Nanowrimo :D
Nov. 2nd, 2011 02:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elingregoryDespite yesterday being, all told, a bit of a beggar - had to take Mum to hospital to have a cataract done, had to move my PC, chair and books up to a quiet place,etc etc - I still cranked out a fair number of words, not all of which are misspelled. :D
Since I forgot to post about it last night here's my word count for up to lunchtime today:
And because I can - here's a snippet from the very beginning:
“There are worse ways to travel,” Cynfal reminded himself. He lifted his head to eye the scuffed toes of his boots. The cart, even though it reeked of fish and had an inconveniently lively load, was far better than walking. The piglets, four of them, all with efficient and productive bowels, probably didn’t agree but then their fate when they reached their destination probably didn’t involve a warm bed and a gallon or so of mead.
Cynfal let his head fall back against one of the tied piggies and ignored its squeak. Above the sky was blue, scattered above with clouds just tinged on their west sides with the gold of afternoon with more clouds, greyer, threatening, to the west. Cynfal puilled his cloak more closely around him and wondered if he would get wet.
“You asleep?”
Cynfal hitched himself up, turning to address his host. “No, just thinking, why?”
The carter grinned, a darker toothless gash in his dark beard. “We’re almost there, see,” he said. “Got a good sight of the dun now we’re out of the trees. You won’t forget, will you?”
“Of course I won’t, Luath,” Cynfal said. “Your pigs are fit for the king’s table. I’ll tell the steward myself.” But his mind was less on promises than on the rock, hulking against the pale northern sky, plumed with smoke from the hearths of its inhabitants.
Since I forgot to post about it last night here's my word count for up to lunchtime today:
And because I can - here's a snippet from the very beginning:
“There are worse ways to travel,” Cynfal reminded himself. He lifted his head to eye the scuffed toes of his boots. The cart, even though it reeked of fish and had an inconveniently lively load, was far better than walking. The piglets, four of them, all with efficient and productive bowels, probably didn’t agree but then their fate when they reached their destination probably didn’t involve a warm bed and a gallon or so of mead.
Cynfal let his head fall back against one of the tied piggies and ignored its squeak. Above the sky was blue, scattered above with clouds just tinged on their west sides with the gold of afternoon with more clouds, greyer, threatening, to the west. Cynfal puilled his cloak more closely around him and wondered if he would get wet.
“You asleep?”
Cynfal hitched himself up, turning to address his host. “No, just thinking, why?”
The carter grinned, a darker toothless gash in his dark beard. “We’re almost there, see,” he said. “Got a good sight of the dun now we’re out of the trees. You won’t forget, will you?”
“Of course I won’t, Luath,” Cynfal said. “Your pigs are fit for the king’s table. I’ll tell the steward myself.” But his mind was less on promises than on the rock, hulking against the pale northern sky, plumed with smoke from the hearths of its inhabitants.
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