Some impromptu fiction based on the prompt of 'errant clouds chasing each other across the sky' pulled randomly from "14,000 things to be happy about".

They lay on their backs, looking up at the clouds scooting across the sky. The sky was a bright blue that was almost painful to look directly at, broken by white fluffy clouds that were much easier on the eyes. The clouds formed fanciful shapes, that became even more fanciful in their imaginations.
"And there's a dragon!" His voice was gleeful but almost challenging. The sky filled her entire field of vision from horizon to horizon, and she quickly scanned the clouds to see which he meant. She knew she didn't have long before he would get impatient. Luckily this one was pretty easy, one of the clouds was forked as if it were the open maw of a large monstrous creature. Between the jaws, a smaller piece of cloud was in danger of being eaten.
"Mmhmm. And that rabbit had better run quick to get away."
'Hmph." She had kept her tone carefully neutral, but his response sounded a bit disappointed. She didn't hide her smile, but she didn't respond either. She knew he was waiting to trip her up, to get her to ask for clarification. Somehow, over the years it had turned into a competition. She wasn't really quite sure how, and they had never really spoken aloud what the rules were, but she knew that it had nonetheless. She vaguely wondered what she would have to sacrifice if she lost, but since she was determined not to lose, and since they had never spoken the rules aloud, she had never asked.
Spying a squarish cloud, she squinted slightly, viewing the surrounding clouds as a tableau. "There's a robot."
"Yep, a giant one, squashing Tokyo." He barely paused before answering. She frowned slightly, she had seen the surrounding clouds as a laboratory, and the robot as performing experiments in it, but she didn't challenge him. Even though, as she looked the other clouds were definitely all around the square one, not below it. She didn't know how he could have seen that as the city of Tokyo under the feet of the robot. She continued to scan to sky, looking to see if he had seen the wrong cloud, but she couldn't find anything even close.
Suddenly, his face intruded into her field of view. "The flower, do you see it?" The expression on his freckled face was one of triumph.
"Sorry. What?" Apparently, she had been lost in thought and had missed her turn. She tried to quell her disappointment and keep her face neutral.
"I asked about a flower." His face was disconcertingly close to hers. His breath hot against her cheek.
"Oh, umm." She pulled her gaze from his green eyes and scanned the sky. "Next to the dog?" As soon as she said it, she knew it was wrong. Not what she said, but the way she said it. That question mark at the end of her sentence.
Suddenly, she knew that she had lost, not because she was wrong, but because she wasn't sure she was right. And, she could tell by the grin that split his face, that he knew too.
He leaned even closer, so that his face replaced the sky, becoming the only thing that she could see. "Nope."
A creeping feeling pulled at the pit of her stomach as she tried to push her head back against the ground, to gain some space. She could hardly breathe, but she tried to hold herself together. She raised her hands and placed them against his chest, not quite pushing him away. She had lost, after all.
He pushed even closer, easily pushing past her halfhearted resistance, until his lip rested against hers, until his hands touched her body, slipped under her shirt.
Thoughts and feelings flew through her mind faster than she could recognize. Fear, surprise, anger, shame, loss, embarrassment all blended together in a strange brew that left her feeling slightly nauseous. Unsure of how she was expected to react, she just lay there and looked up at the clouds floating across the sky looking for the flower.

A quick bit of impromptu fiction, based on the idea of getting a tattoo:

She leaned against the cushion, breath held in anticipation. Her breasts squished against the pad in front of her chest were a little painful, but she pushed harder, thinking the pain might distract her from the other pain. The other pain which hadn't even started yet, but which she knew would. She could feel cool air on her exposed back, and every brush of breeze caused her to tense even more slightly.
"It'll be ok. You need to breathe." His voice almost made her jump. Almost, but not quite, she assured herself, realizing that if she had to assure herself of that it probably wasn't true. "If you don't want to do this, you should tell me now." His tone was calm, reassuring, but she wasn't reassured.
"It's ok, I want to." She hated the breathiness in her voice. She paused to fill her lungs with air, and looked over her shoulder to meet his eye. "I'm sure."
He shrugged and nodded as he sat in the chair behind her. "You'll feel a sting. Let me know if it gets to be too much and you need a break." She was no longer looking at him. Facing forward, she nodded curtly.
Once he started, she realized that it didn't hurt as much as she had expected. In fact, the anticipation of the pain had been much worse than the pain itself. Not wanting to disturb the artist's work she smothered the sigh that wanted to escape her chest. She would just have to keep looking. Maybe the next one would be it. Or maybe she would have to keep looking for something that would hurt enough.
As the pain continued, she relaxed more, resting her head against her heavily tattooed arms. Maybe the next one would be the one. Until then, she would just enjoy this while she could.

First Chapter of Demon Knight

I've been working on editing. Here is the current first chapter of Demon Knight:

Marissa was so mad she could barely see straight. She stood in her parents’ small shop surrounded by folded bolts of fabric, attempting to appease a customer who would not be appeased.

“Do you have anything this fine in yellow?” A shrill voice sounded from behind a laden table. Marissa closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath.

“We do not have anything in yellow right now. As you may be aware, yellow dye is not available in the fall. In the spring we will have several different yellows to select from.” She tried as hard as she could to keep any note of anger or frustration out of her voice, but she knew that she didn’t succeed.

“There is no call to be rude. A well stocked shop would have some fabric held over from the spring, reserved for their most important customers.” Marissa rounded the table to confront the young woman who stood on the other side, fingering various fabrics with a look of distaste on her face. The girl’s appearance was such a strong contrast to Marissa’s own that she couldn’t help but pause a moment to admire her. She was tall and voluptuous. Her long blond curls draped gracefully over her shoulders. But her dark blue eyes snapped with anger and her small mouth was held in an ugly moue of contempt. Marissa on the other hand, had short muddy brown hair and eyes of almost the same color. But, at the moment, her short slender figure was coiled tightly with restrained frustration.

“Serena, while you are certainly one of our favorite customers,” Marissa smiled widely, unable to restrain the sarcasm in her voice, “we are out of yellow fabric for the year. In the spring, we will be sure to keep you in mind…if you would return then.” Marissa sobered quickly. She knew that even though there weren’t any other weavers in their small village there were in other nearby villages. The thought of Serena shopping in another village, and possibly convincing her father the tailor to do so as well, robbed her of her anger. “We would be happy to set something aside, at that time. Perhaps in the meantime, you would be interested in something in an orange or this blue. It would set off your hair and eyes beautifully.” She reached over and deftly selected a bolt of fabric that had been hidden by the bolts on top of it, holding the finely woven dark blue fabric for Serena to examine.

“Hmm, I guess that would suffice. It does go well with my eyes, doesn’t it?” She took the bolt and held the fabric up in front of her, smiling blandly over it at Marissa.

“Oh, it will indeed be lovely on you,” she ground out between clenched teeth.

“I’ll take it then. Put it on my father’s account.”

“I will. Thank you.” Marissa felt she was being very gracious, but Serena swept out, carrying her parents’ finest fabric without sparing another look for her. Marissa was left alone to confront the whirlwind of a mess that had been left behind by Serena’s visit. After tidying, she returned to her seat and picked up the project she had laid aside while her customer was shopping. She smiled and fingered the swath of fine yellow cloth. She hadn’t lied to Serena, there was no more yellow fabric available for sale. However, the several yards that Marissa was currently admiring were not for sale. They already had a special use—her wedding dress.

Marissa thought back to when she had first been told she would be married. Her mother had arrived one afternoon, about a month ago, smiling broadly, which was unusual for her, especially lately. “Marissa, dear, I have wonderful news for you.” She called out. “We have completed the contract for your marriage. Isn’t that great news?”

Marissa barely restrained a groan. She focused on her work on the loom in front of her in order to control her ire. “I’m to wed? Who and when?”

“Well, aren’t you direct? You don’t seem very excited. I expected some girlish joy from you, but I guess I don’t know why I did. You never seem to have the reaction that I expect.”

“I apologize, mother. I am excited, but your news took me by surprise.” Marissa knew that she was getting older, almost past the point of marriageable age. She had assumed that her parents had chosen not to have her wed so as to keep her helping in the shop. While not a great solution, it would at least allow her some small control of her own life. But a small part of her had worried that they hadn’t been able to find a suitor for her at all. Certainly none of the local boys had spent any particular amount of time, or any time at all really, courting her, not that she had much free time for such pursuits anyway.

“Hmphf,” her mother seemed pacified by Marissa’s statement, but she was still slightly put off by the coldness of her reception. “Your father just signed the contract with John Tason. Isn’t that great?”

It was actually a good match, as far as such things went. Mr. Tason was a successful shopkeeper in a nearby village. She wouldn’t have to move to a completely unknown area, and she would still be available to assist or support her family, if necessary. However, Mr. Tason was also about 30 years older than Marissa and well known to be aggressive and commanding. She considered what life as his wife would be like. She would never have any freedom. He would dominate every part of her life.

“Wow, that’s really exciting, mother. When did you say the wedding is to be?” As much as the frustration caused her throat to tighten, she knew that she didn’t have any options available to her. So, she did her best to feign excitement.

“Well, John wants to have it done as soon as possible, but we are going to need some time to finish your dowry, so we contracted for it to be done on the new year.” Only a few more months of freedom, Marissa thought, glumly. Then, she chastised herself for her negative attitude. Even though she didn’t have any choice, she could still look toward it as a fresh start. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she feared?

But later that night she had overheard her mother and her father talking. “You know we tried almost every likely family in the area. None would have her.” Marissa peeked through the doorway of her room to see her parents sitting together at the dining table. His dark hair leaning close to her lighter brown. “At her age, all expect a fat dowry to accompany her that we cannot provide. We waited too long.”

Her mother’s reply was muffled, but Marissa could hear the sadness in her tone. Her father’s clear voice, however, carried easily and painfully to her ears. “No, she must marry. Tason offered several fine ewes for her hand. Our flock needs that new stock.” He shook his head regretfully, but his tone was unrepentant. “And, we cannot support her for the rest of her life.”

Marissa retreated to the comfort of her own bed and tried to restrain the tears. They hadn’t negotiated a marriage, they had sold her off. And what was her price, her worth? A handful of stinky sheep. Anger, frustration, and sadness collided in her mind, driving out clear thought. Several long minutes later she seized on the only hopeful thought that she could find in her maelstrom of despairing emotions. At least she would be moving on to a new start. As she didn’t have any choice in the matter, she might as well try to look to the positive.

Later in the afternoon, on the day of Serena’s visit, Marissa reflected back on her attitude. How could that girl be so full of herself? Marissa’s family raised only a few sheep and her entire family had to work hard to maintain their lifestyle. Her brother and father maintained the flock that provided wool, and she and her mother wove, dyed, and sold the fabric produced from it.

Sure, Serena’s family was their biggest customer. Her father bought fabric from them and produced clothing pieces ranging from simple to extravagant. Almost everyone in the village bought at least some of their clothing at his shop. And, of course, the Lord had been known to shop there. A fact that the tailor made sure everyone in the village was aware of. But that didn’t mean her family were better people, and that certainly didn’t mean that Serena had the right to act so superior.

With that thought still in her mind, Marissa heard the door thump open. As she navigated through the tables in the room, she saw that it was Serena that had entered. What could she want now, and why was she carrying the blue fabric that she had purchased earlier?

“Hello, Serena, did you need something else? Some lace trim or a nice brown fabric to match that blue?”

“No I don’t think so.” Serena always seemed to have a slightly nasal way of speaking that made it sound like she was tilting her head back to look down her nose at you. Not that that was difficult, since she topped Marissa by a good six inches. “In fact, I’ve decided against this blue at all. My father is traveling to Braden next week, and I can wait and see if the shop there has any yellow fabric left.”

Thinking that Serena was trying to negotiate or intimidate her into providing nicer fabric, Marissa attempted to placate her. “Serena, I assure you that it is late in the year for yellow fabric, I would be surprised if any shop, even one in Braden would have any to offer. That blue really is the nicest that we have to offer right now.”

“Well I still don’t think I’ll take it. Maybe I’ll return next week after my father shops in Braden. If he doesn’t find anything better, of course.” Serena thrust the bolt of blue fabric toward Marissa, but then for some reason turned and placed it on the table, instead. Without another word, Serena turned and left, closing the door loudly behind her.

Marissa was left looking at the closed door in astonishment. The nerve of that girl. She was so full of herself. Turning away from the door Marissa spied the bolt of blue fabric lying on the table in the middle of the room. Thinking that the fabric was nice enough to have a prominent spot, she picked up the bolt and turned to place it near the front window, close enough so it could be seen from outside, but far enough so it wouldn’t fade from the sun, when she suddenly realized that the bolt seemed thinner than it should. She looked at the end of the fabric and saw that it had been roughly cut, not a smooth end like her shears would have left if a previous customer had purchased some fabric off of this bolt. What could this mean?

It took Marissa several seconds of thought to come to the realization that Serena must have taken the bolt home and cut off some fabric to use and then returned it, thinking that no one would realize that some was missing. Marissa was astounded at the arrogance, the greed. How could she have done that? Why would anyone do that? Didn’t she realize that her family needed to sell this fabric in order to survive? So stunned that she wasn’t even sure if she was angry, she stood holding the fabric completely unsure what to do next, she looked up as she heard the door open again.

She started to move toward the front of the shop, but stopped when she saw her mother headed across the room toward her. “How is this day going for you, dear?”

“Mother, I believe we have been stolen from.”

“What! Who would do such a thing? And…” she paused as her thoughts seemed to catch up with her, “how can you ‘believe’ someone has stolen something?”

She quickly informed her mother of the events of the afternoon, expecting her to feel the same righteous indignation.

“So you don’t have any proof that we haven’t previously sold any of that fabric?”

“Well, no.” Marissa looked at her mother, disbelief clear on her face. Her mother busied herself straightening a stack of fabric nearby and failed to meet her eye.

“You know I forget to write things down all the time, dear. That doesn’t mean anything. In fact, I think I sold a yard or so of that fabric myself…yesterday, it was, or maybe the day before.”

“And you didn’t use our shears to cut it?”

“I must not have been able to find them at the time. I must have used a knife to cut the fabric.” Marissa was not convinced.

“Mother, we can’t let them get away with this.”

“And what are we going to do?” Marissa realized that she had pushed too far, when her mother finally turned to face her. She could see the anger flashing in her mother’s dark eyes, and she heard the steel in her mother’s tone. “We’re going to accuse a powerful family, a family with the ear of the lord, of stealing something that they could have easily paid for, without any proof? You know that would only result in us losing their business. And perhaps even worse consequences.”

Marissa knew that her mother was right, but she could still feel the anger and frustration welling up inside of her.

“Now dear, I understand that it is hard to put up with something that you know isn’t right, but sometimes that’s we just what we have to do.” Her mother looked at her with a pleading expression. Marissa tried to reign in her anger, but she could still feel the tension of frustration in her chest.

Unable to calm herself, she stormed out the door of their shop, scooping up her basket on the way and calling out to her mother. “I’m going to the woods to hunt for herbs. I’ll be back before dinner.” She didn’t look back to see her mother’s response.

An hour later, Marissa was deep in the woods outside of the village. She strolled slowly, swinging the basket that she always carried with her on her walks. She tried to focus on her surrounding and let her thoughts clear. She didn’t want to focus on the injustice of her life. She knew that she didn’t have any choice in the matter. She had to do as she was told, and she was limited by her circumstances. That was just the way it was. But, for now, while she was wandering through the cool closeness of the trees, she didn’t want to think about that. She wanted her mind to be calm and clear. She could pretend to be free.

Eventually she wound her way to the ruins. She usually visited the ruins on her trips into the woods. The tumbled stone walls were hidden in deep underbrush. Several of the outbuildings were merely piles of rubble, but the main structure, a large building almost as big as she imagined a castle to be, seemed mostly intact. However, she had never found a way to explore the inside of it. The windows were set too high for her to climb in, and the most likely areas for doors were all be hidden in dense thickets of undergrowth the grew up against the stone walls.

She stopped to rest, sitting on a stone fallen from one of the outbuildings. The fall afternoon was unusually warm, and the stone wall felt cool against her back as she relaxed against it, enjoying the sensation. As she rested, the normal sounds of the forest settled around her, the bird song, the small rustlings of insects in the bushes, the breath of wind through the leaves. She enjoyed the moment of calm and reflected on how it contrasted with the anger she had felt before leaving her home. “It’s strange how none of that really matters out here, isn’t it?” she mused to herself. The frustration slowly seeped out of her, leaving her calmer and, if not happier, at least more content. She knew her life was not in her own control. She just needed to accept that.

Suddenly a chill swept over her and the woods went silent. But, it wasn’t a normal forest silence. No, this was the terrified silence of prey waiting for a predator to pass, hoping that it wouldn’t serve as the next meal. The tense silence shared by the entire forest all at once. She was as frozen in place as everything else. Her heart was racing and her eyes were open wide. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t move a muscle. She was terrified, but for no rational reason that she could determine. What was causing this sensation? Suddenly, with as little warning as when it had started, she felt as if the predator’s view had passed over her, and she was released from her frozen state. She still wanted to run, but some animal part of her mind told her that could draw the predator’s attention. She sat and waited as the normal sounds of the forest slowly returned.

She looked around, but could determine no source for the fear. She knew of no large predators in the area. At least, not that large. What had just happened?

She paused in her thoughts and considered the main building of the ruins. Had the large thicket of thorns pressed to the front of the building shifted slightly since she had last examined them? She might be able to squeeze in between it and the building. Maybe she could find a door and be able to explore inside?

Casting a quick glance at the sky, she considered returning home instead. But whatever had just happened was over now, and it wasn’t yet dusk, so she had hours yet before she had to return. So, she laid her basket on the ground and gathered her skirts close to her sides so she could slip through the brush, sliding along the wall of the building to reach the interior of the thicket.

Inside the thicket was surprisingly open. It had a thick, almost impenetrable outer layer, but the interior had few leaves and was fairly open. It did still have thorns though, she thought, as she untangled her skirt from a two inch long specimen. Looking at the building, she saw that from inside the thicket, the door was obvious, even though it was completely hidden from outside.

Hugging close to the wall, she moved to stand in front of the door. It was large and make of heavy wood that had stood the rigors of time well. It seemed almost as hard as stone when she rapped her knuckles gently on it. She rapped louder, then giggled to herself. Did she expect someone to come and open it for her? She lifted the latch and pushed. At first, it did not move, but she planted her feet solidly and pushed with her shoulder and it slowly began to inch open, groaning with many years of disuse.

Stepping through the narrow opening that was revealed, she saw that the interior of the building seemed undisturbed by the years. A little light filtered through high narrow windows and faintly illuminated a large foyer with wide staircases sweeping up either side of the room to a balcony on the second story. Doors stood hanging off of their hinges and slightly ajar to her left and to her right, and it looked like there were further doors leading off the balcony upstairs. There was little in the way of furniture in the room, but the scraps of fabric that remained on the floor indicated that a rug or carpet had once decorated the floor. Which way to explore first?

She examined the stairs before climbing, nervous that they might be close to collapse but they were constructed out of solid stone. They seemed quite sturdy. Climbing up, she found three doors to choose from, one right in the middle, one going to the left and the last one to the right.

She pushed open the center door and found what appeared to be the remnants of a children’s play room. Large second story windows let in more light, revealing a wooden rocking horse in the corner that looked as if it would crumble if she attempted to touch it and a petrified crib in the middle of the room. She looked wistfully around the room, “I wonder who lived here and what happened to these children? They must be grown up and dead and gone by now, judging by how old these toys appear.” She reached over and ran a finger along the top of the crib, thinking about what could have happened to this family. She imagined herself living here, playing with children of her own. Making a life for them where they could be happy.

Turning to leave the room, she cast a last wistful glance at the crib before turning to open the door on the left side of the balcony. On the other side of the doorway, she found a long hallway with several doors on either side. She stepped through the door and walked along the hallway, wondering which to open next. The child’s room had been a mixed blessing. It had encouraged her that there would be many other interesting things to find in this building, but it had also been sad to consider children that had once lived and played in these hallways. There were several paintings hanging on the walls, and she examined them quickly as she passed. They all seemed to be portraits, and she thought she glimpsed a family resemblance between some of the people depicted on a few of the paintings. Continuing down the hall, she stopped at the third door on the left. It wasn’t the last door in the hallway, and she wasn’t quite sure why she picked that one. But, she didn’t consider her reasons further than that, she just assumed it was a random choice.

She reached to open the door, but she stopped, suddenly wracked with a pang of doubt. “I think I really should just go home.”

“Nonsense, it’s a big empty house, there’s nothing to be worried about, you’re just going to explore a little further then go.”

“This just doesn’t feel right, I think I should just go now.”

“Why are you being silly, just open the door and go inside.”

Oh great! Now she was talking to herself. Not just talking, but arguing with herself. And, she had a strange feeling that she was losing the argument. Shaking off her doubts, she reached for the door latch again and quickly pushed open the door.

As the door swung open, it revealed a musty library. The walls were lined with shelves displaying the spines of hundreds of books. The furniture in the room appeared to be remarkably well preserved. It was arranged around the room in several different seating areas ranging from a single chair by itself in one corner to a sofa and three chairs pulled together on an area rug in the middle of the room around a low table. Marissa stepped into the room and as her leg brushed a chair, it disintegrated into a pile of wooden bits and dust. Even though this room appeared well preserved, it was just as wasted away as the rest of the building.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of the door click shut behind her. Her initial thought was, “Hm, must of been the wind.” But after only a couple of seconds she realized that a draft of wind strong enough to close the door would have caused the rest of the furniture to fall apart. She straightened her shoulders and turned slowly to look at the door.

At first, she didn’t see anything, but then she saw a hand holding onto the door knob. The hand was broad and the fingers were long, and a slight dusting of dark hair ran along the back of the hand. Definitely a male hand, but who’s. She moved her eyes up the well muscled arm clad in a long sleeved dark green tunic to the broad shoulders. Her eyes moved down from the shoulders past the flat stomach and the narrow hips to the long legs before returning to the shoulders to look up at his face. He had sharp cheekbones and a knife edge aquiline nose. Dark eyes stared at her almost malevolently beneath thick black brows, and his long black hair hung to his shoulders, framing his striking face. It was strange the way she observed him, it was almost as if he came into being as she looked at each part of him, as if he hadn’t all been there at the start. But that was just silly, there he was, smiling at her warmly…wait, hadn’t he had a different expression before? No, he was a large and imposing man, but his expression was one of welcome and warmth.

“Hello.” She wasn’t quite sure where he had come from, but he was certainly in the way of her leaving. “I’m sorry for intruding. I’ll be on my way now.”

“Please, don’t go so quickly, I apologize for my sudden appearance, but it’s been so long since I had a visitor.” His voice was deep and gravelly. It sounded almost as if he hadn’t used it recently, the way your voice can sound first thing in the morning. It had a strength to it that Marissa felt should have scared her, but for some reason it put her at ease. And the smile faded from his face as he took on a sad expression.

“I really shouldn’t stay, but…I guess I’m not needed at home until dark.” His smile returned brighter than ever at her words. There was also a note of hopefulness to his expression, but she assumed he was just excited to have some companionship. “It must be lonely to live out here all by yourself. I didn’t think it was even possible to get into this building. Have you been living here long?” She shook her head slightly. She wasn’t sure she was making sense. He thoughts seemed slightly fuzzy for some reason. Was the room a little too warm, perhaps?

“For a while.” His smile warmed further as his gaze lingered on her mouth and then returned to her eyes.

She blushed a little. She wasn’t used to men looking at her that way, and she didn’t really know how to deal with it. A warm feeling grew inside her, but she didn’t know what she was supposed to do. She wasn’t supposed to encourage this behavior, right? In fact, she wasn’t even supposed to be alone with a man, especially not a man like this. Everything about him, from his appearance to his stance exuded strength and sensuality. “I am sorry for intruding.” She began to ease toward the door, but stopped when he didn’t move at all, his hand still on the doorknob.

“What do you have to return home for, my little butterfly?” He stared into her eyes as if he would be able to read the answer there himself without having to wait for her to answer.

“What do you mean? That is a strange question to ask. I have my home, of course. My family and our shop.”

“I apologize if I was forward, but I was just curious what would be so important that you wouldn’t be able to stay and talk with me for a little bit. I am quite lonely.” He made a moue of sadness that was so obviously fake that she had to laugh at him. She quickly covered her mouth with her hand, smothering the laughter, flooded with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry for being rude. But, from the looks of you, you would never be at want of companionship, if you wanted it.” He grinned and looked pointedly at her, until she realized the implication of what she had said, several seconds later. “Oh, that’s not what I meant. I just meant that you look like you would have plenty of friends, is all…” Her voice faded away as a look of sadness washed over his features. But, he quickly replaced it with his warm, wide smile.

She felt a strange thrill that she didn’t really understand at the mobility and expressiveness of his mouth.

“You still haven’t answered my question. What is it that you have at home that is so enticing?” She stopped and looked up at him, searching for, and finding, sincerity in his face.

“Well, there is my family—my mother, my father, and my brother. There’s the shop that we all run together. I guess that’s about all. But it’s important to me. They need me.” Do they, really? She wondered to herself. They had sold her to the highest bidder, the only bidder, in fact. Bitterness welled up inside her and she allowed herself to wallow in it. In fact, when she tried to pull herself out of her downward spiral of thoughts, she found that she couldn’t. They probably wouldn’t even notice if she didn’t return. If they did notice, they would probably be happy to be rid of her. Then they wouldn’t even have to finish her dowry.

His voice interrupted her dark thoughts. “No special person, a beau or a husband?”

She looked up at his face. His expression was still sincere, but looked slightly hopeful. Was he interested in her? Was he trying to see if he would have any competition? She thrilled at the thought of this handsome man asking for her hand. That would show her family that she was worth something. “I am engaged to be married on the new year, but I hardly know the man and have little warm feeling for him.” So little that there wasn’t any, she thought. But, she didn’t see the point in speaking ill about someone who hadn’t done ill to her.

His wide smile returned, lighting up his face. “So, would you be willing to let me return with you?”

“You are, of course, free to do as you wish.”

“Of course, but I would like to have your permission.” The intensity of his gaze was suddenly disconcerting. She attempted to edge closer to the door, but he still hadn’t moved his hand from the latch, so that brought her uncomfortably close to him.

“I’m not sure if that would be proper.”

“I apologize again. I seem to be somewhat out of practice in dealing with the fairer sex.”

“I really think I should go now.” She reached for the doorknob, but he moved before she was able to touch his hand. He moved so fast that she didn’t see him move at all. Suddenly, he was standing so close to her that she backed up without even thinking about it. She found herself against the wall next to the door with his long hard body pushing against her, holding her and preventing her from moving. Her entire field of vision was filled with his handsome face. She tried to turn her head to look away, but found that she didn’t really want to look away from his dark eyes. Now, looking closer than she had before, she realized that his eye were black, a very unusual color. Looking deep into his eyes, she felt that she ought to be terrified of this strange man who held her helpless so easy, but she wasn’t. In fact, part of her actually enjoyed the sensation of being handled so easily. She knew that her fiancee would never be able to make her feel this way.

“I think you should stay for a little bit longer, my butterfly.”

“O-o-kay.” She stuttered. It wasn’t like she was really in a position to argue that point.

“Do you like how I make you feel? I can feel your pulse beating, I can feel your blood flowing. I know that you are excited.”

“I’ve never felt this way before, I’m not sure if I like it.” She couldn’t stop herself from being honest with him as she looked into his black eyes. Part of her was terrified that he would hurt her, part of her was terrified that he wouldn’t.

“I can make you feel very good, my butterfly. Would you like that? Would you like me to make you feel good?”

Her breath quickened, and she blushed. She knew a little about what happened between a husband and a wife after they were married, but not much. She had never imagined it could lead to the feelings she was having. She was warm all over, but a particular molten, liquid warmth had settled between her thighs. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, but as she continued to look into his eyes, she felt like he was fully aware of her feelings.

He leaned forward, finally breaking eye contact with her, to whisper in her ear. “Do you want me inside of you? I can make you feel things that you have never felt before. I will make you feel so good, so strong, so powerful. You won’t feel helpless anymore, and you’ll feel so good. Just tell me that you want me inside of you.”

“Oh, yes.” It escaped her as a sigh. She could feel his body pressed against her hips, the hard length of his manhood pressing against her stomach.

“I need you to say it, butterfly. Say that you want me inside of you.”

She turned her head to look into his eyes again. She looked deeply, finding only the same hunger that she felt, except that she could tell that he was much more familiar with the sensations than she was.

The fog in her mind cleared slightly, and she considered her options a little more clearly. Why wouldn’t she say yes? This man was the most exciting thing to ever happen in her life. This may be her only opportunity to truly make a choice about events in her life, her only opportunity for freedom. Her decision made, she smiled up at him. “I want you inside of me,” she whispered.

World Building

OK, so I really suck at world building. For any who aren't aware, world building is what they call the process of developing the setting for a novel. If your novel is set in modern day Chicago, your world building is pretty easy to do. If you aren't familiar with Chicago, you might have some research to do, but then I would wonder why you chose to use that as your setting.

But, if you, like I do, choose to set your novels in some sort of fantastical place, you will need to take some time to determine what that place is like. I have read lots of great fantasy and sci-fi novels where the authors were amazing at world building. They create a deep and intricate, while still internally consistent, history and culture for their world.

In the process of world building you'll need to answer lots of questions ranging from the big picture: what is the climate like? what is the class structure like? what is the politics/ruling structure like? what are the rules of physics that must be obeyed? all the way down to minute, persnickety details like: what is the form of currency called? what naming convention is used for towns, streets, countries?  

As you may have guessed from my use of the word 'persnickety' I find answering these types of questions kind of boring. I'm more of a leap into the writing process and then find out what is important type. But, if you're going to write a fantasy-type novel (and by that I mean pretty much anything that isn't set in a purely realistic setting), you need to at least do some thinking. And the big reason for this is that phrase I used before...no not persnickety, 'internally consistent'. 

For a world to be believable, it must be internally consistent. I think this applies to any type of world building, whether you're writing a novel, working on a role-playing campaign, or just day dreaming. In any type of fantasy world there have to be rules and these rules have to be consistent. If superman is weakened by kryptonite, he has to always be weakened by kryptonite. And, if there is going to be a situation where he is going to have to be around kryptonite, but he can't be weakened, you need to come up with an...say it with me now...internally consistent reason why not.  Maybe he's shielded by lead? Or, maybe it's underwater? Or, maybe he just doesn't look at it and thus discovers that it is the sight of kryptonite and not its presence that bothers him? Whatever you decide, will work as long as it's consistent from one end of the story to the other. He had to have specifically looked at the kryptonite every other time, or you're going to lose your readers in an instant. I know, because I've been that reader many times.

But, beyond just not wanting to sit down and answer all of these questions at once, I also had difficulties with conveying the information that I did have in my story.  That sounds complicated, so I'll give an example. How often do you sit around your house, or in the middle of some exciting adventure, and think, "I live in the  United States of America, which is an electoral democracy. The President of the United States is the main guy in charge, but his power is limited by two other branches of government. This type of governmental control was put into place by the founders of this country because..."? No, really, how often does anyone think like that? Like never, that's how often.  So why would my characters?

So, now that I have spent the time deciding that my world is a temperate world, with a medieval type caste system, ruled by a feudal structure led by a king, the currency is gold, silver, and copper pieces, and the towns are named similar to Anglo Saxon styles, how do I get my character to convey that information to the reader?

I like to write very much from a characters perspective, so I don't do much from the perspective of the author/narrator, but maybe I'm going to have to. That would allow the readers to know this information, but I'm worried that it would be too dry. So, I guess I'll just have to experiment and see what works.

I'm thinking that I'll start editing Demon Knight next week, so my next post may be the first chapter of the second draft. Hopefully I'll have more luck editing it this time than I did before.  In the meantime, Beyzl is going to sit for a bit. I think taking some time to work on another project while that just stews and simmers for a little bit will be good for it, because the flavors always get better if you let them sit and blend together for a bit.

Characters

I have a friend who is reading Demon Knight and providing me feedback as he goes. He is the first person to provide feedback on any of my writing, really since college. So, it is kind of interesting. The things he is pointing out are things that I already knew were issues, generally, but I think it will be helpful to have someone else tell me what they saw that needs to be changed.

One of the biggest pieces of feedback that he has given (and admittedly he is only about a third of the way through the book so far) is that my secondary characters are interesting and vivid, but that my main characters seem more boring. Unlike some of the other feedback that he had to give (none of which was particularly harsh or at all undeserved) this wasn't at all hard for me to hear. My reaction was pretty much, "Yep."

I've noticed this phenomenon in my role playing as well. A character that only has to fill one particular niche can have all sorts of quirks and foibles. And let's face it, its the foibles that make a character lovable. One time I had an NPC that I created who was a dwarf, but the dwarves were at war, so all of their powerful magic users were out at the front lines, so I decided this would be the loser dwarf who was really only getting through magic school because he didn't have any competition, and he didn't really have any teachers to fail him anyway. He turned out to be a great character.

My players actually liked him so much that one of them decided to use him as a PC for his next character. What I thought was strange, though, was that this NPC had only been made to fill a very small part of their campaign. In fact, in all honesty, I think I spent less than 5 minutes coming up with the entire character, including the back story and quite a bit of hemming and hawing about his name. It ended up being Heinrich.

On the other hand, though, when a character has to have three fully fleshed dimensions, when it has to be able to fit into any situation that I want to throw at it, I find that those edges get worn off. That they become more...bland, I guess is a good word. They go closer to the middle.

So, how does one have a main character, who has to be able to be sympathetic for the reader and has to be well rounded so that they can deal with any situation, while still having them be memorable and have quirks? I don't really know for sure, but I think I achieved something like this with Jasin, one of my characters from Beyzl.

He is technically probably the 'hero' to Beyzl's heroine, but since it isn't really that kind of story, I think of him as more of a slightly less prominent main character. He is dark and brooding, one of his quirks, but he is also emotional and passionate. I think the trick is to determine what those quirks are going to be from the beginning and stick with them. Honestly, that's probably what works for the side characters, too. It's just that with them, I generally start with the quirk (You know what would be funny? A dwarf mage who's really crappy at magic!), while with the main characters I generally start with the more heroic parts of their personality (So, for this story I need a powerful sorceress who falls in love with a dragon.).

So, going forward, I guess what I need to do is have as part of my story prep, before I even get started, one or two personality traits that make that character distinctive. And, wouldn't it be great if those traits went completely against the conflict that they are going to have to resolve!?!  (I need a personality trait for the warrior who is going to take down the entire undead army...how about making him a pacifist!)

Theme

I finished Beyzl during NaNoWriMo! I actually finished a few days early and have been taking some time off to relax since then. Since I am most productive on the weekends, I had three 3,000+ word days over Thanksgiving weekend and knocked out the rest. The total story ended up at just over 50,000 words, but I think there is some filling out that I need to go back and do at the beginning. At least, I can remember having the thought that I need to go back and add stuff. But, I didn't take notes, so I hope I remember what I was thinking about.

What I wanted to talk about today is Theme. Writing the end of Beyzl brought up some interesting things about the theme I had in mind. For anyone that doesn't know, theme is basically the general point of a story, the 'moral', if you will. I'll take an example from a well known story. The novel "Watership Down" is told from the perspective of a group of rabbits whose home is destroyed. So, they travel and face many hardships in order to find a new safe home. But, once they get there, they realize that almost all of the rabbits are male, so they make forays out to find some female rabbits to join them so they can have a long lasting, safe home. In the end, this is an allegorical tale about the importance of home and safety. That would be the Theme of this story.

As you can probably see, theme is often a little bit of a fuzzy concept. I might interpret a story's theme a little different than someone else, and it generally isn't 'hit you over the head' obvious. Unlike in an Aesop's fable where it's written out at the end.

In fact, from what I've gathered, most writers don't write with a theme in mind. They come up with a plot or character first, and then write the story and see what theme emerges. I generally don't work that way. For me, the theme is kind of the point of writing. I don't always start with the theme, but figuring it out and exploring it during my outlining is an integral part of my process. And, it helps me to know what it is during my writing, because if I get lost or don't know what to do next, the theme can be like a signpost telling me which direction I should head.

When I first came up with the concept for Beyzl, I didn't have a theme in mind. I just had a story that I wanted to tell and a character that I wanted to get to know.  So, I spent some time thinking about what it would be. I finally latched onto the idea that it would be about a girl realizing that she was strong enough to depend on herself. But, when I worked on the outline I found that I had lots of scenes about my characters betraying each other, not trusting each other, or having to trust each other despite the earlier betrayal. So, I thought that maybe the theme would be more around trust and how it can be fragile and hard to develop, but is absolutely necessary to get through some things.

I decided to run with that and got almost all of the way through my rough draft, getting to the climactic scenes, before I ran into real issues with it. Well, that's not exactly true. I had difficulty writing Beyzl as not being trusting. In my mind, she's just an open kind of person, but I tried to lay the betrayal on hard so that she would have a reason to not want to trust. But, in those climactic scenes, I ran across a couple of other possible themes that I think might be a better fit. The first is the idea that a single insignificant person can make a big difference in a big system. And, the second is the importance of 'home' to someone who's never had one.

The first one I think will play a bigger role in the sequel, so I don't think I'm going to focus on it too much, but I would like to leave the seeds of it in there. But, I really like the second one. It feels like something I can sink my teeth into. So, what does that mean? That means that when I start doing my revisions, I'll need to work that into my story from the beginning, rather than just having it show up in the last few pages. But, I think that will tie it together much better than the idea of trust did.

Endings

It's been a few days since my last post, and I've made some progress on Beyzl. I'm up to 47,000 words as of today. Because of the long weekend, I set myself the goal to write 3,000 words each day this weekend, so I'm hoping to finish the NaNo 50,000 words tomorrow.

Today's 3,000 words were particularly tough. From writing Demon Knight last year, I remember that writing the end of the story is harder than writing the beginning. In my last post, I think, I wrote that the hardest part is starting a new project, but what I've found is that when you get past that first hurdle, the first part of the story is easy to write. I think of it in terms of chemistry (because I'm a bit of a science nerd). In a chemical reaction, there's an energy cost that has to be met to start the reaction, then once you get over that bump, the reaction runs at lower energy. What a catalyst does is it lowers the height of that first energy bump. If I can find a picture, maybe I'll add it in here:

So, NaNoWriMo works like a catalyst for me. It helps me get over the first energy requirement to get the reaction started. Then, from there the first part of the story goes easily. But, as the story goes on, I find it gets harder and harder to get the words out. Part of that is because I lose some of the excitement and energy that comes with starting a new project. But, I think part of that is because as the story goes on, I get more and more boxed in.

I think of it kind of like...I guess like a tree, or something like that. When you start, there are lots and lots of branches, and you're close to the edge, so you can do just about anything you want. But, as you go further and further in, there are fewer and fewer options, until you end up at the trunk with nowhere to go but straight down to the ground. Plus, you've got to keep track of everything that you've done up until then.

At the beginning you get to make all of the choices--what color are her eyes, what style of dress does she wear, what am I going to name this town. But by the end of the story, you have to remember what all of those choices were. He gazes down into her eyes, were they green or brown? She lifts the hem of her dress to step over a log, or did I make her skirt shorter so that she wouldn't have that problem? They return to the bustling metropolis of...what was that again?

But, even without those issues, the last few scenes seem to be the hardest for me to write. I have to be sure that I get it all right. They are the main purpose to read a book. Right? No one picks up a book and really enjoys the first few chapters, but is OK if the last part is crappy. Heck, I've read books, and loved books, where the first part was terrible, but it really picked up at the end and was really good. So, writing the end of a story brings with it a terrible onus. A requirement to be at least as good as everything else so far (along with maintaining the energy and the continuity) but preferably better.

With all of that, I can kind of understand authors who write their stories out of order. I could see why someone would write the last scene or scenes first. But, I just don't think I could ever do that. As much trouble as it is, I really enjoy the journey from beginning to end. And, I think if I wrote the end first, I would end up shoehorn-ing the story to fit this perfect ending that I have in my head.

In my method, I know kind of where I want to go, but I allow it to change and flux as I write. If another character decides he wants to come along, too. Why not? If the main character decides that she wants to have a crisis of faith and breakdown in the middle of the story, completely changing my intended theme. Well, I guess I can roll with that.

In the end (no pun intended, but it is kind of funny), it all leads up to what I hope with be a believable and exciting finale for my story, which I'm hoping to write tomorrow.