Instead of In between studying for my midterms these past few weeks, I’ve been working on a short-story prequel/backstory to my upcoming NaNoWriMo novel. It’s essentially a bloodier, first-century version of How I Met Your Mother, taking place about twenty years before the novel itself and explaining how my NaNo MC’s parents first met. I’m about 3,000 words into it, and I’m really enjoying getting to know the characters and their world.

I’m about sixteen hours too late for this to be a Sunday Sample, but here’s a snippet anyway. It’s still in (very) rough shape; it probably won’t stay in first-person present tense, because, though I find that easiest to write, I also find it pretty irritating to read. But I hope you enjoy, at any rate!

Blaidd is leaning on his spear, lazily, but I know how swiftly he can have the weapon ready, and how dangerous is the small smile twisting the corners of his mouth, the half-lidded glint in his coal-black eyes.

He doesn’t look at the Roman. He looks at me.

“I thought you’d lead me a better chase,” he says.

“Blame Cai for that,” I say, indicating my leg with my chin.

“He paid for it already, from what I saw,” Blaidd says.

“He was stupid,” I say.

The Roman makes the mistake of thinking Blaidd is paying him no heed. He moves with surprising speed for his exhaustion, lunging forward, knees bent, the sword racing out ahead of him, swift as a whip-lash. Blaidd sidesteps the thrust smoothly and neatly, and by the time the Roman steadies himself, swinging wearily round again, Blaidd’s spear-point is resting in the hollow at the base of his throat.

“Is this him?” Blaidd says to me. His voice is dry.

I say, simply, “Yes.”

Blaidd looks the Roman up and down with mild curiosity, the way one might study an insect.

“You think to outwit your fate, then?” he says to me.

“Take him to Rys and have his word for it, if you don’t believe mine. But he’s the one. And if he’s dead—” I shrug. “How can it mean anything, when he’s dead?”

Blaidd is silent a moment, considering. I know the conflict in him. I saw it in his eyes in the firelight the night Rys ordered me dead.

“So. Rys wants prisoners, at any rate,” he says, finally. “He’ll do for that, if nothing else. Tell him to drop his sword.”