In case anyone is wondering (or in case anyone is reading this at all), I'm doing a little experiment. I'm attempting to write a story in parts entirely on this blog. I have no specific future plans for where the story will go beyond where I am writing it, except for maybe a vague idea, so whenever I write a post, depending on what kind of mood I'm in, the story is shaped into something different.
It's a challenge for sure, I have to try not to go back and rewrite things to make it fit what I want, because if anyone's already read a previous post, most likely they wouldn't go back and notice the change, leaving that person confused about future events in the story.
Also, if you happen upon this for the first time, please go back to the beginning and read the posts in chronological order by posting date.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Issorm: Seven Days Before the Snow (2)
Issorm's instinct was to scream in primal rage as he ran up behind the remaining Plainsman, but he knew that with his speed, that would rob him of precious moments of surprise, and most likely lose him the fight. He was nearly upon him now, and he hadn't appeared to be noticed. The one who had been stabbed had fallen limp and appeared to be dead, or on his way there.
He lifted the steel rod in one hand and let it fly at the his face. There was less than a moment between the realization of danger that crept into the Plainsman's eyes, and the impact which disfigured his face and knocked him flat on the ground, but any more time than that and Issorm would have had much more of a fight ahead of him. He didn't take any chances with them, giving both of their bodies a second whack to the head. They appeared to be dead.
He ran over to his own man who had been crumpled under a pile of boxes that he had been thrown into. He was a younger warrior that Issorm barely knew, but he could see that he was dead. He wondered if he knew that he had saved Issorm's life with his last brave act. However, he had no idea if there were any more. After he had counted the first five killed, he lost track in the battle. Now he was up to seven that he knew were dead, but that left a few unaccounted for, and his number to begin with was an estimation.
So, he crept into the shadow of a hut once again and calmed his heavy breathing.
This business with the Plainsmen had been going on for too long. Issorm lived in the hills nearer the mountains of The Great Beast, in the village of Ebbing Vale, and his people were once peaceful. Over the years, however, the villages that they once traded with in the deserts and plains had begun to be wiped out. There were some mysterious people who were going from place to place and killing everyone, leaving nothing. There was no motive, it was just destruction. A few people from each village would often escape and flee to the next village, but now, there was no other place to flee except for there.
The people of Issorm's village were at the end of their wits with no one to trade with. So many things that they had come to enjoy and rely on in trade were no longer acquirable. Then finally, they were scouted. A single scout in the red robes of these Plainsmen was spotted spying out their defences, and he was chased out of the hills and seen running back out to the plains. Running with inhuman speed.
Now knowing of an impending attack, they knew that they had to attack first, or be attacked in force in their own home. So Issorm, the leader of the village warriors, gathered thirty of his men for a raid on the nearest villages, hoping to gain back some land in this war that they had been forced into.
Issorm sat there quietly for almost an hour. At first, he tried not to breathe. After a while, he began counting his breaths, and then when he could count no longer, he noticed that the sun was getting hot and the day was getting on. He thought about other battles with the Plainsmen. A week ago, only a few of them had been caught off guard by his men, and they had been able to kill most of them. Only one escaped, but when Issorm examined the bodies, he noticed that the one that survived had pulled the packs from each of the fallen and run off with them.
Issorm remembered that any time they had found dead Plainsmen, they had been left with no packs strapped around their bodies. But whenever they saw them alive, they always had these packs, without exception. He remembered this now, because he could see the two fallen Plainsmen outside on the ground, laying in the sun, and they both still had their packs attached to their bodies.
He wondered if it was safe to go out. But he waited still longer, and the sun grew still hotter.
He lifted the steel rod in one hand and let it fly at the his face. There was less than a moment between the realization of danger that crept into the Plainsman's eyes, and the impact which disfigured his face and knocked him flat on the ground, but any more time than that and Issorm would have had much more of a fight ahead of him. He didn't take any chances with them, giving both of their bodies a second whack to the head. They appeared to be dead.
He ran over to his own man who had been crumpled under a pile of boxes that he had been thrown into. He was a younger warrior that Issorm barely knew, but he could see that he was dead. He wondered if he knew that he had saved Issorm's life with his last brave act. However, he had no idea if there were any more. After he had counted the first five killed, he lost track in the battle. Now he was up to seven that he knew were dead, but that left a few unaccounted for, and his number to begin with was an estimation.
So, he crept into the shadow of a hut once again and calmed his heavy breathing.
This business with the Plainsmen had been going on for too long. Issorm lived in the hills nearer the mountains of The Great Beast, in the village of Ebbing Vale, and his people were once peaceful. Over the years, however, the villages that they once traded with in the deserts and plains had begun to be wiped out. There were some mysterious people who were going from place to place and killing everyone, leaving nothing. There was no motive, it was just destruction. A few people from each village would often escape and flee to the next village, but now, there was no other place to flee except for there.
The people of Issorm's village were at the end of their wits with no one to trade with. So many things that they had come to enjoy and rely on in trade were no longer acquirable. Then finally, they were scouted. A single scout in the red robes of these Plainsmen was spotted spying out their defences, and he was chased out of the hills and seen running back out to the plains. Running with inhuman speed.
Now knowing of an impending attack, they knew that they had to attack first, or be attacked in force in their own home. So Issorm, the leader of the village warriors, gathered thirty of his men for a raid on the nearest villages, hoping to gain back some land in this war that they had been forced into.
Issorm sat there quietly for almost an hour. At first, he tried not to breathe. After a while, he began counting his breaths, and then when he could count no longer, he noticed that the sun was getting hot and the day was getting on. He thought about other battles with the Plainsmen. A week ago, only a few of them had been caught off guard by his men, and they had been able to kill most of them. Only one escaped, but when Issorm examined the bodies, he noticed that the one that survived had pulled the packs from each of the fallen and run off with them.
Issorm remembered that any time they had found dead Plainsmen, they had been left with no packs strapped around their bodies. But whenever they saw them alive, they always had these packs, without exception. He remembered this now, because he could see the two fallen Plainsmen outside on the ground, laying in the sun, and they both still had their packs attached to their bodies.
He wondered if it was safe to go out. But he waited still longer, and the sun grew still hotter.
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