So the November writing month kicked off today so I’m working towards my goal of a min word count of 1666 words per day.
Got 30 min scrabble in this morning and thought I would post what I have. Remember this is as rough draft as you can possibly do but maybe it will inspire some more people to get out and get writing.
Nanowrimo is fantastic in getting rid of writing blockages that generally start to fill up as they year progresses – no time, to tired, after i do x or y – all these excuses start to clog my writing efforts so I see Nano as a spring cleaning of my writing brain.
Ruddy light illuminated the space around her. At first Toriessa had thought it was the sun, obscured by cloud or captured permanently at dusk.
Light cannot penetrate the depths of my tomb.
As awareness returned she pondered, “What is this light?” She asked more to prove to herself that she was still alive rather than expect an answer of the stone.
Filigrees ran like a molten rivets into a smouldering pool that warped and twisted as if it were hot metal in a furnace.
“What is this light?”
She shifted the glow towards her face. Her eyes traced of the ruined mess that had once been her fingers. Following them down from nail to knuckle and on down to the remnants of her hand. At her wrist the dead, burning bones met living flesh, the destruction slipped on as if it were a gruesome glove.
“Bones. Bound in witch-fire. All that remains.”
“Rocks have hold me, entombed but unharmed. Save for this.” She flexed the ruined hand, sending a shower of embers from her enkindled bones.
“How did I survive?”
Tentatively she stretched out her hands, her unharmed one guided by the light of the other. Fingers touched stone, smooth as glass.
Tracing the stone she found slivered cracks within its surface where it had fractured A wispy draught of cool air, laced with the smell of the sea, leaked in though the gaps.
“Rocks did not spare me. You did, whatever you are.” She wiggled her ruins fingers, in response they caught alight with the motion, candle flames danced on the tips of her nails as if they were wicks.
With a yelp she blew on them. With a flicker they extinguished leaving he smell of smoke and burnt flesh to linger.
She curled up into a ball, hand held out in front of her face. The heat radiating from the centre of where her palm had been was uncomfortable.
With a trembling apprehension, half wanting and half not wanting to know the outcome, she gingerly extended her finger on the good hand towards the centre. The heat did not increase beyond a steady, disquieting, temperature.
Closer she reached until the tip of her nail touched the ruin.
Sparks of flame shot up, the core of her hand between the bones and blackened flesh became molten, stirred like a forge fire it wreathed her hand in flames that burst over her good hand, running down her arm and on to the ground in showering embers.
Reflectively she screamed.
Realisation dawned that there was no pain, no burning flesh. Aside from the constant ache her hand did her no harm. The ground around her did not fare as well; pock marks glowed from where the stone had melted from the ember shower.
“By the Seven, what have I become?”
Clenching her fist the flames burnt for a moment before spluttering and dying back to the ruddy glow. Trailing smoke rose from her curled fingers and drifted out the stone cracks.
Wrapped in misery she scrunched her eyes closed, squeezing out tears and capturing a sob before it escaped her mouth.
Shut out the light, the pain, the ruin.
Even with eyes shut she could see the ruddy glow, mocking her, taunting her with broken flesh.
Noise intruded on her desolation; scrabbling, sniffing, scratching.
Something was moving beyond her cocoon.
Rocks still falling?
“No this has purpose, drawing closer, seeking me.”
“Now if only it was a friend.”
What was the chance of that?
The shell above cracked, showering splinters of rock upon her in a dusty rain. A spear of light lanced through the opening, its brightness a shock to her eyes accustom to the gloomy dust her hand provided.
Blinked away the sparks that danced across her vison she snatched the view of a beastly muzzle.
Her heart pounded, mouth dry.
Her left hand fumbled for a weapon to fight. Fingers snatched onto a broken shard of rock, a pathetic weapon against the creatures of Myrkra’val. Her numb fingers dropped the rock, it spit out even as she snatched it. Tears of frustration rain across her cheeks as she fought to secure it in her unsteady grip.