In the late afternoon, the skies were still a solid mass, but the rain had stopped. In truth, the cold rain was a blessing, as it mired the mix of dirty snow and mud that made up the ground, fouling any large troop movements by the Aundairians. Not that the Reachers relaxed their vigilance. Shifter rangers hid themselves in tall trees, their longbows waiting for a target, while the birds and small forest creatures obeyed druidic bidding in watching for the enemy.
Nothing was happening, and the skies were growing dark in the short winter day, but they watched anyway.
And not a few hoped quite fervently for another round.
Pienna was not one of those who looked forward to the conflict. She sat far to the west of her friend’s grave, resting alone with only her companion animal. The middle-aged druidess stroked the panther’s fur while sitting on a small boulder that she had fashioned into a chair with a spell.
A slight cough was heard in front of her. She smiled as the tiny, winged being, a fey creature barely as high as her handspan, came into view. Like many of the pixiefolk, Festa could make himself invisible to the mundane eye. Unlike many of his pixiefolk brethren, the little fey had the maturity and patience to empathize with her loss.
“Good afternoon, sister,” Festa said, removing his hat (which had been part of an acorn, not long ago) as he bowed to her, still hovering three feet off of the ground.
“Good afternoon, Festa,” she responded. He had greeted her in the common, human tongue, but she replied in Sylvan. “Do you have wounds?”
He shook his head. “The wine-drinkers from the east did not see Festa, they did not know who untied their stirrups.”
She smiled at that. The fey folk were a subtle ally on the battlefield, and their frequent, small contributions did more than one would suspect. “Festa is very brave,” she told him.
The pixie picked up at that, but only slightly. “Rock brother Chubat was braver,” he said, sadly.
Pienna nodded, holding back fresh tears.
After a small, unrushed silence, Pienna asked him “Are you hungry or thirsty, Festa?”
The pixie shook his head, and buzzed his wings, flying closer to her. “No, no, Festa needs to speak to the nature-sister, but Festa smells her sadness and wants not to interfere.” He zipped upwards a good two feet as Missy raised her snout and flared her nostrils. “Also, Festa wants to be sure that the nature-sister’s guardian has already been fed.”
That made her smile, if only slightly. “Missy will not harm you, Festa, and you do not interfere with my sadness.”
“Good, good,” Festa said, flying a quick two circles around her. “Festa brings news then. Two eagles have come, one a nature-brother, one an eagle staying with him. Festa saw the first eagle let go of its wild shape and become an elf. Gatekeeper elf.”
So Aruunis has decided to come, Pienna thought sarcastically. She kept her bitterness from her voice. “I know him, Festa, thank you. Does he search for me?”
Festa nodded. “Also Festa found a bad-taste!”
“A what?” Festa was moving back and forth between Sylvan and the common language now, and she was not sure she understood his metaphors.
The little pixie hovered closer, coming within a foot of her face as he whispered. “A grue,” he said, with obvious distaste. “A water grue. From an underground stream. From the west.” He lowered his tiny voice. “The far west.”
“He has news from the Demon Wastes, and he will talk to me?” she asked, her heart beating faster. Festa nodded. “Where is he?”
“Festa will show you the –” began the little pixie, starting to fly off to the south. Then he paused, and cocked his head, making a face.
“Festa?” she asked.
The little pixie made a face. “Nature-sister has company,” he muttered, before he vanished again.
Pienna sighed, and set her face towards the east, the direction that Festa had stared in. Sure enough, within minutes of Festa becoming invisible, a humanoid shape with an eagle on its shoulder stepped out of a tree across the clearing, rippling into a tall elf wearing Gatekeeper insignia as it left the common network of roots that it had used as a portal.
“Pienna,” Aruunis said, inclining his head. The tall elf had a stern expression, as always, and his demeanor and hooked nose made him look very similar to his eagle companion. “May I take up your time, and inquire as to why you are giving the Kingdom of Aundair the impression that the Gatekeepers have chosen sides in this war?”
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Chapter 1 - Part 1
CHAPTER ONE - NO BETTER FRIEND, NO WORSE ENEMY
The 16th of Aryth, 993 Y.K., four miles west of the shifting Aundair-Eldeen Reaches border
The cold rain fell unevenly, as if unsure as to whether its presence was appropriate or not. It wavered from a heavy mist to actual droplets, and then back again, occasionally blowing sideways from a sudden breeze.
The sky has no such hesitation. It was solid gray, a dark and heavy gray that smelled of rain and cold to come. The clouds did not move, not enough to be noticed, but stood a watch over the scene below.
Most of the two to three hundred assembled stood, even if over half bore wounds. A good many of them craned their necks from litters on the ground. A few leaned on canes, crutches, or each other. One of them, a lean shifter woman with great tufts of orange and brown hair over her eyes and a large crossbow clutched unloaded in her hands, gently swaying as one would sway a sleeping infant, sat upright in a makeshift chair, her legs gone beneath the knees.
She had been the only one near the wizard commander who still lived.
They were a motley group, as varied in species as they were varied in wounds. Most were male, but only by a thin amount. The free people of the Eldeen Reaches were not so rich in population that they could afford the luxury of womenfolk staying behind the front lines. Not that their womenfolk would necessarily agree to it, in any event. In fact, the slight edge in gender was mostly a result of the thirty men in Brelish Blue, recent allies to the fight for independence against Aundair.
As far as race, no single one dominated, although humans and shifters made up about half the crowd. Other races included gnomes and halflings, elves, half-elves, and a few goblins. A single warforged stood in attendance, and a pair of winged fey hovered quietly off of its shoulders.
Everyone had moist eyes, even the warforged, although in his case it was due to the rain. The dead man had inspired them all, and if not for his actions they would all likely be dead. If not for the sacrifice and courage displayed by a single dwarf, this area would now be a clearing ground for Audarian army tents.
Instead it was a makeshift graveyard, with close to three hundred graves already dug. All but one had been filled. That empty space lay in the center of the crowd, the body of the dwarf next to it.
In life, he had worn armor. Now, his body wore linen shrouds. In life, his commanding voice had directed and demanded the obedience of all – the few times that he used it. Now he was silent, save for the memory of his final act, which had spoken more loudly than any word that had come out of his lips.
Many years ago he had given very specific instructions that he should be buried with the other soldiers, with no more ceremony than they would get. He had also made it definitely clear that under no circumstances should he receive a eulogy.
He would be buried with the other soldiers who had laid down their lives in the battle that had lasted for two hours, but his other wishes were ignored.
It was one thing to make such a declaration years before, when the Reachers first began to notice the fearlessness and prowess of the dwarf named Chubat. Perhaps back then it would have made sense. Hundreds could easily die in a day, sometimes thousands when they were foolish enough to face Aundair head on. In that mass of pain, sorrow, and loss, why should the grief for one soldier take precedence over the grief for any other?
But now, after having had watched him, and after having had followed him, it was different.
And after yesterday evening, when he had charged through a dozen of the toughest cavalry that Aundair had to offer, leaving behind his severed shield arm as he carved his way forward to the small circle of men and elves wearing robes with Aundairan colors, and calling down lightning and fire onto the Reacher troops.
To a man, they had seen him ignore arrows protruding from his body, lances digging into his flesh, magically summoned darts peppering his torso, and blasts of magical forces hitting him everywhere. In the end, magical fear has tried to shatter his mind, summoned fire had burned his flesh, and a blast of lightning had removed most of his face.
But with his life’s blood spewing from the stump of his left shoulder, Chubat had laid waste five wizards, with easily two centuries of training amongst them. Aundair’s best and most powerful on the western front had been turned to cordwood.
One wizard had gotten away, fleeing on a spell that sent him instantly across the valley. He’d left behind a hand, though.
The Aundarians had outnumbered the Reachers by almost a half when it had started. Without their wizards they had collapsed like a rotted log.
So it was a victory…if that word could be used today.
The silence among the survivors grew more pronounced as the druidess Pienna walked towards the body of one of her oldest friends. The longer-lived denizens of the Reaches who knew of her also knew of how the dwarf Chubat accepted her, a urban dweller from Cyre, a rich city girl who’d grown up surrounded by gadgets, and had introduced her to the Gatekeepers.
That had been over four decades ago, when the war that rocked Khorvaire had only lightly swatted at the Reaches. When the worst that was said about Aundair was about how the royals did not protect their western provinces from bandits.
When everyone was sure that the war would have to end soon.
Pienna crouched by her friend’s body and wept. She had not washed herself from the battle, and soot and blood still matted her graying hair. Her tears fell onto the wrapped form of her friend and companion.
A great panther stalked silently behind Pienna, its eyes deep and sorrowful, reflecting his mistress’ pain. The cat known as Missy let few creatures other than Pienna touch it. Chubat had been one.
The crowd waited and watched, their silence adding to the grief. The legless shifter woman with the crossbow filled her own eyes with tears, but made no sound.
Finally Pienna stood, and wiped her face on her sleeve.
“There was no one who taught me bravery more than he,” she began, her voice shaking as she lamented her friend.
The 16th of Aryth, 993 Y.K., four miles west of the shifting Aundair-Eldeen Reaches border
The cold rain fell unevenly, as if unsure as to whether its presence was appropriate or not. It wavered from a heavy mist to actual droplets, and then back again, occasionally blowing sideways from a sudden breeze.
The sky has no such hesitation. It was solid gray, a dark and heavy gray that smelled of rain and cold to come. The clouds did not move, not enough to be noticed, but stood a watch over the scene below.
Most of the two to three hundred assembled stood, even if over half bore wounds. A good many of them craned their necks from litters on the ground. A few leaned on canes, crutches, or each other. One of them, a lean shifter woman with great tufts of orange and brown hair over her eyes and a large crossbow clutched unloaded in her hands, gently swaying as one would sway a sleeping infant, sat upright in a makeshift chair, her legs gone beneath the knees.
She had been the only one near the wizard commander who still lived.
They were a motley group, as varied in species as they were varied in wounds. Most were male, but only by a thin amount. The free people of the Eldeen Reaches were not so rich in population that they could afford the luxury of womenfolk staying behind the front lines. Not that their womenfolk would necessarily agree to it, in any event. In fact, the slight edge in gender was mostly a result of the thirty men in Brelish Blue, recent allies to the fight for independence against Aundair.
As far as race, no single one dominated, although humans and shifters made up about half the crowd. Other races included gnomes and halflings, elves, half-elves, and a few goblins. A single warforged stood in attendance, and a pair of winged fey hovered quietly off of its shoulders.
Everyone had moist eyes, even the warforged, although in his case it was due to the rain. The dead man had inspired them all, and if not for his actions they would all likely be dead. If not for the sacrifice and courage displayed by a single dwarf, this area would now be a clearing ground for Audarian army tents.
Instead it was a makeshift graveyard, with close to three hundred graves already dug. All but one had been filled. That empty space lay in the center of the crowd, the body of the dwarf next to it.
In life, he had worn armor. Now, his body wore linen shrouds. In life, his commanding voice had directed and demanded the obedience of all – the few times that he used it. Now he was silent, save for the memory of his final act, which had spoken more loudly than any word that had come out of his lips.
Many years ago he had given very specific instructions that he should be buried with the other soldiers, with no more ceremony than they would get. He had also made it definitely clear that under no circumstances should he receive a eulogy.
He would be buried with the other soldiers who had laid down their lives in the battle that had lasted for two hours, but his other wishes were ignored.
It was one thing to make such a declaration years before, when the Reachers first began to notice the fearlessness and prowess of the dwarf named Chubat. Perhaps back then it would have made sense. Hundreds could easily die in a day, sometimes thousands when they were foolish enough to face Aundair head on. In that mass of pain, sorrow, and loss, why should the grief for one soldier take precedence over the grief for any other?
But now, after having had watched him, and after having had followed him, it was different.
And after yesterday evening, when he had charged through a dozen of the toughest cavalry that Aundair had to offer, leaving behind his severed shield arm as he carved his way forward to the small circle of men and elves wearing robes with Aundairan colors, and calling down lightning and fire onto the Reacher troops.
To a man, they had seen him ignore arrows protruding from his body, lances digging into his flesh, magically summoned darts peppering his torso, and blasts of magical forces hitting him everywhere. In the end, magical fear has tried to shatter his mind, summoned fire had burned his flesh, and a blast of lightning had removed most of his face.
But with his life’s blood spewing from the stump of his left shoulder, Chubat had laid waste five wizards, with easily two centuries of training amongst them. Aundair’s best and most powerful on the western front had been turned to cordwood.
One wizard had gotten away, fleeing on a spell that sent him instantly across the valley. He’d left behind a hand, though.
The Aundarians had outnumbered the Reachers by almost a half when it had started. Without their wizards they had collapsed like a rotted log.
So it was a victory…if that word could be used today.
The silence among the survivors grew more pronounced as the druidess Pienna walked towards the body of one of her oldest friends. The longer-lived denizens of the Reaches who knew of her also knew of how the dwarf Chubat accepted her, a urban dweller from Cyre, a rich city girl who’d grown up surrounded by gadgets, and had introduced her to the Gatekeepers.
That had been over four decades ago, when the war that rocked Khorvaire had only lightly swatted at the Reaches. When the worst that was said about Aundair was about how the royals did not protect their western provinces from bandits.
When everyone was sure that the war would have to end soon.
Pienna crouched by her friend’s body and wept. She had not washed herself from the battle, and soot and blood still matted her graying hair. Her tears fell onto the wrapped form of her friend and companion.
A great panther stalked silently behind Pienna, its eyes deep and sorrowful, reflecting his mistress’ pain. The cat known as Missy let few creatures other than Pienna touch it. Chubat had been one.
The crowd waited and watched, their silence adding to the grief. The legless shifter woman with the crossbow filled her own eyes with tears, but made no sound.
Finally Pienna stood, and wiped her face on her sleeve.
“There was no one who taught me bravery more than he,” she began, her voice shaking as she lamented her friend.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Thank You
Thank you all very much for reading my first book, which you know as A Warforged In Eberron, at the eberron fan fic URL.
The book's actual working title was "Friends Of An Orphan." I know that sounds lame, I've never been very good with titles. I wrote it from August of 2006 until January of 2007, and tweaked it some after February of 2007. (In the bulk of January 2007 and all of February 2007 I was studying for, and then took, the Illinois Bar Exam. Thankfully, I passed it on the first try.)
Anyway, up and around March of 2007 I submitted "Friends Of An Orphan," to Wizards of the Coast. There's a long story, but essentially I really, really liked the Eberron Campaign Setting, and I wanted to do a novel in it. I have written books and short stories before (some of the shorts even got published), and I favored science-fiction and fantasy, but I'd never written an "official" novel or story, i.e. a novel or story in someone else's world.
(Check that, when I was 8 I wrote something and submitted it to Dragon. It sucked. They said so, but very nicely. Hey, I was eight.)
I waited. And waited. And after some time, I got a really nice letter. Essentially it said, "We think you write really well, but we have enough Eberron submissions to last us into the next Ice Age, so we really aren't looking for any more."
Fair enough. And I got some nice handwritten compliments in the margins of the form letter, so I can't complain.
Anyways...the book sat on my hard drive, not doing a whole lot. For a while.
Then I figured, what the heck, if I just start reformatting it, I can post it on blogger.
My buddy Tim read it, gave it a link. Tim's a nice guy.
And I posted more.
And then, something happened.
I started to get emails. Comments even.
That really, REALLY perked me up. You have no idea what a lift I get when someone likes my work. THANK YOU.
So, here's the good news. I plan to continue the story.
Here's the bad news, the next book isn't written yet. I mean I have all my notes, and the story arcs are plotted, but I didn't write it yet.
Or rewrite it.
And trust me, nobody is a good writer, you can't be a good writer, you can be a good rewriter. But the first drafts are always weak.
But it will come. Hang in there. Watch this space.
And thank you for the emails and the comments.
The book's actual working title was "Friends Of An Orphan." I know that sounds lame, I've never been very good with titles. I wrote it from August of 2006 until January of 2007, and tweaked it some after February of 2007. (In the bulk of January 2007 and all of February 2007 I was studying for, and then took, the Illinois Bar Exam. Thankfully, I passed it on the first try.)
Anyway, up and around March of 2007 I submitted "Friends Of An Orphan," to Wizards of the Coast. There's a long story, but essentially I really, really liked the Eberron Campaign Setting, and I wanted to do a novel in it. I have written books and short stories before (some of the shorts even got published), and I favored science-fiction and fantasy, but I'd never written an "official" novel or story, i.e. a novel or story in someone else's world.
(Check that, when I was 8 I wrote something and submitted it to Dragon. It sucked. They said so, but very nicely. Hey, I was eight.)
I waited. And waited. And after some time, I got a really nice letter. Essentially it said, "We think you write really well, but we have enough Eberron submissions to last us into the next Ice Age, so we really aren't looking for any more."
Fair enough. And I got some nice handwritten compliments in the margins of the form letter, so I can't complain.
Anyways...the book sat on my hard drive, not doing a whole lot. For a while.
Then I figured, what the heck, if I just start reformatting it, I can post it on blogger.
My buddy Tim read it, gave it a link. Tim's a nice guy.
And I posted more.
And then, something happened.
I started to get emails. Comments even.
That really, REALLY perked me up. You have no idea what a lift I get when someone likes my work. THANK YOU.
So, here's the good news. I plan to continue the story.
Here's the bad news, the next book isn't written yet. I mean I have all my notes, and the story arcs are plotted, but I didn't write it yet.
Or rewrite it.
And trust me, nobody is a good writer, you can't be a good writer, you can be a good rewriter. But the first drafts are always weak.
But it will come. Hang in there. Watch this space.
And thank you for the emails and the comments.
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