Then I go to work and i get the reminder of the other reason I'm writing, the other reason I need to escape into my own imaginary world. One of my favorite rappers once said "Everybody has to work a job that they hate." Which is true at some point in your life you will. I, however am tired of it.
So I look down the road to Luimere and I see a better future. A future where I'm getting paid to write. Where I'm not working 2 pm to 10:30 pm and only getting 6 hours of sleep in order to get 6 hour of time with my family. Where I'm not coming home pissed off every day and going to work know i'm going to be pissed off before I sit down at my desk.
Anywho I'd love to answer any questions that my 20 or so readers may have about either project. Feel free to ask a way.
Today's Sample is from The Violet Eclipse: Part one. (unedited)
Kritis
lied down for the evening and Elenoren sang him a soft song. One of
the songs of sword she would sing to him so often. Kritis had heard
them all dozens of time, but Elenoren’s voice was so sweet that he
never tired of hearing them. As she hummed the sword stances and
strikes dance through his mind until he fell into unconsciousness.
The
next morning Elenoren woke Kritis early and walked him through his
sword drills. Elenoren was once the greatest sword-master in all of
Daskan’s Fall some five hundred fifty-eight years ago. She hailed
from the floating Mountains of Belanda home to the griffin riders.
She had developed the twelve songs of the blade and mastered the use
of the hand and a half sword. Elenoren was as beautiful as she was
skilled and was often called on by many suitors. None however could
stand up to her requirement. Nothing so brash and defeating her in a
duel. She knew very well none could. Her prerequisite was simply that
he maintains her level of training. Her last suitor however was her
downfall. The last to call upon her was the then young elven King
Olieni who sought to have the most attractive and most respected
woman in all his lands as his bride.
Elenoren
cared not that he was a King. She was not a traditional woman and she
told him as such. She informed the king that he would as all the
others; have to prove himself worthy of her hand. The King determined
to have his bride did his best, but proved incapable. Infuriated and
embarrassed the king ordered her capture. This was of course at the
great expense of many soldiers’ lives. Before she was captured
Elenoren had slain more than a hundred men with a single sword while
still wearing her night gown. She was bound, gagged, and beaten
severely. The King had Elenoren taken up to the high reaches of the
Belanda Mountains. She was flown to the ancient forges high atop the
floating volcano Aser.
There
the king gave her an ultimatum to either be his wife or be his tool.
At the time Elenoren did not understand what he meant by be his tool.
She spit in his face and told him she would be neither. The King
smiled a demented smile and had her taken to the Sword-Smiths.
Ancient elves believe to have been taught by the Elemental Smiths
themselves.
Elenoren
was strapped to a stand with hands and feet bound and outstretched.
Her bare body burned being so near to the intense heat of the molten
rock. For hours she stood there being baked but not dying by the heat
and watched the smiths craft a sword unlike any she had ever seen.
The blade was three feet in length trailed by a foot long tang and
was black as night. The cross guard consisted of four intertwining
braids of silver. The handle was wrapped in a blackened wire mesh and
the pummel was fashioned in a manner similar to the hilt.
The
smiths cooled the blade and using their magic they assembled the
parts. Hovering before Elenoren’s eyes the silver intertwining
braid of the hilt slid smoothly up the tang and sat firmly becoming
the cross guard. The hilt was followed by handle wrapped in the
blacked wire mesh and the dark sword was made complete wire the
placement of the pommel. The three weathered brawny elves laid the
majestic weapon in the magic circle at Elenoren’s feet. They began
to chant and fill the blade with magic. The volcano bubbled and swell
as the master smiths drew strength from it. They continued chanting
feeding the volcano’s immense power into the spell.
She
knew then what was about to transpire and she screamed frantically.
Elenoren pleaded with the smiths, with guards, with the King himself
who stood by smiling. The chanting stopped, one of the smith picked
up the glowing sword. His eyes were glowing the color of burning
embers. He chanted the final words of the incantation and drove the
sword deep into her chest.
Elenoren
let out a horrid scream as her very essence was forcibly torn from
her body and driven into the sword. Her soul torn from her body the
King placed the black sword in the scabbard on his hip. King Olieni
ordered his men to feed her body to Aser the Volcano as a tribute.
The King returned to his palace with Elenoren at his side as his
tool.
From
that day forth Elenoren became King Olieni most prized possession.
Many years passed before the shock completely wore off and she
realized she could speak and be heard by those nearby. And speak she
did, mocking the king at every opportunity. Before long he refrained
from keeping her in his bed chamber. Soon after she was excluded from
his training session as she would constantly correct him of his
footwork and posture. Eventually, when he could not take it any
longer King Olieni had her locked away in his vault. There she
remained for over two hundred and fifty-eight years. Until Kritis and
a traveling group of adventurers found the ruins of Olieni’s vault.
“Kritis,
your form is beautiful as ever. Shall we start the next song?”
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