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measured_wordsI wrote this yesterday for the daily challenge for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
august_writing. Take 1 is the rough, took me ten min to pound out on paper, retyped this morning, draft. Take 2, once it is up, will be a little more polished, but not extended until I talk to Bart.
Take 1
He was, understandably, a little drunk. Possibly a lot drunk. The sake Nortia had brought out earlier has been strong as well as quality, and the subsequent rounds of ale and other lesser rice wine hadn't helped the matter. He'd remembered: Spirit Festival. Go to a temple at midnight, make a wish, call on the spirits and they might grant it.
Matteo didn't really have a wish, not a specific one. He had goals, ones he knew he could, and should, work towards on his own. He wanted guidance.
He didn't aim for a temple. They were too bright, too populated, for the spirit he sought. He sought the darkness, seeking the privacy of an alleyway where the light of the festival lanterns didn't intrude into the long shadows.
He stopped trying to find the words in his muddled state, and to figure out if this conjuration was even possible. He didn't know, for sure. He'd been taught the basics, and nothing more. He was still working on mastering the dance itself.
Matteo stepped into the darkness, not simply one foot forward, but a light, graceful fluid movement that carried him into the black. He drew a knife, letting it fall, blade down, into the packed earth, and closed his eyes. he thought, tried to think about his goals. Should he have brought some other sacrifice or boon? No, not for him.
He waited for a time, eyes closed, listening. There wouldn;t be much to see - black on black, Shadow in a shadow. He heard - no, felt - something, and hesitated.
"Gordon?"
Take 2
He was, understandably, a little drunk. Possibly a lot drunk. The sake Nortia had brought out earlier has been strong as well as of good quality, and the subsequent rounds of ale and other lesser rice wine hadn't helped the matter. Still, he'd remembered: it was the Spirit Festival. Go to a temple at midnight, make a wish, call on the spirits and they might grant it.
Matteo didn't really have a wish, not a specific one. He had goals, ones he knew he could, and should, work towards on his own. He wanted guidance.
He didn't aim for a temple. They were too bright, too populated, for the spirit he sought. Instead, he let himself be drawn to the the darkness, seeking the privacy of an alleyway where the light of the festival lanterns didn't intrude into the long shadows, and even his elven eyes had trouble distinguishing the outlines of the world.
He stopped trying to find the words he'd need in his muddled state. If it worked, they'd come. he tried instead to figure out if this conjuration was even possible. He wasn't sure. He'd been taught the basics, and nothing more. He was still working on mastering the dance itself - its steps and stillnesses. He was only the barest initiate into the world he hoped to contact here tonight.
Matteo moved into the darkness, not simply one foot forward, but a light, graceful fluid motion that carried him into the black. He drew a knife, letting it fall, blade down, into the packed earth, and closed his eyes. He thought, tried to think about his goal. Should he have brought some other sacrifice or boon? No, not for him.
He waited for a time, eyes closed, listening. There wouldn't be much to see - black on black, Shadow in a shadow. He heard - no, felt - something, and hesitated.
"Gordon?"
august_writing. Take 1 is the rough, took me ten min to pound out on paper, retyped this morning, draft. Take 2, once it is up, will be a little more polished, but not extended until I talk to Bart.Take 1
He was, understandably, a little drunk. Possibly a lot drunk. The sake Nortia had brought out earlier has been strong as well as quality, and the subsequent rounds of ale and other lesser rice wine hadn't helped the matter. He'd remembered: Spirit Festival. Go to a temple at midnight, make a wish, call on the spirits and they might grant it.
Matteo didn't really have a wish, not a specific one. He had goals, ones he knew he could, and should, work towards on his own. He wanted guidance.
He didn't aim for a temple. They were too bright, too populated, for the spirit he sought. He sought the darkness, seeking the privacy of an alleyway where the light of the festival lanterns didn't intrude into the long shadows.
He stopped trying to find the words in his muddled state, and to figure out if this conjuration was even possible. He didn't know, for sure. He'd been taught the basics, and nothing more. He was still working on mastering the dance itself.
Matteo stepped into the darkness, not simply one foot forward, but a light, graceful fluid movement that carried him into the black. He drew a knife, letting it fall, blade down, into the packed earth, and closed his eyes. he thought, tried to think about his goals. Should he have brought some other sacrifice or boon? No, not for him.
He waited for a time, eyes closed, listening. There wouldn;t be much to see - black on black, Shadow in a shadow. He heard - no, felt - something, and hesitated.
"Gordon?"
Take 2
He was, understandably, a little drunk. Possibly a lot drunk. The sake Nortia had brought out earlier has been strong as well as of good quality, and the subsequent rounds of ale and other lesser rice wine hadn't helped the matter. Still, he'd remembered: it was the Spirit Festival. Go to a temple at midnight, make a wish, call on the spirits and they might grant it.
Matteo didn't really have a wish, not a specific one. He had goals, ones he knew he could, and should, work towards on his own. He wanted guidance.
He didn't aim for a temple. They were too bright, too populated, for the spirit he sought. Instead, he let himself be drawn to the the darkness, seeking the privacy of an alleyway where the light of the festival lanterns didn't intrude into the long shadows, and even his elven eyes had trouble distinguishing the outlines of the world.
He stopped trying to find the words he'd need in his muddled state. If it worked, they'd come. he tried instead to figure out if this conjuration was even possible. He wasn't sure. He'd been taught the basics, and nothing more. He was still working on mastering the dance itself - its steps and stillnesses. He was only the barest initiate into the world he hoped to contact here tonight.
Matteo moved into the darkness, not simply one foot forward, but a light, graceful fluid motion that carried him into the black. He drew a knife, letting it fall, blade down, into the packed earth, and closed his eyes. He thought, tried to think about his goal. Should he have brought some other sacrifice or boon? No, not for him.
He waited for a time, eyes closed, listening. There wouldn't be much to see - black on black, Shadow in a shadow. He heard - no, felt - something, and hesitated.
"Gordon?"
