I was expecting something between 1600-1880, but something earlier could also be cool. Couldn't really be any later than the late 19th Century...
Unless we're starfaring space settlers- but you did say 'old-timey,' so I warrant that's out.
Illogical Jim
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A Bleedin Bard
STATUS: 1st person POV is difficult to write well, but it certainly can be done. DIckens proved it twice. 3 yrs ago
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1st person POV is difficult to write well, but it certainly can be done. DIckens proved it twice.
9 yrs ago
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I'm interested, as well. What sort of "old-timey" were you going for? Old West, or older than that?
Hmm. If BladeAvuari doesn't post soon, should I just move on without her? I'm kinda stuck where I am, as it is.
Sir Benjamin Broadshield, Knight of renown, son and brother of Lords, and warrior without equal, sat hunched over a pitiful little fire clutching a pan of bacon, beside a ruinous tower. His shield, the broken manacles on a field of green, was hanging from a nearby tree. Tradition was difficult to break. Even though he was fleeing manhunters down south, he felt obligated to announce his presence to passers-by. Chivalry demanded it. Not that he was terribly upset about it. He was near the border now, and this northern land was sparsely settled- and more importantly, it was sparsely patrolled. He had seen neither hide nor hair of a soldier- or a bounty hunter- in what felt like an eternity, and the watchtower he had taken refuge in must have been abandoned for quite some time. In truth, he did not like it much. But a great storm rolled through a few nights ago, and forced his hand. In the end it seemed to serve well enough. The roof worked, at least, though the place was draftier than any castle he'd ever been in. He had limited himself to the first level of the structure- the stairwell looked fragile, and he did not trust the upper level.
His fellow Merovahns certainly did not seem to be very worried about the possibility of an invasion from the North, to leave a perfectly good watchtower unlooked after. They would see the error, soon enough, the Knight reasoned. The thought lifted his spirits. He began to whistle whilst turning the strips of bacon with a fork. Within a few moments, he found himself softly singing, too. Shifting the bacon from the pan to a little tin plate alongside a hunk of stale black bread, he began to nibble on what passed for his breakfast. In days gone by, he had feasted among Kings and high Lords, on capon and quail and eel, fine pastries and cakes, sausages, light, flaky fish, and bread of every description. Oh, and the wine. Oh, yes, the wine. If only he had some now, instead of the mug of foul-tasting water he currently enjoyed. He knew he should not complain, knowing that many- non-humans, in particular- would have jumped at the opportunity to partake of his paltry meal.
As he ate, he scanned the horizon. The tower in which he was currently making camp sat at a crossroads. A beaten old road went north and south, hills in one direction and lowland in the other, and a better maintained route ran east to west. About one hundred yards away was a little stream, its course dotted here and there by copses of trees. otherwise, there was little to report. He could see nothing of interest, and thus, was not much worried about defending himself. His armor was inside, protected from the elements, and his horse Alexander was tied to the same tree that his shield was hanging from. His sword and dagger were at his belt, and, in a pinch, that would be enough. He did not likely make much of a sight without his full kit, but his reputation ran before him, and seemed to scare off most novice challengers.
Currently he wore a leather jerkin, a simple tunic, and leather trousers. His left eye was covered by a round patch of black cloth, held in place by a band of cloth running across the back of his head. Oddly enough, he was barefoot. After breakfast, he decided, he would bathe in the stream, gather his belongings, and begin the last leg of his journey. Soon, he would join Stormvahk and his army. With victory, mayhap, he could return home- and perhaps take his brother's Lordship? Only time could tell. A smile came to Benjamin's lips, and he whistled again.
His fellow Merovahns certainly did not seem to be very worried about the possibility of an invasion from the North, to leave a perfectly good watchtower unlooked after. They would see the error, soon enough, the Knight reasoned. The thought lifted his spirits. He began to whistle whilst turning the strips of bacon with a fork. Within a few moments, he found himself softly singing, too. Shifting the bacon from the pan to a little tin plate alongside a hunk of stale black bread, he began to nibble on what passed for his breakfast. In days gone by, he had feasted among Kings and high Lords, on capon and quail and eel, fine pastries and cakes, sausages, light, flaky fish, and bread of every description. Oh, and the wine. Oh, yes, the wine. If only he had some now, instead of the mug of foul-tasting water he currently enjoyed. He knew he should not complain, knowing that many- non-humans, in particular- would have jumped at the opportunity to partake of his paltry meal.
As he ate, he scanned the horizon. The tower in which he was currently making camp sat at a crossroads. A beaten old road went north and south, hills in one direction and lowland in the other, and a better maintained route ran east to west. About one hundred yards away was a little stream, its course dotted here and there by copses of trees. otherwise, there was little to report. He could see nothing of interest, and thus, was not much worried about defending himself. His armor was inside, protected from the elements, and his horse Alexander was tied to the same tree that his shield was hanging from. His sword and dagger were at his belt, and, in a pinch, that would be enough. He did not likely make much of a sight without his full kit, but his reputation ran before him, and seemed to scare off most novice challengers.
Currently he wore a leather jerkin, a simple tunic, and leather trousers. His left eye was covered by a round patch of black cloth, held in place by a band of cloth running across the back of his head. Oddly enough, he was barefoot. After breakfast, he decided, he would bathe in the stream, gather his belongings, and begin the last leg of his journey. Soon, he would join Stormvahk and his army. With victory, mayhap, he could return home- and perhaps take his brother's Lordship? Only time could tell. A smile came to Benjamin's lips, and he whistled again.
Hehehe.
All species are equal- but some species are more equal than others.
Vengence.
"No."
In truth, Anna wasn't quite sure what Chance had meant by his one word query. She assumed he was asking her why she had become a warrior, and that made sense enough. Vengeance certainly seemed to be a common enough reason for folks to embark on adventure.Goblins killed my parents, and now I swear an oath to destroy them. Evil Narwhals burned down my farm, and now I must extinguish their kind from the face of the planet. And so on. It was such a frequent story that it was almost passe. But it was not Anna's casus adventurus.
The woman nodded at Karadar, more than a little pleased by the recognition of her ability. The pride did not show upon her face, save for the faintest hint of a smile curling on her lips. She gave him no reply on the matter, but merely nodded with politic stoicism.
And then she turned to Chance, giving him a puzzled look, rather confused by his speech on reputation. Certainly, a fearsome reputation was always a good thing for someone in this line of work, but without the ability to back it up with fell deeds and great skill, it really meant very little. She reasoned that an enemy, overestimating you, might well simply surrender without a fight- no doubt what Chance would hope for. On the other hand, he might respond with redoubled effort and a desperate willfulness. And then what would an empty suit of armor do? Anna was about to tell him as much, when the group was interrupted by a plucky little... Whatever she was. A pink-haired woman, young, buxom, and jittery. The warrior was briefly reminded of the girls she'd known growing up, in Lord Olaf's court. Could she truly have had what it took to join the Excalibur Guild? She would have to find out.
She followed after Karadar as he began the tour, looking about at the lobby. She glanced a business flier pinned to the bulletin board, probably without approval. Gold and Mithril Pawn, it said, Richard, son of Harris, proprietor. It bore the pawnbrokers' traditional mark, three golden spheres linked together. Thinking little of it, Anna stuck with the rest of the group, and glanced again at their leader. She contemplated asking about a drinking hall, but imagined such a thing would be featured prominently in any tour. She decided to hold her question until the end of the tour, in case- God forbid- there was no such place in the Guildhouse.
"No."
In truth, Anna wasn't quite sure what Chance had meant by his one word query. She assumed he was asking her why she had become a warrior, and that made sense enough. Vengeance certainly seemed to be a common enough reason for folks to embark on adventure.Goblins killed my parents, and now I swear an oath to destroy them. Evil Narwhals burned down my farm, and now I must extinguish their kind from the face of the planet. And so on. It was such a frequent story that it was almost passe. But it was not Anna's casus adventurus.
The woman nodded at Karadar, more than a little pleased by the recognition of her ability. The pride did not show upon her face, save for the faintest hint of a smile curling on her lips. She gave him no reply on the matter, but merely nodded with politic stoicism.
And then she turned to Chance, giving him a puzzled look, rather confused by his speech on reputation. Certainly, a fearsome reputation was always a good thing for someone in this line of work, but without the ability to back it up with fell deeds and great skill, it really meant very little. She reasoned that an enemy, overestimating you, might well simply surrender without a fight- no doubt what Chance would hope for. On the other hand, he might respond with redoubled effort and a desperate willfulness. And then what would an empty suit of armor do? Anna was about to tell him as much, when the group was interrupted by a plucky little... Whatever she was. A pink-haired woman, young, buxom, and jittery. The warrior was briefly reminded of the girls she'd known growing up, in Lord Olaf's court. Could she truly have had what it took to join the Excalibur Guild? She would have to find out.
She followed after Karadar as he began the tour, looking about at the lobby. She glanced a business flier pinned to the bulletin board, probably without approval. Gold and Mithril Pawn, it said, Richard, son of Harris, proprietor. It bore the pawnbrokers' traditional mark, three golden spheres linked together. Thinking little of it, Anna stuck with the rest of the group, and glanced again at their leader. She contemplated asking about a drinking hall, but imagined such a thing would be featured prominently in any tour. She decided to hold her question until the end of the tour, in case- God forbid- there was no such place in the Guildhouse.
rawkhawk64 said
My character will be somewhere roving the border between the Land of Valleys and Merovah, if anyone wants to meet up right off the bat.
That's more or less where I intended to put Sir Benjamin. Maybe they could bump into each other.
No, Jim wasn't offended. I've just been a bit tied up- and writer-blocked. Honestly, I hadn't really considered Rabid's post in that light. I can definitely see where you're coming from, Deserted, but I don't think he necessarily intended for it to come off that way. Or, well, I hope not, anyway.
Auredhel frowned as Khoran rode ahead, and began to follow after. He stopped himself, however, and observed the rest of the party. They were moving to support the rogue, and, he reasoned, so must the bold wizard. He tailed Hugh, his footfalls sounding softly from the grass below. Staking out a hiding place within striking distance of the strangers- and an unsavory looking lot they were, too- the old elf waited for a space, observing. One of the men (the leader, he supposed) claimed to be working on behalf of a Lord Esmond, tracking criminals, indicating the young lady as his quarry. Auredhel had never heard of anyone called Lord Esmond, though he was not terribly familiar with this particular kingdom. The fellow could have been lying. Then again, maybe he wasn't.
Deciding that, above all, they needed a distraction, the mage laid his staff gently on the ground, and began to move his hands in strange, esoteric gestures. A student of arcana would at once recognize the workings of spellcraft. Further north, on the far side of the highwaymen, noisy stomping sounds emanated from a small copse of trees, followed by a belligerent roar. A troll, or a clever bit of illusion? It was a convincing bit of misdirection, Auredhel knew, but it was not perfect. A trained ear and a sharp mind would be able to discern the truth of the matter. He only hoped it would force these men to tip their hands, and reveal their true natures.
Deciding that, above all, they needed a distraction, the mage laid his staff gently on the ground, and began to move his hands in strange, esoteric gestures. A student of arcana would at once recognize the workings of spellcraft. Further north, on the far side of the highwaymen, noisy stomping sounds emanated from a small copse of trees, followed by a belligerent roar. A troll, or a clever bit of illusion? It was a convincing bit of misdirection, Auredhel knew, but it was not perfect. A trained ear and a sharp mind would be able to discern the truth of the matter. He only hoped it would force these men to tip their hands, and reveal their true natures.
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