dialogue

4/25/20 - 20 minute writing sprint exercise from a writing session w/ a friend - I focused on YA fantasy dialogue. Is it cringey? Yes. But here you go anyway.

Before I can speak, the grinding sound of metal against stone spills through the clearing. There’s a dark clarity to it. Not the clean pierce of a knife being sharpened, nor the spark of swords coming to blows. Instead, it’s the cry of something being dragged. Ringing with finality, it's the sound of reapers drawing out scythes, the sound of felled gods and kingdoms. 

The soldier pinning me down swears. His sword at my neck stills, but it does not leave its perch. I continue to breathe shallowly as the armored guards part, splitting down the middle in neat, ordered forms, as a cloaked figure stalks forward. The dark ends of his cloak billow out like storm clouds as he approaches, and even shadowed, his face shows lines of anger. My stomach rolls at the wicked blade he drags behind comes into view — asymmetrical, with the tip nearly shorn off until the thinness of a needle. It’s pocketed and dinged, but not dulled. There’s a cruel tint to it that only worsens in the merciless light of the afternoon sun.

Blades are meant to split flesh, but this one seems to crave it.

“INSERT NAME,” the soldier closest to me hisses. “You shouldn’t be out.” 

“I go where I please,” the figure says, voice clipped. He traces his weapon in arc around him, drawing sparks where the tip grinds against the cobblestone. The arc ends with me, the needle point so sharp it immediately pierces through my robes. “And this?”

“Infiltrator,” the guard says. Still, the blade does not leave my throat. But something has changed. No longer are the other guards jeering, laughing — they are ramrod straight. Equally wary. There is a shift of power now. I keep my eyes steady on the cloaked figure’s feet .

“Oh?” He shuffles forward and crouches. I don’t need to look up to know that his eyes are on me, assessing. Never had I related so intimately with meat on the cutting board. “I wasn’t aware that we were in the habit of taking survivors.”

I watched as the guard withdrew his blade. I could breathe again.

The next moment, blood trickled from where the needlepoint had barely pierced my throat.

“Not so fast.” There was a slow, laughing quality to his voice. “Don’t be so eager.”

I was surprised at how hot my blood boiled then. In the isle, there were so few opportunities to be angry. We were all there for the same reasons, the same tasks, the same lives. Even the heroes were part of routine — sweet of face and voice. It was a long time since anyone had-

My mind drew a blank. No, the Isle was all I ever had.

And yet, the way this man talked to me, as though I were nothing more than the dirt on his shoe, was so familiar...my body reacted on instinct. 

The clatter of metal against cobblestone, the dull impact in my bones as we hit the ground, my hand on his throat. The guards scramble to life their swords, but I knew in this one, small battle, I would win if I squeezed.

With the hood down, I realized the man was not quite a man. A boy.

A shadow loomed over me.The boy’s throat vibrated under my palm as he spoke. 

“Halt!” He said, scowling at the guard looming above my shoulder. He brought his attention back to me, dark eyes glittering. “Name your terms.”