Excerpt: The Smell of Smoke

A caravan, again alone. It is travelling through the forest, a girl of about sixteen or seventeen years of age at the reins, controlling the horse at a steady walk. From under the rough brown fabric come the sounds of an argument, raised voices, two male, one female.
“NO SON OF MINE WILL BE A HERO!” shouts one, the older of the two male voices.
“Your father is right dear”, says the female voice “Do you not think that the life expectancy of our people is short enough without wanting to shorten it even more?”
“I WANT WHAT I WANT!” comes the younger of the two male voices, sounding peeved and determined. It belongs to a teenage boy. This much is obvious merely because of the tone and content of the short statement. No - one else can insert anywhere near as much aggrieved hurt, indignation, pique and peevishness into five words. Two of which happen to be the personal pronoun, demonstrating a selfish attitude.
“Please son, have some ambition!” comes the voice of the father.
“I WANT TO BE A HERO! I CARE NOT FOR WHAT YOU SAY!” the teenager yells again.
“Oh great, he has already started using the archaic language…” mutters the girl we can see driving the wagon. Suddenly there is a tearing noise at the back of the covered structure and a lanky boy with emerald eyes and jet black hair emerges, brandishing a sword. He had evidently been planning to perform a dashing leap to the ground, possibly coupled with a commando roll. Unfortunately, at this point the caravan goes over a pothole and he falls out, landing, in an extremely undignified fashion in the dust. His sister hears the shock of his impact and grins, trying to suppress a snigger. And failing. So much for dignity.