This is the short story before The Lost Princess. It is only 600-700 words, so it is bearable. For at least the first hundred. I hope.
The Ghost
I admit that this wooden bowl is my third helping. I show no signs of stopping. After a long day of cursing and fighting, bleeding and combating, I will kill enthusiastically for a slice of grilled steak with a splash of sweet honey and rum. Eating like a wild savage, I toss away my manners at the sight of sweet meat.
She wrinkles her nose, as if a proper, stiff, quiet-mannered princess with a lot of thoughts and opinions—most of them not kind or befitting for a noblewoman.
Enjoying her discomfort, I grin madly. "What's wrong, princess? Can't handle a man eating his dinner?"
She sticks her chin up even higher. "I do not like arrogance."
I roar with laughter. I reek of arrogance. She is rather proper and by-the-book. I do not know who she is an agent from the Winter's Crown. Perhaps, this is her cover. Like the cover I'm wearing right now.
Defiantly, she adds, "And you are not a man at all. Only a boy of what? Fourteen? You are lucky to have sprouted in height so young."
"Keep talking," I drawl, pretending not to hear her insult. She is lucky to not be a man. "You'll get to the point eventually, darling."
With blue eyes so fierce, she sneers, "Do not call me darling."
Shoving aside my empty bowl, I lean forward and whisper, "Darling."
She spits, "Pig."
I let the insult slide away. "Well, darling. I had been called worse."
Before she could reply, the doors of this rowdy bar burst open. The outlaws we had been hiding from found us yet again. I stay here sitting, foolishly hoping they haven't notice us yet. They do. They have their crossbows out, aimed at the bigger threat—which unfortunately happens to be me. Everyone stops dancing and drinking to watch us. Brawls happen quite frequently. Gambling is only another form of excitement.
The man with yellow teeth and hideous black eyes grins at the girl—my reluctant companion. "Well, sweetheart? Give us our money! Or I'll fire up your lover boy until you can't recognize his pretty face!"
"He thinks I'm pretty!" I shout. The girl does not look amused.
Giving me a brief glare, she whips out her own crossbow from her warm wintercoat. Aiming not at me but those outlaws, she grits, "Do not call me sweetheart." There is a threat, yes. I simply sit here and watch. I believe I will not be needed.
"And don't call her darling," I add sarcastically. "That is reserved for me."
"It is not reserved for you," she hisses, still aiming her crossbow at those violent outlaws.
"You didn't complain with a crossbow," I point out, playing with my wooden spoon. I flick my eyes around. The bar is still watching us.
"I called you a--"
"Lovers' spat?" growls the other outlaw. His name was Mason Burlap until he changed it to "Gold Miner."
I shrug. "She started it."
"I did not," she shrieks.
Then we start bickering again. While crossbows are pointed at my chest.
"You have no right to call me darling!" she snarls, baring her perfect teeth.
I huff. "I don't even know your name, darling. What else would I call you?"
"Dragon Lady. Isn't that good enough for you?"
"Darling," I smirk, making her even angrier. "You're embarrassing yourself."
"Butterfly Lady more like," says the outlaw.
"Would you shut up?" she and I say together.
"Can we just shoot them?" screams Mason Burlap.
I groan. "I don't want to die."
"Hold your piss," barks "darling." Then she fires two bolts in quick succession. Both of them find their ways into Burlap and his friend's hearts. Then she spins to me and narrows her eyes. With the crossbow in my face, she says, "Now where were we?"
"Something about piss?" I shrug carelessly. Then I daringly add, "Darling."
Happy Writing!
-Penelope Grace
I admit that this wooden bowl is my third helping. I show no signs of stopping. After a long day of cursing and fighting, bleeding and combating, I will kill enthusiastically for a slice of grilled steak with a splash of sweet honey and rum. Eating like a wild savage, I toss away my manners at the sight of sweet meat.
She wrinkles her nose, as if a proper, stiff, quiet-mannered princess with a lot of thoughts and opinions—most of them not kind or befitting for a noblewoman.
Enjoying her discomfort, I grin madly. "What's wrong, princess? Can't handle a man eating his dinner?"
She sticks her chin up even higher. "I do not like arrogance."
I roar with laughter. I reek of arrogance. She is rather proper and by-the-book. I do not know who she is an agent from the Winter's Crown. Perhaps, this is her cover. Like the cover I'm wearing right now.
Defiantly, she adds, "And you are not a man at all. Only a boy of what? Fourteen? You are lucky to have sprouted in height so young."
"Keep talking," I drawl, pretending not to hear her insult. She is lucky to not be a man. "You'll get to the point eventually, darling."
With blue eyes so fierce, she sneers, "Do not call me darling."
Shoving aside my empty bowl, I lean forward and whisper, "Darling."
She spits, "Pig."
I let the insult slide away. "Well, darling. I had been called worse."
Before she could reply, the doors of this rowdy bar burst open. The outlaws we had been hiding from found us yet again. I stay here sitting, foolishly hoping they haven't notice us yet. They do. They have their crossbows out, aimed at the bigger threat—which unfortunately happens to be me. Everyone stops dancing and drinking to watch us. Brawls happen quite frequently. Gambling is only another form of excitement.
The man with yellow teeth and hideous black eyes grins at the girl—my reluctant companion. "Well, sweetheart? Give us our money! Or I'll fire up your lover boy until you can't recognize his pretty face!"
"He thinks I'm pretty!" I shout. The girl does not look amused.
Giving me a brief glare, she whips out her own crossbow from her warm wintercoat. Aiming not at me but those outlaws, she grits, "Do not call me sweetheart." There is a threat, yes. I simply sit here and watch. I believe I will not be needed.
"And don't call her darling," I add sarcastically. "That is reserved for me."
"It is not reserved for you," she hisses, still aiming her crossbow at those violent outlaws.
"You didn't complain with a crossbow," I point out, playing with my wooden spoon. I flick my eyes around. The bar is still watching us.
"I called you a--"
"Lovers' spat?" growls the other outlaw. His name was Mason Burlap until he changed it to "Gold Miner."
I shrug. "She started it."
"I did not," she shrieks.
Then we start bickering again. While crossbows are pointed at my chest.
"You have no right to call me darling!" she snarls, baring her perfect teeth.
I huff. "I don't even know your name, darling. What else would I call you?"
"Dragon Lady. Isn't that good enough for you?"
"Darling," I smirk, making her even angrier. "You're embarrassing yourself."
"Butterfly Lady more like," says the outlaw.
"Would you shut up?" she and I say together.
"Can we just shoot them?" screams Mason Burlap.
I groan. "I don't want to die."
"Hold your piss," barks "darling." Then she fires two bolts in quick succession. Both of them find their ways into Burlap and his friend's hearts. Then she spins to me and narrows her eyes. With the crossbow in my face, she says, "Now where were we?"
"Something about piss?" I shrug carelessly. Then I daringly add, "Darling."
End. For now.
Well, that is the short story. There aren't many names, but it is the start of the story. It is told from The Ghost's POV. He is a main character in The Lost Princess, yes. I'm not going to explain or tell everything about him. He deserves to remain mysterious until the truth revealed.
Happy Writing!
-Penelope Grace
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