Per Folmer
Swordsman
Hej alla, tänkte dela med mig lite av vad jag skriver ibland. Jag brukar oftast komma kanske två rader innan jag ger upp så jag ser detta som positivt oavsett.
Den lilla bit jag kommit här är inte helt korrad men läs gärna och påpeka om ni har tips och idéer. Tack!
/Per
LAND OF FROST
The moon lit up the cold lands around the town of Hol’s End. Trees and vegetation had been cut down around the town wall; at least two hundred paces out, rendering it an island in an otherwise ocean of trees. The stone wall was high and on top of it walked the night watch, taking small breaks in the poorly built wooden shacks that rested along the length of the wall. Small fires were lit inside and those who were not on duty rested there beneath simple quilts and furs, boiling bits of old boar and vegetables into a stew. The snow had yet not come and would not either for a few weeks as it seemed too cold. The moonlight bounced off the clean-shaven hills until the forest, barren as it was this time of year, consumed it by the sheer volume of branches. Beside the many small paths around the town, only one road led to this town which rested a day’s walk from the main routes.
Hol’s End was a mining community of some 1700 inhabitants. During the short summer months a majority of the town’s inhabitants worked hard bringing bits of iron into town from the old mountains roots on which the town stood, taking advantage of the long days. As soon as winter arrived the gates were closed shut from outsiders and smelting began, continuing through the winter.
Behind the stone walls the streets were narrow and confusing, seemingly bending one way or the other. The buildings were often linked together, forming backyards were most of the social activity took place. Most streets were painstakingly being converted to cobblestone, commissioned by the city council to be undertaken during winter months, as it would have been too crowded in the streets during summer. The main street seemed to be the last street to get this much needed upgrade due to its high number of inns and brothels. One would dare say that there was an inn for every tenth miner, not counting the illegal ones selling the strongest liquors. The main street went on for about three hundred paces ending at Council Hill, a barely noticeable hill, where the administrative part of town had their offices. The town guard encased this district with the town wall. Hol’s End had managed its own affairs for one hundred and thirty years now and the advent of the Council and the acknowledged title of “Town” had reinforced its standing in this world, however neutral and uninterested it was.
Helvund Goatkeeper drank his third ale in The Raven Inn. The walls were clad with cloth and fur. Tobacco and liquor formed a thick mist penetrated only by the murmur of the smelting teams on leave from the foundries. Shoulder to shoulder they sat, strong men with thick beards and swollen red eyes behind their massive eyebrows. Violent fights between different foundries were common in here, but Helvund didn’t mind, he would not be mistaken for a smelter.
“Mind if I join you, Goatkeeper?” A scrawny figure leaned against the table.
Helvund raised his mug and nodded to the stool in front of him on the other side of the table, taking a few mouthfuls of ale in the same movement.
“What are you doing here, Goatkeeper?” The figure asked when he had positioned himself comfortably on the small stool.
“I’m having a few ales, Kerper.” Helvund hated this man. He hated his way to speak, his way to walk and his way to exist.
The unwanted guest leaned back on the creaking stool, studying the surroundings. He made contact with the innkeeper and signaled for ale whereupon the innkeeper immediately quit mopping a pool of urine and fetched him a mug.
“Heh, Kerper.. You’ve got some guts calling me Kerper, Goatkeeper.” He insisted on using his derogatory last name.
“I found out that some… criminals have been selling Hol’s primary source of income to unknown outsiders. One would go as far as judging that treasonous in these dark, cold times. Wouldn’t you agree, Goatkeeper?”
Kerper fixed his eyes on Helvund, eyes like beads glittering in the dark.
“I would… Kerper.” Helvund was glad he was intoxicated; his mind dulled and nerves non-existent.
He glanced across the inn, confirming his suspicion. There were two men there, just as thin as Kerper, holding guard at the entrance. They seemed nervous in this den of the lion with all the smelters having their well-needed numbing, careful not to be in the way.
Den lilla bit jag kommit här är inte helt korrad men läs gärna och påpeka om ni har tips och idéer. Tack!
/Per
LAND OF FROST
The moon lit up the cold lands around the town of Hol’s End. Trees and vegetation had been cut down around the town wall; at least two hundred paces out, rendering it an island in an otherwise ocean of trees. The stone wall was high and on top of it walked the night watch, taking small breaks in the poorly built wooden shacks that rested along the length of the wall. Small fires were lit inside and those who were not on duty rested there beneath simple quilts and furs, boiling bits of old boar and vegetables into a stew. The snow had yet not come and would not either for a few weeks as it seemed too cold. The moonlight bounced off the clean-shaven hills until the forest, barren as it was this time of year, consumed it by the sheer volume of branches. Beside the many small paths around the town, only one road led to this town which rested a day’s walk from the main routes.
Hol’s End was a mining community of some 1700 inhabitants. During the short summer months a majority of the town’s inhabitants worked hard bringing bits of iron into town from the old mountains roots on which the town stood, taking advantage of the long days. As soon as winter arrived the gates were closed shut from outsiders and smelting began, continuing through the winter.
Behind the stone walls the streets were narrow and confusing, seemingly bending one way or the other. The buildings were often linked together, forming backyards were most of the social activity took place. Most streets were painstakingly being converted to cobblestone, commissioned by the city council to be undertaken during winter months, as it would have been too crowded in the streets during summer. The main street seemed to be the last street to get this much needed upgrade due to its high number of inns and brothels. One would dare say that there was an inn for every tenth miner, not counting the illegal ones selling the strongest liquors. The main street went on for about three hundred paces ending at Council Hill, a barely noticeable hill, where the administrative part of town had their offices. The town guard encased this district with the town wall. Hol’s End had managed its own affairs for one hundred and thirty years now and the advent of the Council and the acknowledged title of “Town” had reinforced its standing in this world, however neutral and uninterested it was.
Helvund Goatkeeper drank his third ale in The Raven Inn. The walls were clad with cloth and fur. Tobacco and liquor formed a thick mist penetrated only by the murmur of the smelting teams on leave from the foundries. Shoulder to shoulder they sat, strong men with thick beards and swollen red eyes behind their massive eyebrows. Violent fights between different foundries were common in here, but Helvund didn’t mind, he would not be mistaken for a smelter.
“Mind if I join you, Goatkeeper?” A scrawny figure leaned against the table.
Helvund raised his mug and nodded to the stool in front of him on the other side of the table, taking a few mouthfuls of ale in the same movement.
“What are you doing here, Goatkeeper?” The figure asked when he had positioned himself comfortably on the small stool.
“I’m having a few ales, Kerper.” Helvund hated this man. He hated his way to speak, his way to walk and his way to exist.
The unwanted guest leaned back on the creaking stool, studying the surroundings. He made contact with the innkeeper and signaled for ale whereupon the innkeeper immediately quit mopping a pool of urine and fetched him a mug.
“Heh, Kerper.. You’ve got some guts calling me Kerper, Goatkeeper.” He insisted on using his derogatory last name.
“I found out that some… criminals have been selling Hol’s primary source of income to unknown outsiders. One would go as far as judging that treasonous in these dark, cold times. Wouldn’t you agree, Goatkeeper?”
Kerper fixed his eyes on Helvund, eyes like beads glittering in the dark.
“I would… Kerper.” Helvund was glad he was intoxicated; his mind dulled and nerves non-existent.
He glanced across the inn, confirming his suspicion. There were two men there, just as thin as Kerper, holding guard at the entrance. They seemed nervous in this den of the lion with all the smelters having their well-needed numbing, careful not to be in the way.
