrsbourgh was young and not himself of a noble family; instead his father was an officer in the service of Baron Kiksdorg. He had been visiting a leading merchant in the village the night before with a few men. They had not taken horses because the castle was a very short distance away and Gerry’s small command was infantrymen, not rich enough to own enough horses to become cavalrymen. A hunter who had been out very early in the morning after a local stag who had evaded him for several weeks now had alerted the young officer of the presence of a small band of raiders, no doubt Gersens. The Gersen clan was an extremely powerful local band of errant knights and their vassals who had risen to power (aided by some foreign power) around the lands of Baron Kiksdorg and some of his neighbors. They had become a great nuisance and had attracted many knights and soldiers from near and far to their cause. They raided and destroyed villages, as was a noble’s want in war against a rival noble and defeated the parties of the baron’s men who might have opposed them. It was against such a band that Gerry intended to attack.
He was very well aware that the enemy had the advantage in numbers and horses, as well as having slightly better arms, but he intended to take them from surprise and from the rear, and disorganize them as to prevent the raid. His men were deathly quiet as they prepared for the very dangerous conflict ahead of them. Silent prayers were offered. Then at the signal, Gerry and his men followed a hidden course towards the enemy, hidden by a small corpse of trees. Once the enemy was within 30 meters, Gerry blew his war horn and leapt out of the corpse. His men followed, bellowing the war cry of their baron and his country.
“Tersun, Tersun!” This unexpected attack indeed took the enemy cavalry be surprise, who for some reason had been waiting, probably for their scout to return. There was not much room for the cavalry to charge and use their lances to great affect, and before their leader could turn his men around to the new threat, a wooden shaft flew out of nowhere and sprouted out of his chest. Temporarily disorganized by the unexpected attack and the loss of their leader, the horsemen’s’ response to Gerry’s attack was a less effective then it could have been. Only a few seconds later, another arrow took out one of the leading knights as the cavalry charge met the surging infantry. Gerry’s spear took out one horse, and one of his followers quickly dispatched the unfortunate rider. A couple of knights went down quickly, but at least one infantryman was transfixed by a knight’s lance in the initial onslaught. It was a wonder that Gerry did not lose more at the onset, but the arrows and the surprise attack worked in his favor. One more arrow followed, again only a few seconds after the former. Then another yell pierced the air, besides that of “Tersun! Tersun!” the Gersens’ fierce war cry.
“Klara! Klara!” It was the war cry of wandering Elves, whenever they joined battle, which was often as they travelled over the evil face of the earth.
