Because, well... Aren't all things? I dunno, it sounds like a good enough name for the time being. May have it changed later.
And so... New thread for anything of the visual or literary persuasion that I may come up with.
I would have some art to go along with the OP, but I'm nowhere near a scanner right now. So, an idea for a series that I've been tossing around for most of the day. It stars a peasant who's unsatisfied with the life he's given, his incompetent friend who serves as a mentor, and some other foggy bits of what you could call a character that I'm working on at the moment. The series follows(probably very loosely) Phil Cousineau's version of the hero's journey(see Other Formulations), and as such will probably be in eight parts. Thoughts, discussion, advice, whatever. I'll probably have some character sheets up soon, as I'll have a two hour drive home tomorrow during which I'll have nothing else to do. More on a plot later, as well, and maybe some bits of actual story to feed your brains.
I've got half a page of the first chapter done, and thought up some names and general descriptions for the two main characters:
Bartemius Trout
One of the main protagonists of the story. Works fields as a job. His father is the head of the fieldworkers. Age 19 Stands 5' 7'' Around 130-140 lb Lean, muscular Short crop of dark hair Tanned skin Apparel would be peasant-like. Fieldworkers can't really afford much where he comes from.
Morton Smithy One of the main protagonists. He is a simple man, valued in the field only for his size and strength. Morton was an orphan from birth, and was brought up by Bart's parents, hence the close relationship between the two Age 32 6'3'' Around 200-250 lb Heavy build, muscular Bald; wears a serf's cap Slightly tanned Apparel is peasant-like
I'll expand more on this later, and I might have some images to accompany the sheets.
It was harvest time in Port Town, and streets were bustling with people drawn to the lively music playing in the square. In the local tavern, the men downed mugs of special harvest brew and sang jovial tunes passed down through generations. Even the field workers were celebrating, with what little they could afford; all but one, who trudged through rows of crops, seeding the ground for the next harvest season. His name was Bartemius Trout, commonly known as Bart, and he was the only son of the head of the field workers. Bart stood at an average five feet seven inches, with a short crop of dark hair atop his head. His skin was tanned from many a day's labor out in the fields, and though he was thinly built, his arms were defined with muscles also gained from the arduous fieldwork. As he sowed, he muttered to himself curses of his ill fortune; for it was he who was always tasked with this work during the harvest festival, when he could be otherwise enjoying himself. By his side was the ever faithful Morton Smithy, Bart's closest friend and mentor. Morton was of much larger height and girth than Bart; in fact, he nearly dwarfed his companion in comparison. Most of the man's days were spent towing a large wagon across the field, gathering whatever needed to be gathered: equipment, crops, even people. It was easy to fall victim to the sun's heat if one did not wear a hat and keep a flask with him out in the field. When Morton was off work, he was either watching over Bart, or thinking. Though he never thought much; Morton was a very simple man, which was the only reason he worked the fields. Any other job required more in mental capacity than the man had to offer. After Bart had finished sowing seeds, he wiped his brow and noted the rising moon in the sky. He had been working since dawn, and needed a wash and some well deserved rest. Too tired to walk the way back to the village, Bart instead called out to his friend, who was staring intently at an ear of corn. "Morton... Time to go home. I think you'll need to carry me... My legs are wobbling like mother's cold stew." The man blinked, looking around as if he hadn't been where he was for the last few minutes. His attention shifted from the ear of corn to Bart, and he tried to recall what had just been said. "Uhm... Oh, right. Home... Come along then, young Bart," the simpleton beckoned, "Hop to." Bart did as he was told, and climbed atop his companion's back. It may have looked childish, but the young man didn't care; he was weary and sore, and felt no need to expend himself any longer. Eventually, sleep came to Bart through the rhythmic motions of Morton's pace, though no dreams filled his head then or later that night, as he lay in his cot. His sleep was uneasy, and he awoke more than once that night to fleeting sounds of movement just beyond his vision.
First page of the first chapter. Haven't been working on it much. Procrastination :/
