Post by JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS on Nov 1, 2011 17:49:49 GMT -5
I think a lot of us are doing Nano this month, and even if you're not, I'm sure this place would be a good discussion for encouragement and stuff for everyone who is! Since we're all writers, we could probably help each other out with writer's block and such, and share excerpts of our ongoing books with each other.
Here's an excerpt of my Phantom themed novel. Once I write in my Sebastian based one, I'll post that here as well.
So, what do you think? Begin discussions!
Here's an excerpt of my Phantom themed novel. Once I write in my Sebastian based one, I'll post that here as well.
Three knocks on the door.
He gave no one time to answer before he crept his long skeletal hand around the door, his body slinking through the opening like a virus seeping through veins.
The patrons (few that there were up and about at this time of night), were stunned by the dark blot of fantastical form that made its way into the boarding house, eerily closing the door and the cold mist of the night behind him with a soft click. He seemed to glide across the floor, his long cloak caressing his stature as if it was made of liquid silk. Perhaps it was, perhaps it was fashioned from the same bold of cloth as that mystical mask that shielded whatever mystery the man kept hidden. Both cloak and mask were his marks of a stranger, a stranger more strange than strange usually allowed.
His gloves peeled from his hands with a sickening crack, slapping themselves into his palm as they disappeared in his breast pocket. The figure surveyed the civilians. One man gulped down the ale that had been resting itself in his mouth since the stranger had opened the door. Another’s mouth hung open, and the peculiar man stifled a chuckle as his feet pulled themselves to the front desk.
The woman behind it was no better than the few townsfolk in the lobby. Her eyes were downcast, but she stood completely still. Was the little darling shaking? he wondered. Or was she ill with the winter cold?
She was a quaint little thing, dark brown hair pulled back tightly into a small bun on her head, her clothing plain and brown, the only ornament a cameo brooch pinned to her collar and a flowery, un-matching apron tied around her bulging (probably with child) waist. She was young, but the wear of the years were evident on her face. He assumed she must be the mistress of the house.
“Is there a room available at this establishment, madam?” he asked in that booming and intoxicating voice of his that all the patrons knew would come out of his frightfully thin lips. How could a man so infuriatingly curious not have some unearthly quality about him?
“French, sir?” the woman squeaked, a thick blush creeping over her face as she stole a glance up to his blank and unchanging mask.
Erik blinked. His accent had betrayed him. “Oui, madame. Je suis français.”
Coins spilled out onto the desk. He poured the pouch as ceremoniously as he could, smirking and concealing the sack once again beneath his cloak. “I trust this will be enough for a month. You do have a room available, do you not?”
=
The woman nodded, her eyes widening at the money nearly dripping off the desk. “Yes, yes we have a room. But sir,” she began, looking back up to him and clutching her swelling belly. “This is more than enough for a month.”
The man raised a finely arched eyebrow, though the mask concealed it from her vision. “If you wish me to take my money elsewhere, please say so madam, so that I am no more a burden to your hospitality.”
He bowed slightly, attempting to sweep the money back into his person, but she reached out a small hand (wedding ring glistening in the flicker of the lamplight), and touched his black clothed arm. “No, monsieur,” she said in a terrible attempt at sympathizing with him. “We have plenty of room, you are too generous.”
Erik stood straighter, lowering his arm and pulling it away forcefully, glowering at her. He did not like to be touched.
“Good.”
He gave no one time to answer before he crept his long skeletal hand around the door, his body slinking through the opening like a virus seeping through veins.
The patrons (few that there were up and about at this time of night), were stunned by the dark blot of fantastical form that made its way into the boarding house, eerily closing the door and the cold mist of the night behind him with a soft click. He seemed to glide across the floor, his long cloak caressing his stature as if it was made of liquid silk. Perhaps it was, perhaps it was fashioned from the same bold of cloth as that mystical mask that shielded whatever mystery the man kept hidden. Both cloak and mask were his marks of a stranger, a stranger more strange than strange usually allowed.
His gloves peeled from his hands with a sickening crack, slapping themselves into his palm as they disappeared in his breast pocket. The figure surveyed the civilians. One man gulped down the ale that had been resting itself in his mouth since the stranger had opened the door. Another’s mouth hung open, and the peculiar man stifled a chuckle as his feet pulled themselves to the front desk.
The woman behind it was no better than the few townsfolk in the lobby. Her eyes were downcast, but she stood completely still. Was the little darling shaking? he wondered. Or was she ill with the winter cold?
She was a quaint little thing, dark brown hair pulled back tightly into a small bun on her head, her clothing plain and brown, the only ornament a cameo brooch pinned to her collar and a flowery, un-matching apron tied around her bulging (probably with child) waist. She was young, but the wear of the years were evident on her face. He assumed she must be the mistress of the house.
“Is there a room available at this establishment, madam?” he asked in that booming and intoxicating voice of his that all the patrons knew would come out of his frightfully thin lips. How could a man so infuriatingly curious not have some unearthly quality about him?
“French, sir?” the woman squeaked, a thick blush creeping over her face as she stole a glance up to his blank and unchanging mask.
Erik blinked. His accent had betrayed him. “Oui, madame. Je suis français.”
Coins spilled out onto the desk. He poured the pouch as ceremoniously as he could, smirking and concealing the sack once again beneath his cloak. “I trust this will be enough for a month. You do have a room available, do you not?”
=
The woman nodded, her eyes widening at the money nearly dripping off the desk. “Yes, yes we have a room. But sir,” she began, looking back up to him and clutching her swelling belly. “This is more than enough for a month.”
The man raised a finely arched eyebrow, though the mask concealed it from her vision. “If you wish me to take my money elsewhere, please say so madam, so that I am no more a burden to your hospitality.”
He bowed slightly, attempting to sweep the money back into his person, but she reached out a small hand (wedding ring glistening in the flicker of the lamplight), and touched his black clothed arm. “No, monsieur,” she said in a terrible attempt at sympathizing with him. “We have plenty of room, you are too generous.”
Erik stood straighter, lowering his arm and pulling it away forcefully, glowering at her. He did not like to be touched.
“Good.”
So, what do you think? Begin discussions!
.