#PennedPossibilities 311 — What is a memory that makes your SC swell with pride?
That armor. The black dragon armor, light as an autumn breeze. The last who owned it, legends say, a million died to take it away from her, but failed in the end.
She gave it to me: The ruler of the world, the most powerful thaumaturge alive. I was the one who nearly killed her, when we fought for our lives incidentally breaking the Curse of Harmony upon her.
I didn't break the curse but was the one who nearly killed her. Yet...
My friend—whose life I saved by pushing her out of the way of a plasma bolt and getting my flank burnt as a result—reminded me of the legend. Made me test the magic, which let me fly like an arrow and loop and dodge more agilely than a sparrow. She added, "She told me it's the first time anyone's got that close in a century. It's a bribe, you know, A loan. She wants you to work for her. You impressed her. "
#PennedPossibilities 312 — Is your MC or SC a leader, a follower, or something in between?
Wintereyes is not a leader, nor is she a follower. She knows her mind and will state it when needed to help someone, or protect to herself. She's human, but also a member of the Blue Feathers wolf pack—and she's bitten its leader when he's abused pack mates. She's not omega, not low status; wolves respect her knives in the hunt. She knows when to help, and when to stay back. She's a mediator, as she's demonstrated between a dragon and people. It's that she truly cares to do her best for others. Those that know her know this; they listen; they protect her.
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We also learn more about Shaidar Haran, the Hand of the Dark, in this book. Fans often debate whether he is a very powerful Fade or the Dark One himself. What is your head canon?
I've finished: House of Open Wounds by Adrian Tchaikovsky
House of Open Wounds wasn't what I expected.
It's not a middle book in a trilogy, it has an ending. It's not about the mysterious Woods at the edge of Ilmar that were so promenant at the end of City of Last Chances.
It's about my favorite characters from that novel, Yasnic and his God. It's about the healers that are allowed to work their miracles at the periphery of the Pall war camp because they are useful. It dangles the promise of healing in return for pacifism at a humanity that can't stop fighting.
Like City of Last Chances, it's about the people stuck in the gears of the Palleseen Empire's ambitions. Not about kings and emperors.
Tchaikovsky has grown allot at a writer since the Shadow of the Apt series and has written a very compelling story that concentrates on engaging characters.
I couldn't put it down, I listened at every opportunity. It did sometimes feel repetitive and perhaps could have been shorter. But the ending clinched it all and most of it payed off brilliantly.
A friend of mine told me that the characters in this series remind him of Pratchett characters and that House of Open Wounds reminds him of Monstrous Regiment. Now that he has brought my attention to it, I can't unsee it.
Tchaikovsky isn't Pratchett and isn't trying to be Pratchett. He is not trying to be funny, but the social commentary, humanism and satire are reminiscent of Pratchett.
I finished the second book in the saga titled "The Tombs of Atuan". It's great.
It follows the story of Tenar, a girl taken to an old temple in the desert to be the priestess devoted to the "Nameless Ones", ancient gods long forgotten.
She was very lonely there; all her life changed when she met Ged, the first book's protagonist, who was in the underground labyrinth under the temple looking for an ancient relic. This encounter completely changes Tenar's life.
The main topics of the book are freedom, gender, and the power relations emanating between those, reflecting the anarchist views of Ursula.
Rozmowy z ludźmi nieodmiennie sprawiały Skamariuszowi przykrość, dziś jednak brzydził się również sobą. Dawno już przestało go dziwić, że uznawali jego rady za godne rozważenia, że zamiast oburzyć się, kiwali głową z namysłem. Trudno, by oczekiwał moralnego postępowania od tych pół-zwierząt. Ale że on sam podsuwał im 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘦 pomysły… Prawda, tylko sugerował, nie mówił wprost. Sami dopowiadali sobie resztę, a wówczas oczy aż rozjaśniały się im ze złej uciechy. To jednak nie umniejszało jego winy.
Zagryzł wargi. Od pięćdziesięciu lat pełnił rolę obserwatora zwierząt, od dwóch dekad przebywał w Baruzji jako ambasador i coraz częściej ogarniała go frustracja. Czasem przechodziło mu przez myśl, by złożyć rezygnację i wrócić do wysokich wież Quemerei. Mógłby znowu rozmyślać o sensie istnienia i celach, do których dąży wszechświat, mógłby podziwiać piękno w najrozmaitszych postaciach, tworzyć wiersze i tkać ulotne obrazy z promieni światła. Rozmawiałby o rzeczach wzniosłych, starannie dobierając cytaty ze starożytnych dzieł, i delektował się gładkością zawartych w nich zdań, a tak…
A tak od półwiecza chodził po brudnych, zatłoczonych ulicach, nieomal ocierając się o te zawszone, blade zwierzęta. Pół wieku temu miał tyle pomysłów, tyle zapału! Śmiać mu się chciało na samo wspomnienie.
„Te zatłoczone ulice to też nasza wina”, pomyślał Skamariusz. „Ale kto mógł przewidzieć, że oni będą się tak mnożyć?”
Odetchnął. Trudno. Musiał wziąć się w garść.
"Sztandary Imperium" - Radomił Darmiła i Witold Dworakowski... już wkrótce!
Looking for more stories? These 53 #fantasy books are all EPICS—in fact, my husband said that By the Pact by @AuthorJMac reminded him of the epicness of Dune, so take that as you will! (My book Between Starfalls is in this collection, too, kicking off a Stone Age fantasy series).
New on my blog is the second half of my top 10 imaginary worlds. I get a bit deeper this time (or go on a bit more!), as these are ones that have shaped me as a writer.
#PennedPossibilities 310 — MC or SC POV: What was your favorite day or holiday when you were a child? Favorite Day Remembrance CW: Sad.
Why are you making me remember this now? My favorite day? When I was a child? It was /that/ day, each time Mom returned home. She would sing to me, but she belonged to the world, the theatre, to the concert hall. Plenty of her albums proclaimed that. "Midnight, the Voice and the Heart of the Nation." Those albums, they're all I really have of her. She wasn't one for family pictures. Or family. It's why I can't listen to them any more, and walk out of restaurants when any of her show tunes play.
I do sing her songs in the shower, unthinkingly. My roommate doesn't know who I really am, but she's told me my voice is just like hers. Stupid memory. Stupid reflexes.
I remember being /so happy/ when she'd return home. She'd sing to me, but wasn't at all "hands on." She'd sing and she'd listen to me telling all the things that happened that day with friends and nannies—always with a smile, but I was always on the floor or in my bed or in someone else's lap. Her manager—with whom I share my hair color and skin color so he likely fathered me—would hold me while she sang sometimes. He'd read to me. He'd call me his little tomato, since that was the hair color we shared.
I remember the pair once laughing after I'd been put to bed, not sleeping. I'd peeked through a barely opened door to see. /Him/ she held.
I loved them both.
You've made me remember. Are you happy now? How many times could it have been that I remember her returning? A few dozen? They died before I was five, and now I remember /that,/ too.
[That's the Aurora Midnight, the devil girl from the Reluctance stories. Author retains copyright (c)2024 R.S.]
He leaned against a round window frame and pressed his forehead to the stained glass. Through a haze of purple, he could see a little grove of trees trembling in the wind. He focused on the branches, on the sensation of glass cooling his skin, on the woodgrain of the windowsill plucking at his fingertips like the drum of a music box.
#WordWeavers 2405.10 — Antagonist POV: What do you like the most about yourself?
[A short tootfic. Likely canon. Her Highness speaking. From /Inklings:/]
My jaw almost dropped at the shear gall of the question, but the Midlands plenipotentiary was, if anything, expert at being jovial. His smile was disarming. He was a diplomat. I didn't gape, but put the tea cup down carefully.
"You're referring to the dragon incident, aren't you?"
He nodded. He plunked a couple lumps of brown sugar in his tea, stirring. It accounted for his corpulence, something rare amongst his gaunt brethren who spent much of their day running on forest paths. He'd made it from the Midlands in just weeks, on horseback I guessed. Poor horse. "It's on everyone's tongue. You'd mobilized the militia. Detailed reports hit the Forest Ridge High Tower as if carried by a thunderstorm."
He was making sure I knew "people" kept him well informed, and that my military wasn't what interested him. Much, anyway. I sighed, crossing my legs as I sat back.
I'd mobilized the best and most radiant of my magic users. None could best me, but we expected to face a wyvern the size of my in-town mansion. It had burnt up part of the Fell Woods. A good thing, thinking about that unassailable haven for monsters and wild beasts. Then it attacked a farm.
"The attack on the farm was an accident," I said off-handedly, steepling my fingers.
He paused. Blue eyes speared me. I'd never announced the details of what happened because if I made them official rather than rumor, the public might panic. Nobody died.
The Midlands ought know, I decided then and there. It'd be to my advantage. I'd let him decide the implications. "The grain silo had a moisture problem. It had started to ferment. Who would have thought a dragon might like beer?"
He chuckled, then, "You're serious? You know this? /How?"/ He put down his tea cup with a loud clink, spilling some of the reddish liquor.
I'd rode in with an elite company of my army, through a wood arch that proclaimed "Cornfeld," into a farm yard. I'd been ready to use my radiance to repel fire; dragons of all shapes breathed fire. My troops had the best spears, but it had been centuries since anyone had needed weapons against dragon scale. Would newiron even work? Drowning the beast by swirling airborne the farm's pond was almost our best offense, if the magical beast decided to fight. I knew they disliked fighting. I hoped that I had that much correct. If I had to resort to radiant kinesis to heave rock from a stone fence, it might decide to retaliate against my Townships—if I failed.
What I found was a half-naked girl, barely a woman though very tall, mollifying a distraught farmer and mediating with a red dragon who looked to be hanging on her every word. I could tell this, even though the dragon had the form of a giant bat.
Apparently, with her mediation, both parties were apologizing to each other!
Worse, though covered with mud and ash, visibly scarred, the young woman was devastatingly beautiful. The type of beautiful that made a seasoned and well worn woman like me think of a different kind of bedmate. I wasn't a man...
Wintereyes was her name. She had befriended a dragon.
Innocent and kind.
And immeasurably dangerous.
The ingénue now attended my magic university, despite being uncomfortable around people and wearing clothing. Learning to be human. One of mine.
I said, "What I like about myself is that I know when to fight and when to make friends."
Wintereyes has reasons to like the guy, besides him liking a woman as shy and strange as she is. He has a cat, and then this (hot off the press, as it were):
The siamese mewed and pawed the air, looking at the dropped photo.
"You can show me were his secret pictures are?" I asked.
The cat zipped off, tail an S shape in the air.
"Wait!" Caramello said as I swiftly followed the beast. Past the grotto bath. Past the metal door that might have once been a large closet but was now a darkroom. Past an inset library barely big enough for the square desk and an easy chair, considering the spiral stair. A clear dome and mirrors directed orangy sunset sun down the stack. Three stories of hardback volumes and a few silvery grimoires made me pause, but Flash meowed. I pushed open an oaken door as Caramello reached for my shoulder, but not touching, giving one last dispirited, "Wait!"
His bedroom...
The guy has his qualities. Cats and books are a good sign? Right?
HAPPY RELEASE DAY!! The Chronicles of Nerezia just keeps getting better with FLOODED SECRETS!
My goodreads review is coherent, but please believe my love for Nerezia is not, but rather comprised mostly of joyful noises and bouncing <3 I love these friends so much!
#WritersCoffeeClub Ch 9 Nbr 09 — What's the minimum time you can work on your writing? Do you need a long, clear period?
This isn't something I've ever measured, though I can recall having an idea of something to add and, because of the ease of bringing up my writing on any platform, spending a few furious minutes writing. Left to my druthers, I will spend hours. Once I spent 15 hours straight, but that was because of a deadline (Clarion critique the next morning) and a story (fantasy romance) where the characters demanded I live their story. 2 to 4 hours is average.
Were I to need to clear a long period to write, I'd never write.
More to the point for me, I really need to clear my mind. Anxiety tries to creep in. To the extent I push that aside and quiet the monkey voice in my head long enough to let the words fill the blank page, time simply does not matter.
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Fantasy, Paranormal
The writing duo of Geoff Habiger and Coy Kissee have been life-long friends since high school in Manhattan, Kansas. (Affectionately known as the Little Apple, which was a much better place to grow up than the Big Apple, in our humble opinion.) We love reading, baseball, cats, role-playing...