Sandycat135
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This is my very first chapter of a story I'm writing
General Hawk slapped his desk inside the canvas tent. The drowsy assistant woke up with a jolt at the sudden crash.
"Wha-what, sir?" he asked nervously, trembling slightly. The general was feared among the men, with a short temper and almost superhuman strength
"Where have the scouts gone?" The general demanded loudly. "They haven't been back for twelve minutes."
"S-sir!" The messenger stammered, staring frantically at the crumpled piece of paper, the letters almost incomprehensible in his panic. "We have yet to receive a message from the surrounding t-towers. Um, I b-believe they have headed for the Sacred Meadows, as a shortcut-"
"IDIOT!" The commander smashed his fist into the table again, scattering paper as the wood splintered and cracked. "Flimsy piece of trash," he muttered and stood up. "There's a reason the holy land is off-limits. Do you want to anger the spirits?"
"P-please! There is yet to be a documented recording of spirits affecting the mana of others, s-sir." the messenger blubbered on the verge of tears as he mentally apologized to his deceased mother for dying in such a manner.
The general grabbed the foolish man by the scruff of his embroidered collar, ripping it easily. His voice was a low growl.
"And the first one we're going to get is now! Those idiots are probably going to assume they're enemy spies and shoot them." His voice rose higher in volume. "Do you know how many clerics have travelled the world, to get a glimpse of a holy nomad? Just hearing a magical recording of their sacred song can effectively bless any mage. Aviet relies on its holy power. We might as well surrender already."
"F-folktales and myths, s-sir, folktales and myths!" the assistant pleaded, desperate to live.
His eyes blazed as he gripped the offender even tighter as he began to choke.
"Are you saying what my grandfather dedicated his life to is a.. myth?" he asked, his voice a sinister whisper. There was no sign of rage on his face, just utter disgust and contempt, as if looking at a bug he could easily crush. There was no answer. The secretary had fainted, dropping to the ground, exhausted physically and mentally.
A shadowy figure watched from afar. Noticing the collapsed body, he stepped in.
"Couldn't even last a week, huh?" he murmured. The general, towering over the stranger frowned, his brow creasing.
"The council still insists on me having another secretary?" he asked the spy, concerned. There was no hint of gruffness or anger in his voice.
"Yes, apparently to control your 'raging temper', sire," he replied, almost with a hint of cheekiness.
"They still think they can convince me with this act? That man just now was a 'trained assassin'. Still, no match for real skill." Lifting the pathetic creature up, he unbuttoned his coat revealing a multitude of sharpened daggers and tiny needles, some showing hints of bloody rust, some the tips an eerie green.
"That was an act?"
"No, I just slapped him just a little harder than all the other normal secretaries."
"Huh." The general muttered under his breath, looking irritated. He studied the greenish residue. "Poison? Where's the chivalry in that, Knight?" At the last mocking word, he tossed a remaining thin weighted needle. It was a silver streak in the moonlight as it hit a loose patch of bark on a particular tree. It stood there, quivering. A scuffling noise could be heard as the other assassin broke into a run. Sneering in disgust, he returned his gaze to the weapons.
Nonchalantly, he tossed the dagger he was examining, without even looking towards the small metal pole that held up the tent. It hit dead centre, the thin blade passing through the steel easily, like a knife through hot butter. A second later, almost as if taking time to realize it, the pole cracked.
"He was going to collapse this tent as a distraction, then replace me with that body double that just ran off. Probably using a transformation spell. There was something fishy about them replacing just one pole. " he noted. "I assume your findings say the same."
Glancing at the destroyed mass of planks, splinters and shredded pieces of paper, the spy nodded.
"Honestly, sir, I'm not surprised. They haven't even seen you ever really angry, and look at all this carnage." The figure noted with interest at the sorry pile of scraps that once was a beautifully polished mahogany desk. Silently, he grieved for the lost money, as he pictured his wallet taking a hit. Perhaps the scraps would sell. His employer didn't care what he did. He was free to take anything he wanted, except anything from the wooden box his master kept on him at all times. This was the only order he was given. 133 mercenaries had failed this simple task.
"Neither have you." The general replied. His voice was ice-cold, containing no emotion, just plain weariness. "It's a- hobby of mine."
The spy ignored anything the pause meant. He knew it was only a failure of an attempt to inject any sort of thought into the voice of a hollow shell. The general planned every sentence. That particular one was probably calculated to spark his curiosity. A challenge to his self-control.
"Dismissed."
What a waste of gold for a hobby, he thought, glancing back at the desk as he left the tent.
General Hawk slapped his desk inside the canvas tent. The drowsy assistant woke up with a jolt at the sudden crash.
"Wha-what, sir?" he asked nervously, trembling slightly. The general was feared among the men, with a short temper and almost superhuman strength
"Where have the scouts gone?" The general demanded loudly. "They haven't been back for twelve minutes."
"S-sir!" The messenger stammered, staring frantically at the crumpled piece of paper, the letters almost incomprehensible in his panic. "We have yet to receive a message from the surrounding t-towers. Um, I b-believe they have headed for the Sacred Meadows, as a shortcut-"
"IDIOT!" The commander smashed his fist into the table again, scattering paper as the wood splintered and cracked. "Flimsy piece of trash," he muttered and stood up. "There's a reason the holy land is off-limits. Do you want to anger the spirits?"
"P-please! There is yet to be a documented recording of spirits affecting the mana of others, s-sir." the messenger blubbered on the verge of tears as he mentally apologized to his deceased mother for dying in such a manner.
The general grabbed the foolish man by the scruff of his embroidered collar, ripping it easily. His voice was a low growl.
"And the first one we're going to get is now! Those idiots are probably going to assume they're enemy spies and shoot them." His voice rose higher in volume. "Do you know how many clerics have travelled the world, to get a glimpse of a holy nomad? Just hearing a magical recording of their sacred song can effectively bless any mage. Aviet relies on its holy power. We might as well surrender already."
"F-folktales and myths, s-sir, folktales and myths!" the assistant pleaded, desperate to live.
His eyes blazed as he gripped the offender even tighter as he began to choke.
"Are you saying what my grandfather dedicated his life to is a.. myth?" he asked, his voice a sinister whisper. There was no sign of rage on his face, just utter disgust and contempt, as if looking at a bug he could easily crush. There was no answer. The secretary had fainted, dropping to the ground, exhausted physically and mentally.
A shadowy figure watched from afar. Noticing the collapsed body, he stepped in.
"Couldn't even last a week, huh?" he murmured. The general, towering over the stranger frowned, his brow creasing.
"The council still insists on me having another secretary?" he asked the spy, concerned. There was no hint of gruffness or anger in his voice.
"Yes, apparently to control your 'raging temper', sire," he replied, almost with a hint of cheekiness.
"They still think they can convince me with this act? That man just now was a 'trained assassin'. Still, no match for real skill." Lifting the pathetic creature up, he unbuttoned his coat revealing a multitude of sharpened daggers and tiny needles, some showing hints of bloody rust, some the tips an eerie green.
"That was an act?"
"No, I just slapped him just a little harder than all the other normal secretaries."
"Huh." The general muttered under his breath, looking irritated. He studied the greenish residue. "Poison? Where's the chivalry in that, Knight?" At the last mocking word, he tossed a remaining thin weighted needle. It was a silver streak in the moonlight as it hit a loose patch of bark on a particular tree. It stood there, quivering. A scuffling noise could be heard as the other assassin broke into a run. Sneering in disgust, he returned his gaze to the weapons.
Nonchalantly, he tossed the dagger he was examining, without even looking towards the small metal pole that held up the tent. It hit dead centre, the thin blade passing through the steel easily, like a knife through hot butter. A second later, almost as if taking time to realize it, the pole cracked.
"He was going to collapse this tent as a distraction, then replace me with that body double that just ran off. Probably using a transformation spell. There was something fishy about them replacing just one pole. " he noted. "I assume your findings say the same."
Glancing at the destroyed mass of planks, splinters and shredded pieces of paper, the spy nodded.
"Honestly, sir, I'm not surprised. They haven't even seen you ever really angry, and look at all this carnage." The figure noted with interest at the sorry pile of scraps that once was a beautifully polished mahogany desk. Silently, he grieved for the lost money, as he pictured his wallet taking a hit. Perhaps the scraps would sell. His employer didn't care what he did. He was free to take anything he wanted, except anything from the wooden box his master kept on him at all times. This was the only order he was given. 133 mercenaries had failed this simple task.
"Neither have you." The general replied. His voice was ice-cold, containing no emotion, just plain weariness. "It's a- hobby of mine."
The spy ignored anything the pause meant. He knew it was only a failure of an attempt to inject any sort of thought into the voice of a hollow shell. The general planned every sentence. That particular one was probably calculated to spark his curiosity. A challenge to his self-control.
"Dismissed."
What a waste of gold for a hobby, he thought, glancing back at the desk as he left the tent.
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