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His hand was wet. He knew what it was. It hurt more pulling out than it did going in, but that little mattered at this point. Gerhold gripped half the shortspear in his massive hands and ripped it from his gullet. The pain thundered and cackled through him but it was already a world away; another place, another person, like a waking dream. “Alone!” he tossed the spear back at the hunter, clumsily enough to topple it end over end, but forceful enough to embed it deep in the forest soil. “Let me alone!” The hunter was frantically loading another shortspear to his streiker but there wouldn’t be enough time. In four thumping strides Gerhold was already upon the man when pinpricks shot up and down his right side. Five arrows were now sticking out at odd angles, oozing a foul murky blood. It shocked more than it hurt, but a pathetic whimper escaped him before he realized the hunter was already away running through the trees. “I’ve done you no harm!” Instinctively he grasped at a thick stone, whipped around, and let it crash into a tree where two hidden archers tumbled to the earth. “Let me live and die as I will!” Six mighty strides across the forest floor brought him to the dazed young man in the brown hood. Fingers thick as branches gripped his tunic and drew it tight. Gerhold brought him up to eye level and held him against the tree. The archer was handsome. He had a strong chin, dark eyes, long hair, and the kind of face that would win him the love of anyone he put his mind to. Gerhold hated him for what he was, as much as any man had hated him. “You want to die?” he screamed through greasy tears. “You want your graves…” his voice broke. The archer was so afraid of him. Like he’d seen a monster. KTHUNK! The tip of the shortspear was barely to the left of the first spear. Gerhold vomited mud-stained blood down his front like a babe. Thunder flashed in that other place as the reality of the wound struck him harder than the shortspear itself. “RAAAGH!” He pulled the archer back and slammed him against the tree. He did it again…and again. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! He heaved, and as his chest shuddered up and down blood black spittle seeped from his mouth. He’d left them. He left them behind in the Ubelwald. But he’d left them before in the Volklands hadn’t he? There would always be men like this; this handsome young hero, lifeless and shattered in his stony grip. She’d lied to him. A warm, soft, beautiful lie, but now it was far behind him in the south. There were no lies in the dark forests of the Firlands. The dead archer spun into the underbrush where he threw him. A third shortspear was no doubt being loaded in a clever blindspot. There was no running. If he couldn’t find peace in the green hell of Firland, then maybe there’d be peace in the other world. He saw it coming this time, a silvery flash in the muted scattered sunlight. He dodged as well a thing of his size could, but it caught him in a ring finger. There was no pain only grey green meat. The silhouette of the hunter slung his streiker and began to run. “WIRR…NGHHEHAarrr…” he struggled to shout at them, taunt them to kill him, but whatever injuries the spears had wrought robbed him of speech. The thunder he’d hidden in that other place struck him fully now, and it suddenly got hard to breathe. His boulder sized knee sunk to the forest floor. It wouldn’t move. He shouted at it, cursed it with all the dark words he knew. The right side of his face was scratchy and cold. He felt around him with a ruined hand. There was a wall of soil there. He hadn’t realized he’d fallen to the earth. How long had he been lying there? Seconds? Hours? Shadows moved in front of his eyes. He couldn’t see what they were, only that they were up close. “It’s breathing,” came a voice stern and arrogant. “Hand it to me.” A glinting silver shadow passed into view. “You’d need an axe, I think.” The other voice was soft and scared. The blade slow and strong made its way through Gerhold’s back. There was no strength to scream. “Burning hells,” came the first voice. “What is this thing?” The blade moved back and forth as whatever put it there in the first place attempted to retrieve it. A humming silence followed and Gerhold thought back to the Volklands. A golden land, of happy people. It brought him comfort. She was so kind to him. A mother’s lie. Was she his mother? It was hard to remember so he believed it was so. There were people like him, and places for people like him, but there was only one Gerhold she said. That much was true. The blade moved into him again. In its own horrific way, the Ubelwald was a comforting place too. It was cold and harsh, but freer than any life he’d known. Brothers and sisters, creatures cursed by life and haunted by death. It was family. It was peace. He hadn’t even felt the blade retreat. It was dark now and he couldn’t breathe. He hadn’t breathed in quite a long time, and yet his eyes were open. Another shadow walked before him. “Loyal subject, noble son,” the voice slithered into his mind. “Take up your burden…and walk.” Gerhold’s heart beat inside him for the first time in hours. “I command you.”
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Apr 1, 2016 00:03
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Djeser posted:In the line crit I gave a lot of specific feedback so here's some general feedback: Firstly, there's so much that goes unexplained in this: place-names, people and devices, and it's hard in an excerpt this short to get any sense of it. With what little German roots I know, I can figure that Volklands are where people live and the Ubelwald is an evil forest. And I guess the Firlands have fur trees. I could get the gist of it, but I don't want to have to get the gist of a story, I want to understand a story. There's too much worldbuilding in this small area, and it's not introduced in a way that's really all that relevant to what's happening. Thanks for the critique! I found the thread and figured I'd write something up in an hour or so. It's from a pet-world I made, so yeah, lots of world-building but you get that a lot in genre-fiction. Your assumptions on what a streiker and shortspear were were correct though. Sorry you got confused. A lot of good criticisms. I'm not a grammaticist and I have problems with tenses. The ending is connected to something else in my head, and came out of nowhere because I don't know how to end a story. And he is pretty hypocritically violent, but that's what I love about him  Would it be uncouth of me to edit-delete the post? I feel embarrassed about it now and kind of want to stop writing all together. MrSlam fucked around with this message at 06:05 on Apr 1, 2016 |
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Apr 1, 2016 05:35
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sebmojo posted:it would be uncouth, yes. we're all real bad, there's no shame in it. come over to the thunderdome, it's fun, and funny. Maybe. It's tempting. I know I need to grow a thicker skin when it comes to criticism, but I'm nervous about getting kicked in the dick over and over until I've built up an immunity to it. I don't know if my dick can take it. Maybe it's the only way? e: Weenie Hut Jr's?! MrSlam fucked around with this message at 16:54 on Apr 1, 2016 |
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Apr 1, 2016 16:24
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