Trying to get back into writing prose after massive burn-out so pick the better section of Starhill, a story about an elderly astronomer attempting to escape the bandits who have abducted him for apparently no reason?
Version 1
Version 2
Extracts under the the cut.
Version 1
Between his whirring thoughts and roaring fire, it was a miracle he heard the front door click open.
Galen’s spine turned to ice, his tea solidifying in his throat. If there was one thing he knew he’d done when he’d come in from the observatory tower, it was lock that front door. And anyone in the local village knew that if you wanted to see the astronomer, you came at any time except dawn and you never set foot into a place under the protection of the Queen without permission for fear of retribution – burning village levels of retribution.
Whoever this was, he was willing to bet the shirt off his back they weren’t friendly, and they didn’t have a lot to lose.
Shaking, he levered himself up from the chair, casting a frantic eye over the room. One exit and it led out into the hall, so directly into this person’s path. There was the window, but Galen was very aware of his physical abilities. That same thought applied to the poker by the hearth – he might be able to swing it, but whether he could or whether he would weren’t questions he wanted answered.
A thought pierced through the fear-filled fog in his brain. There was an alarm. It was enchanted, silent, and would ring in the nearest imperial guard post.
It was upstairs, in his bedroom.
Past the front door.
Galen took a deep breath and crept towards the hallway, positioning himself behind the adjoining door. A cold breeze misted past his cheek. The door was still open. Maybe he could sneak past and run down to the village –
A man ducked through the door, peering into the room. Galen had enough time to see shaggy brown hair and hear clinking metal before the man’s gaze locked with his. There was a heartbeat of silence.
Then Galen dived through the door, slamming it behind him.
Version 2
Between his whirring thoughts and roaring fire, it was a miracle he heard click of the front door.
Galen pulled himself out of the chair just in time to see the door fly open, framing a bulky shadow within. Galen jerked back in shock, knocking aside the little table and his mug. Expensive tea soaked into the wood as he pressed himself against the wall.
The man who strode into the room was massive, likely over a head taller than Galen himself, and filthy. Dust and dirt clung to his long shaggy hair, his leather jerkin, his sturdy boots, and the scabbard of the sword at his hip. That sword filled Galen’s whole world, like a weight on a sheet of parchment. It would only take a heartbeat – draw the weapon and swing it at head height…
A creak brought him sharply back to reality. The man – the bandit – was less than a few feet away now. He fixed Galen with a disconcertingly mild stare and tilted his head slightly. “Good morning.”
Galen blinked. “Good morning?” He felt his shirtsleeves rasp against his fingers as he curled his fists. The poker was just within reach.
The heavy, ornate poker.
If he swung it hard enough…
The bandit was just standing there.
He swallowed and tried again, “I’m afraid to tell you, but almost everything of worth in this place isn’t… really… sellable.”
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