2 hours, 3,000 new words to 5,700 words. Spent the first few minutes untangled a tyro error on POV in yesterday’s work which
This morning whilst
Onward I go. Binge writing possible on this draft depending on how pressed for time the cancer makes me feel, but I’m aiming for the 2,500 words/2 hours per day mark for the time being. It’s a hell of a deadline to have hanging over one’s head.
Very few of the graves were marked to tell who lay within. This struck me as odd — most cemeteries I’d seen or read about seemed to feature little biographies of their inmates, as if knowing the year a baby had died would make the child more real to a passerby of a later generation.
But they were decorated in a manner that had clearly once been lavish. Jewels and metal chasings had vanished uncounted generations past. Carvings remained. Details. Images in tile, or painted underneath a sheltering roof. That a person was buried here at all stated, “I am wealthy” in the ways of this city long before the rise of the Dukes. These graves dated from the time of Kingdoms, and some from the Years of Brass prior to that.
Without words, they told stories. This one featured small batwinged children, like demon messengers, with a hint of torment on each tiny, windworn face that called to mind a life spent on the margins of dark magics and wicked philosophies. That one’s pilasters were bundles of sheaves, wrapped in vines, as if the dead had been overlords of some great swathe of farms. So each told its silent story, some worn to threadbare memories, others still shouting from beyond death’s veil.