Zylaa's Nano

[Zylaa]

With all of 66 words done, I have to sleep, but I am very proud of my first two lines and would like to share them:

"Retti woke up that morning already nervous, with stomach-twisting apprehension preying at her thoughts even as she reached over to hit the ringing alarm clock.
If she had known that by the end of the day she would be dead, she would, of course, have been much more worried."

[Zylaa]

My characters now have names! Huzzah!

In order of introduction:

Marati, age 19, a barmaid, called Rat by her brother and friend
Daw, her 13-year-old brother, very mechanically minded. Marati's salary is mostly put toward the cost of his education.
Nikkim, Marati's best friend, a maid supervisor in the Ambassadors' Palace.
Sir Rokor, a nobleman and an ambassador from the northern country of Nortak.
Death, Death
Nathan, a bookish sort of person, age 18; dead, and has been dead for forty years.

[Dice]

I like your first two sentences. Can't wait to read more! :3

[Zylaa]

Thanks Pyro! ^_^

Here I shall post a list of all the dares that I'm planning to use in the story, in the rough order that I plan to use them. Bold ones have been used already, strike-through means I'm not going for the bonus points.

From Killix:
Dare: Kill your MC in the middle of the story. XD
-
Bonus Points: If this doesn't change the plot at all.

***
From Jina:
Dare: Have a character say "My best friend's cat's previous owner's cousin's uncle's granddaughter's friend loves peanuts."
Bonus: If the character is referring to his or herself

***
From Omni:
Dare: Include the phrase 'Been there, done that, died' in your story.
Bonus points: If the character that says it really did die from 'doing that.'
Double points: If the character is alive when they say this.

[Zylaa]

I wrote this excerpt two days ago, and I like it muchly. Really gives a sense of the respect I give to the entire field of necromancy. >_>

Written from the point of view of a random shopkeeper.

SPOILER: Click to show

Stanley Brown, cursed with a bland and boring name in the world of necromancy, was idling behind his counter as a customer walked in. He glanced up, briefly, from the leather-bound tome he was reading as this new customer began to examine the shelves. Herein lay tomes of lore, of summoning spirits and binding them, of animating skeletons and, for that unlucky customer who was short on skeletons, how to get one. Stan prided himself on his store’s repute, its dark and foreboding air, and most especially, its magical shield out front. That kept away any of those pesky members of the public who liked to merely play at necromancy. It took an association with death and the spirit world to grant one magical immunity after all. That magical shield had increased his standings in the necromantic circles dramatically, and had almost made up for those few people who knew his real name.
This girl, however, was not the usual necromantic type. For one, only her boots were black. Her hair was strawberry-blonde, her coat a nondescript brown, her pants…were pants. She was wearing pants, not a skirt, as most necromancer women tended to wear, just for dramatic effect. Moreover, she was looking around the shelves without any seeming method, passing over the impressive-looking tomes, but scrutinizing all of the ritualistic objects as if she was looking for something in particular, but just couldn’t find it. It was as if she wasn’t interested in the allure of necromancy at all. She seemed to be shuffling along, too, although that may have been from the cold.
At last, after she had paced the store, she came up to the counter.
“Do you have any bone mirrors?” she asked, smiling. Stanley looked down at her, raising one eyebrow in what he hoped was an intimidating fashion. This girl was being cheerful. In a necromancy store. But when a momentary, glowering silence failed to make a point, he had to admit to himself that making a profit was a more worthwhile goal than upholding the standards of necromancy.
“Of course,” he said. “Looking to enter the necromantic field?”
“Just a bit of chatting with a departed loved one,” the girl said. “What do you have, then? Preferably cheap?”
“‘A bit of chatting?’” he repeated, turning to search through the dark cabinets behind the counter.
“Yes, I need to know if he fed the cat before he copped it,” the girl said, eyes narrowing, her light sarcasm making it clear that her motives were off limits. As Stan spread the mirrors on the counter, he met the girl’s gaze for an instant. Her eyes… they were piercing, gray eyes, that seemed to carry in the winter’s cold with them. He felt a bit of the apprehension of a necromantic ritual, but shrugged it off. However, the sign, however imagined, of otherworldly connections made him feel a bit more at home in his dealing.
“If you are looking for something with both excellent performance and design, for a bargain price, I’d recommend this mirror,” he said, holding up a hand mirror with a bone handle and frame, with a few gems embedded in the handle, and the bones around the front all specially carved. “Finest Owlfolk bone. Merely two hundred eighty copa, and it’s yours.”
“Two hundred eighty?” the girl said. “Ridiculous. Next.”
“Ah, if cost is an object, than perhaps this will catch your eye?” he said, holding up yet another bone mirror, though this one had a handle of wood with shell inlays. “An attractive piece, for fifty copa off the Owlfolk-bone mirror.”
“Sir, perhaps I did not make myself clear. I do not want a wall ornament. I want the cheapest mirror you have.” Ruffling inside at the “wall ornament” comment, he moved on to the mirror on the far right, entirely wooden frame and handle, with only a small ring of bone around the mirror.
“One-eighty copa, take it or leave it,” he said, arbitrarily raising the price.
“So removing shells and all but a little bit of bone only saves fifty more copa? I can buy wooden hand mirrors for ten. For another hundred I could just go and kill some small animal myself,” the girl snapped.
“One-seventy,” he said.
“One-ten.”
“One-sixty, perhaps?”
“One-fifteen.”
“And if we continue in this mathematical progression, eventually we’ll arrive at a price of 140,” he said, glowering.
“One-thirty-five copa,” the girl said.
“Done, girl. The money?” She fished in her pockets and pulled out a wallet, counting out the coins inside. She seemed more happy than a normal person to find one-forty copa in her wallet, but she handed it to him, and he reluctantly gave her back her five copa.
“Thanks, sir!” she said, taking the mirror, stuffing it in a voluminous coat pocket, and shuffling out.” Stanley glared at the door for a minute after it had shut behind her.
“Kids these days,” he grumbled. “No respect for the noble art of cheating Death. No respect at all.”