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xsneakyxsimx

Well-Known Member
Okay, time for a little free-writing practice. I'm going to type out a prologue, with the intent of getting one paragraph per user (limit of five paragraphs per post three to five lines long and no repeats, but you can post multiple times). The sky's the limit for how to write and the direction of the story, but it would be good for it to maintain a general flow. (Intro provided by fellow user Cordelia.)

Halig woke to the sound of iron on iron and felt the chill of straw-covered stone beneath his back. How much did he have to drink last night? It worried him that the image of a burly Argonian in a kilt haunted his foggy memories, but more worrying was his complete lack of pants. Groaning, he hauled his heavy frame to sit, mostly by dragging it against the wall beside him. His head swam and throbbed in time with the rhythmic pounding of metal on metal, punctuated by the astringent hiss as something hot was submerged in what he assumed was water.

'Nice of you to join us,' barked a man's voice much louder than was necessary. So loud, in fact, it made his eyes hurt more than his pounding head. 'Wasn't even sure you were alive.' A grunt added what Halig could only vaguely register as some kind of humor.

Carefully, he peeled one eye open to survey his surroundings through the haze of a hangover, unsurprised to see the fuzzy silhouettes of a smithy. At least it smelled as bad as it made him feel.
 

Cordelia

Global Moderator
Staff member
Halig's stomach lurched, twisting like a wet rag in a barman's careless grasp. He only barely succeeded in turning enough to empty the scant contents of his stomach somewhere other than his own naked lap. Was he wearing small clothes? He couldn't tell. The voice pounding the iron laughed, presumably at his plight.

"That's it, son, get it all out. Not as though I'll be cleaning it myself." The voice laughed again, rough as gravel over sand. Or sand over gravel . . . whichever of the two was rougher. His voice hurt Halig's entire being. Just, all of it. Halig hated him a little.

"You got enough sober in you to speak, boy?"
 

dunklunk

You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die.
"Speak?" Halig offered, quickly but painfully noting his vomiting did not relieve the throbbing in his head. His stomach, however empty it now was, did little to ease his discomfort. "Perhaps, but only if you agree to cease that raucous din you're making."

He shot the blacksmith a menacing look, though he could instantly tell by his amused expression, the blacksmith was neither alarmed nor frightened. He coughed and spit out a chunk of phlegm. "Very well," Halig started, "but may I at least trouble you for a pair of pants and some water before we begin?"

He left any anger and animosity buried inside himself, as he pleadingly looked upon the blacksmith.
 

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