Zale
04-11-2005, 01:37 AM
OK, more fiction by me :) Now this is a piece from the middle (alright then, near the beginning) of a lengthy story, so don't worry too much about not knowing anything about the characters or the background. What I'd really like is your thoughts on the narrative style, and any bits that make it feel discontinuous. I'm just not sure it flows as well as the rest does. Cheers (& sorry about the painful formatting on the forum).
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It was, Ivy reflected, a strange thing. Before joining the army, she had thought that actual combat would be far from her favourite activity: intense physical exertion and fierce concentration to be dealt with under the ever-present threat of maybe lethal damage. The psychological element of the combat training had also worried her. A clear demonstration of superiority, the victor enhanced, the vanquished crushed. No incentive gained, where it is needed most.
What Ivy had found in the exercise astounded her. The stretch of the mind that the muscles reflect. The ultimate correlation of thought and action. Driven by that most primal of urges, survival, it must be so.The moment you feel most alive is with the imminence of death so starkly obvious. She achieved a deep peace with a sword in hand, and let her instincts flow. This was felt sharply by her opponents: it took most soldiers years, and several battles, to reach that state. They were the surviving ones.
Her mind was almost blank on the surface as her opponent slashed at her head. Minimal effort to deflect the blade. She stepped forward slightly to deflect the attack over her head, then riposted with a vicious downward swing that would have struck between the neck and shoulder, shattering the man’s collar bone and driving into his lung.
He stepped back and bowed.
“Defeated again. Tell me, Ivy, when did you last lose one of these duels?” She had to think for a moment before answering,
“On the first session, when I had to fight the duty sergeant as a demonstration. I think it was because I was scared.” Her opponent - she realised she couldn’t remember his name - shook his head and turned away. It was only when Ivy noticed how heavy his breathing was that she realised she wasn’t out of breath. A movement caught her attention and she turned to see Dask walking towards her. He looked tired, but he was grinning happily, one hand still on his sheathed training blade.
“It works. ‘Think less, react more,’ you said, and lo - a rare victory! Now, seeing as the session’s finished - the sergeant dismissed just before you won - how about we head to the kitchens for some lunch?
-It’s been far too long since breakfast. Lead on.” The two recruits returned their swords to the rack before leaving the Second Square.
“The best thing about combat training is that it follows sensible hours. I hate missing lunch,” Ivy noted as they entered the kitchen.
“Odd, I would have thought that never ever losing was better than filling your belly.
-When you’re brought up to lunch at noon sharp every day for twenty years, not getting it is a bit of a shock to the system. Especially with all the exercise we’re being made to do.
-Well, not everyone was brought up as heiress to a merchant empire -
-Empire?” Ivy retorted with good-natured indignity. It was an old joke, but one she didn’t mind. “Comfortably off was all, and well you know it, or I’d have bought my own bath-tub with urns of mare’s milk.
-Small distance, from where I come from,” Dask muttered. It was strange, Ivy thought, that someone as intelligent as Dask could be so bothered about his background. It was the opposite of Arro’s situation - Dask’s parents had been sheep farmers in the countryside, and had struggled to make ends meet. Whereas Arro despised his lineage because of the unfair advantage it sometimes gave him, Dask appeared to be ashamed because he imagined that his parents - and by extension himself - possessed some flaw that prevented them from success. Wholly uncharacteristic, but there it was. She decided to change the subject.
“How do you think the Red are treating Arro? Strange really, I wouldn’t have thought he had the talent - “ Ivy stopped, suddenly embarrassed. She may not have voiced the thought but her companion picked up on it none the less.
“It should have been you, aye. We’ve all noticed your intimate relationship with the sword.” He fell silent, a strange expression on his face. Before Ivy had time to enquire further, they arrived at the kitchens.
Unlike recruits in training, by far the majority of most soldiers could and did eat at lunch time. All the fires were stoked up. The heat hit Ivy almost like a solid wall in its intensity, and the huge, dancing flames banished the shadows that normally draped the far end of the kitchens in gloom. There were soldiers everywhere: sitting, chatting and eating at the tables, and in a large queue that stretched almost from the door where the two recruits stood, following the wall all the way to where they were being served. Dask groaned.
“So long for a nice lengthy break, and time to relax. We’ll be lucky if we’ve got time to eat at all before we’re due back.
-Typical,” Ivy agreed sourly as the . “Not to mention spending yet more time standing up.” She paused, then said,
“When I said earlier that Arro shouldn’t have been picked for the Red, I meant: what other talent does he have? It’s clear that it wasn’t martial prowess - what’s wrong?” Dask had turned away, biting his lip. He turned back. “Hidden talents - Ivy, have you heard of the Yellow? The Yellow Dragon?”
__________________________________________________ ______________
It was, Ivy reflected, a strange thing. Before joining the army, she had thought that actual combat would be far from her favourite activity: intense physical exertion and fierce concentration to be dealt with under the ever-present threat of maybe lethal damage. The psychological element of the combat training had also worried her. A clear demonstration of superiority, the victor enhanced, the vanquished crushed. No incentive gained, where it is needed most.
What Ivy had found in the exercise astounded her. The stretch of the mind that the muscles reflect. The ultimate correlation of thought and action. Driven by that most primal of urges, survival, it must be so.The moment you feel most alive is with the imminence of death so starkly obvious. She achieved a deep peace with a sword in hand, and let her instincts flow. This was felt sharply by her opponents: it took most soldiers years, and several battles, to reach that state. They were the surviving ones.
Her mind was almost blank on the surface as her opponent slashed at her head. Minimal effort to deflect the blade. She stepped forward slightly to deflect the attack over her head, then riposted with a vicious downward swing that would have struck between the neck and shoulder, shattering the man’s collar bone and driving into his lung.
He stepped back and bowed.
“Defeated again. Tell me, Ivy, when did you last lose one of these duels?” She had to think for a moment before answering,
“On the first session, when I had to fight the duty sergeant as a demonstration. I think it was because I was scared.” Her opponent - she realised she couldn’t remember his name - shook his head and turned away. It was only when Ivy noticed how heavy his breathing was that she realised she wasn’t out of breath. A movement caught her attention and she turned to see Dask walking towards her. He looked tired, but he was grinning happily, one hand still on his sheathed training blade.
“It works. ‘Think less, react more,’ you said, and lo - a rare victory! Now, seeing as the session’s finished - the sergeant dismissed just before you won - how about we head to the kitchens for some lunch?
-It’s been far too long since breakfast. Lead on.” The two recruits returned their swords to the rack before leaving the Second Square.
“The best thing about combat training is that it follows sensible hours. I hate missing lunch,” Ivy noted as they entered the kitchen.
“Odd, I would have thought that never ever losing was better than filling your belly.
-When you’re brought up to lunch at noon sharp every day for twenty years, not getting it is a bit of a shock to the system. Especially with all the exercise we’re being made to do.
-Well, not everyone was brought up as heiress to a merchant empire -
-Empire?” Ivy retorted with good-natured indignity. It was an old joke, but one she didn’t mind. “Comfortably off was all, and well you know it, or I’d have bought my own bath-tub with urns of mare’s milk.
-Small distance, from where I come from,” Dask muttered. It was strange, Ivy thought, that someone as intelligent as Dask could be so bothered about his background. It was the opposite of Arro’s situation - Dask’s parents had been sheep farmers in the countryside, and had struggled to make ends meet. Whereas Arro despised his lineage because of the unfair advantage it sometimes gave him, Dask appeared to be ashamed because he imagined that his parents - and by extension himself - possessed some flaw that prevented them from success. Wholly uncharacteristic, but there it was. She decided to change the subject.
“How do you think the Red are treating Arro? Strange really, I wouldn’t have thought he had the talent - “ Ivy stopped, suddenly embarrassed. She may not have voiced the thought but her companion picked up on it none the less.
“It should have been you, aye. We’ve all noticed your intimate relationship with the sword.” He fell silent, a strange expression on his face. Before Ivy had time to enquire further, they arrived at the kitchens.
Unlike recruits in training, by far the majority of most soldiers could and did eat at lunch time. All the fires were stoked up. The heat hit Ivy almost like a solid wall in its intensity, and the huge, dancing flames banished the shadows that normally draped the far end of the kitchens in gloom. There were soldiers everywhere: sitting, chatting and eating at the tables, and in a large queue that stretched almost from the door where the two recruits stood, following the wall all the way to where they were being served. Dask groaned.
“So long for a nice lengthy break, and time to relax. We’ll be lucky if we’ve got time to eat at all before we’re due back.
-Typical,” Ivy agreed sourly as the . “Not to mention spending yet more time standing up.” She paused, then said,
“When I said earlier that Arro shouldn’t have been picked for the Red, I meant: what other talent does he have? It’s clear that it wasn’t martial prowess - what’s wrong?” Dask had turned away, biting his lip. He turned back. “Hidden talents - Ivy, have you heard of the Yellow? The Yellow Dragon?”