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sparkindarknessMuch introspection and fighting - which is what these guys do best
I am not sure about action scenes. It seems I write reams and reams to cover 10 seconds of action and I keep prodding and editing and going back.,
Of course, swapping between the 1st person and 3rd person wasn't helpful either.
That's it Asharra's not alowed to fight Gargoyles anymore. They're too much damn effort. She can take up flower arranging instead.
Asharra slumped to the floor, using her saddle as a back rest and huddling close to the fire, while drawing her cloak close. It got bloody cold in these mountains, especially as high as they were, a mere two days from their destination. She stared into the fire and tried to think. Not a normal activity of hers – in general deep introspection usually meant you weren’t paying attention to the sneaky bastard that was coming up behind you with a dagger, but sometimes a little time thinking could stop you spending some brief quality time with sharp things.
Teltherisir was staring fitfully into the fire as well, he looked oblivious to his surroundings but his twitching pointed ears gave it the lie. She had grown to respect the elf’s hearing in the few short weeks they had travelled together. Many a time the elf’s senses and Soravzha’s scouting were the only things that saved them from certain death.
Her thoughts had come full circle. Certain death shouldn’t even have been in the offing. She was willing to play with “certain minor wounding” and even “possible severe mauling.” But even “possible death” shouldn’t really have been on the cards. Normally you killed a few bands of goblins, the survivors escaped and the rest gave you wide lee way. She’s hunted goblins often enough to know – it made it a real pain when you were trying to find them. They didn’t keep coming at you in waves after waves.
She fingered her many strings of goblin ears and frowned her other hand picking through the weapons they had claimed from the corpses. Good weapons. Goblins normally scavenged whatever weapons they could, their own weapons being slightly more dangerous than their bare hands only because their hands were so damn scrawny. By the look of these weapons several dozen arms caravans had recently been raided by the little green buggers.
“Dwarf work.,” Soravzha murmured, turning a short sword over in her hand to the maker’s mark embossed in the hilt. “Not the best, but there is no such thing as bad dwarven metalcraft.”
Teltherisir stirred, “the goblins raid caravans - it is likely they will occasionally get their hands on dwarf made weapons.”
“This much?” Soravzha queried, gesturing to the number with identical markings. They hadn’t been the only marked weaponry they had seen in goblin hands. There had been far too much to carry.
The elf shrugged, the movement emphasising his liquid grace and making the hairs on the back of her neck shift. Sometimes she forgot he wasn’t human. “The dwarfs do not trade with goblins. Not now, not ever - there is too much bad blood there and a dwarf never forgives. Is it possible some human has forged these weapons and falsely affixed a dwarf’s makers mark?”
“It would be a foolish man to do so,” Soravzha replied. “The Tarsisian merchant princes rely too much on those marks - and they hire assassins to ensure their reliability.” A dagger flashed between her fingers then back into a loose fold of her clothing, hinting at a past profession, perhaps?
“There is no shortage of foolish men in the world.” Teltherisir mused. “Especially when money is involved. I would believe a fool smith has risked the wrath of Tarsis and the dwarfs before I would believe the dwarfs have been trading with goblins. Dwarfs of the Dragons Fangs Mountains despise goblins - and, I say again, dwarfs never forgive.”
Asharra stood, plucking up the short sword in one easy motion. Both turned to her as she moved in the firelight, twisting sinuously she fought a dozen imaginary foes with the short sword, moving with the practiced ease of a veteran of a hundred battles. Satisfied, she hefted and tested its edge, examining it carefully in the firelight. With a snort she tossed it back to Soravzha. “The balance is perfect, it has an edge like a razor and has held it well. The grip doesn’t slip or move in your hand and there’s no imperfection on the blade. It’s either dwarf work or the work of a master smith.”
“And there‘s too little money and too much competition from the dwarfs for a master smith to set up shop here.” Soravzha pointed out. "And why risk an assassin's blade and the dwarf's emnity to fake marks to sell to the goblins? The goblins couldn't read the marks even if they knew what they meant."
“So, one of the goblin leaders has launched an invasion and managed to raid lots of human and dwarf weaponry.” Simeon piped up, pulling himself from the folds of his cloak and bedroll, woken by the other‘s worry. “We just have unlucky timing, but that would explain our huge fee at least - if our employer knew we’d have to cut through a goblin invasion.”
The elf sighed and shook his head. “It doesn’t explain the fee - it doesn’t explain why the message is important enough to be worth the money or why it must be delivered despite the goblins.”
“I’ve been in these mountains for the last 3 months, if the little buggers had raided enough to acquire this many weapons, I’d have heard. These weren’t raided.” Asharra kicked the bundle, her face grim. If they hadn’t been stolen that left one option.
“An idiot is trading weaponry with the goblins.” Teltherisir flashed, his eyes had actually glowed, not just reflected firelight. “And likely bribing the goblin chiefs to come to the foothills in greater numbers.”
Simeon choked, “who could be so evil? Especially now?! The army is all deployed in the east, the goblins could have their way with half the western provinces!”
Asharra just shook her head. The kid had a low bar for evil - or maybe he was right. If he was then most people were evil for the right price. The sad thing was that the price didn’t even have to be that high most of the time. She turned to exchange another rueful look with the elf, only to see him staring at something, his brows furrowed. She turned and drew a sword in one motion, eyes darting to see what had caught the elf’s attention in the night sky.
“I see nothing.” Soravzha whispered, seeming to melt into the night even though she stood only a few feet away. Asharra knew where she was and even the warrior could hardly see her.
“Wings in the dark.” The elf muttered. “Gargoyles, large ones - and they have seen us.”
Asharra pulled a branch from the fire into her off hand, cursing. Gargoyles were afraid of fire, they should leave them alone, but even she could see the large shadows against the moon now. Her eyes widened as they got closer - four of them, each of them bigger than a man, their leader was near the size of an ogre.
“Sarsezha hide us, I did not think gargoyles grew so large.” Soravzha gasped.
“Only in the highest peaks,” Asharra muttered, not taking her eyes from them. “And only ever alone. Never in packs, never so close to a dwarf hold.” She prodded Simeon, “you want to give your god a call and tell him the world isn’t playing fair?”
“It is, you just are not aware of all of the rules.” Simeon’s voice had an odd echo, and Asharra was sure she saw something shine in his eyes before he blinked and looked puzzled. She shook her head and ignored him - priorities. Freaky priests later, massive flying monsters trying to chew on your intestines now.
They swooped low, low enough that Asharra could smell them - a thick, musty reptilian smell laced with long dead meat and the close smell of long closed rooms, a smell of staleness. Never one to wait on her enemy she leaped forwards, sword and flaming torch raised. There was a blinding flash of light above her and a wash of heat, she ignored it, her sword already slicing into the wing of one. She felt wind beating down on her and threw herself clumsily to one side, flailing with her torch at the giant freak that was about to rip her head off. It swooped backwards, as she shifted her balance again, stabbing the stumbling gargoyle she had slashed in the same motion. It hissed but wasn't nearly hurt enough - a clawed hand swung out and nearly gouged her stomach out, probably would have done if an arrow didn’t slam into the creature’s shoulder. It reared, just long enough for a second one to hit it in the upper chest, near the neck. Asharra was already rolling to her feet sword ready, just to pitch in yet another roll again as the huge bastard loomed over her, she felt his claws tearing at her armour, the leather, mail and even the plate parted like butter in its claws. With a flip she was on her feet, dancing backwards so she could see both at once. The wounds in the smaller one didn’t seem to be slowing it at all, though one wing hung listless. They both moved fine as they separated to come at her from each side. She cursed, feeling blood trickling down her back.. Gargoyles never died easily. Too bloody stupid to know when they were dead.
Asharra grinned - of course, no-one had ever called her smart. She lunged forwards, her sword slashing at the smaller one’s eyes, it reared back, but Asharra pressed forward, bringing one foot down heavily on the gargoyle’s extended knee. She felt something give in its leg, a good side bonus, but she used the footing to push up as fast as she could, her legs powering her in one long line with the sword at one end of it. And at the end of the sword? Was the gargoyle’s throat.
She let the momentum carry her even as black blood washed over her arm, twisting her whole body to pull the sword from the dying creature, her other hand already raising the torch to make the giant give her some space.
The torch shattered, the fire not even slowing the gargoyle as it’s huge clawed hand slammed into her arm. Asharra’s brain spun, her thoughts shattered. She was vaguely aware of being airborne, she seemed to fly for an impossibly long time before hitting the ground. It didn’t hurt, nothing hurt, bit the stony ground hitting her, not the blood trickling down her back or pouring from a cut on her head into her eyes, her helmet was missing somewhere, not even her arm, where shattered bone showed between giant rents in her flesh. It seemed alien, like someone else’s arm, the wounds just didn’t seem real. Nor did the gargoyle standing over her, blood stained claw already raised. All she could manage was a tiny spark of outraged defiance in the face of death as that claw descended.
A hand touched her. She didn’t know how she felt it, she was having trouble feeling anything, her arm was ripped to shreds and she couldn’t feel that. But she felt the small hand touch her and that spark of defiance flared into an inferno, white hot rage that should have hurt, that almost did hurt as it burst out of her head and filled her whole body with fire.
Her good hand lashed out and caught the gargoyle’s claw around the wrist. The gargoyle was strong enough to crush stone, to rip trees from their roots with one hand and throw them. She held it one handed without strain, feeling the bones in the gargoyle’s wrist grind together and she squeezed. The gargoyle froze in shock, Asharra was beyond shocked and that fire still burned through her. Her legs worked fine as she powered to her feet, using her death grip on its wrist to surge upwards ever faster. Leaping up, for a brief second she stared the gargoyle in the face, then brought her forehead down hard.
It should have hurt her far more than it, but by the crunching sound and the way it fell to its knees, that wasn’t the case. Retrieving her sword, she cleaved off the stunned gargoyle’s head before it had time to regain its feet.
“Asharra?” A voice asked, controlled but surprised. She turned and faced the elf, only then realising that the flame within her had died. Darkness rolled in from the edges of her vision and she was only dimly aware of hitting the ground before unconsciousness took her.
I am not sure about action scenes. It seems I write reams and reams to cover 10 seconds of action and I keep prodding and editing and going back.,
Of course, swapping between the 1st person and 3rd person wasn't helpful either.
That's it Asharra's not alowed to fight Gargoyles anymore. They're too much damn effort. She can take up flower arranging instead.
Asharra slumped to the floor, using her saddle as a back rest and huddling close to the fire, while drawing her cloak close. It got bloody cold in these mountains, especially as high as they were, a mere two days from their destination. She stared into the fire and tried to think. Not a normal activity of hers – in general deep introspection usually meant you weren’t paying attention to the sneaky bastard that was coming up behind you with a dagger, but sometimes a little time thinking could stop you spending some brief quality time with sharp things.
Teltherisir was staring fitfully into the fire as well, he looked oblivious to his surroundings but his twitching pointed ears gave it the lie. She had grown to respect the elf’s hearing in the few short weeks they had travelled together. Many a time the elf’s senses and Soravzha’s scouting were the only things that saved them from certain death.
Her thoughts had come full circle. Certain death shouldn’t even have been in the offing. She was willing to play with “certain minor wounding” and even “possible severe mauling.” But even “possible death” shouldn’t really have been on the cards. Normally you killed a few bands of goblins, the survivors escaped and the rest gave you wide lee way. She’s hunted goblins often enough to know – it made it a real pain when you were trying to find them. They didn’t keep coming at you in waves after waves.
She fingered her many strings of goblin ears and frowned her other hand picking through the weapons they had claimed from the corpses. Good weapons. Goblins normally scavenged whatever weapons they could, their own weapons being slightly more dangerous than their bare hands only because their hands were so damn scrawny. By the look of these weapons several dozen arms caravans had recently been raided by the little green buggers.
“Dwarf work.,” Soravzha murmured, turning a short sword over in her hand to the maker’s mark embossed in the hilt. “Not the best, but there is no such thing as bad dwarven metalcraft.”
Teltherisir stirred, “the goblins raid caravans - it is likely they will occasionally get their hands on dwarf made weapons.”
“This much?” Soravzha queried, gesturing to the number with identical markings. They hadn’t been the only marked weaponry they had seen in goblin hands. There had been far too much to carry.
The elf shrugged, the movement emphasising his liquid grace and making the hairs on the back of her neck shift. Sometimes she forgot he wasn’t human. “The dwarfs do not trade with goblins. Not now, not ever - there is too much bad blood there and a dwarf never forgives. Is it possible some human has forged these weapons and falsely affixed a dwarf’s makers mark?”
“It would be a foolish man to do so,” Soravzha replied. “The Tarsisian merchant princes rely too much on those marks - and they hire assassins to ensure their reliability.” A dagger flashed between her fingers then back into a loose fold of her clothing, hinting at a past profession, perhaps?
“There is no shortage of foolish men in the world.” Teltherisir mused. “Especially when money is involved. I would believe a fool smith has risked the wrath of Tarsis and the dwarfs before I would believe the dwarfs have been trading with goblins. Dwarfs of the Dragons Fangs Mountains despise goblins - and, I say again, dwarfs never forgive.”
Asharra stood, plucking up the short sword in one easy motion. Both turned to her as she moved in the firelight, twisting sinuously she fought a dozen imaginary foes with the short sword, moving with the practiced ease of a veteran of a hundred battles. Satisfied, she hefted and tested its edge, examining it carefully in the firelight. With a snort she tossed it back to Soravzha. “The balance is perfect, it has an edge like a razor and has held it well. The grip doesn’t slip or move in your hand and there’s no imperfection on the blade. It’s either dwarf work or the work of a master smith.”
“And there‘s too little money and too much competition from the dwarfs for a master smith to set up shop here.” Soravzha pointed out. "And why risk an assassin's blade and the dwarf's emnity to fake marks to sell to the goblins? The goblins couldn't read the marks even if they knew what they meant."
“So, one of the goblin leaders has launched an invasion and managed to raid lots of human and dwarf weaponry.” Simeon piped up, pulling himself from the folds of his cloak and bedroll, woken by the other‘s worry. “We just have unlucky timing, but that would explain our huge fee at least - if our employer knew we’d have to cut through a goblin invasion.”
The elf sighed and shook his head. “It doesn’t explain the fee - it doesn’t explain why the message is important enough to be worth the money or why it must be delivered despite the goblins.”
“I’ve been in these mountains for the last 3 months, if the little buggers had raided enough to acquire this many weapons, I’d have heard. These weren’t raided.” Asharra kicked the bundle, her face grim. If they hadn’t been stolen that left one option.
“An idiot is trading weaponry with the goblins.” Teltherisir flashed, his eyes had actually glowed, not just reflected firelight. “And likely bribing the goblin chiefs to come to the foothills in greater numbers.”
Simeon choked, “who could be so evil? Especially now?! The army is all deployed in the east, the goblins could have their way with half the western provinces!”
Asharra just shook her head. The kid had a low bar for evil - or maybe he was right. If he was then most people were evil for the right price. The sad thing was that the price didn’t even have to be that high most of the time. She turned to exchange another rueful look with the elf, only to see him staring at something, his brows furrowed. She turned and drew a sword in one motion, eyes darting to see what had caught the elf’s attention in the night sky.
“I see nothing.” Soravzha whispered, seeming to melt into the night even though she stood only a few feet away. Asharra knew where she was and even the warrior could hardly see her.
“Wings in the dark.” The elf muttered. “Gargoyles, large ones - and they have seen us.”
Asharra pulled a branch from the fire into her off hand, cursing. Gargoyles were afraid of fire, they should leave them alone, but even she could see the large shadows against the moon now. Her eyes widened as they got closer - four of them, each of them bigger than a man, their leader was near the size of an ogre.
“Sarsezha hide us, I did not think gargoyles grew so large.” Soravzha gasped.
“Only in the highest peaks,” Asharra muttered, not taking her eyes from them. “And only ever alone. Never in packs, never so close to a dwarf hold.” She prodded Simeon, “you want to give your god a call and tell him the world isn’t playing fair?”
“It is, you just are not aware of all of the rules.” Simeon’s voice had an odd echo, and Asharra was sure she saw something shine in his eyes before he blinked and looked puzzled. She shook her head and ignored him - priorities. Freaky priests later, massive flying monsters trying to chew on your intestines now.
They swooped low, low enough that Asharra could smell them - a thick, musty reptilian smell laced with long dead meat and the close smell of long closed rooms, a smell of staleness. Never one to wait on her enemy she leaped forwards, sword and flaming torch raised. There was a blinding flash of light above her and a wash of heat, she ignored it, her sword already slicing into the wing of one. She felt wind beating down on her and threw herself clumsily to one side, flailing with her torch at the giant freak that was about to rip her head off. It swooped backwards, as she shifted her balance again, stabbing the stumbling gargoyle she had slashed in the same motion. It hissed but wasn't nearly hurt enough - a clawed hand swung out and nearly gouged her stomach out, probably would have done if an arrow didn’t slam into the creature’s shoulder. It reared, just long enough for a second one to hit it in the upper chest, near the neck. Asharra was already rolling to her feet sword ready, just to pitch in yet another roll again as the huge bastard loomed over her, she felt his claws tearing at her armour, the leather, mail and even the plate parted like butter in its claws. With a flip she was on her feet, dancing backwards so she could see both at once. The wounds in the smaller one didn’t seem to be slowing it at all, though one wing hung listless. They both moved fine as they separated to come at her from each side. She cursed, feeling blood trickling down her back.. Gargoyles never died easily. Too bloody stupid to know when they were dead.
Asharra grinned - of course, no-one had ever called her smart. She lunged forwards, her sword slashing at the smaller one’s eyes, it reared back, but Asharra pressed forward, bringing one foot down heavily on the gargoyle’s extended knee. She felt something give in its leg, a good side bonus, but she used the footing to push up as fast as she could, her legs powering her in one long line with the sword at one end of it. And at the end of the sword? Was the gargoyle’s throat.
She let the momentum carry her even as black blood washed over her arm, twisting her whole body to pull the sword from the dying creature, her other hand already raising the torch to make the giant give her some space.
The torch shattered, the fire not even slowing the gargoyle as it’s huge clawed hand slammed into her arm. Asharra’s brain spun, her thoughts shattered. She was vaguely aware of being airborne, she seemed to fly for an impossibly long time before hitting the ground. It didn’t hurt, nothing hurt, bit the stony ground hitting her, not the blood trickling down her back or pouring from a cut on her head into her eyes, her helmet was missing somewhere, not even her arm, where shattered bone showed between giant rents in her flesh. It seemed alien, like someone else’s arm, the wounds just didn’t seem real. Nor did the gargoyle standing over her, blood stained claw already raised. All she could manage was a tiny spark of outraged defiance in the face of death as that claw descended.
A hand touched her. She didn’t know how she felt it, she was having trouble feeling anything, her arm was ripped to shreds and she couldn’t feel that. But she felt the small hand touch her and that spark of defiance flared into an inferno, white hot rage that should have hurt, that almost did hurt as it burst out of her head and filled her whole body with fire.
Her good hand lashed out and caught the gargoyle’s claw around the wrist. The gargoyle was strong enough to crush stone, to rip trees from their roots with one hand and throw them. She held it one handed without strain, feeling the bones in the gargoyle’s wrist grind together and she squeezed. The gargoyle froze in shock, Asharra was beyond shocked and that fire still burned through her. Her legs worked fine as she powered to her feet, using her death grip on its wrist to surge upwards ever faster. Leaping up, for a brief second she stared the gargoyle in the face, then brought her forehead down hard.
It should have hurt her far more than it, but by the crunching sound and the way it fell to its knees, that wasn’t the case. Retrieving her sword, she cleaved off the stunned gargoyle’s head before it had time to regain its feet.
“Asharra?” A voice asked, controlled but surprised. She turned and faced the elf, only then realising that the flame within her had died. Darkness rolled in from the edges of her vision and she was only dimly aware of hitting the ground before unconsciousness took her.