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elingregoryNot a very good day at all yesterday with Nanoing. I got majorly distracted writing something else so only managed 1336 words.That's brought me way below the median line :( I'll have to work hard to catch up over the weekend.
I've shot myself in the foot this morning as well by staying in bed and reading Matt Houlbrook's "Queer London" instead of getting up and writing. I comfort myself with the idea that it's research for "Eleventh Hour" but actually it was idleness - I have other things to red but none of the others could be reached just by sliding an arm out from under the duvet.My bedside reading pile is nicely reachable without even exposing my elbow.
Anyhow - word count is now
And here's a tiny snippet:
The sun was behind the rock by the time they reached the edge of the dun.
“Luath!” one of the lads on guard greeted Cynfal’s companion with a broad grin. “What have you brought us this time?”
“Fine young pigs, Cipno,” Luath said, waving to the cart. “Fat and ready for the slaughter.”
“Five young pigs?” Cipno stared boldly at Cynfal. “I’d have said the one in the cloak is a bit long in the tooth to make a good meal.”
Cipno had a shield and a spear. The first gloss wasn’t yet off either. Cynfal shrugged his cloak back from his shoulders to display his own battered weapon and scarred forearms.
“How does your commander feel about brawling on duty?” he asked. “Because we can go at it now and you’ll be in trouble as well as getting hurt, or we can meet up later and I might go easy on you.”
Cipno flushed and took a step forward. “When I’ve finished my duty, then. Down by the shore. It’ll be easier to wash your guts off my blade.”
Cynfal couldn’t fault the lad for pride, but he clearly hadn’t the sense of his fellow who tugged at Cipno’s arm urging him back. Or perhaps the sound of hooves, soft on the damp ground, meant more to them than it did to Cynfal?
“Cipno, Rhys.” A dappled horse pulled up at Cynfal’s shoulder the rider looking down his nose at him. "What are you doing? You're supposed to be greeting visitors not fighting with them?"
"We weren't," Rhys protested. "Cipno made a joke's all. This one," he nodded to Cynfal, "just didn't think it was funny."
"No sense of humour?" The rider glanced at Cynfal again. "That's a pity. What, sir, is your name and business in Din Eidin?"
Since Cynfal did not like the look in his eye, he answered more briskly than politeness required. "My business in Din Eidin is my own.My name is Cynfal everywhere."
Rhys was a lanky lad covered in freckles, He snorted a laugh and nudged Cipno.
"Cynfal Everywhere," the rider said, "my name is Moried. Perhaps I can guide you on your way?"
I've shot myself in the foot this morning as well by staying in bed and reading Matt Houlbrook's "Queer London" instead of getting up and writing. I comfort myself with the idea that it's research for "Eleventh Hour" but actually it was idleness - I have other things to red but none of the others could be reached just by sliding an arm out from under the duvet.My bedside reading pile is nicely reachable without even exposing my elbow.
Anyhow - word count is now
And here's a tiny snippet:
The sun was behind the rock by the time they reached the edge of the dun.
“Luath!” one of the lads on guard greeted Cynfal’s companion with a broad grin. “What have you brought us this time?”
“Fine young pigs, Cipno,” Luath said, waving to the cart. “Fat and ready for the slaughter.”
“Five young pigs?” Cipno stared boldly at Cynfal. “I’d have said the one in the cloak is a bit long in the tooth to make a good meal.”
Cipno had a shield and a spear. The first gloss wasn’t yet off either. Cynfal shrugged his cloak back from his shoulders to display his own battered weapon and scarred forearms.
“How does your commander feel about brawling on duty?” he asked. “Because we can go at it now and you’ll be in trouble as well as getting hurt, or we can meet up later and I might go easy on you.”
Cipno flushed and took a step forward. “When I’ve finished my duty, then. Down by the shore. It’ll be easier to wash your guts off my blade.”
Cynfal couldn’t fault the lad for pride, but he clearly hadn’t the sense of his fellow who tugged at Cipno’s arm urging him back. Or perhaps the sound of hooves, soft on the damp ground, meant more to them than it did to Cynfal?
“Cipno, Rhys.” A dappled horse pulled up at Cynfal’s shoulder the rider looking down his nose at him. "What are you doing? You're supposed to be greeting visitors not fighting with them?"
"We weren't," Rhys protested. "Cipno made a joke's all. This one," he nodded to Cynfal, "just didn't think it was funny."
"No sense of humour?" The rider glanced at Cynfal again. "That's a pity. What, sir, is your name and business in Din Eidin?"
Since Cynfal did not like the look in his eye, he answered more briskly than politeness required. "My business in Din Eidin is my own.My name is Cynfal everywhere."
Rhys was a lanky lad covered in freckles, He snorted a laugh and nudged Cipno.
"Cynfal Everywhere," the rider said, "my name is Moried. Perhaps I can guide you on your way?"
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Date: 2011-11-06 10:06 am (UTC)I haven't read Sharon Penman. I'll do it after I've finished this though in case I start parodying her.