Camp NaNoWriMo update
Aug. 11th, 2012 12:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
silver_sunYes, I'm still going, and still on target, actually I've about 200 words over for today's goal (which isn't actually enough as I'm not going to get any writing time next weekend because of the inlaws wedding)
Anyway, word count is now 16,352.
"You think this is war?" Sarpedon said uncertain of the point Aran was making.
"You think that it is not?" Aran challenged. "Perhaps until now it has been mearly fought with works and isolated deeds done in the dark. Now though it has be come something greater. The attack on Timballie was about more than killing a few foreign soldiers."
"Four hundred and sixty seven," Sarpedon said, anger in his voice. "There were four hundred and and sixty seven soldiers garrisoned at Timballie, as well as about fifty traders and camp followers. Over five hundred men, women and children died in there, so don't you let me hear you calling them a few, like they were nothing."
"You knew them," Aran said shocked, relaisation creeping into his expression.
"Aye." Sitting down, Sarpedon stared into the depths of low, slow burning fire. The red crackling heat seemed like the personification of war and battle.
"I had not considered that, that you and your men were from the fort. I had assumed that you were part of the force stationed at Solidago because you had approached from the pass." Aran said, then offered the flask to Sarpedon.
Sarpedon took it and drank deeply. It was filled with the sweet, potent local spirit, Arat. Reluctantly he handed it back. He would need all his wits about him when he was on watch shortly. He returned it to Aran, who tucked the bottle back into his jacket.
"I am sorry," Aran said, sorrow borne of experience in his voice. In battle you can expect loses, some friends live and others die without rhyme or reason, but this is something else. To lose all in such a way is not a blow well weathered by anyone, and least not so soon."
Anyway, word count is now 16,352.
"You think this is war?" Sarpedon said uncertain of the point Aran was making.
"You think that it is not?" Aran challenged. "Perhaps until now it has been mearly fought with works and isolated deeds done in the dark. Now though it has be come something greater. The attack on Timballie was about more than killing a few foreign soldiers."
"Four hundred and sixty seven," Sarpedon said, anger in his voice. "There were four hundred and and sixty seven soldiers garrisoned at Timballie, as well as about fifty traders and camp followers. Over five hundred men, women and children died in there, so don't you let me hear you calling them a few, like they were nothing."
"You knew them," Aran said shocked, relaisation creeping into his expression.
"Aye." Sitting down, Sarpedon stared into the depths of low, slow burning fire. The red crackling heat seemed like the personification of war and battle.
"I had not considered that, that you and your men were from the fort. I had assumed that you were part of the force stationed at Solidago because you had approached from the pass." Aran said, then offered the flask to Sarpedon.
Sarpedon took it and drank deeply. It was filled with the sweet, potent local spirit, Arat. Reluctantly he handed it back. He would need all his wits about him when he was on watch shortly. He returned it to Aran, who tucked the bottle back into his jacket.
"I am sorry," Aran said, sorrow borne of experience in his voice. In battle you can expect loses, some friends live and others die without rhyme or reason, but this is something else. To lose all in such a way is not a blow well weathered by anyone, and least not so soon."