Category Archives: Alanii

One of my regular protagonists and “love interests” for Atyriia. He’s a gallant, handsome man who knows what he wants from life, and he’s not afraid to sacrifice to get it, even if that sacrifice is his own happiness.

WIPpet Wedneday: How Had He

MjAxNC04ZjBlYTU5ZmNiZjdiZjY4No huge post today (that’s all happening over at The Garden of Delights where I’m doing my check-ins for the ROW80, IWSG, etc.).  Today is just a short, and hopefully sweet WIPpet from my Swan Song Series books that I chose because it also fits the RWA Kiss of Death Chapter‘s Twitter prompt for the day of “Old”.

Super easy maths for the day. It’s the 3rd day, so I’m giving you three sentences.

Instead of looking back out the window, Alanii watched his mother’s hands, marveling at the way her fingers had taken on the wrinkled and forever bent shape of hawthorn branches….. How had he not noticed the gray in her hair nor the hollowing of her cheeks? Surely only yesterday she’d been up and running about their home with twice the vigor and glow of youth that many of the fosterlings in her care showed.

I sincerely hope you enjoyed that.  Now why not head over to the WIPpet linky and visit some our other awesome members?  Emily, thank you so very much for graciously hosting this blog hop.

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A New Thing: #SoCS (Stream of Consciousness Saturday)

Today I’m trying something new because two of my favorite writing people (Shan and Fallon) have participated in this bloghop for a while and caught my curiosity with their creative posts.  So…  here I go, trying something new.

Following the rules (found here), this piece is raw.  Not even WIPpet raw, where I’m usually posting a piece that I’ve sketched out and done some minor edits on.  Typos will be fixed, but that’s pretty much it.

The prompt for today is “contrast“.  Either I must use the word or the post itself must involve contrasts in some way.


Vartanian walked toward the ruin, the dark stone round and worn in the twilight shadows.  Behind him, he heard the rest of the men murmuring softly to their mounts, settling their packs, the relaxed bustle of a hundred other evenings.  A camp like any others, three walls and a ceiling tumbled to the sky…

But it wasn’t like the others, not really.  Vartanian supposed he should have expected it.  After all, he’d heard the rumors too.  But after all these years seeing the lad grow up, knowing how gentle he was—he’d sworn his life to the service of this young man, so sure he had been of Alanii Vestimiir’s noble heart!—, now Vartanian held his wounded arm tight against his side, staunching the bleeding, knowing as second in command he had to take charge of the men and hold them back.  Knowing, and dreading, that he had to protect Alanii now, despite the creature that had filled the man only moments ago.

Creatures that he’d helped hunt down only ten years ago.

Just ahead of him, he heard a snap, then saw a small flame build and take, chasing away the oncoming night.  Light against dark, hope against despair…  life against death.  He knew where his loyalties lay.


Hope you enjoyed this piece.  The characters are from the world of my Swan Song Series books (this scene came to me because I was editing photos from our England trip this past Spring).

WIP…Thursday?

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Yep, I’ve definitely got this day late thing down. Just need to watch to make sure I don’t get as good at the “and a dollar short” part.

I’m not doing Wednesday ROW80 check-ins this Round of Words, so these few intermittent WIPpet posts I make are going to be all story. Okay, maybe story and some odd thoughts on a few links.

Plastiglomerate — via The Scientific Fisherman

Like this one…  because I have been seriously trying to imagine what it would be like to be the ‘next species’ on a planet that had perhaps suffered a huge die-off event (say, something post-WWIII apocalyptic experience on Earth or something similar) and to be finding these: Rocks Made of Plastic on Hawaiian Beaches

I have to admit, after a quick Google search on these, that some are oddly lovely.  Will future jewelers look for specific colors for high-class ornamentation?  Will what we now consider detritus become rare and valued art?

And what will the future think of the society that these ‘treasures’ originated from?  Will there be anything left of our books and recordings that will allow them a glimpse into our wonderfully chaotic and often maddening lives?  It was considered a huge boon when in 1973 archaeologists found the first of  what are now known of as The Vindolanda Tablets which include personal letters from soldiers, business people, and even housewives from the 1st century AD.  Yes, archaeologists had found records of lives long before this, not just from Ancient Rome, but somehow those carved letters at the base of triumphal arches and statues just isn’t the same.

An ancient birthday party invitation

Thing is, these are unique resources.  These letters are personal, pieces written by people of the time to share with people of the time…  not a record for the future, not a copied and edited version of an old story.   These are the emails of today and the little notes of less than a century ago written on shaved bits of wood that survived almost 2000 years by chance.

Don’t know about you…  but I’d be interested to know how much of our ephemeral lives will last 100 years, let alone a 1000.    Maybe that’s why I write the stories I do.

Which leads, at last, to…

WIPpet

I should have posted this yesterday. It was picked for yesterday. It’s 12 sentences for the 12th of April, a snippet from The Swan Song Series: Marche (yes, the extra ‘e’ is intentional). Alanii and his aide de camp are the characters, location and time are outside a barn just after sunset on a courier mission.

An evening mist had begun to roll in, far later this evening than it had for the earlier points of the trip. The lack of sun for so many days had finally taken its toll. And, as if the sky were intent on adding its own insult, a soft drizzle, barely more than a mist itself, started.

He stayed where he was despite the sputtering of the torch by the house. His hair began to stick in thick damp hanks to his forehead. Rivulets of oil and traildust and rain began to flow down his cheeks. They stung his eyes. He would not have allowed himself to cry otherwise.

“You should go back in the barn, sire.”

Alanii didn’t allow himself to whirl around despite his surprise to hear Vartanian’s voice. He just sighed, earning himself a taste of gritty water for his trouble, which he spat out promptly.

He could almost hear the Hastor not-smirk, the man’s silence was so blatant.

Hope you enjoyed yourselves today. Head on over to the WIPpet linky and visit some our other awesome members. And while you’re there, give a cheer to Emily Witt for being our gracious host. 😀

And lastly, if you have the time and would like a very nice read:  Please enjoy this little author interview with Margaret Atwood on The Handmaid’s Tale.