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The Chocolate Box
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More of my story, which remains to be called Sonata Pathetique until a proper title can be given, once it's finished. If you're curious about Aniquia, it's dead. Dead as Marley, dead as Dr. Robinson, dead as... Richard Cranston... *sad sigh* Just so you know, I've had to re-write the description of Richard Cranston at least five times, so I am very curious as to what my fellow authors think of it. If you have not read the first part of the story, go here: http://www.homeschoolblogger.com/writingforGod/685031
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The Cranstons had been orphans as long as they could remember. Their father was very ill when Richard was born, and died shortly before the birth of his second child, Judith. Nobody in the town of Oakley really remembered Mrs. Cranston, and the few people who did disliked mentioning her in their discourse, and even if someone asked about her, they would just come to a stop and change the subject. Likewise, Richard and Judith led lives without much knowledge of their parents, and were brought up by their wealthy grandfather.
To those who did not know him quite well, Mr. Cranston came across as a proud, irascible, and standoffish old man, one who could not possibly keep the young people well, but he was a good man, soft at heart, and generous, giving the young ones every kindness possible. The brother and sister led joyful lives under his roof. The eldest son of his family, Cranston had inherited a large plantation, the largest within miles, fully equipped with slaves and abundant crops and orchards, with which along with his birthright money, he could have not a worry concerning funds.
Not handsome, though not ugly, Richard Cranston had a plain face with a blunt nose and a quite boring mouth and had brown hair, but his brown eyes were bright, sparkling, charming, normally happy, but sometimes sorrowful, and, though he never told of his pain when he was unwell, one could tell how he suffered by his eyes. Always, the young man made sure he was well dressed and well groomed; his coats and trousers never went soiled nor unmended, his pale face washed and clean-shaven.
Ever since he was a young boy, Richard had been of poor health, sometimes bedridden for weeks, and at twenty-one years, there was no change in him. Pale and weak, he often had fits of coughing before he actually fell sick, and his younger sister Judith learned this early on, so whenever her brother showed any signs of illness that he would try to ignore, to cast aside as nothing, Judith would tell their grandfather, and soon after, worry herself ill, for she always expected the worst outcome of all, the one that all knew was not too far away from poor Richard.
And Judith, fair young Judith, was a classic beauty, having soft, curling hair of gold, romantic grey eyes, and a gentle face. Perfectly pale were her complexion, and her hands were long and smooth. As if it were chiseled out of china, her nose was soft and slightly upturned. Sweet and teasing, her mouth was witty, or calmly beautiful, with a smile every woman envied. As for her character, that remains to be found out.
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Please remember to tell me what you think about Rick's description!
Darcy Jo here with the new romance... wait, I forgot, I have to go as Barrie. Okay, Barrie here with the new romance. And don't y'all dare just say you liked it, the Inklings is to help people improve on their writing. Here it is:
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“My dearest Judith,
You must remember, as this be the night before our wedding, these my words:
Love is not a wavering thing; it is ever steadfast, ever true. Love me even when you do not like me. Stay true, my dearest, true to me and you. Love long, even when there is no hope. Love, not romance, shall hold us together evermore.
Love faithfully, truthfully, unfalteringly, my Judith.
Love me even when you do not like me.
Yours forever,
Fredrick.”
Judith’s tears streamed down her face as she re-read Fredrick’s last letter. “Fredrick… How could I be so foolish, so stupid!” Overwhelmed by her emotions, she hurled the letter like a stone onto the wood floor. She looked out the window. “Grey. Why is it always grey? Fredrick…” Her stomach twisted and lurched in her bitter thought. “I never kissed my husband. I never kissed my husband. Oh, Hawthorne, wretched Hawthorne!
“I’ll never forgive him. He ruined my life, that Hawthorne. I know I shall never forgive him, never. There he goes, to the McLeods’ home. Oh, no, is he going to? No, Tom, don’t do it. If you marry that girl, I shall… it does not matter anymore. What a horrid man he is. He ruined everyone’s life, and I believe he does not care. No, I am sure he does not care. Albany, Fredrick, and myself, all ruined because of him. He’s ruined himself, too. How could he lead such a miserable life, making others so miserable? He is a murderer. But how could I grieve for him, when I have my own grievances? That limp of his, that could not be Fredrick’s fault. My Fredrick could not shoot him. You killed my husband, Tom Hawthorne, and I shall never forgive you, as long as I live.
“As long as I live…” She collapsed upon her bed in a faint.
Judith Russett did not wake until the morning, greeted not by the usual bright guardian of day, but by grey clouds, the ones that had hung eerily in the sky since the day of her wedding, that bleak day. Exhausted, the poor girl looked about the room, wondering what was going on. To her shock, she felt a stinging pain in her arm. Glancing over, she realized that she had been bled. “But I am not ill. Perhaps I am, though?” she thought. In the corner of her room stood her grandfather, appearing quite anxious.
“Grandfather, where is my husband?” she gasped.
Head lowered, Mr. Cranston said sadly, “Darling, Fredrick is dead. He was hanged almost a week ago. Do you not remember, dear?”
Her head swimming due to fever, she said, “I do remember. How could I do such a thing? How could he do such a thing? Fredrick… Hawthorne…” Suddenly, she became chilled, and grabbed tightly at the quilt, as she shook with regret, pain, and cold. “I’m so sorry, Grandfather.” She fell into a deep, troubled sleep.
“Poor girl, all the pressures of the world on her shoulders. There is nothing to mend her heart. If Mr. Russet were not already dead, I would kill the villain myself.”
Nalene stood shaking and panting, feeling as if she herself was in the battle. “King Rhondran, are you--- are you quite alright? Not wounded, I mean.”
He wiped the sweat from his brow, saying, “I am fine. He injured my shoulder, but I am well enough. I had best see what Arala wanted me to. The boy, I’m afraid…”
Nalene timidly entered the room with him, afraid to look, afraid to breathe, the sickest feeling in her stomach. She looked down. Dead. He was dead. Everything in her slowed. What? How could he just die? Yes, he was dead. Too late. But it could not have been stopped.
Arala wept bitterly, falling against Rhondran. He held her close, one arm wrapped around her, the other gently stroking her hair. “It’s alright. It’s alright, Arala. You could not have prevented it. None of us could.” She said nothing, she only wept.
There was nothing in the world Nalene could do. She knelt down by the boy, the poor, lifeless boy. His agony was over now. She kissed his white hand. Looking at his face, she knew his eyes that had seen so much evil would never need to see it again, for he had gone to his Father.
Eyes dull and grey, Rhondran gingerly lifted the dead boy into his arms; he weighed but nothing. Emotionless, he said, “We must return to the castle.”
No one spoke on the way home. The air was cold, dry, lifeless. Arala continued her quiet weeping. Nalene could not shed a single tear; she felt hollow. Why should a boy have to die so young? Nobody would ever hear of his that would care. Perhaps that no one would be sad was the saddest thing.
James Barrie here. I'm sorry for not posting. Here's a general update of my writings.
In Aniquia, I've not been able to write, so I tore out the end of chapter 2, all of chapter 3, and the beginning of chapter 4. I think that might solve the problem. Coridin in those chapters seemed like o help me, help me, I'm in trouble... you know, in the way that makes you instantly dislike the character and say "Get over it!" Yeah.
Love and Liberty is the story I posted the first bit of and never posted again. I changed the time era, because EVERY HISTORICAL FICTION STORY is set in the 1770's. Now, it's in the year 1810, and Albany's character has changed completely, Tom's has some, and I've thrown in some very unexpected twists and stuff like that. I've been swallowed up completely by Pride and Prejudice and Bleak House, as anyone can tell.
Please, no one suspect that in my romance... let's call it Sonata Pathetique, because that's the song that goes along with it... my motives are not pure. With all the made and broken engagements, and someone getting married without thinking through it very much, and people keeping secrets in their marriage. I'm showing how miserable everyone and everything ends up when people do such things. MY MOTIVES ARE PURE. Just wanted everyone to understand. Oh, and only TWO people die in my whole story. I'm not telling anymore on this blog, but if you would like to have more info about the story, PM me... Gelpenprincess.
Hihihihihi, writer-peoples!!!!! I'm on a caffeine-high cuz I just had cream-with-coffee-added so I go SQUEEEEE!!! Sorry. I've had real bad writer's block, so I've been scribbling stuff randomly, here's a description of meself:
"A Self-Portrait"
The girl who sat on the porch-rail was a rather odd one. Her slick, straight brown hair, scraggly, falling to her shoulders, was covered by a straw cowboy hat, worn with much pride. Her eyes were sharp, staring into the heavens where she belonged, her eyes were dark, her eyes were sparkling with pure Southernness and Scottishness, her eyes were her only charm. Sun-browned, rough, and calloused was her skin, that made her appear American Indian. Not very attractive, her sharp nose protruded above a sarcastic mouth with a sideways smile, two slightly stick-out teeth, and an unusual flicker. What she wore was not important, but rest assured, it was something bright-colored and loose. Whistling a Scottish tune, swaying her dangling legs, taking in the perfect scene, she scribbled something down in a weather-worn notebook. What she was writing must have been very interesting, for the country twinkle in her eye was gone, and now they appeared grey and cold; she immersed herself in the pure thrill of the novel-in-progress, and her sour lemonade sent her returned to North Carolina.
How was that, ye say? Ye liked it? Well, that's me for ye! Ye want l'il sis Emma? Okay!
"Queen Emma"
Emma looked out upon the shore of the lake. The fresh breeze blew her curling hair about, not at all disturbing her regal countenance. Queen of Lake Benson, Queen of the World, she knew she was. Without a sound, a grey heron flew above the waters, and found landing on a stump. "You," said the girl to the bird, "you shall listen to me, 'cause I'm Queen of the whole world and half of Mars!" The heron, in response to the unexpected ejaculation, turned his long head and said, "Honk! Honfa-hohm-hamph!" and walked in her direction. With a pretty, beaming smile, she said, "That's right, Harry, come to hte Queen." She twirled on the pier, flapping the hem of her rose skirt, murmuring something about her Mission: Sky. Life as Queen was bliss.
Yeh, that's real Emma. Last but not least, Taylie! I was teasing her all the way through this description. Yeh.
"Taylor: The Maiden of the Woods"
The Maiden of the Woods danced through the trees, her long skirt trailing behind her, her nut-brown hair flowing like a silky sheet. Her cheeks were plump and rosy, and her sweet mouth was two pink flower petals, like the ones that made up her coronet. Graceful and slender was her pale figure. Hearing a horse's gallop, she turned to the clearing. A few songbirds flew away. Taylor gasped, long hands clasped together, at the sight of her Prince Charming, and beautifully mounted his stallion, sighing at her dream come true. Staring dreamily into his blue eyes, they rode off into the painted sunset.
Taylor, ye know who Prince Charming is... *sighs and giggles and then sighs again* He's "pansome". *giggles* How's that fer teasin' yer big sis? She tells me that I need te immediately post a pirate sketch of her or else she'll... I dunno what she'll do, she'll probably post about me with my stupid death being stabbed by a curtain rod.
Remember Albany from November? I threw out her novel, promising myself never to pick it up again. Now, we have been studying the American Revolution, and something has been pulling me to write it. So, there are two major changes. Tom is the main character... and it's a romance. Dun, dun, dun!
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Freedom. Liberty. Freedom. The words echoed through Tom’s head, even after James had spoken them in the church house, as he walked home. Liberty. His heart raced at the thought of it. No more king, no more needless taxation. Freedom. Such strong words, so full of hope. And now it seemed like it could happen, not like a daydream. All those men at the meeting, all standing for the same purpose. Liberty. He said the words over and over, staring into the star-spangled blue. The night air was cold, but the mere thought warmed him like flame. Freedom. It could be true.
Breathing deeply in the fresh air, Tom walked down the street, repeating the moving speech to himself. James Cardew had a way with words; even if they meant not a thing, they would send anyone’s heart racing. Suddenly, Tom knocked into a girl, and she screamed, tripping down. “I’m so sorry,” he said, blushing. He helped the lass to her feet, feeling very embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“That’s alright, it happens to me all the time,” she said, nodding her head politely at him. Her voice was the most Scottish he had heard, and there were more than a few Scots in Petersville. At the door of Johnson’s Apothecary, casting its light upon the ground, swung a lantern that shone upon the girl’s face. She was a young, redheaded beauty; a different kind of beauty: a beauty that most people would not recognize. But Tom did. Her sharp gray eyes lifted to the sky, quite dreamily, drinking in the perfect dusk. Wild freckles were splashed about her red cheeks and nose, her red hair tousled about giving her the appearance of a girl avoiding womanhood as much as possible. “Thank ye, sir.” After making an awkward attempt at a bow--- not a curtsey, but a bow--- she shuffled away, mannishly whistling a Scottish dance tune.
Intoxicated by her beauty and the twilight, Tom paid no mind to his surroundings; he made his way to Hawthorne’s store, where he was apprenticed. He loved the store: the smell of spices and chickens and ink mingling, the people lingering, speaking of the latest gossip, the sound of coins clinking against the scales. It was all home to him. Now it was empty, the Hawthorne family settled into their beds in the next room. He climbed up to his loft, where laid a sweet-smelling, fresh, straw mattress. Life was good as a wealthy man’s apprentice. And it would be only two more years until he was free, until he could start a life of his own.
Hello. I am sorry for not being frequent with my posting, but there are three reasons for that: 1) I hate typing it up and I type really slow anyway. 2) My head's not been in this story lately, I've been sorta messing around with a church one. 3) I've been fighting Mirana a lot in my story and in real life. She's an old character who turned dark, but I think I've found a wat to control this. So, without further adue, my story.
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With a jerk, with a gasp, at the sight of the tent, blazing in crimson and gold as the trees, Princess Arala stopped, breathing in little gasps.
“It seems no one’s here.” Nalene said, “Come on.”
The Princess whispered a prayer, peeked through a hole in the side of the tent, and, seeing nothing, nodded her head in agreement. Both holding their breath, they peeled gingerly back the scarlet flap, and tiptoed in. The inside was no splendor; it consisted of two flimsy pieces of fabric flapping from the ceiling, serving as crude walls, and a hardy bag strung from the roof, containing some food. The bare ground felt cold against their feet, though they were wearing shoes. Nauseating was the odor of blood that filled the room, but that was not the only smell. Also in that tent was the smell of fresh ink. Not a sound rose, not from the tent or the forest, and it gave the girls a sick feeling in the pit of their stomachs.
“You search here in this room, and I’ll look in the other.” Nalene’s cool, gentle voice was a great relief in the silence. Arala, following the command, drew one of the curtains and within a few moments fell to her knees crying.
Nalene, however, did not notice what was happening at all, for her own discovery engrossed her wholly. On the ground lay a piece of parchment, which, once turning it over, she noticed was the source of the ink-smell. It was a map: a map of Leona, the Aniquian Islands, and all that lay between. But she found it more significant than this; there were red lines, still wet, that marked the route the Leonese warships would take.
“Arala!”
No answer but quiet sobs came from the opposite side.
“Arala?”
Nalene took the map with her and bounded to the other room. “Look, Arala, I’ve found--- oh!” She clasped her hands over her mouth as the last short syllable fell from her lips. On the ground lay a boy, who must have been the same age as the Prince, but he moved not a muscle. His eyes and mouth were closed, his body covered with horrible, deep wounds, and he was not breathing. Limp and cold was his body, and his face pale as snow.
Acting on her first instinct, the servant girl grabbed his slender wrist, trying to feel for a pulse, but in her heart, she felt it was too late.
The Princess cried, “Don’t even bother. This is the boy that King Venovar ki… kill…” She could not bring herself to say the brutal word and took to sobbing again.
But gradually, Nalene felt a slow, thready beat running through him, and once placing her hand upon his chest, noticed weak, small breaths being taken.
“Quickly, quickly, quickly! You must get help! No, I’ll get it myself.” As soon as Nalene shouted those words, she bolted out of the tent, towards Castle Anici (named for the first king of Aniquia, which is also named after him). Even I, dear reader, do not know to this day how she returned so quickly--- even the fastest runner in Aniquiacould have sprinted so--- but somehow, she made it back with King Rhondran to Princess Arala and the wounded, helpless boy in what seemed to be less than five minutes.
And the Princess was counting them. To her, it all seemed like a nightmare when you are left all alone and then something dreadful happens. But that dreadful thing never did come to pass, for those two valiant ones appeared before her.
The King looked so majestic in that moment in time; his face appeared stronger, his blue eyes ever graver, his stature taller.
Arala said, “Rhondran, over here!” trying to dry her teary eyes.
He rushed beside her, and once seeing the boy, became silent. Usually, his countenance was rather calm, his brow relaxed, but what scared Arala, upsetting her greatly, was that the King himself seemed distressed. The boy, even now, was scarcely breathing, and fighting almost hopelessly for his life. “Nalene, fetch the doctor. And tell him to bring a litter. Make haste.”
Nodding her head, she jumped up from the ground and out of the room, but was no sooner up than seized in a strong, sudden, grip of a man. She screamed, and he clenched his hand over her mouth and held a dagger to her throat. “Who are you?” he snarled in a sharp, low accent of Leonese. “I--- I’m Nalene Halin,” gasped she, pulling his hand off her face. “And do you know the punishment for trespassing on royal property?” “Yes… King Venovar!” she shouted as she looked up, recognizing the cruel Leonese King’s face. His eyes turned red when he jerked the knife closer to her and she let out a shriek as the little trickle of blood ran down her neck. “My captive is dead. Would you like to join him?” She cried out, feeling the blade cut deeper when King Rhondran lept towards him, sword drawn, prepared to kill.
Venovar, too, unsheathed his sword and brandished it in the air. Nalene had never seen such a fight before; the Kings were almost savagely making and receiving blows that could kill a man with one stroke. But both were such expert swordsmen that they continually, amazingly blocked and dodged them. Nalene’s palms sweated, her lip bitten, her eyes wide open. She screamed out loud and jumped up as Venovar’s sword flew at Rhondran’s head, but with a crash of metal, it was deflected. That was Venovar’s deathly mistake. By the swing of his blade being so hard, it took him more than a moment to regain strength of his arm to bring it back up, and he was about to receive the death blow when Rhondran turned with a jerk.
“Rhondran!” Arala cried from nowhere, as it seemed.
“What, Rae?”
Venovar now had regathered his strength, and with a war yell brought his sword down upon his opponent, who would have been dead, had he not tripped over a root in the ground, and accidentally dodged the blade.
Springing up, resuming the fight, Rhondran shouted, “This is not a good time, Rae!” He thought the struggle would never cease.
With a yelp, Venovar fell back, gasping, clutching at the wound below his ribs. Voice raspy, he said, “You will yet see my wrath. You will see, you and the girl. And your half-sister--- I know she is here. You will all see.” He staggered out of the tent, and with a wild cackle was gone.
Nalene stood shaking and panting, feeling as if she herself was in the battle. “King Rhondran, are you--- are you quite alright? Not wounded, I mean.”
He wiped the sweat from his brow, saying, “I am fine. He injured my shoulder, but I am well enough. I had best see what Arala wanted me to. The boy, I’m afraid…”
I haven't posted in a long time, but that's cause I've been stuck typing this dumb thing up. I hate typing stories up when they're already in a notebook, but I guess I have to. I am taking criticism now. Tell me if a character is being kind of cheesy, or the storyline seems tiresome or... ugh, my stupid sentence structure is, well, stupid.
Chapter II: Coridin Delamor
The warm sun shone on the swirling river and dancing bits of light reflected on Nalene’s face. With a laugh, she looked up from the clothes she was washing and up at the broken vine that yesterday was Revon’s zipline. Once again, knowing she needed to continue her work, the servant girl soaked a shirt in the water, scrubbed it with soap from her bucket, and draped it over a nearby branch.
From somewhere not far away came Arala’s running footsteps and panting, and gradually, as the little Princess ran nearer, Nalene noticed her urgent, scared eyes. She stood there for a few seconds, catching her breath, for she had been moving very quickly, and, as you probably did not know, it was about a quarter of a mile from the castle to the river.
“What’s wrong, Arala? Is it Ryneila?”
“No, no. Mother’s fine,” she gasped.
“Then is it Revon?”
“No, it’s us! The Islands, the castle, and Rhondran, and oh, that poor boy!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Revon and Corlin were in the courtyard…” She told the tale just as she had heard it earlier that morning from Corlin himself, a few delicate tears falling gently down her face.
Her deep brown eyes full of kindness, sadness, and fear, Nalene listened on to the horrible story that sounded too dreadful to be true. Her heart felt deathly heavy, and she stared up at the sky with hope, praying to the Greatest Star: the Creator of Aniquia--- as well as all of Lenisia, the Giver and Taker of Life. For protection and peace she prayed, but she knew that they would need to fight if necessary.
“Arala, we need to see it.”
“See the tent? No, I don’t want to die!”
“But He told me to.”
Wiping a tear from her eye, Arala swallowed and said, “Alright.”
Quickly, shooting a glance at the castle, her safe home, she took Nalene’s hand, and on they went. Hearts thumping hard, they looked up around the trees, flaming with color, and as they trudged, their feet crunched the dry, crisp leaves. The sky overhead, which was just clear and sunny, now was slowly being covered with gray clouds that warned of a downpour. The girls saw a towering hemlock tree, old and hollow, with no other trees near it, recognized the landmark, and knew they were nearing the edge of the forest, where they would find the terrible place.
Pale and shaky, Revon arrived in the courtyard with Corlin, and was greeted by Rhondran’s angry, impatient face.
“Where have you been to; you’ve been gone for an hour!”
The Prince stammered out, “I---I---we were going---”
“I went to the courtyard and you were gone, and you can only imagine what thoughts were racing through my head. You gone at night with--- with Corlin!”
“I apologize, sire,” said Corlin, holding one hand behind his back, “I didn’t mean to cause any…”
“I can’t believe you helped him, what were you thinking?”
Corlin started, “I was trying to---”
“It doesn’t matter what you were trying to do,” he interrupted once again.
“Excuse me, I have to go,” the Prince breathed.
“No, you are staying here. And why are you shaking so much?”
Revon began to say, “Please just let me go back inside,” but he was unable to finish before he hit the ground in a faint.
Rhondran shouted, “Revon, are you alright?” and Corlin shook his head and sighed. Forgetting his anger, he tried to lift his half-brother to his feet, and once his eyes were open, he said to him, “What’s wrong?”
Corlin cut in, “Perhaps you should go in.”
The poor Prince staggered towards the entrance of the courtyard, and after tripping once or twice, was back inside.
Corlin held his breath, waiting for Revon to be far away enough as to not hear what he was saying, and then began to tell the King of what had happened there at the tent, and how all were in danger.
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~J.M. Barrie
P.S. I apologize for what happened in my last post. I don't like to write like that, but that DREADFUL scene was vital to the story. It never ever ever gets darker, scarier, or anything worse than that. I don't like things like that at all, but you must understand it was important so I could introduce the main conflict.
“How dare you try to run away!” boomed a voice from inside it.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” pleaded another voice, sounding very pathetic.
They heard now another scream from the boy as he took a strong blow from the man’s sword.
“Stop yelling, boy! You’ll attract the whole of this dreadful country. You will spoil the entire plot. How will I be able to take the AniquianIslands if you run off like so?”
“Take the AniquianIslands?” gasped Corlin.
“Sh…” said Revon.
“Hear me, boy; this is what is to happen. Once you are slain, I am to sail over to the--- are you crying? Men do not cry!”
A hard slap and another yell pierced their ears.
“Yes, I will sail on the Leona Fireflower to the Islands, and then I will personally deliver the news of your death to your father, that you were murdered by King Rhondran. And once he hears this news, he will immediately worry about his place as governor and that now that you were out of the way, he would next be after him.
“So he shall send many of his strong men to siege the Aniquian Castle Anici. That means that there will be fewer men to guard their castle. It is then that I will command my own ships to raid the islands Catol, Eotir, Filindur, and Morniath.
“They shall no longer bear their vulgar Aniquian names, the names of their forgotten kings, but will be another great expanse of the Leonese Empire!
“But why am I telling you all of this? Oh, yes. Because dead men tell no tales.”
A death cry rung from the tent and there was a horrible thud.
Corlin flashed a glance at Revon, who was white in the face and looked sick, and quickly said, “Let’s go home.”
Barrie here. Here's the first little bit of the story I just began writing. Note: This story, as many others of mine, is random and off the top of my head, and as such, is subject to be discontinued at any time.
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"Come on, Paul, you have to help me dig!"
"Mara, we ain't gittin' out that way."
"Well, you could at least stand up and try to come up with a plan."
"I would, but one of them rocks landed on my ankle."
"Oh, is your foot stuck?" she cried, hands clasped together.
"Yeah," he groaned, "and I sure would like it if y'all would help me over here."
It was exceedingly hard to even see her friend in the blackness of the cave. With a grunt, Mara slung her heavy backpack off her shoulders and thumbed for a flashlight. She reached down to the bottom of it and felt something, cold and hard, that she knew was the flashlight. As fast as she could, she switched it on and waved it around, searching the area for Paul.
"I'm right here," came his voice from beside her.
"Here, let me--- oh, this is going to be tricky. Let's see, if I..."
"Ow! What're you tryin' to do, crush my ankle even more?"
"I'm sorry. Should I try to lift the rock or slide it away?"
"It hurts somethin' fierce either way. Jest git my foot free."
His face was distorted with pain as they struggled to shove away the boulder, and within a few minutes, they had Paul's foot free.
"Are you okay?"
"Of course not! Y'all wouldn't be okay if a twenty-ton boulder smashed your ankle to smithereens."
With a sigh, Mara said, "It was not twenty tons, and excuse me for trying to be polite. Here, you can use my walking stick as a crutch."
"Thanks. Now, how do we git outta here?"
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Tell me how you like how I used their speech styles to reflect their characters.
Revon looked up at the purple twilight sky, sparkling with crystal stars, and shivered. Something was not right; something was stirring that evening, though he did not know what. It made him shiver, and his stomach sink.
A faint sound came from outside the courtyard walls. It was a scream, a horrible, bloodcurdling scream of terror and of pain. With a shudder, he bit his lip and stared hard into the distance, hoping that the dreadful sound was his imagination, though in his heart he knew it was real.
“Oh, should I investigate? No, that’s stupid. It’s Rhondran’s kingdom, why should you be taking care of it? But to defend the people--- no, it’s too dangerous--- o, I wish I had never heard it!”
“I don’t,” came a low voice from behind him.
The Prince turned around quickly and realized the voice belonged to Corlin, a tall, dark-haired young man who was not only one of King Rhondran’s favorite knights, but also a general of the Aniquian army. He began to flip his sword about in the air, as he usually did when he was anxious or just had nothing to do.
Revon immediately stepped away from him, for he had quite a few times been injured by Corlin’s queer habit.
“And I think it would be your rightful duty as Prince to see what this is about.”
“You’ll come with me?”
“But of course,” he said with a smirk. You could tell by the look of his face that this was what he was going to lead into. “You’ll need someone who knows how to wield a sword in case things get bad and…”
“Do stop bragging. You’re coming along; that’s all I need.”
“That is not bragging; it’s saying that I can wield a sword.”
“Alright then, Corlin, come over here.” He made a motion towards a large, flat, slab of stone. Hard and cold, it seemed like any other stone, but he had a feeling that it was hiding something. When he tapped his knuckles against it, it made no sound.
“Okay, Revon, it’s not hollow, so what’s it hiding?”
“My secret tunnel.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, it was dug perhaps two years ago upon my request. You never knew about it because you were off fighting in… somewhere. This goes about eight feet underground and lets out some meters away from the moat.”
“Alright, let’s go.” At that, the two pulled the stone away, revealing a deep, dark hole. It was agreed Revon go in first, and then Corlin.
Biting his lip, the Prince pushed back his dark locks and stepped slowly into the pit. There were a few brief moments of absolute silence, but then the young knight heard Revon say, “Come on, Corlin, it’s fine.”
