Moving on...

Well, I seem to have kept to my rigorous schedule of trying to create one new thing a day (not that you've been privy to everything, of course). So here's a brief scene I created because, well, I felt the need to. It tells a story, sort of. Another experimental way of narrating (and it's in the second person, no less).

A Moment

It's only going to be in the briefest of flashes, and when it happens you'll have precious little time to take it all in. You're not going to know who's involved. You're not going to know much in the way of why things are happening. You're just going to have the moment, and if you can get as much as you can out of the moment, then you'll be just fine.

If you get nothing out of the moment, then it's probably on the fault of the author, who should really be able to describe his moments a little better. But that is not important now, what's important is this rapidly approaching moment. Pay close attention! Drink in every word!

Begin with smell. The scent of earth, first and foremost. It's a scent of potential, of living, of growth and beginnings and endings all wrapped into one. Speaking of endings, there's another scent in the air: blood. A coppery scent (or is it iron and you just think it's copper); itself speaking of life but in this quantity it's sickening. Sweat, that salty scent, almost like the sea; that's in the air too. Foliage, the smell of wood and leaf, in the background but dominated by the blood and sweat and earth, rounds out smell.

Now turn to sounds. First, the sound of breathing. It's ragged, labored, inhaling lightly, exhaling noisily. Focus on the breathing and you can hear other things, like the sound of something dripping (saliva? Blood? There's no way of telling), or the sound of teeth grinding together, a grating sound that's instantly recognizable. The sound of metal on metal, a crashing sound, the sound of feet shuffling in the undergrowth, and now a new sound, a cracking sound—the splintering of wood. A thunderous thud.

It's sight's turn now; two men, both wounded, fight. One wears no armor save a leather jerkin, the other is armored in plate and chainmail. The lightly armored one has just lost his shield, it sits on the forest floor, forgotten. The heavily armored one wields a longsword, and he uses it skillfully to hack away at the lightly armored man's defenses. The lightly armored one only has a short sword, and with no shield, he's at a disadvantage. He's using his mobility to keep alive, but it's clear that his luck will not hold out for much longer.

Take note of the way the morning light streams through the trees overhead, illuminating the two combatants as they struggle with one another, giving the scene an ethereal feeling. Watch the dust fly into the air, kicked up by their feet. Pay special attention to the falling leaves, the way they dance on the wind caused by the passage of a sword stroke. Notice how the sweat runs down the brow of the lightly armored man, dripping off of the end of his nose, causing his long hair to stick to the side of his face. Sweat mixes with the blood running from a cut over his right eye, causing him to blink and shake his head slightly; this nearly gets him killed by a quick stroke from his opponent. His opponent does not appear to be as tired, despite his heavier kit. If he's sweating, it does not show. He bleeds from a lucky strike to his shoulder, where two plates come together. It has affected his ability to hold his shield, but he refuses to relinquish it.

With a final cry, the lightly armored man rushes at his foe, hoping to pierce the breastplate by sheer effort. His eyes are wide, his mouth is open, and his hands both grip his sword's hilt. The foliage is churned up in a trail behind him, marking his passage. There is a final crash, but you are no longer there to see it.

How does the story end? Can you choose one side over the other? Was a woman involved? Who was the good man, who the evil one? You cannot tell. You have only the moment. Make of it what you will.