#NaNoWriMo Day 1

NaNo2013 Day 1


So, after 1 day of National Novel Writing Month, how am I doing?

Put simply, not too bad. I was attempting to get 5,000 words done, so that I had approximately ten per cent of my story written. This would give me some padding as I know due to religious commitments, I wouldn’t have as much writing time on Saturdays as I do on other days. I wanted a buffer in case i missed a day here and there. Plus “5K in 1 day” just sounds like a decent target

I did beat the 1,667 “par” for Day 1, so I’m officially on pace to finish before the end of the month. In fact, I managed 4,033 words. So 80% of my target was done. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to grab a screencap of the updated word count before midnight, so the stats data doesn’t show an accurate representation of my average per day, nor my “at this rate..” date. I think that’s technically around the thirteenth.  Of course, i’m not sure I’ll be able to maintain output anywhere near today’s levels in the future.

And since I promised I’d include at least one scene written that day in every one of these NanoWriMo updates, here’s the introduction of my main male character, Sir Nikolai to the reader


The ice-cold water splashed against Sir Nikolai’s face. As the old knight sputtered back to consciousness, he tried to stand upright and found that could not. His hands were manacled to the cold, hard stone wall behind him.

“By the gods! Where am I?” he said through a tongue that tasted thick and dry in his mouth. The room was spinning like a cartwheel around him. Nikolai’s head throbbed with a persistent, dull ache. He tried to stare at the floor to orient himself and see if the world would make more sense. All that achieved was a fresh splash of red-tinged vomit down the front of his surcoat, adding a fresh stain to the gamut of maroon splashes that obscured the blue tower that was his sigil.

“I see you’ve decided to join us,” said a familiar reedy voice from the shadows about the room’s barred doorway.

“Illych!” Nikolai said, the familiarity of his squire’s voice piercing through the fog of incomprehension that was his mind. “What happened? Was I hurt? Captured? This seems like a lot of blood,”  with this last he attempted to gesture towards his clothing, but the chains binding his arms stopped him.

“The same battle as ever, Sir Nikolai,” Illych spat. “You versus a fresh cask of Boling’s red wines.”

“So, this is not blood then?” Nikolai asked.

“No, merely wine. And you’re in the dungeons beneath  the Tower of Satiada. His Highness thought it the best location to let you recover from Boling’s wares. He wants to see you when you’re closer to conscious.”

“Did he say what about?”

“I’m not in the habit of questioning princes. Sir Mikhail thinks it has something to do with you questioning whether the Young Pretender belongs on his father’s throne.”

Nikolai paled. “I’ve never said such a thing.”

“You’ve said and done a great many things you’d never do whilst you were in your cups.” The young squire said.

Nikolai went to but his head in his hands, but the chains anchoring him to the dungeon wall prevented him.  “Prince Aethelred is going to want my head for this,” he said. “Unchain me, Illych, so that I may face my sentencing with dignity.

Illych stared at Nikolai’s bedraggled form with its wine-stained and vomit-scented garments and said nothing. Instead he walked over and unlocked the knight’s bindings. Nikolai was grateful for the small mercy of Illych’s silence. As the bindings were loosened, Nikolai slumped to the floor.

“Thank you, squire. You are dismissed.” Nikolai said, in the most formal voice he could muster. Illych raised a fist in what was either a salute or an obscene gesture. The way Nikolai’s vision was swimming, he couldn’t be sure. The old knight began walking gingerly towards the arched doorway of the dungeon cell. With a little bit of luck, he’d be able to get to his quarters and make himself presentable, or at least human looking, before having to present himself before Crown Prince Aethelred. An extra flagon of Boling’s red might calm his nerves   before the royal audience too. After all, nothing better than a hair of the dog that bit you, Nikolai thought. He had his own small barrel of Boling’s vintage at the bottom of the trunk that he kept at the foot of his bed. He could almost taste the sweet, sticky wine on his lips as he climbed the carved stone steps up to the Order’s barrack level.


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