Ok, so I've signed up for an online class with lectures from Brandon Sanderson. For those of you who don't know and to re-iterate to those who do, Brandon Sanderson is an LDS fantasy-writer, creative writing teacher at BYU, and is absolutely brilliant! Really, his stuff is some of the most original fantasy writing I've read in a long time. I highly recommend the Mistborn series and Warbreaker. Part of my syllabus for the class includes writing at least 1,00-2,00 words a week and submitting them for critiquing.
I've always loved writing and have started a half a dozen books. But since starting college, I haven't nearly devoted the time to it that I should. Thus, my project for the week is to write every day and in order to write 2,000 words a week, that means writing at least 285 a day. I don't know if I will exclusively work only on the story for the class or others as well, but I've decided to not only post the story I'm working on the class on the site for the class, but here as well as further motivation to keep me writing.
My working title thus far is called The Witch of Bane, and it's actually based on a dream I once had. It's definitely rough draft work thus far but I hope you enjoy it!
Her
blue eyes narrowed as she watched the small, dark steamboat travel up the
river, her revolver ready to fire. As the vessel chuffed past her hiding spot
in the reeds on the bank, the sunlight glittered of the cargo on board, the horns
and hides of seven unicorns meant for the Witch of the Bane. She smelled the
Reapers on the boat, even from her distance, the stench of gasoline mixed with
rotting flesh. Sitting still, she waited for the rest of her company and
listened. Wyn glanced to her right to a man crouched on an adjacent hover skiff,
identical to the one she stood on. He met her gaze and nodded.
Putting her hand on the mast, Wyn stood and the skiffs
roared to life. Motors chortled to life around the bank and without hesitation,
her skiff shot forward, floating only centimeters above the water. Screeches
echoed off the waves as she steered with one hand towards the steamboat,
breaching the reeds into the open river. Tall, dark figures rushed about the
deck of the steamboat, and she could see the top hats of the Reapers as she
approached. Ducking as bullet sprays
flew up in the water, she aimed her revolver, toppling the Reaper at the helm
of a gatling gun. A second Reaper ran to take its place.
“Skydas,” Wyn said, a shield forming at the head of her skiff
as second round of bullets flew towards her, bouncing back to fall flat into
the river.
The
skiffs ahead of her had pulled alongside the steamboat, grappling hooks thrown
onto the deck as wizards started to climb the ropes. A few toppled down back
into their skiff as Reapers took axes to the ropes. The fallen wizards shot up
with their guns, protecting those still climbing. Parking her skiff between two
others, Wyn holstered her revolver and quickly grabbed her grappling. Lassoing
it up, the hook swung over the edge of the deck, clinging into the wood. She
clasped the rope between her gloved fingers and pulled herself up, throwing one
hand over the other and thanking her lucky stars for her trousers. Shots fired
around her, but she dared not look down as she focused only on the other end of
her rope, perspiration dripping from the edge of her red hair down her face.
As
her fingers latched down onto the handrail of the deck, a Reaper blocked her
path, only the chin and tip of his nose visible, his top hot shielding his
eyes. She leapt up, crouched atop of the rail, and his sword flung down,
slicing the rope she had climbed. Jumping forward, her side barreled into the
side of a cabin as she avoided the Reaper. Reaching into her belt, Wyn drew the
sword at her side. The Reaper turned, sword pointed towards her, as she
sidestepped away from the wall. He lunged, she parried on the inside, pushing
his sword arm away with her. With a swoop, her blade cut across his chest. The
Reaper screeched as his dark flesh hissed, melting into a dark puddle. Spinning
towards the aft, Wyn ran, leaving the Reaper pooled behind her, top hat resting
on top.
Swords
clinked as wizards and Reapers locked arms around her. She sprinted forward,
slashing out as Reapers in her path and ducking under arms till she reached the
paddock at the rear of the steamboat, which had drifted in the current amidst
the battle. The unicorns whinnied, stomping their feet nervously at the loud
chaos surrounding them. The closest hung its neck across the fence, head held
low with its sharp horn directed at her approach.
“Steady,”
Wyn whispered as she pulled her revolver out with her free hand. Cocking the
gun, she shot at the lock on the entrance of the paddock, the wooden door
swinging open.
“Go,
go, go!”
The
unicorns barged through, galloping out of their prison, some clearing the
handrail into the river below and others charging down the deck, cutting
through Reapers. One unicorn remained, standing with uncertainty at the gate.
Wyn ran to its side, smacking its rump with the back of her hand.
“Go,
get out of here,” Wyn said as the startled creature burst forward, jumping into
the water. “May the Witch or the Royals never find you again.”
A
deep laugh shook the air, causing the clanking of swords and firing of guns to
cease. The Reapers squealed in delight as a shadow fell upon the steamboat. Wyn
rushed for the rail, cranking her head out over the sky. The boat rattled
beneath her. Her fingers dug into the rail as the steamboat trembled violently
when a huge bird descended from the sky. Yelling, the wizards on board
scrambled back to their skiffs, those in the water racing back to the shore and
cover on trees.
Its
black wings blocked the sun as it bared down on the river. The swimming
unicorns shrieked, panicking to get the shore, as the bird’s talons stretched
forth. They plucked the straggler unicorn, still struggling in the middle of
the river, from the water and into the air.
“No!” screamed Wyn as
she watched the bird, towering over the boat, land on the banks. Still clutched
in its talon, the bird lowered its great beak to the unicorn and opened its
mouth. The unicorn went limp as a white form rose from its body, seeping into
the open beak of the bird. As the last went down the bird’s throat, the mammoth
creature laughed with the voice of a human. The laugh magnified causing Wyn to
cover her ears and turn back to find her own skiff.
Throwing
herself off the steamboat, she landed inside and started the skiff. Water
sprung up into her face as she banked away, flying towards the shore. She left
the skiff as she reached the land, not daring to stop till she reached the
trees. With a glance back, she saw that the bird had set the dead unicorn on to
the ground and tore through the carcass with its beak. While some managed to
remain breathing without one, unicorns could not live without a Soul.
