Hey friends! It’s the first Wednesday of the month, and you know what that means… time to share a chunk of whatever it is we’re working on!
As always, it’s fine if it’s rough. This isn’t a time for group critique — it’s just for sharing.
I did not get as far as I wanted to on book two of my trilogy. However, I added 14,000 words in April, and progress is progress!
My heroine and narrator, Val, is an empath. This unfortunately means she can tell when Tristan is attracted — even briefly — to someone else. In my excerpt this month, Val and Tristan have just gotten romantically involved, and she’s with him when he runs into someone he’s hooked up with in the past.
[AdSense-A]
“Tristan!” a female voice called out.
We all turned on the stairs to see a woman I didn’t know coming in the front door. She was petite, with delicate features and dark hair piled in a messy bun on her head. Her black tank top and olive utility pants would have identified her as a Knight even if she hadn’t had a gun at her belt. She strode over to say hello.
Ignoring me, she turned her attention and sparkle on Tristan. “You’ve been through a lot since Manila.” Her erotic interest was so strong that it could hardly be lost on anyone.
Tristan gave an affable smile. “We went through a lot then.” His own attraction sparked, like an answer to an animal’s mating call. “How are you, angel?”
My throat tightened and I could feel my ears burning. He had used that endearment with me, more than once.
Goddess, she was pretty, with an easygoing, confident manner. I felt like an overfrilled lump.
“I’ve been good,” she said, her dark eyes laughing, as if at the absurdity of making small talk. “We should catch up later.”
“Yeah, definitely,” Tristan said. “Hey, I don’t think you’ve met my girlfriend. Valentina Vega, this is Angel Cheng, she was at the presidio in Manila.”
Angel. He called her that because that was her name.
And he had called me his girlfriend. Was that what I was? His reflexive attraction to Angel Cheng was already gone—just another blip, like when he first met Javier Cruz.
Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t miss a beat. “Salam. It’s nice to meet you.” She did a dead-on impression of warmth, even though she only felt surprise. “Your name sounds familiar.”
“Val’s a Mage at El Dédalo,” Tristan said before I could respond. “She does debriefings.” Pride mingled with his warmth and, yes, attraction toward me. We all talked about the information I had garnered from the dying man, and about our assignment at the Catholic high school.
It would hardly be the last time I would meet someone that Tristan had slept with. For that matter, I was on friendly terms with a few of them at El Dédalo.
Should I talk to Tristan about this later?
No. Why make things difficult? He scarcely seemed aware it was happening, himself. It wasn’t his fault that he had gotten involved with someone who could feel everything that lay beneath the surface, so that an unremarkable encounter put her through the drama of a three-act play.
[AdSense-B]
I expect to add a little more to this story this month. My writing goal for May, though, is to do another revision of my Southern gothic romance novella, which goes to a copy editor June 1.
If you feel like it, please share some of what you’re working on… or your goal for May, or both. Thanks so much for stopping by, and happy writing!
Hello B)ryn
I turned the B of your name in a smiley lol.
I think 14000 words is an amazing accomplishment!
So I’m posting a newly just today written bit from a new chapter. We stay with Yoszua.
For some reason Italic doesn’t work (because I use Italic for thoughts), so I use a * at the beginning of the sentence when Yoszua is thinking. A little heads up, this may be to some a quite disturbing scene.
The trees were thinning, he arrived at the place that drew his attention. Yoszua snuck towards the glade. He kneeled down behind the tree trunk of an old oak.
*I knew it sounded like fogies in distress.
There was a small camp on the open spot. One tent, a fire and lots of cages. A lot of them were holding fogies, except one. In one cage a boy was trapped.
*One, two, three, four, five, six… I think it’s like ten fogies there. Those poor fluffs’. I have to help them. And the boy of course. Why is he trapped?
Yoszua stood up, and looked around. It appeared save. He entered the glade, though made it only a few yards. Fervency made silent squeaks.
*Someone’s coming.
He hurried back to the old oak and hid behind it. Yoszua could hear it now, footsteps through the snow. It was more than one person. He lurked at them, his face was so close to the tree, the scent of oak bark crawled up his nose. He beheld two poachers, who returned to their camp with another catch.
“Don’t play with it,” the tall poacher said. His voice was low and shivering from the cold.
“They’re so gullible, show them some food and they run straight into your arms,” the small poacher laughed nefarious.
*Even if they all sit neatly in the cages, it doesn’t give you the right to catch them.
Yoszua expected the poacher to put the fogi in a cage as well. He imagined a couple of ways to free them.
“Let’s start with this one,” the tall poacher said.
*What? Start what?
“Don’t do it! Please!” The boy grabbed the bars of his cage and shook them.
“Keep quiet if you wanna go home to your mother and seven siblings,” the tall poacher raised his finger, the boy silenced and looked helpless.
*They gonna kill the poor fogi. They gonna cut his head off. I have to help.
Yoszua stepped from behind the tree, he raised his hands.
The earth will help me.
A pained squeal sounded from the fogi as the small poacher made an incision around its neck. By reflex Yoszua covered his ears hearing the animal in pain. He stood amazed and was unsure of what the men were about to do. The tall poacher grabbed the fogi by its skin, right under the incision while the small poacher held its head. The fogi started to squeal, its paws made rapid pushes to free itself. The taller man forcefully pulled the skin. The squeals turned into horrific screams of agony. The fogi writhed in despair to free itself from this hell. The skin got pulled slowly from its body. The tearing sound was sickening. Yoszua was petrified. He was overwhelmed by emotions, his fists trembled with anger, his knees broke down in fear and his heart pounded irregular as if it was being crushed by the hand of death itself. Tears rolled over his cheeks, he felt a lump in his throat. Then, fury conquered defeat. Rage and incomprehension dominated his mind. He got up, took a deep breath and roared, “FENCY… FIREEEEEEE!” A blaze of fire filled the winter air.
Scarlett – HA! I love it that you turned the B into a smiley! 😀 Thanks for the kind words ☺
I can get italics on WordPress comments by typing before the italicized words and after. I don’t know if it always works. Doesn’t matter really, the asterisks work just fine!
I appreciate the warning – I like to know when to brace myself. “They’re so gullible, show them some food and they run straight into your arms” – oh man, that is really chilling. Well done.
Thanks so much for sharing!
Wow, powerful scene. Kudos.
Hi Brynn! Finally got my love birds together. I am wondering about the age and how young is acceptable for my, romantic scenes. And debating if I will need to PG-13 my scenes out.
For now I am Just writing scenes as I am inspired: Some random integrations of my Nanowrimo characters and the campnanowrimo characters, erotic scenes, and background for the next story.
Kaja could not stomach the thick goblin stout drink at all and drank water and herbal teas even though the goblin women joked about her delicate stomach. Tonight she was drinking a strong tea.
The witch doctor shot a look at one of the women and they all quieted down. “They are disrespectful of your status. You should remind them.”
“I get along well with the men. I have never gotten along with women. Only Chaendralyn.”
“A princess. A magic user. A dragon rider.” He touched his rough chin. “Interesting who your equal is. The men here only want to bed you as a novelty.”
“Thank you for reminding me about how I don’t it in anywhere.” Kaja used her magic to make her tea hot.
“What is this you drink. It smells awful.” The witch doctor wrinkled his black and gray face.
“It’s to make sure I don’t get pregnant.” Kaja waited for the witch doctor to comment.
He laughed. “That stout he drinks will render him infertile in a few months. He is growing fat and lazy like and old man. He won’t be pretty any more.”
“We are bored. I do not think the two of us are used to living in one place any more. I thought that was what I wanted, but it has been too long.” One of the little witches came and crawled up into her lap. She hugged him and held her tea away when he tried to take a sip.
“You sure you don’t want a child? They love you.”
“My mother died when I was 10. I never knew my father. There is no desire to carry a babe in my belly. I will adopt a child.”
She drank the tea down quickly and winced at the taste.
Erika! Yay, they’re getting together!
Yeah, I have no idea about heat level and character age… I see that question come up with YA and NA authors a lot. My impression is there aren’t any hard and fast rules (just like there aren’t for anything else in writing, haha.)
I love it that you are talking about just exploring different scenes. I got to see Gillian Flynn speak yesterday, and she said something related to this… it will take a long time to explain, though, so I’m going to make it another blog post. 😀 I’ll just say I think this is such a smart approach, and one I need to try more often.
Anyway, I like Kaja. She has some edges and she knows who she is. (Oh my gosh, this also relates to the Gillian Flynn talk…) I loved this exchange, too:
“The men here only want to bed you as a novelty.”
“Thank you for reminding me about how I don’t it in anywhere.”
Awesome. Thank you!
Hi Bryn! Hi everyone! I am still working on my Little Mermaid retelling, hoping to enter the first 20 pages in a contest this month and have it ready to pitch in October.
Please note: I thought I posted this before, but it vanished. So if I double post, I’m sorry.
Here is the transformation scene:
Her tail was split in two.
Neri was sundered, torn apart like an oyster to be consumed. Bones broke, reknit themselves into something that still felt like breaking, twisting, weakening. Her fins retreated and her flukes shrank down to something like hands, but not. Scales fell off in a shimmer of carnage and every inch of her flesh felt poisoned and raw.
She died, and was reborn into a body she didn’t know.
She couldn’t scream. The sound was in there, catching in her throat like a shellfish that had gone down wrong, but there was no way to cough it up. Her voice was in the Hag’s keeping now.
Gills shrank, closed up, and Neri knew how Twyla felt, gasping and puffing in the now unfriendly deep. Her lungs burned for air, not water, and she had to swim through the pain, ever upward until she reached the surface with an enormous gasp.
But it wasn’t enough. The surface alone wasn’t enough. Humans could swim, humans could float, but the time for it was finite, limited. She had to get herself to land.
The ocean churned, angry at giving up one of its own. Neri kicked her legs instinctively and stroked with her arms, scouring the distance for land. Her eyes burned from the sun’s harsh rays, and she spat out water, aware that to swallow the sea was no longer safe. There she spotted it: an island not too far off for a strong swimmer. Was she one, still? Neri set the island in her sights, then closed her eyes and started to swim.
The undertow threatened to drown her, and her legs still believed they were a tail. Neri kept going. She took big gulps of air when she could and tried to stay above the surface, cracking her eyes open from time to time to make certain she hadn’t gotten turned around. And finally the water grew too shallow to keep swimming so she crawled instead, hair clinging over her back and shoulders, legs dragging all but useless behind her. And when she was out of the water, she collapsed, barely conscious, in an exhausted heap.
I love the Little Mermaid! Your descriptions are fantastic. Good luck with the contest and pitch!
Hey Kimberly! So cool that you’re entering this into a contest and pitching it this fall. I know I’m not the only one enjoying it! You have a natural gift for lyrical description.
So good:
The ocean churned, angry at giving up one of its own.
Thank you so much for sharing!
OMG! An empath! That’s a story I can’t wait to read.
I’m still plugging away on A Twist of Wyrd. Snippet below. They’re playing chess in a coffee shop and talking business. He’s about to invest in her company. He was her bodyguard when she was a child, but she doesn’t remember any of that. He’s desperately trying to keep it front and center in his mind. 🙂
“You’re saying that you would have won?” Trygg asked.
“I’m saying that I would have taken my queen.” She picked up Her Majesty. “Marched her across this board.” She moved the piece forward, knocking over any of his that were in the way until she reached his king. “And you wouldn’t have done a thing to stop her.”
His heart jumped into his throat. That’s exactly what would have happened. “You’re wrong.” He forced the words out of his mouth.
“You’re lying.”
“Regardless, it’s a silly game.” He raked an agitated hand through his hair. “It’s not important. Means nothing.”
“Lie. This game means everything to you and I want to know why. Why did you come running when I sent you the white queen? Why are you investing a ridiculous amount of money in me? Why do you want to give so much of your time to ensure I succeed? Who are you to me, Trygg MacKenzie?”
With every question, she leaned further across the table, until finally her elbows rested on each side of the board. Her face hovered close enough to his that he could see the midnight blue rings that surrounded her irises.
“I’m nobody important,” he whispered.
She frowned at him. “Why do I feel like you’ve said that to me before?”
Because he had. This was bad. If she remembered that then this whole thing was going to come down around his ears. Nineteen years of hiding and he would have outed her in under twenty-four hours. Not happening. He needed to redirect her.
“I’ve no idea. Perhaps you’re remembering a friend or that boyfriend of yours. Jace” He spit the name out like it was poison.
She cocked her head at him. “Jace isn’t my boyfriend.”
“Don’t lie. It’s obvious that he’s more than just your consultant.”
She narrowed her eyes at him and studied his face. Her gaze flicked down to his hands, which were clenched and resting on the table beside hers. Suddenly, her lips curled into the smile of a well-fed feline.
“Why exactly do you care what Jace is to me?”
Damn it. He kept going down dead end roads with her, allowing his emotions to rule his mouth. The fact that Jace had been a con man for hundreds of years wasn’t exactly something he could share with her. He had to stop making this personal. Keep it business.
“I’m investing in your company. Anything that could negatively impact said investment is something I would care about.” He should have stopped there, but the jealousy burning in his gut pushed him too far. “Screwing the help would certainly have a negative impact.”
Bryn stared at him for a long moment and then laughed. “I agree completely.”
“Good.” Trygg nodded.
“One question, though.”
“Yes?”
“What about screwing your investor? Is that a no no, too, Mr. MacKenzie?”
His mouth dropped open and his gaze flew to her mouth. Her lips curled into the most wicked grin he’d ever seen in his life. Hunger coiled in his belly. He wanted to taste that wickedness, but he couldn’t. He shouldn’t even want it. This was Brynja. Brynja. He tried to recall her as she was nineteen years ago, but for the first time ever, he couldn’t access the memory.
“I believe I’ve made my position clear,” he said to her mouth.
“Well, then. Let me make my position clear.” She grabbed him by the tie, pulled him forward, and crushed their mouths together.
Hi PJ! Ahh, thanks for the kind words!
Having them play chess while they’re talking about him investing in her company is just brilliant. And wait… he was her bodyguard, and she doesn’t remember? I LOVE things having to do with missing memories (that’s a big thing in my WIP.)
I loved this scene! I loved his vulnerability especially. <3 <3
This is the first 350 words of the beginning of Me-YEOW! chapter 5. I haven’t begun editing, so this is rough. Me-YEOW! will be book 4 of Xander de Hunter’s Sea Purrtector files, and our family-friendly feline 007’s has taken him to India. BTW, if anyone is interested in giving honest reviews in exchange for a free book, contact me at j_foguthATyahooDOTcom
Xander’s collar vibrated, waking him. Quietly, he got up and stepping over Mischief, tapping his collar as he went into the next room. “Yes?”
“Why are you whispurring?” Merlin asked. As he explained that everyone else was still asleep, his best pal snorted. “How do you figure that you’ll ever get anything done, if you sleep the day away?” Merlin gave a soft growl. “I’ve already organized a crate of Pumpkin Purrfection to be delivered to a ghetto soup kitchen, posed for a dozen ads, bugged Jingle-bell’s collar and responded to the email from my Purrtectorate.”
Xander blinked the sleep from his eyes. “Why the heck did you bug her collar?”
The pause in conversation carried the subtle sound of a paw being licked, then run over fur. Merlin said, “I’m making sure she’s who she claims to be.” Cats used grooming to make themselves feel better during stressful situations…. was his pal anxious about something or just overworked?
Xander’s eyes narrowed as he inadvertently recalled how she’d tried to get her paws in his fur and collar. “And if she isn’t?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”
“That still a couple days from now?”
“‘I’m afraid so.”
Xander began his morning stretching routine. “No worries. Today, we plan to divide and conquer, since I have two separate issues to check out.”
“Huh! I had the impression that Ganas and Gandharvas were staying together – just wasn’t able to pinpoint exactly where from home-base.”
“Mischief, Killmouskie and Lady Violet will look into them, so hopefully they’ll learn something, soon.”
“And you’ll be catching up on your beauty sleep?” Merlin teased.
“Sure, Pal. You didn’t think I did this investigative stuff myself, did you?”
Merlin’s laugh was loud and long as he caught the sarcasm, then he said, “Seriously, what’s more important than investigating that pair?”
“The old Moreau Chemical Plant and talking to whomever remembers them and finding out if anyone stayed here. I figure that Mischief knows Ganas and Gandharvas’ names, and that should be easier than trying to find information that may not exist.”
“Valid point.”
“WHISPURRING” — oh my goodness.
Jeanne, I have started imagining this as a Pixar movie. These kitties clearly have complex lives. ☺ Thank you for sharing!
Hi Bryn, I loved your WIP. I think we’ve all been in that position but to be an empath while meeting a former, gorgeous ex? Yikes, painful. My WIP is a paranormal with romance. It’ll be the first in my tentatively-titled, 5 book novella series called “The Elementals”, with the first novella being part of a charity bundle for a cancer center. Here’s the opening:
“Buella Potsticker Montgomery,” Cleo said as she dabbed the dew off her brow with the only sweat mop-up in the car, a brand of ass-wipe made of saw dust, grit, and spit so tough it should have been named “Stick up your Butt”.
“Yes, Cleopatra Anne Anthony?”
“I think we need to be private investigators.”
Buella turned her head on the headrest of her orange Honda Element and rolled her eyes from the apartment complex they were staking out, to Cleo. “Do I need to scrub ‘Buella’ outta your mouth with soap? It’s Pottie or nothin’.”
Cleo snorted.
Most people didn’t get her best friend, Pottie, but she was easy enough to figure out if you understood that there’s the south, and then there’s the deep south. Cleo had parked her life in a lot of places but she’d lived in North Carolina longer than anywhere else. Not born and bred but she’d taken to her adopted state like a tick on a dog after a long, cold winter.
North Carolina was the south.
The deep south was an all-together different beast. Pottie, for example, was from Montgomery, Alabama—a place so deep south that her folks have forgotten their original surnames and adopted ‘Montgomery’ as their own. Mighty efficient, especially if you know that little tidbit—‘course, with everyone in town taking the same surname, well, that could be where all those kissing cousins jokes stemmed from.
Cleo dropped the ass-wipe on the floor and scooched her butt deeper in the seat. Pottie had parked under the shade of a huge willow oak, but the summertime, cook-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk heat in Roxgough, NC was inescapable.
Roxgough. What were the founding drunkards thinking, giving the town a name pronounced ‘rocks off’? Of course, no one cared about the name of a town so small that when she looked it up on Google Maps all she saw was the Walmart Supercenter.
Sandwiched between Durham and Oxford, the beautiful rolling hills were her current home—a great place to go unnoticed by everyone but the small town folks here.
Who knows how long that would last?
The door to one of the second floor apartments opened drawing Cleo’s attention. A mop of greasy, shoulder-length dark hair appeared. The woman looked left, then right before stepping out of her ramshackle abode, leash in hand, her voluminous floral house coat billowing in the wind. She jerked on the leash and two young, black and rust puppies—one a Doberman, the other a German Shepherd—jumped the threshold and skittered around behind the woman as she set off for the stairs.
Cleo grabbed the handle to open her door, her temper through the homemade sunroof already, but Pottie grabbed her forearm. “Cleo, no. We promised the sheriff we wouldn’t do anymore snatch and grabs without his legal, decidedly delicious butt here to do it proper-like.”
“That woman broke our contract. And look at how she’s scaring Tasha and the other pup. I won’t stand for it.” Cleo opened the door and pushed it wide with her shoulder. No one adopted a dog from their tiny rescue then gave it away to some abusive bitch. “We didn’t do enough of a background check—”
Pottie slapped the steering wheel. “Can’t do much on our own.”
Cleo slammed the door, but kept one hand on the sill, struggling to tamp down her frustration, to not take it out on Pottie. “Thus, my brilliant private investigator idea. We get a license, and we can go a hell of a lot deeper so this doesn’t happen again.”
Pottie rolled her eyes and climbed out of the car. “You know when you get mad, you lose all your southern twangisms.”
Cleo grunted and took her eyes off the woman for a second. Pottie was full of all kind of unique words that took a bit of getting used to, especially for the uninitiated. “You don’t know what you’re about.”
“All I’m saying is, you don’t need to pretend, with me or anyone, not anymore.”
Were that true, it would be the only time in Cleo’s memory that someone accepted her unreservedly. Cleo looked for the woman and the puppy and caught a glimpse of the housecoat disappearing around the corner. “Grab the contract and the release form.” She patted the tactical baton in her pocket to make sure it was there then set off after the bitch.
Artemis,
Okay, I think it’s so great that you’re planning a 5-novella series, with the first novella benefitted a cancer center… I just love it! I love the strong voice and sense of humor in this. Like this is so great:
Most people didn’t get her best friend, Pottie, but she was easy enough to figure out if you understood that there’s the south, and then there’s the deep south. Cleo had parked her life in a lot of places but she’d lived in North Carolina longer than anywhere else. Not born and bred but she’d taken to her adopted state like a tick on a dog after a long, cold winter.
Rock on ☺ Oh and thank you so much for the kind words 🙂
Thank you for doing these WIP Wednesdays. It’s great to get the feedback, and read so many fascinating stories. Brava, Bryn!
Yay! It’s WIP wednesday again. I set my goal at about 10.000 words for april, but I ended up writing only 8000 before I decided to take a break. So I printed the 58.000-ish words I have and I’m going to work on the book when I’m back from a city trip to Prague.
The fragment from my book (Fantasy’s Tales, A One-way Gate) I post now is a scene when Morgan, the main character talks to her best friend Helene about the terrible battle she had with Kirsten, the girl she admires. I posted that battle last month in WIP wednesday.
It’s a little scene for character development and cute interaction between friends. It’s also loosely based on a conversation I had with one of my best friends, but the subject was something less serious, of course.
Morgan had gone to her dorm. She’d put away her sword and laid on her back, staring at the ceiling until Odette announced that it was “the time that all the pupils should come to the main hall”. Morgan wasn’t surprised when Helene sat down next to her on the bench. ‘Cheer up Morgan, it isn’t that bad,’ she said. Morgan just stared at her plate, waiting until it would be magically filled with food. Eventually she couldn’t ignore Helene any longer. ‘What did she do?’
‘Kirsten?’
‘Of course.’ Morgan cringed when she heard the name. Helene shrugged. ‘She came into our dorm late that day, we were finished with dinner already. I was sharpening my dagger when she opened the door. Alice immediately asked what was wrong, if she wasn’t happy that she won. Then she shook her head and sat down. I offered her food, she didn’t want any. So I tried to talk to her, but she just said: go tell Morgan I’m sorry. Then the whole class protested and,-’ she said but stopped. Their plates were suddenly filled with food. ‘Nice, ribeye with lentils, leticce and roast carrot. And even fries too!’
‘It’s better that what we’re getting in our dorms.’ Morgan noted. She cut a piece off the meat and ate it. ‘It’s rare… I don’t like rare meat, or lentils.’ Helene said, she dumped her lentils on Morgan’s plate. ‘Don’t give me that look Morgan. Anyways, the class said that she shouldn’t feel so bad about killing you. Then she said something like: why do you guys make such a fuss about this, let me feel the way I want to feel. That was the end of the conversation for that night.’
‘I… get know how she feels. I don’t think I feel any different. But then again, she has people who care for her.’ Morgan shoved three fries in her mouth and wiped her hand over her face to get rid of the grease. Helene ate with her fork. ‘What?’ Morgan asked.
‘Nothing, you eat like a… like a starved bear.’
‘I’m hungry.’ Morgan replied.
‘And it’s not true what you said about people who care for you. I care for you, so does LC. And Kirsten too.’
‘Kirsten doesn’t care for me. She just feels sorry.’ Morgan scraped the last lentils from her plate with her spoon. ‘But you’re right. There are some people who care for me, like-’
Behind them someone gave a yell. Morgan quickly turned around. ‘Well, someone dropped their hot fries on their pants. Anyway, Iris cares for me too. She even wants me as her partner for a tag battle.’
‘Really? Then your admiration worked!’ Helene smiled at patted Morgan on her shoulder. Morgan couldn’t help but smile too. ‘But Helene… has Kirsten said anything about me?’
‘What I just told you. Nothing more, nothing less. But she seems to keep things to herself for now. You should really talk to her, it would help you both.’ Helene swallowed a bite of meat. ‘What if suddenly, just accidentally, something big happens so we can’t talk?’ Morgan asked. Helene shook her head but Morgan went on: ‘Wouldn’t that be extremely inconvenient?’
‘Sure, like you’re not just going to avoid her for as long as you’ll be here. I know how you are Morgan.’
‘Yes…’
‘And you can’t avoid her forever. Nice shirt by the way.’ Helene pointed her fork at Morgan’s shirt. ‘Especially that piece of carrot you just spilled on it, but I meant the repaired part.’
Morgan sighed and wiped the carrot off. She looked at the hole she’d stitched up too. ‘The class was surprised when you turned up in your shirt, not in the battle tunic.’
‘Why should I? It wasn’t like I was going to win or something.’
‘You don’t need to be so cynical about it. But I get what you mean. It’s just that you can clearly see where Kirsten skewered you, and that won’t help with talking to her.’ Helene stopped and ate her last bit of meat. ‘But now that we’re on the subject, do you still admire Kirsten?’
Morgan looked at her in surprise. ‘Yes… of course,’ she said. When she later left the great hall, she was still thinking about what Helene asked. Yes, I still admire Kirsten… why?
8K is great progess, Kiete! I’m jealous of you going to Prague… I want to visit someday.
You mentioned part of this was inspired by a real-life conversation… you know, it’s funny: like you, I’m working in a pretty fantastical vein, but real-life stuff can still make a scene ring so much truer!
Thanks so much for sharing, I was hoping you would ☺
*shrug* I found this section of my 2113 Part 2 funny and wanted to share:
At the edge of the woods, where the corn, wheat, and trees converged, Casey stopped. He could go back and get Lottie, but he didn’t want her or his son so close to the shelter. That thought decided it for him, and after holstering his weapon, he hiked across the wheat field for the farm house at the southern corner of the visible property. As he drew near, he knew the home wouldn’t be a viable fit for them tonight. The roof sagged on the good side and the other half rested on the second floor. Glass from the broken windows crunched under his feet, and the area smelled of something dead. Getting his gun out again, he proceeded to check around the dwelling for the source of the smell.
He didn’t find it.
Crossing the back yard, he noted the dormant garden—something else Lottie would go gaga over—and stopped at the back porch. The wood steps were splintered, flaked, and brittle. Pushing at the lower step with his cane, he tested the step’s strength. Aside from a few fresh wood slivers liberated from the bulk of the board, it seemed to hold against his prodding. Stepping onto it, he tested it against his weight. His eyebrows lifted in surprise when it held. He gave it a little bounce. The board creaked, but didn’t break. Mounting the first stair, he tested the next and then the third, before deeming them sturdy.
Once standing on the porch, he craned his neck to look inside. The light from the window, illuminated a kitchen with kitsch on the counter and on the walls. The prior occupants had a thing for decorative plates. From his vantage point, he could see white ones with blue etched light houses, sailboats, and Cliffside-scapes, then there were the cream colored ones with different flowers on the centers, and finally the miscellaneous ones which ran the gambit of clocks, cats, dogs, ducks, and… Wait… Was that a plate with a picture of turtles humping?
Well the house may not be the best for safety against the elements or flush with reusable wood, but it clearly had things they could use—that is, of course, if the settlement could stomach eating off of the representations of mating turtles. Casey shook his head and swallowed back his chuckle. A wall full of plates didn’t answer his other question. What died? Stepping through the threshold, he scanned the kitchen for the safest path into the house proper.
Hahaha! I was not expecting that. So much fun!
Great excerpt, Bryn. Is it going to be a problem that Val hasn’t told Tristan how his involuntary feelings affect her? I love the “angel” detail and that it was quickly resolved. In one of my stories, my heroine thinks “Harold” is an odd name for a member of the horned Qunari race, then learns the soldiers call him “Herald,” as in, “The Herald of Andraste” (Andraste is the prophet and bride of the Maker/God in Dragon Age).
Last month I shared from chapter 5 of “Courage, My Heart”; here’s an excerpt from chapter 7, with a link to everything posted so far. Enchanter Alan works for King Alistair and Enchanter Janelle is a visiting librarian (content note: cussing):
They silently sprinted up the tower steps. Several yards ahead, the swift-moving Queen appeared as a ghostly figure in the pearly moonlight from the only window in the hall. She stumbled and fell with a grunt.
“Margie!” Alan raced ahead and sat at her side, gently rolling her up to cradle her in his arms. Her left hand was clenched into a fist that barely contained a small cloud of green lightning. The sight, coupled with the energy of Margie’s tumultuous emotions, made Janelle queasy.
“Need. Stella,” Margie grunted out a whisper.
“Yes,” Alan clutched her closer to his chest, “Janelle’s rousing her now.”
When Janelle raised her fist to knock on Stella and Rollie’s bedroom door, Stella opened before she could knock. The Dreamer had pulled on rumpled enchanter’s robes and her husband stood behind in only his breeches, ready to assist.
“We heard you,” Stella swiftly seated herself behind Margie’s head. “Janelle, sit opposite Alan. We’re going to need you to keep us grounded.”
Janelle sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, her knees up against the side of Alan’s outstretched legs while he held the Queen.
“Fucking hurts, Stella,” Margie squeezed her eyes and fist tighter shut. “Shoulda let Ev chop it off, no matter what you and Dagna thought.”
Stella’s lips quirked in a half smile, “Now, that’s—”
“I know: just the pain talking. Fuck,” she flinched. “Don’t think I could swallow down a potion. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Margie!” Alistair was running toward them, shirt untucked, his distressed exclamation more a plea than a shout.
His fear slammed into Janelle and fire joined the nausea in her belly.
The door next to Stella’s opened and Theo stepped out, clad in a knee-length night shirt. He blocked Alistair’s path, gently holding the man’s wrist and placing a palm against his chest. “Don’t break their circle, Sire. You can hold her when they’re done.”
Alistair gripped the child’s shoulder, blinked at him, and looked with desperation to Rollie, who nodded and moved to stand with his son at the King’s side.
“I’ve got you,” Janelle took hold of Stella’s shoulder and laid a hand on Margie’s thigh, not breaking her knees’ contact with Alan’s leg. The touch instantly calmed her stomach and she let the peace flow from her body into theirs.
Janelle was their anchor to the waking world. She’d keep them calm. If they went mad or desperate in the Fade, they’d be easy prey for demons.
Alan’s shoulders relaxed and his eyes looked clearer. “Our mana is yours,” he told Stella.
Stella lay her right hand on Alan’s shoulder and took Margie’s left in her own, pinning the green Mark between their palms. She took three breaths in and out, whispered “Connor,” and went completely still, staring sightlessly into space.
Margie and Alan followed suit, leaving Janelle to watch over them in a half-daze: if she focused on the waking world too much, she’d lose them; if she dove into dreams with them, they’d lose their anchor to the waking world, and likely lose their lives to the demons who wanted the Herald’s Marked hand to consume her life.
The story begins here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6277669/chapters/14384737
I’m a huge DA fan, I really like this excerpt. Is this supposed to happen after the inquisition storyline?
Thank you, Scarlett! Yes! The year is 9:72 Dragon, 42 years after Origins and 30 years after Inquisition. In this world state, Kate Cousland romanced Alistair and died defeating the archdemon; King Alistair married Margaret Trevelyan (as detailed in my “The King and the Inquisitor” and “Connor Guerrin” stories). Their now-grown children are Sera and Duncan. Morrigan drank from the Well and shows up at the end of this chapter.
Part 7 of my “Beyond Circle, Beyond Order” series, “Courage, My Heart” follows two romances: “When Prince Duncan Theirin overhears an argument that raises questions about his lineage and reveals a deadly threat to everyone in his family, he flees in the night, dragging Surgeon Georgie along on a hunt for his father’s mother.”
Thanks for reading! I post DA and other stories on Archive of Our Own (AO3). My e-mail is there under the profile link: http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/works
DAfan, you are so perceptive. Spoilers: yes, her not talking to him about this is going to make things much more difficult later.
Harold/Herald… love that ☺
Enjoyed the excerpt – as always! I get emotionally involved with yours, even though I don’t know the characters outside of your work.
Waaaah, I missed WIP Wednesday again! 🙁
I love that your heroine is an empath! The first manuscript I actually finished had an empath heroine. That story is a huge 130K gobbledygook mess, but I love my H&H in that one, so I’m going to try to rescue it at some point.
Next month I will have to prep my WIP Weds submission the night before. lol.
I need to start giving advance notice for WIP Wednesday! 🙂
If you love that H&H, you need to do something with that manuscript! <3