“FOR LATHANDER!” An old dwarf woman roared from the back of a wagon, her voice carrying over the din of battle. She swiped her gleaming greatsword through the air, taking off the head of a Cyric fanatic climbing onto the vehicle. She whirled around and took off another head before turning to her squire and glaring at her.
“Don’t just stand there like a barrel of elf wine, Oakstone! Use yer sword, or fall on it!”
Trym’s shaky hands groped for her shortsword. The only thought running through her mind was how unprepared she was for this. Why hadn’t she paid more attention in class? Why hadn’t she spent more time on the training grounds? Why couldn’t it have been goblins? She was fresh out of the school. She wasn’t ready to destroy a human life yet. She wasn’t ready for hers to be threatened.
“Ya move like molten rock, girl… MOVE!” The old dwarf grabbed Trym by her small, Halfling shoulders, and whirled her around.
The dwarf woman froze and grunted. Trym watched in horror as her teacher’s eyes became hazy, her mouth falling open, the air driven from her body.
The dwarf grunted again as a sword tip punched through her chest.
A man dressed in black, wearing a grinning mask, stood up behind the dwarf. “That’s right, Dawnlord. Die like the dog you are.” He twisted the sword sticking through her.
Rage coursed through Trym. She stood and slashed her blade across the mask, breaking through it and cutting into the man’s flesh.
He screamed and leaned back, losing his footing and tumbling from the wagon. As a last ditch effort to maintain his balance, he grabbed Trym’s sword, but she turned it lose and let him fall to the ground where he was trampled under the hooves of a warhorse.
“Trym…” the old dwarf woman grabbed Trym’s small hand and pushed the oversized hilt of her greatsword into it, “Take Cultbane, lass… show them… the light… where it don’t shine.” She smirked, then slumped to the bottom of the wagon, eyes staring blankly at the sky.
Trym paused running her whetstone down Cultbane’s edge. She focused on the dwarfish runes engraved on its blade, a nostalgic smile turning up the corner of her lips.
Today is a good day for someone else to die. Is what they said.
Her first paladin master, Dawnlord Sorsha Flaskgranite, told her that Cultbane had been passed down a long line of dwarf warriors with “great senses of humor”. That line sadly ended when she died protecting Trym. It was something that had haunted the Halfling for a long time. No matter how much that thought haunted her, though, Trym loved Cultbane. Not only was it a piece of master craftsmanship, and an heirloom to boot, but it was her first sword given to her by her first teacher. That would always be special to her.
“A kind teacher guides you by the hand. A good teacher opens your mind. A great teacher leaves an impression on your heart forever.”
Trym’s nostalgic mood melted away, a dark cloud crossing over her face. Her eyes swiveled down to the ground beside her where another greatsword rested. It probably was not as old as Cultbane, but it was far more powerful… and intelligent.
“I don’t need daily proverbs like doses of medicine, thank you.”
Trym looked away from the sword as unwelcome memories came to her mind.
“Whew! That’s the last of them!”
A young human cleric dropped her hands to her side with a sigh, watching as a zombie fell motionless on the floor.
“Well done Mellona and Tasker. You handled that very well.” Trym nodded at the young lady, then at a young man who was also wearing the robes of a cleric.
The lad beamed at her and rolled his shoulders, “Zom-body never saw us coming!” He blew across his hands and rubbed them together.
Trym groaned and rolled her eyes.
“Curious that the Dawnlord herself wasn’t disturbed.” Mellona pointed at a decayed body lying on a table in the center of the massive tomb.
Trym looked at it, running her eyes appraisingly over the still shining plate armor and gleaming sword lying on the paladin’s chest. “Aye. Have a point there, lassie. Maybe we should do something about that…”
Three young paladin pushed zombie bodies off their swords before good naturedly punching one another in the shoulders.
“You were so scared.”
“Look who’s talking! I couldn’t hear anything over the shaking of your boots!”
Trym rolled her eyes again, lowering Cultbane to the floor, “Okay, okay. Put the good zombies back in their resting places, if you please. Then let’s be sure the Dawnlord stays dead.”
The paladin set to work, hauling bodies and bones from the floor and nestling them back into their hovels carved into the walls of the giant tomb.
The two young clerics struggled to lift one body, Mellona gagging as she grabbed the legs.
“Curse Cyric, they stink!”
Tasker grinned, “I’m not saying your perfume is too strong, miss zombie. I’m just saying the canary was alive before you walked in.”
Mellona snorted, then dropped the body, throwing her head back and laughing.
Trym grinned, but quickly wiped it off, “Okay, very funny, but wholly inappro…”
Suddenly, with a flash of steel, Tasker’s head went tumbling to the floor.
Mellona stumbled backward, batting at Tasker’s spraying blood. She looked down at his body, her face going white with shock. Her mouth fell open in a scream.
Trym lifted her sword just as the girl’s scream came to an abrupt halt. She watched as Mellona fell to her knees, hands clamped around her throat, ichor spilling between her fingers. She looked at Trym, her eyes full of fear, helplessness, and pleading.
“Yer not getting off that easy, lass!” Trym rushed toward the girl, lowering Cultbane and reaching out a hand to heal her.
Suddenly, the world turned red. Excruciating pain bit into Trym’s face. She felt her body lift into the air and tumble backwards. She fell to the dusty floor of the tomb and gasped. Instead of air, she inhaled thick, sticky blood. She gagged and coughed, gasped for another breath, but only choked on more blood. She opened her eyes and blinked as a curtain of scarlet washed over her left lid, burning it and blinding her. She spit, clearing her throat and finally taking in a breath of air.
She angled her face toward Mallona, and her heart broke into a thousand pieces when she saw the young lady lying on the floor, eyes blank, face ghostly white, amber hair drenched in blood.
A shadow fell over her and she looked up to see the sleeping Dawnlord’s blade flying through the air on its own. Runes pulsed brightly with a white light down its blade and on its pommel. It expertly attacked the three paladin, sweeping wide, making the three back up to avoid its deadly edge. It swung around and sped toward Trym, the tip aiming for her heart.
Trym cut Cultbane through the air just in the nick of time, averting the other blade. She flinched as it struck the marble wall next to her, causing sparks.
“Trym!” One of the other paladin ran up and slapped his sword against the blade, knocking it aside. The blade righted itself and parried his next blow, then cut off his arm, followed by a leg, and then his head, all before his body had hit the floor.
“No!” Trym staggered to her feet and hammered Cultbane down on the blade. The two other paladin rushed up behind it, each taking a turn hitting it.
The blade swiped in a wide circle, but the three paladin avoided it, then rained a series of blows down on it. It stabbed at one, swiped at another, but they parried it and continued to hammer their swords down on it.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, one of the young paladin slammed the blade downward where Trym batted Cultbane against it, sending it flying straight into the side of the Dawnlord’s corpse, skewering it. The runes on the blade flickered, then faded, and everything grew silent.
Trym looked back down at the greatsword beside her. It was called TillDawn. No one had told her it was sentient. She supposed no one knew. It was clear that no one had expected it to fly and kill innocent clerics either.
All Trym knew about TillDawn was that it was unpredictable. She had hoped to lock it away in the tomb and never see it again. The fates, though, had sick senses of humor.
Months later, the sword somehow ended up in a grubby merchant’s wagon who just happened to be in the same caravan as Trym. It called out to Trym, baiting her by saying it had “tasted her blood”. She didn’t realize what was calling to her, until her dwarf friend, Aldrik, helped her to locate it.
Upon finding the sword, her first reaction was to break it and throw it away. She was terrified of it, angry at it, and hated it. However, she knew she couldn’t destroy it, and she could not risk it falling into the wrong hands. So she took it.
The sword expressed a desire to see action again, stating that Trym was acceptable as its next bearer, though she “still had much to learn”.
Trym was carrying the sword and had used it once already, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to wield it. It was a dark ghost from her very recent past that she wished to forget. It was a heavy burden she did not want to bear, but felt obligated to.
“Admit it: I was right about the boy. Your boring sword couldn’t have done what I did to help him.”
Trym glared at TillDawn, then turned her back to it, resting Cultbane across her lap. “Help is a loose term. We skewered him, and now his mind is mush.”
“He doesn’t have a lich inside him anymore. That’s all I care about.”
“Of course it is. Your owner would've been proud, I'm sure.” Trym peered down at Cultbane, running her fingers over the dwarf runes. Instinctively, she reached up and touched a golden brooch pinned to her tunic. “Why is it that everything in my life is linked to a sad memory?” She whispered to herself. It hadn’t always been this way. Her life had been nigh perfect until this stupid sword carved a scar into her face.
“One is made wise, yea wiser, through the experience of dusky sorrow more than from the experience of ethereal joy.”
Trym closed her eyes. “I’m not asking for ethereal joy. Just for the ghosts to stop haunting me.”
“The ghosts of the past speak to those who listen.”
“Remember the daily dose of proverbs I talked about? You’ve overdosed me now."
"Wait, you're a CO-AUTHOR?"
Yes. Yes I am. I know I haven't been keeping folks updated (for many reasons of my own), but it is true. I have spent the last year or so co-writing a book with a fellow author and close friend, F.P. Spirit, and now it is FINALLY PUBLISHED! And I am so excited!!
The book is titled "Princess of Lanfor" and it is available on Amazon as an ebook, and will be in paperback as well later this month!
For more information about this awesome book (and F.P. Spirit), please watch this YouTube video I put together to announce the book, explain a bit about it, and featuring me, myself, and I reading an excerpt from it!
When you are finished watching, don't forget to share it with your friends! Get the news out, because I think the world needs to see this book!
Another snip from book #2 of the Tales of the Wovlen.
For those of you who are familiar with my book, this lends you a little backstory for a couple of the characters.
For those of you who aren't familiar with my book, I hope you find it interesting and enjoy the ride (but, if I were you, I wouldn't get too attached to the characters... Just sayin').
A dense fog lay strewn throughout a thick, black forest, blanketing the trees with its moonlit skirts. Two moons looked down, faces full and bright in the sky above. One shone in the East, the other in the West, giving the nighttime world ample light to see by. A tense silence hung in the air over the forest, giving the otherwise peaceful surroundings an eerie feeling. The fog stirred around trees before an unearthly shriek broke the silence and echoed around the forest. Two shadowy forms, clutching each other’s hand, darted around the tree trunks, labored breathing and fear lacing their movements. Both had drawn swords, and one of them, a woman, glowed as they ran in and out of the shadows of the forest. They paused, ducking behind a large tree for cover.
“They’re gaining on us,” a man said in-between gasps to the woman.
“They are shadows themselves. They are much faster in the nighttime,” the woman said. “We will be forced to fight them before the dawn.” A hint of sadness strained her voice.
“No.” The man rested his hand on her cheek and looked her in the eyes. “They’ll be forced to fight us.” He smiled and twisted his sword eagerly in his hand, though his eyes betrayed great fear.
Another shriek pierced the air. The man seized the woman’s hand with renewed determination and began to run again.
In pursuit were three darker shadows. They zipped across the ground, as ghostly hounds on the heels of prey. Only the sound of their smoky garb whipping through the air could be heard. The mist, excited by their presence, grew in size as they passed by, becoming more dense and climbing higher up the trees.
The light from the woman pushed the fog back and illuminated the path as they fled, keeping them from colliding with trees or tripping over logs.
The three black shadows spread out, and two of them surged forward. They dragged the denser fog with them until, in a matter of moments, it had surrounded the fleeing couple.
The man and woman slowed as they climbed up a hill and struggled to see. Even the woman’s glow was weakened by the growing fog now. Once on the hill’s summit, they stopped and stood back to back, each readying their sword. Everything became dreadfully silent again as the fog continued to grow thicker and deeper around them.
“Elarn.” The woman’s free hand found his and gripped it. “I love you.”
Elarn gripped her hand back.
“And I you, Venain,” he said, his voice tight, strained.
They released each other’s hands. Elarn gripped his sword securely, and Venain drew a second blade.
One shadowy figure appeared through the fog, gliding toward them. He was tall, his stride long and strong. He held a claymore sword of ancient make, and a large war crown adorned his head, resting over the top of a smokey blue hood that concealed his face. He raised the claymore higher and looked directly at the woman.
“Paladain…princess…” he hissed.
With an ear-piercing shriek, the other two shadows, shorter than the first, burst from the fog with raised swords and charged the couple.
Elarn raised his sword and turned, parrying the first blow before twisting out of the way as the shadow made a swift swing for his neck. Venain skillfully and lithely executed a series of parries and blows with the other shadow, quickly overwhelming it. She kicked it in the chest, knocking it to the ground. Jumping over the top of the shadow, she parried its futile attempt to nick her with its blade and stabbed her sword into its chest. With a scream, the creature exploded into a puff of black dust. With that, Venain turned to aid Elarn, who was struggling to defend himself. Blood flowed from several wounds on his cheek, arms, and side, gleaming in her fading light. He was beginning to stumble.
“Hey!” Venain shouted as she ran toward Elarn’s opponent.
The shadow turned, ignoring the man, and blocked her blows until Elarn stabbed it from behind. It unleashed a pain-filled shriek as black mist swirled from its wound. It swung its sword backward, nicking Elarn on the side of his neck. The dark creature twisted and leaned toward him, slamming the cross-guard of its sword into his mouth, knocking him to the ground. With incredible speed it turned and swiped away Venain’s attempt to stab her blade into its chest. It parried a couple more of her blows before backhanding her across the face with such force it sent her spinning.
"Venain!” Elarn attacked with renewed energy, swinging his blade for the shadow’s neck. The shadow parried his blow and made a counter attack, forcing Elarn away from Venain.
Venain righted herself, blinking the world back into focus just as the tall shadow with the war crown stepped into her vision.
“Princess…” it hissed.
She stared with wide eyes at the tall, king shadow and raised her swords in defense.
The king shadow arched his claymore around his head and beat against her smaller weapons, forcing her to bend under his powerful blows. He finally swiped away one of her blades. Before she had time to compensate, the shadow reached out with a giant gloved hand and wrapped his fingers around her throat. He squeezed and lifted her effortlessly into the air, letting her feet dangle..
Venain gasped and struck at him with her remaining sword, but he swiped it away and continued to hold her high.
The shadow stared at her, faint red lights flickering in the empty eyes of a metallic mask covering his face, deep inside his hood. He held her up in a conflicted fashion, seeming to sway and struggle with himself, compelled to do one thing, but wishing to do another.
“Venain!” Elarn screamed from across the clearing where he continued to struggle with the shadow from before. Making a desperate move, he sliced off his opponent’s hand, then jammed his sword up to the hilt into the shadow’s chest. He jerked his sword free and bolted toward Venain and the king shadow, leaving the other to scream and disappear in a cloud of dust.
Venain wrapped her small hands around the big gloved hand holding her. She looked past the shadow to see Elarn running towards them. The tall shadow pulled her closer to his face and spoke in a strangely remorseful voice. “Please, Princess. Forgive me.”
With those words, cold pain ripped into Venain’s gut. She glanced down as her body went numb. Crimson fluid flowed down the front of her dress, streaming from around the claymore blade jammed to the hilt in her abdomen. A cry rippled from her clamped throat as the shadow jammed his sword into a tree behind her, tacking her there like a rag.
Elarn screamed in rage as he came behind the creature. He swiped his sword across the back of the king shadow’s legs, chopping half way through them.
The creature fell to his knees in silence, his face turning up toward the woman. His shoulders were slumped as if in sorrow. Streams of black mist swirled from his wounds and circled around him like inky snakes.
Elarn pulled his blade back and roared as he thrust it forward again, sinking it up to the hilt into the shadow’s chest, giving it a vicious twist.
The king shadow arched his back in pain without a sound. He exploded into a pile of black dust which fluttered silently to the earth.
“Venain!” Elarn cried sorrowfully as he let his sword drop to the ground. He looked helplessly at her, tears filling his eyes. He wrapped an arm around her legs and supported her, removing most of her weight from the sword tacking her to the tree. He closed his eyes and gripped the hilt, tears falling down his cheeks as he tightened his muscles. Taking a deep breath, he ripped the sword from the tree, crying out as he felt Venain's body shudder in agony. He lowered her to the ground, cold chills rushing through his body as he looked at her glassy eyes and blank stare.
The sword in her gut turned to black dust, leaving an empty space where it had been. Almost instantly, Venain gasped for air and blood flowed freely from her wound.
"Oh, Venain!" Elarn mournfully scooped her broken body up onto his lap and pulled her close, clutching her in his arms. Tears streamed down his face as he put a hand over her wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. Her glowing, silvery-red blood squeezed through his fingers with ease.
He did his best to restrain a sob.
“You’re losing too much blood. I’ve–I’ve got to stop it. I can’t… I’ve got to,” he stammered.
"Elarn." Venain's voice started to fade. Using all her strength, she moved her hand to her chest and grabbed a black cord from around her neck, pulling a strange golden key from under her shirt.
"The key...it must go...”
“Don’t talk! Save your strength. You have to save your strength until I can stop the bleeding and find help.”
A tear slipped from Venain’s eye. “Elarn. My body…is dying. It cannot be saved.” She pulled the cord free of her neck and pressed it into his bloody hand “The key must…must go to Walneff…until Erewhon…is old enough.”
Elarn took the key and Venain’s hand, holding them both.
“Venain, you can’t die. Erewhon and Annaka, they are so young. I can’t raise them on my own—” His voice broke and he sobbed. “I can’t go on without you, my love!”
Venain, her eyes following her own movement, slowly raised her hand up to Elarn’s face, resting her cold fingers against his cut cheek.
“My loving Elarn. You must go on. Protect the girls. You must,” she whispered.
Elarn placed his hand with the key over hers, holding her hand on his cheek. “I will. I promise.”
A soft smile came to Venain’s lips. “Of all the long years I have lived, these few with you have been my happiest.” Her eyes flickered, but her gaze stayed on her husband. “Thank you for loving me.”
Elarn clutched her hopelessly, watching his beloved fade away. “Please, Venain, stay with me. Don’t go.”
Venain’s eyes closed, and her breathing slowed until Elarn felt the life leave her. He froze and stared at her peaceful face, searching for any sign or glimmer of hope.
“Venain? Venain?” He trembled as all his faith melted away. Horrible sobs ripped at his chest as he realized she was gone. He lowered her hand from his cheek and placed it over her chest. He stroked her cold face and brushed his fingertips over her soft hair. Finally, he pulled her in close, burying his face in her neck. He rocked her, clinging as he bitterly cried.
The key she had given him dangled from his hand, reflecting the highest moon in a single teardrop that slowly ran down the golden shaft.
After several minutes, a large, winged shadow passed in front of the light of one of the two moons and cast darkness over the mourning man.
I've been doing some job hunting around town, and you know what I've found? A lot of people are eager to hire me, but they want me to fill out these stupid applications... and, as I look at my answers on some of these applications, I'm afraid I may be too sarcastic for anyone to consider hiring me....
Q: "Do you prefer part time or full time?"
A: Doesn't matter to me, because, for the wage you pay, both options are just slavery in a job's clothing.
Q: "Why are you applying for a job with us?"
A: Because authors aren't appreciated until they've died tragically, or of natural causes. With how poorly your employees follow health and safety protocols, I figure this is the best place to make a tragic death happen. That, and I've heard your business provides more than enough suspicious content for an author with writer's block to write an entire series of spicy crime novels.
Q: "Why did you quit your last job?"
A: Do you "quit" the mafia? No. You don't. But slavery is illegal, the mafia is sketchy, and I'd like to actually make some money for the work I do. Just don't tell my former boss that, or you and I both might end up swimming with the fishes. As far as he knows, I'm still working for him.
"To apply as a real estate content writer, please submit two short property descriptions."
Property 1 description: "This piece of land has real potential as a cactus farm, and, because of the abundance of naturally growing, gorgeous prickly pear, you'll never have to worry about kids walking through your yard."
Property 2 description: "One word, dude: Marijuana. I found a massive stash here, and the highest bidder will get the map with the hidden location."
Example newspaper report on the FFA livestock competition:
The pigs were cute. The cows were cute. The animals were all cute. The kids were not so cute. The levels of methane and armpit stink were undoubtedly at unsafe levels, and the building really needs more windows and an air conditioner. I'm pretty sure I have mold and fungus growing in my nostrils now. The city needs to cut the crap and upgrade their stupid outdated equipment in these public buildings before they get called out for endangering public health and safety.
Example news report on the recent football game:
I got food poisoning from the concession stand and gas from the cheerleaders who weren't cheering and weren't wearing bras. These are the scores that I saw flash across the board between dry heaves....xxxx..... and WHAT IS WITH THE CANNONS, PEOPLE?! Is it not obvious by all the screaming and cheering and Facebook posts and the car littered streets that you are all watching a football game? Must you have cannons as well? Must you announce to the world through endless cannon fire that you are in your place of worship and observing the sacred ritual of the pigskin?
You hopeless barbarians.
Example news report on recent oil activity:
XXX Inc. drilled a hopeful new oil well on the 20th of June. "This is very good for the business. It's been a long time since we've had a well that could pump 50,000 barrels a day." The head honcho dude with a full name told me the day after they struck oil. The company told me then that they hope to increase the output of oil by putting the well through a fracking process. The frack job was scheduled and done on August 2nd. Now, after those fracking frackers fracked a perfectly good oil well, it is now producing a massive, fracking 20 barrels a day.
"It's the most disappointing well we have EVER had." Said the fracking head honcho after the fracking job got fracked up. The business has informed me that they intend to keep the oil well alive merely for the fracking government subsidies to pay for the fracking job.
"Please write an example letter of reminder of payment due..."
Hey! Do you live under a rock? If you don't, you soon will be! If you don't pay your electric bill soon, your electric will be unplugged, your frozen TV dinners will thaw, your microwave won't work to cook them, and your TV will cease to function. Without your TV, you won't know when the aliens attack! And without your frozen TV dinners and microwave oven, you won't be able to outlast the alien invasion!
Don't give the aliens a chance. Pay your electric bill. Keep your freezer and TV on. Save the world. Thwart the alien invasion.
Payment is due by ...xxxx....
If you fail to comply, the alien invasion will begin and you will be Predator's first snack.
This is your final warning.
Have a nice day!
I am getting oober excited about book number 2 in the Tales of the Wovlen! It won't be long now before it hits the printing press!
Today I couldn't think of anything else to post, so I decided to share a small snippet from book #2 featuring one of our favorite and most endearing characters, Annaka.
Annaka carefully walked from the kitchen with a tray full of food in her hands. She made her way toward the stairs that would lead up to the guest quarters where she would find Keegan’s room. She saw a movement out of the corner of her eye, and she quickly picked up her feet, determined not to get caught. Before she made it to the stairwell, however, Arden darted in front of her and blocked her path, planting his fists on his sides.
“And just where do you think you are going?” he demanded.
Annaka’s mouth flew open, and her first thought was to cross her arms and stomp her foot. When the tray almost toppled from her hands, she quickly corrected her posture and pulled the tray in close to her, gripping it tightly.
“I am…going…nowhere. Nowhere of your immediate concern anyway,” she replied.
Arden crossed his arms. “You’re taking that to Keegan, aren’t you?”
Annaka gripped the tray tighter and raised her chin, looking at Arden with defiance.
Arden dropped his arms to his sides. “Aw, Annaka! You’ve taken Keegan his meal two turns in a row! It is my turn now, so hand it over!” He reached out for the tray, but Annaka swiped it sideways, almost toppling the soft-boiled egg. “Hey! Watch it!”
“Be careful now! You almost made me spill the whole thing,” Annaka said.
Arden rolled his eyes. “You can do that all by yourself. You don’t need my help. Now give me that tray before you really do spill the whole thing.” He reached out for it but paused when Annaka pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows and shoulders, moving the tray back a little further.
“Don’t touch it, or you’ll wear it!” she warned.
Arden’s shoulders slumped forward. “Aw, Annaka! Come on! Don’t be like that. You promised this would be my turn.”
Annaka stood straight and raised her chin. “I did not. I promised I would consider it, which I did, and decided I liked my way better. A girl is so much more polite and dainty when presenting someone with food. You boys just seem to drop it into the guest’s lap and expect him to hork it down.”
Arden grit his teeth. “What? You sneaky, conniving girl. See if I ever take your promises for face value again!”
Annaka’s mouth dropped open. “Calling me names? How rude!” A smug smile played on her lips. “But, you should have known better after you gave me your hard-boiled egg. They say it’s all downhill after the first boiled egg.”
Arden narrowed his eyes. “You weaseled me out of my hard earned, hard-boiled egg.”
“Which just proves you are gullible, my dear boy, of which I forgive you. Now, step aside and let me do my duty,” Annaka said.
Arden snatched out his hands and latched onto the tray.
“Give me that tray.” He pulled it sharply toward himself.
Annaka glared at him. “Never!” She yanked the tray back her way.
“It is my turn, Annaka!” Arden snarled.
“Not by my royal opinion, Arden!”
“Whoa, whoa! That’s my egg you’re threatening to flatten!” Suddenly Keegan came between them both, swept the tray up, and began walking away. “Buttered toast and fresh juice as well! How nice!”
Annaka and Arden stared at each other in shock for a moment before simultaneously turning and running after Keegan, who was sauntering straight for the stables, picking food off the tray and eating it as he walked.
“Are you supposed to be up and walking?” Arden asked.
“It’s so wonderful to see you doing so well, Keegan!” Annaka exclaimed.
Keegan took a bite from his toast and slurped down half of his juice before replying.
“Ah, thank you, Annaka. And I am not for sure, Arden, but if I can walk, then I see no reason to stay locked up in my room.” He drank down the rest of his juice and finished off his toast. Just before they reached the stable doors, he stopped and turned around, offering the tray back to the young couple. “Here you are. One of you can have the egg if you so wish. I don’t really care for soft-boiled anyway.”
Annaka blinked, taking the tray awkwardly. “But, Keegan, you haven’t even…”
“Wait! I’ll take that egg!” Arden snatched the egg from the cup before Annaka could finish her sentence. He then smiled at her slyly.
“Oh, I’m sorry I argued with you, Annaka. I stepped out of line. To show my sincere regret, you may carry the tray this time.” Arden clutched the egg close to his chest as he made a low bow with a spark of mischief glinting in his eyes.
Annaka clamped her mouth shut, her whole body stiffening as she glared at the older boy. She whisked a bowl of porridge off the tray and slapped it over Arden’s head with a messy splat.
“Here! Eat that too you uncouth scamp!” With that, she turned on her heel and stomped away with the tray.
Keegan had a coughing fit as he laughed, holding his ribs tightly.
Arden pulled the bowl from his head and wiped the dripping porridge from his face.
“Keegan, I’ve known girls who were hard to get along with, and I have known girls who were tricky and spunky, but Princess Annaka is queen of them all!”
Keegan put his hand on Arden’s shoulder, clutching his ribs with the other as the pain cut him short of breath.
“Well, Arden, all I can say is that you have finally met your match. Now, go clean up before I crack some more ribs just by looking at you.”
Arden shook his head as he walked away, holding the empty bowl in one hand and the egg in the other. He mumbled something about how unfair it was that girls could get away with being brats while boys had to be mature.
If you haven't been keeping up with the challenge so far, you can catch up here: The Writing Challenge Series.
Today's challenge: a future version of yourself travels back in time and tells you that no matter how hard you work to market your books, you never make a single penny off your writing. Do you still continue to write, knowing there's no hope of selling your books?
Well, first I would slap myself and tell myself I was lying, because I have made money off my book. Good money. Sporadic, it may be, and easily spent it also may be, but I have made lots of pennies off of it!
Next, the news would be a huge relief to me. I would stop trying to market my books! Marketing is the worst thing EVER, so I would be glad to give it up, especially if I knew it was a fruitless endeavor.
After that, I'd start looking for a real job... like... becoming a baby panda hugger or a professional mermaid.
But would I stop writing? No way! I write for the fun of it, to get the monsters and crazies out of my head. And just because my books don't get any attention while I'm alive doesn't mean that they wouldn't become popular after I was dead. They might even get made into a movie! Just do me a favor: if someone decides to make a movie of my books after I'm dead, charge onto set and make sure they don't mess the whole story up! Those Hollywood people have no idea what they are doing and need all the help they can get.
If you haven't been keeping up with the challenge, you can catch up by checking out this category right here: The Writing Challenge Series
Today's Challenge: the first sentence of the first chapter of your first published novel/story.
"This was not going over well at all." - Tales of the Wovlen: The Dragon's Son
Um. Well. That was underwhelming.
I really need to work on my first sentence hook. It would have sounded better if I had gone with "He expected his brother would disagree with him, fight with him even, but not threaten war and raise an army in one breath." or "He'd expected to challenge his brother, not a demon." or "His brother throwing a tantrum was expected, but threatening to unleash a crazed dragon and start a war was going too far."
Because, you know, dragons are instant attention grabbers and great hooks. So are demons. And wars too. ANYTHING is better than "Well. That didn't go so good. Derp, derp, derp."
Today's challenge is going to be a fun one! But first, if you haven't been keeping up with this challenge so far, here are the previous days!: DAY ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE, TEN, ELEVEN, TWELVE, THIRTEEN, FOURTEEN, FIFTEEN, SIXTEEN, SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, NINETEEN, & TWENTY.
Today's challenge: the actor you would choose to play the main character in a movie adaptation of your WIP.
Oh man! I have wasted so much time thinking about this over the years! I mean, what author doesn't dream of their book getting its own movie adaptation?
But, even though I have thought about it a lot, I have no idea which actor I'd like to see take on the role of Keegan, the main character in my Tales of the Wovlen series.
I have actors picked out for nearly every character in my series, but Keegan has me stumped. He has his own face in my mind, one that can't just be picked out from a crowd of actors. Keegan is special. I'm not even sure what actor I'd choose for his voice if I were to do an audio book with voice actors. Maybe Chris Pratt? Or Chris Pine? What about Chris Evans? Not Chris Hemsworth! No sir. No way. I'll save his gorgeous voice for a dragon! Yum!
What's your opinion? Who'd you'd like to see play Keegan in a live action movie?
Oh boy! Now that I've started thinking about this again, I should do a blog post about all the different actors I'd like to see play my characters in a movie!
Having trouble keeping up with the challenge? No problem! You can catch up here: The Writing Challenge Series
Today's Challenge: the writer you chose on Day Thirteen reads your story and tells you it's no good and you should just give up writing. What is your reaction?
I mentioned two writers on Day Thirteen: J.R.R. Tolkien & Bryan Davis. Lucky for me, J.R.R. Tolkien is dead, because I'd bet a shiny thousand dollar bill that he'd be disgusted with my book. Absolutely disgusted. He would probably suggest that I stop writing all together.
I have no idea what Bryan Davis would say about my book, but I'm guessing he wouldn't be all that impressed either. My work is really amateur and shallow compared to his. I don't think he'd tell me to stop writing, though. He's too nice of a guy to do that to someone (at least, that's what I've heard).
But, what would MY reaction be if one or the other told me my stuff is awful and I should give up writing?
I would be undoubtedly a little hurt at first, but then I would brush it off, as I do with so many things, and say:
"Dear sir, my giving up writing would be akin to you giving up breathing. It simply isn't possible."
Author of the fantasy series, Tales of the Wovlen, Kathryn spends a great deal of time in the world of her imagination, having tea with fire breathing dragons, writing books on flying space ships, and practicing her mad scientist laugh with gusto. However, on occasion,she returns to this world just to play with her dog and blog about her fun.
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