My novel (A work in progress) PG-13 or so..

[Smarms]

(This is the opening prologue to my current writing project. It has no real title yet, thus the odd subject line. If there is any interest in seeing more, I may post more of it. I am open to criticisms, to be sure, as this is a work in progress. Has extreme descriptions of violent acts, death, and warfare in general, and if explicitly detailed pain and suffering bother you, I would not recommend reading onwards.)



Prologue

It starts with a hacking cough.

Originating deep from the belly, the coughs shake your whole body, reducing you to a shivering mass of flesh. It feels like every other sickness, and you react in much the same way. Curl up in bed, cover yourself in blankets, and curse your luck. Your friends and relatives show you pity, at least as much pity as a family member can show you from across the room, not wanting to be infected as well.

Eventually, the coughing brings up more than muck. The shit becomes darker and thicker, more and more red, until it stains your teeth an unhealthy copper color. You feel as if you will lose your guts to the cough, that you will look down into your hand and see pulsing bits of yourself. But you know this to be untrue. It is only a common illness, right? Given a week of rest, you will recover. You cling to this hope as you lay sweating in bed, clamoring for any liquids you can get your hands on, pounding your chest with both fists to loosen the hold the cold has on your lungs.

But this is just the beginning. The cough is mild, compared to the pokes of the Underdark. Small welts form on your skin, filling with pus. The welts swell, until any movement will break the membrane holding the liquid in. A cough sends your body into deep convulsions, and the welts all pop. Your body leaks fluids it needs to sustain the fight against the disease. The blood tinged discharge then soaks your sheets, your clothes, and dries out against your skin, until new welts form under it, stretching the dried pus until it flakes off. These welts, pocks upon the flesh, are believed by some to be the remnants of the touch of the lord of the Underdark himself. These people are also the ones who believe in dunking children in wine to bless them, and in burning symbols into their upper arms to ward off evil spirits. Religious zealots. Religion is for the weak, the feeble. Even the gods can’t bring you back from the brink of the wasting.

That’s the name for this curse upon my homelands. The wasting. Because it takes the strongest, most able-bodied members of a community, eats away their muscles, and leaves them an empty shell. When the dead are carried up the path of the dead, to commune with the spirits, they are deceptively light, being nothing more than dried out, scarred skin stretched over skeletal frames.

In its final stages, the disease causes the fingernails to fall out, the teeth to become brittle and break. The eyes, having been drained of their fluid, hang loosely in their sockets. Most are crippled by bouts of the runs, sapping what moisture is left, depriving them of the nutrients needed to stave off death. The last few days of life are pure hell, laying among others in the same condition, the nostrils burning with the stench of feces and death. Blind to those around you, but not deaf to their rattling coughs, the moans of death, the inevitable.

You ask why I left, why I fled, defected. You have your answer.

[Chance]

Well written. Typically I would not read something like this but the depictions and detail kept me reading.

[Smarms]

Yea, it is pretty rough for an opening prologue, and I may change that later on. I use it as a hook, it is an excerpt from the middle of the actual text. (The text itself is a grunge fantasy told like the Canterbury Tales, IE each character tells a story as they journey across the land.) I am planning on writing this as a series, so the first one (In this style) would develop back story.. plus it lets me play around in both 3rd and first person.

[Chance]

That is an extremely cool concept, and I like this as a prologue because it is indeed a very good hook. You've got talent my friend!

[Ceili]

... I am a girl. I couldn't finish reading this. ._. The part where coughing makes puss bubbles pop... yeah.

[chibi_pip]

this...is by far one of the most descriptive prologues i have ever read in my life.....and it's very, VERY well written

i wanna see more >.> c'mon dude, show some more of that talent

[Smarms]

Thanks for the compliments. Will work on typing up some of the first chapter this weekend (All my writing is in my notebooks, not on my computer, so it takes a bit of time to transcribe it all...) Glad you enjoyed it.

[Smarms]

Chapter 1

The large oaken door creaked open, attracting the collective attention of the tavern. Candle flames danced to the sudden influx of wind. An imposing figure stooped under the doorway. The newcomer was clothed in a full suit of mail, but of what metal the mail was made was up for debate, for in the shifting light thrown by the candles, it seemed to change colors from night black to a ruddy ocher brown. Over the mail he wore a cloak, secured in front by a simple clasp, with a hood drawn over his head. The cloak was a brilliant white, standing in sharp contrast with the night sky behind him and the mail underneath. A thick leather belt was drawn tight around his midsection, and the man wore chain leggings under his tunic. Two long knives were sheathed on his belt, along with three pouches of varying sizes and textures. Over the bottoms of his leggings, the man wore large black boots, coated in mud, with knife hilts poking out the side of each one. A leather harness worked its way across one shoulder, holding a quiver of arrows and a bow slung across the back. The foreigner walked with a limp, favoring his right leg and propping himself up with a long, dark wooden staff tipped in the same metal as his mail. All in all, a man who oozed violence.

Dom looked up from the mug he was wiping clean and nodded towards the new customer,
“Now what kin I be doing fer ye today, good sir? Ye be welcome to tha Helm, but we be a peaceful establishment. I not be wantin’ any sorts of trouble from ye.”

The foreigner nodded to the bartender, but spoke not a word. As the large man stepped into the wavering candlelight, his features stood out in stark contrast to the black recesses of his hood. His skin was a pale yellow, the color of aging cheese. He had no facial structures to speak of, no nose nor cheekbones, a purely round face with no obtrusions. A pair of thin slits rested above his mouth, flaring open slightly with each intake of breath. His thin, red lips stayed tightly closed, and his eyelids were constantly at half-mast. He would have looked worn out, if not for his constantly twitching, shifting eyes. They would not fall to rest upon anything, constantly searching. His hand drifted towards the knives at his waist. He was fleeing something, that was for sure.

The tavern’s patrons sprang back into motion, the foreigner all but forgotten spare a few wayward glances. The Helm had seen plenty of strange characters in all her years, and the standard crowd had learned to be quite tolerant under the withering glare of Dom and his giant wolfhound.

A barmaid approached the traveler’s table, a slight bounce to her step, her skirt flowing freely around her tanned thighs, her shirt close to bursting at the seams. That she attracted almost as many glances as the foreigner himself was a compliment in itself.

“Now would you be wanting some food or drink, good sir?”

**********************************************************************************************************************************

To (maybe) be continued. And as always, constructive criticism is always welcome.