Not really a "fanfic" per se, but...
Posted: 2002-10-22 09:32pm
I just wanted to throw something in here that I already got a couple of good reviews from.
This is one of the chapters of a book I am attempting to write in my free time. Since I freaked out in my room, and the Net crashed, this is about the most I've gotten typed up since school started...
WARNING! Random tense changes ensue! (This I WILL fix at a later date)
This chapter is entitled "A Far-Off Land." Sadly, it's in the middle of the book, somewhat...I started a chapter before this, and then progressed to the beginning...this is all I had with me, else I would have typed the beginning...
Far to the north, in the nation of Ta'shaad, near the foot of the Aural Mountains (which separate the mainland from the Myrmidia Desert), there lies a small village called D'ashak. Within D'ashak, there is kept such a valuable secret that even the Thirteen Wise know nothing of it. The secret is a very great one, and only a few people, even within the town, have even heard of it, else the Thirteen would have confiscated it long ago. The settlement, called Garmond's Plain by some, holds the secret of youth. The owners of this enigma to the Queen Amalia of Meladon, but no one can say, for sure, why. But I can.
Amalia had, seven hundred years ago, wanted something to help her live long enough to see the birth of a daughter. Until then, her only three children (Gyreff'en, Nial'tov, and Aram'et) had grown up to be men. I should know. I was there. I am the true T'amalia.
Outcast from society by an imposter, Verona Djharagon, I have grown to live in conditions not my own. I have survived in Garmond's Plain for six hundred years, imprisoned by a weakening bond set by Verona herself. Once the invisible chain that keeps me her is broken, I am gone, free to take my rightful place in Amalia's palace.
My imitator transferred most of the special bond between the Queen and I to herself. Though our link is gone, I can still feel the true connection that has held us together for so many years is still there. Everything that happens to her happens unto me, with the exception of death. When the ending time does come for my Queen, my True Queen, I will be there, to avenge myself from Verona Djharagon. I might still have time to save the High Lady Amalia, before all is lost, but time is running out. And I feel her growing inside me. There are no Tagasha in D'ashak to speak of, save myself, yet I feel her growing inside me.
* * *
"A fine mo'ning, Master Travl's."
“Indeed, Mistress Graem.”
“Was ya’ sleep fine, Master?”
“‘Twas, indeed, and yourself?”
“Mine as well.” She bends over, opening a black wood-burning oven as she speaks. As she peeks inside, she asks, “And how’s the bed?”
“The bed was just fine,” Travlos says with a bit of a chuckle. “Why do you worry yourself so?”
She stands up straight and reaches for a wooden paddle. Giving him a hard stare, she responds, “‘Tis custom t’ask ‘bou’ a guest’s sleep, it is. You know this,” she says, eyeing him. Continuing her speech, she begins to shove some dough for bread into the black opening. “What kind a ‘ostess would I make, i’ I di’n’t make sho e’rything’s all right?”
He looks at her complacently as she shuts the oven door with her foot, wipes her hands on her apron, and promptly puts them on her hips. “Yes, I understand,” turning his complacency into something like her stare, “but must you act as if something bad were to happen?”
Graem fidgeted, and took her eyes off of Travlos. She removed her hands from her hips, and crossed her arm sin front of her. Speaking hesitantly, she says, “Well, ‘tis likely something will.” With a look of concern, she continues, “I fear it. I can’ ‘elp it, either. You’ve taught me much abou’ dreams, Master Travl’s, bu’ you’ve failed yet to tell me that they could predict the future.” She stares at him, looking at one eye, and then the other. Travlos looks at her blankly as she speaks to him in a shaky voice. “You know wha’ I mean. Like the time when the inn almost burn’ down.” Then, looking off to the east and pointing with her left hand, “Or the time when you fell ill in the mi’le of a raid on the nex’ village.” She looks back at him, and puts her left hand to her side, keeping her right across her chest. Travlos only continues to stare. She gives him a searching look, but he always seems to know what she is thinking, anyhow, or else plotting something in that thread-filled head of his. It makes her uncomfortable; she re-crosses her arms, and shifts her feet.
“It is not my fault there was disease spreading, or that it spread as quickly as it did. But if you must,” he says sardonically, “what did you see last night in your dream? What happened?” Thinking better of it, he says, “Rather, what will happen?” He says this last quieter.
Looking ready to break down and cry, Graem says almost too ordinarily, with a weird grin on her face, “I must go. Soon. There is somethin’ holdin’ me ‘ere, now. But I know I must go. I feel it in my gut that I—must—go.” She looks at the floor, sits on a chair, puts her forehead on her folded arms, and begins to weep.
Travlos is nonplussed, but does not show it. After a moment, Graem’s sobbing begins to lessen. Quietly, he asks, “Who do you mean to take care of the Wild Rose while you are gone?”
“Whom,” Graem corrects him softly. She looks up at him, with puffy eyes. She sniffles, and wipes her face clean with her apron. “And whomever I can fin’ to ta’e care of it, will.” She turns away again, growing quiet. “But it is hard to find trustworthy people, nowadays, what with the war goin’ on, an’ all. It’s gonna be hard t’ find someone—anyone—that I could trust wi’ my secret.” Then, glaring at him icily as they move into the common room, she says with a stern voice, “Tha’ is the only reason I have not yet found someone to ta’e ova, but it is a good one.”
Before they have a chance to speak further, a boy of about fifteen bursts into the common room. He quickly slams the door shut, and Graem, who is tending the fireplace and looks furious, says quickly, “Have you no respect for my inn?”
Without letting her get any further, he gives her the look of worry that possessed Travlos previously. White as linen, the boy replies in short pants of breath, “Mistress Graem—I am truly—sorry. But the Bloods—they’re coming—they’re—after you!” Breaking out of a terrified trance, Graem is no longer paralyzed with her worst fears. Having forgotten about the bread in the oven, she runs out to the stable yard, and into the hayloft. Her stable hand, Jairyn, begins to ask what she is doing, but her hurried silence keeps him quiet. She makes her way to the top, and begins searching through the saddles.
May the Heartstone be with me, I do not want to die! She is searching through the equipment when she realizes something. Travlos! What are they doing with him? Or is that bastard one of them…one of those Bloods? She looks to her side, and grimaces at the thought of the consequences of having a Blood stay at her inn, but also at the worse consequences if she had refusing to board one. A double-edged sword, but better to have one spy on me, than to be named a Deathfollower by one. That would have been the real mistake.
“What would have been?” Jairyn asks from the top of the ladder leading to the hayloft.
Graem gives a start, and hits her head on a saddle that she was looking under. “Ow! Don’ min’ that, doesn’ concern you. An’ don’ min’ me. Go, hide yo’self!” She tries to shoo him down the ladder, to no avail.
He looks to the side. “They’re already in town, aren’ they?” he asks softly. Graem stops her movements. “But I can’ unde’stand why you tell me to go. I know as much about—it—as you do.” He looks into her shocked eyes.
“What? I thought—”
“Yes, I know. But you an’ I mus’ stick together, now.”
“No! The Bloods are afta me! They do not know ‘bout the secret. Not yet. I won’ let it be los’ because some thread-stuffed stable han’ wan’ed to go on an adventure! I won’ let anyone die because of me. Now saddle me up a horse!”
Moments later, Jairyn has a saddle and provisions ready for Graem. They hug for a long moment, but it does not seem long enough for a simple good-bye, because it is forever. “Take care of yourself, Mistress Graem.” Tears are streaming down their faces, but neither cares, or even notices.
“I will. And you take care of yourself, too, Jairyn Malviaryn. And my inn. You make sho the Wild Rose is not harmed, or I’ll harm you.” She smiles, jokingly, even if the tone of her voice indicates seriousness as much as his does. He smiles at her, admiringly. “And when you talk about me, I am Graem. None of this ‘Mistress’ horse droppin’. Got it?”
“Yes—Graem.” He smiles, and hugs her once more. He notices how short she is compared to him, and the color of her hair, her scent. He takes one last look at her face as she mounts her mare, Fahr’ran, as to etch the image into his mind, as to never forget her face. He has already burned the memory of her voice in his head. “Farewell, Graem.” He turned to the inn.
“There’s some bread in the oven, don’t let it burn. You’ll find my recipes in a box under the churner in the kitchen on the southwest corner. Keep them there, for good luck. Farewell, Master Jairyn.” This last comment took Jairyn by surprise, especially due to the change in her accent, but just as he turned to say something, she heeled Fahr’ran at a full gallop to the South—the same direction the Bloods are moving. As long as she can evade them, she cannot be held to trial in Gareth. She suddenly seemed taller, more beautiful, to him—almost like royalty, in fact.
Softly, Jairyn says a small prayer, “May the Heartstone be with you always, and the luck of the world in your hands.” Then, turning back to the village, he sighs, looking at the ground. When he looks up a moment later, he sees Master Flayrie’s house aflame. Travlos and some of the Bloods that had ridden into town are standing in front of it, filling the air with their mirthless laughter. Jairyn retreats to the rear of the inn, and hides in the shadows below the roof. He goes inside to take care of the bread, and promptly returns to the stable yard.
* * *
So that's one of the main chapters that I'm working on...there' two more parts (at least) to this chapter...but I haven't gotten to typing them up yet. Hope you enjoyed. As you can tell, I like a lot of detail...I try to make the reader feel and see what is going on...I hope I did a good job. BTW, this is semi-based on the Wheel of Time, but it is really my own creation.
This is one of the chapters of a book I am attempting to write in my free time. Since I freaked out in my room, and the Net crashed, this is about the most I've gotten typed up since school started...
WARNING! Random tense changes ensue! (This I WILL fix at a later date)
This chapter is entitled "A Far-Off Land." Sadly, it's in the middle of the book, somewhat...I started a chapter before this, and then progressed to the beginning...this is all I had with me, else I would have typed the beginning...
Far to the north, in the nation of Ta'shaad, near the foot of the Aural Mountains (which separate the mainland from the Myrmidia Desert), there lies a small village called D'ashak. Within D'ashak, there is kept such a valuable secret that even the Thirteen Wise know nothing of it. The secret is a very great one, and only a few people, even within the town, have even heard of it, else the Thirteen would have confiscated it long ago. The settlement, called Garmond's Plain by some, holds the secret of youth. The owners of this enigma to the Queen Amalia of Meladon, but no one can say, for sure, why. But I can.
Amalia had, seven hundred years ago, wanted something to help her live long enough to see the birth of a daughter. Until then, her only three children (Gyreff'en, Nial'tov, and Aram'et) had grown up to be men. I should know. I was there. I am the true T'amalia.
Outcast from society by an imposter, Verona Djharagon, I have grown to live in conditions not my own. I have survived in Garmond's Plain for six hundred years, imprisoned by a weakening bond set by Verona herself. Once the invisible chain that keeps me her is broken, I am gone, free to take my rightful place in Amalia's palace.
My imitator transferred most of the special bond between the Queen and I to herself. Though our link is gone, I can still feel the true connection that has held us together for so many years is still there. Everything that happens to her happens unto me, with the exception of death. When the ending time does come for my Queen, my True Queen, I will be there, to avenge myself from Verona Djharagon. I might still have time to save the High Lady Amalia, before all is lost, but time is running out. And I feel her growing inside me. There are no Tagasha in D'ashak to speak of, save myself, yet I feel her growing inside me.
* * *
"A fine mo'ning, Master Travl's."
“Indeed, Mistress Graem.”
“Was ya’ sleep fine, Master?”
“‘Twas, indeed, and yourself?”
“Mine as well.” She bends over, opening a black wood-burning oven as she speaks. As she peeks inside, she asks, “And how’s the bed?”
“The bed was just fine,” Travlos says with a bit of a chuckle. “Why do you worry yourself so?”
She stands up straight and reaches for a wooden paddle. Giving him a hard stare, she responds, “‘Tis custom t’ask ‘bou’ a guest’s sleep, it is. You know this,” she says, eyeing him. Continuing her speech, she begins to shove some dough for bread into the black opening. “What kind a ‘ostess would I make, i’ I di’n’t make sho e’rything’s all right?”
He looks at her complacently as she shuts the oven door with her foot, wipes her hands on her apron, and promptly puts them on her hips. “Yes, I understand,” turning his complacency into something like her stare, “but must you act as if something bad were to happen?”
Graem fidgeted, and took her eyes off of Travlos. She removed her hands from her hips, and crossed her arm sin front of her. Speaking hesitantly, she says, “Well, ‘tis likely something will.” With a look of concern, she continues, “I fear it. I can’ ‘elp it, either. You’ve taught me much abou’ dreams, Master Travl’s, bu’ you’ve failed yet to tell me that they could predict the future.” She stares at him, looking at one eye, and then the other. Travlos looks at her blankly as she speaks to him in a shaky voice. “You know wha’ I mean. Like the time when the inn almost burn’ down.” Then, looking off to the east and pointing with her left hand, “Or the time when you fell ill in the mi’le of a raid on the nex’ village.” She looks back at him, and puts her left hand to her side, keeping her right across her chest. Travlos only continues to stare. She gives him a searching look, but he always seems to know what she is thinking, anyhow, or else plotting something in that thread-filled head of his. It makes her uncomfortable; she re-crosses her arms, and shifts her feet.
“It is not my fault there was disease spreading, or that it spread as quickly as it did. But if you must,” he says sardonically, “what did you see last night in your dream? What happened?” Thinking better of it, he says, “Rather, what will happen?” He says this last quieter.
Looking ready to break down and cry, Graem says almost too ordinarily, with a weird grin on her face, “I must go. Soon. There is somethin’ holdin’ me ‘ere, now. But I know I must go. I feel it in my gut that I—must—go.” She looks at the floor, sits on a chair, puts her forehead on her folded arms, and begins to weep.
Travlos is nonplussed, but does not show it. After a moment, Graem’s sobbing begins to lessen. Quietly, he asks, “Who do you mean to take care of the Wild Rose while you are gone?”
“Whom,” Graem corrects him softly. She looks up at him, with puffy eyes. She sniffles, and wipes her face clean with her apron. “And whomever I can fin’ to ta’e care of it, will.” She turns away again, growing quiet. “But it is hard to find trustworthy people, nowadays, what with the war goin’ on, an’ all. It’s gonna be hard t’ find someone—anyone—that I could trust wi’ my secret.” Then, glaring at him icily as they move into the common room, she says with a stern voice, “Tha’ is the only reason I have not yet found someone to ta’e ova, but it is a good one.”
Before they have a chance to speak further, a boy of about fifteen bursts into the common room. He quickly slams the door shut, and Graem, who is tending the fireplace and looks furious, says quickly, “Have you no respect for my inn?”
Without letting her get any further, he gives her the look of worry that possessed Travlos previously. White as linen, the boy replies in short pants of breath, “Mistress Graem—I am truly—sorry. But the Bloods—they’re coming—they’re—after you!” Breaking out of a terrified trance, Graem is no longer paralyzed with her worst fears. Having forgotten about the bread in the oven, she runs out to the stable yard, and into the hayloft. Her stable hand, Jairyn, begins to ask what she is doing, but her hurried silence keeps him quiet. She makes her way to the top, and begins searching through the saddles.
May the Heartstone be with me, I do not want to die! She is searching through the equipment when she realizes something. Travlos! What are they doing with him? Or is that bastard one of them…one of those Bloods? She looks to her side, and grimaces at the thought of the consequences of having a Blood stay at her inn, but also at the worse consequences if she had refusing to board one. A double-edged sword, but better to have one spy on me, than to be named a Deathfollower by one. That would have been the real mistake.
“What would have been?” Jairyn asks from the top of the ladder leading to the hayloft.
Graem gives a start, and hits her head on a saddle that she was looking under. “Ow! Don’ min’ that, doesn’ concern you. An’ don’ min’ me. Go, hide yo’self!” She tries to shoo him down the ladder, to no avail.
He looks to the side. “They’re already in town, aren’ they?” he asks softly. Graem stops her movements. “But I can’ unde’stand why you tell me to go. I know as much about—it—as you do.” He looks into her shocked eyes.
“What? I thought—”
“Yes, I know. But you an’ I mus’ stick together, now.”
“No! The Bloods are afta me! They do not know ‘bout the secret. Not yet. I won’ let it be los’ because some thread-stuffed stable han’ wan’ed to go on an adventure! I won’ let anyone die because of me. Now saddle me up a horse!”
Moments later, Jairyn has a saddle and provisions ready for Graem. They hug for a long moment, but it does not seem long enough for a simple good-bye, because it is forever. “Take care of yourself, Mistress Graem.” Tears are streaming down their faces, but neither cares, or even notices.
“I will. And you take care of yourself, too, Jairyn Malviaryn. And my inn. You make sho the Wild Rose is not harmed, or I’ll harm you.” She smiles, jokingly, even if the tone of her voice indicates seriousness as much as his does. He smiles at her, admiringly. “And when you talk about me, I am Graem. None of this ‘Mistress’ horse droppin’. Got it?”
“Yes—Graem.” He smiles, and hugs her once more. He notices how short she is compared to him, and the color of her hair, her scent. He takes one last look at her face as she mounts her mare, Fahr’ran, as to etch the image into his mind, as to never forget her face. He has already burned the memory of her voice in his head. “Farewell, Graem.” He turned to the inn.
“There’s some bread in the oven, don’t let it burn. You’ll find my recipes in a box under the churner in the kitchen on the southwest corner. Keep them there, for good luck. Farewell, Master Jairyn.” This last comment took Jairyn by surprise, especially due to the change in her accent, but just as he turned to say something, she heeled Fahr’ran at a full gallop to the South—the same direction the Bloods are moving. As long as she can evade them, she cannot be held to trial in Gareth. She suddenly seemed taller, more beautiful, to him—almost like royalty, in fact.
Softly, Jairyn says a small prayer, “May the Heartstone be with you always, and the luck of the world in your hands.” Then, turning back to the village, he sighs, looking at the ground. When he looks up a moment later, he sees Master Flayrie’s house aflame. Travlos and some of the Bloods that had ridden into town are standing in front of it, filling the air with their mirthless laughter. Jairyn retreats to the rear of the inn, and hides in the shadows below the roof. He goes inside to take care of the bread, and promptly returns to the stable yard.
* * *
So that's one of the main chapters that I'm working on...there' two more parts (at least) to this chapter...but I haven't gotten to typing them up yet. Hope you enjoyed. As you can tell, I like a lot of detail...I try to make the reader feel and see what is going on...I hope I did a good job. BTW, this is semi-based on the Wheel of Time, but it is really my own creation.