# A project I've been working on...



## Tolen Mar (Jul 9, 2006)

Greetings all.   With apologies to everyone who hoped that I would return and continue telling of Ghostsea, I've been trying to get back into the habit of writing.  The last regular writing I did was back in  December-January, around the time I stopped posting Ghostsea stories.  I had just finished participating in NaNoWriMo, and made the mistake of deciding to take a break instead of sticking to the grindstone.

Then I got a new full-time job.  With early hours, and lots of manual labor (I've lost twenty pounds since then!), I'm usually too tired to do much.  I figure it's time for a change.  I'm going to be forcing myself to make a quota each night if it kills me.  It worked for NaNo, it should help me here.

Anyway.  Not long ago, I started a new project. I'm not going to say how long it'll last, if it will be finished, or even if I'll ever publish.  (And no, this is not an official project of any kind.  It isn't for a book about to come out, or a hush-hush project I'm not supposed to be leaking.  It's just me.  Writing.)

But as a bit of a teaser, and to get some initial reactions, I thought I'd share this.  Its the opening section of chapter one.  It's safe to share this, I think, because I'm not even sure if it will be cut or not, and at any rate, the rest of the project will be in a different style.  Of course, the project will link back to this...but if I say too much, and I do publish, I'll have spoiled it for everyone.  Let me know what you think.

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	It is a foggy day.  It is a rainy day.  A horrible day to be out marching toward certain death.  

	That is what the English are doing, though they don't know it yet.

	I'm lying in the mud atop a cliff some twenty feet above the track that passes for a road through this area.  Less than a mile away, Longshanks has sent an army to dig us out.  Though the fog dampens the sounds, an army is a loud beast, and the muted echoes of thousands of soldiers marching is hard to miss.

	We don't know how many there are for sure.  We number a scant five hundred.  We have the advantage.  This is our land, our country.  And we know how to deal with the weather.  The English are careless, secure in their numbers.  They truly belive that they have the means to rid the land of us, the rabble.  

	This rabble won't go without a fight.

	Soon enough, the scouts for the english army appear like spectres out of the mist.  They are on foot, their horses too unsteady on this mud to make good progress.  Their watchful eyes aren't trained to be able to notice things in this wet, and so though we are tightly clustered just a short distance above their heads, they can't see us.

	There are three of them.  Perhaps their instincts are better than we gave them credit for, for they are quiet, tense.  Watchful, even.  As they pass below us, my friend Fergus draws his bow.  He is hiding behind a large Ash tree, his scraggly beard resembling the moss covering the trunk.  Without a signal, he looses the shaft.  Elsewhere, two others fire at the same moment, and all three drop silently.  

	Three of us rush down into the vale, and quietly lead the horses away to safety.  They leave the bodies, but take the arrows.  Every trap has to have bait.

	Less than a quarter hour later, the lead element of the army hoves into view.  This captain is foolish, he rides out ahead of his soldiers.  In moments, he sees the dead scouts.  He raises his hand, and signals a halt.  In the vale below us are now at least twice as many men as we have, with more back along the road.

	My heart is pounding.  The moment draws near.  The fear, the thrill of battle settles upon us all.  I can sense it in my friends nearby.  Fergus' breathing has sped up.  A couple of our fighters shift position as they draw their blades.  Below us, the english are discussing the possibility of bandits, or worse.  The captain is surrounded by junior officers.  The time is right.  From all directions, arrows silently and swiftly find their marks, confused the english officers begin to wheel about, looking for their agressors.  Another volley of arrows, and the captain falls.  A lieutenant, barely out of his seventeenth year, stands gawping at the mess.  An arrow just misses him, and he wakes up enough to call a retreat, but it is already too late.

	His call is drowned out by the sounds of a full five hundred Scottish patriots rushing down the hillside.  I stand, and grab hold of the vine near me.  I use it to swing down into the battle, a bloody cry on my lips, echoing off the trees.  My kick pushes the Lieutenant off his horse, and take the reigns, urging the startled beast into action.  I cleave a hundred heads as I ride by.

	We've accomplished our goals.  The army is in route, confused and frightened to hell.  I shout in victory as we start to mop up the stragglers.  Then a sharp pain lances through my shoulder.  It manifests as a bright, blinding light, and when it clears I can see the head of an arrow sticking out of my tunic.  Right where my heart is.

	I turn in the saddle to see another arrow coming straight for my eye.  Behind it, a single archer with a grim smirk on his face.  There is no time to dodge or duck.  As the arrow takes my life, my last sight is of the archer being cut in two by Fergus' heavy sword.

	I died.

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Remember, this is just the first section of chapter one.   This ends aburptly, but the story doesn't.  Anyway, enjoy.


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