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The Upstairs Archives

~ A random repository of how-to-write and geekery, with an occasional snippet of accidental wisdom.

The Upstairs Archives

Monthly Archives: May 2014

Listerine

31 Saturday May 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Living Life with Passion, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

completed stories, humor, listerine, short stories, song-related fiction, star wars

Hello, everyone! For a change, a smattering of the ridiculous. Featuring an incompetent Emperor, two snarky Jedi, a smart Senator, and a new use for mouthwash.

Listerine

                “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for… our benevolent Emperor!” shouted Mas Amedda. Everyone groaned and clapped hands over their ears. Palpatine came out, looking short and dumpy in his fancy robes, grinning from ear to ear and looking, quite frankly, ridiculous. Obi-Wan wondered momentarily if the grin wrapped all the way around the back of the self-avowed Sith Lord’s head, shuddered at the mental image, and hastily shoved it away.

“My dear people!” Palpatine shouted. “From your most beloved leader…”

“BOO!” Orn Fre Taa shouted.

“Your most humble, modest, kind, generous…”

“…narcissistic, brainless, incompetent, blue in the face from ostentatious self-praise…” Obi-Wan added in an aside to Bail Organa in the next Senate pod over, who found it hilarious.

“Blah blah blah blah blah EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!” Anakin shouted, making the yappy-mouth sign with his mechanical hand.

Padme, who had her earbuds in (she’s better prepared than all of us put together! Obi-Wan thought), popped one out and handed it to Anakin. They began to dance around the pod, singing “Mean.”

You, with your words like knives

And swords and weapons that you use against me

You have knocked me off my feet again

Got me feeling like I’m nothing

You, with your voice like nails on a chalkboard

Calling me out when I’m wounded

You, picking on the weaker man

 

You can take me down with just one single blow

But you don’t know what you don’t know

Then, the whole Senate burst out singing.

Someday I’ll be living in a big ol’ city

And all you’re ever gonna be is mean

Someday I’ll be big enough so you can’t hit me

And all you’re ever gonna be is mean

Why you gotta be so mean?

Palpatine didn’t even notice. At least that way, Obi-Wan reflected, the speech was much more bearable.

Even if he didn’t know the lyrics to any Taylor Swift songs (which Siri would probably remedy as rapidly as she could, if she ever found out, which Obi-Wan was determined she wouldn’t.)

As the meeting broke up and the Senators rushed out like kids released from school at the final bell, laughing and chatting, Obi-Wan walked out with Bail, Anakin, and Padme.

“Next time let’s bring a big ol’ boombox with us!” Anakin was saying. Obi-Wan decided that he would leave the plotting in his former Padawan’s more than competent hands and bowed to Padme.

“My lady, I hope you will excuse me. I have to go home and gargle with Listerine.”

“BURNED!” Anakin shouted.

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Bound to the Flame, Chapter IV, Part I

29 Thursday May 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Bound to the Flame, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 70 Comments

Tags

bound to the flame, original stories, original work, stories in progress

Erin should not ramble around, trolling other people’s blogs like a zombie, making no sense whatsoever, at nine p.m. her time.

Erin should not ramble around, trolling other people’s blogs like a zombie, making no sense whatsoever, at nine p.m. her time.

Erin should not ramble around, trolling other people’s blogs like a zombie, making no sense whatsoever, at nine p.m. her time.

Whew, that’s done with! (I promised Sheikah last night after posting a VERY rambling comment about hoods, animation models, video games, and special effects. Yeah… that’s going to be an INTERESTING conversation… *wince*)

Once again, Erin is back with more Bound to the Flame! Rosalie: Please don’t worry. I am working on Battlefield of the Soul. Slowly but surely. I also have not given up on Shifting Tides in general. This is merely all the stuff for Bound to the Flame I had written already. It’s 30k long–and I haven’t even typed up everything yet!

Warnings: Some violence, emotional distress. It gets a bit intense, but hopefully not too bad.

Bound to the Flame

Chapter IV

Part I

                As he drew nearer to the ancient stone circle, this time Rowan could feel it drawing him in, seeking to ensnare him. This time, though, he was aware of it, and resisted its allure. To be of any help to Adyn, he had to remain conscious, aware. He could feel its power pulling at the edges of his mind, whispering a lisping siren song to all those who could hear it at all. Rowan threw off the cloying tendrils and moved faster.

Reality was warping now. Time bent and creased; might-have-beens played out in memory, flashing in and out of existence. His stomach twisted rebelliously at the vaguely unpleasant, unfamiliar sensation. His life played out, oddly different somehow.

Rowan snapped himself fiercely out of it and gasped softly at the synaptic snap of pain behind his temples and in his sinuses. If Adyn was experiencing this, he didn’t know what he could or should do. The boy was only half-trained!

Rowan moved faster. The strange currents carried him forward more rapidly, drawing him forward, murmuring to him. A pale mist rolled around the edges of his vision, but he had it under control. He wasn’t going to give in. He could feel the currents carrying him away, but he would break or be pulled under. This magic, though, felt strange—untouched, primal, raw, its breath far older—tangy, foreign—than anything Rowan had ever felt before. He shuddered as he felt it course through him. It was odd, and yet somehow familiar. He brushed the feeling off and focused himself, still wary of the curious energy, the strange raw surging of power. It murmured strange words to him, words with no meaning, words that still terrified him. It wanted him, though for what purpose he could not say. Cautiously, Rowan let it pull him towards its source, the nexus of its flow, faster and faster. All answers could be found within that curious ancient circle of standing stones.

Faster. Faster. Over the breast of this low knoll, leaping a stream, breathing steady. He did not grow tired. His leg did not pain him. The miles between him and his object were rapidly eaten up, in this strange dreamlike state where the elder energy bore him on. Speed did not bring exhaustion; movement was thought and done with nothing between the two. Indeed, it felt as if thought was motion. Long miles were not weariness. Time stretched out, and twisted confusingly. Rowan was glad for the fact that he was in control, not only because of his prior vision and the subsequent revelation, but because of the phantasms and wraiths that hovered on the edge of consciousness, waiting for the first slip to close in for the kill. The colorless mist rose slowly up again, clouding his eyes; Rowan fought it back down once more.

Then, suddenly, he was at the edge of the Cremlegged itself, with lightning cracking overhead, under a stormy sky.

Rowan jogged through the stones, weaving in and out between the huge monoliths and tall boulders. The stones pointed, ominous and threatening, toward the black sky. “Adyn? Adyn!” He dared not raise his voice above a low murmur. The stones whispered back, echoing, hollow, mocking. Adyn… Adyn… Adyn… The last dregs of the curious magic were slowly draining away, but as they lasted they bore him up, blocking any pain from his damaged leg. It felt almost euphoric, giddying, like a drug. Rowan did not particularly like—or trust—the feeling. To lose control was to unleash a storm on the world.

As he loped around the stones, their names echoed inside his mind. Courage. Honor. Hope. Premonition. Trial. Sacrifice. Dreaming. Waking. Service. Obedience. Command. Virgin dawn. Drawn-out nightfall. Pain. Freedom. Trust.

The last stone was cleft in two, riven to its base. Its two faces faced two ways: Past and Future. It was more ancient than any of the others; its name, Time. Between the two pillars of the riven stone was an empty space, empty in more than one sense of the word, and yet reverberating with power, the eternal presence, the moment in which men were given to act. Its ordained power was a terrible one, more terrible even than the immutability of the past, more terrible still than the most horrifying, ominous premonition of the future, and Rowan found himself instinctively shying away from the hollow, yawning void in the break of the twin pillars.

At the center of the ring of standing stones was a single, low, flat stone, its top and upper edge polished and worn by passing ages, crusted with lichen, carved with runes, overgrown by grass and moss—and it was stained threateningly dark. It whispered strange words directly into Rowan’s mind. He fell back from it, resisting.

He stumbled against the ancient, moldering gray stone of Trial. His fingers slipped into deep-carven runes, scrabbling against the roughness of the rock. He clung to the stone for support, struggling against the storm. The world seemed to have lost all stability. Rowan felt unmoored, weightless. The thunderous, ominous sky roiled overhead in lightning and clouds. The wind picked up suddenly, reminding him of his nonexistent, illusory control. It was developing into a maelstrom.

Again came the vision of the same precipice, but this time he was not climbing those malevolent, looming rocks alone. Margery was with him. Even as he watched, her foot slipped and she tumbled over the edge, catching herself only in the nick of time by grabbing the edge of the path’s ledge with both hands, and his vision-self was reaching down a hand toward her, calling out words he could not catch. They were carried away by the rising wind. The scene shifted. Margery and he were fighting against overwhelming odds, trying to fend off their enemies’ attacks. Margery fell, injured, and he limped to her side, attempting to turn aside the flood of black crows that crowded in on them. The vision changed again. His father and mother, Rheadwyn, Fortaine, Taryn, and many others belonging to the Ertraian clans were under attack from monstrous black-furred wolves. The wolves piled in on them, bringing them under. Rowan cried out, his voice one with the storm, feeding the gale. A dim figure, its face clouded by mist and shadowed by a dark hood, turned away from Rowan’s reflection in the vision, shunning him. He saw a twisted labyrinth; everyone who touched him fell. Melilana—Halbryn—his two foster brothers—even Adyn and Margery fell as though dead. He heard himself, faintly, as though from a great distance, crying out in denial, screaming in horror. The vision twisted, wrenched, turned inside out. He saw ghostly figures moving through the Cremlegge—some dark cult performing their arcane rituals. A young child was brought forward; Rowan closed his eyes. A beast—or perhaps a man—cried out as it, or he, was struck down. Rowan could not so much as move to interfere. Whatever the creature was, its blood now stained the low, ill-portended stone in the center of the Cremlegge. Rowan reached out, half-entranced, to one of the figures, his hand passing straight through it. Oddly enough, the figure reacted to him as well, flinching away from his touch. The warping threads and currents of power twisted out again and Rowan couldn’t contain his scream. It was ripped from his throat like an animal cry of pain. Now, walking around the other ghosts, who were beginning to withdraw, new ones, faintly outlined in shadow, as transparent as the others had been. Three children, fleeing in terror. Instinctively, Rowan reached out to aid them, but he could do nothing. They were not real—they were not present. Only as present as a dream. The children’s pursuers were already upon them. The youngest—a small girl—screamed. Lightning flew from the turbulent clouds above and smote among their persecutors, striking them down. They faded slowly away. More faded shouts and cries. This time, it was a group of full-grown wizards who sought refuge in the ancient circle of standing stones. However, their attackers were among them, slaying many, smiting them down as if they were no more than beasts. Rowan choked on his tears. A flash of light, and then the Wielders’ tormentors were fleeing in terror, eyes wide with madness. The unseen power of the place twisted and writhed once more, and Rowan was caught in the middle. He gasped at the churning, disorienting motions of the universal fabric. He cried out again. His grip was slipping. He was losing control.

Clumsy Hacker (Me!)

28 Wednesday May 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Living Life with Passion, Tales of a Wandering Bard, Uncategorized

≈ 33 Comments

Tags

browsing, completely random posts, confusing nonsense, hacking, insanity, long rants, madeleine l'engle, madness, one hundred follows, passwords, rambling musings, the internet, the web, yay

Wow, 100 follows… 4,016 views… that’s doing pretty good, I think. Celebration time!

You know, when the webmaster looks at log-on stats, I think I’m probably most of them, if you know what I mean. Normally, I’m pretty good about remembering my passwords, but at times I mis-type with the best of them, and then the (much rarer) times when I can’t recall my password, and the worst days of all, when I can’t seem to even get my security question right! (Yeah. Severe.)

I guess that when the webmaster looks at the site stats, when I’ve had one of those horrible days, it looks like someone has been trying to hack that account.

A very clumsy hacker.

Which leads to the question, clumsy stupid hacker, or clumsy stupid normal citizen just trying to get back into their account, or clumsy above-average citizen having a very bad day?

Because bad days happen. (Yup, it all goes back to politics. ;-P )

And because even Charles Wallace gets migraines.

Bound to the Flame, Chapter III, Part II

27 Tuesday May 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Bound to the Flame, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 26 Comments

Tags

bound to the flame, insanity, novels, original stories, original work, philosophy, stories in progress, theory

Sorry it has been so long. My life has been busy to the extreme of sanity. But I’m finally posting this again. Enjoy!

Warnings: None for this chapter. A lot of theory is discussed, and Adyn acts up. Nothing special. ;-P

Bound to the Flame

Chapter III

Part II

                Margery met Rowan in the chapel that morning, for prayers. She gave him a sidelong glance. It seemed that he wouldn’t be done for a long while; he was kneeling upright, hands folded demurely, large golden-hazel eyes turned slightly up toward the makeshift altar in the pavilion. The lights cascaded down over him in a golden shower of shifting, glittering dust motes, adding to the home-like atmosphere. Margery slid into a row of pews, kneeling down as she did, and shooting another sideways glance at Rowan. He looked as if he was exhausted, but drawing comfort and strength from this place.

After a long while, Rowan made the sign of the cross and rose. He picked up the stick that was resting against the pew beside him and made his way out of the makeshift chapel, struggling to genuflect. He limped slowly out of the tent and into the open. Margery followed. “I thought you were going to tutor Adyn…” she began.

“I am,” Rowan replied, “but only after we’ve had breakfast, and once we’re well within the woods. We don’t want any trouble. Meet us in the glade by the stream with the two standing rocks once you’ve eaten. That’s where we’ll have our classes.”

“All right. I’ll see you then,” Margery said.

 

Margery ate breakfast with her family and some of the other members of her clan and made her way into the woods as soon as she had finished. This was perfectly normal for her, so no one remarked on it. She followed the stream that ran through the encampment at Cremlegged, instinctively avoiding the forest on the side of the encampment that faced the ancient circle of standing stones in the woods beyond. She didn’t know why, but she dreaded to enter that ancient star wheel. She found her way easily to the glen Rowan had specified. Just as he had said, there was a stream flowing through an open glade with two large gray moss-covered, lichen-encrusted boulders at its head. She perched on one to wait, enjoying the sunny morning in the woods.

She was sitting there, as pre-arranged, on that same stone, when Rowan finally appeared, leaning heavily on his staff and shepherding a reluctant Adyn ahead of him. She rose, quickly. “What took you so long?” she asked.

“Adyn has a ritual of playing hide and go seek before magic lessons,” Rowan replied succinctly, with a little irritation evident in his breathless voice. Adyn grinned, unabashed, then he looked up at Margery with a look of awe.

“Are you a pixie?” he asked, eyes wide. Rowan groaned.

“That’s a marvelous way to start an awkward conversation, Adyn.” he reproved. Almost miraculously, the incorrigible, insufferable grin reappeared on Adyn’s face. Rowan sighed. “You’re impossible, obstreperous, and frustrating, and you’ll likely come to a bad end one of these days.” Rowan sighed and faced round to Margery. “Once in a blue moon, one word in three will get through to him. Not much more than that, though.” He sighed and gestured to the base of a nearby tree. “Shall we begin?” Margery stared at the huge—at least ten feet across—pixie ring that stood a few feet away, under the canopy of a spreading oak.

“Wouldn’t you rather use the pixie ring?” she asked. Rowan shrugged.

“Suit yourself, but you might as well make yourself comfortable,” he said, adding a slight emphasis on the last word. “We’re not doing magic practice today. Only theory. And mystique isn’t really worth much. There’s not much point in exhausting yourself just to sit in a circle of mushrooms.”

“That’s all it is?” Margery asked, disappointed.

“Quite everything,” Rowan replied. “Though some plants are thought to channel magic or have magical properties, mushrooms often just make you hallucinate. They have nothing to do with magic at all. In other words, they’re perfectly normal. There was a rumor, once, about mushrooms that could supposedly block a magic user’s abilities, but that’s just legend, with no substance that I know of. They just started calling those things pixie rings because someone thought that a toadstool would be a nice little place for a pixie to live. I don’t know why they would think that. It might make a nice place to hide under if you got caught outside in a downpour, but it would make a pretty poor seat or house in the long run. I think that pixies would really rather prefer trees, actually.” Feeling rather foolish, Margery sat down on a low stump nearby, and Rowan began the lesson.

“Much of modern magic theory is based on the work of Greek philosophers, such as Empedocles and Aristotle… you remember that much from last time, don’t you, Adyn?” The boy nodded. Rowan continued. “The Aristotelian theory of the elements states that there are not four, as in Empedocles’ theory, but five. The first four, which you probably already know, are earth, air, fire and water. The fifth Aristotle called ‘ether.’ He postulated that it was the material which made up the heavenly bodies, the stars, sun, comets, and planets. Maewyr the Great, whom we consider to be the first of the true Wielders, was the one to come up with the idea that the heavenly bodies were made up of similar materials and elements to Earth itself, and the fifth element, ‘ether’, was in fact, the essence of magic itself. All the work of later Wielders in theory is based off of his.

“According to Maewyr, the two classic elements most akin to magic are fire and air—air, because it is invisible, like magic is; only its effects are commonly seen and felt—and fire, because it is pure energy, just as magic is. Magical manipulation of the elements is a very large part of traditional magic, and more challenging than simple telekinesis or enhancement of the senses. Most people have an affinity for one, or two, but it takes training to effectively wield all five. Magic and fire are the two most difficult to use, as both are pure energy and as such are hard to control, but for the same reason they are the easiest to summon. It takes practice and experience with the elements to control plants and growth, and to learn to bend and summon light, which is considered the highest form of magic.

“Each element has an extension, or a separate form or continuation beyond itself. Some are both. The extension of fire is lightning. Water’s is ice. Earth’s is stone. Air’s continuation is rain.”

“Why rain?” Margery interrupted. Rowan looked at her, half-bewildered at having his discourse thus interjected.

“The air feels moist at times, does it not?” he asked. “And clouds come from the air, and rain comes from clouds. I think there is rain hanging suspended in the air at all times; it only falls occasionally, though.”

“Oh,” Margery said, subdued.

“Elemental storms are the most dangerous form of this kind of magic, especially since they can be so hard to master and remain in control of, and can be so easy to start in some circumstances.” Rowan continued. Adyn’s eyes wandered, following a butterfly across the pixie ring. Rowan sighed, frustrated. “And you’re not hearing a word of this, are you, Adyn?”

“Nope,” the boy said cheerfully. Rowan groaned.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to turn him into the kingdom’s champion,” he confided to Margery. “The little scaramouch.” Margery looked surprised.

“He’s supposed to become the Champion?”

“Well, what did you expect? He’s too scatter-brained to be a Seneschal,” Rowan bemoaned.

“Then… why are you training him? No offense, but you’re just a kid like me. Younger, even. How old, exactly, are you, anyway?”

“Seventeen,” Rowan replied, scuffing in the dirt with the toe of one boot.

“I’m a year older than you, then,” Margery said. She glanced at Rowan, coyly. “I thought you were younger.” Rowan sighed.

“Everyone tells me that,” he said. Margery shrugged.

“So… why are you, of all people, training Adyn, then?” Rowan sighed.

“I think it’s partly because of… the accident… to keep my mind off things. Keep me from brooding.” Margery frowned.

“Accident?” she asked, uncomprehending.

“Your highness, I’m crippled.” Rowan said bluntly. Margery gasped, both her hands going to her mouth. Rowan carried on, ruthlessly. “I’m not so badly crippled that I’m helpless, but one of my legs is weaker than the other, and some days the pain is so bad I can’t even walk at all. Since I can’t always walk and ride, I can’t be a knight in the strict sense, so I teach instead.” He glanced around, to see Adyn attempting to sneak off. With a startling burst of speed, he caught the miscreant by the collar and dragged him back. “Where do you think you’re off to, wretch?” he asked. Adyn struggled helplessly.

“I can’t help it if you’re boring, can I?” he snipped back. Rowan shook him gently.

“You just want to sneak back and see what’s going on at the Gathering, don’t you?” he said, softly. “A Wielder does not seek adventure or excitement for their own sakes!”

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to be a Wielder,” Adyn retorted. Rowan’s eyes widened and he dropped Adyn, taking a step back.

“How can you say such a thing?” he asked, horror-struck.

“I don’t want to spend my life stuck in some moldy old castle in Ertraia! I want to see the world and have fun!”

“Adyn, being a wielder is an honor and an ancient tradition, and you have the potential to be the greatest,” Rowan said. “You can’t just throw that away! You can not disregard the Call like that!”

“It’s my life,” Adyn said obstinately.

“You wouldn’t go back to what you had before my mother took you in,” Rowan pointed out threateningly.

“I was a baby,” Adyn said, his voice whiny, completely ignoring Rowan’s ominous tone. Rowan’s dark eyes flashed.

“How can you be so ungrateful? You have talent, Adyn, talent, and you could be greater if you tried harder, but no! You throw it away the first time you see fool’s gold! There’s a reason why it’s lying by the wayside, Adyn, and that’s because it’s worthless!” Rowan gestured to the stone upon which Adyn had previously been sitting. “Now, sit back down, and we’ll complete the lesson.” Adyn stepped away, shaking his head.

“No. Not anymore. I’m not doing this any more. I’m leaving!” Rowan gripped the staff.

“Adyn!” he called after the boy, but it was too late. Adyn dashed off, ignoring him, vanishing into the surrounding trees in a matter of seconds. Rowan moved to run after him; limping a few steps, he tripped over a tree root and fell, stumbling and falling flat on his face, sprawled across the soft, moist loam. He gasped in pain. “Adyn!” he called again, but Adyn was gone. Margery ran to his side and helped him to his feet. Rowan limped forward, leaning against a tree exhaustedly for a moment, drawing in a slow, painful breath. Margery moved with him, supporting his slender form.

“Rowan…” Margery began.

“No time—I have to find him!” Rowan replied, anxiously.

“No. Wait.” Margery said. “You can’t catch him by your own speed, Rowan. You have to use your wits. And before you can find him, you have to rest.” Rowan groaned.

“I have to find him soon,” he stressed. “You don’t know Adyn as I do. He’s going to try to run away. His response to anything that doesn’t go his way is to run. And here, he could run anywhere.”

“But he won’t run just anywhere,” Margery said. “You know him. You can make an educated guess as to where he’ll go. And I—Right now, I need answers.”

“’Need’ and ‘deserve’ are dangerous words,” Rowan said coldly. “It would be both arrogant and shallow to take your high birth for granted, Your Highness.” Margery dashed his icy words aside as if they were so many annoying insects.

“I may not know Adyn, Rowan, but I do know humankind.” Rowan stiffened.

“And you’re saying that I do not?” he asked dangerously.

“Adyn didn’t really mean everything he said to hurt you,” Margery carried on, brashly ignoring him. “He… well, to be harshly accurate, he feels interest in me, almost fascination. He was showing off in front of me, trying to impress me. You were just an unintended victim caught in the crossfire, nothing more.”

“Do other boys act like this?” Rowan asked.

“Yes, I think it’s part of their natural disposition. Hormones are terrible things.” Rowan groaned.

“Why does Adyn have to pick someone twelve years older than himself to develop an attraction to? Sometimes I swear he’s just doing it all on purpose to give me grief.”

“Haven’t you ever had a crush on someone?” Margery asked. Rowan looked confused. “Puppy love. You know.” Rowan frowned, still confused.

“No, never.”

“Maybe it has something to do with you being so short,” Margery mused. Rowan dismissed the comment as unintelligible, walking slowly off, leaning heavily on his staff. “I’ll help you look for him,” Margery offered, running after him. Rowan paused and turned, a look of relief on his thin, narrow face.

“You will?” he said, tawny dark eyes deeply grateful. “Thank you.”

“Where would he go?” Margery asked, catching up. Rowan looked throughtful.

“When he’s having fun, he generally hides where he thinks I’ll never find him, but when he’s mad or upset, there’s no telling where he’ll go. He might even consciously put himself into danger of some kind, just to spite me.”

Margery nodded. “Where did he come from?” she asked. “I heard you say that your mother took him and his mother in.” Rowan sighed.

“Years ago, his mother came to us. She was a an orphan, and had been chased from her home by accusations of sorcery, though she was not a magic user in actuality. She was about sixteen, then. My mother offered her work in the royal household, and she took care of me when I was little. Eventually, she left us to get married. A few years after that, she came back. Her husband had been murdered by sea raiders. She took care of me, again, after I was injured two years ago. Adyn was a child at the time. He doesn’t remember anything about the sea raiders’ attack, and he doesn’t understand. He’s a volatile child. I’m afraid of what he’ll do when he’s a bit older, old enough to be interested, anyway, and finds out what really happened to his father. But, when he’s upset, he runs to his mother, she’s the only parent he’s ever known…” Suddenly, Rowan froze.

“His mother—that’s it! Margery, he could be in one of two places. One is with his mother. Hurry back to the encampment of Clan Caerlen and ask around for Taryn. If Adyn is there, with her, well and good. If not, tell her I’ll find him.” The determined ring in Rowan’s voice said he would brook no argument. Margery nodded and set off to find the mysterious Taryn. Rowan headed off into the deeper woods—toward the circle of the Cremlegged.

 

Archivist of Selay’uu’s Journal: Guide

23 Friday May 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Tales from Selay'uu, Uncategorized

≈ 22 Comments

Tags

bbc merlin, bbc sherlock, brian jacques, c.s. lewis, j.r.r. tolkien, lord of the rings, novels, redwall, star wars, the chronicles of narnia

I was wondering around the Archives this morning, looking at… things… most of them very dusty and out of order. That would have to be the first thing I would fix. After all, no matter how messy things get subsequently, I at least like to start with a clean slate, so to speak. Scribbling notes on scrap paper notwithstanding.

It had been my first full day out of bed after trying to recover from the tessering mishap that had gotten me into the lands of the Selay’uu in the first place, and I was determined to enjoy it. There was an incredible number of books on the various shelves, and not all of them were sorted. The ones that were, though, were mostly reference books and copies of the Annals of the Kings, from the Gondorian scribes. I privately vowed to read all of them, when I had time. I didn’t care if they were dry and boring. It couldn’t be much thicker and more boring than some history books I’d seen in my own world.

Lying on a side table were a number of various other books, all of them legendary–at least in my world, they were. There were the original manuscripts which discussed the theory of magic in the world of Ertraia, a book of records penned by Eilyssa and Galahad, the personal journals of Katharynna Maelur Palathion, even a few treatises I had only begun to envision. At the corner of the table rested a round shape, covered with a tattered velvet cloth. Slowly, I drew it aside, and lying there on the table was a Palantir, its remote fiery depths winking at me out of darkness, shapes moving in it like a living thing. It was a disconcerting sight–a dark iris with a pupil that opened on fire. I didn’t dare to look directly into its depths, but re-covered it at once.

At the very end of the table rested a number of artifacts that were priceless to me. I didn’t dare touch the scroll from Qumran that rested there, sealed away in a glass jar with silica beads at the bottom keeping moisture from making it disintegrate. My fingers brushed over a heavy book that lay open there; the Geminya Tome from High Rhulain. Another weighty book, wrapped in a red cloth, heavy brass clasps holding it closed, rested on the end table. Slowly, I drew the cloth away, and hissed out an exclamation of delighted shock through my teeth. It was here!

It was the sort of book that every young fantasy author and authoress dreams about–beautifully bound in russet leather, its pages made of thick, heavy parchment or paper, the knowledge contained therein written in a beautiful script by hand, illuminated pages. I saw the page detailing the use of the Mortaeus flower, the infamous page of the Afanc, numerous other mythical–at least, in my world–beasts, millions of plants and their uses in magic, and spells, some of which seemed to be in Latin, but mostly in Old English. It was a book of reference as well as a book of spells; there was an incredible, indeed, an impressive amount of knowledge crammed into those few pages. It was like looking at the innards of a Jedi holocron, albeit not packed into such a tiny space. Glowing faintly blue in a nearby (locked) case were a few said holocrons, and a palm-sized, pyramidal Sith holocron that gave me the shivers. On a reading desk next to the display case stood the famous book of spells on the Wizard’s isle in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Remembering Lucy’s experience with the book, I did not open it–yet.

I was lost in reading through a beautiful original copy of The Silmarillion when someone discreetly coughed, behind me. I spun instinctively around and found myself face to face with Obi-Wan Kenobi.

I could not help staring. For those who have not met him in person, I will say that he’s a little more intimidating in person, as opposed to how he seems in the movies. His expressions are somewhat more mobile and mercuric than they seem to be in the movies; his eyes are very bright and intelligent, denoting an active mind, a person who could not stand laziness, apathy, or inactivity. This may not help those who have not met me in person, but I just barely edged over him in height. Needless to say, this didn’t seem to trouble him. The way he looked at me made me feel transparent, as if I were a portrait dressed in an old Victorian style, complete with perfect pinned curls and high-button boots with heels–which, I might add, I have made a resolution against wearing.

As any fan of the Star Wars prequels will attest, at any given time his age, though generally noted in the unspoken script, is still hard to pin down by his appearance. For those who wish to know, I am a proponent of the view that the dramatic change in apparent age between Revenge of the Sith and A New Hope is entirely due to the actions of his apprentice, and not really the effect of normal, natural aging. I swear, he must be at least part Elf, somewhere in the family tree. His age is in his eyes, not his face. Right now, he seemed to be somewhere between sixteen and twenty, though it was clear he was more adult than I am. But for someone with such bright, active eyes, he can stand perfectly still and just regard one, frighteningly. If it had not been for the uncanny feeling of being watched, he could be nearby, standing practically in the open, and I would never know it. He’s the sort of person you can never feel quite sure of; though he may be good, he isn’t safe at all.

Oh, and his tunic smelled like it had been laundered with lilac-scented soap, which was a tad odd, but I’d blame the senior housekeeper, Mrs. Whatsit, who has an odd sense of humor anyway, for that.

Anyway, there Obi-Wan was, in all his slightly-frightening-yet-strangely-reassuring glory. (You may fangirl at Obi-Wan on the Internet, but in person you’ll probably be struck dumb.) And I was staring. He wasn’t though. “Miss Erin? Mistress El’ye informed me that I’m to show you around the Mansion.” I had no idea what to say.

“All right?” I squeaked. Master Kenobi had the good grace to ignore it. He turned–with perfect grace.

“This way.” he said.

The moment was so surreal that I almost didn’t have the energy to note with excitement when we passed Frodo and Sam in the hallway–but only almost. Obi-Wan led me on a tour of the house, not going through all the residential levels, but only to the important rooms where the people who I would be most likely to need to contact in the upcoming days; the armory, where a couple of Younglings shot me in the back with a rubber arrow and earned themselves a scolding from Obi-Wan; the laboratory, which blew up, thanks to Sherlock, a moment before we could actually enter; and a brief foray into the kitchens, made still more brief by the fact that Friar Hugo chased us right out again a moment after he caught Percival, Gwaine and Lancelot sneaking some turnovers.

A moment before ceremoniously returning me to the library, Obi-Wan turned and said, “Feel free to explore on your own, and if you get lost, take my advice and ask someone for questions. Better to endure the teasing than be lost for hours. Besides, most people are friendly here, and you might as well start making friends now.” The door creaked open.

“I hope you’ll enjoy it here,” Obi-Wan said sincerely, and suddenly I knew that I would.

Archivist of Selay’uu’s Journal: Finding the People

22 Thursday May 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Tales from Selay'uu, Uncategorized

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

guardians of childhood, novels, rise of the guardians, william joyce, writing

[Authors’ Note: Wow, it took me a lot longer than I had expected to get this done! My apologies. Enjoy! 🙂 ]

I’ve been traveling for quite some time now, in search of old tales long forgotten and my own path, the tales I am destined to tell. I have always known that I was meant to be a writer, historian, and artist; but what I did not know was about what.

I had made a stopover in Sherwood Forest. I have traveled to the Lost Isle of Teryen to meet Sean of Branach, the rebel, and the disinherited Princess and Chieftain Katharynna Maelyr Palathion Cianath. I had stopped over in Camelot over a winter to meet Merlin, Arthur, Guinevere, Lancelot, Gawaine and the rest, and Lancelot’s son, Galahad, and the (even by my terms, much less Elven ones!) young ambassador of the Elven realm, Eilyssa Half-Elven. Her mother, Aivara, Lady of the Lake was an impressive, queenly personage, but I did not see much of her, for which I am grateful, as she was also a frightening one. I moved forward in time to a possible future, and even further onward to what can only be described as an alternate universe, in which I journeyed through the lands of Elayatar and Kalya, with shapeshifters Verun, Karyll, Nadya, and Beckra, Binders Aliana and Jay, Aliana’s (adopted) sister Klis and mother Alice, and Chiavan Starlun. I visited the strange, desolate world of the Ayn’neir, and the curiously divided realm in which Gervaise Baeltyr Eredhen was destined to be king and Iris the thief was his only ally against the world that would try to enslave him. Most recently, I stopped in Ertraia for a long visit with Rowan Jaentyr Caerlen, Margery Dun Fayr, the ranger and knight Rheadwyn, Queen Melilana, King Halbryn, and Rowan’s brothers Fortaine and Julian.

I’ve revisited these lands time and time again, and learned to love my friends there. I knew I was destined to tell their stories. Only one question remained on my mind.

Why could I not settle down?

I had been making my way home from Ertraia once more when I was blown off course by a crosswind. It was so fierce and swift and harsh I thought I was going to die, so you can imagine my surprise when I woke up again in a soft bed, under white covers–in a world I had never so much as imagined before. If you have read The Lord of the Rings, particularly the part of the book when Frodo awakes in Rivendell, you understand how I felt then. I sat up in the bed. The room was of medium size, slightly larger than my bedroom at home, and certainly much more orderly. Sharing a bedroom with one’s younger sister is not conducive to order. Neither is being a teenager, really.

All the furniture was beautifully carved and old, though perfectly preserved and undamaged. The room was not just orderly, it was perfectly clean. The color scheme seemed to be soft blues and dark chocolate browns. Now, as you’ll probably already know I’m normally all for green, but this was soothing to look at.

As I got up out of the bed, a young boy–very thin, almost see-through, but at the same time luminous–peeped in. I vaguely recognized Nightlight from the Guardians of Childhood books, which I had never read, only being able to guess at the boy’s origin from reading excerpts and bios on the website. “Hello? Oh–you’re awake. Good.” I slowly sat up, somewhat confused.

“Hello? Where am I?”

“Oh dear. I’m not very good at explaining. I’m just a protector and floorwalker–let me get somebody else.” Then the half-ghostly boy was off like a shot again, leaving me to get up, somewhat confused. Before I had done much, though, a tall woman dressed in long, dangling robes entered. She smiled at me, in a way that was intended to be reassuring, but was somehow rather unsettling.

“Welcome to Selay’uu, home of the People.”

The Minstrel Boy

20 Tuesday May 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Living Life with Passion, Tales of a Wandering Bard, Uncategorized

≈ 35 Comments

Tags

completed stories, short stories, song-related fiction, star wars, star wars week

Hello, everyone!

Welcome to the conclusion of Star Wars Week! I hope you enjoy today’s piece.

Ever since I heard this song for the first time, I’ve always wanted to do something for it. It’s just so beautiful and so sad. Besides, it’s traditional Irish–and that has me pretty much sold in the first place. And when I heard the lyrics, it just screamed Obi-Wan. Think about it. The line about “his father’s sword,” the part where the minstrel says he will never abandon his country… there were a thousand associations with Obi-Wan.

And then, there’s the way he walks. Except for Qui-Gon, he’s the only character in the prequels who ever seems to move with both purpose and grace. Anakin might be graceful, but not with the same understated elegance, and he sometimes vacillates aimlessly, unlike Obi-Wan, who chooses a spot and stays put, and if he moves, makes a statement with it. In The Phantom Menace, Obi-Wan moves with a sort of lethal, dangerous, almost tight-coiled, tightly controlled energy, but it almost looks as if he’s dancing to a strain of music that no one else (except, perhaps, Qui-Gon) can hear. In Attack of the Clones, the high-strung energy has dissipated somewhat, and with things smoothed out, it’s even more apparent. In my opinion, the coolest warriors are the ones who (like Legolas) look like they’re dancing in the middle of the fight. (Yes, Anakin fans and Obi-Wan bashers, the prissy-talking, annoying, sanctimonious plot device in the corner is actually a character and a warrior in his own right.)

For the record, I do not own this song. I did not write the original; I only added a few extra verses.

On with the show!

 

The Minstrel Boy

Prologue

                Jedi Master Dooku paced slowly along the Temple halls, each step a measured beat. Light suffused and overflowed in the hallowed precincts.

There was a soft murmur and chatter of voices ahead and behind, all around; it was a festival day for the Jedi, the celebration of the healing of the Vonlauren Schism, but despite the fete, even the young ones knew better than to break decorum in the Temple halls.

One clear voice suddenly rose above all the rest, distant, but pure, ringing, a boy’s voice, still high and sweet, not yet the man’s tenor it might become. There was a resonant lilt to it that startled Dooku almost as much as the realization that a Youngling, or perhaps a junior Padawan, was singing in the Temple.

“The minstrel boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you’ll find him;

His father’s sword he hath girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.”

                Dooku almost hurried on, curiosity piqued about the singer. Few boys that he knew of ever sang in public, deeming it below their dignity, or even degrading, to do so.

The singer’s voice was entrancing, enchanting, speaking of something that somehow, Dooku knew he had lost. He wasn’t even sure what it was. The voice was full of promise, potential. It was as if, with every breath, it was changing the future.

He rounded a corner and beheld a group of Younglings and Padawans, with a scattering of Knights and even a few Masters thrown in, gathered around a Padawan perhaps fourteen years old. The Padawan was singing, unaware of the greater crowd around him, to the audience in front, which was entirely Younglings. He was of medium height, not especially tall but with a sturdy build, coppery-gold hair crowning a youthful but mature face. Blue-gray eyes shone with fervor.

“’Land of Song!’ cried the warrior bard,

‘Though all the world betrays thee,

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!’”

                The singer’s eyes sparkled and his cheeks flushed, the very picture of youthful enthusiasm. He raised his right hand in the air, as if rallying an invisible host. He was thoroughly caught-up in the song. Yet, his Force-signature blossomed with a hard-edged luminance, burned with a radiant pure-white fire. Dooku’s lip curled slightly in a faint smile. So, this was Qui-Gon’s Padawan? Poor lad, he probably hero-worshipped the great Master Jinn. Dooku had seen it before. The boy probably thought Qui-Gon could do no wrong.

                The sentiments of the song, though… Dooku’s brow furrowed. The boy would go down on a burning ship. He had seen such fierce loyalty before, and it would sooner or later destroy the child…

Dooku walked slowly away. He had business to attend to, and the bright vignette was soon forgotten.

 

Act I

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you’ll find him;

His father’s sword he hath girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.

                Side by side, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Qui-Gon Jinn fought the monster before them. A kick knocked Obi-Wan off the catwalk; he fell several stories and was forced to leap back up and run to catch up to the battle ahead.

A laser gate slammed shut, hissing to existence before him. Obi-Wan watched, trapped, unable to interfere, as the red lightsaber ran his mentor through. “No!” he screamed, the sound torn from him. As Qui-Gon toppled to the ground, the monster whirled around to face the bereft Padawan.

The moment the gates retracted, he was attacking the Sith with a fierce vigor, but his anger and pain made him reckless. The Sith hurled him off the precipice with a blasting, unrefined Force-push; Obi-Wan could not help but fleetingly think that if he had wanted the Sith dead, he could have returned it, only with a little more precision, and broken the Zabrack’s neck. But he did want the Sith dead… didn’t he?

The battle was lost. But not the war, perhaps…

Obi-Wan focused on the unconscious memory of the past few minutes. That was it! Qui-Gon’s lightsaber! That was what he had forgotten!

He focused, re-centering himself, then leaped into the air. The lightsaber leaped to his hand. He struck down the ancient enemy. He hesitated for a moment, then ran to Qui-Gon’s side. He already knew the truth, though to see it was to send a cold weight slamming into his stomach.

Qui-Gon was dying.

 

At the funeral, though his face was warmed by the flames, his heart was cold, colder than it had ever been in his life. Then a boy whispered, “What will happen to me now?” And though Obi-Wan knew that things would never be the same, a tiny thread of music started, welling up from deep within, and somehow he knew things would be right again.

 

Act II

The battle hard rent brothers apart

And the nightmare long sware a harsh fire,

Yet still the faithful singer’s heart

Endured past its failing, weak attire.

                The Clone Wars had begun. The great game that Sidious had planned for years was finally in motion. Dooku felt as though his own place, though still hollow, was not quite so meaningless.

And it gave the former Padawan of his former Padawan a chance to shine. It seemed that it was in Kenobi’s nature to bring hope, to continue no matter the circumstances.

For though the war was cold and long

Each battle blow had fallen

Fated in the dawn of song

The Minstrel fought on, song calling.

                It seemed that each victory only led to another battle, but Obi-Wan went on. He had little choice, but even if he had, he would have gone on all the same. He brought hope where he could, healed those who would be healed and closed the eyes of those who could not.

Not even despair would chill his blood

And not even fear ever stayed him;

But in the end, it was not the foe

But his own side betrayed him.

                Not even despair could stop Kenobi, Dooku mused. The younger man was startlingly stubborn, though he should have only expected that from any student of Qui-Gon’s.

Dooku wished that he could lead the boy away from his own destruction.

At Kenobi’s side, Skywalker was always there. Dooku could already see the potential star-cross of the pair. Skywalker was bright, talented, but too quick and wild. The boy was going to break Kenobi’s heart one day.

And on shores of fire at last the flood

Of flame and dark descended

Yet still he stood and against the tide

He ne’er let the song be ended.

                “You were my brother, Anakin! It was said that you would… destroy the Sith… not join them! Bring balance to the Force, not leave it in darkness!”

Disbelief. Pain. Confusion. Denial. Horror.

“I hate you!”

“You were my brother, Anakin. I loved you.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t watch any more. But then… Padme! he remembered, and stumbled back up the hill.

And the golden thread of music went on, unnoticed.

The Minstrel fell! But the foeman’s steel

Could not bring that proud soul under;

The harp he lov’d ne’er spoke again,

For he rent its chords asunder

                The melody was loud and strong when Obi-Wan confronted Vader again.

And said “No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and brav’ry!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free

They shall never sound in slavery!”

                He smiled at Vader, laughing in the Force. The joke was on Anakin. After all, Anakin didn’t understand that death was not the end.

Though the Minstrel fell and the cause was lost

Yet others rose to fight it;

And in his wake the storm uptossed

The vic’try claimed, requited.

                “No!” Luke cried. The first moments after Obi-Wan’s passing, there was outward silence. But inwardly, Luke became aware of a golden strain of music. Then Obi-Wan spoke up. “Run, Luke!” And Luke obeyed.

On Hoth, they were hard-pressed, but they did not despair. On Bespin and Dagobah, they were sidetracked for a while, but soon found their way again; direction, and purpose. On Tatooine, they fought for one of their own. And on Endor, they conquered.

Called by the silent chords of hope

And brought to life by sacrifice

The ranks of those who bore on that torch

The harp’s unspoken song reprise.

                As they celebrated that night on Endor and the news that Palpatine was dead and the Empire finished rocked the galaxy, Luke felt the melody that he had known all his life but had only become aware of recently deepen into harmony as his father, Obi-Wan, and Yoda appeared. They were there. They were not gone, and they never would be.

The Minstrel Boy will return we pray

When we hear the news we all will cheer it,

The minstrel boy will return one day,

Torn perhaps in body, not in spirit.

                As long as those who remained true would remember.

Then may he play on his harp in peace,

In a world such as heaven intended,

For all the bitterness of man must cease,

And ev’ry battle must be ended.

                There was peace, and the melody was true and strong.

And all was right.

Minor Blooper of the Day: Anyone notice how, in The Two Towers movie, when Pippin is about to get stomped on by the horse his hands seem to be free, but a moment later he has to cut his bonds? Weird. Oh, and Bonus Blooper! As Eomer mounts his horse saying, “Seek your friends, but do not trust to hope; it has forsaken these lands,” his sword is actually sliding out of its scabbard, which can be clearly seen in the movie!

A Minor Deviation (Nothing to Worry About)

19 Monday May 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Uncategorized

≈ 26 Comments

Tags

deviations, secret life, selay'uu, star wars, star wars week

Good evening, all, and thank you for taking time out of your busy lives to come and read Erin’s blog. Erin says to tell you all that she’ll be back to posting soon enough, if she can ever escape the clutches of that evil mastermind who is her little sister. (Personally, I believe that she is exaggerating. How can an adorable four-year-old girl be an evil mastermind? Unless it was Xanatos who raised her… Never mind. That was an attempt at humor, in case you were wondering. My master always said I was not that good at it…)

You may be wondering who, then, is posting today. You shouldn’t be worrying that Erin’s WordPress account has been hacked. It’s only me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, currently assisting Erin in the capacity of editor. I have regular access to this blog, to ensure that she doesn’t embarrass herself by posting something too badly structured. I have, in the past, taken the liberty of correcting her most flagrant abuses of syntax, grammar, and spelling, normally without her notice, except when I’m forced to read over her shoulder. You really can’t blame the poor girl, though. Fingers slip on the keyboard, Raya slips into Erin’s workspace and pounds on some random keys. Typographical errors happen to everyone.

I should probably tell you why I’m posting today. It’s mostly because Erin can’t be bothered to do it, since she’s currently taking care of Mistress Raya. It’s partly because of a conversation we had last week. We were discussing the effect fans have on a story world… I believe “fandom” is the Internet parlance. I wouldn’t know, actually belonging to one of those worlds myself. Specifically, the conversation centered around fan fiction and fan art, though we began by discussing how various authors discover what they call “story worlds.” Erin and I had never discussed this before. She had recently discussed a book (I don’t know the title, and I’m reasonably sure that she doesn’t recall it,) with her father, in which the main characters had invented a space/time traveling machine–being the avid reader of Madeleine L’Engle that she is, she called it a “tessering device.” The idea that had so intrigued Erin was that every time the characters of this novel entered a separate dimension, they found themselves in the world of a story–and the characters had actually read the stories they found themselves in. Erin speculated that the authors of said stories had somehow gotten into various dimensions by accident and wrote about the things and people they had met there, the better ones without including obvious self-inserts (which is, she said, is strictly verboten.) She wondered if all authors have an innate ability to breach new dimensions, or if they actually create the dimensions by writing about them in this “master dimension.” She seemed to favor the first view, that we characters have always been here, waiting, in our own worlds, just to be discovered. I told her that I would not know, being either a) the denizen of a separate dimension, or b) the figment of someone’s imagination, myself, in the first place. She laughed. That was when the conversation turned to the effect fans have on a story dimension.

She said that the story often evolves with the fans, though it does also happen, conversely, the other way around, listing the extreme popularity of alternate-universe fan fiction and the tendency authors have to want to please their audience to prove her point. I said that it was most likely so, but our lives really aren’t determined by one set “canon”, they’re evolving all the time, as long as the authors really want to work (and play) with us. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then both delighted and triumphant and said that it was true.

“Do you have lives outside of your stories, though?” she asked. “The stories that you live in, I mean.”

“Our lives are continuing, evolving, all the time,” I said, “but you don’t really think I’d tell you about them if we did? There is a reason why I don’t have Facebook.” She found that comment amusing.

“So, what do you think of fan fiction in general?” was her next question. “I may be good at telling what you think and feel in a set situation, but reading you here is out of my league.” And thank heavens for that, too. I happen to like my privacy, just like anyone else.

I told her that it was a pleasure to work with a really good author, and that in my experience she generally knew what she was doing. Even if she sometimes writes horrible situations for me to find myself in, the poor lass is generally very contrite the whole time and for a long while afterwards; once, she sobbed all the way through a very difficult scene. I’ll be tactful and keep her secrets for her. You won’t get a word out of me about what that scene was until she posts it. And even then I just might not tell you. (Anakin would call that secretive streak of mine a result of being named to the Jedi Council, but I think it really came of trying to keep him from driving me insane.)

She wasn’t surprised to learn that some of us aren’t really willing to work with authors who put us in certain situations. We tend to desert them if they really do horrible things to either our families or our honor. And when the author tries to go on without us, it generally results in the phenomenon known as OOCS–Out Of Character Syndrome. I’ve been confronted with it a few times over the years–mainly in the area of romance (which, as Erin has already doubtless told you, she avoids like the plague because there is so much bad romance, probably due to the sheer volume of romance written)–and stories where I’m supposed to inadvertently turn to the Dark Side. What am I to do? Turning Dark is not in my character, at least not really embracing evil. I may have my moments when I’m pressed to my limits–I am human, after all–but having me turn evil instead of Anakin? That is just… insipid.

But I digress.

Erin was surprised to learn that Xanatos redemption fics were really right at their very core. Xanatos never really was evil. He resisted the temptation of wealth and power, and though Crion’s death drove him to the brink, he still overcame his own inner darkness. He’s been a good friend of mine for years. The only reason why he was depicted as evil in the young reader novels that have been published was because the author needed a villain who would ratchet up the tension, so to speak, and also give Qui-Gon a good reason not to want to take me on as an apprentice (in the books), so there would be more tension still, and Xanatos was the only one tolerant enough and willing enough to play the villain. I was actually scared of him, then. I had nightmares for weeks, even though I really knew it was only a sham. I didn’t tell him or Qui-Gon for years, and both of them found it hilarious when I did. (For those who are wondering, the years of my apprenticeship were far too confused for young reader novels, tense, occasionally dark, and very, very convoluted. There was more than just one villain to the story, as in the books, and often the “villains” were not clear-cut. The author needed an actual plot, and many of my real adventures with Qui-Gon were never fully resolved until Palpatine was revealed as the Sith Lord, which explained quite a bit but never really tied up all the loose ends. For obvious reasons, the Sidious reveal could not take place for many years yet, and stories without a legitimate ending, happy or sad, do not make very good reading.) Erin caught me out there–I had inadvertently admitted that we do have lives and stories apart from the ones that are published. I still don’t intend to tell anyone about our personal lives, though. Let us have at least a few secrets, please.

Erin’s next question was about the Star Wars movies proper. How did I feel about my life as depicted therein? Was it very different from what actually happened? The answer is, no. The movies are what actually happened. How did I feel about my actual life then? I think the only answer I can give is that I’ve come to the conclusion that it was inevitable for things to run the way they did. True, there were things I could have done better, and things I regret, but I don’t think I could have actually changed anything–at least, not without the help of others, and knowledge of what was going to happen, and even then I might have only succeeded in making things worse.

At that, the conversation turned back to fan fiction. I commented that, in some stories, we actually live–we really come to life–while in others, we merely exist. It depends on the ability and talent level of the author in question. Then the conversation turned to fan art. For the record, I really do not care much for some depictions of myself out there. Even in fan art, there is such a curse as out-of-character syndrome. She thought it was amusing.

Apparently, there is a drawing circulating which is supposed to be me, but looks more like a character from a vampire romance. I hope that it was merely mis-labeled. However, I fear that whoever did it might have really intended for me to look like… ahem. That’s frankly disturbing, and Anakin teases me about it. I’d rather pose for a portrait while covered in mud.

Erin asked if we, the characters from various story worlds, can actually interact with people from other “fandoms.” We can. I have been friends with Horatio Hornblower for years, and was actually allowed to participate in one of the raids that the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel made on a French-Revolution political prison, outside the books. Master Qui-Gon nearly had a heart-attack at my re-telling, and Master Xanatos found it extremely funny. Also, I have been known to visit Camelot on occasion, and Merlin, Arthur, Gwen and co. once spent April Fools’ Day with us. (For those who were wanting to know, Merlin called Anakin a “prat”, and we did not invite Kilgarrah. The dragon would not fit inside the Jedi Temple, for one thing. For another, he’s slightly creepy and I fear he might be a bad influence on Anakin.)

Of course, Erin had to ask then if I was envious of Merlin, since we seem to have almost identical abilities, but his eyes “glow gold”, which is apparently “cool”.

No comment.

I also am not much of a romance reader, in case you were wondering. There’s really not much that point to it, as I doubt that most of the authors really have any idea of what they’re writing about. I prefer historical fiction, as is probably obvious, and honest, faithful re-tellings of historical events.

And, since this post is already well in excess of a thousand words, I should probably stop now. Make sure to check out the upcoming “Archives of Selay’uu” stories, upon which this post has a great deal of bearing, and Erin’s other works.

Have a wonderful day, and may the Force be with you.

[Erin’s Note: Hello, everyone! I found this and added the tags, but that’s it. Actually, I’m pretty excited to post this, since Obi-Wan is normally so reticent. 😉 Hope you enjoyed this brief deviation!]

Inertia

18 Sunday May 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Uncategorized

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

completed stories, short stories, star wars, star wars week

Hello, Star Wars fans! I have finally gotten on with Star Wars week (which has been extended!) and written a Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan piece! Believe it or not, pre-Phantom Menace is really my era. All this angsty Anakin and Obi-Wan stuff is really Anakin’s fault. He’s the one who’s been pestering the life out of me and completely tearing up the mind palace while he’s at it. Naughty Ani.

Anyway, I thought I would write a short story about Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, a lesson on trust, and (gasp!) Obi actually enjoying the sensation of flying. It might have an unfinished feel to it, but that’s intentional, and we all can decide (or guess) how it concludes; Obi-Wan makes a safe descent, or Qui-Gon just catches him.

Enjoy!

Inertia

                Breathe.

                Relax.

                Make an appeal.

                Trust the Force.

                Jump.

It sounded easy, and yet like so many things that sound easy, it was not.

This was a trial, fourteen-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi knew. And at the moment, he was failing.

His mentor, Qui-Gon, turned back towards him and smiled. Obi-Wan offered a wan smile in return. Qui-Gon frowned. “Padawan, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” It wasn’t an intentional lie, but a knee-jerk reaction, and also a result of deep embarrassment. Jedi apprentices didn’t fear silly little things like spiders, snakes, the dark. Or even larger things, like fire.

Still, he was afraid.

Arriving on the planet, Qui-Gon led him up the steep trail. Obi-Wan was grateful for the silence. It felt good, to simply walk among the trees with the scent of living things all around him. Deep within, Obi-Wan missed hearing the fairytales told in the crèche, stories that reminded him of a distant sound of water, of wind in the trees, and the green, rich lilac, mild rose, and golden smells of the water. One of the few things he remembered of the home which he had been born to was the smell of roses and lilacs, a hint of pine mingling in the background, and the sound of wind chimes on the porch in the remoteness. He even missed the deep velvet black of the nights, untarnished by light pollution, and the thousands of stars above.

“I can sense your inner trepidation about this exercise,” Qui-Gon remarked at last. Obi-Wan blinked; he had almost forgotten about it. Qui-Gon put a reassuring hand on the apprentice’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” The words were at the tip of his tongue. He didn’t know if he had the courage to say them. “I—I’m scared of heights.” The last bit came out in an embarrassed whisper, almost a squeak. Obi-Wan shut his eyes, hard, feeling certain that Qui-Gon would laugh. It was not very Jedi of Obi-Wan, after all.

“Oh, Padawan.” Qui-Gon said, his voice compassionate. “Most people are.”

“Yes, but not…” Obi-Wan searched for the words, then settled for, “One time Bruck locked me in a cable car that went across from the interior spire to the upper-level galleries. I was in there all night before one of the Masters found me. I’ve never been comfortable with high places since.”

“You didn’t seem very afraid when the Initiates were trapped in one of those cable cars,” Qui-Gon said softly. Obi-Wan considered this for a moment.

“Adrenaline. I didn’t have the time to… think about it. Now, though, I know what I’m going to do… what if I freeze up?”

“Obi-Wan, the time when you feel as if you’re going to freeze from fear is the time to stop thinking. Your fear does not define you; you control it. I know this sounds like a platitude, but that’s because it’s true, and people have known that it was true for years. It can be hard to trust—especially for someone like you. Obi-Wan, remember Melida/Daan?” Obi-Wan nodded slowly. It was something he could never forget. “Well, on the way there, I was almost afraid you would have your apology speech mapped out on cards.” Obi-Wan couldn’t help perking a small smile at that. At times, his master had a wicked sense of humor. Qui-Gon smiled in reply. “Obi-Wan, you are the most courageous person I know. I think that you really know how to sidetrack your fear; it’s being afraid that you’re really afraid of. When you’re afraid, Obi-Wan—and this is simpler than it sounds—breathe, relax, trust the Force, and then jump. You may just find yourself flying.”

Now, on the cliff top, Obi-Wan couldn’t help looking over the edge. He swallowed at the sight of the shadows that fell away with breathless depth below. He looked back at Qui-Gon, who nodded. Obi-Wan didn’t let himself look over again. He simply took Qui-Gon’s advice.

Breathe.

                Relax.

                Make an appeal.

                Trust the Force.

                Jump.

He was completely safe.

It was the only time in his life that Obi-Wan ever truly enjoyed the sensation of flying.

What say you, readers? Does the story end on the ground below or the clifftops? (It ends happily, either way. :-P)

 

Liebster Award (Awarded twice in two days… I don’t know if anyone else understands…)

13 Tuesday May 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Living Life with Passion, Uncategorized

≈ 32 Comments

Tags

author, award, barbie, barbie is evil, baronness emma orczy, blogging, c.s. forester, c.s. lewis, dumas, g.a. henty, i have probably been misspelling sheikah's name all along :-p, i'll stop adding tags now lest i add too many, i've added too many tags already, j.r.r. tolkien, merlin, nanowrimo, rule of elevens, sherwood pictures, star trek, star wars, the lord of the rings, the three musketeers, the war of the vendee, writing

Rule of Elevens!!! 😛

liebster121

Okay, so I was awarded the Liebster Award first of all by coruscantbookshelf (aka Rosalie, or Nasriel if you prefer) of Against the Shadows, and then again, by Sheikiah, of Dark Link/Light Link. And I have no idea who else to award it to, unless it’s okay to award to people on Blogspot? If so, please tell me and I’ll do so. (On second thoughts, I’ll do it anyway. :-P) And I have no idea how many followers most of the bloggers I know have, so forgive me if I accidentally award someone who has more than a thousand.

I guess that since I was awarded twice, I have to answer TWO sets of questions. Okay, here goes.

Since Rosalie awarded me first, I’ll answer her questions first.

1. Which do you prefer: Old or New Republic, and why? (That’s Episodes I-III and IV-VI respectively, for the old people out there.) I think I prefer the Old Republic… mainly because I have only read Jedi Apprentice and Clone Wars-era Expanded Universe, and I don’t quite care for the angle they took the post-Return of the Jedi stories, mostly because (as I’ve said before) I am a biased supporter of the celibacy requirement for the Jedi, just because it made it cool and more like an actual religious order to me. Also I am a history nut. 😛 Which is the probable reason for my bigoted preference… 😛 Also, the prequels had Obi-Wan! 😛 And the “sequels” aren’t likely to! 😛

2. Which do you prefer: Old or New Testament, and why? Oooh… this is a tough one. I don’t think I have a preference. Though I do love Luke and John’s lyrical and symbolic styles, respectively…

3. Who is your favorite actor/actress absolutely of all time? I’m having a hard time choosing. I don’t think I can pick just one. Because, honestly, I’ve seen people who are really good, but I have to say that Paul Reilly, who isn’t even professional, and Alex Kendrick, who is really a minister. Paul Reilly is Jacques Cathelineau in The War of the Vendee from Navis Pictures, and Alex Kendrick plays the protagonists in all the Sherwood Pictures films except for Fireproof. But professional actors… I’m going with Liam Neeson (no surprise there,) Ewan McGregor, and Colin Morgan. (Because the Jedi team of The Phantom Menace was awesome, and Colin Morgan is just brilliant as the title character of Merlin.)

4. This one seems to be part of the rules: Why do you blog? Oh, I don’t know, really. Several reasons–it’s hard to pick a primary one. I think it’s mostly an outlet, in case I need to rant or just yell at the world in general, and people commiserate, which is awesome. It’s also gaining me a reader base, since I want to become a published author. But I think it started when I was over on Wikia, which some of my friends used to connect on–they had a blog option for registered users, which was great. I started posting The Hero’s Dream over there, and then when some of my Nanowrimo friends (thank you Rosalie!) wanted to read it, I started this blog and posted it serially. (Actually, the story is way more complex than that, but I think you want your answers in less than 500 words. If you all want me to post and explain how I began blogging in full, please comment and tell me so!)

5. If you could live anywhere in this world other than where you do, where would you choose? Practicality aside. Ireland. It’s a beautiful country. (Also, I want to learn Gaelic.) That, or New Zealand. They filmed The Lord of the Rings there–how do you beat that?!

6. Favorite dictionary: Oxford, Webster, Cambridge, Chambers, Collins – what? And why? The old edition Oxford–it was clean and got you what you needed to know–and Webster. Because it’s the first, and because it’s American, I guess. 😛

7. For those that write for fun: how many plot bunnies (story ideas) do you have on the go right now? How many do you think will get finished? (For those that don’t, go listen to this to kill time. Utterly epic.) Mmmm… Nine or so, I think. Probably more, if you count my Star Wars stories. Go to my Novels page if you want to see most of them. There’s another original novel brewing, but I haven’t got it clear in my head yet, so it’s not up yet. (Hint: It’s about Mordred! 😉 )

8. What’s your opinion of fictitious superheroes? I don’t really have one. I don’t particularly care for superhero movies, except for The Incredibles (which I absolutely love!), and I’ve never read any books about superheroes. However, I love anything Jedi and most fantasy, so I don’t know. I might like them. Still, I rather enjoy my non-Avengers fan status… 😛

9. What’s your opinion of fictitious everyday heroes? Cynically? People love to hero-worship. Practically? We need people to lead us and be shining examples, both fictitious and real.
Idealistically? I think that fictitious heroes give us something to strive to be, and I really wish they were real.

10. What’s your opinion of factitious everyday heroes? (Do not quote Sherlock!) (Okay, I won’t. :-P) I think that factitious heroes may not be quite the same way people envision them, but I believe that they do exist. For instance, the firefighters and other emergency response teams at the Twin Towers terrorist attack on 9/11/2001 were true heroes.
Ironically, though, I think that most people who have been named heroes by popular acclaim really don’t think of themselves as heroes, just people doing their jobs exceptionally well, or ordinary people trying to help. In this sense, I think anyone who tries to do the best they can to help others, both in the pursuit of duty and on the spur of the moment, is a hero.

11. Have you ever been given this award before? If so how many times? Never. Though I’m about to… 😛

Now for Sheikiah’s questions…

1. Why do you blog/What is your goal for your blog? Well, you know why I blog already. ;-P I already said. 😛 My blogging goal, though, is to just give people some enjoyment in fiction, as well to explain why I fiction. 🙂 (Yes, I used that as a verb. If that is NOT a verb, it should be. ;-D)

2. Out of all the established fictional realms you know of — Middle-Earth, Narnia, etc. — pick one you’d like to live and one you wouldn’t want to live in. Oh, I’d love to live in Middle-Earth, Narnia, the galaxy far, far away… Mostly because the rules are different… and in Star Wars, if you’re a Jedi, you also do not have to worry about the tax paperwork. 😛 (I hate paperwork. I recently started doing some of my own, and I repeat: I hate it! Even though hate is the path to the Dark Side!) But if I had to just make one that I would love to live in… Probably Middle-Earth. And the one I would not like to live in: drum roll, please… the world of the Harry Potter books.

3. Why those two? (I admit this is probably cheating, making this a separate question.) I have not read Harry Potter, but I wouldn’t like to be the one out who had to fight magic-using enemies without magic (or special training.) Same goes for Supernatural. Besides, I don’t feel comfortable with the way that J.K. Rowling reputedly handles the idea of magic in her novels. It doesn’t seem like something I could enjoy in all good conscience. To Harry Potter fans: I’m not attacking you! I’m just saying that I don’t think it would be my cup of tea! And the reason why I’d love to be in Middle-Earth: I’m a scholar. I would absolutely love to study with Elrond or Aragorn, visit all those places… And I’m not bad with a sword, either. 😛

4. Where on planet Earth would you most like to live? Most like to live… Well, I think I like where I do live. ;-P But otherwise… New Zealand (see above.) Mostly because it’s not in such a bad condition, politically, as other countries are… viewing it with my American Constitutionalist lens again here… 😛

5. Which film adaptation do you think is the most faithful to the original book? Why? The Lord of the Rings. Much as I like to whine about how they changed some situations, eliminated Tom Bombadil, etc., it still didn’t mangle the book as badly as some other movie adaptions. *mutters* The Three Musketeers… Barbie… I have a lasting grudge against Barbie. So insipid and sugary.

6. Which adaptation is the least faithful? Why? Well… of the movies I’ve actually seen… the adaption of The Scarlet Pimpernel that stars Richard E. Grant. Much as I love this adaption, it’s very unlike the book. But as a stand-alone movie… *swoons*

7. If you had the chance to make one event in history not-happen, which and why? And don’t say “the Holocaust”, that’s just too obvious. Oooh, this is so hard… The French Revolution in general. It did something similar to France as Hitler did to Germany. I mean, left scars that are still there to this day. (And it’s been longer since, too!) Especially, I would take back the subjugation of the Vendee. Also, I would make the Vendee better remembered. The people there were so gallant and courageous! I hate it that they portray them in some movies and books as making an effort doomed to failure that only makes things worse for them! They were fighting for what they believed in, passionately, against overwhelming odds, and no such gallant action can be called “useless”! Besides, they almost succeeded–they could’ve taken Paris and stopped the Revolution right there, but they had to choose to take Nantes instead.

8. If you were in a band, what would you name it? Unless you ARE in a band, in which case come up with a different name for a hypothetical other band. Dickenson. (I love her poetry. And classical music. :-P)

9. What is your favourite book? Favorite… hmmm… I have way too many. But right now… The Lord of the Rings. I also like Tolkien’s other works, books by Madeleine L’Engle, G.A. Henty, Brian Jacques, C.S. Lewis, Meriol Trever, Constance Savery, C.S. Forester, Baroness Orczy… 😉

10. Of all the characters in your favourite book, whose life would you rather lead? Oohh…. I would rather be Faramir. (Outside of my chosen book, I know that I’d rather be Ahsoka than Obi-Wan, Luke rather than Padme, Eustace rather than Susan, and Charles Wallace rather than one of the twins. ;-P)

11. Kirk or Picard? (If you can’t answer this question, that’s fine. There are those who consider that the RIGHT answer.) I have not seen enough Star Trek to be a good judge.

Eleven random facts about me (wow, this is going to be hard):

1. I don’t particularly like to talk about myself.

2. I have thought about giving politics a try, if only to see their faces at my ideology and idealistic cynicism. (Yes, that is a term… or it should be. :-P) Also to annoy them with my arguments against certain plans that they have for this country.

3. I have been known to make up words as it suits my purposes.

4. I can be extremely sarcastic at times. (Bet you never saw that one coming!)

5. I love cats, but have an allergy to them.

6. I am also allergic to blueberries, cantaloupe, bananas, food coloring, corn syrup, and popcorn. I can eat blueberries and bananas if they are in baked goods. I also have a contact allergy to the adhesives from some Band-aids and stickers. I might just be allergic to hickory, as well. (Not the nuts, but the wood might be the culprit for my hives.)

7. I do not particularly enjoy traveling.

8. I should have done this whole thing earlier, probably.

9. My baby sister seems to be alternately a Jedi Knight and Sith Lady.

10. I know a couple of Sith via the internet ;-P

11. Depriving me of sleep is not a good idea.

I hope that satisfies!!! Now for my questions:

1. Why do you blog? How did you start blogging? (because it’s tradition, I guess)

2. What eats most of your time on the internet?

3. Have you ever attempted to write a novel upwards of 50,000 words?

4. Have you failed writing a novel and never come back to it (yet)? If so, why?

5. What is your biggest impediment to doing what you love? (Mine is my siblings)

6. Which do you prefer: more regular, tended gardens or naturalized ones?

7. What is your favorite season, and why?

8. Do you prefer historical fiction to fantasy, or science fiction to both?

9. Do you ever feel that the language you chiefly work with is confining and should have more expressive words?

10. Would you prefer some form of rodent (gerbil, hamster, rat, etc.) or some kind of bird as a pet?

11. Why do you spend time with your family? (If you don’t feel like answering… *shrug*)

And now, I hereby nominate Rayne Speryll, of Writing in Rivendell, Klarabelle Candy, and the brilliant writers of “Sink Me!” because it’s hilarious. (Don’t blame me for this, most of my friends IRL blog on Blogspot and I have no idea how many followers most of them have.) Since I don’t really feel like tagging people back (you’re off the hook, Rosalie and Sheikah!), I will also nominate Bessie Lark at Firefly (trust me to nominate a restricted access blog! ;-P), and Rachel Carrera (even though I have no idea how many people have followed her.) Congrats, ladies! (It also says something about me that I’m nominating all girls… Shut up, head-voice! Sorry about that. :-P)

Okay, so I’m finally done with this post… three days after I started working on it. Sorry if this is my longest post ever, but I had lots of crazy stuff happen and lots more crazy stuff to say and I definitely feel a lot better now. 🙂

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