2/2/19 Dayline POV

This isn’t trash. POV from Dayline Book 3.

“The Healer walked out, slowly, her footsteps silent on the golden light of morning. He lay back on the linens, fresh, redolent of sun and wind and green, growing things. There was not much more he could do, and her words had shown him just how lacking he was. Not only in strength, but in Light. Pale, shaking fingers brushed the vibrant skin work that spiraled up his arm, over the characters etched with her Light, the ones that had shaken her to the quick. Hope. Dream. Peace. Protection. Love. – Love. That last which she had given him meaning for. He had not known love in all the days of his captivity. Pale green eyes blinked away the thoughts that threatened to tumble forth. There was so much that needed to be completed and no time in which to do so. The chill winter air rasped in his lungs. He did not know how he could achieve all he had need of, but perhaps he could start by following her instruction, and rest. And in resting, perhaps he could allow himself to dream.”

1/14/19

Tonight’s Writey Time Theater is brought to you by dragons and other mythical creatures.

“One by one my arrows found their mark. Hollow and filled with the magic I held within me, they pierced armor, silk, memory and love alike.
Artist, mechanic, teacher, wanderer, farmer, soldier – each bound to me with bonds unbroken through a thousand lifetimes. Now, in this life, this space, they were marked as mine, sharp tipped shafts of ivory simply dissipating, filling each of them with a flush of warmth, a flash of memory.

Perhaps the taste of ink and blood, nothing more.

The Dragon, he, of all the souls I claim, saw the arrow, and swallowed it eagerly, one more point among the razor sharpness of his teeth. I wondered that he would bind himself to me with such unthinking fearlessness, but the facets for this binding had been lain in lifetimes past. It was only one more link in the ephemeral magic between us. The Dragon, he had always seen both worlds, had always remembered me in all my manifestations.

I let the ties bring them to me, then, seeing in each that mark, that light which told me they belonged under my outstretched wings, and I knew them as mine. I laid the binding with a kiss, a touch, a word.
The arrows only solidified, validated the magic that transcended centuries.

With one exception. One arrow with only a vague wisp of dream to guide it.
A space of silent footsteps and whispered thoughts not my own.
“Find me.” It teased.
“You are not real.” I replied.
“I am.” Came the answer.
“Then you find me.” I demanded.
And I sent an arrow into nothingness to find who wanted to be claimed as mine.”

1/11/19

Working on the re-write. I’m definitely keeping this:

“The only one of the gang injured enough to remain in the partitioned space is Amber.
Mae and Coral are helping the petite blond out of the shreds of her coverall on the only open cot left. As I approach the trio I send my exhausted senses out towards Amber. The area of her left shoulder is damaged, but nothing external. She’s wrenched it, somehow. There is also a thick, dark fog surrounding her spine. Mae gets her laid out on her belly on the cot and the reason is readily apparent. Blood oozes from a long, jagged slice reaching from just above her shoulder blade and extending to below her hips.
“Amber, it’s Sassy.” I say gently.
“Heyla. I’m guessin’ it’s as bad as Chrys said, if’n you’re here t’ see me.” She looks up at me out of the corner of her eye. I can see the pain and the determination fierce on her face.
“Not as bad as could be.” I reach into the pack slung on my hip, fumbling among the vials for the aspidell mixture. “You get to take some of this!” I pull the jar and dosing container from the canvas with a lopsided grin.
“Ugh.” She moans into the cotton pillowcase. “That’ stuff’s awful. Rather have two slugs o’ watermelon brandy.”
“Funny,” Rook’s voice carries to us from across the room, “tha’s just exactly how much is in this flask.” The rangy mechrat lopes towards us, a thin silver container in his outstretched hand.
“Gaaaaaaaaaah.” Amber wails. “I din’t mean it.”
“C’mon, ya know it’ll take the sting outta whatever meds Sassy here’s trying to dose ya with.” He jokes.
“Let me have that.” I tell him.
“Shore ‘nuff.” he replies, handing me the flask. I empty the contents into the larger dosing cup and add the aspidell to it.
The pulsing red along her spine has begun to shade to purple. It’s past time to get it sutured and Healed. I hand the cup to Mae.
“Think you can get all this in her?” I chuckle.
Amber downs the painkiller drowned in the remains of Rook’s brandy. “Oh, Flamin’ Light and Ashes o’ Blood!” She curses creatively. “That’ BURNS!”
Using warm water and the harsh white soap I clean the area around the wound, studying the pulsing purple red mist as I do so. “The brandy or the soap?” I ask.
“Both.” She mutters through gritted teeth
“This will help.” I tell her as I apply the white paste made from crushed Conja leaves and Bitterbark.
I’m careful to use shielding around my fingers. The mixture will numb the skin for several hours, and I don’t need to risk getting any on my hands if I am to get the wound closed anytime soon.
She lets out a sigh and melts into the cot.
I drop the shielding around my hands and begin suturing it with the last of the twine in Mother’s pack.
“How’d ya get that, anywise?” Rook mutters from where he stands at my elbow.
“Those troopers just come outta nowhere, and you know I was last.” Amber’s muffled voice floats up from the pillow.
“Wull, yeah. Cable an’ I was drivin’ those Light blasted carryalls. More gap than parts.” He retorts.
“An Cate an me, we’re in th’ back, coverin’ yer scrawny hide. Cate, she’s better at bein able t’ steer an shoot. When that tree came down? Something scraped me. Didn’t think it got through my jacket, but Chrys’ face when we got to the shop told me different.”
Rook whistles softly. “That’ necro, he was doin something, something I ain’t seen afore. Felt almost like the gapleaping was comin apart on th’ carryalls.” He lays one rangy, nail bitten hand on her calf. “That tree shoulda never come down. An no tree would’ve cut through yer jacket.”
“Patrollin’ is serious work, Rook, you know that.”
“Yeah, just wish it hadn’t lain you out.”
“Me too.” Amber whispers.”

6/1/18

Tonight’s installment of Mariel.

“Larger than even Andrew, this man seemed to loom over me, something to which I was not accustomed. His voice was deep, deep like the darkness under the keep, like the voice of the waves on the floor of the sea. I found myself listening intently, not to his words, but to the rolling cadences and tone they were spoken with. Andrew seated him next to me, so that they could converse more easily. Gareth spoke of the training his men had received, their discipline and loyalty. Andrew listened with keen interest, but once the wine in his cup was drained his thoughts turned to other things and I found myself seated next to a silent mountain.
“Do you truly come from Whitehall?” I asked politely.
“Aye.” He rumbled.
“I have the understanding it is an uneasy place to live.” He eyed me then, and I noticed his eyes were blue, not the icy windswept blue of winter, but the dark, mysterious hue of the night sky.
My words seemed to stick in my throat under those eyes.
“For some. What do you know of it?”
My words unbound a little then, and a quick glance at Andrew told me he was deep in some tale of his prowess, whether in bed or in battle I could not guess. “One of my ladies came to me from the lands around Caer Whitehall, she and I have spoken of it often.”
“So, did your lady tell you of the spirit folk, those creatures said to walk the hills and valleys of the place, did she seek to frighten or entertain with the slow seep of magic the denizens have endured?”
I felt my spine straighten at his offence. “She spoke of it at my request, and magic is not a thing I fear.” My reply drifted boldly between us.
Reaching out in that way Betsey had shown me, I wrapped a thin filament of power around the crystal of his goblet, willing the wine within to turn to frosted ice.
His stony expression did not change, but rather the tone of his words. “So I see.”
I clasped my hands tightly under the protection of the table linens. Urgency, of a kind unfamiliar to me, pulled at my limbs, called for action, for movement. Movement and action that I could not afford, that were unwelcome and dangerous in this place.
A heavy hand clasped my shoulder hard enough to bruise, its twin causing less damage on Lord Whitehall’s tabard. Andrew’s voice fell between us like an executioner’s blade.
“Mariel,” I winced as he used my name as if I were a peasant child, instead of his wife, and Queen, “dance for me.”
The brazen demand stole from my throat any reply I might have dared to make. The magic still twisted between my fingers, I kept them beneath the table, lest I be tempted to try something rash. The hand on my shoulder dug deep against the silk of my gown.
“Lord Gareth, please do me the honor of escorting my wife to dance.” The King’s voice had grown darker still.
I hardly dared draw breath. The glacier under Andrew’s right hand moved to rise. Daring a glance at Lord Whitehall, the stillness within me turned cold. The sharp features held a carefully contrived mask of courtesy, but his eyes were alight with seething emotion.
A meaty paw was extended towards me, the weight on my shoulder lifted. “If it pleases my Queen,” the words parted the air like an avalanche.
Lord Whitehall was bent almost double, his eyes were even with mine. I had no choice, I placed my own hand in his.
“It would be an honor to join the Master of Caer Whitehall.”
His eyes sparkled at that. I allowed myself to be led away from Andrew and his jealous games. If he wanted me out of hearing, it was a fools ploy, I would know all that was spoken before sunrise. His motivation could not be making a spectacle of his inferior wife, I was an accomplished dancer, even if my height kept my partners to those hoping to curry favor, or more likely the favor of my bedchamber. I was no fool, I knew what happened to those in Andrew’s court who took lovers. If the man was in favor with the King, then he was congratulated heartily, if he was not, then the woman was imprisoned, used for the sport of his soldiers, and if she survived that, she was hanged. I did not hesitate to think that my position would keep me from a similar fate. I did not crave the pleasure of the flesh or heart in a quantity that I would take a lover, no matter how comely. We arranged ourselves neatly among the other couples, all eyes on us. I did not fool myself, while I was accomplished, I was not elegant nor graceful. It was whispered behind glove and fan that my insistence on martial training had robbed me of my feminine grace and poise. That may have been, but I would rather face an enemy with a blade than a pavane.”

5/16/18

In tonight’s installment of Mariel, we learn of the fate of Violetta, Princess of Doerthe.

“Through my interactions with Harold, as well as inquiries made among those Owen felt I could trust, it came to light that Reginald was prone to rash and ill-fated decisions, not the greatest of which was his elopement with my half-sister. While Reginald had taken his frustrations out on his young heir, Violetta had done her best to repair the damage of her husband’s rages. I wondered what her life had been like, if she regretted her decision, if Andrew’s attitude towards her would have differed from his cold and resigned disappointment in me. What truly chilled me was the description, laid out on cream parchment in an old and shaking hand, of Violetta’s last hours. Reginald had made some powerful enemies on the wrong side of a vague and nebulous border, and Andrew had discovered this. He timed his visit to coincide with the invasion of an army the account related as inhuman. Creatures from the far depths of hell, it said, winged and fanged, with gangrenous skin and horrifically elongated limbs. Some were scaled, with barbed tails and inhuman strength, others winged with glowing eyes and poisoned claws. This otherworldly army tore through the countryside, leaving behind plague and corruption. Andrew’s troops followed, burning, looting and hounding the unholy creatures towards the capitol city. Stricken with terror, Violetta had barricaded herself and her sons in a tower, counting on its height and a handful of retainers either too old, infirm or untrained to defend the walls. It was a bloodbath. How the boys had been spared, and came into Andrew’s care was unclear. What was clear was that Violetta had been torn limb from limb defending the alcove where they had been secreted. I shuddered at that, and vowed that I would not bend an inch from my insistence on arms training.”

5/14/18

After a brief delay brought on by sick children and strange drama – Writey Time Theater brings you another installment of Mariel.

“We set out as I meant to go on, with Cristoph in a maid’s cradle in my chamber, and Harold in his own apartment adjoining mine. I did not think what I would do should the need arise to install a true heir among my retinue; I was too busy with my duties to give it any thought. I was yet a child myself in many ways, despite the burdens I had undertaken. I expressed this to Agnes, and was rewarded with Betsey, produced from the hamlet of Whitehall, some miles distant, on the edge of the sea. Betsey was only a few years older than I, but had already married and lost a husband, and her child only a scant year later. She was cheerful and plump with a good, steady head on her ample shoulders. She did wonders with Christoph, and while my concern had been a lack of discipline with Harold, it seemed the opposite was the truth.”

5/8/18

An unexpected visit in tonight’s installment of Mariel.

“The summer of my fifteenth year Andrew left on campaign, gone three seasons, leaving Coran and Flaxhall under my rule. I watched from my balcony as he returned, dismounting with vigor and grace from his sleek black charger. I watched him until he entered the palace with a knot of his men. I settled in, waiting for a summons or Owen to escort me to the hearings of the day. I did not have long to wait, the heavy oak door to my chambers flung open, Andrew striding through it, a bundle in his arms and a shadow on his heels. The bundle groaned, the shrieked.
“This is Christoph,” his eyes seemed to light up queerly as he said this. He handed the squirming infant to me, “and this is Harold.”
A tired and grimy boy of about five emerged from behind him. “Your nephews. It seems motherhood proved to be too much for Violetta. I entrust them to your care. Think of it as training for our sons.”
Another moment of that eerie stare and Andrew turned on his heel and departed my chambers, leaving me stunned, with a hungry infant and a traumatized boy in my charge.”

5/7/18 (Adultish Content)

Tonight’s installment of Mariel brings more changes for our young Queen.
Disclaimer: Material of a potentially adult nature.

“I was fourteen when I woke one sunlit morning to blood between my legs. True to their word, Andrew arrived at my breakfast table that day. The pleasantries were strained at best. Each morning became more stilted and pained. He waited two weeks. Returning to my rooms after dinner I was greeted by guards at the door and Andrew in his cups lounging naked in my bed.
He was gentle, I suppose. I had no bruise or lasting injury. It had hurt, some, when he placed himself between my legs, but much less than many other things. Even in the dim firelight I could tell he was disappointed with my small, high breasts, with the gentle curve of my wide hips and the heavy reddish fuzz over my sex.
My husband was handsome and experienced, so there was some pleasure of the flesh to the endeavor. That he tried to please me I will admit, but the resigned disappointment in his eyes kept me from the whole of it.
Once he had deposited his burden within me, he took his robe and left me cold and alone. Weeks passed and I bled again. A fortnight later he came to me in the deep of night, and while the manner of it was different, and I felt the pleasure a man could bring a woman, he left my bed as soon as it was done. For half a year he came to me two weeks after my blood finished, came and thrust his seed into my womb, leaving me the moment his cock stopped pulsing. Left me to wait. I did not conceive. After that it was only on the anniversary of our marriage that he came to my bed. Then, when I was nineteen, he stopped coming at all.”

5/6/18

After a long weekend away, we have another installment of Mariel.

“I was unused to being ornamental. Although my ladies seemed to think the pinnacle of existence was found only among the frames and threads of the solar, my wings were already too large for such a cage. After careful consultation with many of Andrew’s councilors I was able to arrange for continued training with sword and shield, meeting any opposition with the sentiment that a Queen who was unable to defend her person and her heirs from barbarous attack was a fool, and not all the lands that bordered Corlan were civilized. I placated some and infuriated others with my insistence on attending meetings of state in Andrew’s increasing absences. Lord Owen’s support was crucial and invaluable. I did recognize his manner of discussion after the meetings had adjourned from my days with Violetta’s tutors. That I listened, studied and considered each matter as befitted a ruler only seemed to overjoy him. Eventually I managed to hold my own in discussions and earned my voice on my own merits, although the attempts to curry my favor were never ending. It was a difficult balance, but one I was determined to wield. If I established my place and presence now, then no matter what ends Andrew’s pursuits led him to, Corlan could survive with a minimum of disruption. Over time my height and lack of overly female sentiments seemed to lull most of the councilors into a tired acceptance. And while I was not happy with my new life, I was satisfied, and more importantly, I was useful.”

4/24/18

While I get Dayline all fancied up and ready to go out into the wide world, I’ll be posting installments of my short story ‘Mariel’. I hope you enjoy it. Here’s a little snippet.

“For all that he was a knight, a lord with land and holdings, he was not a hero. His gambeson, white as snow when he entered the kings chamber all those months ago, was now stained with rust and blood. His actions, which had been long dictated by those who sought power and accolades, were now his own, motivated only by the selfish desires of love and peace.”