State of the Sooky
Jan. 29th, 2015 02:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdOver 3000 words have been added to Terror of the Frozen North. I started from about 47,700 and am now at 51500
We now have a solid action scene breaking up the sex and traveling.
Seven paragraphs:
Charlie stayed on the ground, and tried to half-roll, half soldier-crawl behind some crates against a wall. One of the men got a hand on his ankle. He kicked down hard with his free foot, hoping to break some fingers. “Edward!”
The report of a shot was his answer and the man grasping his ankle clutched it more tightly for a moment and then let go. The sound of hooves from the street told him the carriage had decided other climes were safer.
Edward peered down and Charlie left himself be pulled to his feet.
“Good thinking, Charles. You slowed them enough that I could stop them.” Edward pulled him close, heedless of the dirt and missing buttons.
“All I could think was that if I got kidnapped at the start of every adventure, you would give it up as a profession and take up something respectable,” Charlie whispered into his shirt front. The coppery smell of blood, cut with gunpowder and the rank fishy odor hung all over Edward. “We need baths and clean clothes and about two days of sleep. Good thing you had the revolver.”
“I seldom carry it in London. The licensure act a few years back makes it deucedly difficult to justify having a weapon in the city. They're afraid of Bolsheviks, you see. But the theater wasn't in a good part of town, so I took the liberty. Let's see who these men were. They weren't common thieves.”
Charlie rolled the one man over on his back and watched as a glove fell off his hand. “His fingers are...webbed?”
Bed made, dishes washed. drains cleared.
two rows put in on shawl. They take longer and longer.
We now have a solid action scene breaking up the sex and traveling.
Seven paragraphs:
Charlie stayed on the ground, and tried to half-roll, half soldier-crawl behind some crates against a wall. One of the men got a hand on his ankle. He kicked down hard with his free foot, hoping to break some fingers. “Edward!”
The report of a shot was his answer and the man grasping his ankle clutched it more tightly for a moment and then let go. The sound of hooves from the street told him the carriage had decided other climes were safer.
Edward peered down and Charlie left himself be pulled to his feet.
“Good thinking, Charles. You slowed them enough that I could stop them.” Edward pulled him close, heedless of the dirt and missing buttons.
“All I could think was that if I got kidnapped at the start of every adventure, you would give it up as a profession and take up something respectable,” Charlie whispered into his shirt front. The coppery smell of blood, cut with gunpowder and the rank fishy odor hung all over Edward. “We need baths and clean clothes and about two days of sleep. Good thing you had the revolver.”
“I seldom carry it in London. The licensure act a few years back makes it deucedly difficult to justify having a weapon in the city. They're afraid of Bolsheviks, you see. But the theater wasn't in a good part of town, so I took the liberty. Let's see who these men were. They weren't common thieves.”
Charlie rolled the one man over on his back and watched as a glove fell off his hand. “His fingers are...webbed?”
Bed made, dishes washed. drains cleared.
two rows put in on shawl. They take longer and longer.
