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Noah Cochran started the topic Prose Advice in the forum General Writing Discussions 4 years, 11 months ago

Alright, this is a scene I wrote during one of my writing practice sessions a few weeks ago. I would appreciate advice on how to improve the prose, or at least y’all’s thoughts on the writing as a whole. Advice on improving the introspection and character voice is welcome as well.

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Hugon walked through the busy streets of Troyes, his rough brown boots stirring up dust on the road. Finally no mud, he thought, summer heat makes work so much easier. 

Fellow townsfolk passed him on every side, going the same direction he was. Poor and rich, young and old, knight and peasant, cleric and Jew, all came to the grand fairs, him included, though his purpose was not the same as most. 

Hugon ran a hand through his tousled blond hair. He hadn’t bathed in days, and in a few more his near shoulder length hair would be a filthy disaster. 

He loosened the cuffs on his white tunic slightly, and tightened the sturdy brown belt around his tucked in shirt. The fine belt had previously belonged to a fair guard, but the inebriated fellow hadn’t needed it.

He turned the corner and the sounds that had been growing louder as he approached now filled his ears. Merchants bartering with prospective buyers, artisans and retail merchants hawking their wares, horses neighing, and gawkers talking and yelling mixed together to create a cacophony that could wake the dead. 

Smells came with the noise, that of sweaty bodies, fresh-or at least supposedly fresh-meat, strong wine, and baked goods. More exotic smells, such as the spices brought by the Italians from the east, and that clothy scent of Flemish woven, English wool, mixed with the rest. 

He always had his senses directed toward something even more interesting than exotic smells, and that was the exotic people. Italians and Lombards called from their stands with their flamboyant dress and coaxing tongues. Saxons from northern Germany bargained with their rough speech and suspicious looks. Gascons guarded their supplies closely with their unfriendly demeanors and conspicuous weapons. Scandinavians with the blood of the Norsemen still running strong through their veins made the locals look even smaller than they were, especially him. 

He entered the fair quarter and was immediately caught up in the seething mass of people, but he directed his path towards the visiting merchants, ducking past shouting men and arguing women. 

Temporary stalls lined the sides of the street, the owners within touting their goods like there was no tomorrow. They probably would have sold him their daughter if he had offered enough.

He came up behind what appeared to be a wealthy artisan’s wife and flexed his hands. Time to get to work. He laid his hand on the woman’s right shoulder simultaneously slipping a small knife along the side of her purse hanging from her left shoulder. 

The woman jerked around, her black hair whipping his face. But by that time, much of her coin had found a new home in his sleeve. 

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Hugon said, his voice a mix of affected helpfulness and mocking,“I believe I saw your husband near the tavern a ways back.” 

“Why do you tell me this, and why is it any of your business?” the woman snapped back at him in a mix of French and Italian.

“Well, ma’am,” he said, his typical sardonic expression appearing on his face and in his voice, “he was with a young woman, and they were making their way deeper into the alley.” 

The woman turned beet red. The verbal confrontations with his “clients” was always his favorite part. 

“You impudent bastard!” the woman spat as she made her way toward the tavern.

He transferred the coins from his sleeve to a large pocket he had specially sewn into the inside of his tunic. Well, who’s next then.

As he was making his way towards a stall belonging to an Italian merchant, the sudden feeling of being followed ran through him. 

He glanced backward. A large bald man was pushing through the crowd, and it seemed to Hugon that he was coming straight at him. Then he noticed that another man, this one only slightly taller than him, was watching him from in front of a wooden stall displaying colorful tunics. 

That was enough for him. He quickened his pace through the crowd, and towards the end of the street. He shot a look backwards. Both men were now heading straight for him, their pace quick and confident.

These bloody brutes were going to ruin his workday. Well his clients would have to be patient, he wasn’t taking any chances. Taking chances never ended well. 

He sped up his pace even more so that he was nearly running by the time he reached the last few stalls. He could sense the men closing in.

As he was passing the last stall, a booted foot stuck out from beside it, the hem of a skirt just showing above it. He was moving too fast. 

His foot caught the boot and he went head first into the ground, his limbs sprawling in the dust. Blast. This was going just perfectly. He slowly pushed himself up. That fall had not been a graceful one. 

The men were now standing above him, along with a woman, presumably the one that had tripped him. He quickly analyzed them. The bald man’s large rough hands were holding a mean looking club, and his face was holding a satisfied smile. And the smile wasn’t even pretty.

The short man also had a satisfied look, though it was mixed with something that appeared to be contemplation. He had long black hair streaked with gray that reminded Hugon of a drawing a merchant had shown him years ago of a white and black striped horse. 

The young woman was smirking down at him. Blast her. Her hazel hair fell across the brown cloak that she wore, though the hood was pulled down. She had a slight dusting of freckles, and a firm, though still soft, face. Her pale blue tunic fell down to those criminal boots. He would steal those boots right off her feet just as soon as he had the chance. 

The man he had labeled “Stripes” said, “It’s about time we found you, we’ve been searching for days. You didn’t have to run, boy.”

Lacing his voice with sarcasm, Hugon said, “Of course I didn’t, being chased by two ugly brutes is a normal thing for every man in this heavenly city.” 

Bald boy raised his club, “Let me pound a little respect into him, Rolant,” he said in a voice that was a mix of pleasure and gruffness. 

Stripes shook his head, “Willing confederates are always better than unwilling ones, Sean.” His voice was not highly refined, but bald boy made him sound like King Louis’s best courtiers. 

Hugon brushed the hair out of his eyes, and straightened. He was backed up against a wall and his three assailants were boxing him in in a formation resembling a cone with Stripes in the middle. 

“Cut to the point,” he said. “Have I stolen something from you? If I have, you were too forgettable for me to remember.” 

His eyes were darting back and forth. There had to be some way out of this. That still smirking woman would be the easiest direction to break through, as long as he watched out for her boots that is.

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I have one specific question, and that is y’all might have noticed there were two pieces of italicized, direct thought. Do y’all think that is necessary or should it just be indirect thought like the rest?

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