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Ingvar, A Short Story [my first, please critique.]
Ingvar the Ruthless:
As the title says, this is a short story based on my character. Please give me advice on how to not suck so much as a writer. I really need feedback and constructive criticism here. Anyways, here you go :
Ingvar glanced down the slope at the broken edge of the tree line while wiping the sweat from his creased and weathered brow. It had been an intense climb to reach the summit of Narg’s Tooth; the top of the mountain was the highest point in all of Thiroth. The riveted maille hauberk he wore was freezing, and his homespun woolen pants and fur leggings were clinging to his legs, heavy with his sweat. The air was cold and thin at that altitude. Thin clouds of mist issued from his nostrils as he breathed heavily, and frost crystals covered his thick red beard around his mouth. His keen brown eyes quickly searched the surrounding countryside for any threats to limb or life and found nothing. It seemed that his enemies had halted their pursuit, at least for the night.
Making his way back down the rock-strewn slope, he paused below the branches of a towering ash tree. Gathering enough broken twigs and kindling to begin a small fire, he returned to a cluster of rocks near the peak of the mountain. Leaning his heavy shield, spear and sword against the largest rock, he carefully piled the leaves and twigs under some larger branches and began to strike a small sharp piece of flint against the steel. With the fire started, he sat for a short time, resting and warming his hands.
Digging around in his leather rucksack, he made a quick inventory of his supplies. He scooped some snow out from under a ledge and filled his helmet, setting it near the fire to melt before drinking deeply of the pure mountain water. For a time he simply sat in silence, listening to the chill winds blow across the edge of the mountain and gnawing on a tough piece of salt beef.
He decided to check his back trail once again. Sheathing his sword, he grabbed his spear and slung his shield over his back; walking down the slope towards the towering trees. Pausing just before the forest began to thicken; he looked back toward the fire to see if he could catch a glimpse of the smoke. Reassured that no one could possibly see his campfire at that distance, he continued his descent into the woods.
Following the tracks he had made during his ascent, he knelt down to examine his boot prints. Looking carefully, he noticed that the edges of his tracks were crushed. Someone had followed in his steps exactly; using his own trail of footsteps to conceal their own. Whoever it was, they had bigger boots, and a slightly longer stride. Hearing a suspicious noise behind him, he slowly and casually lowered his spear. Pretending he was content with what he has seen, he turned and began to climb up the slope towards his makeshift camp.
His senses were on edge as he made his way through the close wood. Small branches gently tugged at his armor, and twigs and dead leaves crunched and crackled underfoot. As the limbs of the trees stirred, moonlight glimmered on his riveted steel maille. The trees’ branches waved lazily in the wind, and he heard something large moving off to his left.
Unstrapping his shield, he gripped it in his sweat soaked palm. The shield was heavy, and the leather grip felt worn and slick in his hand. Moments passed as he waited. Again, he heard the strange sound to his left. He could see a dim silhouette as the moonlight spread dappled shadows across the forest floor.
With a scream of primal might, he hurled his spear at the shadowy figure fifteen yards away. He swiftly ran through the undergrowth towards the screams of the man that he had pinned to a tree. Up close, he could see the fear in the man’s blue eyes. A stain spread across the front of his dirty homespun tunic, and crimson droplets colored the rotting leaves at his feet. He groaned in agony while holding the ashen haft of the spear trapped in his guts. Ingvar stared into the young man’s eyes. “I see you found my spear,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be taking it back now.”
The young man screamed as Ingvar pulled the spear out of his stomach. His intestines spilled across the frozen soil and blood flowed from the terrible wound to splatter on the ground. The young man moaned twice, kicked and began slowly crawling away. The edge of the sword was sharp and bright as Ingvar slid it free of its’ sheath. He reached down and grabbed the young man by his hair. Pulling his head up off the ground, Ingvar casually sliced his throat open. The unfortunate stranger gurgled and drowned in a pool of his own steaming blood.
Exhausted, Ingvar made his way back up the slope towards his fire. As he approached the group of rocks where he had rested a few moments before, he saw the flames leap up. Three tall men in suits of lamellar were standing around the fire, armor and weapons shining with the light of reflected flames. Eyes blazing with defiance, Ingvar screamed a battle cry, and charged at them with reckless fury.
[to be continued]
As he charged up the slope towards these well-armed men, Ingvar raised his shield. Aiming his round shields’ rim at the first foes’ face, he edged him square in the helmet, driving him back several paces and knocking the fight right out of him. The second fighter was slightly taller, wielding a very dangerous-looking spiked war-club and a curved tower shield. The third was armed with a similar shield, but was wielding a very nasty-looking flail. He was the largest man that Ingvar had ever seen.
Circling warily around the fire, Ingvar tried to keep the larger man perpetually behind the smaller, so he would only have to fight one foe at a time. Stabbing with his spear, he sought some hole in the club-fighter’s guard. Suddenly, the taller of the two reached around his friend’s shield and grabbed the end of the spear, pulling it right out of Ingvar’s hand.
Stunned by this giant’s savage strength; Ingvar raised his shield to block the incoming blow from the spiked war-club, and was hit in the stomach with the butt of the flail. Breathless, Ingvar fell to the ground. The fighter with the war-club stalked towards his fallen foe warily. As he approached, Ingvar unsheathed his sword and let loose a savage war cry, lurching back to his feet unsteadily.
Ingvar slashed and hacked with his sword, trying to find some way around the massive bulwarks protecting this pair of fighters, but his sword was proving ineffective. Rapidly growing frustrated, he decided to take a risk. Stabbing at the shoulder of the smaller fighter with the war-club, he kicked at the giant’s shield, knocking it askew. Dodging through the gap between the two, he raised his shield and charged into the giant from behind, knocking him down the slope and into his smaller ally, tumbling them both down the side of the mountain and into the trees.
Just as Ingvar breathed a sigh of relief, he was tackled from behind by the third fighter, whom he had forgotten about in the excitement. Screaming loudly, all four men went rolling down the slope into the blackness of the night.
*edited grammar and tense, will post more of the story by the end of the week.
*added another 350 words tonight
Whisper Moonson:
That's a pretty good start! There are a few places where you could be more concise or do a bit more "show don't tell," but it works well. The main thing I'd suggest is switching to past tense. Present tense story telling is kind of tricky. It's enough out of the ordinary that it tends to interfere with the suspension of disbelief.
As an example of what I mean by my other critiques, I'll do a quick edit of the first paragraph:
Quote>>>>Ingvar glanced down the slope at the broken edge of the tree line and wiped the sweat from his brow. It had been an intense climb to reach the summit of Narg’s Tooth - the highest point in all of Thiroth. He breathed heavily in the thin air, and the mist from his nostrils turned to frost on his thick red beard. Were they still chasing him? He looked all around the barren peak of the mountain, watching for threatening signs. Nothing moved. His enemies had halted their pursuit, at least for the night.<<<<
Anyway, it's good to find your own voice. Find ways to draw the reader into your character's head. Pack your sentences with information. I don't mean make run-on sentences - quite the opposite. If you can take 31 words in two sentences and craft them into a single sentence of 21 words, you're moving in the right direction. :)
Keep up the good work!
Garret Ironshield:
Pretty much everything Whisper said, and those better be the the Huns.
Shiiva The Red:
I was actually going to say the same thing about your tenses but Whisper pretty much covered it. Its usually harder for a reader to read in present tense like that.
Also you should give a detailed description of your character to help people form an image of what the character (you) looks like in the rp. What you look like, hair color, distinguishing features, clothing etc.
Got a good start there, cant wait to read more!
Ingvar the Ruthless:
I actually had it all in past tense, but switched it because, er... I'm not really sure why.
Thanks for the input, and Garret, you'll have to wait and see, lol. I will try to finish another 2-300 words tomorrow and edit the tenses again.
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