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When you describe a place • The Less Than Perfect (Lissa Less – Proprieter) was emptier than a church on Saturday night. Sawdust caked the floor, sopping up last night’s spills of beer and blood. Lissa scrubbed down the worn bartop with Suds-all, silent. When the stranger’s boots scraped on the doorstep, the sound cut through the hot, still air.
When you describe a person • He was a tall man with a smile like a rusty razor. He didn’t walk into the room, he loped, the way a wolf or a coyote saunters toward a pack of lambs. He had on faded dungarees and boots that looked like they last been polished the day after Creation.
When you describe an object • Lissa Less’ gaze didn’t linger long on his smile or his boots. She was most concerned about something halfway in between: the gun on his hip, one of the old shooters from before the Fall. It was big, with brass wires leading from grip to barrel, wires that crackled and hissed like tiny snakes. The gun had a gleam on it, shiny chrome that refused to gather dust or grime, but all the same, it looked well-used, well-accustomed to spitting thunder.
When characters use dialogue • “Good day,” he said, with a voice like charcoal and whiskey. “And I want a good night to follow it. Food, bedding, and something to wash it all down with.” • Lissa Less glanced at him sideways, then let her gaze fall, hand drifting to the shooter under the bar. “Food we got, but it ain’t cheap. Bedding too, if’n you don’t mind lice. Drink…you mean water or the water that burns?” • “Whatever you have. I’m powerful thirsty.”
When a series of related actions occur • The stranger slung himself into a chair. He reached into a leather purse, dug out a coin, and flicked it to Lissa. Lissa caught it on the fly, noticing it was an old Double Eagle, one more remnant from before the Fall. She nodded to herself and reached below the bartop for her old peacekeeper. Men like the stranger meant trouble, and this town wasn’t going to be peaceful for long.
Mark the Break(s) It was a cold night in the bitter north. The wind howled from the Dead Forest, the bare branches rattling like bones. Snow whipped through the air, catching in the beards of the watchers on the wall. “I tell you,” Grunt said, shivering, “This watch is a fool’s errand. There is nothing out there.” Arryn said nothing, trying to ignore Grunt’s grumblings just as he tried to ignore the knife-like wind. He stepped back and forth, trying to keep the blood flowing in his feet. All he needed was to lose another toe from frostbite.
Mark the Break(s) Grunt leaned over and spat, snorting in laughter when he watched the spittle freeze before it hit the top of the wall. Then he clapped his hands to warm them and then pressed them to his nose. When he still failed to attract Arryn’s attention, he dug into his pocket. “My dah sent me this,” he said, holding something up in Arryn’s face. It was gold, a ring of considerable size and splendor. Shaped like a dragon eating its own tail, the ring sparkled with inlaid emeralds and rubies. The gems caught the firelight, brilliant colors in this land of gray, black, and white.
Mark the Break(s) Arryn shoved the ring away from his face. He had no need of pretty rings and gemstones. What he needed was a better sword. He was a man with a face as plain as his clothes, a mind as simple and blunt as the hand-me-down broadsword on his hip. Out here on the wall, a fancy ring could not save your fingers or toes from frostbite. It could not stop a wildling’s axe. It would not turn away the white walkers if they came again.
Mark the Break(s) Grunt made a face like a kicked dog and shoved his ring away. “Just thought you’d want to see it, is all,” he whined. “Guess I’ll just have to keep it all to myself.” Arryn said nothing, just cocked his head. It was cold still, bitterly cold, but all at once the wind had stopped. The Dead Forest had ceased its thrashing dance. It was still…waiting…The very night seemed to be holding its breath. Arryn’s hand flew to his sword and he snatched the dull blade from the scabbard. “Ring the alarm!” He growled. “They’re coming!”
Mark the Break(s) Grunt let out a cry and darted away to the alarm bell. He was halfway there when the arrow took him in his side. He went down with a cry, one hand on the arrow shaft, the other on his father’s ring. Arryn leapt past him, seized the alarm bell, and shook it with all his might, bellowing out “Fire! Fear! Foes!” Below them, the Dead Forest was still as ever, the pale, white trees untroubled by the faintest breeze. Arryn could hear no stomping feet, no cracking branches, no cries of war-horns. Other than Grunt’s muffled curses, the wall-top was silent, and the forest was too.
Mark the Break(s) Arryngripped his sword and whispered a prayer. He prayed for horns and battle-cries, wildling screamers rushing out of the trees. Those he could kill, but not…Suddenly, the trees parted, drawing back like humble servants. In the space between them stood a figure pale and tall. Its eyes were blue as dying stars, its face as cold as winter. Others followed, right and left, bearing swords as thin as icicles. As one, they advanced to the wall, leaving no prints on the driven snow. Arryn looked around him. Other than bleeding Grunt, the wall was his and his alone. Any aid was far below him, and he hardly knew if the other guards had heard his cry for help. “Dance with me, then,” he snarled, raising his battered blade against the white walkers as they came.
