Well, I've been slowly plugging away at Nanowrimo: I doubt I'll make it to the end though. But, I did promise myself that as soon as I finished the scene I was working on (the one I got horribly stuck on and couldn't figure out what to do with it) I would post it here for you guys to see that, yes, I have been at least trying. lol.
So anyway, currently I'm stuck without my main word program, but I found another one that works alright; at least I can open documents until I get my other program installed. This scene fits somewhere in the middle of chapter two and it's from one of my villains' point of views. It comes right after my MC and supporting characters escape their farm where my evil character is lurking in their yard looking for them. I'm actually much farther in the rewrite than chapter two, but sometimes you just have to stop and go back. :)
So, without further ado, I give you MY NEW SCENE! :D
The smell of sweat; the echo of pounding feet growing farther and farther away; the faint pulse of quickened heartbeats throbbing in the air…
And fear.
Lots of fear.
Vúrhaugh breathed deep, licking the corner of his mouth, and closed his eyes. So sweet; so intoxicating… He’d almost forgotten how it tasted, it’d been so long. He smiled, allowing the aroma to permeate his senses, and glanced down at the footprints beaten into the dirt. Three sets, crisscrossing back and forth over each other. One large set, two smaller.
The Grohnjiem yanked its chain, wrenching his concentration. Vúrhaugh growled. He kicked the fiend in the back legs and wrapped the chain a second time around his hands. “You’ll get your chance, you Guldakh beast! Heel!” The creature snarled, flames flashing from his maw. Vúrhaugh spit and bared his teeth. His eyes glowed a dangerous red. The fire died in the Grohnjiem’s throat. It glared at him and sat down on its haunches, beating its tail impatiently against the ground.
Vúrhaugh lifted his head, closed his eyes, and breathed in deep. His mind cleared. Slowly, the night noises faded into oblivion, leaving only the faint sounds of his prey. His nostrils flared, working through the information mingling in his nose. Three, yes: an older man, a young girl, and a boy just reaching manhood. The fear from the girl was strongest. Her every breath, the beat of her heart, and each movement secreted pure terror. The boy’s bravado was only feigned, a mask to hide the panic in his chest. Vúrhaugh scowled. Pathetic.
And then the man… The man was curious. Vúrhaugh focused his senses, concentrating only on the man’s scent and what little sound of him the night offered. The man was running, but he was trying to be silent and, for the most part, was succeeding. He was frightened but… how strange; he wasn’t frightened for himself. His strides were long: he was a tall man…
Information bombarded Vúrhaugh’s senses, creating a picture in his mind. The man was mature, but not old. Strong. Well built. He ran, but did not breathe hard: experienced then – a warrior? Perhaps.
And then a new scent fused the air, sweet and pure. It came like death to Vúrhaugh’s nose. His brow creased and he pulled back. This was not normal. Humans did not have that scent. He freed a tendril of his mind and sent it out before him. Out over the field it went, weaving between plants, bumping over earthen knolls and exposed tree roots. The resonating echo of footfalls came back to him, louder now… much louder. And the frightened breaths were like wind through a cave.
So, they weren’t being nearly as silent as they thought they were.
He pushed the tendril onward until it brushed against the man’s leg, then climbed to his waist, up over his shoulder, and finally caressed the back of his neck. Vúrhaugh smiled. The probe nudged the base of the man’s head, seeking a way in. Human skin was fragile and not resilient to mental probes. It would soon find an entrance…
The man’s head snapped up.
Pain erupted in Vúrhaugh’s head. He gasped and fell back on the ground. There was no way the man could have seen him and yet… Lightning flashed behind his eyes. A power stronger than his forced the probe back, pounding it into his skull like a nail driven by a hammer. Darkness crowded his vision and for a moment, a set of angry silver eyes flared into existence.
Then they disappeared.
Vúrhaugh sat up and looked again at the large imprints in the dust. By all appearance they were normal human footprints, but Vúrhaugh bared his fangs at them and spit. No doubt lingered in his mind now; the man was Awet.
Vúrhaugh glanced at the Gronjiem, now pacing at the end of its chain. It snarled at him, but he ignored it, lost deep in thought. Humans weren’t supposed to go Awet – they weren’t built for it. To be Awet was to be subdued by the thoughts and minds of others and it took great will-power to remain sane under such a weight. When Humans gained such abilities, they either grew heady with the power and eventually destroyed themselves, or they tried to hide their gift and crumbled under the burden…
Or they weren’t human.
Vúrhaugh stood and pulled the Gronjiem closer by the chain. It snarled but he gave the chain a good yank and the beast fell still. Vúrhaugh’s fingers brushed over the clasp that locked the chain to the creature’s collar. It glared at him, slight interest flickering in its fire-red eyes.
“Find them,” he whispered, “but do not hurt them yet. Search out the truth behind the guardian’s facade. Then return to me.” His fingers moved and the clasp fell away. The wolf shot off into the field, as silent as a shadow.
Vúrhaugh straightened and turned back to the farm. Suspicion nagged at the back of his mind and he knew he couldn’t ignore it. The Prizes were being guarded and the enemy was powerful; Gorakk would not be pleased.
