Seven/Seven Blog Challenge
I've been snagged for another blog challenge! The Seven/Seven Blog Challenge works like this:
- Take seven sentences from page 7 or 77 of your current writing work.
- Nominate seven other writers and have them link back to you.
- Mention and link back the person who nominated you.
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I was nominated by my good friend Hazel West (see her post here!), and while I am only supposed to do seven sentences, I am, in fact, going to do seven paragraphs, because the section I chose from page 77 of my story is just too good. ;-) So, this is the first seven (complete) paragraphs of page 77 of my work-in-progress, The Birthright. Ivy Eakins, the protagonist, and Murtagh have just been captured by some rather disreputable street youths, and they're in for a rough time:
By the light of a lamp, I now saw that our assailants were no more than youths, the eldest, who sported a blood-soaked bandage about his arm, being hardly twenty-four. However, they all bore a look of cold intent, and I did not wish to test even the youngest.
The eldest youth ordered that I be held prisoner in a chair, though I was not tied. Murtagh they forced to kneel on the floor, refusing to remove the bag. He slumped forward in their grip, worryingly still.
Complete silence reigned while the youth disappeared downstairs, only to return shortly afterwards with what I could have mistaken for a gentleman in his early thirties, for he was dressed plainly, but neatly, touches of ink at the cuffs as if he were a scholar. But his hat, which he set aside immediately upon entering, was worn, and his green eyes lit with a cruel light that spoke only too clearly of his ill breeding, as well as his questionable occupation.
‘Remove the bag,’ he ordered, beginning to roll up his sleeves in a casual, business-like manner.
I suppressed a cry of alarm, for Murtagh’s face was covered in blood, one eye already swelling shut. He looked utterly defeated, save for a determined, rebellious glint in his dark eyes which told me that he was not yet finished fighting.
'The turncoat has returned!’ the man announced jeeringly. ‘Shall we roll out a welcome feast? No, I think not. You wouldn’t enjoy it much anyway, I’m afraid, for you would only have the noose to look forward to afterwards. But don’t worry, Murtagh; I won’t kill you quite yet. Not while the whereabouts of the necklace are still locked up within your head.’
‘I don’t have it,’ Murtagh said, hardly above a whisper.
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Unfortunately, I do not know any other writers (other than Hazel West) who keep blogs.