Words revised today: 1800
Words now in Chapter 1: 4147
Words now in Chapter 2: 5160
Percentage reduction: 14%
Words total: 65,928
Reason for stopping: Time to dry the washing and do some more organising of stuff in study. Also need exercise.
Carried on with Chapter 2 in Mark's POV. Also shuffled a chunk from the opening of Chapter 2 onto the end of Chapter 1 to even up the chapter lengths somewhat. 4K and 5K is better than 3K and 6K.
I wanted to say thank you to the people who commented on my previous snippet.
Just for comparison, I've included below a taste of the Mark POV version. As it's still rough, I don't want crits. It'll need more polishing yet. My priority is to quickly revise the existing chapters and then finish this blessed story. I don't think it stands a chance of selling anyway, so it's purely a self-indulgence. But it will be good practice at overall story structure and pacing. Especially as the "happy ending" for this one is that the protags aren't all hanged for treason at the end. *g*
Anyway, I have this habit of writing stories that require the transfer of people from our world into fantasy worlds. I also have a record of making a hash of the transition. (scroll down to the paragraph beginning Matthew climbed quickly for the sheer joy of being out on the hills.)
Back in the previous most recent version of A Necessary Evil, I had resorted to giving Mark amnesia in an effort to make the process easier. It didn't work. The "solution" was causing more problems than it was solving. And if I was to do it right, would lead to having to do an awful lot of research about amnesia, which was a red-herring anyway.
So anyway, this time I think I've managed to transfer him without pages and pages of internal musings about what could possibly have happened. There is just the following:
Something about what the young, curly-haired rider had said niggled at Mark. Then he had it. He'd shouted, "Stay there!" in Welsh not English. That wasn't totally unexpected. They were in Wales after all, where Mark had grown up. And he'd come back here for the weekend, to visit his parents, which was how he'd got himself in this mess in the first place.
Fear hit him like a kick to the stomach. He had to get home! Tell them there were monsters loose. Phone the... His hand went automatically to his pocket, to reach for his mobile. He remembered it was waterlogged and left it where it was. Phone who, exactly? Who did you phone to say that monstrous creatures, which may or may not be what they seemed, were loose in the area?
The police? The army?
Or a shrink?
"Christ, this can't really be happening," Mark muttered. Another possible explanation came to him and he looked around, trying to spot the camera crew. Was that why he'd been told to stay where he was, stay out of shot?
But even as he did so, he knew that the monsters in fantasy films weren't done in real time, on location. He took a cautious step forwards and nudged the dead man with his foot. The corpse was sickeningly solid.
And then a little later...
Mark ran his hands through his hair. This was not looking good. If he'd been sure he was still in the Wales he knew, this would be the moment to run for home, to warn his family and call for help. But as the fight had unfolded, as he'd seen men die, he was more and more sure that he was no longer anywhere that help could be summoned by a phone call.
But now I need to stop. I've reached the point where I can no longer tell whether a sentence is coherent or not.