I found this amongst some older stuff and since it’s not really long enough to make into it’s own entry in the Writing page, I’m going to put it here. Check it out.
Fynx sat atop the bridge’s highest tower and gazed out at the city across the river. The guards below were oblivious to his presence perched high above them. His golden-red hair flowed in the steady breeze like a flame atop his head. His deep emerald green eyes took in what little detail he could gather from the distant city. His body was lithe and relaxed despite the height and winds which made his perch all the more perilous.
The light of candle, torch, and lantern could be seen in the upper windows unblocked by the city walls. Moonlight cast a pall of shadows across the buildings, making the lights seem all the brighter. Fynx wondered if any in those windows could look out and see the figure perched atop the bridge that was him. In the charcoal cloak and matching tunic he doubted it. Yet as the moon rose higher he sprang from the tower to the shadows of the balcony below. With no more noise than that of a cat he landed on the balcony rail. A quick check of the doorway assured him that the guards were still below. He lowered himself as far as arms would allow and then dropped silently to the roadway below and stepped more securely into the shadows.
The wind was lessened at this level and he could make out the voices of the guards, muffled but discernable none-the-less. On padded feet he stepped to the outside of the retaining wall and to the narrow ledge there. He slipped towards the guard post farthest from the city. When he came to the tower he began the perilous task of working around the tower, his fingers finding the smallest handholds his soft boots allowing him a perilous step.
As he worked his way slowly around the tower he hoped he timed this right. He wouldn’t be able to hang to the side of this tower for long. If the changing of the guard were late he would surely plummet into the river below. Then it would be a toss up as to whether he was shot by a quarrel from the guardsmen and dragged back to the city and hanged or became a midnight snack for the voracious crocs below.
From this point he could see nothing but the night sky above him, and the dark water below. To either side he could see only the gentle curve of the tower. His left foot slipped and Fynx gasped for air, the brick drawing blood from his finger tips as he dug for an emergency hold.
In earlier times the elves would have allowed him into the forest. Not welcomed him, or greeted him, but allowed him to come beneath the branches of their home so long as he respected it and them and showed no malice to the wood. But this was not the olden times. It had been a hundred years since the elves had allowed the ambassadors of the other races to come into their realm. A hundred years since the council on diplomatic relations had been returned to the city with their heads strapped to their saddles and not a body amongst them. It could not be said that the elves were at war with the humans or the dwarves, or that they battled only the giak and the minotaur in their forest. The elves had simply decided that they would have no more of the other, lesser races, and had closed their borders in a most unpleasant way. In those 100 years few have claimed to have been within the forest’s shadow, none that have entered its depths have returned, and many are the tales of what awaits the foolish soul who braves to penetrate the elvish veil of secrecy.
I’m not putting this up as an example of my incredible prose, but rather as an example of the kind of crap that is cluttering up my harddrive.
02/15/05: Thanks to Frank Andrew for catching the typos that I missed. I think I’ve corrected them all now.