Martisset smiled at something her namesake was saying (as yet there was no sound) and the drums rolled over her reply to him. She helped Martisset the Elder walk to the place where the Great Shipwright had saluted the likenesses of the dead. He leaned forward and kissed each one, and as the nearest camera focused on the carven skulls, Hernan could see the worn spots, gleaming in the sunlight and the supporting fill lights, where that kiss had been repeated over centuries.
“We promise the dead that we will not permit the Pale Rider to ride abroad again.” His voice was far more resonant than Hernan would have expected, given his frailty and great age — over a hundred years old.
Martisset offered her arm to him so that he could lower himself to one knee. Hernan felt a shiver. The old man had no living elders; the only ones older than he now were the artifacts of the ancestors—chief among those, the statue of Martis-Mortis, antique god of war and Pale Rider, who each year at Midsummer was ritually forbidden the city of Karisalay-Prime, and with it the planet Karis.
Excerpt from one of my NaNo 2014 projects: untitled romance with ray guns. Martisset the Elder, the old man in this scene, is the speaker in the short story Poetics (reprinted in the collection Tales from the Inhabited Worlds).
Weekend Writing Warriors offers a selection of eight-sentence excerpts from many different writers. For the full selection, see here.