Saturday's Storyteller: "As she looked across the battle lines at the invading horde of Lord Darkmoor, she couldn't help but be glad that, while cruel, vile, and destructive, the enemy was honest, unlike her fellow generals."
by Belinda Roddie
As she looked across the battle lines at the invading horde of Lord Darkmoor, she couldn't help but be glad that, while cruel, vile, and destructive, the enemy was honest, unlike her fellow generals. When he said he would send ten thousand of his beastly men to battle, he meant it, unlike someone like General Houndstooth, who claimed that he would lead five thousand men to refuge but wound up abandoning a good half of those troops in hostile territory. That, and when Darkmoor talked, each word he let loose from his clustered rows of large tooth was something he actually believed in, or committed to doing. Darkmoor was a doer, not a sayer.
General Kagrian patted down the collar of her uniform, which had becomesimultaneously rumpled and stiff in the stormy weather. Soon, the clattering noise of sword upon sword, axe upon axe, would fill the air. Atop her horse, Bloodeye (General Astakon had claimed the steed's name was Nectarine, which Kagrian ignored), she was growing restless, itching for something cold to drink and something rich to smoke. Letting her gloved fingers rest on the curved leather grip of her sword, she kept her gaze forward, watching as brown shadow after brown shadow of villainous Bovs - for they did not like to be called orcs - poured from the crest of the hill like a mudslide covered in patches of makeshift armor and iron.
Beside her, on a slightly smaller and less majestic horse, was Lieutenant Colonel Midver. Short and squat, he nonetheless remained a commanding presence on the field. Once the Bovs got closer, he was the one who charged to the front after Kagrian led the battle cry. Closing her eyes as Bloodye lurched forward, she thought of one thing and one thing only:
The back of Darkmoor's hairy hand caressing the curve of her cheek.
This week's prompt was provided by José GarcÃa.
As she looked across the battle lines at the invading horde of Lord Darkmoor, she couldn't help but be glad that, while cruel, vile, and destructive, the enemy was honest, unlike her fellow generals. When he said he would send ten thousand of his beastly men to battle, he meant it, unlike someone like General Houndstooth, who claimed that he would lead five thousand men to refuge but wound up abandoning a good half of those troops in hostile territory. That, and when Darkmoor talked, each word he let loose from his clustered rows of large tooth was something he actually believed in, or committed to doing. Darkmoor was a doer, not a sayer.
General Kagrian patted down the collar of her uniform, which had becomesimultaneously rumpled and stiff in the stormy weather. Soon, the clattering noise of sword upon sword, axe upon axe, would fill the air. Atop her horse, Bloodeye (General Astakon had claimed the steed's name was Nectarine, which Kagrian ignored), she was growing restless, itching for something cold to drink and something rich to smoke. Letting her gloved fingers rest on the curved leather grip of her sword, she kept her gaze forward, watching as brown shadow after brown shadow of villainous Bovs - for they did not like to be called orcs - poured from the crest of the hill like a mudslide covered in patches of makeshift armor and iron.
Beside her, on a slightly smaller and less majestic horse, was Lieutenant Colonel Midver. Short and squat, he nonetheless remained a commanding presence on the field. Once the Bovs got closer, he was the one who charged to the front after Kagrian led the battle cry. Closing her eyes as Bloodye lurched forward, she thought of one thing and one thing only:
The back of Darkmoor's hairy hand caressing the curve of her cheek.
This week's prompt was provided by José GarcÃa.
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