[Belated] Quote Queste | My Real Name

This is abominably late—Arielle posted this challenge back in March—but like the man said, Life is what happens when you’re making other plans. :P But the theme has been pottering around my brain and won’t go away, so I decided to give it a go. The quote:

Again, the real challenge was thinking up a good scene to feature this idea. I was going to do it with Prince Nácil and Lady Müriel…but that wasn’t going anywhere, so I wrote it with Tom and Ember instead.

A bit of background on this scene: Tom and Ciaran have just come to live in Glenwood Forest with Gil the Green and his band of Yeomen, but the Glenwood Orphan Home is full, so Mother Túla decides to have Tom live in an empty cottage with a few other young ladies, with a Yeomaiden who is of age to be “den-mother.” This scene takes place while they’re getting the cottage cleaned up and set up for its new inmates.

* * *

     Tom slipped away from the group, overwhelmed with shyness and the bustle of putting the cottage in order. She sought sanctuary in the lovely deep window seat in the sitting-room, clutching her bundle to her chest like a lifeline. Anton and Ciaran and some of the bigger boys from the orphan home carried bed-frames up the stairs amid Mother Túla’s admonitions to be careful. A few of the older girls whisked the covers off the furniture and shook off the dust in clouds, while one or two attacked it with feather-dusters and beeswax.

     Tom knew she ought to help out, but the sitting-room seemed so small, she feared she would only get in the way. And the thought of trying to converse with strange girls made her cringe. What’s the matter with me? she chided herself. I spent six months aboard a shipful of dirty, smelly, foul-mouthed pirates, and survived. Why am I suddenly terrified of a handful of nice girls only five years younger an myself—more or less? She sighed. But then, I never did get on with my peers, she recalled cynically, and as for the pirates—well, I had to act braver than I felt and not show weakness, otherwise I wouldn’t have survived.

     One of the girls—the willowy one with a mane of fiery, kinky-curly locks—spotted Tom, cocked her head with a thoughtful tilt of the mouth, and strode purposefully up to her. “I take it you’ve no love for housekeeping, neither,” she chuckled wryly, with a lovely soft Gaelic accent.

     “Er—well, no, actually,” Tom flubbed, unprepared for such a statement. “But I suppose I ought to help instead of—”

     “Och, never mind that,” the girl drawled, tossing a chunk of curls over her shoulder. “T’others can handle it. What say I give you a tour o’ the garden? ’Twill be much more pleasant than being shut up in this stuffy house.”

     Tom didn’t think the interior of the Rambling Rose so very stuffy—crowded, perhaps, just now, but not stuffy. On the other hand, she did long to examine the lovely flowers she’d seen growing in the yard….

     “Come on,” the redhead prodded, offering her hand. “They’ll not be needing us; there’s too many folk in here anyhow.”

     Tom rose, nodding, and timidly took the other girl’s hand.

     The red-haired girl fairly skipped out the door, dragging the still-reluctant Tom behind her. When they reached the front lawn, the girl dropped Tom’s hand and took a deep breath, closing her eyes in delight. “Ah, that’s better,” she remarked. “Too much dust swirling about in there. I’m Ember, by-the-bye,” she added, smiling at Tom. “Ember MacTavish.”

     “Tom—er, Fiona Godwyn,” Tom flubbed, mentally kicking herself for her slip-up.

     The Ember-girl raised an eyebrow. “Tom?”

     Tom sighed. “It’s…complicated. But I’d rather not discuss it. It—it might be…dangerous…for anyone to know my real name for a while.”

     “Dangerous, eh?” Ember chuckled, “’Tis exciting, that sounds! Yours must be an interesting story, for you to be having a boy’s name, and for it to be dangerous for anyone to know why.”

     “It’s short for Thomasina,” Tom explained reluctantly, “but I hate it.”

     “I don’t blame you,” Ember chuckled. “Fiona suits you better.” She grinned broadly. “I think we’re going to be good friends, you an’ I,” she declared.

     Tom blinked, torn between a half-second of panic and a sort of startled delight at this unexpected statement. “How do you know?” she asked timidly. “You don’t even know my real name—or much of anything about me.”

     “I’ve been watching you, I have, an’ I like you, Tommy-lass. And I don’t say that to just anybody.” She extended her hand. “Put ’er there.”

     Tom shook the offered hand with a feeling of being granted a special honor. She fought down the uncertainty that always accompanies a new friendship and smiled at Ember. “Thank you.”

     “For what, then?”

     Tom bit her lip. “For wanting me for a friend.”

* * *

As always, feel free to offer any suggestions/criticisms. It’s not quite how I wanted it, but I don’t know how to fix it. :-P

Until next time, Gentle Readers,

God bless,

~R~

Quote Queste February | Love and War. Mostly Love.

 

Joining Arielle/Miss Melody’s monthly writing challenge, using this as a starting point:

It’s admittedly rather tricky coming up with a good scenario for these…especially since I never equate being in love with going to war. Total opposites in my mind. :-P Makes it all the more challenging, wot?

Anyhoo, I dashed off this rather sappy piece of dialogue for the purpose of this exercise, using a couple originally part of my Heirs of Dunsmüir story-arc: Lisbeth and her best friend Brynhildr†, AKA Ben. You’ve met Isabella—this was going to be her younger sister. I initially cut them from the cast to avoid having too many Main Characters, but I’m toying with adding them back in again. Or I may stick them in elsewhere in the timeline. Don’t know yet. For now, they made for a good scene that wouldn’t be spoilerific. ;-)

Black text = Ben       Blue text = Lisbeth

* * *

via Pinterest

     “I suppose this is it—our last hours in this world.”

     “It looks that way.”

     “It’s not fair! You’re the strongest man in Fjórdhaven, and I’m no weakling, myself—we should have been able to give a better account of ourselves—”

     “One man and one strong woman are no match for two-score fighting Orcs.”

     “I suppose not—but it still goes against the grain to be caught like minnows and wait about to be used as bait.”

     “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it, so let’s not spoil these last moments with bitter grumbling.”

     “What would you suggest?”

     “We could say our goodbyes. Last words and all that.”

     “Things we’ve been meaning to say, but never got around to it?”

     “Something like that.”

     “You start. I don’t know how to begin, so perhaps I can take my cues from you.”

via Pinterest

     “As you wish. You’ve really changed my life, you know. Before I met you, I just sort of drifted along, like a skiff on a current. Never really took much interest in life or got involved with much of anything. Then you crashed into my life, and I found I’d best look lively. You forced me to do more than just observe and think; you taught me to do things.”

     “And you taught me to slow down and look where I was going—sometimes literally. You taught me to think before I speak, look before I leap—that sort of thing. And you didn’t sneer at me for wanting to know all about sailing and fishing. Every useful, practical thing I know, I learned from you. I’m glad to have known you, Ben Larsson.”

     “Likewise…and more.”

     “More?”

     “Well…knowing you…learning all about you…spending time with you…well, it was a bit like going to war. I was never the same afterwards.”

     “That’s not very romantic—or flattering.”

     “I meant that in a good way. I’d…given the chance, I’d have taken an arrow to the knee* for you, Lisbeth.”

     “And I’d have done the same for you—wait, what?!”

     “You heard me.”

     “Brynhildr Larsson, did you just propose marriage to me?”

     “That would hardly be fair, considering we’re about to be killed.”

     “But supposing we weren’t? Supposing by some miracle, we were able to escape to freedom?”

     “That’s a lot of supposing.”

     “Well, if you won’t say it, I will—”

     “Nein, nein; that’s not very romantic either. Lisbeth Oláfsdóttír, if we survive this, will you marry me?”

     “Won’t I!”

    

__________________________

* Take [took] an arrow to the knee = Viking slang for getting married.

* * *

Forgive the lack of action; didn’t have the brain wattage to figure it out. I’ve been wrestling with some Real World garbage of late that’s sapped my emotional energy for quality writing. I’m open to suggestions, though. 

How do you imagine the scene? What backstory can you think up for this scene? Should I keep these two in the HoD timeline—along with Anton and Isabella, Jason and Ember, Ciaran and Tom/Fiona—give them their own timeline, or put them back on the cut list? I want to know!

Until next time, Gentle Readers,

God bless,

~R~

† Because Brynhildr is technically a girl's name, I've changed Ben's full name to Áldebrand [AHL-deh-brand] (Old Germanic for “old” and “sword, fire”) (so I guess I'll be putting him and Lisbeth back in the timeline after all, LOL).

Quote Queste—March Anniversary Edition—Anton and Isabella

This month marks the one-year anniversary of Miss Melody Muffin’s “Quote Queste” writing challenge! *Trumpet fanfare*

To celebrate, I’m enlisting the aid of a couple characters from my Ýdára series. This month’s rather adorable quote seemed perfect for them:

 I’m still tinkering with their backstories at this point; Anton’s especially, as I had another love interest entirely planned for Isabella. But then I discovered more about her personality, and decided she needed a guy like Anton to teach her to relax once in a while. :-P They’re quickly becoming one of my favorite couples, and I look forward to working with them. Until then, a little experimental snippet….

~*~

via Pinterest
(Hair should be white-blonde and braided
...and ignore the horse for this scene)

       Last of the Nórska.

     The words echoed through Isabella’s mind, haunting her, weighing down her already heavy spirit. Images replayed in her memory—Morlock’s revelation, the firestorm, the devastation throughout Fjordhaven, the whirlwind that carried her to his fortress….

     Tears threatened to form in her eyes, and she felt her stomach tighten. Everything she had ever known, everyone she had allowed herself to love, was gone. Gone forever, as though they had never existed. She knew her parents at least awaited her in Elyon’s Country, and she found some comfort in that. But the thought of living out her years—so many long, lonely years—without them to guide her, without a single familiar face or object around her, filled her with a weariness that was almost physically painful. She wanted to find some dark, hidden corner of the forest, collapse on the soft grass, and cry herself into oblivion. She wanted to lie there until she died, and be reunited with her family and her people. She longed to be free of the burden of her rank and the wretchedness of a world tainted by sin—even such a beautiful Faerie-world as Ýdára—and enjoy the pure delights of Heaven.

     She shook herself and held her head a little higher. Enough! she scolded herself. Pull yourself together, Isabella Oláfsdóttír. You may be the last of your people, but you are still Crown Princess of Fjordhaven, daughter of kings and direct descendant of Bjorn the Black. Elyon has given you duties to perform and a purpose in this world—do not shirk them! You are technically a queen now; a queen must be strong, no matter what.

     She felt a tap on her left shoulder and turned to see who wanted her attention. But when she looked, she saw only the trees and mossy, twig-littered floor of Glenwood Forest. A tap on her right shoulder made her whirl about, but once again she saw no one. Then she caught a movement—a blur of stormy blue—in the corner of her left eye, and she spun around again, this time with success. Before her stood Anton Argyros*, one blue-clad arm outstretched, his face alight with a mischievous, boyish grin, his crystal-blue eyes twinkling with merriment under that thatch of tow-colored hair. Apparently, she had caught him about to tap her shoulder again. He quickly—and rather smoothly—turned his playful gesture into a sweeping bow.

     “Top of the morning to you, my lady,” he greeted, with exaggerated politeness.

     Isabella smiled in spite of her annoyance, but quickly composed her features before he looked up at her again. “Is there something you want, sir?”

     “Well,” he drawled, lifting one corner of his mouth as he bent to pick up his quarterstaff—which Isabella had taken for a fallen tree branch a moment ago—“you might come huckleberrying with me; I know a place where they grow so large—”

     Isabella cast a distressed glance down her spotless teal gown. “What!” she frowned. “In this?”

     “Oh, to be sure, that fancy frock would never do for berry-picking,” he conceded, bouncing his staff on the root of a nearby maple tree. “But I’m sure Fiona would be happy to lend you some more appropriate garb. She’s generous like that, you know.”

     Isabella’s frown deepened a tiny bit. The thought of herself—Isabella of Fjordhaven, Crown Princess-cum-Queen of the Nórska—traipsing through the woods in search of berries that would inevitably leave her spattered with blue-purple juice, wearing borrowed clothing…and such clothing! A tunic barely long enough to be modest for a woman, paired with trousers much too tight for her liking, and knee-high boots only fit for men on horseback…well, it made her cringe.

     She hesitated.

     “Come now,” he grinned, switching his staff from one hand to the other, “it’ll be great fun. And you needn’t worry about getting lost, either; Jason knows the way—he’s the one who showed me where to find the best berries—and his sense of direction threatens to rival the great Gil the Green’s.” He stilled his staff-juggling—for which Isabella felt a wave of relief—and smiled a warm, inviting smile that begged to be returned. “Please?” he asked eagerly, yet gently. “Won’t you get down off your high horse—just this once—and have a little fun? Stop being a queen for a moment and enjoy life?”

     His words, though not particularly gracious, had a certain persuasive charm she found difficult to resist. His tone, that twinkle in his eyes, that impish, playful smirk—there was something about his manner that made even berry-picking sound like a delightful experience. An experience, he seemed to imply, that she would do well to have. She forced herself to look him in the eye, even went so far as to begin mentally forming the words to accept his offer….

     But no! Such a thing was unacceptable. It was undignified in one of her position. And a queen must maintain her dignity at all times. She stiffened.

     “Your offer is kindly meant, I am sure,” she replied coldly, “however, I cannot accept. Please convey my regrets to your friends.”

     His smile faded for a second, leaving him looking confused, and she wondered if she had been too harsh. Then he cocked his head and assumed the expression of a Spaniel begging for table-scraps.

     “Are you sure?” he wheedled, turning his head further and further sideways. “You’re not the least, tiniest, little bit interested?”

     His silly antics drove away any inclination she might have felt to change her mind. “I am not.”

     He straightened, again with confusion.

     “Why do you persist?” she sighed, feeling guilty, yet annoyed with him at the same time. “Why do you seek my company?”

     His eyes shone, and his mouth formed that warm, inviting smile again, this time broader and more genuine. “Because I like you,” he stated.

     His frankness startled her out of her cold reserve, and she gasped loudly, her hand flying to her mouth in her surprise.

     “Oh, I know I haven’t a chance,” Anton admitted, leaning on his quarterstaff. “You’re a queen—a direct descendant of Beorn (or Bjórn if you prefer)—whereas I’m just another boy without a crown.” Here he placed his hand over his heart, bowed his head so that his chin nearly touched his chest, and assumed an exaggerated humble expression. “A lowly serf, a peasant not fit to kiss the hem of your skirt”—Isabella’s eyebrows shot up—“and therefore unworthy of your notice.” He looked up at her, his crystal-blue eyes twinkling with mirth, and lifted one corner of his mouth. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t notice you, my lady,” he added impishly.

     The corners of Isabella’s mouth twitched, and she felt herself relaxing. The fellow had charm, to be sure. And if he could truly “like” someone who—she knew all too well—projected such a cold, well-nigh heartless façade, then he must be either much wiser and more perceptive than she had thought him, or else he was a glutton for rejection.

     But then she remembered who she was, and she drew herself up straighter.

     “That will do, sirrah,” she intoned. And before his boyish half-grin could trick her into returning it—or worse, make her laugh and therefore destroy all appearance of propriety on her part—she turned her back on him and walked away.

* * *

    

via Pinterest

    Anton watched her go with a strange little pang in his stomach. His silver tongue and comedic face had never failed him before. Everyone else he met had always succumbed to his natural charm and joined him in merriment, afterwards becoming one of his many friends. And for a moment, he had though the Nórska queen was about to favor him with a smile at least…but apparently queens either didn’t know how to smile, or else this one deemed him unworthy of hers.

     Not at this point, anyhow.

     A sly grin developed at that thought. Perhaps he’d had it too easy until now. He’d always taken it for granted that he could make people like him because even the grouchiest people he’d met had eventually ended up laughing at his jokes and clownish acrobatics. Yet here was this beautiful lady who seemed determined to rebuff every effort he made to be friendly. The more he joked, the more she resisted. The sillier his antics, the deeper her frown. But perhaps with a little more effort on his part, she’d forget to be the prim-and-proper Queen of the Nórska and allow herself to be just a maiden. Perhaps then he would find out for certain if she knew how to smile. Everyone had a breaking point—eventually, he reasoned, he would find a way to penetrate that wall of ice and touch her heart…or at least tickle her funny-bone. Determination to find that way welled up inside him, spilling out in a chuckle and a little leap in the air. He flung a two-finger salute in the direction she had disappeared.

     “Challenge accepted.”

 ~*~

Like I said, I’m still tinkering with them at this point—mainly to see if I can write a “cold-fishy” character but still make her likable to the readers, and portray a “class clown” accurately, without turning him into a Jar-Jar Binks. :-P

Thoughts? Suggestions?

Until next time, Gentle Readers,

God bless,

~R~

* I’m still noodling with his name, too. Not specially happy with Anton Argyros, but it’s all I could think of for now….

Quote Queste | October

Miss Melody is hosting yet another Quote Queste! *Trumpet fanfare* This month’s Quote is:

I’ll admit this one gave me a bit of trouble, as there were several couples in my head who could work in this scenario. However, I couldn’t use them because…spoilers, sweetie. :-P Then I started writing the scene, and Jason Windrider and Ember MacTavish insisted on acting it out. They’re both way in the future of my Ýdára series, but they’re two Characters who are very special to me. I look forward to working with them “for real” eventually. :-D

* * *

via Pinterest

     Ember MacTavish sat on a nearby boulder, frowning at her snapped bowstring.

     “Sure, an’ the heroes in those books o’ yours never had to deal with skronky weapons,” she snorted, flinging a chunk of fiery curls off her face. “They’d never be savin’ their lady-loves if their swords broke in two just as they were about to slay the dragon—” She stopped short and looked at Jason with horror in her round turquoise eyes. “Och! Your pardon; I forgot.”

     “Oh—ah—that’s not—I mean, it’s all right,” Jason Windrider assured her. “Not all Dragons are good like my friends. They’re kind of—I mean, they are—the exception…to the….” He shook his head, feeling like it was full of cotton wool. As usual. “Oriános says most of the Dragons in this world—even the intelligent ones—haven’t any scruples. They wouldn’t think twice about capturing a princess.”

via Pinterest

     Ember chuckled. “Well, now, I s’pose there’s hope for the love-struck heroes o’ this world, then.” She took a new bowstring from her pouch. “Sometimes I wonder if love really be worth fightin’ for, anyhow.”

     “What do you—that is—what makes you—say—?”

     “Sure, an’ I can understand fightin’ for freedom,” she continued, ignoring his awkwardness. “Or defendin’ one’s homeland or kin. But love?” She shook her fiery head, setting her kinky curls bouncing, and threaded the string through the bottom notch on her bow.

     “It does seem almost…kind of…rather contradictory, if that makes any sense,” Jason agreed. “But then I look at you—think of all you’ve been through—think of how I’d feel if some blackguard hurt you or caused you more grief.” His brows lowered into a determined scowl. “If that ever happened,” he declared, clenching his fist, “I’d be ready to go to war, if it meant making things right for you again.”

     Ember paused, looking at him sideways over the tip of her bow. “Half a moment—would ’ee be tellin’ me ye love me, then?”

    “Oh—er—well….” Jason blushed, rubbing the back of his head. “Um…yes, I guess I do. I mean, I am—that is—not that I know anything about—well, I’ve just read—in books, you know….” He scrunched up his face and gave his hair a couple tugs. “Why is it so hard to talk to you coherently?” he sighed.

     She smiled ruefully at him as she fitted an arrow to the string. “Never mind, boy-o,” she soothed, taking careful aim at the target they had set up fifty paces away. The arrow sunk into the bull’s-eye with a satisfying thump. Turning back to face him, she gave him a merry smile, eyes dancing. “’Tis honored I am—’though we both be a mite young yet to be thinkin’ o’ love.”

     “I—yes, I suppose,” Jason admitted.

     “An’ to be sure, I be the first lass ye’ve ever laid eyes on—”

     “—so it doesn’t count?” Jason’s shoulders sagged.

     She lifted one shoulder and side of her mouth. “Who’s to say? ’Tis Elyon alone knows the future. He might ’a’ made ye an’ me for each other, or He might have someone better for us both, down the road. But for the time bein’,” she continued, fitting another arrow, “ourselves can pretend we’re brother an’ sister, an’ then we can be sayin’ ‘I love ye’ to each other wi’out shame or nonsense.”

     Jason stuck his hands in his pockets and smirked shyly. “I’ll settle for that…Sister.”

     Ember took aim at the target. “By the bye, boy-o,” she said, pulling the arrow back and squinting along its length, “what ye said about goin’ to war for a loved one….” She released the arrow and watched it fly before finishing her sentence. The arrow hit the bull’s-eye almost exactly where the first one had. She smiled at him. “That goes fer meself, too, ye know.”

      

* * *

God bless,

~“Tom”~

Quote Queste | September

For this month’s QQ, I’m dabbling with a character who is still in the Inspiration stage, and will probably show up way in the future in my Ýdära books. At this point, all I know about him is that his name is Edward, and he’s the king (probably of Dunsmüir)…but he’s only around ten years old, so he has several people around him to train him how to be king.

Frankly, I don’t know if I’ll even use this storyline—I only have a bzillion other Characters to write in this world, LOL—but I like this plot idea, so we’ll see what happens….

* * *

Via Pinterest

     “This sword is bigger than I am,” Edward complained, gripping the handle tighter as the long blade weaved drunkenly through the air. “How am I to learn proper swordplay if I can’t even keep my weapon steady?”

     “Your Majesty must concentrate harder,” Talír replied calmly. “Your arms are strong enough, but your Majesty’s mind is elsewhere.”

     “I don’t want to fight,” Edward confessed, resting the tip of the sword on the grass. “It’s because of fighting—and swords—that my father is dead, and I have to be king.” He threw down the sword and glared at the ground. “I’m too young, Lord Talír! I’m tired of trying to learn how to rule a kingdom; I’m tired of endless lessons. I’m tired of never being allowed to spend time with other children. I’m only ten years old, yet everyone expects me to act like an adult!”

Via Pinterest
(Ignore the horse for now)

    Talír rested one leather-clad hand on the boy’s shoulder.

     “I won’t deny that life has placed a heavy burden on your shoulders, your Majesty—shoulders that are, admittedly, too young for such a responsibility. But without you, Sire, our people have no leader.”

     “Father always said Elyon is the true King of any land,” Edward countered, folding his arms. “Why can’t we all just follow His Law, rather than forcing one man to make all the rules?”

     “Because people are like sheep, your Majesty, and need a shepherd to keep them in line. Yes, Yeshua is the Chief Shepherd,” he added, as Edward opened his mouth, “but He appoints under-shepherds to represent Him in the world. Just as your Majesty has lords and governors under you, so are the kings of this world under Elyon. Just as they are responsible to obey and carry out your laws and enforce them, so a king is answerable to Elyon, and it is a king’s duty to obey and enforce Elyon’s Law among his people.”

     Edward turned his back, but not before Talír caught sight of tears in the boy’s eyes. “I hate being king,” he sighed. “Other boys my age are allowed to run and play in the fields, or gather nuts in the woods, or swim in the creeks. I’d give anything to join them—to be a real little boy. I’m…I’m so lonely.”

     “Your Majesty’s destiny is a weighty one, and with great destiny comes great loneliness. Not everyone is fit to wear the crown.”

     Edward frowned at him over his shoulder. “But if I’m to be king, won’t I eventually have a queen? Perhaps I sha’n’t be so lonely then.”

     Talír laughed. “Now that’s a matter your Majesty is definitely rather young to worry about yet.”

     “I suppose so,” Edward conceded, lifting one corner of his mouth. He faced Talír with a humbler expression. “I don’t mean to be so difficult, Lord Talír—forgive me—but this has been building inside me so long, I simply couldn’t hold it in anymore. But I suppose a king must learn to be stronger than that.”

     “No king should bottle up his feelings, Sire; that only leads to harm. I know your Majesty desires to do right, but I also know that sometimes, one simply needs to ‘let off steam,’ as the saying goes. I’m not offended, Sire, so don’t trouble yourself on that head. Now then,” he continued, picking up Edward’s sword and handing it to him, “let’s resume your Majesty’s lesson.”

     Edward took a deep breath, nodded, and took hold of the weapon.

     This time, the blade remained steady.

Quote Queste (June Edition) ~Prince Nácil~

By God’s grace, I actually had some free time for once, so I whipped up this month’s Quote Queste entry! This month’s Quote is:

 I don’t know if I’ll actually use this scene in my current WIP, Prince Nácil, but it kinda fits the mood of the book, and Nácil’s character in particular.

* * *

via Pinterest

 “They used to shout my name,” he murmured, “greeting me with joyous smiles. Our people loved their Royal Family…but now….” He sighed. “After all these years—after all that has happened in Ýdära—I cannot help but wonder if there are any left who even remember the House of Othniel.”

     “Many, your Majesty,” Lady Müriel assured him. “There are few of our people who do not hate and fear Iceheart for what she has done to Arboria—and to yourself. They dare not so much as speak your name aloud, but they do whisper it…with hope.”

via Pinterest

     He turned his head, frowning in puzzlement at her. “Hope?” he echoed. “How can my name give our people hope?”

     She looked him straight in the eye, her own eyes shining, her voice firm, yet gentle. “They live in hope, Sire, that you will return, and defeat Iceheart, and reclaim the throne.”

     He exhaled heavily and nodded solemnly. “It would appear that Elyon has sent me here to do just that…or to die in the attempt,” he intoned, adding under his breath, “which is more likely at this point.”

* * *

    

Until next time, Gentle Readers,

God bless,

~“Tom”~

Quote Queste (May Edition) ~Yong Yu-Yin & Tora’tsuki~

Well, this is a bit late, but…Life happened. Anyhoo, my dear cyber-friend and fellow scribbler, Miss Melody Muffin, has begun a fun new venture called Quote Queste (actually, she started it a few months ago, but I haven’t been able to join in until now). It’s a writing exercise, taking a short quote and writing a scene based on it. Click here for all the particulars if you want to join the fun!

So, then, on with the Queste! This month’s Quote is:

The scene you’re about to read is taken from my “Super Hero-meets-Fantasy” world of Onória. It’s a fun place, and quite frankly is in danger of eclipsing Ýdära as my favorite imaginary world. Someday I’ll throw a blog party or something—like Kendra did a while back—and write up a proper introductory post for each of my worlds/series/books, so’s y’all will know what in Middle-earth (or out of it) I’m talking about. :-P

Anyroad, the characters are relatively new—I thought them up months ago (maybe even last year), but this is the first time I’ve actually written anything with them. I should mention here that their “Tribe” (called the Sulu on Bro’s suggestion) is comprised of Humans whose ancestry is a combination of Chinese, Japanese, Korean and other Oriental cultures. I’ve been interested in certain aspects of Japanese culture since I was a kid…but unfortunately, research isn’t my strong suit, so if I get something wrong, that’s why. I’ll have to bone up on Oriental culture before I write that part of the book….

But enough yakking from the Anka. On with the story!

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    Yong Tora’tsuki scowled at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She saw a slender maiden—just barely fourteen, she reminded herself—draped in a flowing red silk skirt that reached the bamboo-matted floor.  A hip-length white kimono-jacket trimmed with red and tied with a simple red sash completed the outfit, contrasting strikingly with her jet-black hair, which hung in thick hanks in front of her shoulders. Tora’tsuki rolled her eyes and sighed, reaching up and squeezing the knot comprised of the rest of her hair, resisting the urge to pull out all the pins—and the silly silk tiger lily Yu-Yin had stuck in the bun—and fix her hair in a more practical braid. But she had promised her twin she would do nothing to spoil her looks, and it would be dishonorable to break her word.

     A strange reflection, to be sure, and one she still had trouble believing to be one of herself. How she longed for her comfortable trousers and hapi-coat! How she wished she could at least take out her katana and practice with it before the ceremony. Even if she merely waved it over her head a few times, that would cool the anxiety simmering deep inside.

     She smiled. Why not? There’s still time before we need to leave.

     She crossed to a wall of the room where the slender, gently-curved longsword hung above her cupboard. It boasted a black disc between the foot-long handle and three-foot blade, cast to look like a circle of twisted rope surrounding a pair of crouching tigers, beautifully enameled. Little bronze discs connected the tigers to the rope, and each was blackened to represent the different phases of the moon. The handle itself was made of the same shining steel as the blade, and wrapped in such a way that little diamond-shapes of the metal peeked through the black woven braid.

     Tora’tsuki carefully removed the sword from its brackets and slowly pulled it out of the polished ebony sheath, relishing the sound it made. She laid down the sheath and walked slowly—silently cursing the length of her skirt—to the center of the room, took firm hold of the handle with both hands, and raised the katana over her head. She smiled broadly. I feel better already!

     A knock at the door brought her back to reality. “Tora’tsuki?” Yu-Yin murmured from the other side.

     “You may enter,” she called.

    The door opened, admitting a different sort of mirror-image. One that walked and moved independently from Tora’tsuki, but who possessed the same slender, petite build and perfect oval face. One clad in silver-grey shaded with stormy-blue and navy where Tora’tsuki wore red. One with a cluster of dangling silk flowers in her hair, like a string of little bells, instead of the brilliant orange lily. A mirror-image sporting a shaded blue sash woven with silver threads and beautifully embroidered. A mirror-image whose rice-powdered face wore an expression of horror at sight of the katana.

     “Yong Tora’tsuki!” Yu-Yin gasped.

     “Yes, Sister, I’m holding my katana. I was about to practice my instructor’s latest techniques when you knocked.”

     Yu-Yin’s obsidian eyes widened. “You promised!” she whispered.

     Tora’tsuki frowned and waved the sword in a circular motion above her head. “I gave you my word I’d do nothing to spoil my precious ceremonial garb,” she pointed out. “And I’ve been standing here doing absolutely nothing for twenty minutes. I simply had to get out my katana—had to, I say! I feel I’ll explode unless I have an outlet.” She grinned impishly as an idea came to her. Then, before Yu-Yin could react, Tora’tsuki twirled the sword above her head, running towards her twin so quickly that to anyone who might have looked in, Tora’tsuki would have appeared to be a blur of red and white. A mere two feet from Yu-Yin, she made a flying leap, turned three somersaults above her astounded sister’s head, placed her feet firmly on the wall above the door, and used her momentum to run a few feet along the ceiling. Then she did two more midair flips and landed in exactly the same spot she had stood when Yu-Yin had first entered the room. She beamed triumphantly—and a bit smugly—at her twin, who stood like one turned to stone, gaping at her.

     “You must not do that!” Yu-Yin whispered hoarsely, when she found her voice. “Suppose someone had come in just now—suppose someone saw—”

     “Everyone in this house knows about our powers,” Tora’tsuki drawled, swinging her katana back and forth gracefully. “Why should we worry about being seen to use them?”

     Yu-Yin lowered her head, clasping her hands in front of her. “Not everyone.”

     Tora’tsuki paused in mid-swing and stared at her sister. “Not even Ru-Ping?”

     “Especially Ru-Ping.”

     “Yu-Yin!” Tora’tsuki flung her hands in the air, exasperated. “You and he are betrothed to be married in seven years—do you mean to say you haven’t told him he’ll be marrying a Super?”

     “Shh!” Yu-Yin pleaded. “Please! Keep your voice down, I beg of you. No, I have not told him yet. His nerves are frayed enough with the ceremony and having our betrothal made public. How can I add to that the knowledge that I now lead a double life?”

     “You speak as though being Super were a dishonorable thing,” Tora’tsuki frowned. “What could be more honorable than to be a Guardian of the Realm? To protect our people from invasion? To aid the Shogun in making his kingdom a safe and prosperous place? It is a great honor, a great responsibility.”

     “Yes,” Yu-Yin sighed, “we are expected to be heroes, yet we are only children.”

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Until next time, Gentle Readers,

God bless,

~“Tom”~