StormWyvern Press

New Blog

2009-07-01T08:45:00.000-07:00

I have a new blog where I'm going to be posting my nonfiction animation writing. It's called The Ink and Pixel Club. You should check it out.

I may post more fiction stories here someday, but for now, all of my writing energy will be going into The Ink and Pixel Club.

The Last Battle: Mid-Story Scene

2008-03-03T12:14:00.000-08:00

A scene I wrote a couple of days ago. It takes place during a flashback that explains how Kata and Santok met. I've also got a timeline going to figure out what happened when before the events of "Last Battle". Everything is changeable, but as of now, Kata is currently 23. Santok is 41, though that may not be his biological age in human terms, since beastmen may age differently than humans. Cyra is 42 and Rayna is 16, which I need to change in an earlier scene.

“What spells do you know?” asked Santok, once the fire was burning steadily.

“None,” Kata replied. The question was a little surprising. Surely he had noticed by now that she wasn’t a caster.

“None?” Santok looked genuinely shocked. “You really never learned any?”

“Of course not!” Kata was starting to feel defensive, though she didn’t understand why. “I’m not a caster and I never trained to be one. I don’t have the talent for magic.”

“Ahh.” Santok was nodding his head, his eyes closed.

“I misunderstood,” he said, his eyes returning to her. “In Keltaria, we are all taught basic magic. Some take a greater interest in it and go on to become mages or healers, but everyone knows a few simple spells. I had assumed it was the same in your land.”

Now it was Kata who nodded in realization.

“So anyone can cast a spell?” It was in contradiction to what Kata has always been taught and had always believed. Magic was something you were born with, something that you discovered you had and chose whether or not to nurture. She had never even considered the possibility that it was something she might be capable of.

“Oh yes.” Santok spread his hands wide. “Magic resides in every living thing. We tend to think of it as something mysterious or divine, but magic is really just an energy that lets you achieve feats you normally could not.”

“Like what?”

“You have seen battles before. Have you ever wondered how a gravely injured knight can find the strength to lift his sword and keep on fighting when by all rights, he should be unable to stand? Magic. A doe fleeing a wolf and escaping in a last burst of speed that seems to come from nowhere? Magic. A single blood lily growing from earth that the roughest weeds cannot survive in? Magic. You have almost certainly used magic before without ever realizing that you did.”

Kata considered this idea for a while. She wasn’t certain she believed it, but she had never really discussed magic with spellcasters before. Was it possible? Could magic really be nothing more than an inner strength that could be tapped without the words and gestures she had always believed it required?

“Here,” said Santok. “Hold out your hand.”

Santok put his own hand out at almost full arm’s length, palm up. Hesitantly, Kata did the same. Santok nodded in approval and drew his own hand back.

“Now concentrate on the center of your palm,” Santok instructed. “Try to draw your energy there.”

Kata focused on the middle of her hand, staring hard at the skin, the tendons, and the veins underneath.

“Am I doing it right?” she asked uncertainly.

“You will know if it works. It can help to imagine a situation where you might naturally use magic, or think of something or someone you feel strongly about. Keep concentrating. I am going to tell you the word for the spell.”

Kata tried to increase her concentration. She thought of particularly tense moment of fighting she had experienced, time when she might have easily died. She thought of her home, her parents, some of her fellow knights, all the same things she thought of when she needed to remind herself why she was willing to fight and die.

“Pa’roh,” Santok recited, and looked expectantly at Kata.

“Pa’roh,” repeated Kata. Nothing happened.

“Put more emphasis on the second syllable. ‘Pa’roh.’”

“Pa’roh.” Kata felt a slight tingle in her palm, but she couldn’t be certain it was anything more than her own wishful thinking.

“Good. Make the pause in the middle shorter and roll the ‘r’ a little. ‘Pa’roh.’”

“Pa’roh.” This time the sensation was unmistakable. She could feel a rush of something indefinable toward the center of her palm. A tiny, worried voice inside her was warning her that Santok could be making her set herself on fire, but she ignored it.

“Don’t lose your concentration. You are doing very well. Again.”

“Pa’roh.” The rush came faster this time.

“Again.”

“Pa’roh.” A small circle of blue light began to glow in the center of Kata’s palm. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in a smile.

“Keep concentrating. Say it once more.”

“Pa’roh.”

The circle of light slowly rose up from Kata’s palm. As she watched in amazement, it formed into a tiny glowing blue ball. The ball began to grow in size. When it stopped, it had a diameter about the length of Kata’s hand. It floated just above Kata’s hand, shining a bright pale blue. Kata stared at it, delighted. Santok smiled and clapped his hands softly.

“Excellent. You learn fast.”

“It’s incredible,” Kata breathed. She still couldn’t believe that she had actually cast a spell.

Santok held out his own hand.

“Pa’roh,” he said. His sphere of light formed almost instantaneously. It was larger than Kata’s, reflecting the size of hand. It also glowed a deep red orange, a strong contrast to Kata’s blue sphere.

“They are sometimes called ‘spirit lanterns,’” Santok explained, “though most people simply refer to them as ‘lights’. That spell is thought to be one of the oldest true spells in existence. It is also the first one taught to children.”

“So it’s used as a light?”

“Sometimes. Certainly in old times it would have been very useful as an easy to control light source that gives no smoke or heat. But nowadays, there are more sophisticated light spells that are used more frequently. But it is a simple spell that requires little energy. And it is very easy to manipulate.”

“Manipulate how?”

Santok didn’t answer. He stared intently at his glowing orb. It shuddered and then changed from a red-orange to bright green. Kata laughed.

“How do you do it?”

“Just concentrate on the center and think of the color you want it to be.”

Kata focused on the orb’s center. It took a little longer than Santok’s had, but slowly, the sphere went from blue to a green matching Santok’s. He smiled his approval.

“You can also move it,” he added. He pointed his fingers upward and the ball rose into the air. Tilting his hand from side to side, he made the ball sweep left and right. Kata copied his movements. It was awkward at first, but before long, she could make the sphere move pretty much however she wanted, well away from her hand. Santok showed her how to shrink the ball by bringing her fingers together and make it larger by spreading them apart.

“When did you learn this?” Kata asked once she had become adept at controlling the ball.
“I was a young child,” responded Santok. “Keltarian children nearly always learn it from a parent or an older child rather than in formal instruction. I learned it from my brother.”

Santok’s gaze grew distant. Kata had never heard him talk about his family before. She realized that she hadn’t really thought about him having a family before now. Of course she had realized that he must have had parents and maybe even other relatives. But she had always seen him as a hard, tough soldier, not someone who might think longingly of home and family.

“Children learn magic at different speeds,” Santok continued, bringing his attention back to the sphere and returning it to its original orange hue. “Some can summon a spirit lantern after only a few days; others take far longer. But there is a lot of incentive to learn. Many children play games by knocking them into each other, and if you cannot cast the spell, you get left out.”

“Did you ever do it?”

“What, knocking spirit lanterns together? Of course not. I stayed well away from frivolous games like that.”

Santok turned away and sat down, his back to Kata and the fire. Kata looked down at the sphere, feeling embarrassed. Up until now, she had merely tried to keep tensions neutral herself and Santok. But now, she honestly felt upset about having upset Santok, and not just because it might take the rest of their journey together difficult. She didn’t want to upset Santok or have him upset with her. She liked talking with him far more than she thought she would. It wasn’t just that he was the only person she had to talk to. She genuinely liked his company.

Kata was about to go and apologize to Santok when a large orange sphere zoomed at her from the right and slammed into her blue one, sending spinning away from her. Kata looked over at Santok. He hadn’t turned around or stood up, but Kata could see him glancing over his shoulder and sweeping his hand around. Smirking, Kata whisked her sphere away from another attack by Santok’s and whirled it around to knock his off its course.

Concerns - "Lost History" and Writing in General

2008-02-20T06:19:00.000-08:00

"The Lost History of Sathyriel" is finished, at least as far as a first draft goes. I am trying to work on editing it. I thought this was going to be the easy part. This was generally the case when I was writing non-fiction pieces on animation for one of my many fake jobs. Getting the rough, awkward first draft out was the hard part. Editing it, refining it, shortening it to fit the required word length was simpler and more enjoyable. For some reason, I couldn't seem to write anything without putting out a first draft, being completely unhappy with it, scrapping most of it, and writing something better. But I guess there's a difference between writing and editing a one to five page non-fiction article over a couple of days with clear key points that had to be hit and writing and editing a 44 page fiction story where the first draft alone was written over the course of several months with no guidelines, no particular goal in mind aside from telling the story. A pretty big difference.

I don't know what I ultimately want to do with "The Lost History of Sathyriel", or even "The Last Battle". I've thought about the possibility of publication, but I have a lot of doubts about it. It's hard for me to even consider showing it to people I know, let alone total strangers. I'm not confident that it's worth publishing. I'm highly aware that the whole thing - "Lost History", "Last Battle", and whatever else comes out of this concept - is based off of a story that I've been kicking around for probably over ten years, and that does not necessarily mean it's a good story. I'm very self conscious about the fact that the main character is pretty much an idealized version of me.

I feel like I really need a fresh pair of eyes on the story. I need someone to tell me what's working, what isn't, whether "Lost History" even makes sense on its own (because I don't know if or when "Last Battle" will be complete), whether it's worth pursuing. I managed to convince myself while I was writing that the important thing was just to get it out, not to worry about its quality or worthiness. But now that it's out, I just don't feel like there's anything compelling me to stay with it. There's no touchstone, no one part I can look at and say "that's what everything else needs to be like."

There are some problems that I'm aware of. I'm currently looking at the first segment, the one I wrote last year, and what's jumping out at me most is Talshak. I don't feel like I have a good handle on him and who he is. What is he like and why is he that way? How did he and his clan end up allying themselves with Keltaria in the first place? What are his ultimate goals? He's obviously quite brutal and sadistic with his enemies, but how is he with people serving under him? With his own clan? Is he overconfident? Willfully ignorant? Smart? Slightly insane? It's not stuff that's necessarily going to be in the finished story, but I feel like I need to figure it out for him to feel real and consistent.

My bigger problem, though, is the question I keep coming back to: why am I doing this? Why do I want to write? I heard it suggested that for both writing and any other art, there's either a kind of pure, raw need to write independent of any outside influence or a baser, crasser, desire to be published, make money, gain fame and fortune. I've felt both of these things on occasion, but neither lasts long enough or stays strong enough to keep me going through a slump. Anne Lamott talks about writing as a gift to someone you care about. I, meanwhile, am afraid that nothing I write is good enough to share with those people. Ultimately, though a inner urge to take what's inside of you and make it exist independent of you can spark it, I believe that all creativity is a form of communication. And my biggest problem has always been believing that the things I am writing now are worth communicating. There are a lot of other concerns hanging over me right now, the biggest probably being the house being a continued mess. Compared to these concerns, or more enjoyable pursuits like video games, writing seems like a waste of time.

This is more me thinking out loud than coming to some kind of morose conclusion. I do want to keep writing. I just don't know how I'm going to do it and feel like it's worthwhile beyond just imposing some kind of purpose on my life.

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Eight

2008-02-19T10:52:00.000-08:00

It's done. 44 pages. 16,541 words. I actually finished writing it yesterday, but I held off on posting it so I could check for typos.

Of course, it isn't "done." I have to edit, make sure everything's consistent, rewrite some part, maybe change some stuff around. But draft number one is finished and that's what I always find to be the hard part.

Comments and such.

The world came back to Joren gradually. First it was the heavy, medicinal scent of ground herbs and thick, syrupy potions. Then he could feel the hard wooden chair he sat on and Anaskida’s feathery head brushing up against his cheek. He could hear her wings rustling and the soft footsteps of the healer who had remained in the back room with him. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Cyra was still lying on the bed before him. She hadn’t moved and her eyes weren’t yet open, but her breathing had a more regular rhythm to it. The dark energy was all but gone from her body. Only a faint trace of it remained, crackling around the scar on her cheek. Joren suspected that whatever choice Cyra made, that scar would never heal. It was not uncommon. Many of Joren’s former patients had such lingering scars, reminders of their ordeal and hopefully of what it had taught them.
The remaining healer had just noticed that Joren was stirring. Her grip on a small glad bottle she was carrying tightened visibly. She started to say something, but apparently thought the better of it.

“You’re awake?” she whispered. She was trying to keep steady eye contact with Joren, but her eyes kept falling back to Cyra.

“Give her a little time,” Joren said quietly, recognizing where the healer’s real concerns lay. He leaned back heavily in the chair.

“Can I get you anything?” asked the healer, still keeping her voice low.

“Just some water, if you would.”

The healer went over to the small table, picked up a wide, shallow cup, and filled it from a bucket of water. She brought it over to Joren, who thanked her. He drank about half of it, and then offered the rest to Anaskida, who took several delicate sips. Evidently unsure of what else to ask, the healer tried to busy herself with the soiled bandages, occasionally stealing a glance in Cyra’s direction. Joren sat and waited.

If the room had not been so quiet, they might have both missed the sound. It wasn’t so much a moan as an exhale with a slight tone to it. Were Joren and the healer not waiting for even the slightest sign, they might have dismissed it. But both of them looked up as soon as they heard it. They waited, hardly daring to move.

Cyra took another deep breath, quietly this time. She stirred, her body shifting slightly to one side. Then, she opened her eyes.

Joren smiled quietly to himself. The healer gave a squeal of excitement. The door to the front room flew open and almost immediately, the small back room was filled with a crowd of people. The elf general who had greeted Joren upon his arrival came in first, followed by several soldiers. The general in particular looked relieved and kept murmuring something Joren didn’t catch. The healers crowded in next. Both they and the soldiers began talking all at once and soon it was impossible to make out any one conversation. Close after the healers shoving her way through the crowd came the head healer, the one the general had called “Tolla”. Even over the din of the soldiers and the healers, Joren could hear her yelling at everyone to stand back and give Cyra some breathing room.

Joren slid out of his chair and held out an arm for Anaskida to climb onto. He could just smell the faint aroma of what was probably a stew hot off the fire and he was starting to realize how hungry he was. Once Anaskida was back on his shoulder, Joren made his way through the crowd. Some of the soldiers and healers stopped him to thank him or congratulate him. He gave them quick thanks and moved on.

About halfway across the room, Joren felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw Tolla standing next to him. Her face looked nearly as serious as it had when he had first seen her, though maybe a little less severe. Without a word, she gave Joren a short, deliberate nod. Joren smiled and bowed slightly. Tolla turned and started pushing her way towards Cyra’s bedside again.

As he reached the door, Joren turned and took a last look into the room. The crowd was starting to spread out and Joren could just see Cyra. She had turned on her side and was looking straight at him. The noise in the room was still too loud for Joren to hear much and he doubted Cyra had her full voice back yet, but he could still make out the words from the shape of her lips.

“Thank you,” Cyra said to him.

Joren, smiled, nodded, and left in search of the stew.

Official History

The Keltarian forces were defeated late in the spring of 709 at the Battle of Kelja Reik. Cyra herself slew Talshak, effectively ending the Keltarian occupation and uniting the kingdom of Sathyriel. The capitol was moved to what is now known as Drey Fandhil. Today, Kelja Reik lies abandoned and Talshak’s castle is a crumbling ruin.

General Marehnu was killed during the Liberation of Isudra, a key battle that established a crucial stronghold for the rebel armies. His strategies were instrumental in the success of this and other major battles. He is one of the seven generals honored by the memorial at Generals’ Square just inside the gates of Drey Fandhil.

Tolla of Millshaven was a well-respected healer who saved many a life during major battles of the war. After the war’s end, Tolla was knighted and highly decorated for her services. Lady Tolla served as head healer of the Sathyrian army, and then went on to found the Whitecrest Healers’ School. Under Lady Tolla’s guidance, the school has become a highly regarded institution, which gives aspiring healers a strong education in the fundamentals of healing magic.

After a severe injury during the Liberation of Isudra crippled her left leg, Peren of Aeshur Keep spent the rest of the war analyzing intelligence. When the war ended, Peren left the military. She traveled to Drey Ossar, a former dragoncaller village where Peren’s own ancestors one lived. Peren befriended the local Mosa dragon clan and began a study of dragon and dragoncaller cultures. Today, thanks in part to Peren’s work, Drey Ossar is a well-known center for dragon studies.

Lusaya, the white dragon who raised Cyra, fought in many major battles during the Sathyrian Independence War, frequently alongside her adopted daughter. She is now one of the leaders of the Vaar dragon clan. Her image is Cyra’s family crest and one of the symbols of Sathyriel itself. She is not a frequent visitor to the castle, but Cyra often travels up to the Vaar clan weyr to visit with her.

The wandering hero Joren Roosdrahm never settled in any one place, even after the war. He continued to travel the kingdom healing those in need with his unconventional magic techniques. Though the exact circumstances are not known, it is generally accepted that Joren once healed Cyra or someone close to her, for the queen always held him in very high regard. Cyra offered Joren an official position at the castle, but he declined. He did come to speak at the Whitecrest Healers’ School on at least three occasions. His fame caused many young healers to seek him out and ask him to take them on as apprentices. Of the likely hundreds of potential students he approached him, Joren took on only a handful. Only six are known to have finished training under him.

Joren passed away in the summer of 721. His age and the cause of his death are both unknown, but those who knew him agreed that he was quite elderly. Cyra went to visit him in Orkanholt shortly before his death and may have been present when he died. By his own request, Joren was cremated and his ashes were scattered at an unknown location. His six students were summoned to Drey Fandhil by Cyra, who bestowed upon them the Order of the Golden Falcon. Joren’s students continue to carry on his legacy and pass on his teachings to those who wish to learn. The Order of the Golden Falcon is only awarded to healers who were trained by these six healers or by Joren himself and is a highly respected honor.

Of all Cyra’s visible battle scars, perhaps one of the most mysterious is the one running from the far corner of her left eye down her cheek to her jawline. No one seems to know exactly how Cyra got this scar and Cyra has never explained it. It is commonly referred to as “the Queen’s tear” and numerous stories – both realistic and fanciful – have been told to explain how it came to be.

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Seven

2008-02-15T09:14:00.000-08:00

I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't subtitle this "Cyra talks to her Psychologist".

Part Seven, two days worth of writing, over 2,400 words, and finally the end of this scene. This is really the centerpiece of the whole story, so I knew it would probably run long. There's some interesting stuff in this part. As with magic, I feel like it was better not to spell everything out completely and I hope that works. I also realize that Cyra does a lot of not talking over the course of this scene, but I think that makes sense with where her mental state is.

We're definitely entering the home stretch. Part Eight or Nine should be the end.

Comments blahdy balh.

Cyra didn’t say anything for a while. She continued to stand with her back to Joren. He waited.

“What did you see,” she asked slowly, “when you looked at me?”

She turned her head slightly to look at Joren. His eyes met hers with a calm, steady gaze.

“Pain. And sadness. It’s a kind of dark energy; looks like something between lightning and water. It was concentrated around that scar on you cheek.”

Cyra brought her left hand up to her cheek. She traced the scar with a shaky finger.

“It’s nothing,” she said self-consciously.

“That may be,” Joren admitted. “Sometimes the apparent source of the energy is just a particularly painful wound. Or it could be completely meaningless. But still, that much negative energy isn’t good. It prevents the body from healing.”

“What causes it?” Cyra asked with a little hesitation.

“Any number of things. I’ve actually seen people who were so frightened by whatever had happened to them that they weren’t able to take the healing and recover. It can be anger, fear, sadness, or something else.”

“What do you think is causing it with me?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out. Like I said, it can be all kinds of things, so I can’t really know.”

“But what do you think?” Cyra turned so she was almost facing him. Her blue eyes watched him expectantly. Joren sighed.

“I don’t like making guesses. But if I had to, I’d suppose something happened that you hadn’t experienced before, something you weren’t prepared to deal with. And now you’re not certain if you can go back and face it again.”

Cyra just looked at him. She didn’t move. She didn’t say anything. She just stood looking at Joren for what seemed a very long time. The, slowly, she walked over to the rock Joren was leaning against and sat down near it. Joren sat too.

“I’ve been fighting for a long time,” Cyra began, her voice soft. “Even before the war I was always wrestling with my brothers and sisters. I still have scars from those days.”

“Your dragon family,” Joren said, just to make sure he understood. Cyra nodded.

“So it’s not like I’ve never been hurt before. I’ve been in plenty of battles where I could have died if something had happened just a little differently. But this….”

She trailed off and sat silent, hugging her knees to her chest. Joren said nothing, waiting for when she was ready to continue.

“It wasn’t just the pain,” she said at last. “It hurt more than anything, but I could have dealt with that. But, I guess it just never seemed that…. personal. He….”

Joren looked as her quizzically. Cyra winced, as if even saying the name was painful.

“Talshak. He didn’t just want to stop the rebellion or kill me. He wanted to hurt me. He seemed convinced that once I was…gone, the rebellion would fall apart.”

“Do you think that’s true?” Joren asked, trying to make it clear by his tone that he didn’t expect any particular answer.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think it was, but now I just don’t know. Talshak said it was total chaos when I fell on the battlefield, that everyone either ran or surrendered. And the people from the village, the ones who organized the people to help with the fight, he said they were executed.”

Joren bowed his head solemnly.

“War has its price, even a just war,” he said. “I imagine you’ve seen more than your share of death.”

“Of course I have, and I always felt bad when our people died. But this time, it just felt like they died because of me.”

“Not all of your fights have been victories. I don’t know the details of every battle, but there will always be time when you can’t win no matter how hard you fight. When that’s the case, soldiers die, even under the best command.”

“I know. It isn’t that. Before, I always felt like all of us were fighting for something bigger: freedom, our own kingdom, the ones we cared about. But now, I just don’t know. Maybe they just fight because I convince them to, or because they think I can make life better for them somehow. It just wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

“What was it supposed to be then?”

“All I wanted at first was to kill the dragons who killed my parents. After my mother told me what happened to them, it was all I could think about for the longest time. I wasn’t even thinking about Talshak at first; he wasn’t there when my village was destroyed. I just wanted revenge.
“After a while, I just started thinking about it differently. I guess I just realized that my parents weren’t going to come back even if I killed everyone responsible for them dying. I started thinking about my family, and how they always had to be so cautious and stay so close to the weyr. The older dragons used to tell stories about the old days before Talshak, when dragons could fly anywhere they wanted without being afraid. They talked about the other clans and how some of them were gone because of Talshak and the rest might be too. We didn’t have any way of knowing if they were all right because we couldn’t travel that far safely. So I still wanted to make Talshak pay for what he’d done. But more than that, I wanted to make life better for my clan.

“And then when we started fighting the Keltarians and trying to get them out of Vaar territory, we kept meeting people who thought I was some kind of hero because of the sword and because we were winning battles. Honestly, I just didn’t know how bad the odds were back then. I didn’t understand how amazing it was that we were even surviving, let alone beating back the Keltarians. I just figured we could use the help so I let people join us if they wanted to. So I was getting to know them and I started realizing how bad things were for them too. And I thought that they had just as much right to be free as may clan did. So we started talking about what it might be like if we could get the Keltarians out for good and have our own kingdom.

“I always thought that the idea of being a free country was what brought everyone to the fight and kept them going. I though I was just the leader because I was there from the start and the sword made a good symbol. It wasn’t ever supposed to be about me. Now I even hear some of the generals talking about me being queen of our new country.”

“And you don’t want that?” Joren asked.

“No! I never asked for any of this. I don’t want all the responsibility. I don’t even want it now. The war shouldn’t hang on whether I survive or not. The people – they’re the ones doing the fighting and winning the battles. They’re strong. They shouldn’t need me and they don’t.”

“So you want to show them that they don’t need you?”

“No, that’s not it. I want them to understand that, but it’s not…it’s not what I want.
“I always thought that when all of this was over, if we actually won, I’d just go back home. It would be like it was before all the fighting, only better because nobody would have to be afraid anymore. But now, I just don’t feel like I have that choice. They look at me and they see a leader, a human, maybe even a future queen. And maybe they’re even right. I used to think my job was just to win the war, but what if it’s more than that?

“It just all feels like too much. I can’t be queen. I don’t even know if I want to. But I can’t just go home either. So I thought maybe it would be better just going…there.”

Cyra was looking up at the stars. Joren did the same. As he watched the distant lights he started to see something. Around each star there was a faint outline, a soft glow in a particular shape. As Joren continued to focus, he could make out various forms. Some were people, some animals, some were even plants. Some even appeared to be stones and water and other things. They weren’t constellations; every star had its own image surrounding it. Then Joren noticed something else. There were thin, near invisible beams of light coming down from the stars. Each star saw sending several of these beams of light down to the darkened world below. Stranger still, there were other beams of light coming up from the waking world into the sky. Joren followed the path of one and watched as it ended with the formation of a tiny new star. Every trail of light coming up into the sky did the same. Some of the new stars shone more brightly than others, but the birth of each seemed to make the night sky a little brighter.

“It’s beautiful,” Joren said softly. Cyra said nothing as they continued to watch the stars. Joren nodded silently to himself. This was definitely progress. He now fully understood the geography of this place: what lay below, what waited above, and where it was that they stood. Understanding the places he found himself in seldom pointed directly to a solution, but it usually helped.

“So,” Cyra said after a long silence, “is this the part where you take me back?” There was still a slight hesitation in her voice, but it was not as strong as it had been when she had first asked the question.

“I’m not here to take you back,” answered Joren, still looking up at the stars. Cyra’s eyes widened in surprise.

“You aren’t?”

Joren shook his head.

“I’ve never dragged anybody back kicking and screaming. Not sure it’s even possible. Sometimes I’ve had to lead people back because they couldn’t find the way on their own. But you seem quite clear on where to go if you want to get back to the world.

“At this point, there’s really not much left for me to do. You aren’t confused about your situation. You know what your choices are and what will happen in basic terms when you choose one or the other. I could spend a lifetime sitting on this mountain and talking to you, but I still wouldn’t completely understand what it is to be you. You’re the only one who knows that and you’re the only one who can make the decision.”

“So it’s my choice then. I can either go back and get better and keep fighting, or I can go up there and….die.”

It was the first time she had said the word, the first time she had admitted aloud what it was that she had considered doing. It was a good sign to Joren. People who just talked about “leaving” or “going away” were more likely to do so than people who called it by it’s true name.

“It’s your choice.”

“What would you do, if it was you?” Cyra asked. Joren sighed.

“Like I said, guessing doesn’t suit me and I can’t make this decision for you.”

“I know. I just want to know what you think.”

Joren didn’t answer right away. He looked up at the stars again and took a deep breath.

“I think you’re frightened, both from what happened to you and what you think might happen in the future. And I think that’s a very reasonable way to feel given your situation. It’s a very heavy burden for anyone to bear. You feel like others see you as something greater than you are and you feel like you can never live up to that image they have of you. Maybe it’s true; maybe you aren’t who they think you are. But I think it’s also possible that you are greater than you believe you are. There are people who depend on you in the world, yes. But there are people ready to support you too. There are people who gave their strength to send me to you.

“I know you are strong. It takes strength to live survive what you’ve been through for as long as you have. If I thought you were weak, I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving the decision to you just yet. But you are strong, so I trust you will make the right decision for you and not be influenced by other worries.

“I’ve never been a fighter myself, but we healers see nearly as much violence and war as soldiers do. I know war is a hard thing and likely much worse for the ones fighting it. But I’ve also learned that wars aren’t always won by great heroes who do things others can’t. Wars can because of a single lowly soldier, or one particularly fast horse, or a shield that held or broke, or one very small thing that no one even realizes was the reason the battle went the way it did.”

Joren paused for a moment. Cyra was watching him intensely.

“I don’t know how it works for you,” he continued, gesturing up at that sky. I don’t know if you get to see what happens after you die, whether the last battle is won or lost. But from the little I know, I think it would be very hard not knowing if you could have been that one small thing that made the difference.”

Cyra didn’t say anything. She looked up into the sky, then back down to the earth below. Joren stood.

“I think now is the time for me to go,” he said.

“You’re not going to stay until I decide?” Cyra asked, confused.

“As I said, the decision is yours now. I think you deserve to be alone when you make it.”

Cyra nodded. Joren took a few steps towards the edge of the plateau.

“Joren?” Cyra called. He stopped and turned to her.

“Yes?”

“If I decided to die, what would you tell everyone?”

Joren thought it over for a just a moment.

“I would tell them that we both did what we could, but the wounds were too great for you to go on.”

Cyra smiled at him, a small, slightly embarrassed smile.

“Thank you,” she said.

Joren nodded. He didn’t turn away from her this time. He took a step backwards, then another, then the last one off the edge of the plateau. He smiled up at Cyra looking down after him as he fell back down towards the waking world far below.

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Six

2008-02-13T12:28:00.000-08:00

OK, this part is going to be pretty long, so I'm just going to post what I've got, even though I haven't come to a break yet. This is the real meat of this part of the story and I am rather enjoying writing it. I hope it's going to continue to be enjoyable, as it's mostly just two people talking for the rest of the scene. One of the things I like about writing this section is that I don't entirely know where it's going. I know how it ends and I know some key points I have to hit along the way, but the conversation mostly just plays out as I write.

Comments blah blah.

There was no way for Joren to know how long he had been scaling the steep rocky face of the mountain. Time seemed to follow different rules in this place. There had been times when what seemed to him no more than the duration of an eye blink had been nearly a day in the waking world. Other times he had spent what seemed weeks exploring a place and awoke to find mere moments had passed since he had first tackled the injury. He had learned to simply disregard the passage of time here and concentrate on the task at hand. The only measure he needed to worry about was the amount of oma he had left.

Joren grunted as a foothold he had been testing proved too shallow and his right foot slipped. Calmly, he shifted his weight to his left foot and his hands and felt for a more secure foothold. He had to admit that he was not enjoying the climb. Physical exertion was not his strong suit, even when his physical body wasn’t really involved. He could have made it easier on himself. Sprouting wings or summoning a wind to carry him up the mountain would have been much easier and faster. But Joren had always made it a policy to work his way through whatever obstacles his patients threw at him without aid. It seemed more honest, and it often told him something about the problem he would be facing.

Slowly, Joren continued to make his way up the mountainside. The going was no easier as he neared the top and he nearly fell more than once. Still, he persevered, pulling himself up inch by inch, keeping focused on the summit. Finally, he grabbed hold of a ledge above him, pulled himself up, and beheld the top of the mountain.

The mountain’s peaked was slightly leveled off, though the ground was still more jagged than smooth. Rough stones and little spires of rock jutted out here and there. The whole plateau was bathed in moonlight. Above was nothing but wide-open night sky. On the mountain top there was only Joren, and Cyra, standing a short distance away from Joren, her back partly turned to him.

Joren was quite accustomed to his patients looking very different when he encountered them in this world. Here, people appeared the way they saw themselves. The elderly could regain their younger bodies; the young often grew older. The infirm often appeared strong and healthy and the well ones at times were sick, injured, or even mutilated. Joren himself looked quite similar to his physical appearance, save for the white-blue glow of his skin. Joren had seen any number of strange alterations to the way people looked when he tired to heal them. But he had never seen a change quite as dramatic as Cyra’s appearance.

Cyra’s skin was white, far paler than the skin of her physical body would be, even awash in moonlight like this. If he looked hard enough, Joren could make out faint traces of scales here and there. Her hair had become numerous slender spikes arcing back from her head. Probably the most dramatic new feature was the wings. They were dragon wings, with dark blue membranes between the long white digits that each ended in pale claws the color of bone. They were unfurled, but lowered so the bottom edges rested on the stone beneath her. She was looking up into the sky. If she had noticed Joren, she did not seem to care.

Joren would have continued simply watch Cyra until she took notice of him, but the strain of scaling the mountain could not be held back any longer. With great effort, Joren pulled his lower body up onto the plateau. He made no effort to hide either himself or his exhaustion. He flopped onto the hard ground, rolled over, and lay on his back, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. The stone beneath him was rough, but just feeling that it was stable and holding his weight was enough to comfort Joren. He checked the remaining oma as he lay resting. From the time he had first battled the dark energy of Cyra’s wound up to now, he had used up almost two-thirds of what he had gathered. It was more than he would have liked, but not so much that he was worried he would need to leave right away. Feeling his strength slowly returning, Joren sighed contentedly and opened his eyes.

Cyra was crouched down next to him, looking at him. Her face was what Joren had expected from the changes to her body: neither human nor dragon, but something in between. The top of her head sloped down into a short snout, much shorter than a dragon’s. She had two small nostrils that alternately flared and shut as she breathed. Her mouth was closed, but Joren had a feeling he would not want to see it opened at him in anger. The scar that had brought him here was still on her cheek, dark against the white of her scaled skin. Her deep blue eyes stared down at him in puzzlement.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Joren Roosdrahm,” he replied as he sat up with a grunt. “I’m a healer.”

Cyra frowned and rose to her feet.

“I’ve had healers working on me. Lots of them. Why are you here.”

“I’m here because the other healers have done the best they could and it hasn’t been enough. So they sent for me to try something different.”

Cyra had turned her attentions back to the sky, gazing out into the stars.

“So I’m dying,” she said quietly. She did not sound surprised, or even all that concerned.

“Possibly.” Joren leaned on one hand as he up and stretched his arms.

“And you want to take me back.”

Cyra’s gaze fell from the starlit sky to the ground far below. Joren followed it, peering down at the darkened earth where he had begun his climb up the mountain. At first, it looked like nothing but a great void, but as his eyes adjusted, Joren could make out familiar shapes. There were trees and buildings and lakes and rivers. He could even see other mountains, though the one they were atop seemed to tower above all of them. The whole waking world lay stretched out beneath them, tiny when viewed from such a great height.

“Is that what you want me to do?”

Cyra whirled to face him, her eyes nearly sparking with anger and indignation.

“Of course it is! Why wouldn’t I want to be healed?”

Joren held up his hands and took a small step back.

“I didn’t mean to assume anything. If you wish to go back to the waking world, we can do it right now.”

“So that’s it?” Cyra’s brow was furrowed with skepticism and there was a slight hesitation in her voice. “You just come and get me and then I’m healed?”

“Possibly,” Joren said again. “Though I suspect it may not be quite that simple.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Joren began, leaning back against a particularly large rock, “most cases I treat could be solves by any good healer. They don’t require anything more than basic healing magic or a few potions and bandages. I just happen to be the healer who’s around right then, so I do what needs to be done. But when people call for me specifically like you friends did, it’s usually because the standard magic and potions and other methods aren’t working. By all rights, the person should be improving, but the body just doesn’t seem to be accepting the healers’ work for some reason.”

Joren paused. Cyra had her arms folded across her chest. She wasn’t looking at him.

“So what do you do?” she asked.

“I try to find out why they aren’t getting better,” Joren explained. “I trained under several different masters – eccentrics all of them – and I learned a different method of healing. I can see certain things: connections between living things, positive and negative energies, sources of pain. It helps me to find the root of the problem. And I can connect with people like I’m connecting with you. I try to help them so they can start to heal.”

“Do they ever die – the people you’re trying to heal?”

“Yes.” Joren’s voice was solemn, but steady. “Sometimes they’re just ready to die or they’re too badly hurt to help by the time I get to them. Then I just try to make them comfortable. Sometime the best thing I can do is to help them to accept that they’re dying, though it’s often little comfort to those left behind. And sometimes I try my best to heal them, but it just isn’t enough.”

“Do you feel bad when they die?” Cyra was almost completely turned away from Joren, but he could see she had her hand up near her mouth.

“Oh yes. Even when I know going in that all I can do is help them die a little more peacefully, it’s still hard. I tell myself I did what I could and mostly I do believe that. But I always do wonder a little if there was some way I could have done more, given more, if that would have made a difference. And talking to the people who cared about the one that died, that never gets any easier. I have a not entirely deserved reputation for being able to heal people no one else can and it leads to some unrealistic expectations. I try to just take it when they get angry at me for not being able to help. I try to think about how much pain they’re in and that I’m just the most convenient target for all the anger they feel. But even when they don’t blame me at all, even when they’re the ones telling me I did all I could, it’s never easy. It could well be the hardest part of what I do.”

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Five

2008-02-11T11:10:00.000-08:00

A short part, but one I feel the need to separate from the next. More lost italics: all of the dialogue is italicized to indicate that they're speaking Rannak. Rannak, incidentally, is NOT the dragons' native tongue; it's the language humans and dragons use to speak to each other. The word "Rannak" comes from a very old dragon word meaning "compromise". Most human speech sounds very high and fast to dragons, while human usually find dragon speech very slow and tonally based. Rannak is an attempt to split the difference.

Comments as always

Peren never had trouble finding the dragon. Even though the creature was doing her best to follow Peren’s instructions and remain hidden, her trail of crushed plants and broken tree limbs was easy to pick up. Day or night, her brilliant white scales stood out in sharp contrast to the dark trees and thick undergrowth surrounding her. So it was only moments after leaving the farmhouse that Peren came upon the spot where the dragon laid waiting.

Even curled up with her head resting near the tip of her tail, the dragon was impressively large. She seemed impossibly big and out of place against the backdrop of trees. She would have towered over any animal that lived in the wood, had any of them dared to come that near.

The dragon was quite still, possibly in an attempt to keep from being noticed. Her pale blue wings lay folded against her sides, gently rising and falling as she breathed. Her eyelids, always kept low over her dark eyes, closed and opened in languid blinks. Only the deadly sharp claws of her front feet truly moved, scraping at the ground in a nervous, repetitive motion. She did not look up us Peren approached, not even when Peren was standing no more than a few feet away.

“Great Dragon, I am honored in your presence,” Peren recited. At least, she thought that was what it meant. The little Rannak Peren knew had been taught to her by her father who had learned it from his mother. She in, turn, had learned it from her mother, who had learned it from her father. Peren’s great-great-grandfather had been born to dragoncallers, but had left the village at a young age and settled in Ormel. Each generation since had shown a little less inclination to fully learn Rannak and ended up with a little less knowledge to pass on to new generations. Peren herself had only ever learned as much of the rough, throaty language as her father had insisted on teaching her. It was only when she had joined the resistance and dragons had gone from rare creatures that you be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of soaring away in the distance to comrades in arms fighting by her side that Rannak had gained any real significance for her. Other soldiers were impressed by Peren’s ability to roughly figure out what Cyra and the dragons were talking about. It had helped Peren to stand out, but it had never been necessary before now and Peren was starting to realize how painfully inadequate her Rannak really was.

“My daughter?” the dragon asked, as far as Peren understood it. She raised her head a little, but did not look directly at Peren. They had talked several times now, yet the dragon had never looked straight at Peren or fully opened her eyes. Peren wasn’t sure if this was how the dragon always behaved or just a sign of her worry.

“Forgive me, please,” Peren began, fumbling for the right words. “I have mistake. You mother. Cyra your daughter.”

“My daughter?” the dragon asked again. There was more to the question, but it was beyond Peren’s understanding. Her best guess was that the dragon wanted to know about Cyra’s condition.

“Cyra rest,” said Peren. “Cyra not awake. Healer works now.”

“Daughter lives? Peren was surprised by the seeming frankness of the dragon’s question, though she couldn’t be certain that she had the intent of the translation right. The dragon’s repetitive scraping at the earth gouged deeper and deeper lines into the soil.

“I not know,” Peren admitted. “Healer works hard. Healer works good. Good healer.”

“Last healer,” the dragon added, and Peren could not mistake the meaning this time. The dragon knew full well that they were out of time and options. Joren was their last hope.

“Yes. Forgive, please.” Peren didn’t know the Rannak for “sorry”, or even if it was any different than “forgive”.

The dragon’s claws stopped ripping at the ground. Slowly, she rose to her feet, lightly shaking out her wings. Peren swallowed nervously. She didn’t want to have to try and convince the dragon to stay hidden in the woods again. It had been hard enough the first time and now Peren could see why the dragon wouldn’t want to be separated from her daughter. But the dragon made no move to leave. She raised her head to the sky, her long neck arcing gracefully. Opening her mouth, the dragon let out a soft, high-pitched cry. She held the high tone for a minute, then let it drop slowly, lowering her head along with the pitch. She fell briefly silent, and then repeated the cry again.

Peren could feel her knees trembling involuntarily as she watched the dragon. She had heard a dragon call to other dragons before. Those had all been near-deafening roars you could hear over an almost unbelievable distance. This cry was far too soft to carry very far and it was much different. Though there was nothing to translate, Peren had very little doubt of what the dragon meant.

At first, Peren just stood where she was, watching awkwardly. It felt like she was intruding on a private moment, and yet something in her did not want to leave the dragon alone. She took a tentative step towards the dragon. The dragon took no notice and continued on with her keening cries. Peren took another step, then another, until she was right at the dragon’s side. She gingerly reached out her hand and touched just the fingertips to the dragon’s side. The smooth scaled trembled briefly at her touch, but the dragon did not move. Gaining confidence, Peren laid the whole of her hand on the dragon. The dragon lifted her head and let out another cry into the night. Peren could feel the sound rippling through her whole body. It was almost overwhelming and Peren nearly pulled her hand away. But even through the heavy reverberation, Peren could sense the dragon’s sadness more clearly than ever before. Without thinking, Peren raised her head and echoed the dragon’s cry. It was a poor imitation; Peren lacked the knowledge and the lungs to do the sound justice. But she cried out as accurately and sincerely as she could.

The dragon stopped. She turned her arrow shaped white head until the heavy-lidded eyes came as close as they ever had to looking right at Peren. Peren could only see a sliver of the dragon’s eyes, but they were darker, darker than the darkest night sky. A small prickle of fear ran up Peren’s spine and she wondered whether she had done the right thing.

In answer, the dragon raised her head and howled out her cry again. Peren did the same and so they continued. The dragon let out her long, mournful cry of grief and worry for her daughter and Peren joined in with her. At last, the dragon lowered her head and did not raise it again. She laid back down on the forest floor, resting her head near Peren.

“I thank you,” the dragon said softly.

Peren may not have fully understood, but she knew what the dragon meant.

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Four

2008-02-07T11:45:00.000-08:00

We're definitely looking at six parts at least. The next scene is short (in theory). I could use a short scene.

So this is how magic works in Sathyriel. "Oma" is italicized in the original text, but I don't feel like going in and doing it for every time it appears here. I'm going to hold off on the separate explanation of magic for a while as I really don't think it's necessary.

Comments as usual.

Joren sat in the chair taking slow, deep breaths and watching Cyra’s face. He was certain by now that the scar on her cheek was what he would need to deal with. The rest of her injuries were largely calm with only brief infrequent sparks to indicate that they were not yet past the point of posing a danger. But the cheek scar crackled with a constant flow of dark energy that kept the soothing glow of the healers’ work at bay. The source of her pain was clear and Joren could have started right then. But he continued to take deep breaths and watch Cyra. He needed to calm himself and to recognize that Cyra was an individual. He had never attempted to heal someone with quite so much tied into her fate, but thinking about that would only hinder his work. Joren needed to see her not as the leader of the rebel army, not as someone who could potentially change the destiny of this land and Joren’s own life with it, but as a patient in need of his care.

Joren focused on it, trying to block out any sense of the remaining healer moving about the room or the fainter impressions of the people waiting in the next room. Anaskida shook off her feathers and stepped lightly from his shoulder onto the back of the chair. Joren took one last deep breath before he began drawing oma.

He began with himself. Some mages he had known preferred to keep their oma in reserve, but Joren chose to start by drawing on his. He felt it was more honest to ask other living things to give of their oma if he had already shown that the cause was worth draining his own. He closed his eyes, put his left hand to his chest, and sought out the source of his inner energy. It came to him with only a bit of hesitation, probably due to a little lingering nervousness. He summoned up as much as he considered safe and held it waiting for the rest he would draw.

Anaskida was next. He asked her permission first, as he always did. She had never once denied him the use of her oma, but Joren respected that she was a proud creature and that the choice was always hers. So he asked her and was answered as her oma joined with his. Anaskida’s oma was a familiar sensation, all speed and wild energy and racing winds. He added it to his own and began the search for the remaining oma he would require.

He went first to the dragon mother. The physical distance made her a little harder to reach, but Joren had seen the shimmering blue connection between them and he felt certain that the dragon would give much for her adopted child. Almost as soon as Joren’s subconscious question reached the dragon, the response came in great waves of oma. The dragon’s oma bore some similarities to Anaskida’s; Joren could feel the rushing air of flight and a deep wildness. But there were also bursts of hot flame and a persistent roar. Joren reminded himself to note his impressions of dragon oma in his journal later as her added it to the rest.

Joren worked his way back from the dragon, drawing more oma as he went. He drew from plants when he though it might be useful, but he largely asked people and animals. Plants gave their oma almost before he asked. It felt of water and warmth, like earth soaked by the rain then warmed in sunlight. People and animals took longer, but Joren found none of them unwilling. He felt calm soothing energy from the healers flecked with scents and flashes of movement from their familiars. The soldiers’ oma was more strength and courage over fear and the chaos of battle. Joren brought all of it together until he had drawn oma from every major source between the dragon and himself. The result seemed like enough for what he had to do.

Joren concentrated on the oma he had gathered, letting it flow into his left hand. He began to shape the energies. A soft blue light began to glow at the center of his palm. It slowly spread, covering his palm, spreading to his fingers, and then reaching back down to just beneath his elbow. Joren gave a silent mental command and the light became flame surrounding his forearm. Joren stared intently at the scar on Cyra’s cheek, its own energy now surging up in angry plumes towards Joren’s arm. He took one last deep breath and laid his hand against her scar.

The two energies collided. The backlash was as strong as a physical blow, but Joren held on. His blue flame and the scar’s dark surges tore at each other. The back room, the table, the healer, Anaskida, and even Cyra were swallowed by nothingness until all that remained were Joren and the two warring energies. He fought to hold his hand steady long enough for the blue flame and the dark force to attack each other one last time. The two clashed together and burst into an explosion of orange light. Tiny orange embers fell away as the explosion faded. The embers floated slowly down toward Joren’s feet and disappeared, leaving Joren completely alone.

Calmly, Joren sat down and looked out into the great expanse of nothing. He began to do what he always did when he found himself in this place. He reached inside of his shirt and pulled out the little silver medallion he wore on a cord around his neck. He ran his finger along the simple glyph that was carved on it. He though of his first teacher: the scent of the strange herbs he would grind and heat to call up trance inducing vapors, the light crunch his worn boots made as they had walked together down dusty roads, the slow movements of his hands as they gestured in the air when he cast a spell, and that odd, distinctly human saying he was so fond of.

“True as the clear blue sky.”

Truth is a clear blue sky.

The light came slowly and without any clear source, like a sunless dawn. Joren watched as the void above him grew light and took on a blue color. The light began to illuminate the ground beneath him, shaping into a grass-covered field that stretched out as far as the now brilliant blue sky.

As always, Joren allowed himself one deep breath to simply enjoy this place for what it was. Then he began to scan the cloudless sky for anything other than a vast expanse of blue. He listened for the slightest sound, sniffed the air for any scent, and held as still as he could to take note of any new sensation. Slowly, the blue-sky world began to change. He began to see hints of clouds in the sky, forming themselves into vague shapes. He heard faint distant sounds, some like voices and others like music. A gentle breeze carrying the scent of fish told him Anaskida was wondering if they would be able to eat soon.

Joren scanned each sight and sound and smell, waiting for something to strike him as familiar in the right way. He looked over ever cloud, trying to make sense of its shape. He listened careful to the sounds and considered possible origins for them. He in the midst of trying to decide whether one cloud was meant to be a snail or a rowboat when something else caught his attention. At first he thought it was another cloud, but as he continued to look he realized that it was a moon. It seemed nearly the same color as the surrounding clouds, but as Joren gazed at it more intently he realized that it was actually rather grey. The little wispy cloud shapes continued to move around and change from one thing to another. But the moon remained still and constant and solid. The more Joren looked at it, the more the moon seemed unlike the natural moons he had seen. Despite the bright daytime sky, its crescent shape stood out starkly against the blue, almost like a scar.

Aha.

Joren smiled to himself and fixed his full attentions on the moon. He stared at it intently, blocking the clouds from his sight, ignoring the fading sounds. Soon, the faint voices and noises fell silent. From the very corner of his eye, Joren could see the remaining clouds disappearing. Even Anaskida’s pungent breeze gave up and left him alone. Joren kept his focus on the moon until he could have seen it with his eyes shut.

The sky around the moon grew dark. The darkness began to spread and Joren let his gaze wander from the moon. In mere moments, the entire sky was black. If not for the moon, it would have been as dark as it was before Joren had called forth the sky. As Joren’s eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness, tiny stars began to appear. Joren watched as each one twinkled into existence. They seemed to appear as randomly as they would on any natural night and Joren could not see any pattern to their placement. Then suddenly, a group of stars disappeared. Joren blinked in surprise. Stars above and to the sides of the ones that had vanished began disappearing as well. Joren watched, wondering what meaning the vanishing stars might have. Moonlight fell across an odd shape in the sky and Joren understood what was happening. The earth was rising, spiraling up into the sky and blocking out the stars. The moon was now illuminating the side of the newly formed peak. Joren watched as the ground continued to twist silently upward. Higher and higher it climbed until at last, in came to a stop and Joren heard a soft grind of settling stone.

Joren looked down at his feet and saw that he now stood at the base of the mountain. He turned to look around. There was nothing else as far as he could see. Looking back up at the mountain, all he saw was the remaining stars and the moon shining down on the steep rocky slope. Squinting, Joren could just make out something he didn’t quite recognize at the top of the mountain. The very top of the mountain.

Joren chuckled to himself and shook his head.

“Not going to make it easy for me, are you?” he said as he grabbed onto a handhold and began to climb.

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Three

2008-02-06T12:52:00.000-08:00

The latest estimate is six parts, assuming I don't post two sections in one post. The interesting part gets underway very soon, so hang in there. And can you believe I nearly forgot to write the part where who the dragon is gets revealed? I am fully aware of how Joren found that out, but I'm not sure whether it will be revealed in the story or not.

I'm planning to write an explanation of how magic works in Sathyriel and its surrounding world. I thought I'd get to it today but I haven't had time.

Comment always welcome.

The waiting was the hardest thing for Marehnu. He felt no less tense than he had just before a battle. What if Peren and Garel couldn’t find the dwarf? What if Peren’s limited knowledge of Rannak wasn’t enough to direct the dragon to Orkanholt? What if the dwarf refused to come? Marehnu tried to keep himself busy. He sent some of his men to the nearest towns to try and replenish the healers’ diminishing supplies. He helped to sort out bandages and potion ingredients when his men finally returned. He checked in with his troops on the perimeter to make certain there were no signs of Keltarian forces. He stayed out of Tolla’s way as much as possible. Between fatigue and continuing unhappiness about Joren’s impending arrival, the head healer’s temper was short. Marehnu did his best to only speak to her when it was absolutely necessary. He did his best to stay occupied, but still he often found himself scanning the skies for the approaching dragon or waiting for one of his troops to come and tell him the dragon had been sighted.

Marehnu was passing the time chatting with a few of the resting healers who were unable to sleep when the code knock interrupted their conversation and one of Marehnu’s troops burst in.

“They’re here!” he exclaimed. “The dragon’s coming in from the southwest and it looks like the dwarf is with them!”

“Meet them near the woods and escort them here,” Marehnu said, trying to hide the relief he felt. “Tell Peren to make certain the dragon stays hidden.”

The soldier nodded briskly and rushed back out the door. Marehnu excused himself to the healers and went into the back room.

Tolla had been hiding her fatigue well aside from becoming more irritable, but looking at her now, Marehnu could hardly believe she was still standing. Her brow was furrowed as she poured fresh ointment onto a cloth and applied it to a gash on Cyra’s leg. Despite the lack of heat in the hidden rooms, her face shone with sweat. Her eyelids fluttered as she continued fighting the urge to let them close. She didn’t even look up at Marehnu as he came into the room.

“The dwarf is here, I take it?” she said sourly.

“He’s on his way,” confirmed Marehnu.

Tolla roughly tossed a dirty bandage into the corner of the room that was being used for garbage. She headed over to the table and busied herself helping another healer grind herbs for a potion. Marehnu was contemplating whether or not he should say something to her when the code knock sounded once more. Marehnu turned and headed to the front room just as Peren, Garel, and the dwarf healer were coming down the stairs.

Joren seemed old, though Marehnu found it hard to guess at the age of dwarves. Still, the large number of white hairs in his silver-grey beard and the small fringe of hair that ran from just above his ears around the back of his head suggested that he was no longer young. He wore a simple light grey cloak over a plain white shirt and baggy black pants. Affixed to his simple leather belt were all shapes and sizes of pouches, likely full of herbs and potions and small tools. That and the pocket-lined bag Joren had slung over his left shoulder were typical of healers. Perched on Joren’s right shoulder was a small falcon. Its large eyes blinked as its head turned this way and that to take in its surroundings. Marehnu was a little surprised. Familiars were not uncommon among healers; some of the ones who were here already had cats or dogs or smaller creatures with them. But hawks were unusual. Marehnu had never seen any kind of mage with a falcon as a familiar.

Marehnu bowed to Joren as he finished descending the stairs.

“Healer Joren. Thank you for coming.”
Joren returned the bow and the falcon flapped its wings to keep balanced on his shoulder.

“Your people were quite persuasive,” the dwarf said. “Though from what they told me, we don’t have much time to waste on chatting.”

Marehnu nodded in agreement and led the dwarf into the back room. Peren and Garel followed after them. Some of the resting healers got up from their makeshift beds and made their way to the back room door, curious to see what was going to happen.

Tolla was standing against the back wall as they entered. Though no one would have dared suggest it, Marehnu suspected that she was glad for the measure of rest that leaning against it provided. She eyed the dwarf as a baker setting out fresh pies might eye a group of hungry children. The other two healers in the room stopped what they were doing and stepped back towards where Tolla stood. The dwarf gave no sign that he was aware of Tolla’s animosity. He walked over to the bed where Cyra lay and began to look her over. He walked up and down the length of the bed, checking the dressings and nodding to himself. Once or twice, he reached out and laid a hand on Cyra, usually over a bandaged wound. Marehnu could see Tolla’s hands form into tight fists every time Joren did this, but she said nothing. Joren paused for the longest time near Cyra’s head. He touched a single finger to the scar running down her cheek. After a moment, he left the bedside, heading to the small table where the healers had crafted potion after potion. He removed both the pocket-covered satchel and his belt and set them on the table. Then he returned to Cyra’ side.

“Not making any potions today?” Tolla asked, he contempt clear. Joren looked up at her.

“You’ve done everything traditional healing can do for her,” he said simply. “If you hadn’t, she would have died already.”

Tolla’s eyes widened ever so slightly. Marehnu wondered if much of her dislike for the dwarf came from her believing that he had no respect for the traditional healing that she practiced. Perhaps knowing that wasn’t the case would calm her some. Tolla still didn’t look happy, but Marehnu noticed that she wasn’t glaring at Joren anymore.

Joren grabbed hold of the room’s single chair and pushed it over to Cyra’s bed. He hoisted himself into the chair.

“I’ll need you all to leave the room,” he said. “The less distraction I have while I’m working, the easier this will be. I can’t say how long it will take, probably until sundown at least. I’ll let you know when you can come back in.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Garel asked. He seemed disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to watch Joren work.

“Well, Anaskida and I will be pretty hungry once we’re through,” answered Joren, motioning towards his falcon. “A good meal for when we’re done would be nice. Other than that, you could talk to the mother.”

“The mother?” Marehnu repeated, confused.

“The white dragon in the woods,” said Joren. “Cyra’s mother.”

“Oh!” The assembled crowd turned to look at Peren. Her hand was at her mouth and her eyes were wide with horror.

“Of course! ‘Roma’ – it means ‘daughter’! I thought she was saying ‘leader’ all this time! I can’t believe I…”

Peren trailed off and shot a desperate look at Marehnu. He did feel sorry for her. She only spoke a little Rannak by her own admission and she’d been unexpectedly thrown into a situation where she was their only translator. But this wasn’t the time to reassure her.

“Go talk to the dragon,” Marehnu ordered, waving his hand in dismissal. Peren raced from the room and up the stairs, the door banging shut behind her.

Once Peren was gone, the healers slowly began to file out of the back room. Marehnu dismissed his soldiers and they left to take up posts in the front room or outside. Only Tolla made no motion to leave. She remained standing against the back wall.

“Tolla,” Marehnu said, hoping she wasn’t going to put up a fight.

“I’m staying here.”

“Tolla, you can’t stay.”

“Someone we know needs to be here keeping an eye on her condition and making sure nothing goes wrong. I’ll stay.”

Marehnu walked over to the back wall and pulled Tolla aside. He lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper, hoping he wouldn’t have to raise it.

“Tolla, you have done amazing work keeping everyone organized and keeping Cyra alive. Even Joren knows it. But you need to rest.”

“I won’t leave him alone with her.”

“Then chose one of the healers to come in here and watch him for you. If anything goes wrong, my men will be in here immediately.”

“And if that isn’t soon enough?”

“Like I told you, whatever Joren does is my responsibility. Now go pick out another healer to watch him and get some rest!”

“Is that an order?”

“It will be if you don’t cooperate.”

Tolla scowled at him, but she stepped away from the wall and made her way to the door. Her footsteps were heavy and her pace was slow. Marehnu doubted that she could have remained awake to supervise Joren. Once Tolla had left the room, Marehnu turned to the dwarf.

“We’re going to need one of our healers in here, just to supervise.” He felt awkward saying it, but even if he didn’t share Tolla’s suspicions, he had take reasonable precautions. Joren nodded his head.

“I understand. Might make things a little harder at first, but I’ll manage. Just try not to let anyone else come in.”

Marehnu nodded and left the room himself. One of the healers slipped past him and into the back room. He shut the door between the two rooms. Nearby a couple of the healers were helping Tolla into one of the beds. She didn’t look to be protesting any longer. Marehnu sat down at the bottom of the stairs and settled in for another long wait.

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Two

2008-02-05T14:43:00.000-08:00

I'm start to think more and more that I'd like to put at least part of this into "The Last Battle", but 'm still not sure how to do that without the story coming to a grinding halt. Anyways, for those of you who forgot in the nine months since I last worked on the Lost History, Cyra was captured, got a big wound in her cheek from Talshak, probably got some other nasty injuries after Talshak left, was rescued by her troops, but is now expected to die from her injuries.

So this is Part 2 of what I figure will be at least a four part story. Since you're all aware that Cyra does survive to liberate Sathyriel, become its queen, have or adopt a child, and continue frolicking with dragons, this story is less about what the ending is going to be than how we get there. For example, I don't think it would really spoil anything if I told you that Joren will be able to heal Cyra, but the more interesting thing is how he does it. At least, I hope it's still interesting.

Comments still welcome.

General Marehnu had sometimes wondered about what his legacy would be. He never allowed himself to think about it when a battle was drawing near, and certainly never during combat. But in the quiet times traveling from one front to the next, he sometimes pondered what the historians would say about him when the war was a thing of the past. Now, however, Marehnu was nearly certain what it was that he would be remembered for. He would be known as the general who was there when Cyra died.

He hadn’t wanted to believe that it would happen. He still didn’t. But as the days and nights passed in the secluded farmhouse where they were staying hidden from any Keltarian troops sent to search for the escaped leader of the rebellion, he started to realize that Cyra was not going to recover. They had gathered all of the local healers they could find who could be rusted not to betray them to the Keltarians. They had worked in shifts, night and day, tending to the most serious injuries first and then moving on to the less grave ones. Ointments were applied, dressings were changed, wounds were cleaned, and spell after spell after spell was cast.

After three days, over half of the healers were too exhausted to do anything more. But there was still no sign that Cyra was going to recover. So Marehnu had sent his troops out further in search of more healers. It was risky. They had no intelligence on whether the Keltarians knew of the raid on Fortress Ullok yet. Soldiers may have been searching for their hiding place. Someone trying to find a healer willing to travel to a secluded location could easily arouse suspicions. The more people who knew about Cyra’s condition, the more likely it became that one of them might talk – not just to the Keltarians, but to the local civilians, or even other rebel soldiers. It had been decided as soon as it was known that Cyra had been captured that only those in the rebellion who absolutely needed to know what was happening would be told. Eventually, though, it wouldn’t matter any more. All of their secrecy wouldn’t be enough to hide the truth if Cyra, well known for standing with her troops on the front lines, was conspicuously absent from major battles.

Marehnu sighed, his visible breath trailing off into the cold night air. He leaned heavily against the side of the farmhouse. A distant flicker of white from the nearby woods caught Marehnu’s attention for a brief second. He sighed again and rubbed at his high forehead. As if they didn’t have enough problems, they still had to deal with the dragon.

Shortly after Cyra had been captured, the white dragon had arrived. Without Cyra there to translate, Marehnu had to rely on one of his troops who spoke a small amount of Rannak. She had been able to determine that the dragon wanted to help them find Cyra and rescue her. Marehnu had fought alongside dragons before and was glad for any aid he could get. The dragon’s help had proved invaluable in the taking of Fortress Ullok. The problem was that she hadn’t left afterwards. The dragon had followed them to the farmhouse and would not leave the area. Long negotiations through the translator, with each side only half understanding what the other was trying to say, had eventually resulted in the dragon agreeing to stay in the woods rather than right next to the farmhouse. Still, a dragon – especially a bright white dragon – was not particularly helpful when Marehnu was trying to avoid attention. They had yet to figure out why the dragon refused to leave. As near as Marehnu’s translator could tell, she simply did not want to abandon her leader.

Marehnu waited a moment to make sure the dragon didn’t come any closer. Then he headed back inside the farmhouse. The couple that normally lived there had left. They had hidden rebel soldiers on their property before, but everyone agreed that a small group of soldiers, any number of healers, the gravely injured rebel leader, and a dragon was an entirely different matter. The couple had left for a nearby town, which kept them safe from any battles that might erupt at their home and allowed them to plausibly deny that they knew rebels were occupying a basement room in their home. Marehnu went from the main living quarters to the storage room, gave the code knock to let his troops know he was coming, opened the secret door on the far wall, carefully closed it behind him, and descended into the basement.

The basement hideout consisted of two rooms that were virtually identical. The front room was currently being used for exhausted healers to rest and recover. The floor was littered with makeshift beds - mostly piles of hay and blankets – squeezed up against each other to fit as many as possible into the small space. Four of Marehnu’s troops stood guard, trying to remain quiet so the healers could sleep. Marehnu waved a hand at them as he came down the stairs, silently signaling that all was well outside. The guards nodded and Marehnu entered the back room.

Before he even got through the door, he could feel the sword. Cyra’s blade, Deslordian, had been retrieved from the battlefield after Cyra fell. It had taken several days for it to get from the soldier who had found it to the farmhouse. They had all hoped that the sword was what Cyra needed to recover from her injuries. They brought it to her room and placed it by her side, but Cyra did not stir. Deslordian had all but pulsed with energies of worry. Over time, Deslordian’s emotions grew more and more subdued. Now all Marehnu sensed from the blade was a low steady hum of mourning, punctuated by the occasional trill of confusion.

In contrast to the front room, the back room had only one bed. It was a real mattress that the two farmers kept in the basement for soldiers hiding from Keltarian forces. That was where Cyra had remained for the five days since they had brought her here. Six of Marehnu’s troops were stationed in the room to guard Cyra in case the guards hidden around the farmhouse and the ones in the front room were overtaken. There were three healers currently attending to Cyra. One was changing out soiled bandages for fresh ones. Another was mixing potions at the small table in the corner of the room. The third healer, the only healer currently at the farmhouse who was actually part of the rebel army, was seated the room’s single chair, which Marehnu had come to understand meant she was resting after casting a strong healing spell. She had become the kind of unofficial head of the healers, taking on the responsibilities of coordinating the various healers and keeping Marehnu updated on Cyra’s condition.

Marehnu didn’t bother asking the head healer how Cyra was doing. He looked down at Cyra and watched for the slow, labored rise and fall of her chest. That told him all he needed to know. If Cyra had been doing any better, he would have been informed immediately. If she slipped closer to death, he wouldn’t even want to have anyone tell him. Better to see for himself than deal with people’s hesitation as they tried to figure out the best way to deliver the news when their somber faces had already told him everything.

“How is she?” Marehnu asked, on the off chance that there was more news than what Cyra’s still unsteady breathing had already told him.

The head healer didn’t even turn to look at him. Her large hands were massaging her temples, fingers moving in slow, small circles.

“No better,” she sighed. “We’ve all but run out of options for her wounds. Our supplies are running low and even taking shifts, we can’t keep up healing at this rate much longer. We’re doing everything we can, but it’s like her body just won’t fight to get better.”

Marehnu nodded wordlessly, though what the healer told him didn’t make much sense. In the time that he had known Cyra, she had never seemed to be anything but a fighter. He had been on the front lines with her facing Keltarian forces far better equipped and supported. A wise retreat was not beyond her, but once Cyra was locked in battle, she fought like a wild beast. Marehnu had seen her bring down fully armored foes almost twice her size. The idea that she wasn’t fighting to heal her injuries just didn’t seem right to him.

Marehnu looked once again at Cyra. She hadn’t moved at all since he had seen her last. Not for the first time, he noticed how small she looked. Without the commanding presence that came from her confident words, her strong stance, or the flash of her eyes, Cyra seemed diminutive, even fragile. At least as far as Marehnu could see, the healers had done their job well. Cyra had been covered in dried blood and unhealed wounds when they had found her. The healers had cleaned her up and the worst of her injuries were either healing or reduced to mere scars. Still anyone who hadn’t seen her in the Ullok dungeon would even now think she was badly hurt. The muscles of her face tensed as they did every so often. Marehnu was certain she was fighting some inner battle, but how could it not be enough to bring her back?

“Is she at least no worse?” asked Marehnu.

With great effort, the head healer rose to her feet. She ambled slowly over to Marehnu’s side. Though there was little point in trying to keep a secret in such a small space, she spoke to him in a hushed tone.

“I have to be honest,” she whispered. “We’re running out of time. It seems like every time we make some progress on one injury, two others get worse. Like I said, it’s like her body just won’t work with us. If there isn’t a major change very soon…”

The head healer trailed off, not even wanting to mention the near inevitable outcome. Marehnu said nothing and the entire room fell silent.

“What’s that?”

Marehnu looked up to see one of his men pointing at a scar that ran the length of Cyra’s cheek. Marehnu wasn’t sure whether the soldier was honestly curious or was just looking for some way to break the silence.

“Some kind of knife wound, we think,” the head healer answered. “We aren’t sure why it left that much of a scar. Infection that we didn’t catch in time, maybe.”

The head healer seemed slightly reenergized and made her way back to Cyra’s side, checking the patient for wounds that needed further attention. Marehnu stayed where he was, lost in thought. He knew the healers were doing everything they could. The head healer hadn’t slept for more than a few hours in the past few days. Soon enough, even she would have to rest. But it wasn’t enough, not even to stabilize Cyra’s condition. Even the head healer had all but admitted it. If something didn’t happen fast, Cyra would die.

“All right,” he said allowed, causing everyone in the small room to turn and look at him. “Clearly what we’re doing right now isn’t going to work. The healers are all working themselves to exhaustion, but Cyra’s still dying. I need you all to think. Is there anything that we haven’t tried yet?”

Silence answered Marehnu. He wondered if he had done the right thing. Trying to hide from what all of them knew obviously wasn’t helping. Marehnu had hoped that openly stating how urgent the situation had become would force someone to think of some idea they hadn’t yet considered. But maybe all he had done was confirm that Cyra was going to die and that nothing could be done.

“Well, there’s a healer.”
Everyone’s eyes went to the youngest of the three healers, who had been mixing a new set of potions at the little table. He looked nervous with all of their attention suddenly on him.

“What healer?” the head healer snapped. “I brought in every local healer we could even consider trusting.”

“He’s not local,” the young healer answered hesitantly. “And he’s a little…different.”

The head healer’s eyes widened and a look of something like disgust crossed her face.

“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head firmly. “No. Not the dwarf.”

The young healer turned to Marehnu as words began tumbling from his mouth in frantic bursts.

“His name is Joren and he’s a dwarf healer. He’s based around Orkanholt. A lot of other healers don’t like him, but he can help us! I know he will!”

“Absolutely not!” boomed the head healer. “I will not have some lunatic dwarf with delusions of healing ability coming in here and making things worse!”

“Joren’s nothing but a sparker,” the third healer added. “I hear he can’t even make potions. He’ll only make things worse.”

“I’ve seen him heal!” protested the youngest healer. “This man was attacked by trolls and Joren healed him! And I saw him use a potion!”

“That’s how sparkers work,” the third healer retorted. “I bet that guy was his accomplice. He stumbles out of the woods pretending to be hurt, the sparker ‘heals’ him, and the whole village starts requesting his ‘services’.”

“Even if we were going to let this….this trickster work on Cyra,” the head healer began, “how would we find him in time? Orkanholt is two days ride at least, and that’s assuming you don’t run into any Keltarian soldiers.”

“The dragon!” Marehnu’s Rannak translator had spoke up. “If we can direct her there, the dragon can get us there and back much faster. I’m sure she’ll help us.”

“Don’t you start,” growled the head healer. “We are not bringing the dwarf and that is final.”

But the argument went on. The rest of Marehnu’s troops joined in and soon enough, everyone was shouting just to be heard. Marehnu strode purposefully over to the small table.

“Enough!” he shouted, slamming his fist down on the table. Potions shook and everyone turned to look at Marehnu, wide eyed and silent.

“I am still in charge here and I will make the decisions on our next move. As I said, Cyra is dying and that’s not going to change if we don’t start doing something different. Unless anyone has a better suggestion, I say we go find this Joren and see what he can do for us.”

Marehnu paused, just in case anyone actually did have another idea. No one said a word.

“I don’t like this any more than any of you, but we are out of options. If the dwarf really does have a different way of healing, then he may be our best hope. If he is just a sparker, then we’re no worse off than we were before.”

“What if he’s worse than a sparker?” the head healer challenged. “What if he does something that makes her worse?”

The thought of Marehnu’s future legacy briefly entered his mind again before he pushed it away.

“If it comes to that, as commanding officer I will assume full responsibility. I know that won’t fix anything, but Joren is looking like our last chance and I’d rather risk it than sit here and watch her die.”

The group murmured their assent, though Marehnu could tell some were less happy about it than others.

“Peren,” he began, turning to his Rannak translator, “take Garel to the dragon and head for Orkanholt as fast as you can. Saman, inform the troops of what we’re doing. And….”

Marehnu stared at the head healer for a moment. She returned his gaze with one of irritation and slight confusion.

“I don’t know your name,” Marehnu admitted.

“Tolla,” she replied shortly.

“Tolla. I’m sorry. Just keep her alive.”

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part One

2007-05-22T13:53:00.000-07:00

What's this, aside from the result of increasing frustration with the visual arts? It's an idea I've had for quite a while, and yet another way of working on "The Last Battle" without actually working on "The Last Battle". What you're about to read is a story from Sathyriel's past that didn't make it into the history books. With time, Memories fade, stories change, and some events are just never spoken of. This is a case where those involved believe the incident in question is better not shared with the general public and best forgotten by everyone, Of course, since this take place about thirty years before "The Last Battle", you'll already know how it turns out, if not how we reach that point.

I'm not sure what effect ths is going to have on the "real" story. Certainly it will require altering physical descriptions of Cyra. I almost wish I could fir it into "The Last Battle" somehow, since I like it and I think it could reveal some interesting character parallels. But as of now, I can't see any good and organic way to fit a nine page (and growing) flashback into a story that already has pacing issues.

Comments encouraged.

Official History

By the year 708 of the Fourth Age, Cyra’s small band of freedom fighters had grown into a full-fledged army. Under the guidance of Cyra and her generals, the warriors of the future Sathyriel began taking their land back from the Keltarian forces. Though there were defeats for Cyra’s forces along the way, the growing army only seemed to come back stronger from each loss. Despite the rising attentions of the Keltarian invaders, battles were won more often than lost and Cyra herself was never captured.

The Lost History

It was a chilly evening in late autumn when Talshak first learned that Cyra had been captured. Almost as soon as the messenger breathlessly gasped out the news, Talshak began preparations to leave for Fortress Ullok. He was still cautious. He traveled by night and took strange, winding flight paths avoiding main roads. The last thing he needed now was for the public to wonder why Lord Talshak had left the capitol, heading towards a fortress of minor strategic interest.

Talshak arrived at Fortress Ullok three days later, near dusk. The fortress’s commanding general and a small company of soldiers came to meet him as he touched down a short distance from the fortress proper. It was far less of a greeting than befitted someone of Talshak’s rank, but a full formal welcoming might have attracted attention. Under the circumstance, Talshak was pleased.

“Sire.” The general, a stout troll with a broken right horn, stepped forward and bowed deeply. Talshak eyed the kneeling troll. Just a few seasons ago, he would have paid this underling no attention, taken his loyalty for certain. But the changing mood of the land was beginning to affect even his own troops. Talshak was not unaware of the growing concern in his ranks that the rebellion was gaining strength. He heard the whispered tales of victories won by their troops, of desertion and betrayal by his own. His most trusted envoys brought back the beginnings of rumors from Keltaria that Talshak’s sanity was slipping, or that he had designs on ruling Keltaria itself. So when Talshak looked at this troll bent low before him, he scoured his every movement, his every breath, anything that might betray some hint of disloyalty. Trust was a luxury Talshak could no longer afford.

“General,” he answered at last, sweeping aside any further formalities. The troll rose, rolling his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. Talshak turned from him and started towards the fortress. The troll dismissed his men and hurried after Talshak, struggling to match his gait.

“Have you increased the guard?” Talshak asked, not looking to see if the troll was keeping up with him.

“The guard on the main entrance was increased by half as soon as we had her and the guard on the dungeon itself is double. All from within the fortress, as you requested, sire.”

“Good.” Talshak had sent orders ahead of him to that effect. It would stretch the watch and patrols around the fortress thin, but at this point he could not risk bringing in outside forces. The rebels could not be allowed to discover where their leader was being held.

“What is the status of the village?” Talshak asked, though he was fairly certain of the answer.

The troll gave a snort, which Talshak assumed was a laugh at the expense of the village in question.

“It’s been ours since we retook it, sire. No sign of the rebels, and the villagers won’t be turning on us again.”

“Make certain that they don’t. I grant you full authority to exercise force in advance of another potential uprising.”

“Yes, sire”. Talshak could hear the pleasure in his general’s voice. The messenger had spoken of casualties on Talshak’s side and the general and his men would be eager to take their revenge in full.

“What happened to the sword?” Talshak continued. His general’s pace slowed for a moment.

“The sword was lost when she fell,” he began slowly. “We searched the battlefield afterwards, but there was no trace of it. We think one of the rebels might have recovered it during the fight.”

Talshak said nothing. It did not matter, really. Deslordian would have made a good trophy, another symbol of his victory over the rebellion. But if the legends about the sword were true, it would be of no use to the rebels and possibly even less use to him. As long as it stayed out of Cyra’s possession, Talshak didn’t care where the sword was.

“Now,” Talshak said, tuning back to the troll at last. “Bring me to the dungeons. I wish to see the prisoner.”

Fortress Ullok, the troll general explained, had been built from the remains of a winery. The expansive wine cellar had been quickly converted into the fortress dungeons, where local dissidents were held and interrogated prior to their near inevitable execution. The stairs leading from the armory down into the dungeons had been widened when the winery became a fortress, but it was still a tight squeeze for a dragon. But Talshak managed to navigate the narrow passageway. He had to see for himself this creature that had managed to best his troops time and time again and pose the first real threat to his rule.

The dungeon was darker than night, even to Talshak’s sharp eyes. Windowless and completely underground, the cavernous space could only be seen as far as the light from the troll’s torch would carry. Beyond the fire’s glow, everything dissolved into black nothingness. It was cold, and the bare walls and floors of stone did nothing to lessen the chill. Judging by the way the troll was covering his nose, the dungeon’s scent was equally inhospitable.

Despite the dark, Talshak did not take long to find the prisoner’s cell. The rest of the dungeon was empty. Any insurgents taken in the battle had been executed quickly to discourage further uprising by the villagers. Talshak’s eyes slowly grew accustomed to the near total darkness and soon he could make out a small shape at the back of one cell, leaning slightly forward as he and his guide approached. They drew nearer and Talshak could hear the metallic jangle of chains as the figure in the cell strained to get a better look at them.

The troll stopped in front of the cell and set his torch into a sconce on the opposite wall. The cell was still only dimly lit, but it was enough. For the first time, Talshak faced his enemy, Cyra.

Talshak nearly laughed at the sight of her. He’d known for a long time that she was human, but he had expected some freakishly large giant of the species. Cyra seemed even smaller than most humans he had encountered before. She looked strong enough, he supposed, for one of their kind. But certainly no match for even an average dragon. This was the great rebel leader? This tiny, weak little human had evaded capture and defeated his armies repeatedly? This was the challenge to his reign?

“You got a visitor!” The troll banged loudly on the bars of the cell with the flat of his short sword. Only Cyra’s eyes moved in response. She seemed to take no notice of the troll, but her eyes widened at the sight of Talshak. He smiled, confident that even if Cyra did not recognize him, she had a healthy fear of the Keltarian dragons. But if she was afraid of him, she gave no further sign. She settled back against the far wall of the cell.

“Unlock the cell and leave us,” Talshak ordered quietly without taking his eyes from Cyra. “I will summon you if I need you again.”

The troll seemed about to protest, but stopped before he said anything. Dutifully, he drew a ring of keys from his belt and turned one in the lock. He took one last look at Talshak and, when the dragon gave no further orders, made his way back to the stairs.

Talshak remained where he was, watching Cyra. It was difficult to know if his orders that she not be harmed had been followed. She was pale, but nearly every report said she always looked that way and her almost white hair seemed to confirm that she was naturally fair. She had a few fresh injuries: a slash on her sword arm, a mace wound of her left side, and a gash on her head mostly indicated by dried blood. All three had been crudely dressed in an effort to keep her condition from deteriorating before Talshak arrived. The important thing was that she was alive, and in no danger of being otherwise just yet.

The chains worried Talshak. There were far too many. He could understand caution, certainly, but this was overdone. Her forearms were manacled to the wall so that they hung slightly above her head when she sat as she did now. Multiple chains ran around her arms and back to the wall behind her. Her ankles were secured in much the same manner, the main cuffs supported by numerous encircling chains. There were more chains still wrapped around her body: waist, chest, neck, and anywhere else the guards had though to put one. Their attachment to the wall was relatively slack, but Talshak doubted they allowed Cyra to stand very well. It troubled him because it meant his troops still feared her, even after seeing that she was just an ordinary human. They could have bound her with far less and she still could never have escaped. Talshak disliked the idea that his men still considered Cyra a threat, but that concern would soon be dealt with.

Cyra was meeting his gaze as he watched her. The blue eyes betrayed no fear. Her brows were drawn low in a severe glare, but not the fury he’d seen from so many other prisoners. Whatever she felt looking at him, she was hiding it well. But she had to know by now. She may even have guessed it when she was first taken captive. It was over. She would not escape. No help was coming and her remaining days were few.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked at last.

She may not have known at first, but now the torchlight fell on his various decorations and symbols of rank. Talshak was not surprised when she nodded slowly, still saying nothing.

“I know you, too,” continued Talshak. He grinned, stepping casually back and forth in front of the open cell door.

“You’re the Vaar’s little pet, aren’t you?”

Cyra gave a noncommittal grunt in response. She probably took it as an attempted insult, but Talshak was quite certain it was truer than she wanted to acknowledge. If the legends were true the Vaar took her in out of some sense of obligation to that tiny dragoncaller village Talshak had his men obliterate years ago. But after all this time, no dragon could find this little human anything more than an amusement. The local clans were all perfectly willing to rise up against the Keltarian forces, as Talshak had been brutal with the dragons. But that was it. They cared for their freedom, not Cyra.

“You’ve been causing some trouble lately, I hear,” Talshak went on lightly. “But nothing to worry about. We’ll soon have things right again.”

Of course it wasn’t as minor an issue as Talshak made it sound. He had brushed off the first reports of an uprising in the north, even when dragons were mentioned. It had seemed like all the others: easily handled by the local forces, nothing he needed to take a personal interest in. But time went on and the reports of rebellion only grew worse. Talshak had spent nights and days scouring the maps charting the most recent battles, trying to detect a pattern and devise an effective counterattack. He had been worried, but he could already feel his concerns subsiding.

“Oh!” he remarked as though he had just thought of it. “Has anyone told you what became of that little village you fought so hard for?”

Cyra looked up, likely before she could think to stifle her emotion and feign disinterest. Talshak smiled to himself. He’d found a crack in her armor.

“Naturally, your people were completely shaken when you fell,” explained Talshak as if he were describing something of absolutely no consequence. “A few of them fought on, but most either fled or surrendered as soon as you were taken. I’ve been told the ringleaders were put to death publicly the next day. We’ve had troops searching the surrounding area for any remaining dissidents, but they seem to have run off to some far distant retreat. So the village is fully under our control again, as it will stay.”

Talshak watched in satisfaction as Cyra’s head lowered.

“Perhaps you were hoping some of them might come to rescue you,” Talshak mused. “Or were you counting on the Vaar? That would be interesting. We haven’t killed a dragon in some time.”

Cyra suddenly lunged forward and roared at him. As Talshak had predicted, the chains kept her from getting very far, but still he was taken aback. Her furious scream wasn’t just a random howl of rage. Talshak knew it well, from the days when the clans still fought against his armies, before repeated defeats forced them to resign themselves to the safety of the weyrs. It was the Vaar’s honor cry; the traditional response to a threat against the clan. And when Cyra roared it at him, the sound, the motion of her lunge, the spark of fury in her eyes, everything about her made Talshak think of his confrontations with the Vaar. He knew full well the creature before him was a human, but everything about her as she answered his threat with the honor cry told him this was a dragon. He’d known humans to imitate dragons in the past, but this was different. It was too perfect, too natural, even as it seemed so wrong coming from that diminutive form. Talshak drew back, but quickly stepped forward again, hoping Cyra hadn’t noticed. He would never admit it to her, but he was starting to believe that the Vaar might actually consider this human foundling to be one of their own.

“It must be difficult for you,” Talshak began softly. He lowered his head and began to enter the cell.

“You want to be rescued, of course. But you know full well there’s no hope. And anyone who comes for you will certainly be killed. Which you wouldn’t want, I suppose. And you know by now you can’t escape on your own.

Talshak now stood close enough to touch Cyra. She could have reached him as well, but he wasn’t concerned about it. Even if she were free, armed and armored, Talshak could have torn her apart before Cyra even landed a blow on him. He reached out a clawed finger and touched her cheek.

“I know,” he murmured, his mock sympathy sounding nearly genuine. “I know.”

He began stroking Cyra’s cheek, from the far corner of her left eye to her hard, set jaw. She did not react. Her head remained perfectly still, turned to the side as if the dragon’s touch had no effect on her. It was exactly the reaction Talshak had hoped for. Let her think he was only mocking her. Better if she never guessed what was coming.
He began so gradually that Cyra didn’t even notice the change. Just a little more pressure, not enough to hurt, barely enough to notice. Then a little more. Then a little more. Even in the faint torchlight, dim already and mostly hidden by Talshak’s body, Talshak could see the muscles in Cyra’s face tensing. The blue eyes narrowed and the already tight jaw clenched tighter still. She was trying to keep up the façade of indifference when everything in her wanted to react. Talshak persisted, watching Cyra’s face, waiting for the sign. He didn’t quite know what he was looking for, what threshold he wanted her to cross. And then he saw it. It only lasted a second, an almost imperceptible flash of teeth behind a curled lip. But it was enough, and Talshak struck.

The dragon changed nothing in his demeanor. No motion or expression gave him away. He touched the corner of Cyra’s eye, just like every other time. But he didn’t stop. His sharp claw tore into her soft skin, rewarding him with a hot burst of wet blood.

Cyra’s brave face evaporated. She still cut off her shocked cry of pain halfway, but she couldn’t fight her instincts any longer. She thrashed, struggled, strained against the chains in a futile attempt to get away. Of course it was useless. Talshak easily pinned her head back against the wall with one hand and continued his work. Her flesh opened easily and he could have cut her face open in an instant, but he took his time, slowly dragging his claw down her cheek and pressing increasingly deeper. Cyra stared at him wide eyed in horror. She didn’t scream. Her mouth remained tightly shut; lips curled back, breath coming in and out from between her teeth in hisses or air almost as hot as the blood dripping down onto Talshak’s hand. Her whole body shook with all the pain and terror and rage she couldn’t hold back anymore. But she didn’t scream.

Talshak finished at her jawline, ending the gouge in Cyra’s cheek with a particularly deep dig into her skin. He released her from his grip. Cyra gasped and flung her head to the side, shielding her torn cheek against the cell wall. She still drew the same hissing breaths in, but released them in sharp gasps that were cut off by a fierce snap of her teeth, as if she were biting back screams. Talshak observed all of this, calmly wiping the blood from his claw and hand. He considered saying something to Cyra, but thought the better of it. Nothing he said would be as effective as what he had just done.

Talshak turned his back to Cyra and left the cell. The torch had nearly burned down now and he could just barely make out Cyra’s slumped body in the back of the cell. Only the sound of alternating hisses and raspy exhales told Talshak that Cyra was still there, still alive. He called for the troll general.

The general rushed down the stairs with a fresh torch. He grabbed the spent one from the wall and snuffed the remaining embers. He stole a quick glance a Cyra, but if he could even tell what Talshak had done to her, he said nothing.

“Double the guard over the next three days,” Talshak ordered. “Pull troops from as many of the local towns and villages as you can reach over the next three days. Just a few from each area. Not enough to arouse any suspicions.”

“Yes, sire,” answered the troll. He took another furtive glance into Cyra’s cell.

“I will be returning to the capitol immediately,” Talshak continued. “I will be sending the First Battalion out and they will arrive here in six days to collect the prisoner.”

Talshak paused. He didn’t say what would happen next. But it didn’t matter. She knew. She had to know. He leaned in closer to the guard, but did not lower his voice.

“She is to be handed over to the First Battalion alive, but I don’t care what you do with her otherwise. Just so long as she survives the trip back to the capitol. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sire.” The general answered automatically, but Talshak was certain he would be happy to give his men the news. As much as they hated anyone who had turned against Talshak’s regime and took up arms against them, his troops hated Cyra, the one who gave this latest uprising its strength even more. Letting them take out their anger on her would be good for morale, though not nearly as good as Cyra’s public execution. The general took a last look into the cell. Cyra hadn’t moved, hadn’t even looked up. Talshak hadn’t expected her to. She had nothing left.

“Dismissed,” Talshak finished simply. He had no desire to drag out his stay any longer. He could take a more direct path back to the capitol while still keeping largely out of sight. He’d be there in two days, but the battalion traveling by land would take at least four to reach the fortress. There would be anxious moments in those next few days, but for now, Talshak felt content. Soon enough, Cyra would be dead, the rebellion would fall, and he would be in control again, as it should be.

Four days after Talshak’s departure, Fortress Ullok came under attack. Working off of information from their scouts, the rebel generals were able to detect unusual activity at the fortress and gather troops for a raid. The surprise attack was successful and all Keltarian forces were either killed or taken prisoner.

Cyra was freed from the fortress dungeon roughly ten days after being captured. She was not conscious when her forces reached and was suffering from numerous untreated injuries, many of them severe.

Though no one dared to say it, most believed she would not survive.

The Last Battle: Part 9, Draft 1

2007-01-15T14:39:00.000-08:00

A little bitty transtional section, taking us through some of Kata's ride to the border. I've been told the pace of the story is a little slow, a point which I do not dispute. My plan right now is to plow through and get the whole thing written start to finish before I start making edits (with the possible exception of Apex 1, which may get edited when I reach it chronologically). But I think you'll all be happy to know that the pace is going to pick up in the next few segments. We're going into a flashback showing how Kata and Santok meant. And given that they're soldiers from warring countries, you can probably guess it was in less than pleasant circumstances. Also, a story that I hinted at earlier will be told, though possibly not for a few posts yet.

Oh and "Dray Fandhil" is the name of the captiol city of Sathyriel (subject to change as always). "Dray" was a dragon caller term for "village". As it says in the history, Cyra built the capitol on the site of the dragon caller village where she was born. In reality, it's a weird version of "dragon foothills", a reference to the capitol's proximity to the dragon mountain.

Comments happily accepted.

Departing from Dray Fandhil after the Sending always took a long time. Even the roads that were normally little traveled seemed crowded with knights traveling all over the kingdom and beyond. Knights returning home with their families traveled at a leisurely pace to accommodate the young children. Knights who were traveling in groups often stayed in town for just a little while to finalize the plans for the coming mission, though some had worked this out ahead of time and were on their way immediately. Knights on solo missions like Kata chose a pace to fit their mission and destination. Some even stayed at the local inns and taverns for a few days, seeking to avoid the crowds from the Sending and still get away from the castle for a while.

Kata knew by now the fastest way to leave Dray Fandhil and get to the roads heading southwest. It was a roundabout route winding through the town: left at the central fountain, down Temple Cross, right two turns before the ruins, through too alleyways so narrow that Kata always worried that Tally would get stuck, past Wolf’s Hollow tavern, two more rights, and out the Southern Gate.

“Never ride faster than you need to,” Brogan had told Kata years before. “It wears you out and it wears the horse out and you never know when you might need the speed you wasted. Besides that, it riles the villagers. Knight charging along to get somewhere attracts attention. Starts rumors that something bad’s up.”

So Kata rode a little slower than she might have. There was no way to let Santok know she was coming until she was quite near the border anyways, so the rush wasn’t necessary. Riding when she didn’t have to be somewhere at a set time was a rare pleasure for Kata, so she made certain to enjoy it. She chose roads that took her through the most picturesque countryside. The southwestern roads crossed through the edge of the great forests of the beastmen. Even when she passed through the fringes of the vast wood, the leafy canopy was thick enough all but to block the sun entirely. Kata watched the tiny spots off dappled light on the dusty road and Tally’s mane pass by and grow progressively smaller. She spent a night in a tiny forest village as the chief’s guest and feasted on a roast caught fresh that very evening. She came out of the forest the next day and was greeted by fields of wildflowers coming into bloom. She met a small band of centaurs heading west to Evonstal and joined them for a while. They talked of the beauty of spring and the signs of the coming weather. The youngest centaur didn’t speak a word the whole trip and stayed close to his mother’s side. But just before they parted ways, he handed Kata a little bundled of herbs, which he whispered were “for your horse”. Tally devoured them that night at a small inn and seemed eager to go the next morning.

But still, there were long stretches of road with little to occupy Kata’s mind. Tally knew where they were headed, so she only had to direct him when she was ready to stop for a rest. So Kata found herself thinking of Santok, and the time they had first met.

The Last Battle: Part 8, Draft 1

2007-01-08T12:25:00.000-08:00

I'm trying to finish scenes before I post the though I don't know how long that will last. Later scenes may be longer, so you'll either be getting fragments again or have long waits between new segments.

I think I'm still getting back into the swing of things, given how long it took me to write this. I'm not getting around to it every day, but this is certainly more productive than I've been in a while. I'm not 100% staisfied with a lot of things, like parts of Cyra's speech. And I haven't decided what Kata ends up doing during the moment of silence. But I'm really trying to make myself get the whole thing down before I start worrying about the editing.

This is the first mention of Kata's religion, Orutet, which may later get a name change. It's a polytheistic faith with patron gods for pretty much all aspects of life. Oruteian devotees regularly worship a maximum of three gods, each of which is chosen at a different point in their lives. Three times a year, there are ceremonies to honor the entire pantheon, which help retain the unity of the faith. Kata's two patron goddesses are the goddess of justice and the goddess of battle. I have some notes on Orutet written several months ago, but there's not a whole lot more there than what I just told you.

"The Last Battle" is currently 14.044 words and roughly 39 regular 8.5 x 11 pages long, counting the scene i haven't posted yet (though I do use 14 point font which is easier for me to read). I think it is going to be a novel when it's done. Who knew?

Comments welcome, as always.

The castle grounds were already crowded with knights by the time Kata had retrieved Tally from the stables. She made her way towards the other mounted knights, who were assembled at the far end of the grounds near the main gate. Knights who brought their steeds to the Sending would be departing as soon as the ceremony ended and typically had a long way to travel. When the gates were opened, the mounted knights traditionally exited first.

Kata greeted a few of the knights she was friendly with before picking a spot to the left of the gates. She climbed up into Tally’s saddle. Even though she was far from the castle itself, being on horseback gave Kata a good vantage point. She could see knights talking to their friends, giving their armor a final check, or steadying their horses. Some were with their families, either preparing to travel home together for a local assignment or saying goodbye before a mission in some far off location. Knights who were just arriving squeezed carefully through the crowd, searching for familiar faces in the sea of armor. Most knights wore full armor to the sending, regardless of their plans afterward, but some who wouldn’t be leaving for a few days opted for the formal garments instead. The bright morning sun reflecting off of so much metal was dazzling bright and Kata frequently had to shield her eyes as she surveyed the crowd.

The trumpeters at the castle windows blew a sudden fanfare and a cheer went up from the knights. The fifteen members of the Knights’ Council filed out onto the lower balcony. They saluted the cheering knights who returned the salute. It was hard to identify the individual members of the Council from Kata’s distant vantage point. But she could make out Sir Argonios, due to his great height. Sir Mardet, the current head of the Council, stepped forward and began his speech. His voice carried well, but Kata was only half listening. She’s been to numerous Sendings before and though the various heads of the Council were usually eloquent, they often said much the same things. She tried to pay attention, but Mardet’s words about how each knight’s mission was of great importance to the kingdom’s well being were nothing new. In Kata’s mind, she was already riding up the faint dirt path to the main gates of Santok’s fortress, watching for him to come and greet her.

Sir Mardet concluded his speech and the knights cheered and applauded. Now the religious leaders began to assemble on the middle balcony. One by one, they stepped forward and gave their blessing to the faithful among the crowd. Kata listened politely until the Oruteian guide stepped up to speak. As he reminded the followers of her faith to respect the influence that all the gods had on their lives and the world entire and to seek harmony with the whole pantheon through their patron deities, Kata silently asked Idro and Sethato to set her path and guide her sword in her coming journey.

The blessings ended and the crowd observed a moment of reflective silence. It still amazed Kata that such an enormous gathering could fall so completely silent all together. The silence was not beholden to any particular religion. It was meant for private introspection in whatever form each individual wished. Kata knew many knights who used the moment to remember fallen comrades. Some prayed, and others thoughts of their families.

The trumpeters marked the end of the silence with a rousing fanfare. The knights began cheering louder than ever. Kata looked up at the castle towers. An excited cry rose up as Brenn came swooping around from the back of the castle. The arrival of the visiting dragon was always a highlight of the Sending. Kata felt it was the only part that really changed from year to year. Some dragons made a single stately circle around the castle before landing, with no embellishment. Brenn was clearly not one of those dragons. He made a wide arc away from the castle wall and flew out over the crowd. He came so low that some of the knights might easily have touched his feet as he streaked overhead. With a magnificent twist of his body, he launched himself skyward again, circled the castle one last time, and came to rest at last on the high balcony. The cheering continued and even seemed to gain fervor as Cyra herself slowly proceeded onto the balcony to meet her brother. Brenn repositioned himself behind Cyra so as not to block her from the crowd. The cheering slowly died down and Cyra began to speak:

“I thank Sir Mardet for his wonderful speech. I fully believe, as he does, that the missions every one of you will set out on this day are of vital importance to your kingdom. By undertaking these duties, you are helping to ensure the safety and well being of Sathyriel.

“Yet you yourself are of equal importance, and not just because I know you will carry out your missions with honor and dedication, however challenging they may be. You are knights of Sathyriel. Wherever you may find yourselves and whatever task may come to you, you are representatives for your country and your fellow knights. Before all else, it is the task of each and every one of you to uphold the code of knighthood and the honor of your kingdom.

“Your standing as a knight does not come from me or the Knight’s Council. It comes from the people of Sathyriel. In taking on the responsibility of knighthood, you have sworn to defend these people. Serve them well. Be worthy of the respect and admiration they will give you. Know that it has been earned by the knights who came before you. Honor their deeds and set an example to inspire the knights yet to come.”

Cyra drew her sword. The crowd began to stir with anticipation.

“Knights of Sathyriel,” Cyra called, her voice growing louder, “I hold you to the vows you have made. I call upon you to serve your country. I send you to where you are needed to defend Sathyriel.”

Cyra raised Deslordian in salute to the knights. Brenn gave a thunderous roar and breathed an impressive plume of flames into the air. The knights roared and cheered, raising up their own weapons until the castle grounds were a shimmering sea of metal. Kata lifted her own sword, so entirely caught up in the excitement that she almost didn’t hear the call to assemble into formation. Guiding Tally carefully as the other mounted knights made their way to the gates, she managed to secure her correct position. The gate guards saluted and the knights responded in kind. Sir Mardet called out the order to hold formation as the gates began to move. At last, Kata could see full stretch of Castle Way as the gates creaked open and settled. The local citizens lined the streets to watch the procession while castle guards kept them at a safe distance. Sire Mardet gave the forward order and Kata set off with her fellow knights, on her way at last.

The Last Battle: Part 7, Draft 1

2007-01-03T17:32:00.000-08:00

Ye olde change of plans. This is obviously not the next part of "New Story". It's not even the part of "Last Battle" I already had written but didn't put up here. That one takes place after Apex 1 and I decided that posting it now would reveal something I don't quite want to tell you about before it comes up in the story. So you probably won't be seeing that one for a long time.

What you've got here is me plowing through the second half of the last scene I posted on the blog. I'm trying to work on just getting the thing written, as I know it's going to need editing whether I plow through without regard to quality or spend 27 minutes crafting each sentence into perfection. If you do want a bit of a spoiler, this is the last time Cyra and Rayna will be together before Apex 1 happens.

Comments greatly desired. Seriously. If nobody's reading this, I can just skip posting it and play more Zelda.

Brenn said something to Argonios and Cyra began to translate. Kata wasn’t fully paying attention. She had seen dragons at past Sendings before and even attended a hatching once. But this was really the closest she had been to a dragon. As far as Kata could tell, Brenn was a full-grown dragon. Even when his head and neck were lowered, he was substantially taller than even Sir Argonios. The dragon wasn’t merely blue, he was a variety of blues. Every individual scale seemed to contain multiple hues that shifted and changed as he breathed and the sunlight caught them differently. Like most dragons, his body was mainly a dark shade, while his underbelly was lighter to make him less visible from beneath as he flew. He had four horns, two larger ones near where his head and neck met, and two smaller ones above his brow ridges. Cyra had told Kata that the smaller horns were particular to male dragons, a fact that had come up when Kata was trying to determine the gender of newborn dragons at the last hatching. Brenn slowly drew his head up and away from Argonios, regaining his full towering height. He seemed to always move slowly, though Kata wondered if that was just a side affect of being among what he perceived as small and delicate company.

Brenn and Cyra moved to stand in front of Kata. The dragon lowered his head again and Kata found that having his extremely large face so close to hers was a little unnerving. As Cyra finished growling out an introduction, Brenn puffed out his heated air greeting. The two regarded each other for a moment. Then Brenn turned to Cyra with a few deep vocalizations.
“He wants to know how you got your scar,” Cyra explained.

Cyra pointed and Kata glanced down at her arm. She vaguely recalled from Cinnet’s material on proper etiquette when meeting a dragon that dragons regarded scars as signs of a great warrior. Kata figured it was because their tough, scaly hides prevented them from getting many.

“I got it fighting a rogue Tals clan dragon while I was returning from the Battle of Faell.”

Kata spoke to Brenn as she answered. Cyra already knew the story, or at least, the part that she told people about. Brenn rumbled deep in his throat, apparently finding this explanation acceptable.

“Where did you get that one?” Kata asked, indicating a long mark across Brenn’s lower neck and chest. Cyra translated for the dragon and he gave his response.

“He got it during the Independence War. He was protecting a civilian from a Keltarian soldier.”

Kata didn’t know much about dragon expressions, but she almost felt like Brenn was smiling at her. Cyra certainly looked happy to see her brother sharing war stories with Kata.

The pair moved on to the Suto Teg priest. He repeated his bent elbowed bow again and pulled out a scroll. He then launched into a lengthy recitation in Rannak, which Kata guessed to be the official Suto Teg greeting to a dragon. Again, Kata couldn’t be certain of Brenn’s emotions, but she though he looked a little uncomfortable, repeatedly shifting his weight from one side to another. It seemed to confirm her suspicions that both Cyra and the dragons were somewhat mystified by the Suto Teg faith.

The three spoke for a bit longer, and then it was Cinnet’s turn to be greeted. To Kata’s surprise, Cinnet began with a few words of Rannak. She hadn’t been aware that Cinnet spoke it, but it did seem like him to make he effort to greet a dragon in the most formal and proper way.

Cinnet was asking about how long Brenn would be staying for and if any special accommodations beyond the usual ones made for visiting dragons were required, when the western tower door opened. Rayna, dressed in full armor, rushed out onto the field towards the assembled group of welcomers. Cinnet looked displeased at being interrupted by an unscheduled late arrival to the event. Cyra paid no attention to his irritated looks. Kata noticed the expression that came over the queen’s face: the soft smile that shook just the tiniest bit and the eyes that were ever so slightly too bright. It was a look that Kata had seen many times before when parents saw their children ready to ride off on their first assignments as knights. She remembered getting that same look from her own father when she had climbed up on Tally’s back and prepared to leave for the castle and her first Sending.

Cyra went to meet her daughter, with Brenn following close by. With his considerably longer stride, the dragon was the first to greet Rayna. He nudged her very gently and she stroked his nose in return. Cyra stood next to Brenn and the three were soon engaged in lively conversation.

After a few moments, Argonios motioned to Kata, Cinnet, and the priest.

“I think it would be best if we left them alone for awhile,” he suggested softly

Kata nodded in agreement. The Suto Teg priest looked nervous, likely concerned that he would be neglecting his duty to transcribe the dragon’s words. But eventually, after checking over his notes one more time, he rolled up his writings and started towards the tower door. Even Cinnet didn’t protest the idea too much.

As they were leaving the field, Kata turned back and took one last look at the queen, the princess, and the dragon. They made a strange group: the massive blue beast padding slowly along to allow the humans to keep pace, the young knight tall and dark haired and brimming with excitement, and the queen, walking between the two, looking smaller than usual by comparison, and constantly talking to one or the other or both. But there was something there that Kata couldn’t quite explain. Maybe it was something in the way they walked, or their posture, or just how happy all three of them seemed to be together. It wasn’t really anything tangible enough to describe, but still Kata ran up to Argonios and tapped his arm.

“Look,” she said, pointing at the three when Argonios had turned. “They look like each other, don’t they?”

Argonios stared at the little group. He said nothing at first and Kata wondered if she should have said anything, if her observation was just some trick of her own mind. But the beastman’s face soon brightened in understanding.

“Yes,” he answered at last. “They do.”

I Guess I Spoke Too Soon

2007-01-02T07:30:00.000-08:00

So of course, just as I say that "Last Battle" ain't happening, it works its way back into my head. I guess I shouldn't be surprised; this is a nearly ten year old story which means it has to be pretty tenacious. So as part of my goal to do more writing in the new year, I'm getting back to it a little. I stayed up last night and wrote up an outline of the whole thing. I'm not planning to show it to anyone; it's not partcularly interesting, it ruins the surprises of the story in a very dull form, and it may well not make sense to anyone but me. I think I may have accidently left out a scene or two, but it's current 53 items long. Six of these have been written in some form or other. In mathematical terms, that means I'm somewhere between and eigth and a ninth done with the story. Of course, this is probably a pretty meaningless figure, since some of those numbered story points cover a lot of ground and are probably nowhere near the same legnth as others. I have to look up the length requirements again, but i think this is going to be a novella, assuming it ever gets finished.

Anyways, what I'm going to do right now is write down some of my issues with the story. Some of them are probably the reasons that I dropped it in the first place. Other are stuff that I'm worried about for future installments.

Comments still welcome. Very minor spoilers ahaead.

New Title

This has been an issue pretty much since day one. Not only is "The Last Battle" already the title of the seventh Narnia book, it also make absolutely no sense until pretty near the end. This is not a huge worry of mine. "Last Battle" is a perfectly good fill-in title and the story can go on fine with it until I can come up with something better. But so far, nothing I've thought of feels like an improvement.

First Part Rewrite

There's a lot of stuff that needs rewriting, but I think this needs a complete overhaul. I really like the idea of Cyra and Cinnet talking about Kataya and her request before we actually meet her, partly because it establishes early on that we'll be using multiple POVs in the story. But I got worried when Jen asked me further into the story when we would be getting back to Cyra. And that fact is, we're really not. She's an important character and she's going to be mentioned a lot even when she's not there. But after the Sending of the Knights, we really don't see her again until quite a bit later. By introducing her first, I may have accidently given the impression that she's the main character, when in fact she's more like an extremely important secondary character. I'd like to hear people's thoughts on this one, just to see if a change really is in order.

Apex 1 Rewrite

Again, rewrites are needed all over the place and this is probably the least surprising, since it's the first thing I wrote. Aside from the usual stuff that needs correction (repetitive phrasing, awkwards places, stuff that needs punching up, etc.), there's all the problems that come out of writing the middle of the story first. The description of Cyra has got to go for two reasons. One is that she's going to be described earlier in the story, so the audience doesn't need such a full physical description of her. The other is that the reason Santok was noticing her appearence originally is because he hadn't really seen Cyra up close outside of battle before. As I've been working on the story, I've realized that Santok would have seen Cyra in a non-battle setting when he went to Sathyriel with a Keltarian delegation and met Kataya for the second time. On top of that, the description doesn't really reflect how Cyra should look at the moment. It needs to show that she's very strong mentally and used to being in highly stressful situations, but she's also pretty dishevelled from riding for a couple of nights straight with no sleep and having the worst several days of her life from knwing that her daughter is being held captive by a guy who seriously dispises her. Should be an interesting challenge.

Time

Ah, time. My old enemy. Not time as in the huge amount of time it will take to write this whole thing, or the time I waste playing Legend of Zelda, or the time I spend at work and the gym that leaves me too tired to wite when I get home. I'm talking about time in the story and getting everyone where they need to be when they need to be there and have it be believable. There's a lot of coming and going between Keltaria and Sathyriel, especially between Santok's fortress and the capitol of Sathyriel. (I have to check my notes to see if I named it yet.) And there are points where certain characters have to get to one place before another character gets to a different one, but the timing doesn't always seem to make sense. I need to figure out how long it takes to get to Santok's fortress from Sathyriel's capitol. Other than that, I'm hoping I can use individual speed of travel to make things work out. Kataya's pretty excited when she's going to see Santok, so she's going pretty fast, but she's also stopping to eat and sleep and to let Tally rest. Cyra, when she rides to Santok's fortress, is not sleeping, probably eating what little she does on the road, and getting fresh horses when she needs them. So I can probably figure her trip takes less time than Kataya's.

Kata or Kataya

Most people call the protagonist of the story "Kata" including the narration. Cinnet, ever the stickler for doing things properly, calls her by her full name, "Kataya". You don't know this yet, but so does Santok. This bothers me. I like having Santok call Kata by her full name because it goes to showing the respect he treats her with. Their relationship is almost courtly in nature. So I kind of want him to be the only one who calls her Kataya to keep it special. But on the other hand, I like Cinnet's character and it just doesn't make any sense for him to call her by anything but her full name and title. (By the way, in earlier versions of the story, Kata was "Kate" and the Santok character called her "Katherine". That version didn't have a Cinnet. Lucky it.)

Names

I'm frequently concerned that I have too many names that start with the same letters and are too easily confused. Cyra and Cinnet, Brogan and Brenn, Santok and Sathyriel, Kataya and Keltaria. Most of them are probably not an issue; I don't think Brenn and Brogan ever have a scene together and it's pretty easy to tell people from kingdoms just by context. But Cyra and Cinnet currently both appear in the first scene and they're together a lot. And I'm pretty attateched to both of their names.

Language

I like the idea of the Keltarians and Sathyrians speaking different languages. I especially like how it works during Apex 1. But the more I think about upcoming scenes, the more I worry about the problems it would cause. If their are two languages, I figure Cyra, Kata, and Santok are all bilingual. That doesn't leave too many major characters for the language barrier to be a problem for, calling the usefulness of having two seprate languages into question. Rayna does not speak Keltaric (please ignore the stupid name I gave it in Apex 1), but since a lot of upcoming scenes are from her perspective and feature a lot of Keltarians, most of whom don't speak Sathyric, it would really cut down on my ability to show what's going on with these characters. Much as I enjoy the idea, I think I may have to drop it. However, the dragons still speak a different language, a fact which figure heavily into a scene very late in the story.

Rayna's Story Arc

The main issue hear is that I don't know what it is. I know what happens to Rayna and what she does, but I'm not sure what the ultimate purpose of it all is. If this story is going to work, Rayna needs to be a good character in her own right and for that, I feel she needs to have some way in which she changes over the course of the story. This is proving difficult. The last time we're actually with Rayna (seeing events from her point of view), is either when she overhears two of the guards saying that Cyra is riding towards the fortress or right before she gets dragged into Santok's throne room in Apex 1. Neither of these are good moments for Rayna, since she's well aware that this is a trap and believes her mother is going to be killed because of her and she can't do anything about it. That would suggest that the arc is getting her from that point to where she saves her mother's life at the cost of her own. But it's too fast, it's not a premeditated act on her part, and we don't get to see things from her POV. (I suppose I could insert a Rayna scene right before Santok tries to kill Cyra, but I don't like breaking up that scene and I feel it's very important that the readers know that Santok chooses to kill Rayna rather than being unable to stop the blow meant for Cyra.) Besides, I don't think Rayna intends to get herself killed when she saves her mother, so she ends up as much a victim as a hero. The other possible arc is Rayna coming to the realization that the circumstances of her birth are not important because her mother loves her regardless. (I did figure out what Rayna's real origin is and no, I'm not going to tell you. I also figure out what Cyra tells her about where she came from. Maybe they're the same thing, maybe they aren't. Maybe it doesn't even get addressed in the story.) It'd be tough to fit that in with what has to happen at the end of Rayna's scenes, but it might be doable.

Okay, are you entirely sick of "Last Batlle" now? I hope not, because I intend to write more. I'm even thinking about posting a scene that I wrote but never put up here. But for the time being, you get to ponder my story issues. I'm also thinking about posting the second part of "New Story" to see if that gets any response.

Please forgive my typos, as Blogger's spell check is not working right now.

New Story, Part One: Here We Go Again

2006-12-05T10:20:00.000-08:00

OK, I know. As far as writing goes, I have not been good about finishing anything. This is actually kind of par for the course in my life. But on the writing front, I think I've got a fresh inspiration. On the down side, that means I won't be finishing "Last Battle" anytime soon, but that's been pretty much off the table for quite some time. The good news is that you get to read some new material here.

You may notice that this story has no title. This is for two reasons. One is that I don't like the title I currently have and will probably change it when I've written more. The other is that the current title ruins one of the plot points that I haven't even written yet. So for the time being, it's just called "New Story".

I'll probably throw in some thoughts on my process as this goes on. What I'm posting now is about a third of what I have written so far, so don't be surprised if there's a lot more very soon. Comments welcome as always.

Once upon a time there was a woman who lived alone near the edge of a great forest. She had been married to a soldier, but he had died in the last war and so she was left alone and longing for children. She had friends in the village and they came and chatted with her and brought their children for her to look after from time to time, so she was never entirely isolated. But when her friends came to retrieve their children and gathered them up in their arms, the woman would sigh and get a sad, far away look in her eyes. Some of her friends suggested that she marry again, but the woman had loved her husband dearly and couldn’t bring herself to even think of having another. So in time, as they saw how desperately she wanted a child, each of her friends in turn suggested she go to see the Lady of the Wood.

The Lady of the Wood was something of a mystery, though the whole village knew about her. They called her a healer or wise woman or sorceress, and some, very quietly, even called her a witch. Nearly everyone at least knew someone who had been to see her, or claimed they had. She lived deep in the wood, the very wood right near this poor childless woman’s home. That everyone was clear on. But exactly where in the wood she lived, no one could exactly say. Stranger still, no one could seem to agree what her home or the Lady herself looked like. Some said she was a horrible, green-skinned old had who lived in a grass hut by a swamp. Others said she lived in a pure white tower and was more beautiful than the fairest princess. Still others said she lived at the center of a maze of greenery and looked no older than a child. There were more stories than the woman could count. But all her friends agreed that she could definitely help the woman, for a price.

So one clear morning in the early spring, the woman set off into the wood to ask the Lady for help. Now the woman knew most of the woods quite well, having lived their for many a year. So she was certain that she could easily find the Lady’s home just by searching the places she had never been to before. But the search did not prove so easy. The woman found herself twisting and turning through unfamiliar territory, only to end up back in the middle of a place she knew quite well. Even familiar stretches of the forest didn’t seem to connect up the way they usually did. For long hours, the woman wove through the trees, marking her trail and retracing her steps and never ending up where she expected. Then, just as she was sure that she was lost without hope, she came to a small clearing and there was the house of the Lady of the Wood.

It wasn’t anything like any of the stories she had heard. It was a simple little cottage of gray stone in a wooden frame. There were large window, but it seemed too dark inside for the woman to see. Vines grew up along one side of the house, snaking wildly around the stone and up over the thatched roof. All along the wood frame were carved figures of all manner of animals. The woman was admiring a deer at the base of one corner when it suddenly raised its head and looked up at her. It was alive, not a carving at all. As she approached, the woman saw other real animals hidden among the wooden ones. A fat squirrel darted across the lintel carrying a nut. A small falcon perched on the edge of the roof flapped its wing and settled again. The woman recalled a tale she had heard about how the Lady tended to the sick and injured animals of the wood. She was starting to believe it was true.

The woman reached the door and a lizard that was definitely wooden eyed her from the frame. Taking a deep breath, the woman made three load taps upon the door.

“Come in.” The voice was soft but definitely commanding. There was nothing to do but obey. The woman pushed the door open and stepped into the Lady’s house.

It was rather dark inside. There were no candles, no light of any kind except what sun the trees failed to block from the windows. The menagerie of animals the woman had seen outside clearly had free range of the cottage as well. An owl perched in the darkest corner half opened one eye to regard the woman irritably before closing it again. A pair of little finches chirped from the sill of one window. A handsome red fox sat by a dusty cupboard. A little hedgehog played in the dirt floor beneath the table, circling the Lady’s feet.

The Lady of the Wood was seated at a small table stirring some sort of mixture in a small bowl. She was an old woman, with long tangles of gray hair, spindly, bony fingers, and wrinkled, craggy skin. Her clothing was dull gray and ragged and she wore no shoes. She set down her spoon and turned to look at the woman. Her sharp green eyes seemed as bright as candleflames peeking out from the leathery face. The Lady stood and the woman was surprised to see that she did not stoop or hunch over. Between her upright stance and her sharp features, there was something strong and almost regal.

“Now,” said the Lady, “what are you here for?”

Clearly the Lady was not looking to chat. The woman swallowed hard and began.

“I want to have a child. My husband is gone and I’m alone in the world. Please, good Lady, can you help me?”

The Lady stared at the woman for what seemed a very long time. The fierce gaze of her bright green eyes made the woman very uncomfortable. She wondered if the Lady was going to say anything at all. Perhaps she was trying to show the woman that her request was stupid. Perhaps she would be better off leaving now.

Just as the woman was making up her mind to leave, the little hedgehog looked up from its spot beneath the table. It scurried over to the woman, circled around her once, and began digging a hole by her feet. The woman wasn’t sure if there was any connection, but the Lady suddenly dropped her piecing gaze and nodded her head.

“I can help you,” she said.

The woman broke into a smile. The Lady’s words made her so full of joy that she hardly knew what to

“Thank you,” she stammered at last, waving her arms awkwardly to try to show just how overjoyed she was. “Thank you so much.”

The Lady was walking back over to her seat at the table. She settled back into the chair and resumed stirring her concoction.

“But before I can do anything,” she began, turning to the woman again, “I need something from you.”

The woman had nearly forgotten about the price, but it hardly diminished her happiness. Nothing seemed like it could be too much to pay for her fondest wish come true.

“Of course,” the woman answered. “Anything I have is yours.”

The Lady held up a hand in caution.

“I know. But it’s not that simple. I need you to fetch me a moon.”

The woman’s smile faded just a little and she raised a brow in confusion.

“A moon?”

“A moon.” The Lady lifted the spoon up from the liquid and scooped what looked like ground herbs out of a small pot nearby. “I want you to return with it in three days time. If you can do that, I can help you.”

“But…”

The woman stopped mid-sentence as the Lady looked up at her questioningly.

“…how will I found your house again?” the woman finished. It was not at all what she had intended to ask, but she couldn’t find the words to question the task the Lady had set her.

“It won’t be so hard next time,” the Lady answered, already more engrossed in her stirring than in the conversation. “Now that you have business with me, my home will be easier to find.”

Dozens of questions sat on the tip of the woman’s tongue. But the Lady seemed oblivious to her presence now and she couldn’t think of any way to start talking again. The woman went to the cottage door, more than a little concerned. The hedgehog once again abandoned its digging and trotted over to the door to watch the woman leave.

“Wish me luck,” the woman said half-heartedly.

The hedgehog looked at her and gave a little squeak. The woman laughed in surprise as the little creature went back into the cottage. She hoped the hedgehog’s good wishes would help her, somehow.

Background: Rayna Rumors

2006-02-27T11:49:00.000-08:00

Continuing my series of background tidbits for the still in need of retitling "The Last Battle", I'm now going to delve into the mystery of Rayna's origins. This is a little bit tricky, because unlike the history of Sathyriel's founding, Rayna's parentage is something I haven't really decided on yet. So if you were hoping to get the real dirt on the favorite discussion topic of Sathyrian gossips, you will likely be disappointed. What I'm going to do instead is to go through every known theory of how Cyra ended up with a child who looks very little like her with no father in sight. This, of course, is the main reason why people like to speculate about Rayna so much. But the other is that Rayna always seems to fall short in comparison to what Cyra had accomplished at the same age. Given Cyra's reputation, of course, it would be hard for anyone to measure up, but the difference in both appearance and achievements helps many of the various rumors alive.

Aside from which - if any - of these stories is true, the thing about covering this piece f the story that is challenging is figuring out why Cyra doesn't simply put the controversy to rest by at least saying whether or not Rayna is her legitimate daughter. Right now, my best guess is that she doesn't see any good outcome from it. If Rayna is in fact her own flesh and blood, the unfavorable comparisons to Cyra will only continue. If Rayna is not Cyra's biological daughter, not only could it legitimize criticisms of Rayna ("Well, of course she's not like the queen; she's not he real daughter."), it could call into question her right to inherit the throne. (Though to be fair, I don't know if Sathyriel has a law of primogenature or not.)

So there are still a lot of unresolved questions around this issue. Heck, I don't even know if Cyra has told Rayna where she came from (though my gut feeling is that she has) or if what she told her was the truth (which it might not be if the real story is particularly painful). Still, I think it'll be useful to have the various theories down and I'm hoping you'll find it interesting.

Comments welcome as always.

The Wish

This theory is nearly identical to the start of numerous fairy tales: a queen wishing with all her heart for a child. After the initial wishing, this story branches off into numerous variations. Some follow the fairy tale tradition and bring in a benevolent magical creature who grants Cyra's wish out of gratitude for a good deed. People who see Cyra as having a close relationship with the land itself will say that her wish was granted by some spirit of the natural world. Often, the deed is attributed to a powerful mage of some kind. Centaurs are popular candidates since many people know very little about them, though in truth they are not known for practicing magic. Some people will tell you that the mage was from somewhere far away, possibly even outside of Sathyriel, while others claim the spellcaster was local to their particular town. The geography of where these two variations show up most frequently seems completely random however, so there is no way of telling where this mysterious mage may actually have come from, assuming that he or she even existed. Another variation on this theme is that Cyra's wish was granted by a dragon. Though dragons are not known to practice any true magic, Cyra's ties to the dragons make this a popular story. In all versions, Cyra is magically able to bear a child without a male partner.

The Wish story is mostly told to young children, as it is one of the most benign and gentle explanations of Rayna's origins. As they grow older, children usually start to question the story and eventually stop believing it. Though magic is a very real part of life in Sathyriel, there is no known spell that could cause a woman to bear a child on her own. Even if such a spell were possible, the skill of the mage who performed it would have to have been tremendous, which makes it difficult to believe that his or her name and deeds would have been lost to history and survive only in legend. Though a few people stick solidly by one version or another of this story throughout their lives, most tend to discount it as a children's tale.

The Orphan

Both during and after the Keltarian occupation, war orphans were not uncommon in Sathyriel, giving this theory some credibility. Though Rayna is too young to have been born before the liberation of Sathyriel, fighting between Keltaria and Sathyriel, sometime involving other countries as well, frequently broke out, especially near the border.

In this scenario, Rayna is an orphaned child who ends up in Cyra's care. Usually, the story has Cyra coming to a village or town on the border with Keltaria and discovering the child. In some versions, Rayna is the sole survivor of a village that has been completely wiped out, a direct parallel to Cyra's own history. Aside from being almost too much of a coincidence to be believed, attacks resulting in the destruction of an entire population were extremely rare after Sathyriel became a free kingdom. A more likely version has the child's parents among a much smaller number of victims of a Keltarian attack. The other villagers are either unable or unwilling to care for the baby themselves, so Cyra takes the child to raise as her own. Sometimes, the story takes place in another kingdom under attack by Keltaria, usually Baren Vol which has a largely human population. This is a particular popular setting for the version where no one in the town is willing to take the child in. Sad to say, some Sathyrians still harbor animosity towards neighboring countries, especially those citizens who remember the days of the Keltarian occupation when those countries stood aside and offered no help to Sathyriel until Cyra's campaign was well on its way to victory.

The Search

Though very similar to "The Orphan", "The Search" is a rather distinct tale with several iterations of its own. In this story, Cyra comes upon a dying or gravely injured parent. Sometimes it is a Sathyrian soldier, sometimes it's a civilian. The injuries come from a Keltarian attack, a local rampaging monster, or sometime a natural disaster. There s even a version in which Cyra and a group of knights liberate captives bound for slavery in Keltaria and discover the person in question among them. The gender of the parent is also variable. The common thread is that this person extracts a promise from Cyra to find a daughter - and sometimes a spouse as well that this person has become separated from. In some versions, the person dies after giving Cyra a clue as to where this lost daughter might be. Others claim that the worried parent survives long enough to insist on traveling with Cyra to find the missing child. In either case, Cyra embarks on a long journey to keep her word and find the girl. The search is, after a variety of adventures along the way, successful. The spouse - if the story mentioned one - has inevitably died, leaving the child alone in the world. In the versions where the one parent has survived, he or she is able to see the girl one last time, then dies after asking Cyra to watch over the child. In versions where the parent has already died, Cyra finds the daughter at an orphans' home or in the care of a wicked stepmother type relative, and, with varying degrees of difficulty, adopts the child as her own.

This story is a highly popular one, as it can be expanded into a lengthy epic and fits in with the almost worshipful regard Sathyrians have to their queen. Whether it's actually true is another matter. There are numerous legends about Cyra's heroic deeds which have little or no basis in reality, and confirming the veracity of this story is nearly impossible. Though a situation like this may have occurred at some time, the idea of Cyra pursuing the matter herself is somewhat improbable. While Cyra has a reputation for being honorable and showing great concern for her people, it seems unlikely that she would leave an active battlefront to see to the welfare of a missing child personally. Sending a group of knights to investigate would have been more feasible. Still, the story has great staying power and might in fact contain a grain of truth.

The God Father

Since Cyra's coronation, Sathyriel has been home to a number of diverse faiths. Several of them are polytheistic and followers of those faiths are more likely to embrace this particular idea. In this tale, Rayna is the daughter of Cyra and a deity. The god in question is usually one that devotees think of as a potentially suitable mate for Cyra. There are warrior gods, gods of protection, and gods though to have ties to Sathyriel. Some followers of Suto Teg claim that Rayna's father was a dragon turned human for a single night, or that Cyra became a dragon for a night.

It is interesting to note that this is the only theory of Rayna's parentage that Cyra actively denies. Cyra has long gone out of her way to keep any faith that she herself follows a secret to avoid the appearance of a state religion. She has tried to discourage any implications that she is associated with any divine forces or is anything other than an ordinary human (aside from being raised by dragons). This theory was highly popular when Rayna was very young, but has less of a following nowadays. Cyra's denial and the fact that Rayna has not shown any superhuman qualities have made it less of a favorite than other guesses.

The Lover

This story and the following one are thought to be the closest to what really happened. As it is often said, the simplest explanation is often the correct one.

Like many of these theories, this one is set during a time of battle. Between the fighting, Cyra develops a close friendship with a particular man. Sometimes he is an ally from another country, sometimes he is a knight of Sathyriel, but most often, he is an ordinary Sathyrian soldier. Some tellers say that their affair was only a single night's tryst, which did happen among soldiers seeking comfort the night before a battle, uncertain if they would ever return. But others insist that it was a lengthy romance that saw them through many battlefields. The fate of Cyra's lover is also a subject of dispute. Sometimes he dies in the fighting. In one version Cyra discovers that she is carrying his child before his death and tells him the night before the final battle. In another, she decides to wait to tell him, but she never sees him alive again. In still another, Cyra only discovers that she is pregnant after her lover dies, leaving he to raise the child alone. The other main variation spare the soldier. But when Cyra tells him he has fathered her child, she gives him a choice: he can marry her and raise their baby alongside her as king of Sathyriel, or he can return to the life he had before becoming a soldier and live out his days in relative anonymity. After much thought, he chooses to go back to the life he knew. Cyra agrees to keep his identity a secret and they part, never to see each other again. Some people say that he is now dead, a casualty of war or victim to some illness or accident in whatever occupation he went back to, But others say that he still lives, keeping the secret of his love affair with the queen and the daughter he has never met to this very day.

The Jerk

Our last story bears some similarities to "The Lover", but the tone is very different. Once again, Cyra falls in love, but this time, she is wronged by the object of her affections. Sometimes he is a foreign nobleman with designs on the throne, taking advantage of a rather young queen. Other times, he turns out to be a Keltarian spy, or even an assassin. There are even stories of Sathyrian lovers who turned on Cyra for various reasons. Understandably, Cyra has a number of easily visible battle scars, and people who tell these stories often claim that one particular scar or another is from a physical attack by this wicked lover. His fates are many: incarceration, exile, death in battle, death by Cyra's hand in self defense, death from a guard or a knight defending Cyra, and a few other suitable ends. But none of these happen before Cyra becomes pregnant with the man's child. This, proponents of this theory claim, is why Cyra never explains where Rayna came from: the story is too painful to her and would cause too much pain to Rayna.

Trying Something New: A Brief History of Sathyriel

2006-01-30T19:02:00.000-08:00

I know, it's been a while. During that time, I've realized that putting my first drafts up here isn't really helping me to write more. The more time passes between sections, the more I feel like I have to get something up. And when I feel like that, I tend to write stuff that I'm not at all happy with, which is not encouraging. So I'm going to try continuing it without posting for a while. This also frees me up to write more out of order and not feel like I'm confusing anyone.

In the meantime, I thought I'd try using the blog for various tidbits; information that pertains to and informs what I'm writing, but won't necessarily show up in the final piece. As usual, it's subject to change, so don't be shocked if something I write here ends up being contradicted in the story itself.

What follows is the back story for Sathyriel (sath-EAR-ee-el), the kingdom where our story has taken place so far. (It's called that for now, at least.) This all takes place several decades before the events of our current story.

As always, comments welcome.

Long ago, the land that is now Sathyriel was a number of small territories held by various races. None of them were truly kingdoms, though monarchs of one region or another would sometimes rise up and shortly fall. For these lands were plagued with instability. Small armies fought for control of the local resources and land of value would change hands frequently. Prejudice and mistrust existed between certain races. At worst, they fought. At best, they had no dealings with each other, making trade nearly impossible. The more well established kingdoms bordering these territories did little to encourage true stability. They too coveted the natural resources: metals and gems, fertile land, towering forests, and waterways with passage to the ocean. But each believed that the best way to profit from these resources was to claim them in the name of their particular country. So the kingdoms merely added to the unrest.

Yet even as the wars over land persisted, small civilizations emerged. Dwarven towns sprung up near rich mineral deposits, dotting the landscape with farms and mines. The elves constructed great buildings and monuments of stone and wove cloth that was prized in every land. Tribes of beastmen hunted in the deep forests and even kept invaders at bay with their skill as warriors and their deep knowledge of their homeland. The centaurs, though too small and nomadic a population to attract much attention from the major kingdoms, lived off the land and developed an extremely through knowledge of its plants and creatures, kept alive through oral tradition. The humans seemed able to adapt to almost any landscape, but they gravitated to the trees for building shelter and water where the fishing was plentiful. Many human societies also devoted much energy to the study of magic. To say that humans were the only practitioners of magic is an oversimplification; other races were often familiar with some small number of spells. But humans were the first to consider magical study of major importance and to learn nearly all aspects of magic.

One human society of particular note originated along the northern mountain ranges. The dragon callers, as they were known, were characterized by their close relationship with the nearby dragon clans. Tall towers were built to call the dragons down from the mountains. The language of Rannak was created, allowing for communication between the species. In return for protection from their foes, the humans treated the dragons with great respect and care. This civilization grew and flourished for a time, but as the various territories made their first strides towards meaningful contact with one another, the close connection with the dragons was lost, until only a few villages situated particularly close to dragon weyrs still practiced dragon calling. The dragon callers may well have been only a historical footnote, if not for their crucial role in the ultimate destiny of these lands.

Though the land wars still persisted, these small areas of emerging culture were just beginning to have a measurable stabilizing effect on the area. Though they lacked any centralized leadership to encourage strong trade and diplomatic relations with the neighboring kingdoms, they proved a reliable enough source of goods to convince the larger kingdoms that small scale trade was a better option than trying to seize and hold the land themselves. So in these more developed cultural centers, the kingdoms began to cease military activity. Except for one.

Keltaria, a country on the southwestern border of this fractured region, had long been growing its strength as a military power. The Keltarian army was known and feared throughout the land, giving Keltaria a great deal of freedom in its actions. What no one outside of Keltaria knew was that the Keltarian leadership had made an alliance with the native dragons. This turned an already formidable army into a nearly unstoppable one. With the aid of the dragons, Keltaria was able to achieve a long held desire: to capture every piece of land between itself and the other major kingdoms. The battles were brutally one sided; with the dragons raining down flame from above and the forces of Keltaria charging in, the unprepared defenders could do nothing to save their lands from invasion. The small civilizations that traded with the larger kingdoms begged for help, but their pleas gained them little or no assistance. The other kingdoms feared Keltaria's might and, having no formal diplomatic ties with any part of the territories, did not want to risk war with an even more powerful Keltaria. One by one, every one of the small territories fell to Keltarian rule.

Under the terms of Keltaria's pact with the dragons, the newly acquired Keltarian territories were ruled by Talshak, leader of the Keltarian dragons. Talshak's main task was to keep order in the territories and ensure that the native population continued working for the benefit of the Keltarian empire. The surrounding kingdoms saw the stability that they had craved, but now Keltaria controlled all trade. Prices on goods from the territories grew astronomically and the nobles of Keltaria reaped the benefits. Talshak and his army kept the citizens of the territories at work, providing for Keltaria and any country willing to pay their prices. Rebellion, or even the perception of rebellion was not tolerated. A few small resistance movements sprung up, but they stood no chance against the well-organized and merciless armies of Talshak. In addition to quashing rebellion, Talshak devoted his forces to ridding the land of certain elements he felt too dangerous to go unchecked. Though they had always been a peaceful society, the centaurs suffered greatly under Talshak. Their ease at disappearing into the landscape and their lack of any permanent settlements marked them as too hard for the dragon to control. During Talshak's reign, centaurs were routinely killed on sight. The native dragons were also considered a threat, though Talshak was reluctant to deal with them as directly. Even with the vast forces he controlled, laying siege to the dragon weyrs would be a grueling task. And though it was never said in his presence, in was rumored that he feared some of the dragon clans. So Talshak contented himself with isolating the dragons. His troops were quick to attack any dragon foolish enough to venture too far from the weyr. Talshak further cut off the dragons from the rest of the world by systematically seeking out and destroying the remaining dragon callers. What had been a declining culture became a nonexistent one, as even those suspected of sympathizing with the dragon callers were in danger of being executed. Yet this dying way of life would give birth to the instrument of Talshak's downfall.

It was some decades after the beginning of Keltarian rule that Cyra first emerged. She appeared at first mostly near the northern mountains, though it was not long before her story had spread much farther. She was said to be the sole survivor of the destruction of the last dragon caller village, rescued by the nearby dragon clan and raised as one of their own. She spoke to them in the forgotten tongue of Rannak and treated them as her family. Safely hidden away in the dragon's weyr, she grew to maturity and slowly learned of her heritage, of the world outside and the people living under Talshak's tyrannical rule. So she left the weyr with a purpose: to free the land from Keltaria.

By itself it was a compelling story. But what really made people take notice and start to believe that just maybe this stranger and her dragons could actually drive Keltaria out, was the sword. Deslordian, the legendary blade of light. Few remembered the last time it had been seen and many called it a myth. But the story went, the dragons had retrieved it when the last champion fell, keeping it safe until the coming of the next champion. And at long last, the sword had chosen the very child the dragons had saved from the smoldering remains of the last dragon callers village.

Convincing people that the fight against Keltaria could be won was still a hard battle. There were those who pledged their loyalty the first time they saw Cyra with her sword and her entourage of dragons. Avery few even sought her out based solely on the tales they had heard of her. But even as the tiny band of warriors won a few skirmishes against Keltarian soldiers, most people remained skeptical. They were certain that Talshak would crush this uprising, as he had all the others.

Exactly why Talshak did not act immediately against Cyra's forces is still not known. Granted, it was not until several attacks by Cyra and the complete liberation of a major town that the dragon ruler was informed of her existence. Yet still, his response to the news was slow. It is possible that he simply did not believe that she was worthy of his personal attention and chose to leave the matter to more localized forces. Many military historians point out Talshak's continued reluctance to confront the dragon clans head on, which may have made him unwilling to risk fighting a force sad to include dragons. Complacency may have played a part as well. Talshak's rule had gone unopposed for many years and there was less and less need for the dramatic shows of force Talshak had employed shortly after the occupation began. Then there is the story, especially common in Keltaria, that Talshak was slowly going mad and could not see the threat Cyra posed through his clouded mind. Whatever the cause, Talshak did not see Cyra as a serious threat until it was too late.

As Cyra and her troops had more successes, they had more recruits as well. People were starting to believe that this resistance would not be immediately crushed and might even succeed in liberating a small chunk of territory, for a while at least. So old veterans and would-be soldiers sought out Cyra to join her. Most of these new fighters later said they had come because of the stories: of battles or dragons or Deslordian. But they stayed because of Cyra. Some said it was because of her presence, a sense of nobility and leadership that came from something other than her small frame and bloodline devoid of royals. Some were taken with her relationship with the dragons or her troops. She never treated anyone as lower than her, and the dragons were clearly her family. Others were taken with how she would fight in every battle she was present for, rather than sitting and strategizing from some safe location. But nearly all of them were won over by Cyra's vision for the land after the war. No resistance leader who had come before had ever mentioned a plan for after the Keltarians left. Cyra had a dream for shaping the land into a unified kingdom for everyone, a strong kingdom that would never again be fought over and exploited by its neighbors. And the way she talked about it, the soldiers with her believed in it, and it became their dream too.

But Cyra realized that winning over a few new fighters at a time would not be enough to create an army that could defeat Talshak. She needed to win the confidence of the leaders of the people. This was no easy task. Many of the local leaders had been killed in the early days of the Keltarian invasion to demoralize the population. There were some leaders who had sided with the Keltarians in exchange for favorable treatment. Those who remained, the ones who the people truly respected, were carefully guarded secrets. They were almost always treated like ordinary people by their followers, so that the Keltarians wouldn't discover them. For an outsider to get an audience with a community's leader was very hard. But Cyra persisted and her reputation eventually earned her audiences with the leaders. There was still a lot of mistrust at first. Cyra was a human and some of the races worried that she would favor humans before and after the war. Others feared being removed from power when Cyra formed a new government. But Cyra was fair handed and worked hard to assuage these fears. Her army welcomed anyone willing to fight and her generals were the greatest warriors and strategists from all the land's races. And as she laid out her plan for the new kingdom, she made it clear that local leadership would hold an important and respected place. As a result, more and more people became followers of the woman they would one day call their queen.

The centaur posed an altogether different challenge for Cyra. It was often difficult to find them at all since they had no permanent homes and their numbers were small due to Talshak's campaign to eradicate them. They lived in small groups with no leaders to appeal to for help. And they did not fight. Even as Talshak's forces slaughtered their kind, few were willing to break their culture's taboo against harming another creature. Most of those who had fought back had been killed. Many of Cyra's generals advised her to simply ignore the centaurs, but Cyra wanted them to be a part of her new kingdom and to have a stake in the outcome of the war. The eventual solution was to have the centaurs act as scouts. Their swiftness and knowledge of the land made them extremely adept at monitoring the movements of Keltarian troops and relaying the information back to Cyra, all without having to fight at all. Thanks to the centaurs' help, Cyra's army was frequently able to surprise Keltarian forces as they moved from town to town.

By the time Talshak began to pay real attention to Cyra, she had recruited a formidable army. To make matters worse for the dragon, the neighboring kingdoms had taken a surreptitious interest in the fighting. Though no one wanted to declare war on Keltaria outright, they were eager to see the territories become a free and stable kingdom with which fair trade would be possible. Many of them were secretly supplying Cyra's army with weapons and armor. So when Talshak began sending stronger forces to crush Cyra, they found a much better equipped force than they had expected. Cyra's army continued gaining ground and Talshak was losing troops. His attempts to further demoralize the population in areas he still controlled through executions and shows of force were only serving to incite the people. In desperation, Talshak appealed to the grand dukes of Keltaria for more troops.

As news of the rebellion and its growing success came back to Keltaria and the grand dukes, Talshak had begun to fall out of favor. Keltarian citizens were upset by the length of the war and the number of casualties. The fighting had caused major disruption of the trading that had been Keltaria's original reason for capturing the territories. The grand dukes felt that Talshak's inability to end Cyra's rebellion was making the kingdom seem weak and inept. Facing a lengthy and costly war, the dukes decided amongst themselves that Talshak should be cut off and the territories given up, for now.

It was around this same time that the rumors about Talshak began in Keltaria. There were many of them, all questioning Talshak's fitness to command, but two in particular seemed to catch on. One was that Talshak had gone mad and was simply not stable enough to keep the territories in line effectively. The other, which often traveled with the first, suggested that the reason Keltaria's great army was faring so poorly against a group of common, untrained rebels was that they were distracted elsewhere. Talshak, the rumor claimed, has designs on ruling not just the territories, but all the neighboring kingdoms and possibly even Keltaria. The army could not successfully quell the resistance because Talshak was staging secret attacks on the borders of the other countries which stole troops from the fight in the territories. Some people later wondered if the grand dukes had spread these rumors themselves as an excuse to withdraw the army and abandon Talshak. It is also possible that one or both of them were true. Either way, the grand dukes denied Talshak's request for more troops, effectively dooming the occupation.

With no reinforcements coming, it was only a matter of time before Talshak was overwhelmed. It was early fall of the occupation's final year when Cyra's army stormed Talshak's fortress. Talshak was killed by Cyra and the independence of the new kingdom of Sathyriel was declared. The remainder of Keltaria's forces retreated soon after. Any hopes Keltaria had harbored of regrouping and retaking Sathyriel were crushed when the neighboring kingdoms declared themselves allied with Sathyriel and sent support troops in to help defend its borders. Negotiations for a peace treaty began within weeks.

With the country's immediate future secured, Sathyriel began to take shape. Cyra was crowned queen. (Whether this was her desire from the beginning or the decision of the people has never been clear.) She began the process of finding suitable representatives from all parts of the kingdom to serve on the new Council of Knights. She and the Council crafted the laws of the kingdom, taking care to respect the original laws and customs of the different areas and races. The local leaders were charged with overseeing their regions and towns and representing the queen and the law. A system of education and codified training for knighthood were set up. Cyra moved the kingdoms capitol to her birthplace, near the mountain where the dragons had raised her. Over time, a suitable palace was build there and the once small grew into a bustling city. Trade was established with other countries. Roads were built to connect the various regions to each other and Sathyriel to its neighbors. As travel around the kingdom became easier, the major cities became more multicultural. The citizens now thought of themselves mostly as Sathyriens, justifiably proud of the kingdom they had helped to build and to free.

The Last Battle: Part 6, Draft 1

2005-12-08T19:33:00.000-08:00

This is, again, half a section. It's starting to drive me nuts and I haven't posted anything in a while, so up it goes. Hopefully starting the next part with a clean slate (to a degree) will help me feel more inspired and less disenchanted and blocked. I want to have a short conversation between Brenn and Kata, a brief moment of connection. But I honestly have no idea what they would talk about.

Comments welcome, as usual.

The Great Feast ran long into the night, so Kata had no trouble sleeping once she finally turned in. After the Feast, there were a few uneventful days to allow the knights time to recover before the Sending. As a rule, knights who had helped prepare for the Feast did not assist with the cleanup, but Kata would still pitch in from time to time. Her need to be busy seemed less desperate now that the Great Feast had passed. Whenever she felt anticipation for the Sending start to build, she just went out riding for a while. Besides, she didn't have much longer to wait.

It was the evening before the Sending when Kata had a visit from Cinnet. Kata had long felt that Cinnet did not like her, though she was never sure why. Of course, Cinnet was never known for being warm and friendly. Still, Kata felt he seemed especially irritable when his business required him to deal with her.

"Her Majesty," Cinnet began, reading from a scroll he had probably written only minutes ago, "wishes your presence for the Welcoming of the Dragon prior to the Sending of the Knights. Your response is requested upon receipt of this invitation."

Cinnet looked up from the scroll expectantly.

"Tell Her Majesty that I would be happy to attend," Kata answered. Cinnet gave a curt nod and returned to the scroll.

"The Welcoming of the Dragon shall take place at the second bell after sunrise on the palace grounds behind the western tower. Formal attire or armor is required. Please review and observe all standard rules of conduct for interactions with a dragon."

Cinnet quickly rolled the scroll back up and snapped a ribbon around it before handing it to Kata.

"And don't be late!" he added. He turned his back to her and left the knight's quarters.

Kata just smiled as he left. There were times when Cinnet's attitude bothered her, but his surliness couldn't darken her mood now. Though she still awaited the Sending eagerly, being present to welcome the dragon for the ceremony was a great honor and very exciting in its own right. Kata checked with the armory smiths to make certain her armor would be ready first thing in the morning. Once that was settled, she retired early with thoughts of flying dragons and riding to the border swirling in her head.

Kata was delighted to see that Cinnet hadn't even arrived when she reached the back of the western tower. Only Cyra was there already. She was engrossed in scanning the skies above and didn't even notice Kata until she was quite close.

"Sorry," Cyra said as she greeted her friend. "I get kind of single minded when a dragon's coming."

"Do you know who it's going to be?" asked Kata. Cyra shook her head.

"They surprise me. It's usually someone I've met before, but sometimes it isn't."

"Who else is going to be joining us?"

"Well, Cinnet, of course. Sir Argonios will be represent the Knights' Council. And the Suto Teg priest will be here. This one just arrived, so I doubt you've met him."

Kata had not, though it didn't surprise that a Suto Teg priest would be in attendance. The Suto Teg were commonly thought of as "dragon worshippers", though Kata had been told that was oversimplifying things. Their faith held that dragons were the highest form of life and unknowing representatives of the divine powers. They also held Cyra in high regard beyond her status as queen, claiming that she was the reincarnation of no less than nine dragons. Suto Teg was often guessed to be the faith that Cyra herself followed, though Cyra had never publicly said anything to confirm or deny it. Officially, all religions were held in equal favor and Cyra kept a representative from each at the palace. Personally, Kata had her doubts about Cyra being a Suto Teg follower. She didn't think the queen was the type to follow a religion that looked on creatures she considered friends and family as saints.

The tower door creaked open and Cinnet bustled out. He held the door open as Sir Argonios and the Suto Teg priest came through. Sir Argonios came down the tower stairs first, followed by the priest with Cinnet and a armload of scrolls bringing up the rear.

Sir Argonios was one of the Southverden beastmen. In many other countries, they would have divided themselves into various subspecies: wolfmen and minotaurs and the like. But the beastmen of Sathyriel didn't make much of such distinctions, so very few of them looked like any one animal. Argonios had a face that suggested a canine ancestry. He was tall and lanky and moved with the easy grace most beastmen seemed to posses. Kata noted that he had chosen formal attire over full armor; a wise choice since council members did not leave at the Sending. He soon reached the spot where Cyra and Kata stood awaiting the dragon's arrival. He saluted Kata, who did the same for him. To Cyra, he lifted his head so he looked up towards the sky, then bowed in a deep salute. Kata had been told the first gesture was a sign of respect and trust, displaying the unprotected throat to a superior.

The priest came hurrying along in Argonios's wake. He was young; probably;y no older than Kata. He looked like most of the priests of his order: mottled blue robes, long hair tied back, bare feet. He was looking up at the sky as he came towards them and he tripped more than once. He was clearly excited and perhaps a little nervous. Even at the castle, with the dragon's home so nearby, a visiting dragon was not an everyday occurrence. As the resident Suto Teg priest, he would be responsible for recording the event and representing the faith to the dragon. He bowed before Cyra, elbows bent and fingers splayed. Cyra nodded in acknowledgement. The priest turned back to the skies, scanning for any sign of movement.

Cinnet arrived last, eyeing the assembled group suspiciously for anything improper. When he had decided that everything was up to his standards, he pulled a quill and a fresh scroll from his bag to start the official record of the dragon's arrival. They all talked a little about the upcoming sending and goings-on around the castle. Mostly, though, they looked up at the morning sky.

"There!" the Suto Teg priest cried suddenly. He pointed up and away from the castle, roughly in the direction of Mount Kel. Cyra took a step forward, squinting up at the sky where the priest pointed. Kata kept glancing at the sky, then Cyra, then back again, hoping for either confirmation from the queen or to see what had caught the priest's attention. At last, she caught sight of it. At first, it was almost nothing, an impossibly tiny dot in the sky. As it came a little closer, Kata could make out its dark blue coloring, more visible against the white cloud than the sky itself. The tiny speck grew larger and Kata could start to make out the long, slender shape and the arcing wings. Faster and faster it came closer in a wide circle around the castle grounds.

Kata snuck a quick look at Cyra again. The queen was grinning up at the approaching dragon with all the excitement of the Suto Teg priest and none of the nervousness.

"Is it someone you know?" Kata asked.

Cyra nodded vigorously. "It's my brother!"

The dragon was now almost directly overhead, though still high above them. He soared effortlessly above the high tower and out towards the field. Cyra, her face bright with joy, broke suddenly into a run and took off after the dragon. As he neared the end of the field, the dragon turned sharply, dropping closer to the ground as he did. He let out a long, thunderous roar that rose suddenly into a short high trill. Cyra answered the call with something that sounded remarkably similar, though much softer. The dragon skimmed low over the field as Cyra rushed to meet him. As she watched them speed towards each other, Kata grew a little nervous. The dragon seemed to be slowing his approach a little, but maybe not enough. Kata doubted the dragon intended to hurt Cyra, but might he accidentally crash into her?

The dragon's wings spread wide as Cyra bounded towards him. Without fully stopping, he caught the queen between his massive forepaws. Carrying Cyra, he flew up a short distance, then fell backwards, landing on his back with Cyra cradled safely on his stomach.

Argonios laughed aloud and Kata hid a small chuckle. The Suto Teg priest stared at the pair in wonder, scribbled rapid notes on his scroll, then stared again. Cinnet looked ill and turned a very pale color as the dragon began playfully tossing Cyra up into the air. He slowly began to write something, then crossed it out. He repeated this several times before putting the quill away to massage his forehead.

Cyra slid off her dragon brother's stomach and back to the ground. He carefully righted himself and crouched down so Cyra could climb onto his back. Once she managed to scramble up, he rose and began walking slowly towards the small audience.

Kata watched the two so closely that she was a little startled when Argonios tapped her one the arm. He had knelt down next to her, bringing his great height closer to her level.

"She really does look like one of them," he said quietly.

"What do you mean?"

Argonios waved a paw towards queen and dragon.

"Well, looks at them. Their faces."

It took a moment longer for Kata to see what Argonios's shap eyes had already spotted. The dragon's lips were pulled back from his teeth and his tongue hung out slightly, a sign of happy weariness from his exuberant greeting. Kata looked up to where Cyra was sitting and saw almost the same face, exposed teeth and panting tongue.

"You're right," Kata said after a while. It made sense of course. Cyra would have picked up dragon mannerisms before she learned human ones. But it wasn't something Kata would have though of if she hadn't seen it. Strange, that this panting grimace might seem more natural to the queen than a questioning raised eyebrow or other more human expressions.

The dragon strode closer and Kata could hear Cyra conversing with her brother. Kata had tried on occasion to learn Rannak, the language of deep growls that served as a bridge of communication with the dragons. It was not easy; the Suto Teg themselves would spend decades learning its subtleties. For Cyra, of course, it came quite naturally. Kata wondered to herself whether Cyra's thoughts were in human or dragon tongue.

Cyra slid easily off of the dragon's back and returned to the ground. It seemed like a long distance to jump, but Kata imagined the queen was well practiced at it. She remained close to her brother, one hand resting on his right foreleg.

"This is my brother, Brenn," Cyra announced. Kata and the others bowed and saluted. The Suto Teg priest performed the same respectful gesture he had for Cyra.

Cyra and Brenn both turned to Sir Argonios and Cyra growled out what was likely an introduction of the knight. Argonios bowed again. Brenn lowered his head and puffed heated air from both of his nostrils. Cyra had once explained to Kata that this was a respectful greeting among dragons. Argonios looked a little surprised at having his fur ruffled by warm dragon breath, but he kept his composure like a good knight.

The Last Battle: Part 5, Draft 1

2005-11-23T19:30:00.000-08:00

This took a while. The first half was an absolute pain to write; two very lengthy stops before I got it done. But it's done now and the second half actually flowed pretty decently. I did take Brogan's name and a few of his character traits from Brogal in "Sea of Unicorns", mostly out of laziness. All names are subject to change, except probably Rayna's.

I don't know when I'll be getting to the next segment. It's tough when I feel like I'm working my way through stuff that's tedious to write in order to get to what I do find exciting. I have been toying with the idea of just writing the next part of Apex 1, but I feel like that's going to reveal too much of what I haven't written yet. Likely you can guess most of what's happening in Apex 1 by now, but there's still a few details I want to hold onto for now.

So how do you think it's going? How do you like the new characters? I'm a little worried that because I wrote the first big scene before anything else, you, dear reader, may not feel particularly attached to Rayna knowing that she's going to die.

Any thoughts? Please?

"Lady Kataya!"

Kata turned around to see who was calling to her so formally. She smiled as she caught sight of the young squire turned knight coming towards her. Kata pressed her fist against her palm in salute. She seldom did this for fellow knights who weren't of a higher rank, but she knew the newest knights were eager to be acknowledged like this.

"Lady Rayna," Kata replied.

Rayna's face lit up and she slumped forward as if Kata had just taken something very heavy from her.

"Finally!" she said. "Everyone else I talked to today called me 'Princess' until I reminded them."

Kata motioned to the seat next to her and Cyra's only child took it. Like most of the newly dubbed knights, Rayna was still wearing her ceremonial garments. These were intended only for special occasions and were of much finer material than the knight's casual attire. Rayna's family crest - the famous white dragon on a blue field - was displayed on the chest.

"I'd nearly forgotten that you would be in the ceremony today," Kata mentioned. It was true. Kata had been quite caught up in preparations for the Great Feast. And it was hard to believe that Rayna was already seventeen. Kata wondered if Cyra was just as surprised by the swift passage of time.

"Your mother must be proud," she added, searching for some hint at Cyra's mood.

Rayna shrugged. "I guess so. She didn't say anything and she left right after the ceremony."

"That's hoe she is at the ceremony." Kata leaned back casually. "She probably didn't want to look like she was treating you any different in front of the other knights. I'm sure she'll let you know how she feels later."

Rayna just nodded in response, but she did look a little more at ease.

"So who are you traveling with?" asked Kata.

"Lady Micanna and Sir Davran. Do you know them?"

"Ah, Dav!" Kata grinned. "He and I were dubbed the same year and we traveled together a couple times. He's about the finest tracker I ever knew and just amazing with a bow and arrow. Could just about take an apple off a tree without hitting a single leaf. Oh, and he's just as good with a story. Ask him to tell you about the helmet and the merchant sometime."

"What about Lady Micanna?"

Kata leaned forward and rubbed her chin with one finger.

"I've never known Micanna particularly well, but of course I know of her. You know she fought in the Independence War?"

"She did?" Rayna looked genuinely incredulous.

"She did. There weren't any age restrictions on fighters back then. Your mother was pretty young herself, so there wasn't much she could do to keep anyone who could hold there own from joining up. Micanna couldn't have been much more than fourteen. She's seen more battles than most. Probably could be a general by now, but I hear she prefers fighting to strategizing. People say she's quiet, not likely to talk about much but the mission at hand. But she's good and I'm sure you'll learn a lot from her."

Kata and Rayna sat in silence for a while. Kata was hoping she hadn't killed the young knight's enthusiasm too soon. Still, Rayna had to understand that being a knight was not easy. Even in her first months, she could well see a border skirmish, or worse even. Better she be a little less excited than unprepared for the work and learning ahead.

Rayna turned as several people called her name. A group of young knights was walking by the table, smiling and waving. Rayna waved back and started to get up. Halfway through leaving her seat, she turned back to Kata apologetically.

"Go ahead." Kata waved her on. "You may not run into them again for a while."

Rayna grinned, saluted the other knight, and ran off to join her friends.

"Feel like an old veteran yet?"

Kata whirled around to hug the stocky dwarf who had snuck up behind her. Brogan laughed, pushing Kata to arm's length to look at her like a proud parent.

"I didn't even know you were back," Kata exclaimed. "How come I haven't seen you at all?"

"Just arrived a few days ago," answered Brogan. "I spent most of the winter with the family and I know how crazy this place is right before Sending. So I've been at the inn. But I couldn't miss paying you a visit, now could I?"

"Of course not." Kata slid over as Brogan pulled himself up onto the bench beside her. He waved a server over to request a drink, then looked out into the crowds at the group of young knights making their way to the dunking booth.

"So," he said quietly. "Cyra's girl's a knight now."

Kata nodded. "I saw Cyra just a few days ago and she didn't say a word about it."

"I'd guess she's not ready to," Brogan replied. "Doubt the girl's been very far from home for man than a few days before now. The queen has some hard times coming, getting used to her daughter being gone."

Kata hadn't really though of this. It was so easy to get caught up in the excitement of the young knights, especially with the ceremony and the feast. But every Sending meant someone was being left behind. Cyra had certainly seen enough of this, but was she ready to go through it herself?

"Still, I think it will be good for Rayna." Kata looked in the direction that Rayna and her friends had gone, but they were no longer in sight.

"Oh aye," Brogan agreed. "Already has been, likely. She gets to be with people around her age. And it'll be good for her to get out and see what the world's like."

Brogan's drink arrived. He took a long swig and wiped at his beard and mustache with his arm.

"And if she does well enough," he added. "and starts making a name of her own, it might take care of all those questions."

The questions were those surrounding Rayna's parentage. Cyra had never been married, as far as anyone knew. There were rumors of lovers lost to the battlefield, but none had anything more than hearsay to back them up. Of greater to concern to anyone who troubled themselves with the question of Rayna's heritage was the lack of resemblance between mother and daughter. Cyra was small and pale skinned with near white hair. Rayna had dark hair with a tanned complexion, and she'd been taller than her mother for years. That, added to the fact that Rayna's age meant Cyra would have been a rather young mother, had given birth to countless tales. Rayna was said to be a war orphan, a creation of magic, the legitimate daughter of a queen who had turned pale from various traumas, and everything in between. Neither Rayna nor her mother ever said a word about the circumstances of Rayna's birth, even to close friends. But Kata knew it pained both women to see the knowing looks and hear the whispers of rumors every time Rayna did anything that marked her as the slightest bit different from her mother.

"She been assigned with Micanna and Davran," Kata noted. "I'm sure they'll teach her well. Though not as well as you would, of course."

"They'll do fine," Brogan said from behind his mug. "I did well enough by you, but I can't be mentor for everyone. 'sides, I think I'm getting too old for it."

Kata raised an eyebrow at the dwarf. He kept a straight face for about ten seconds before he burst out laughing."

"Ah, you got me," he admitted. "Got two of the little runts following me around once we set off. Matter of fact, I'd better go see if I can find them."

"Should I tell them you don't really go mad if anyone calls you short?"

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't."

"You started that rumor yourself, didn't you?"

Brogan looked at Kata with innocent eyes as he got up from the bench. She scowled, trying hard to keep from smiling.

"You know I spent almost a season terrified that I'd slip up and say 'short', even if it wasn't about you."

"It was good for you," Brogan grinned mischievously. "Taught you to think before you said something."

"Get out of here!" Kata raised her hand as if she meant to hit Brogan. He giggled and ran off, making sure to grab his drink as he did.

Kata chuckled as she watched Brogan leave. Seeing him was always fun. It was hard to even remember how nervous and frightened she'd been around him at first. Brogan had seemed a gruff and impatient mentor. It was a long time before he showed her his easy-going, humorous side. One of her fondest memories was meeting him by chance in a small town and joined him for a meal at the inn. Talking with him, she had realized for the first time that Brogan now saw her as an equal and a friend.

She hoped Rayna fared as well with her two mentors.

The Last Battle: Part 4, Draft 1

2005-11-13T16:39:00.000-08:00

Up until now, I've been posting the parts as full scenes. But this one is on the long side, so I'll divide it into at least two so you'll have something to read sooner.

The Great Feast finally comes and Kata actually gets to relax and enjoy herself. This part mostly sets the stage; Part 5 will introduce two characters. One is completely new, one you've met before, though not if you're going chronologically.

"Everything is completely ready for tomorrow," said Elgon, the knight in charge of organizing the preparations for the Great Feast, the night before it was to happen. He said this every year. It was never true.

The next day, as the squires were at last becoming full fledged knights, the knights organizing the Great Feast were scrambling to fix everything that had gone wrong. A tent had fallen over during the night. One of the main streets leading to the feast grounds didn't have proper lighting. One of the pie recipes, accounting for roughly 70 pies, hadn't come out to the master chef's standards. The tumbler who was second from the right in the base of the human pyramid needed medication for the dizzy spells he was having. And everyone, from the captain of the castle guards to the barker for the dunking booth to the curious tourist, had last minute questions.

As she had on the days before, Kata happily threw herself into the work. She pounded the tent stakes back into more solid ground and made sure the ropes were well secured. She rushed ingredients for the replacement pies into the kitchens. She escorted the healers to where the ailing tumbler was staying. She answered questions ranging from simple directions to running through the whole schedule of events for the night.

And somehow, it all came together, as it did every year. By sunset, the great hall and castle grounds were a mass of people, with still more arriving all the time. Much of the entertainment was already in full swing. The juggler and stilt-walkers and stilt-walking jugglers were moving through the crowds, often with a small devoted audience trailing behind them. The musicians were mostly warming up. They would be playing once the actual feast began. The attractions and merchant's booths were set up, though they did most of their business after the food had been served.

When the incoming crowds had thinned to infrequent groups of a few people, the castle's bell rang three times to call everyone to the banquet tables. Kata took her seat with the other knights who had been on the Feast organizing committee. Elgon gave a brief speech outlining the trials and triumphs of putting this year's feast together as the drinks were brought out. Enthusiastic toasts were made all around and the whole table needed refills by the time to the food was served.

As many people did on the day of the feast, Kata had purposefully eaten very little. Course after course of delicious roasts, soups, salads, breads, and of course, pies came one after the other and everyone wanted to try nearly everything. The feast organizers' table seemed to get special attention, possibly due to how well they'd done in keeping the kitchen stocked for the event. No other tables were ignored, but a call for more bread or another ale from the organizers' table always seemed to get answered first.

After her third slice of pie, Kata decided that she needed to get up for a walk. The few knights left at the table, gave her a final congratulations on her hard work, then went back to singing along with the musicians in a lively round.

By now the moon was out and the numerous torches Kata and her friends had set up were blazing away. Many people were leaving the banquet tables and the booths around the castle grounds were in full swing. Some were selling scarves, feathers, and various small trinkets as favors to give to a departing knight. Some sold jewelry and other little gifts that young knights typically gave to their sweethearts before the Sending. There were wooden swords and shields, toy knights, the dunking booth, a puppet show, all kinds of treats from various parts of the kingdom for anyone who actually had room for more food, and a variety of other attractions. The fire eaters were attracting a large crowd right now, tossing sticks lit at both ends high into the air before swallowing the flames..

Kata took a seat at an abandoned table near the fire eaters' stage. She watched the crowds move around, marveling as she did every year at the variety of people who came out for the Great Feast. Kata especially liked watching the children. Some, mostly the ones who were just old enough to enjoy all the attractions, just ran around happily, burning through whatever spending money they had been given. Those who had a little more idea of what the feast was for gravitated toward the wooden swords and shields and staged play battles, usually supervised by a helpful knight to make sure no one got hurt. The young pages watched the squires with longing, just the way the squires looked at the new knights who had completed the initiation ceremony that day. Then there were the children who weren't interested in anything but being with their parents and the ones who were being taken back home in tears. Most people wouldn't have mentioned them in the same breath, but Kata saw them as the two experiences knights' families went through. Some knights remained at the castle until the Sending put them on assignment in their hometowns. Often, the families of these knights would make the trip to the capitol for the Great Feast. After the Sending, the knights and their families would return home together. On the other hand, some knights had family in the capitol. When the Sending came, they would be going far away for a long time. There were always some children who connected the Great Feast, fun as it was, with Mommy or Daddy going away and couldn't stay long without crying.

The Last Battle: Part 3, Draft 1

2005-11-08T17:43:00.000-08:00

Yeesh, this took a while. This segment was supposed to be a lot shorter and the post was going to include the feast itself, but obviously that didn't happen. Still, there's some nice stuff in here and a better hint at Kata and Santok's relationship. I should probably mention that the fortress and Santok's castle in Apex 1 are the same thing. I decided this would make more sense in light of the fact that Keltaria is still very much in a defensive stance (to say the least). Plus, I remembered that where Santok is now shouldn't really be his home. Calling his current residence the fortress should make the distinction easier. I'll change the wording in Apex 1 when I decide to edit it.

As usual, comments welcome

The next few days were busy ones, which was exactly what Kata wanted. Waiting around the castle and counting the days until the sending of the knights would have been maddening. That was part of why there were so many events held in the days leading up to the sending ceremony. Chief among them were the initiation of the squires into knighthood and the great feast held the following night. The squires' initiation ceremony was an almost secretive affair, which was supposedly meant to scare younger squires about what they'd be going through. Cyra had repeatedly said that the real reason was to keep the squires from suffering any more anxiety than they already did as they prepared for knighthood, but the myth persisted. Everyone, however, was welcome at the feast. It was a chance for the newest knights to be accepted by the others, for the knights to have a celebration with their families before leaving, and for everyone to send the knights off with a big party before sending them off more ceremoniously later on.

Though she could have easily gained an invitation to the initiation ceremony, Kata was helping with the feast preparations this year. The fun of the feast seemed more in keeping with her mood than the solemn tone of the initiation. The castle's great hall needed cleaning after the long winter. Tables and decorations had to be put up inside and out. Torches needed to be arranged for outside, as the festivities always went long into the night. More food came into the kitchens that the cooks alone could possibly keep track of. Entertainers from around the kingdom required sleeping quarters. And citizens of the capitol who were volunteering to help needed to be organized.

It was always a lot of work, but Kata had never enjoyed it as much before. She couldn't remember being this excited since her own days as a squire about to become a knight. Just strolling around the castle and counting the days would have been unbearable. Checking the stability of a torch or trying to figure out where 50 bags of flour had disappeared to gave her something immediate to focus on. There were some knights who felt that work like this was beneath them. Kata had never really felt this way and now she was extremely grateful for all the near chaos of preparations.

Still, there were the nights. When the sun had long gone down and the supervisors insisted that she get some sleep, Kata reluctantly returned to the knights' quarters for her nightly battle with wakefulness. The day's work might have seemed tiring, but her training as a knight had prepared her for much worse. One of Kata's teachers when she had been a squire had advised his pupils to take sleep where they could find it, as they'd never know when they'd be able to rest again. Kata was a good student, but this was one skill she had never mastered. Kata would lie awake for long hours, unable to quiet her excited mind. Rationally, she knew that sleep would bring the next day faster, but her giddy joy would not obey. It only grew worse as the day of the initiation and great feast grew nearer and Kata was becoming worried that when the sending came at last, she'd be too exhausted to leave.

The night before the feast finally came and Kata was sure she wouldn't sleep for a moment. She tried her hardest to relax her mind with controlled breathing and soothing thoughts. But still, her thoughts wandered. They pulled forth memories of her past visits to Santok, lingering over every detail of the ride out to the borders, the towering rough stone fortress, and Santok himself. It was maddening. Again, Kata though of her last night as a squire. Was this worse? No, this was joyful anticipation, no matter how maddening it was. The squires had excitement mixed with worry. Some had no idea what really awaited them in the morning. Some feared they weren't ready for the responsibilities of knighthood. Still others feared they had made a mistake and that knighthood wasn't what they wanted at all. Kata could remember that creeping nervousness and her sincere wish that she could somehow skip right to the great feast. What had she done that night to calm her fears?

Kata got out of bed, quietly so she wouldn't wake anyone else. She threw on enough clothes to be presentable and snuck out the side door of the knights' quarters. The guards on night watch nodded as she passed them and headed out to the stables. The stable guards were equally uninterested in why she was there. Kata hurried along to Tally's stall.

Tally gave a welcoming snort as Kata opened his stall. He had been with her since her last year as a squire and Kata had known no better horse. She patted him as an apology for getting him up so late, though he didn't seem soothed until she offered him a carrot. She got his tack on him as quickly as possible. Kata jumped into Tally's saddle, took hold of the reins and they were ready. Tally easily found his way out of the stables without guidance. Once they were outside, Kata steered him to the back of the castle. Once they passed the fencing grounds and the archery field, there was nothing but wide open space. Kata gave Tally three clicks of her tongue and a pat on the neck. Neighing happily, he broke into a full gallop.

On that final night in the squire's barracks, Kata had done much the same, though being a squire had required more sneaking around. Tally didn't know her as well then and had needed more urging to get up to full speed and more steering once her reached it. Now, with a horse she could trust completely and without the fear of being caught up after hours, a fast ride by moonlight was an even better way for Kata to clear her head. The cool air of the spring night flew by as she and Tally raced along. The castle grew slowly smaller, though it was too big and towering to escape completely. It was as if all the nervousness and unsettling anticipation Kata had felt was left far behind, unable to keep up with her swift footed steed.

Kata took a deep breath as the wind rushed into her face. She remembered the last time she had gone on a night ride like this. Of course, it had been with Santok, but the memory was only good now. She wasn't trying to sleep so thinking so Santok couldn't keep her from it. She had told him in the late afternoon how she loved riding at night, how calming and freeing it felt. Santok had never tried it. He never rode for pleasure at all, night or day. So she convinced him to try it with her that night. They rode through the woods at an easy pace, she on Tally and he on his enormous charger Granak, searching for an open field. Almost as soon as they found it, Tally was off, knowing Kata well enough to guess what she had in mind. At first Kata thought that Santok wasn't going to try it, that he'd just stay where he was and watch her. But then he was at her side. It took a while for both him and Granak to get comfortable with just going as fast as possible to no destination. But before long, he had begun to enjoy himself. He would turn sharply or bolt out towards distant hills, daring Kata to follow him. They raced each other, with no course, finish, or determining of the winner in mind. At last, the horses began to slow and Kata and Santok decided to let them rest. Santok led them to a small quiet lake where they dismounted. The horses were free to drink and graze while Santok and Kata laughed from exhilaration as they caught their breath. They stayed at the lake for a long time, not reaching the fortress again until just before dawn.

Almost as soon as she though that she should head back, Tally was turning back towards the stables. He slowed his pace and they reached the stables at an easy trot. Kata got him back to his stall and out of his gear. She rubbed him down, gave him a last pat, and left the stables. Soon she was back in bed. Sleep came easily now, even as she thought of taking Santok out riding again.

The Last Battle: Part 2, Draft 1

2005-11-07T18:55:00.000-08:00

Two updates in one day? The gears must be really greased tonight! Not much to say about this one, though some questions from the first part I wrote should be getting answered. I did a little edit to Part 1 because I decided to change something when I got to Part 2. See if you can spot it

By Cyra's request, the receiving chambers were divided in two. One room was the formal room, typical of the receiving chambers of any castle. The walls were decorated with ornate tapestries of historical events and shields in honor of the kingdom's greatest heroes. Tall, freestanding candlelabras evenly spaced near the walls provided light. A royal blue carpet lead up to the throne, which was decorated with carvings of dragons. Cyra's own coat of arms hung behind the throne. There were chairs with velvet cushions and deep mahogany tables to the sides which could be moved to sit in front of the throne if the occasion required it. This was the room Cyra used for receiving diplomats, nobles from other kingdoms, or local leaders from her own land. It was for business of state and reflected that.

The other half of the receiving chambers was intended for meetings that didn't call for such formality. It was much smaller and had three large windows looking out on the gardens. A cushioned window seat ran along the bottom of the windows so guests could sit and enjoy the view. At the room's center was a low table surrounded by comfortable chairs. A small collection of books was housed in a shelf on the southern wall. The northern wall was mostly devoted to a painting of dragons in flight. A few dignitaries who Cyra was particularly friendly with had been invited into this receiving room. But mostly, it was used for meetings with friends and other people who weren't expecting all the pomp and ceremony that usually surrounds a queen. It was in this room that Cyra sat waiting for Kataya to arrive.

Three brisk knocks at the door announced that Cyra's guest was here.

"Come in," Cyra replied.

Kataya entered the room slowly. She was dressed in the relaxed clothing knights typically wore when staying at the castle between assignments. Only the crests on the shoulders identified her rank. Cyra noticed that her chestnut hair had grown long over the winter. She would likely have it cut or tied back upon leaving the castle. Kataya looked a little nervous, which was unusual but not unexpected, given what she was asking for.

"Your Majesty," Lady Kataya said in greeting, dropping on one knee and striking her palm.

"Hello, Kata." Cyra smiled and Kata seemed a little more at ease. Cyra motioned for her friend to sit in the chair facing her. As Kata got herself settled, Cyra reached for a tea kettle that had been brought up from the kitchens earlier.

"Tea?" she offered. Kata declined and Cyra poured herself a cup.

"You wanted to speak with me about my request?" Kata prompted gently once Cyra had taken a sip of her tea.

"I did," she answered, setting the teacup back on its saucer. "I wanted to talk with you before I go about approving it."

Kata seemed happy, but still a little worried. Cyra tilted her head, waiting for a reply.

"You do realize," Kata began slowly, "what I'm asking for?"

"Of course." Cyra took another sip of her tea. "You're asking me for permission to cross the Keltarian border to ensure our own is secure."

"And," she continued, just as Kata was looking even more worried, "you're asking for my tacit permission to go and spend time with Santok."

Kata let out a sigh of relief and Cyra grinned at her.

"I'm not completely oblivious, you know," the queen said.

"Sometimes..." Kata shrugged and the two women laughed.

"I just wanted to be sure you knew what you were agreeing to," Kata said. "I didn't want to think I was deceiving you, though I guess that's not very likely."

Cyra shook her head and finished the last of her tea.

"I've known for a while what was happening between the two of you," she said, letting her eyes wander to the windows. "I've given it much thought and watched you pretty carefully too. And from that, this could only benefit everyone."

She turned to face Kata again, her eyes firmly meeting those of her friend.

"I don't want you to think I'm taking this lightly though. The fact that you are my friend went into my decision, but not as much as the fact that you are one of my best knights and you have never disappointed me. Though I don't believe right now that Santok is using you, I'm confident that you're strong enough to keep him from doing so if he ever tries."

Kata nodded. She clearly wasn't taking this lightly either.

"I want to believe that your friendship with Santok will lead to and end to all this fighting," Cyra continued. "I know that's a lot to ask and I'm not expecting you to accomplish that anytime soon. But I want you to remember that you are always a knight of this kingdom and I expect you to act like one. I know this may be difficult, given the situation you'll be in. But I trust your judgment and I know you'll do the right thing."

Kata was beaming now, and a little flushed from the compliments.

"Thank you," she said softly. Cyra smiled.

"Now," she said, rising to her feet, "you have some packing to see to and I imagine you'll be helping with the feast preparations as well. So I won't take up any more of your time."

Kata grinned and got up as well. "I'll see you at the sending then?"

Cyra nodded. "If not sooner."

The Last Battle: Part 1, Draft 1

2005-11-07T12:04:00.000-08:00

I'm forcing myself to actually write the beginning, so some sense might be made of the story. Since you've now read the first climax, you may well be able to guess at a few things. Anyway, this wasn't as hard to write as I though it would be. Let me know what you think.

It was spring. By date it had been so for a few days already, but now it was really spring. The sky was a perfect clear blue dotted with soft white clouds that wouldn't even consider threatening to rain. The green grasses danced in the light breeze, rejoicing in the arrival of warmer weather. Soon the farmers would be starting the year's work and the dragons would be flying again.

Cyra sat on the railing along one of the castle's covered walkways. She breathe deeply as the gentle breeze carried scents of blossoming plant life and rich soil up to her. The local stories claimed that Cyra's mood affected the weather of her homeland, so deeply bound was she to it. But Cyra herself felt the opposite was true. Even the busiest winter felt like a long slumber or a restless wait for something else to come. Spring was coming awake again, thawing out, calling everything back to life. It was a big part of why Cyra held the sending of the knights in spring. They were all energy and eagerness when the spring came. It was a perfect time for new beginnings.

"Your Majesty!"

Cyra sighed and reluctantly came down. Cinnet was rushing down the hallway to her, scrolls and quill clutched tightly in one hand. He did not look happy, though Cinnet seldom did. If he brought anything to Cyra's attention, it was usually something bad or tedious. Cyra wasn't in the mood for either.

"Yes, Cinnet?" she answered, trying not to sound exasperated before they had even begun the matter.

"Your Majesty." Cinnet bowed quickly and unfurled the scroll. He almost certainly knew what it said already, but he liked to look more official.

"Your Majesty, I have here a request here from Lady Kataya of Renair Hohlt. She is seeking your special leave for cross border patrolling on the border with Keltaria." Cinnet released the bottom of the scroll which promptly curled back to its original shape. He fixed an expectant look on Cyra, who was now in a better mood once again.

"Tell Kata that...." Cinnet cut her off with a roll of his eyes. Cyra sighed. Cinnet hated it when she used less formal names when they were discussing official business.

"Inform Lady Kataya of Renair Hohlt," Cyra said laboriously, "that I wish to meet with her in my receiving chambers as soon as possible."

Cinnet smiled as he finished jotting this down. "You will be declining her request?"

"No. I just want to speak with her before I approve it."

Cinnet became flustered again. "Your Majesty, I beg your pardon but this is highly..."

He seemed so upset that Cyra looked at him with genuine concern. Cinnet sighed, rubbing his forehead with his free hand.

"Your Majesty," he said quietly, "I know you're not a foolish person. You know that we're still fighting Keltaria and you know what Lady Kataya will be doing if you give her leave to cross the border. Under the circumstances...I am sorry, Your Majesty, but allowing this seems foolhardy."

Cyra smiled gently. Cinnet was overly formal, but he was honest and she valued that greatly. Most people wouldn't have voiced an objection to her.

"I know where she wants to go," she responded, her tone softening. "And I know there is a danger in allowing her to do it. But we wouldn't have held our land for as long as we have if we didn't believe that diplomacy can work. And right now, Lady Kataya is the only one who can get past the front gate. If Santok has come to think of her as a person he cares for and not just another enemy soldier, maybe she can convince him to think the same way about others, even me. Maybe we can end this fighting without any more battles, without any more dying."

Cinnet was silent for a while.

"You're certain," he began cautiously. "that it won't go the other way around? That he won't turn her against you?"

"I'm certain." Cyra showed no sign of being offended by Cinnet's suggestion. "If that was going to happen, it would have long ago. Kataya's strong and she's not going to disappoint me."

Cinnet made a few final notes on his scroll.

"I will inform Lady Kataya of your wishes, so I suggest you be waiting for her in the receiving chambers," he said. He bowed and left to seek out Lady Kataya. Cyra took one last look at the spring morning, then started in the direction of the receiving chambers.

The Last Battle: Apex 1, Part 1, Draft 1

2005-11-05T15:33:00.000-08:00

Like most story blogs I've read, it seems this one will have multiple stories going on at once. I'm not completely sure what happens next in "Sea of Unicorns." The only ideas I have seem boring, and if I think they are, I doubt you'll find them much fun, dear reader. So I'm putting it on hold until I come up with something or people start saying they really want to see it back. (Semi-shameless fishing for compliments.)

So what's this you're about to read? Well, talk about something I need to get off my chest. I think this story is about 10 years old and the roots of it are even older. Since its inception, I've tried several times to write it, with little to no success. I'm starting in the middle on this one. The title is more than likely temporary, as is the name of Santok's native tongue. "Apex 1" refers to the fact that this is the first of two major events in the story, and the fact that I don't know how many part I'll write before or after. Santok is a minotaur, by the way, which should help you visualize him more clearly and but some of his thoughts into context.

It gets a little violent partway in, so be forewarned.

Santok knew well before he saw her that Cyra had arrived. His troops were noisy, following her through the hallways with shrieks and jeers. Were it anyone else who he wished to make it to his throne room unharmed, he would have gone out there himself to make certain nothing happened. But with Cyra, he did not need to be concerned. Even if she had heeded his request, they would not touch her, between their fear of her and their fear of him. The din continued, growing closer as the subject of his guards' taunts drew nearer to Santok's door. Then suddenly, it faded, until the hallway outside was silent. They were brave enough in the hallways, but they were not about to risk his wrath if he thought their teasing went too far.

The enormous door slowly began to open. Santok himself could open it with relative ease, but most humans couldn't budge it and needed his guards to open it for them. Cyra however, pushed one of the heavy doors open without aid. Santok regarded this without the slightest change of expression. He expected no less on the Dragon's first time in his castle.

Santok realized that he had not actually seen Cyra in a very long time. In most instances when their paths crossed, their blades crossed as well. His impressions of her were mostly blurred flashes intermingled with blazing light reflected off that hated sword. Santok was quite certain he had never seen Cyra this close before when he wasn't trying to at least put a sizable crack in her armor.

Cyra was smaller than he'd expected. This was his assessment of most humans, but she seemed short, even for a human. There was still no doubt that she was strong; even with her armor on she was visibly muscular. The armor he had seen before, decorated with various patterns and figures of dragons, but still quite effective. She had on a deep blue cape which Santok hadn't seen before. Likely she didn't wear it into large battles where it might hinder her movement. She was pale skinned with near white hair. No one seemed to know if this was how she had always looked or the result of some unthinkable horror she had suffered in the past. Her face was grim as she finished pushing the door to the point where it would allow her through. Showing no fatigue from the effort, she strode up the lengthy carpet toward Santok's throne. Her anger did not bother Santok in the least. Seeing the normally confident Dragon angry and - if everything had gone according to plan - unable to do anything about it was actually putting him at ease.

"Your majesty," he said, inclining his head with only the slightest hint of condescension in his voice. "You do me honor in my castle."

She met his gaze without hesitation, her eyes burning with a fury she was holding back for now. Without looking down, she dropped down her to knees, pressing her right hand to the floor while raising the palm of her left to Santok.

"Lord Santok," she said simply, in perfect Kletrak. It was a mixed gesture. The bow and the use of his native tongue were concessions to Santok. But her constant glare and unembellished acknowledgement of his presence were just shy of a challenge. Cyra knew well that she couldn't afford to risk Santok's full wrath. But she was not so beaten yet as to throw herself at his feet and beg his mercy. Again, Santok expected no less.

"I trust," Santok said, straightening in his throne to mark the end of the pleasantries, "that you have chosen to meet my terms?"

Wordlessly, Cyra reached to her side and pulled the hated sword free of her belt. Deslordian remained in its sheath and Santok could see the chains wrapped around its hilt. Cyra held the sword in front of her and gave a few tugs at the hilt to show that the chains held it fast in the scabbard. At this short distance, Santok could feel Deslordian's seething anger, though he wasn't certain if it was more furious at being unable to protect its bearer or being unable to kill him.

"You can test it yourself, if you'd like," Cyra suggested, holding the blade out to him. They both knew that this would not happen. Santok had once put a hand on Deslordian for a mere second. The experience had left him without the use of that arm for months. The sword's nature, the fact that it seemed to have a rudimentary soul within it, puzzled Santok. His own axe, though it was supposed to be the counterpart to Deslordian, only seemed to pulse with the energies of battle. It was yet another reminder of his constant struggle against Cyra, but nothing more than that. Deslordian, meanwhile, had changed its aura to a more alluring one, trying to tempt him to reach out and take it. Santok shook his head, feeling discomfort for the first time. He wished he'd been able to ask her to come without the sword, but he needed to be mindful of the prophecy.

"No," he answered. "Just keep it under control." The sword grew quiet, but still rumbled with a low fury. Cyra was now standing before him, fixing the scabbard to her belt once more.

"Where is Rayna?" she asked.

If Santok had not been searching for something like it, he likely would have missed the slight tremble in Cyra's voice as she said her daughter's name. She still stood with utter confidence and her eyes did not waver even slightly. But that little shake in her voice was the first sign to Santok of the anguish he had no doubt put his enemy through. He was pleased.

Turning his attention from Cyra for a moment, he called for one of his guards. The stick-thin creature with a face in a permanent sneer came running in from the back of the throne room. No doubt he'd been waiting as close to the door as he dared until he was summoned. He trotted up to the throne and looked scornfully in Cyra's direction. He seemed to consider doing more, but a quick look from Santok made him reconsider. He hopped up to Santok's side and Santok leaned very close to him. Speaking in Kletrak wasn't going to conceal their conversation, so he would have to keep his voice low.

"Bring the girl up now. If the lookouts spot any dragons, I will send them to find you and you may cut her hand off. Otherwise, she is not to be harmed while you bring her here. Understood?"

The guard nodded and left through the back door. Time passed awkwardly. None of the lookouts came down to report a sighting. Santok and Cyra eyed each other, but neither spoke. What was there to say?

The back door opened again and Cyra tensed. Even Santok was a little nervous as his guard shoved Rayna into the throne room in front of him. Santok hadn't seen her in full light since she'd first been brought to his castle. Her injuries looked far worse now that he could see her more clearly. The guard had tied her hands in front of her with coarse rope, which wasn't it making any easier for her to walk steadily. Her head was down; she wasn't ready to face her mother yet. Santok turned his attention back to Cyra, half expecting her to be ready to kill him with her bare hands. Instead, Cyra was completely focused on her daughter, unable to hold back a pained expression. Halfway to the throne, Rayna tripped and fell roughly to her knees. The guard let out a nasty chuckle and Cyra fixed her fierce gaze on him, looking even more furious than she had with Santok. The guard feel silent, dropped his end of the rope, and fled from the room. Cyra rushed to her daughter's side, knelt on the floor in front of her, and began tearing at the rope.

This was the moment. Santok rose slowly from his throne, carefully watching for the slightest sign that Cyra was aware of him doing it. There was none. He took a cautious step in Cyra's direction. Nothing. Another. Still nothing. It seemed the palace could have been collapsing around them and Cyra would have never known it. Her back was to him and her attentions were entirely fixed on Rayna. He advanced slowly, not wanting to test the limits of Cyra's preoccupation/ Soon enough, he was standing right behind his foe. She and Rayna were talking, but he couldn't make out any of it. The steady drumbeat of his axe had grown increasingly faster and louder. One strike was all it would take. She couldn't fight back, couldn't even defend herself. One strike and the Dragon would be dead. He raised his axe. Just one strike.

Never could he have dreamed of what happened next being even a possibility. Rayna was hurt and half-starved, barely able to walk a few steps without stumbling. From everything he had heard, she did not have her mother's strength or any of her experience with the worst of war and physical pain. Shame had kept her from looking up, even at her mother. So how had she seen it coming? From where could she have possibly summoned the strength to push her mother - the legendary Dragon, no less - out of the way of that perfect killing blow?

There were some who came to believe that the next thing was an accident; that nobody had enough time to react to Rayna pushing her mother out of harm's way. This was not true. Time seemed to slow for Santok, until that one moment could have lasted forever. His true enemy was no longer there and now the only thing in range of his axe's swing was Rayna's unprotected back. He could have stopped his axe mid-swing. He could have left Rayna and turned on the no doubt stunned Cyra and killed her before she even knew what was happening. But he remembered. He remembered seeing his father's shield resting on top of his covered remains, so battered that it's original shape was almost lost. He remembered standing by his mother's body as funeral preparations went on. He still wasn't sure if the rumor that her missing hand hung in Cyra's banquet hall as a trophy was true or not. He remembered everyone he had cared for who left him to fight against Cyra and came back dead by her hand. He thought of all the loss Cyra had caused him and chose to give her a taste of it. The axe was in his complete control every second, as it tore open Rayna's back, shattered her spine, ripped through her heart, and smashed through her ribs on the other side. He relished it, anticipating the release from his grief as he passed it on to his enemy.

And then, it was over. The pulsing beat of the axe slowly faded. As Santok's own breathing slowed, he realized that the joy he'd felt at killing Rayna was gone. Even before he had looked at Cyra, he knew that the pain he had caused her was not going to alleviate his own. He had done nothing but wasted the element of surprise. He looked down at his axe and saw that Rayna's body still hung limply from the blade. Disgusted, Santok gave the axe a shake and Rayna fell lifeless to the stone floor. Santok wiped some of the blood from the axe blade with the edge of his cape, then looked to Cyra.

Cyra had been thrown onto her back when her daughter pushed her free of the axe's swing. Now she was on her side facing Santok, though she didn't even seem to notice him. If she had been pale before, she was now ghost-white. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were wide with total horror. Her breathing had been reduced to strangled gasps, as if she just couldn't force enough air into her lungs. She was making a barely audible noise, high and thin and mostly air. It took Santok a moment to realize what it was. Cyra's voice was failing her, but she was screaming.

Santok circled around behind Cyra. Such untempered grief was hard to look at, even when the one suffering it was someone who richly deserved it. Cyra's only reaction was to weakly pull herself a little closer to her daughter's body. Santok realized that his chance to kill Cyra might not be gone after all. She was far too distraught to even think of fighting back. Even if she saw him coming, she might not move to stop him. He could still end this.

He would have, if she had not arrived.

She who? Well I'm still working on stuff like a new name for her and her coming in won't make much sense until I write what happened before it. So you're just gonna have to wait.

Sea of Unicorns - Part One, Second Draft

2005-10-29T16:33:00.000-07:00

Okay, enough stalling. Time for round two. I kept a fair amount of what I wrote the first time around, but the majority of it's changed. I addressed both of Jen's concerns: one is stated more directly and the other will come in at a later point in the story. This is probably it for Part One for now. I don't know if I'd normally write a second draft of a small section like this before getting anything else done, but I really wasn't happy with my first pass. This probably isn't final either, but it's good for now. There's nothing so "fun" as working on one part of your story until its exactly how you want it, then getting three more chapters in and discovering you don't need it or it just doesn't work wit the direction you're taking now. So you probably won't see more than two drafts on anything for a while unless it blows beyond all reason.

I'm not sure what the next story segment will be, or even if it's what happens next chronologically. I'm thinking about writing a little piece about unicorns as they are in this story, partly for your edification, and partly so I don't forget what I have in mind as facts. It will almost certainly never show up in the final story; it's just some added info for now.

Even if I hadn't been looking for the unicorns, I'm sure I would have noticed them. I'd been watching for them ever since Brogal and I had returned to the tavern for our last meal before we moved on. But even if I hadn't been, I'm certain I would have seen them. They didn't look like anyone I'd ever seen before. They weren't merely pale; I had seen pale-skinned nobles who spent most of their days inside stone walls. The unicorns were bright white all over, the color of the palest moon. The man's garb was quite ordinary for a healer, but the woman was wearing a dress of extremely deep blue. They were both barefoot, which was almost unheard of in this part of the kingdom. Even the way they moved stood out. They had a certain gracefulness about them, a light step that barely seemed to disturb the dust on the floor. And even though they seemed relaxed, they held their fingers curled up against their palms. Not surprisingly, I wasn't the only one who turned around when they came in with Hesker.

Without looking up from his half-finished roast, Brogal tapped me with the back of his hand, letting me know I was obviously staring. I turned back to my own food and fought the urge to sneak another look as Hesker and his guests sat down at the far corner table. Brogal seemed far more interested in his meal than the newcomers, but even his eyes occasionally wandered toward the back of the room.

"You think they're married?" I asked. It was a silly question, but I had been wondering and it seemed like decent light conversation.

Brogal was in the middle of a long drink from his heavy stein and didn't answer for a minute.

"Maybe not with a royal decree on it," he said at last. "But I imagine they are. Way I hear it, they stay with their mates for life and don't spend much time around anyone else."

I nodded. This fit with the little I'd heard in stories about unicorns. They were renowned to their loyalty to their mates. I glanced over at Hesker's table again. The woman was sitting close to the man with her hand resting over his. She seemed to be the one responding to most of Hesker's questions. The man was mostly quiet, only once in a while adding a brief quiet or nodding in agreement with his wife.

"So what can they do for us?" I asked, turning back to my food and Brogal.

Brogal shrugged. "Healing, likely. They're supposed to be damn good at healing, even when they're human."

He took another deep swig of his ale, using it as an excuse to lean back far and have a look himself.

"We'll know soon enough," he added, setting the heavy stein back on the table.

"Any idea why they want to help us?" This was the question I had given the most thought to. Though it was quite rare, it was not unheard of for unicorns in human form to be seen traveling from town to town offering their services as healers. But for them to stay in one place for more than a few days, or even to join up with a group like ours, was unheard of. On top of that, unicorns were regarded as shy and peaceful creatures. What interest could they have in us and our battles?

"Not a one," answered Brogal. "We don't even know yet if they'll actually join, so let's not get too excited yet."

I nodded. Brogal went back to his meal and I tried not to look like I was eavesdropping. We had been holed up at the tavern ever since Hesker got word that two "interesting people" wanted to speak to him about joining the fight. It took several days to make certain it wasn't an ambush. Even then, we were taking a risk. The tavern was supposedly safe and well into free territory, but that could easily changed and staying in any place for too long was dangerous. We were impatient to get back to the front. If Hesker was willing to stay at the tavern for as long as we had, he had to believe he could convince these unicorns to help us. I'd seen Hesker recruit enough people to believe it too.

Brogal jabbed at my shoulder with his stein. Hesker and the unicorns had left their table and were coming over to ours. Hesker seemed to be in good spirits and the unicorns were walking alongside him with that same easy soft stride as before. It seemed all but certain that they would be joining our fight.

"Brogal. Lenna." Hesker kept his voice just a bit lower than normal, as he usually did when speaking to us in a public place like the tavern. "We're going to have new healers joining us."

This was the first time I had seen the unicorns up close. They were slender and not particularly tall, though they both appeared fairly strong. Their ears were slightly pointed, which might make someone think they had a trace of elvish ancestry. Looking at their foreheads, I could just make the faint gray nunis in the center, marking where the bases of their horns would be. Hesker introduced both of us, then stepped back and turned to the man.

"This is Greyen."

Greyen smiled and nodded at us in greeting. He had a long face with sharp features, making him look even more elvish. His white hair was cut short and framed his face very neatly. He had dark eyes, too dark to be called any particular color save black. He was dressed in traditional healer's garb:a fawn colored tunic and leggings, slung with pouches of various sizes for carrying herbs, potions, and dressings. I glanced at his belt and noticed he didn't carry a weapon. I wasn't yet sure if he would want one.

"And this is Veres," Hesker added as the woman stepped forward.

Veres was just a little smaller hat her husband, though no quite as thin. She had a thick tangle of white hair falling around her face in loose, uneven curls. I now noticed that the deep blue dress nearly matched here eyes. Still, I wondered how long she would be able to keep it as we tried to travel unnoticed. The dress had no obvious pockets, so I guessed she must have left her supplies elsewhere. She grinned broadly at us and shook our hands, which was a bit of a surprise after Greyen's reserved greeting. We must have looked a little surprised, but Veres simply laughed in an easy, friendly manner. I was almost certain we'd hear a lot of her laughter in days to come. We could certainly use some cheer at the front.

"We should get moving as soon as possible," Hesker said when the introductions were through. "we've stayed here too long as it is and we need to be getting back to the front."

"We'll just need time to get the rest of our things," Veres said. "And to say goodbye to Connor. He's been very kind, letting stay here." Greyen nodded in agreement.

"Meet us by the front door when you're ready," said Hesker. "Don't be too long."

Veres smiled and rushed back up the tavern stairs. Greyen followed her at a slower pace.

"You sure we can trust them?" Brogal whispered after they had gone.

Hesker nodded and motioned a barmaid over to order one last drink. "The main thing was making sure they were really unicorns before we met them. When I was young, we had one pass through our village. Lucky thing too; my sister had broken her arm not two days earlier. They're powerful healers, even when they're human, and I guess they just know where they're needed. And they don't lie to you. They may keep a thing from you, but if you ask them an honest question, they'll answer you honest. Worst they'll do is say they can't tell you."

"Did they say why they're helping us?" I asked Hesker. He shook his head a little.

"I asked them," he replied. "And Veres just said it was the right thing to do. That's all I know and I didn't press it."

"He doesn't say much, does he?" Brogal noted, inclining his head towards the stairs.

"Veres talks a lot more," agreed Hesker, as the barmaid came by with his drink. "But Greyen'll talk if he has something to say. He's just not one to waste words."

We sat in silence for a while, possibly worried about wasting words ourselves. Brogal and Hesker finished their drinks while I kept an eye on the stairs. Finally, Hesker set his empty mug down.

"I'll go and pay Connor what we owe," he said, getting up from his seat. "You two finish eating and make sure you're ready to leave."

Hesker headed over to the bar to settle our bill. We polished off the remnants of our meals and headed upstairs to finish packing for our journey.

Sea of Unicorns - Part One, First Draft

2005-10-11T18:59:00.000-07:00

OK, time to get rolling. This is a story that's been bouncing around my head for quite some time. I just kind of remembered it recently and thought it might actually deserve writing. The title may well be temporary, as it doesn't make any sense until somewhere in the middle and it doesn't really click until very close to the end. Names may be changed as well. Feel free to comment and please, please ask me how I came up with the word "nunis". It's a good story, possibly even better than this one.

It was not a surprise when Brogal told me our two potential new allies were actually unicorns. I don't know that I would have guessed, but they were definitely unusual people. They weren't merely pale. Their skin and hair were both almost unnaturally white. Their ears were slightly pointed, though that could easily be mistaken for some elvish ancestry. Most telling, though you could easily miss it, was the light grey nunis on each of their foreheads marking where the horn would be. "Unicorns" might not have been my first guess, but it was not a shock.

"So what can they do for us?" I asked Brogal, stealing a cautious glance at the newcomers at the table across the room.

Brogal shrugged. "Healing, maybe. I hear they're damn good at healing, even when they're human."

He took a deep swig of his ale, using it as an excuse to lean back far and have a look himself.

"Hesker'll know soon enough," he added, setting the heavy stein back on the table.

"Any idea why they want to help us?" Even then, I had no illusions about the importance of our cause outside of our corner of the kingdom. Back then, a local lord making a grab for freemen's land was nothing unusual. The crown had little real power outside of the capitol. "Local disputes" were left to the disputing parties to fight out. Once the battles were over, the Royal Army showed up and laid down the law in favor of the winner.

"Not a one. We don't even know yet if they'll actually join, so let's not get too excited yet."

I nodded. Brogal went back to his drink and I tried not to look like I was eavesdropping. We had been holed up at the tavern ever since Hesker got word that two "interesting people" wanted to speak to him about joining the fight. It took several days to make certain it wasn't an ambush. Even then, we were taking a risk. The tavern was supposedly safe and well into free territory, but that could easily changed and staying in any place for too long was dangerous. Most of us were impatient to get back on the move. If Hesker was willing to stay at the tavern for as long as we had, he had to believe these unicorns would be able to help us.

Brogal jabbed at my shoulder with his stein. Hesker and the unicorns had left their table and were coming over to ours. Hesker seemed to be in good spirits and the unicorns were walking alongside him. It seemed all but certain that they would be joining our fight.

"Brogal. Lenna." Hesker kept his voice just a bit lower than normal, as he usually did when speaking to us in a public place like the tavern. "We're going to have new healers joining us.

He stepped back, turning to the man standing beside him.

"This is Greyen."

Greyen smiled and nodded at us. He was slender and stood just a little taller than Hesker. His hair was cut short and his eyes were too dark to be called any particular color. He was dressed in a fawn colored tunic and leggings, both covered with pouches of various sizes. This was typical of traveling healers who carried all their herbs, potions, and dressings with them. I glanced at his belt and noticed he didn't carry a weapon. Hesker would probably find him one soon, though I wasn't sure yet if he'd actually be going into battles with us.

"And this is Veres," Hesker added, indicating the woman.

Veres was smaller hat her husband, though no quite as thin. She had a thick tangle of white hair falling around her face in loose, uneven curls. She wore a plain dress, but of the deepest blue I had ever seen. I wondered how long Hesker would put up with her wearing something that stood out so much. The dress had no obvious pocket, so I guessed she must have left her supplies elsewhere. She grinned broadly at us and shook our hands, which was a bit of a surprise after Greyen's reserved greeting. Maybe we seemed a bit taken aback because she drew back a little and curtseyed. We smiled awkwardly and blushed. Few of the local women were so formal. If Veres noticed our embarrassment at all, she didn't show it.

"We need to get moving as soon as possible," Hesker said when the introductions were through. "we've stayed here too long as it is and we need to be getting back to the front."

"We'll just need time to get the rest of our things," Veres said. "And to say goodbye to Connor. He's been very kind to let us stay here." Greyen nodded in agreement.

"Meet us by the front door when you're ready," said Hesker. "Don't be too long."

Veres smiled and rushed back up the tavern stairs. Greyen followed her at a slower pace.

"You sure we can trust them?" Brogal whispered after they had gone.

Hesker nodded and motioned a barmaid over to order one last drink. "The main thing was making sure they were really unicorns before we met them. When I was young, we had one pass through our village. Luck thing too; my sister had broken her arm not two days earlier. Even when they're human, they're powerful healers. And they don't lie to you. They may keep a thing from you, but if you ask them an honest question, they'll answer you honest. Worst they'll do is says they can't tell you."

"Did they say why they're helping us?" I asked Hesker. He shook his head a little.

"I asked them," he replied. "And Veres just said it was the right thing to do. That's all I know and I didn't press it."

"He doesn't say much, does he?" Brogal noted, inclining his head towards the stairs.

"Veres talks a lot more," agreed Hesker, as the barmaid came by with his drink. "But Greyen'll talk if he has something to say. He's just not one to waste words."

We sat in silence for a while, possibly worried about wasting words ourselves. Brogal and Hesker finished their drinks while I kept an eye on the stairs. Finally, Hesker set his empty mug down.

"I'll go and pay Connor what we owe," he said, getting up from his seat. "You two make sure you're ready to leave."

Hesker headed over to the bar as we headed upstairs to finish packing for our journey.

Introduction

2005-10-11T18:19:00.000-07:00

Well, I did it. I've been thinking about picking up fiction writing again for a while. Now, at the very least, I have somewhere to put what I write. Whether this will actually lead to me being more productive is anyone's guess. But for the time being, my intentions are good.

What you're going to see here are mostly story fragments. You might see a few paragraphs of one thing, a chapter of another, some character notes for something completely different, a rough outline, or some notes that make sense only to me. I imagine I'll try to keep the stuff that doesn't make sense out of public view. The segments of story may very well be out of order, though I don't really like to tip my hand too early storywise. You will, however, probably be seeing my various drafts and getting an inside look at my writing process. My "process" usually consists of putting together some strings of words that feel passable at the time, stopping, reading it over the next day, throwing up, tossing 80% or more of what I wrote out and starting over. So you, lucky readers, will get to see aspects of my writing that I normally wouldn't show to anyone. At least, until I lose my nerve.

I welcome comments, good or bad. I wouldn't be posting this stuff if I wasn't willing to get some feedback. I only ask that you try to be constructive; I can't do much with "It's good" or "It sucks." And even if everyone hates them, I will not remove any posts unless I actually manage to get something published, in which case the story will probably be removed. I do reserve the right to remove any replies that are not relevant or constructive.

So read, feel free to comment, and hopefully enjoy.