The Will and the Wordcount (Hand gestures optional)
So, yes, I'm actually attempting Nano this year... or at least 50000 words in fandom. Like last year, this'll mostly be through parallel storylines. This time, I'm aiming for at least two thousand per character, instead of the drabblematic. To start us off, one of my new sources of crack, thanks to boz4pm:
From "Sweet Polly"
The tale of the innocent, idealistic young soldier boy is an old one, and a bitter one, yet it is still repeated among my people. Now we tell it to the spider in its silk strong web, and now to the wolf’s stubborn wild child, and now to the old men who have seen the battlefield. They have heard it before, of course, from their kin and kith and kills. They have told it themselves before in their own measure, and those that are not yet quite so old shall tell it at least once more.
But tonight, this night, under dying moons and clouded stars, they sit stone silent and listen one more time, so that the tale may triumph. This time, when all are doomed, perhaps if they listen the hero may win, and perhaps if they listen he may accomplish that greatest feat, beyond all enemies he might slay or darkness and cold he must face: he might laugh, and smile before his end. Perhaps he shall even live to tell the tale and listen in his own time.
* * *
This story starts, as many stories do, with a pair of boys lying lazy in the grass, staring up towards the sky. One, still fiddling with his bent glasses, tilts his head up slightly to consider his companion. The other, lying head to head across from him as if they were two twisted lengths of bumpy rail on a coal mine cart’s track, has extended a hand as if to grasp the heavens.
“A dirigible trail,” the shorter boy decides, extending his pointer finger and caressing it along the length of the cloud.
“You don’t have the least bit of poetry in your soul, do you?” The other removes his twisted frames in disgust and allows the distant phantom shapes to go blurry for a while as he twists the glasses in his hands.
“A dirigible would get us out of here,” the one accused of poetical soullessness counters easily. Already, he has grown broader of shoulder and sturdier of build than his companion. “I’d settle for a hot air balloon.”
“Where would you go, Roy?” The tone is mocking, but there is eagerness for the answer laced within its rises and falls. That, and perhaps a bit of fear. The next time, there could be more damage done than simply a twisted earpiece to the old wire frames.
“Away. Somewhere. I don’t know.” The stockier boy pauses and pushes dark hair from his eyes. “Where do you want to go?”
“I thought you were leading this expedition into the unknown.” The glasses are set aside as a lost cause. He will have to sneak them into his grandfather’s workshop. At least he will still have one place left to run to.
“I’m not poetic enough,” Roy throws the taunt back with the ease of a teasing cat. He, too, tries to look behind his head. “No wonder. All you’ve got is imagination. Let me see those.”
Moving nothing but his arm, the taller boy fumbles for his glasses and passes them over. Behind him, he can hear Roy rise and swear, a word they learned years ago from a forgotten source without ever really quite learning its meaning.
“Try not to break them, please. My folks will be angry enough as it is.” Letting his arm fall above his head, he can feel the grass around it prickle back into standing position, like dozens of tiny, pointed green villagers that had collapsed under the weight of his friend.
“It’s okay. I think I’ve got them.” A few more muttered curses, and then Roy turns back into his field of blurred vision. “Try ‘em now,” the shorter boy directs, opening the folded earpieces and turning them towards the lanky boy’s face.
The latter reaches up, gingerly examining the bridge and tiny screws before trying the supposedly fixed glasses on. Roy has a deft hand for all his strength, but thoughtlessness and new muscles have overcome his care more than once. They fit surprisingly well; and with but a few more adjustments, the frame fits as comfortably as it ever has over his boxed ears and sore nose. “Thanks,” he says, focusing past the mud, grass stains, and flecks of dried unidentified bodily fluids. “You sure you don’t want some ice on that?” he asks, pointing towards Roy’s discolored left eye.
“Nah, I’ll live. I did someone some good today, and this is my way of remembering it.” Roy pushes his bangs away from his face once more before standing up, his lips cracking open again as he smiles. If she were not so busy fussing over their injuries, the taller boy suspects that Roy’s mother would be dragging him away to the barber shop again.
“Hmph. I’d hate to see the day you do everybody some good. I don’t think I’d survive it.” Unwillingly, he sits up as well, reaching a hand up to Roy to be pulled staggeringly to his aching feet.
“Nonsense,” Roy says, taking most of his friend’s weight to his shoulders with a grunt. “You kicked ass today, Hughes. Where’d you find that knife, though? I didn’t think we were allowed to have them at school.”
Hughes gives a tight half-smile, feeling his own swollen lips in danger of cracking open. He is fairly certain that no one managed to hit him hard enough to lose a tooth, but he runs his runs his tongue across them again, half-convinced that he felt his back molars rattle when he stood. “We aren’t.”
He offers no more on their slow, painful walk home. Neither does Roy. They will get there, and for now, that is enough.
* * *
I also have commited fanart, (shippy, even, gods forbid,) having seen nothing in my initial limited browsing that features a certain manga spoiler. 'Sides, how can this one resist trying a hand at Black Hayate? Fortunately, my scanner is currently not allowing me to inflict it upon the world. Because hands = argh, but are still kinda required for a certain alchemist, if you know what I mean.
From "Sweet Polly"
The tale of the innocent, idealistic young soldier boy is an old one, and a bitter one, yet it is still repeated among my people. Now we tell it to the spider in its silk strong web, and now to the wolf’s stubborn wild child, and now to the old men who have seen the battlefield. They have heard it before, of course, from their kin and kith and kills. They have told it themselves before in their own measure, and those that are not yet quite so old shall tell it at least once more.
But tonight, this night, under dying moons and clouded stars, they sit stone silent and listen one more time, so that the tale may triumph. This time, when all are doomed, perhaps if they listen the hero may win, and perhaps if they listen he may accomplish that greatest feat, beyond all enemies he might slay or darkness and cold he must face: he might laugh, and smile before his end. Perhaps he shall even live to tell the tale and listen in his own time.
* * *
This story starts, as many stories do, with a pair of boys lying lazy in the grass, staring up towards the sky. One, still fiddling with his bent glasses, tilts his head up slightly to consider his companion. The other, lying head to head across from him as if they were two twisted lengths of bumpy rail on a coal mine cart’s track, has extended a hand as if to grasp the heavens.
“A dirigible trail,” the shorter boy decides, extending his pointer finger and caressing it along the length of the cloud.
“You don’t have the least bit of poetry in your soul, do you?” The other removes his twisted frames in disgust and allows the distant phantom shapes to go blurry for a while as he twists the glasses in his hands.
“A dirigible would get us out of here,” the one accused of poetical soullessness counters easily. Already, he has grown broader of shoulder and sturdier of build than his companion. “I’d settle for a hot air balloon.”
“Where would you go, Roy?” The tone is mocking, but there is eagerness for the answer laced within its rises and falls. That, and perhaps a bit of fear. The next time, there could be more damage done than simply a twisted earpiece to the old wire frames.
“Away. Somewhere. I don’t know.” The stockier boy pauses and pushes dark hair from his eyes. “Where do you want to go?”
“I thought you were leading this expedition into the unknown.” The glasses are set aside as a lost cause. He will have to sneak them into his grandfather’s workshop. At least he will still have one place left to run to.
“I’m not poetic enough,” Roy throws the taunt back with the ease of a teasing cat. He, too, tries to look behind his head. “No wonder. All you’ve got is imagination. Let me see those.”
Moving nothing but his arm, the taller boy fumbles for his glasses and passes them over. Behind him, he can hear Roy rise and swear, a word they learned years ago from a forgotten source without ever really quite learning its meaning.
“Try not to break them, please. My folks will be angry enough as it is.” Letting his arm fall above his head, he can feel the grass around it prickle back into standing position, like dozens of tiny, pointed green villagers that had collapsed under the weight of his friend.
“It’s okay. I think I’ve got them.” A few more muttered curses, and then Roy turns back into his field of blurred vision. “Try ‘em now,” the shorter boy directs, opening the folded earpieces and turning them towards the lanky boy’s face.
The latter reaches up, gingerly examining the bridge and tiny screws before trying the supposedly fixed glasses on. Roy has a deft hand for all his strength, but thoughtlessness and new muscles have overcome his care more than once. They fit surprisingly well; and with but a few more adjustments, the frame fits as comfortably as it ever has over his boxed ears and sore nose. “Thanks,” he says, focusing past the mud, grass stains, and flecks of dried unidentified bodily fluids. “You sure you don’t want some ice on that?” he asks, pointing towards Roy’s discolored left eye.
“Nah, I’ll live. I did someone some good today, and this is my way of remembering it.” Roy pushes his bangs away from his face once more before standing up, his lips cracking open again as he smiles. If she were not so busy fussing over their injuries, the taller boy suspects that Roy’s mother would be dragging him away to the barber shop again.
“Hmph. I’d hate to see the day you do everybody some good. I don’t think I’d survive it.” Unwillingly, he sits up as well, reaching a hand up to Roy to be pulled staggeringly to his aching feet.
“Nonsense,” Roy says, taking most of his friend’s weight to his shoulders with a grunt. “You kicked ass today, Hughes. Where’d you find that knife, though? I didn’t think we were allowed to have them at school.”
Hughes gives a tight half-smile, feeling his own swollen lips in danger of cracking open. He is fairly certain that no one managed to hit him hard enough to lose a tooth, but he runs his runs his tongue across them again, half-convinced that he felt his back molars rattle when he stood. “We aren’t.”
He offers no more on their slow, painful walk home. Neither does Roy. They will get there, and for now, that is enough.
* * *
I also have commited fanart, (shippy, even, gods forbid,) having seen nothing in my initial limited browsing that features a certain manga spoiler. 'Sides, how can this one resist trying a hand at Black Hayate? Fortunately, my scanner is currently not allowing me to inflict it upon the world. Because hands = argh, but are still kinda required for a certain alchemist, if you know what I mean.