In my aimless Saturday morning surfing, I came across Elle Strausse's First 250 Word Blogfest and foolishly decided to sign up.
I have revised my first page so many times that I don't have a clue whether it's good, bad or indifferent. I don't recognize my own story any more. It's like a child that has run off to college and become someone completely different. Most writers don't feel that way until after their book is published. Or perhaps I'm the one who has changed.
But, anyway, for what it's worth... here it is. Please let me know if it's too boring.
Moonlight cast blue shadows on the snow, turning the great drifts that stretched across the parkland into waves in a silent sea. Crikhaven Castle rose like a battered island from the whiteness. A decade of impoverished neglect had left its mark on the ancient walls. The brightly painted stucco depicting the Chalmeth family history was faded and flaking off. The carved ravens and gryphons adorning the rooftops had been worn smooth by the elements and not replaced. Now they were buried beneath a white mantle so thick that only an occasional head or wing protruded.
However, the windows were bright with candlelight and smoke billowed from the chimneys. Friendly voices called out in greeting as carriages and lone riders arrived one after another. It was Midwinter’s Eve, the one night of the year when it was not only permitted but expected to eat much, drink more, and dance with every hawin in the room: pretty or ugly, young or old. Tonight was a night for celebration. A night to prove you were alive.
Captain Faldur Relaszen observed the occasion by sitting in a fir tree overlooking Crikhaven’s courtyard. His light gray Ranger’s cloak was drawn tightly against the cold. He felt like an oversized owl, sitting perfectly still behind the sheltering boughs. From his perch he watched each guest arrive, taking careful note of their faces, families, attendants, and liveries. He wished he could be among them. Not to join the feast, but to hear the furtive conversation of the...