Crapometer Volunteer #9

A steady downpour rattled the windows as the spellbinder poured freshly-brewed gahva into a pot containing kardema and jhafran. The dark room, with its heavy crimson curtains smothered the sound, but Taskh shivered as he affected a lazy stretch on one of the long, low
couches and tried to ignore the icy water dripping down his neck. The heat of the room and the thick aroma of gahva made it hard to keep his eyes open. He flinched and started to sit as the binder rose to place the pot over the fire.

The spellbinder noticed his movement and waved his hand, speaking softly, "please make my home your own, Master Taskh."

Though he spoke in a language Taskh had not heard since he'd left home, Taskh did not respond in kind; his dialect would mark him as a man of Zhen as soon as he opened his mouth. Instead, he used the language of Raln, where they both sat.

"Your hospitality is divine."

It was not what he wanted to say. He wanted to ask why citadel guards had knocked on his door this morning and ordered him to attend a meeting with Magister Taralyn, but the binder had met him with the gahva ritual and Khala-thon etiquette demanded that he sit through the entire welcome before speaking about business--which meant he had to sit in silence admiring the aroma of his host's blend.

Waiting for something to boil?
Waiting for something to happen?

You know from my previous posts that I like to start with a BANG. There's nothing happening here. Now, the trick of doing "nothing" is to make us feel underflying tension. There isn't any here. I read that he got rousted out of bed, but I don't feel any reaction from him. Is he nervous? excited? is he thinking he's getting laid or getting killed?

This is a pass for me.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Yep, time to sift through my beginning for my buried lead. Thanks for the feadback.