Excercise 7, No 8

Exercise 8 out of the book, seven for me

Again, since this is my thingy, I'm skipping exercise 7, at least for now.  I may come back to it, though.  I'm skipping it because it is basically just another way of looking at Exercise 6.  I want to vary my writing through this practice, so I'm skipping to Exercise 8, which is called Third to First, where I take a part of an older story and change it to first/third person, depending on what it was before.  We'll see how this goes.

Stipulations:
I am supposed to count the number of he/she/its I have in the piece and reduce that number by half at least.  I'll try and reduce it as much as possible.
500 words (which really should be no problem).

I'm going to try and rewrite it in first person and reduce the use of "he" and "I" at the same time.  It is a formatting nightmare to try the prescribed way, and this is why I am late in doing it.
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THE ORIGINAL PASSAGE


"What is the order of healing?" the Mercy asked Ke-Gyelem suddenly.  Ke had been organizing her materials in her pack on the back of the wagon when her master demanded her attention.  The other slaves looked up at her and the master, their ears attentive.  The only sounds were the gentle grumbles of the wagon and the hissing, gentle sliding of the giant reptilian korrig pulling them along through the Sea of Grass.  Though Ke had not really paid attention, the gently rolling, grass-covered hills were quite beautiful, blazing in yellow and orange, blue and white.

Ik-Vumyá, who was the Mercy for the Lar-Kirthoa Knight Order of the Unbending Trees was nearly gray all over now, gray streaked with brown, like dirt and ice. It used to be the opposite, but the war with the Kunjels in the north had taxed him.  He gave up his color keeping these soldiers alive.  His teeth were yellow and exceptionally long and sharp, good for cutting, and one of his eyes was clouded over from an explosion from 'meddling with some kinds of salts' he said.  Now, he glared at young Ke with his good eye, and his ears were flipped up and facing forward like sun-craving lilies.
 
"We separate out the wounded into the four categories: those who will die before we can help them; those who may die, unless we help them; those who can live with help; and those who will live no matter what."

"In what order do we treat the warriors and with which resources?"

"Only the Lar-Kirthoa get the Garaya and the Uth-Krilaya.  We try to save the officers of the houses next.  Then, we do what we can for the slaveborn soldiers."

The Mercy nodded a little.  He glanced down at her pack.  "What do you have in your pack?"

"Ten feet of gauze; surgical tools: spider-silk thread, six different needles of six different sizes, snips, scalpel, earbone tweezers, depressor, and bone hatchet."

"Where are your diagrams?"

"Oh, here, master," she reached into her pocket for the three little scrolls.  "One for kunjels, one for kinto-shah, and one for humans."  She showed them to him, letting them rest in the palm of her hand like three little insects.

"Where are the rage glands on a kunjel?" The Mercy asked, betraying no evidence that he was impressed with what she'd said so far.

"Just above and slightly behind the collarbones."

She didn't dare try to open the appropriate scroll.  The scrolls were for studying in a quiet moment, like the books back in the guild.  He would hit her on the head if she tried to look at them now.  You had to know things, deep inside, before the battle began.

"Ash-Norá," he said to another slave sitting nearby, a male.  "What is the name of...."

Ke could look back into her things now.  The Mercy was done with her for the moment.  She noticed, though, her hands shaking slightly as she pointlessly reorganized her pack again.  The Mercy was a severe old sho, a true student of KRI-THU-HALÁL (Formerly Kri-Thu-Yenoro), the knife-bearing kinto-shah god of death as well as healing.

Ke rubbed her hands together and tried to readjust her position on the wagon.  Ahead, over the frog-like head of the korrig, Ke could see the backs of the armored Lar-Kirthoa riding their own korrigs, with their squires and slaves marching along or mounted beside and behind.  The caravan was just now topping a hill and the wagon slowly crept upwards like a great lumbering tortoise.

Ke found herself having to lean forward a bit, but it gave her a great view of the back of the caravan.  The Mercy was perched on his own big pillow in the wagon, but his slaves did not get such treatment.  They had to use their cloaks or their clothing they carried along as their own seats.  Behind them came the food supplies and the wagons bearing the idols to the various gods appropriate for war, each on its own litter with colorful pagodas to house the gods.  Kri-Thu-Halál's pagoda was directly behind the Mercy's wagon, white with red stripes.  The god himself was represented by a statue to Kri-Thu, the Great Gray Rat, holding his signature knife: one side of the blade serrated, the other smooth.  At his feet were dead twigs and animal bones.  __We haven't even seen battle yet, and already death surrounds us__.



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"What is the order of healing?" the Mercy asked me suddenly, while I was organizing my materials for what may have been the third time.  The other slaves watched, their ears turned towards me.  The only sounds now were the gentle grumbles of the wagon and the hissing, gentle sliding of the giant reptilian korrigs pulling them through the Sea of Grass.  The beauty of the Sea of Grass, even this poisoned place we traveled through just now, was a dangerous distraction and almost cost a great deal.

Ik-Vumyá, the Mercy for the Lar-Kirthoa Knight Order of the Unbending Trees was nearly gray all over now, gray streaked with brown, like dirt and ice. It used to be the opposite, but the war with the Kunjels in the north taxed everyone.  Much of his color was spent keeping soldiers alive.  His front teeth were yellow and exceptionally long and sharp, good for cutting and tearing.  One eye was clouded over; an accident after 'meddling with salts' he said, and a painful reminder of the dangers of fooling around.  Now, he glared at me with both ears and eye.

The Mercy perched on his own big pillow in the wagon, a silk thing like what would hold a lovely gem off the ground.  The rest of the slaves found that cloaks or extra clothing would suffice as a barricade against the uncomfortable boards of the wagon.
 
"We separate out the wounded into the four categories: those who will die before we can help; those who may die, unless we help; those who can live with help; and those who will live no matter what."

"In what order do we treat the warriors and with which resources?"

"Only the Lar-Kirthoa get the Garaya and the Uth-Krilaya, and Lar-Kirthoa always get magical healing before any others, in order of rank.  We try to save the officers of the houses next and the house soldiers after that.  Then, we do what we can for the slaveborn soldiers."

The Mercy nodded a little and glanced at my pack.  "What do you have in your pack?"

"Ten feet of gauze; surgical tools: spider-silk thread, six different needles of six different sizes, snips, scalpel, earbone tweezers, depressor, and bone hatchet."

"Where are your diagrams?"

"Oh, here, master," quickly, I brought them from my pocket and held them out.  "One for kunjels, one for kinto-shah, and one for humans."  They rested in the palm of my hand like little insects, waiting to jump, three little scrolls.

"Where are the rage glands on a kunjel?" The Mercy asked, betraying no evidence of being impressed with anything said so far.

"Just above and slightly behind the collarbones."

I didn't dare try to open the appropriate scroll.  The scrolls were for studying in a quiet moment, like the books back in the guild.  The penalty for not having studied and drilled and swallowed the knowledge was a beating.  You had to know things, deep inside, before the battle began.

"Ash-Norá,"  The cloudy eye sought out another slave in the wagon.  "What is the name of...."

The Mercy was done with me for the moment.  My hands shook slightly as I pointlessly reorganized my pack again.  The Mercy was a severe old sho, a true student of KRI-THU-HALÁL, the knife-bearing kinto-shah god of death and healing.  Stupidity was death.  Knowledge was life.  Anything in between was often pain.

Ahead, the armored Lar-Kirthoa rode on their own korrigs.  Around them, their weapon bearers, loosely armored and pushing through the poisoned Lake of Fire's poisoned grasses with thick leather aprons on.  The caravan just now topped a hill and the wagon slowly crept upwards like a great lumbering tortoise.  My heart fluttered as though something grand waited beyond each next hill.  A dangerous way to think, to anticipate each new hill, but hard to choke back and keep down in the stomach.

It felt as though the caravan were about to climb straight upwards, and it grew necessary to lean forward or risk rolling out the back of a wagon.  My hand instinctively went to my pack and shut it.

Behind the armored knights and the red and white Mercy slave wagons came the food supply wagons, groaning under their barrels and boxes, and the wagons with the idols to the various gods appropriate for war, each on its own litter with colorful pagodas to house the gods.  Kri-Thu-Halál's pagoda was directly behind the Mercy's wagon, with its gray curtains.  The god himself was represented by the typical statue, the Great Gray Rat, holding his signature knife: one side serrated, the other smooth and sharp.  At his feet were dead twigs and animal bones, the things he left behind often.  We haven't even seen battle yet, and already death surrounds us.


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I really didn't like this activity.  I see the benefit of doing it, but it seems like a repeat of another activity I already did.  I like some of the editing I did, but really that's all it was: editing.  I might return to this story, but probably won't make it first person from third.  It's too long to go back and redo it that way.  I realize that I really do need to do more here with this though and put a bit more description in.  I like the premise of this story, but I need a bit more development of the scenario.  Where it went was kind of out of control, but I think there's a real story here.