04 Monday Jan 2016
My last sketchbook was dominated largely by Star Wars and Avengers. This one is mostly Doctor Who–that is, the pages that haven’t been donated to my 5-year-old sister’s art sessions. Whyyyy.
Anyway, here’s a few samples of what I’ve been working on:
Rose and the Doctor, visiting the Smithsonian–a WIP.
21 Monday Sep 2015
Tags
bound to the flame, characters, fun stuff, novels, short stories, story dynamics, the flame within, the music writing challenge
I think I’ll post a new Music Writing Challenge next week on Tuesday… Everyone who wants to write one of these Challenge pieces, please post them by then. Or you can post them later, if you want. Also, if you have any music you’d like to suggest for the Challenge, please tell me! 🙂
At a nice, even one hundred and fifteen words, this one was a bit short. But I was just writing what I felt like and then realized, hey this sounds like Isaac, so I made it his thoughts.
Enjoy!
Inhale.
Then leap forward with a vengeance. Find your way through the battle. Take your stand.
Some just try to keep their sanity.
Others embrace the madness.
And a few set their feet on the ground and defy the dark.
Isaac had been fighting for hours. It wasn’t just his freedom at stake. It was the fate of the world.
He had to find another way.
Abandoning his powers, he leaped forward, seeking the heart of the battle. He closed his eyes, focusing.
There!
The cracks in the moment spread out from that center, like a spider’s web.
Isaac ran for the center, eyes still shut but aware of the war around him.
He struck.
For those of you who may not be familiar with my pan-whatsit-theon of characters, Isaac is the hero of The Flame Within, sort of a sequel to Bound to the Flame and set far in its future. By this time, magic is widely accepted across the world, but the practice of magic has become corrupted. Isaac is a student at a school of magic and has been for as long as he can remember, but with banned books and his apparent nonexistence in the school’s records, he has to face the possibility that nothing is quite as it seems.
Thanks for reading, and God Bless!
14 Tuesday Jul 2015
Tags
a. a. milne, artwork, avengers, bound to the flame, doctor who, dragons, fan art, fantasy, frozen, marvel, novels, star wars, stefan, winnie the pooh, writing
This gallery contains 17 photos.
Some of this, again, is not from camp, or was completed as part of camp. A lot of it, though, …
13 Sunday Jul 2014
Tags
bound to the flame, camp nanowrimo, camp nanowrimo july 2014, college, confusing nonsense, insanity, john flanagan, life, nanowrimo, national novel writing month, philosophy, rambling musings, ranger's apprentice, secret life, small rants, stories in progress, story dynamics
It’s been awhile–sorry about that. I had college applications, Iris moving, and Nanowrimo to worry about. (I’m behind on my novel, but this will take only a few minutes so I AM NOT WORRYING ABOUT IT. Studiously. :-P)
In other news, I read the first book of the Ranger’s Apprentice series by John Flanagan, The Ruins of Gorlan, and I LOVED it. The humor in the book was very unexpected, and the main character respects his mentor… I can’t think of anything morally objectionable in the book. (On the downside, there was one extraneous plot point that was not as well incorporated as it might be, but I’ll leave that until I can do a proper book review.) I won’t keep you any longer. Enjoy the chapter! 🙂
Warnings: Lots and lots of philosophy, maybe a little theory. Nothing too strenuous, unless you don’t like exercising your brain. ;-P
Bound to the Flame
Chapter V
Part II
Rowan fell silent again. Margery bit her lip. “Some of my father’s men were defending our coasts against Sea Raiders last winter, and two of them failed to report back in, and were presumed lost. They finally turned up in the springtime. One of them had lost a leg and two fingers. The other one had stayed with him all winter, helping him to survive and nursing him back to health. But when they came back, both of them had changed. The injured man was morose; the other was tired and worn-down. It took the combined efforts of all the men-at-arms as well as my father and brothers to get them back on their proverbial feet. Neither of them was ever quite the same, though.” Margery paused, looking sidelong at Rowan, unsure of how to continue. Without looking at her, Rowan slowly guided Obsidian onwards.
“And you’re trying to figure out if there’s some subtle way of helping me.” Rowan said. “You pity me.” He paused for a moment, biting his cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid that, as far as this goes, this is the best way that you can help.” He sighed. “Activity helps, even if I’m exhausted and sore for hours afterwards.” There was a long time in which they simply rode in silence.
“It’s so quiet here,” Margery said, after a while. Rowan looked up.
“It is,” he said, without offering any explanation. Margery tilted her head on one side.
“Are they setting a trap for us, do you think?”
“Unlikely. I don’t feel any warning that might indicate on. If the silence troubles you, though, what about a walking song? Our enemies are nowhere nearby, I think, and there is no one to hear us.”
“All right…” Margery said. “You sing.” Rowan chuckled.
“Very well.”
“O’er the hills and far away
Out from a rising sun
From my door I heard Mother say,
‘I pray that soon back you’ll come.’
Among the woodlands dark and gray
While leaves all fall around
And squirrels among campfire ashes play
There comes the marching sound.
“O’er the plains so wide and far
O’er the moors so dreary
While at night a shooting star
Falls at our feet weary.
By the cliffsides steep and high
Marching to a song
When the morning dawn draws nigh
Again we pass along.
“O’er the mountains at break of day
When we rise to travel on,
In the dawning cold and gray,
We march over that browning lawn.
In the rain and in the spray
Flying from a stormy sea
Marching far, far away
We’ll come flying homeward free.
“O’er the hills and far away
Into a setting sun
Until the darkness ends the day
And stars now out have come.
O’er the fells and low green tors
Turning fast to gray,
Far from home and hearth and door
We march, far, far, away.”
Rowan had a good voice, clear and strong, but at the same time soft and melodious; it was almost subdued, but it made the glades reverberate with sound, the earth beneath them trembling in unison with the melody. For a long while after the song had concluded, they rode along in affable silence. At last, contrary to all Margery’s expectations, Rowan broke it.
“Margery, if we are to be able to continue to evade our enemy, there is something that I must do.”
“Then do it,” Margery said, shrugging, not quite comprehending.
“No…” Rowan said. “What I meant is, I would like to—I should ask your permission first.”
“Why?” Margery asked.
“Well, if we are to remain undetected… I need to mute your presence and ground the loose magic that has gathered around you.” Margery gave him a blank gaze. “You can be sensed by magic,” Rowan explained. “But it’s harder for whoever might sense you to do if there isn’t loose magic pooled around you.”
“I don’t understand,” Margery said.
“Well,” Rowan began, apparently trying to think out the best way to explain it, “loose magic—magic that has been already drawn from the warp—”
“Start at the beginning, please,” Margery said. “You’ve explained elemental magic, but not this branch of theory.” Rowan inclined his head.
“Very well. This has to do more with the origins of magic than with the theory of magic,” he said. “Most magic remains hidden, like the warp threads under the weft of a tapestry, holding together the tapestry of life on this world. You can think of the visible world as the weft threads—magic holds them together, just like warp. Magic can be drawn up out of the warp in order to be used. But magic can not be used up, like material goods can. It simply returns to its energy phase. It tries to get back into the warp, but it takes effort or time—even both in some cases—to return. Naturally, it always seeks the path of least resistance—and living things, especially people with an innate magical talent, are like bridges straight to the warp. Thus, ‘loose’ magic tends to gather around magic users, and other living things. The easier a Wielder can connect with the warp, the more magic will tend to pool around them. Most naturally-gifted wizards have the ability to sense large ‘drifts’ of loose magic, which means that they could potentially sense all living things around them. So, if we want to go unnoticed, the wisest course would be to ‘dim’ our presence by returning the loose magic that has gathered around us to the warp.”
Margery shrugged. “Well, go ahead. You didn’t have to ask permission for that. I’m not a magic user, anyway.”
“I don’t like the idea of doing it without asking,” Rowan said. “Just… be warned. This may make you feel vulnerable, tired, weak, perhaps even ill. Everyone can sense magic on some level or other; potentially anyone could become a Wielder, but it would take time and energy. You have a slight magical ability, and that could exacerbate the effect.” Margery shrugged again.
“Well, forewarned is forearmed, I guess. Go ahead.”
Margery had expected to feel any of the sensations Rowan had described—or perhaps she hadn’t known what to expect—but she certainly had not expected the strange draining sensation that flowed through her and left her limbs feeling heavy and her head slightly dizzy. She focused on relaxing and not fighting the dizzy feeling, taking deep breaths. As the off-balanced sensation passed, Margery gave a sigh of relief.
“You responded well,” Rowan said encouragingly. He seemed dimmed, muted, diminished somehow—though it was not in his physical appearance. As far as looks went, he was just a fraction paler than before; that was all. “I may have to repeat this, periodically. Loose magic tends to build up, over time. It makes spell-casting easier. I only grounded enough so that we can blend in with nature.”
“This is more complex than I ever imagined,” Margery murmured. Rowan offered her a sympathetic look.
“Most things are that way,” he remarked. “They seem simple on the surface, but look deeper and they’re inescapably complex, yet beautifully simple at the same time.”
“Can you teach me?” Margery asked, suddenly, impulsively.
“I don’t think so,” Rowan replied pensively. “You’re more intuitive; you use magic instinctively, if at all. I don’t think I could teach you to use it in the way I do, and certainly not in this short a time. Not with any degree of safety. It takes a lifetime to learn properly. Magic is not a plaything; it’s a tool, and like all tools it can be dangerous if abused, or misused. It should not be used by the unskilled. Ever.” Margery bowed her head, chastened. “However,” Rowan continued, I can teach you more about it and help you to understand the gift.” Margery looked at him, grateful.
“Please,” she said softly. Rowan gazed on ahead, thoughtful.
“If you wanted to become a Wielder and were really, honestly serious about it, you could become a scholar, focusing on knowledge, discovery, and research. You would need to find a partner who specialized in focused or applied Wielding, to work with, of course, but wisdom and those who seek it are sorely needed.” Margery smiled. Rowan turned toward her, an unrecognized expression twinkling in tawny hazel eyes. “Besides, there’s another reason why I can’t teach you more than just theory.”
“What would that be?” Margery asked, ducking under a tree branch as she rode.
“Whatever would your parents say?” Rowan asked. Margery suddenly realized what the sly twinkle in the young man’s eyes was—mischief. She moved to swat him, but Rowan moved much more quickly. She missed him completely as he swiftly ducked. “There are some things you should know beforehand,” Rowan said, turning serious. “There are certain laws which should be followed, when it comes to magic. These are not merely the laws of Ertraia, but the laws of righteous Wielders everywhere. Some laws are punishable by imprisonment; others by banishment, or instant death. To seek refuge in Ertraia is to put yourself under Ertraia’s justice. First of all, magic should never be used to take a life by any means, except in the defense of life. There are certain prayers and meditations that should be undertaken subsequent to the taking of a life in self-defense. Attempting to summon spirits is most certainly forbidden. If one of the saints speaks to you in a dream or vision, that’s a different thing entirely; but you must be cautious and examine the message of such a dream, analyzing it to decide if it truly comes from God or His saints. There is almost nothing in the world that is more dangerous than a magician under the influence of a demon; you must guard yourself carefully against the mental interference of such evil forces. Magic can not defend against evil spirits; only reverent prayer can do that. Using magic to compel someone against their free will is also forbidden. Magic should never be used for personal gain. Changing the appearance—the accidents, or circumstances—of some object is possible, but only our Lord—” he bowed his head, respectfully—“can change their substance or essence. To attempt to do so would be blasphemy. It is not permissible to attempt to create life, though imitating it is allowed, under certain dire circumstances. Only God can create life, give it and take it. Saving lives, however, is most certainly permissible and praiseworthy. Creating a bond with someone and then throwing them aside without a thought is unthinkable; bonds should not be created in the first place, unless it is absolutely necessary. Bonding with an animal and then forcing it off on its own is punishable by a fine. Courting dreams and visions is not necessarily culpable, but it is generally considered to be a stupid thing to do, as it can leave you open to suggestion by outside forces that might not be benign. Some forms of knowledge are better left alone; we do not believe that the enemy is best fought with his own weapons. That makes us worse than him, because we actually know better, and yet we still allow ourselves to be provoked. Not his own, no, but with equal and opposite ones.”
Margery looked solemnly at Rowan. “So, the gift comes with responsibilities.”
“As all true gifts do,” Rowan nodded solemnly. “All true gifts are given to us so that we may serve others. We are nothing on our own. It is folly to take our gifts for granted, though this is more a matter for personal guidance, rather than for the law. We walk similar lines in magic that we do in our everyday lives. We fall in similar ways; we make similar errors. The punishments are more severe because a rogue magician can cause more harm than an average man in the same plight. The only man who might cause more damage would be one in a position of power or influence. The more we are entrusted with, the higher the expectations. We must be on our guard at all times so that our power does not corrupt us, and take safeguards against greed.” Margery nodded, seriously.
“So, are all the stories about magic true? Not the ones that say all magicians are evil, of course, but the stories about what magic can do.”
“Some of them, but probably not all,” Rowan said. “Even magic has its rules and its limitations. And there are things that should not be attempted, not merely because they can cause physical harm, but because they are morally destructive to the Wielder as well.”
“What about the stories where someone is healed of a wound that should have been fatal?” Margery asked.
“Those are more likely to be true,” Rowan replied, looking down. Margery could not help it; her eyes were drawn to the ugly old scar on one cheek. How had that come about, if…? “Ertraia’s healers are the best in Scotland,” Rowan carried on, “perhaps the best in the world. Normal wounds are easy enough to heal. Magical wounds—those dealt by direct magical means—are more difficult. Some of our healers have traveled abroad to heal the wounds dealt in war and to aid the sick, but due to the persecution of magic users and other knowledge that seems to them of magic, they have had to keep their true abilities secret, and they have grown rarer. Some of our healers have gone out and never returned, and no word came back to us of their fate. We can only hope that they yet live, and are safe and well.”
“What’s the difference—I mean, how do you tell which magic is dark and which is light?”
“No. Don’t say ‘dark’ or ‘light,’” Rowan said. “Perhaps they are, as you use them, mere metaphors, but they are not quite perfect. To use ‘light’ to imply ‘good’ and ‘dark’ to imply ‘evil’ is not quite accurate. We must remember that they are mere metaphors and not innately good or evil of themselves. Darkness predates sin; it is not evil of itself. Even the light, in this broken world of ours, is flawed. Only the Light of Christ shines perfect. Furthermore, some people use ‘light’ to equate truth, and ‘dark’ for ignorance. But this is flawed as well; truth alone, on its own, without the light of grace and divine revelation, can point people in the wrong direction. A few scattered truths do not add up to a full picture. Truth can be colored by perspective, and twisted to the selfish ends of men. Reason unguided by faith can lead down a dark path indeed. Light illuminates, but it does not always guide.” Rowan fell silent; Margery sat, overawed, perfectly still in her saddle. Rowan cocked his head to one side. “What was the question again?”
Margery couldn’t help but laugh. With his philosophical dissertation, he had obviously forgotten entirely about the question that had prompted it. “I asked how I could tell the good from the bad. Or, maybe, a right use of magic from a wrong one?”
“Much the same way as you can tell a good action from a bad one on a purely ordinary level,” Rowan said. “If either the end or the action is not morally permissible on a completely material, natural, and spiritual standpoint, you can be sure it’s wrong no matter the means, ordinary or magical. Natural law. Conscience. Both apply in any situation.”
“By natural law, you mean the moral guidelines ingrained into us, almost instinct?” Margery clarified.
“Exactly.”
They continued to travel, Margery struggling to remember as much philosophy as she could, until nightfall.
20 Friday Jun 2014
Posted in Bound to the Flame, Tales of a Wandering Bard
I told you it wouldn’t take so long this time! And look, just for you: a longer chapter clip! 🙂 Enjoy!
Bound to the Flame
Chapter V
Part I
The silence was ominous, thunderous. Rowan rode ahead of her, eyes straight forward, dark and brooding. The air seemed oppressive, heavy.
“Rowan?” Margery asked, after a long silence, in a small voice. “Are you angry at me for being determined to come with you?” Instantly, she saw the boy’s lean back straighten, as if he had suddenly become aware of her presence.
“No,” he said. “No, I’m not angry. Anger would be entirely unproductive. I was irritated that you wished to come, though there was no good reason for you to do so, except for the bonds of friendship, and so many reasons why you should not come along. If you—if both of us—are not cautious, we could cause what is generally euphemistically termed a ‘diplomatic incident.’ Still…” Rowan paused. “I am grateful for your aid, and company.” He smiled, somewhat cautious, a little shy, at her, sealing the pact. Margery smiled in return, relieved.
“But my going with you should be taken as a sign of our goodwill toward your kingdom,” she said, pursuing the conversation.
“It all depends on how our parents take it,” Rowan replied. “They might see it that way—they might see it as an impropriety.” Margery was silent. It was clear that Rowan was in the habit of thinking things through far more thoroughly than she was in the habit of doing. Rowan continued pensively, though not to Margery; he was thinking out loud, she realized. “Julian was taken, not me. That makes precious little sense. Why? My position was unpredictable and they could not find me anywhere? Troubling. The intimate familiarity with our plans and schedule that this theory suggests hints at a traitor. Why even be in the Ertraian camp at all? Were they trying to start a war with us? Was it meant to provoke… or was it… was it a threat? More frightening still, was it a warning? Or is it merely a ploy, to distract us from the real threat?”
“If it’s the last one,” Margery ventured, “then we may have made a mistake, rushing off like this.”
“My mother will not view it that way,” Rowan asserted. “Julian is her son by bond if not by blood, and besides, we never leave our own unaided in Ertraia. We take care of our own clans.” Margery nodded.
“That’s what my mother always says, too,” she said. “I guess we have more in common than some people would like us to believe. But… you know… it always made me feel a little strange. What about people who you don’t know—who you’ve never even met in your life before—who are your kin as well? What if you had to choose between a family member you didn’t know, and a friend who you’d known your whole life but wasn’t of the same blood? What then?” Rowan shook his head, slowly.
“I don’t know,” he said gravely. “The heart is a fickle servant. It can lead you truly, or it can lead you astray. You would have to weigh both options carefully and then choose—not that it would make the choice any the easier.” He sighed. “I feel a little strange, too, when I meet someone whom I’m apparently related to but have never seen in my life before. It’s a queer, hollow sort of feeling. For much of my life, I’ve been kept in seclusion, to keep me safe. I don’t know how many people outside the ones I knew in the castle. Even the castle itself was very remote… I grew up in a stronghold in the mountains, far from the palace in the capital city of the nation.” Rowan took a deep breath, fidgeting with the collar of his cloak. “In fact, other than someone who visited when I was still very young, I think you’re the first person I’ve known who was close to my own age.” Suddenly falling silent, Rowan stilled.
“What is it?” Margery asked.
“I’m not sure.” Rowan replied quietly. He lifted his staff from where it had been lying across his knees and slid it into one of the saddlebags. He stood up slightly in the stirrups, looking carefully about him at the clearing they stood in. The black horse moved uncertainly. “Quiet, Obsidian. Steady,” Rowan murmured, casting about in search of something. He slowly slid from the horse. As he dismounted, he passed the reins to Margery, scanning the ground carefully. He limped awkwardly across the clearing, searching the grass, the standing plants, the tall flowers, the bushes, the trunks of the trees. He gave a soft, slow, satisfied sigh at last, then lay down on the ground, full length, with one ear pressed to the forest floor. “It’s as I thought,” he said, rising slowly and painfully, though not without a satisfied, justified expression. “They passed this way, sure enough. The birds and the beasts are still discussing it, in their own language, and the trees still shudder in fear and pain. I can not hear any murmur of their feet, no matter how distant, but the other signs do not lie. We’re on the right track; this is no false trail.” With Margery holding Obsidian’s head for him, Rowan mounted, then they set off once more.
They rode in silence for a while, then Rowan said, “We—or rather I—won’t be able to use magic on this quest, from now on, for safety’s sake. We don’t want the men we are pursuing to catch us as well, or notice us passing through. Indeed, I hope that our presence will go undetected. Magic is far too visible and obvious, and its active use can be sensed from miles away.” Margery grinned, guiding her mount gently around a broken stump that protruded from the ground in the center of her path.
“So we’ll be doing things the old-fashioned way, then.” she said.
“Your way.” Rowan smiled, amused. “Right.” They lapsed back into grim silence.
“What will we do when we catch up to your brother’s kidnappers?” Margery asked, after a pause. Rowan glanced momentarily up at the lowering sky overhead, jarred out of his own private thoughts.
“I don’t know,” he said solemnly, stubbornly. Margery looked at him, hoping that he was joking, and was jarred out of her complacency by his stern expression.
“You don’t have a plan?” she squeaked, then bet her tongue. Rowan gave her a candid glance.
“It sometimes helps if you don’t plan too far ahead,” he said. “At the moment there are at least two hundred possible scenarios, of which about sixty or so seem a little more likely than the others. There are thirteen which seem very likely, but I can’t tell until we’re there. I have some idea of what I’d do in any given event, but I am not sure yet which event will come to pass.”
“You’re keeping all those possible contingency plans in your head? How can you ever keep them straight?” Margery said in awe. Rowan barely glanced at her.
“I have a good memory,” he said, his voice flat. It was impossible to tell if he was joking or not. Margery frowned.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Rowan. What is it like, being able to use magic? Rowan paused, silent, for a while, before answering.
“In a sense, you know already,” he said. Margery stared at him, puzzled. Rowan sighed. “Everyone is interconnected. That’s the main feeling, one of unity. It’s not just like feeling at one with nature—it’s also feeling nature, together with the world around you, being able to feel other living creatures—every living creature tends to draw in loose magic. Every person has some magical potential, but not everyone is aware of it, or has the patience to develop it. It takes dedication, patience and willpower. The weak-willed don’t last long in magic lessons, ever. It tends to unearth hidden flaws and cause tension along latent fault lines, and a master who could be so callous as to ignore his student’s distress and allow him or her to continue in the practices that were troubling him or her would be a pretty poor master indeed. On the other hand, Margery… you happen to have a slight magical aptitude yourself. I don’t know if you could ever be a Wielder, but you probably have an innate ability to sense and diffuse and even evade magic, on a very instinctive level.” Margery stared blankly at him. Rowan sighed. “It’s complicated,” he explained. “Very much so. I thought you should know,” he said defensively. “It’s how you got past the border wards—on a subconscious level, you felt the wards and bent them around you, willing yourself through. It’s very clever, come to think of it. Those wards are designed not to break under any circumstances, but they can be temporarily lifted in places to allow people in and out—and apparently, they can also be bent around a person in order to slip past them undetected. We thought our greatest danger was when we lifted the wards—but now, it seems that the greatest danger is that those wards are permeable, if one moves gently enough… Perhaps that is how the spy got into Ertraia?” Rowan paused. “I wish we had some way of getting a message back to my mother, but since we can’t use magic without the risk of detection, I can think of no practicable way.”
“So, familiars are just legend as well?” Margery said.
“Precisely. It is possible to magically bond with an animal, but it should not be done, and rarely does it make sense to spend so much time with one creature as the word ‘familiar’ would suggest.” Rowan took a deep breath.
“There may be no traitor in Ertraia, after all,” Margery said, anticipating him—or rather, stumbling along in his wake, catching his drift only with some difficulty and almost inordinate pride.
“Indeed, but I’m afraid that we can’t dismiss the possibility so lightly, unpleasant as it may be.” Rowan fell silent, pensively, and Margery did not break the silence. She sat in mingled wonder, awe, amazement, and fear. She could not help but feel somewhat overawed. Rowan’s mind seemed to work on a very different plane from hers, a more complex and sophisticated one; it was humbling to admit it, but true nonetheless. He was very intelligent and had made good use of his studies, which embarrassed and shamed her by comparison. She could not help but feel inferior next to him. Then again, the way he had trained his mind was very different from the way hers had been trained. Margery sighed inwardly. Single-minded, focused, ordered; that was Rowan. Scatterbrained; that was her.
“That’s almost insulting,” Rowan commented. Margery blushed. She swallowed, furious with herself. Had she been thinking aloud?
“No,” Rowan replied, “but it’s pretty obvious what you were thinking. Your train of thought is very clear. I have a bad habit of addressing people’s thoughts rather than their words, and some people find it… disconcerting.”
“You can read my mind?”
“No, but it’s hardly my fault if you don’t keep your thoughts to yourself, isn’t it?” Rowan retorted. Almost against her own will, Margery giggled. Rowan stared. “You are a very strange person,” he said. Margery nearly fell off of Celad, she was laughing so hard.
“I’m not strange!” she protested. “You’ve just never met a girl your own age before, haven’t you?” Rowan shrugged. Margery grinned. “I knew it!” she proclaimed.
“So, basically, you’re saying that all teenaged girls are strange?” Rowan asked, confused. Margery burst out laughing again.
“No!” she exclaimed. “I’m just saying that we must seem strange to someone like you, at first. Oh, and that not everyone is as sensible and logical as you—thank goodness,” she added as an afterthought, for good measure. Rowan promptly relegated it to the intricacies of an outside world he would never quite understand and dismissed it from his mind. He paused, and Obsidian stirred beneath him, stamping one hoof in impatience. Rowan reached down and patted the destrier’s neck, reassuringly. Obsidian pawed the ground, scratching a furrow in the damp forest loam, but stood still. Rowan glanced around, as if to ensure that they were headed in the correct direction, then nodded and urged Obsidian forward.
“I wonder if my father and mother are all right, where they are, if they’re still in council, what they are doing, if they even know yet that Julian has been kidnapped. It seems as if we’ve been continuing on like this forever.” he said thoughtfully. “I hope they’re not looking for me, that they didn’t waste their time in sending out search parties.” Margery snorted.
“I know my parents won’t,” she said. “They’re used to me vanishing for odd intervals, even for days at a time, sometimes. They generally don’t worry about me—they know I’m off adventuring and will be back, perfectly well and in good spirits sooner or later, with lots of new yarns to spin.” Rowan listened, his face hard to read, though not unpleasant, or undisposed to listen, and certainly not disapproving or antagonistic.
“It sounds like a pleasant arrangement,” he said, neutrally. Margery hesitated.
“I mean, it’s pretty obvious you’ve never been away from your family before,” she said, cocking her head on one side. Rowan shook his head.
“No, I actually have. Before I was injured, I used to ride far and wide, exploring, in between my studies. Mother was comfortable with it, as long as I told her before I left and came back to her straightaway after I had traveled to my heart’s content. I used to ride out with Father and the Rangers, or the Knights; I knew Ertraia like the back of my hand. It is true that I have lived in seclusion for much of my life, but I was never confined to the castle. Just because I have never been outside Ertraia before doesn’t mean I have had no experience with adventures. However, Margery, this is not an adventure. This is deadly serious. It’s a rescue attempt. My brother’s life may be at stake. There is no room here for error, or foolish heroics, on either of our parts.” He gave her a long, even look. Margery nodded, seriously.
“I understand. I’ve read enough about history and military operations to know that much.” she scoffed. Rowan grinned.
“Indeed. I’ve never really understood why such a vein of knowledge could be frowned on as part of a princess’ studies, or for that matter, why it should be frowned on for a prince to work in a garden, or to know how to mend his own clothes, if need be. I couldn’t quite follow why it sent the housekeeper into hysterics when I cleaned my own room. I like my room the way it is. She had a different idea of cleanliness entirely.” Rowan snorted. “She never could make up her mind where things should go. I swear they wound up in different places every time, and certainly never where I wanted them.” Margery giggled.
“I think all housekeepers everywhere must be related, somehow,” she joked. “They all seem to tidy up in a way that only leads to a bigger muddle!”
“Perhaps it’s their way of ensuring they stay in work?” Rowan mused, dryly. Margery burst out laughing.
“That has to be it. Either that, or none of them has any sense.” she laughed. Rowan laughed softly, a pleasant sound that did not seem at all out of place among the woods.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said, then noticed that Margery was staring at him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I think that has to be the first time I’ve heard you laugh… I mean really laugh.” Rowan frowned.
“I must have laughed before, at some point,” he said. Margery shook her head.
“No, I don’t think you did,” she replied. Rowan was silent for a while.
“Am I really that serious?” he asked at last. Margery sighed.
“I think you are,” she said. “That, and you have a very wry way of delivering your humor.”
Sorry, this feels a bit like a filler chapter. But it’s kind of necessary. You’ll find out why sooner or later. ;-P
Thanks for reading, and God Bless!
18 Wednesday Jun 2014
Posted in Living Life with Passion, Story Dynamics, Uncategorized
Tags
bound to the flame, characters, editor, harry potter, j.k. rowling, kysherin, realism, star wars, story dynamics, writer, writing
Seriously, it’s starting to get on my nerves. It’s cliche, and cliches bother me. Does it bother you too? No? Well, let’s see. The post is young yet! *sinister grin*
I give you exhibit A: Anakin Skywalker. The chief mistake they made with this one was telling him that he was the Chosen One. He was sweet in The Phantom Menace, but by the time Attack of the Clones came around, he was bratty, spoiled, disrespectful, and disobedient. Not to mention disgustingly and awkwardly lovesick. And in Revenge of the Sith, Obi-Wan’s gotten to the point where he’s just trying to hold things together, and Anakin’s not helping. And he turns to the Dark Side. We can blame Palpacreep for that, though. He cuts his son’s hand off, for goodness sake! Oh, and we (or at least, quite a few of us) love Obi-Wan better than him. 😛 Maybe it’s the inherent tragedy of Obi-Wan’s position, or that Obi-Wan is a shining example of what an “ordinary” person can be, but… we do. Perhaps it’s that Obi-Wan is even more human than Anakin and still succeeds where Anakin fails. (Oh, by the way. Ever notice how you rarely, if ever, see a poorly-written or grammatically incorrect fanfiction with a lame plot that stars Obi-Wan, but Anakin has lots of those? Not that Anakin-starring fanfictions are all bad, but… food for thought.)
Frankly, Anakin seems just… overrated at times. And it doesn’t help much that Obi-Wan and Luke are the true Christ figures of Star Wars. (Obi-Wan gets the title because he sacrificed his own life to save Luke and ultimately Anakin as well, and Luke gets it because… dun dun dun! he ultimately saved Anakin, in his own weakness. I love these beautiful paradoxes…)
And now for exhibit B: Harry Potter. Now, I’m fairly sure there wasn’t exactly a prophecy included here, but you know what I mean. (To whom it may concern: I have not read the Harry Potter books and have no intention of doing so. From what I understand, they can be violent and cast doubt on traditional values, not to mention that there are what seem to be veiled attacks against the Catholic Church, and there is no way I can condone that! See Harry Potter and the Paganization of Culture, by Michael D. O’Brien. Bear in mind, though, that I am not attacking the author of the Harry Potter books or those that read them. I’m certain that the readers find the books good entertainment, and J.K. Rowling is a well-meaning lady. It’s simply that I object to the books, on religious and spiritual grounds.) Apparently this case is different; they didn’t start calling him that until what? The last two books or so? But from what I’ve heard, they don’t seem to fight the villain with integrity; more with whatever will give them victory. (Recurring theme here; Anakin thought the Jedi “inadequate” and to be “holding him back.”) This is in stark contrast with the way Gandalf, Frodo, Galadriel, and Elrond decide to fight the War of the Ring; they refuse to fight the Enemy with his own weapons. From the reports of the Harry Potter books, not only does Harry indulge in this general lawlessness, but so does everybody else. Yeah, they win in the end… but at what cost? As opposed to Star Wars, where the only victory is by doing the right thing. (I know I’m going to get shouted down for judging without reading, but I really do not need another obsession, or even just more clutter on my mental landscape.)
Exhibit C: Lloyd Garmadon. Despite the Eastern spiritualism perpetuated in the Lego Ninjago series, it really has quite a few redeeming thematic features. I can safely say that I think this is the best portrayal of a “Chosen One” in modern popular entertainment. Lloyd, the son of Garmadon, the supposed “Dark Lord”, is “destined” to “destroy evil” (though, predictably, that hasn’t happened yet or the series would be over!)
Lloyd struggles with his destiny, quite a bit. He is very human indeed (not to mention cute… shhh. 😛 ) He feels rather left out and there are times when he just wants to be normal. He struggles with self-control, and has times when he snaps under the pressure of training. There are days when he just fails. In short, he isn’t perfect, which is a common feature to all humans, and he realizes it, which is a redeeming feature. He realizes his errors and tries to become better. Ultimately, he ends up defeating evil by realizing his own weaknesses, and in the sequel (Ninjago Rebooted,) his powers actually become the team’s greatest weakness. This turn-about, added to the fact that the former Dark Lord, Garmadon, has been redeemed and is now the team’s main “Sensei” after Wu was captured, is nothing but pure brilliance. I’m not obsessed with this show, but I do love the way they suddenly whipped things around fast enough to make the watchers’ heads whirl.
But even without his powers, Lloyd would be quite the character in his own right. He’s mischievous at times, charming, kind, endearingly rascally, occasionally brash, and most of all, he recognizes his shortcomings. Even without the added abilities, Lloyd would have been a valiant defender of the people of Ninjago in his own right.
In my experience, Chosen Ones tend to be humans with a superhuman destiny. They have their own lives, free will, and fallibility, just like other humans. Only occasionally have I read a story in which the “Chosen One” is a supernatural or superhuman being, who has been sent especially to defeat evil, or for some other “mission.” Invariably these supernatural, “perfect” Chosen Ones are side characters, and for good reason. If they are infallible, they’re not loveable. They’re not human enough for human readers to get to like them. You simply can not write a story with a perfect protagonist, because if you do, then what? Nothing even happens. There is no point, no reason to fight. The protagonist must change with the story, they must defeat their inner demons and fight with their flaws. Occasionally, there won’t even be a fight because the Mary Sue takes out the bad guys, end of story. So what if it kicks behinds? It’s still just a fight scene, not a story.
So, what am I calling for?
These six points are the reason why Rowan, the protagonist of my novel Bound to the Flame, is not really a “Chosen One.” Yes, he is special. Yes, he is gifted. Yes, there may (or may not) be a prophecy about him. Yes, he probably will change the course of this alternate history he’s living in. But his role is really more of a protector and strategist, not the person who is supposed to single-handedly save the world. And if the story does change into him needing to do that… you’ll be the first to know, my dear readers. ;-P But seriously, if he does end up needing to save the world, you can trust that he’s going to do it by God’s strength, not his own. He’s going to find that out, anyway–he’s still learning the lesson of humility.
I think that should be the true message of a “Chosen One” story–you can only find true strength by realizing your weakness, and in some cases, by embracing it.
I’m pretty sure there are other books, movies, and series out there involving faulty portrayals of “Chosen Ones.” Which is your favorite? Which do you like to bash? Please, tell me! 🙂
Thanks for reading, and God Bless!
15 Sunday Jun 2014
Posted in Bound to the Flame, Tales of a Wandering Bard
Hello, everyone! Sorry about the wait… when real life intrudes, the blog suffers. :-S Even when the blogger has 30k plus words up her sleeve to post… Sorry, once again. There won’t be much this time… Chapter IV was a short chapter.
On to Rowan!
Bound to the Flame
Chapter IV
Part III
He met Margery as she was coming back out of the camp. “Rowan, where have you been?” she asked.
“I know Adyn’s safe,” he said. Margery registered irritation at him.
“If you knew that before, then why ever did you go off on a wild-goose chase?” she said, frustrated.
“I didn’t know before,” Rowan said coolly. “I couldn’t know before I looked for him myself. My mind was not clear, and I could not risk trying to search for him mentally.” Margery shrugged.
“Where were you, anyway?” she asked.
“At a place I’m glad Adyn did not go,” Rowan replied. “My mind has been blurred, clouded, ever since we came here, but now it’s perfectly clear. We must find my brother Julian.”
“Does being among a big crowd usually distract you?” Margery asked.
“It wasn’t the crowd,” Rowan assured her as he led her through the Ertraian camp. In a few minutes, they arrived at the royal pavilion. A few smaller tents were grouped around it, in a small circle. “None of us sleeps in the pavilion,” Rowan confided. “My parents share a tent with me, and my foster brothers have a tent to themselves. Fortaine is probably with my mother in council, but Julian was on duty late last night. He’s probably sleeping right now. You might want to make yourself scarce, if he is. He’s a bear when he’s first woken up of a morning.” Rowan continued toward the tent; Margery remained behind. “Julian?” he asked, out of courtesy, before entering. No answer. Not a sound. Rowan pulled aside the heavy canvas tent flap. He gasped and dropped to his knees. Margery looked over his shoulder and gave a cry of shock.
The tent was a scene of chaos. The small wooden folding table that stood beside the cot was overturned, and the pitcher and basin lay on the ground, shattered. The grass was still damp, but the dry ground had already sucked up all the water. The broken pieces of a smashed chair lay mixed with the pottery. The sheets of the cot were thrashed, and ripped to shreds. Even the second cot, the one that should have been untouched, was in a shambles. The tent was empty.
Julian was gone.
Recovering, Rowan stepped into the tent, careful not to disturb anything. He examined the bed closely, looked at the table, chair, and broken jar and basin. At last, he cautiously lay on the bed, leaped up with more speed than Margery would have thought possible, moved to the other side of the tent, brushed his elbow up against an imaginary jar, leaped sideways, paused once more to examine the signs of the struggle again, began to move again, laying smaller steps into place, tracing the movement of one who had been there before, moving gracefully and yet purposefully about. Tiny pale flickers followed his every move, darting here and there, forming shy, glimmering lines. Margery watched, entranced. “What are you doing?” she asked in a loud whisper. Rowan gathered some of the glimmering dust into his palm and blew it outward into the open space of the tent. It swirled around, forming the shapes of an un-tipped table, an unbroken pitcher and basin, a chair, an un-rumpled cot, and the figure of a man lying on it. Margery could not see the apparition’s face clearly, but she could tell that the shining outline was meant to be Julian. The man stirred at what appeared to be a sudden sound, though there was no sound in the re-creation, and leaped to his feet. His elbow brushed against the pitcher and it fell, smashing silently into shards, which flew outwards, outlining their solid counterparts in an unearthly glow. Shadoy figured raced into the tent, strangely soundless, overturning the table and overcoming the brave knight, knocking him unconscious and dragging him from the shelter. The pale glow slowly dimmed, faded away; Rowan held up a hand. On his face was a look of intense concentration. The lines flashed out again and went dormant. Walking quickly to the table, Rowan grabbed a sheet of paper and a quill pen. The ink bottle was mercifully unbroken, and Rowan penned two notes with astonishing swiftness. Laying one on the bed, he tucked the other into his belt and walked swiftly from the tent. Margery preceded him out. Turning at the entrance, Rowan made a swift gesture, as if sliding something closed with both hands, open palms facing forward. The tent flaps closed and tied themselves in an intricate fastening. Rowan walked swiftly to his own tent, with Margery following. “What did you do?” she asked, curious.
“I bound the memory spell so that it would last, and then sealed the area. No one will be able to enter it and disturb it before my mother comes.” He laid the second note down on his cot and walked swiftly away, a slight limp the only reminder of his long-since injured and never fully healed leg.
“What are you doing?” Margery demanded.
“No one else will come for a long time,” Rowan replied. “They’re all in the Council meetings. I’m going after my brother.” They made their way to the stables, Margery trailing hesitantly behind her friend.
“Why can’t you wait?” she asked. “It’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous or not, the longer we wait, the greater the head start Julian’s kidnappers will have. Besides, I’m not exactly defenseless.” Rowan shifted his cloak, briefly. A dagger glinted at his belt, then was hidden once more. “He’s my brother. I have to help him.” Rowan took down the saddle from its hook and laid it on a jet-black horse’s back, patting its neck reassuringly as he did so. The horse whinnied softly.
“I’m coming with you,” Margery declared. Rowan froze, caught halfway in tightening the girth.
“What?” he asked.
“I said, I’m coming with you,” Margery repeated stubbornly.
“But… you can’t, you have to stay with your family… what would your mother think?” Rowan stammered.
“She’d think I was off on another adventure, and that I’ll come home safe. I always do,” Margery said self-assuredly, saddling Celad as she spoke. Rowan took a bow and arrows from the wall, slinging the quiver across his back. He slipped a sling into one of the saddlebags and slid a long sword in its scabbard through the waiting loops in the saddle.
“But Julian has no claim on you,” he protested. “I should go alone.”
“No Ertraian has any claim on me,” Margery said. She locked eyes with Rowan. “But there is one Ertraian whom I consider my friend.” Rowan’s mouth curled into a twist. He was not pleased with the decision, but he would bow to her wishes.
“Very well,” he said. He slid one foot into the stirrup and slung the other over the saddle with the practiced ease of an experienced rider, flicking the reins, signaling the coal-black horse into a trot. Margery followed suit, and Rowan led her off through the camp, into the woods.
12 Thursday Jun 2014
Posted in Bound to the Flame, Tales of a Wandering Bard
Tags
battlefield of the soul, bound to the flame, shifting tides, star wars, story dynamics, writer trouble
Hello, once again. It has come to my attention that Bound to the Flame has been a bit neglected recently. (As has Battlefield of the Soul, but don’t fear, Shifting Tides fans… it’s under construction. Big-time re-working of the central sequences, which is a pain in the neck, but there you are.) So, without further ado, here is the next chapter of Bound to the Flame!
Bound to the Flame
Chapter VI
Part II
Margery felt slightly uneasy, going as she was alone into the Ertraian sector of the camp, but no one stopped her to question her. The tall woman, who had come to fetch Rowan earlier—Rheadwyn, as Margery had heard her called—gave her a friendly smile that was not clouded by her deeply scrutinizing gaze. Her wild dark eyes seemed to pierce the depths of Margery’s soul in an uncanny way, but the eyes were kind and htough Margery felt as if her entire mind had been laid bare, she did not feel uneasy.
Summoning her courage, Margery actually smiled and waved at some of the people as she passed. They would generally smile and wave back at her. Occasionally someone would pass, bent too intently one some urgent errand to notice the Arethwyne princess, but in general the Ertraians seemed to be courteous and friendly. Margery felt her spirits lifting. She stopped the next person she came across, a tall, stocky man with a dark brown beard, to ask for directions.
“Excuse me,” she said politely. The man beamed down at her.
“Aye, lass?” he replied.
“Can you point me toward the encampment of Clan Caerlen? I’m looking for someone named Taryn…” The man laughed.
“Caerlen? You’re in the midst of it right now, lass. Taryn’s the attendant of the royal family—you’ll likely find her in the tent just off the great pavilion. If not, she may be with the Queen.” Margery thanked the man and made her way toward the great pavilion that he had pointed out as he was speaking. She admired the Ertraian craftsmanship on all the tents she passed. All were well-made, and occasionally beautifully embroidered as well. Outside some of the tents were piled weapons—bows, spears, a sword or two leaning here and there against a tent pole. They were all beautifully crafted, elegant weapons, beautifully deadly, even the simple spears. Margery remembered the carved staff Rowan used to aid him in getting about. She wondered if it had been made for Rowan by one of his two foster brothers. At last she arrived at the great pavilion. It was only differentiated from the other tents and pavilions in the Caerlen encampment by the border with the Ertraian arms worked into it on the tent, and the banner that had been planted beside it and waved gently in the afternoon breeze. The tent itself was no larger or finer than the other tents, save for its simple decoration, and Margery would have never imagined that it was the royal tent at all, unless it had been pointed out to her in the way it had been.
Here, Margery turned aside, toward the other tent pitched beside it. She moved to push the flap aside quietly, then hesitated. “Taryn?” she asked softly.
“Come in,” a quiet, lilting voice called. Margery brushed aside the tent flap and entered.
Taryn was an extremely beautiful, small, fragile-looking woman, with dark hair and eyes. She reminded Margery of a wild bird, with her darting eyes and half-skittish, courteous manner. Taryn was approaching middle age, and was probably not native Ertraian, as threads of sliver were beginning to snake, sinuous and elegant, through her austere, neat bun. She might not age as the Ertraians did, but she wore her age regally. Taryn was stroking the tousled blond head of the boy who was the object of Margery’s search.
“I was looking for Adyn. He ran away from Rowan,” Margery said. Taryn looked solemn.
“You found him,” she murmured. Margery looked down at the little boy, who had obviously cried himself out until he slipped into a deep sleep, with his head resting in his mother’s lap. Taryn seemed slightly worried. Margery searched the older woman’s face.
“Why are you upset?” she asked, trying her best to sound compassionate rather than curious. Taryn shrugged.
“My sun just—presumably—argued with his guardian, and certainly ran away from him. Why should I not be upset? I think that such a failing merits worry, does it not?”
“It’s more than just that, though,” Margery guessed. “There’s something else troubling you.” Taryn hesitated for a long moment, studying Margery, then she nodded.
“Yes. Yes, Princess, there is another reason for my concern.” Taryn took a deep breath. “Every generation, the leaders of the White Council choose a Champion—someone to speak for them, to fight for them, to defend the people, to act as their liaison. Halbryn, our King, is the current Champion, and when Rowan was young there was great hope that he would be able to succeed his father as Champion. You see, a Champion is more than just a warrior, your highness. He speaks with the people as the Council’s voice, defends the kingdom from threats without and within. He or she defends the kingdom from dark wizards and corruption. He or she is the last line of defense against evils that come from the misuse of magic, and attacks from the occult. We all thought that surely Rowan would be our strong defender. He would be more than just a king. He would defend the people of Ertraia, protect them from threats from every source. He would keep watch and prevent the Dark from rising. We thought that he would be the Champion, almost completely assuredly, because of what he is.”
“What he is?” Margery repeated, confused.
“Your highness, not only is Rowan the most gifted child to be born in human memory, but he is also the last of the Amatane Wielders. He is the most powerful Wielder in the world, perhaps in all of history. He has the most raw talent Melilana and Halbryn have ever seen, and they often meet with the parents of magic-gifted children in order to offer them support and guidance. But his power of Amatane goes farther than mere magical ability. The Amatane does not run in any bloodline; it is completely unpredictable who will be born with it. It is considered among the most dangerous abilities, and it can not be learned. Among other powers, legend says that the Amatane had the power to cut off any Wielder from their powers, perhaps even permanently, and they could drain the magic, even the life itself, from any living being. The Rangers were once mostly Amatane; all the children who were observed to have this power were very carefully trained, to preserve the safety of all those in the kingdom, and almost every known Amatane became a Ranger. The Rangers were the secret guardians of Ertraia and the protectors of all the innocent. They served the Council in secrecy; they were the White Council’s fist, the bulwark against attack. They protected the innocent. Under the Council’s orders, if an evil magic user was too set in his ways for redemption, they drew his claws. The dark magicians lived in fear of them. Rowan is the first Amatane to be born in recent history. Unfortunately, this also means that he has had no one to guide him in the use of his powers. We must trust in Rowan, that he will be able to control them without a guide.
“Rowan does not know yet that he has the Amatane, but the Queen recognized the signs at once. Since I cared for Rowan when he was at his lowest ebb, I had to know as well. I had to be cautious at all times, to watch for certain signals, in case his powers were becoming active. If I touched him at such a time, he might unintentionally suck the life force out of me. We have kept the fact that he is Amatane secret for two reasons. The first is because, did Rowan know of this power before the time came, he would tear himself apart inwardly for having so destructive an ability. The second is because of the Amatane sect of the Dark Druids. While most of the Druids were peaceable negotiators and keepers of the peace, or great military strategists, or political leaders, the Dark Druids sought the power to dominate. One of their sects stole Amatane children and raised them to use their powers against all who opposed them. Thus, since the Rangers were secret, most people associated the Amatane with the Dark Druids. We have had to keep Rowan’s powers a secret to protect him. We can only hope that, with Halbryn’s training and Melilana’s mental disciplines, he will be able to control the Amatane.” Margery looked slowly at Taryn. The woman gave her a stern glance.
“Mind, I am only telling you this because the Queen wished for you to know. She feels that you may be able to help her son, and you may need this knowledge as well.” Her voice softened slightly. “I hope you will be able to help the boy. I remember holding him when he was naught but a babe.” She sighed. “God raises up champions to do His will and protect His people in times of danger, but poor Rowan—he will never grow into his birthright, and if he had how terrible it might have been for him!
“When Rowan was injured, I cared for him. Adyn was chosen to take Rowan’s place as prospective guardian. It is hard to judge which of them is the more gifted, though Rowan is certainly the more disciplined. They were put back the twelve years Rowan is older, and all the boy’s training as well. I fear Adyn may not be ready in time…”
“Since Rowan is so gifted,” Margery said slowly, choosing her words with caution, “does it not mean now that the danger is greater than ever before?” Taryn sighed.
“Yes. We fear that the Dark is rising again. We’re not sure what we’ll do without him.”
Rowan struggled against the violent storm that he was trying, valiantly, not to feed. He gasped in mental pain as lightning fizzed through the air around him. Rain splattered down, with a few hailstones thrown in for good measure. The wild storm was growing still, bending Rowan to the breaking point.
Before him, the maelstrom was even more intense. The hooded, mist-shrouded figure held a knife. It was standing behind Halbryn, who stood perfectly still, unaware. The figure was waiting for just the right moment to pounce, Rowan could feel it. Another black crow swept down from the sky, and the figure leaped forward. “No!” Rowan screamed.
Melilana leaned heavily on the post that she had been chained to, sobbing, alone. Rowan reached out to her, instinctively, but she was as shadowy and incorporeal as the bats that thronged overhead, as slippery and impossible to grasp as the storm itself. Rowan looked down, tears blurring his eyes. When he looked up again, the vision had vanished.
Suddenly, he found himself looking into two blank white eyes that stared emptily at him out of a mist. Rowan found himself appalled, yet at the same time drawn in. The eyes were apparently blind, but horrible, seeing by some machination other than sight, repelling, yet impelling. Terribly blank, yet full of something Rowan did not recognize and instinctively shied from. Horribly familiar…
Rowan jerked away from the vision. The world tilted again, as if a portal had been opened to another plane, and Rowan found himself staring at himself—faint, ghostly, but taller, straighter; the other Rowan’s hand rested lightly on the pommel of a sword rather than gripping a staff with a death grip until his knuckles were white. The two Rowans stared at each other. The moment stretched out. The other Rowan did not look at him with pity, merely bland, inoffensive curiosity. A familiar furrow drawn between dark brows as the wind slid dark locks across pale temples. It was as if they were each trying to tell the other something, but were on opposite sides of a deep rift, out of which a dark mist was slowly rising to the heavens, an impenetrable wall, uncrossable by sound or breath, only by paling vision. Soft, pale mist rolled slowly around them, the breeze swirling it into fantastic shapes. The crippled Rowan felt strange, immaterial, as if he was staring at his own reflection in a swirled-glass mirror, such as hung on the wall just within the great hall of the castle in Ertraia, back home, a constant reminder that we are rarely as we see ourselves. Identical dark-golden tawny eyes met. Rowan felt a twist in his stomach, almost a wrench, as he looked at his uninjured, uncrippled double. An odd buzzing throb echoed behind his temples, and he choked back a sob. It hurt to see what might-have-been with such harsh, painful clarity. The mist blew slowly past them, obscuring the other Rowan from sight for a moment. When the mist cleared, Rowan was alone in the ancient circle, and for once, it was quiet—not quiet in the sense of lack of sound, for the only sound there had been the entire time was a soft whistling of the wind through the stones, but a quiet in the currents of time and space, a simple lack of motion, save the soothing drift of leaves and the occasional movement of some small animal, for miles around. More wondrous still was the lack of mental noise. Due to the disturbance—the mad gyrations—in the wild currents below the surface of the visible world, Rowan had not experienced true mental quiet and peace in his mind in some time. There was no background white noise attacking his senses, spiritual or physical; no aching pound of incipient visions against his temples, no prickle of uncanny, poignant intuition at the nape of his neck. The throbbing, twisting motion of the elder magic still flamed through the harsh currents, but it seemed that it had lost interest in him. Rowan fell to his knees, feeling drained, but at least—for once since they had arrived at the Cremlegged—his head felt completely clear. He could sense, now, that Adyn had never been here, and for that he was grateful. The boy had a lot of magical potential, but no control. Simply put, being here would have been overtly not safe for Adyn, for the most basic of reasons: the boy would have been a danger to himself. Even Rowan had been overwhelmed, and he was far older and much better trained.
Suddenly, a sudden wrench pulled at him—not before his eyes, but in his mind. An image appeared—Julian was sleeping peacefully, then a hand descended and snatched him suddenly away. Rowan snapped upright. Now, he could put a name to his fear. He had misattributed it to the peril of the Cremlegge itself, but now he knew that his unease had not been due to the power of the Cremlegge—which, if anything, had seemed to favor him rather than attempt to destroy him—but due to some presence of evil undetected. A traitor? It seemed impossible, but it was a possibility—though ugly—that he could not ignore. However, for now, an intruder seemed far more likely.
Julian was in danger.
Rowan rushed off, back to the camp.
09 Monday Jun 2014
Tags
bound to the flame, disney, disney fairies, iris, j.m. barrie, j.r.r. tolkien, kysherin, lord of the rings, muse, peter pan, selay'uu, star wars
Eight people sat around a table, three of them dark-haired, one blonde, three ginger, and one with mousy nondescript unkempt locks. There were notebooks in front of five of them; the other three weren’t particularly keen on taking notes. All of them had coffee or cocoa in tall mugs, and there was a plate of cookies and another of hot muffins on the table. No one seemed overly interested in the food, though.
I finished telling them about my plans for the Peter Pan story that had recently devoured most of my imagination and time. I turned to look around the table at the two main actors and my various encouragement moguls and assistants. “So, any questions?” There were none. “Thoughts? Pan?” Peter sat up from where he had been lounging in his chair with his light boots on the table.
“We’re dealing with some pretty weighty stuff here,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s as well you banned Tinker Bell from this meeting.” Everyone except Obi-Wan gave a collective shudder at the idea of the jealous and vain fairy disrupting the staff meeting. Wendy nodded.
“I like the multi-generational aspect,” she said encouragingly. “There’s an awful lot of theory involved though.” I nodded.
“This isn’t going to be such a light-hearted jaunt through Neverland. For some reason, as well as emulating J.M. Barrie’s style, I’ve also wound up adding doses of Tolkien in equal parts–completely unintentionally, of course.” Obi-Wan steepled his fingers; it was hard to tell whether he was channeling Mace Windu, or Sherlock.
“Please tell me you’re not attempting a truly dark fantasy, Erin.” he said in a tone that told me he was already fairly sure that I wasn’t.
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I just felt the urge to put my own twist on the classic. Don’t worry, Rowan and Margery, I’ll get back to yours as soon as may be.”
“Are you borrowing theory from our story?” Rowan asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said thoughtfully. “If anything, I’m borrowing it slightly from Heather Dale. But no, I think not. Your Scotland is a very different place from Neverland, and I think that the magic system there will probably be a bit more varied than yours. For instance, Shadow Summoners. Though your novel could do with one, I guess.”
“Mmm,” Rowan said. “I already get the feeling that you’re planning a scene with some sort of monster for us.” I grinned.
“It can only harm you if you look at it.” Rowan shrugged.
“I can walk just fine blindfolded, you know.” I grinned.
“Exactly.” Margery raised her hand, hesitantly.
“What about me?”
“You’re going to be helping him control the Amatane power when that comes up. In fact, I have a feeling that you’ll be key. As a matter of fact, I just realized that Wielders’ powers come from their compassion and their connections to other people and nature. I’m not quite sure how yet. Anyway, back to Peter.”
Iris had listened quietly all this time, but now she spoke up. “I especially like your idea of having Neverland begin to fall apart when Peter goes missing.”
“Well, in my mind, it just made sense,” I excused myself. “Peter Pan is, essentially, the life of fairy tales. His role is just to be, and to keep back the dark. So when he’s gone, or threatened, the person who threatens him is essentially threatening to let all the powers of evil–at least in this world–loose on both Neverland and the mainland. You know…” she paused. “If we could get someone half-decent to do the editing and effects, this would make an amazing movie.”
“It would,” Iris said. Obi-Wan decisively downed the last of his coffee and leaned back with a grimace.
“I’d suggest that you keep it doable, keep up a realistic outlook.” he said. “After all, unlike some of your projects, this one is completely doable.”
Kysherin gave an evil, uncanny, skin-crawl-inducing chuckle. “Yet.” I scowled at the Muse.
“This is why you’re ugly, Kysherin,” I said. She smiled evilly.
“I know.”
Suddenly, the doors slammed open and Legolas burst in. “Someone left the stables unlocked, and all the flying dragons and horses and even H’vyenteh are getting away!” he shouted.
Life as usual with Selay’uu.
08 Sunday Jun 2014
Posted in Tales from Selay'uu, Uncategorized
[Author’s Note: This is not meant to be offensive, merely funny. Also, for those who want to know, I have not read the Harry Potter books and do not plan to–the attitude, even more than the subject matter, of the books is contrary to my worldview. I am not judging those who have read and enjoyed the books, or J.K. Rowling; I merely do not wish to read the books myself. Thank you for your understanding and consideration! 🙂 ]
The next morning, I promptly cleaned up and made my way down to breakfast. The breakfast room, like the breakfast room at any hotel, was reasonably full, and people were constantly coming and going. Getting myself some toast and yogurt, I sat down at a corner table, just to watch the others. Then I realized I hadn’t gotten anything to drink. So, naturally, I got up and went to get myself some milk, not feeling like orange juice that morning. I was about to make my way back to my table when I realized that Anakin had come to join me.
Or rather, he had come and sat down at the same table, with his feet on my chair. I set my glass of milk down, very deliberately, and said very politely, “Anakin, excuse me, but I was sitting there, where your feet are now. Would you mind removing them?” He just stared at me as if I was some bizarre species of alien, chewing away at his bagel. I groaned and went over to sit by Rheadwyn instead.
Then things got interesting.
The bell in the belltower began to clang madly, and booted feet rushed past in the hallway outside. I leaped to my feet, startled, and dashed out into the hall. Mace Windu rushed past me, followed by Obi-Wan. Several others ran past and accidentally swept me into the crowd. I found myself running alongside Obi-Wan. “What’s happening?”
“It’s a breach,” he said. “Someone from an unauthorized story world has broken in, and we need to find and evict them as soon as may be.” I stared at him.
“Does this happen often?”
“It’s become more frequent ever since the Harry Potter lot learned those trans-dimensional tricks of theirs. Of course, we’ve been researching that sort of thing for years, but no one else seems to have found a practicable way until recently.” He remarked telepathically, We think that a traitor sold them the information. I gasped.
Please, don’t do that. It’s cool but freaky.
As you wish. Obi-Wan grabbed my arm suddenly and pulled me around a corner. “Cover me,” he ordered. “Just a basic shield. You never know what they’ll have up their sleeve.” Stretching out my arm, I put into practice the simple defense I had learned, shielding us both. Obi-Wan pulled a liquid-cable launcher from a belt pouch. He kicked open the door to one of the empty rooms and gave a slight sigh. “Potter, come on out. I know it’s you. I know you’re here. Just do things the easy way.” There was no sound from inside the room. Suddenly there was a tiny flicker and I noticed something sitting on my boot. I panicked.
Obi-Wan, there’s something on me, a bug or something!
Calm down, he ordered. He reached down and drew his hand back as if he’d been stung. Ah. A nanodragon. I should have seen that coming. He reached down slowly, a second time. “Last warning, Potter!” he shouted. At the same time he brought his hand up with eye-blurring speed, hurling the nanodragon into midair. There was a shriek and Harry Potter–in the flesh–fell from the rafters, sitting down hard on the floor, kicking up dust. Obi-Wan walked over and grabbed him by the collar, heaving him to his feet. “Unfortunately for you, you pulled Ziggerastica, the great and mighty humbug, marvelous center of the universe, along with you on your little pleasure jaunt,” he observed. “Don’t you think it’s time you outgrew these childish tricks, Potter? If your poor author was still working on your series, she’d be in the middle of a bout of writer’s block by now!” The boy wizard scowled. Obi-Wan frowned. “Have it your way.” He thumped twice on the floor with the heel of one boot, and a strange phenomenon appeared–swirling black and throwing off little sparkles. Obi-Wan unceremoniously dumped Harry Potter into the portal, then closed it with a wave of one hand. “Your turn,” he remarked to the nanodragon attached to his sleeve. Shrieking curses and obscenities in Dragonese, the nanodragon was flung into a bright orange-and-pink portal. Obi-Wan sucked on his bitten finger, wiping his other hand on his pant leg. “There,” he said. “That’s done.”
“I didn’t know you were a Wielder,” I remarked, interested.
“Sort of,” Obi-Wan replied. “I’m technically a Warden, though, which means that I’m one of the few beings actually authorized for inter-dimensional travel. It’s like with normal people; the more times they’re exposed to radiation, the more likely they are to experience genetic mutations. Only for fictional characters, it’s the more often they feature in crossover fanfiction. My first real journey–not in a fanfiction–out of my own dimension was pretty weird. I ended up in the background of an episode of Doctor Who.” I burst out laughing.
“And how did you know Potter was there? I didn’t sense anything.” I added.
“The smell of the detergents they use at Hogwarts is very distinctive,” Obi-Wan said. “Like a combination of bug spray, skunk cabbage, and lichen.” He winked. I laughed.
“Lichen has a smell?”
“It smells rather like wet wood, but a little more acidic,” he said. I nodded.
“Oh, right.”
Yes, I was becoming more comfortable with the members of Selay’uu.
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