Starting over

After getting good advice and feedback from a couple of awesome people I scrapped all of what I wrote. Here is the bit I have so far!

Chapter One

Marten stood with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He kept his shoulders hunched forward, although the shoulder he had dislocated still twinged painfully, and his face was set in a grim and expressionless mask. Ordinarily it was merely a mask that lent him an aura of menace, along with the padding in the shoulders of his coat that gave him a hunched and looming presence – a tool in the kit of his trade. This morning his forbidding expression was all too real. He truly wanted to murder the woman before him, and not the one she had hired him to kill.

The woman affected a simpering expression, laying a white manicured hand upon her stepdaughter’s dark-curled head. “Dear, this is our new gamekeeper,” she had a smile on her face, it even crinkled the edges of her eyes like a real one. She was a wonderful actress, he had to admit. Anyone would take her for a doting mother, beautiful if not very bright. No one would believe that this lovely guileless creature could buy the death of one child, while bringing another into the world. He had a feeling that the little girl would have believed it, the way she shied away a fraction at the touch.

“He’s come to show you something wonderful,” she continued, “He’s found a nest of little baby rabbits in the forest.” Her voice was high and bright, and she spoke slowly as if to a very stupid toddling child although her stepdaughter looked to be at least seven.

The girl’s eyes flitted in his direction, the deep forest green of her irises was startling in her pinched brown face. He kept his bleak visage carefully neutral, while devising and discarding various retributions for the Huntmaster’s idea of what was amusing.

She pushed the girl forward into the space between them, still smiling beatifically while resting a hand on her swollen stomach. “Now, run along and play darling.” Her voice sounded strained for a moment, and the lines around her mouth thinned. He wondered if she had already taken the herbs to bring on birth, although none of the servants would be back until nightfall.

He waited for the child to reach him, then took her hand and led her out. Down the back steps of the sumptuous country estate, onto the wide clipped lawn, and past that into the wood; all in silence. They met no one, doubtless all the servants thought their mistress kind to release them for the afternoon to attend the first harvest fair of the season.

Writing Prompts

Just a couple of things from writing prompts on facebook

 

“It was my turn to dig” – prompt

The morning sun was already growing hot as I watched my younger brother press his foot to the spade and press it into the dew dampened earth. Malcolm’s foot looked so small, the shovel almost comically large in his pale hands. He levered his clod up and out of the growing hole, tossing it carefully onto a canvas tarp. The pile of earth already growing, it still seemed an insurmountable task. Two acolytes stood ready at the side of the grave, ready to take up the task if we faltered. I swore we would do this ourselves. 
My eyes were painfully dry. All my tears had been shed, and in one last act of love for my mother I had left my childhood behind me. But these acolytes knew none of that. They only saw a thirteen year old orphan and his ten year old brother who continued to valiantly work away at the dirt with a shovel too big for his hands.

I looked at my own hands. They were streaked with dark, rich earth, but in the vermilion light spreading across the sky my eyes could only see blood. I fought the urge to wipe them on my britches, didn’t want to let strangers see a flash of… not regret. I couldn’t even put a name to what I felt, other than it reflected the loss of my innocence. My mother was dead, and my actions hadn’t brought her back. Vengeance begets naught but the same, that is what Ameion’s priests would say, certainly. But I felt no regret.

I gently took the shovel from my brother, it was my turn to dig. It was my time to be a man, and I had to face up to the choices I had made and there were more hard choices I would have to make. For the rest of my life. As I rolled my neck on my shoulders I saw a dark shape settle on a nearby bench, looking like any other mourner. The Huntsman had come.

 

“Take a paragraph or a few from something you wrote when you first started writing, and rewrite it the way you would now. If you share it, post the original as well.” – prompt

 Original from 1999
“Now that was pathetic, what a real sidhe would do is hit me where I’m bleeding, you know make it count.”
Kalita kissed him lightly on the cheek and punched his wounded arm with all her strength. Caulin fell backwards onto the crushed ferns, sending more of the earthy scent around them.
“Just remember who taught you that.”

New Version:
Caulin sneered down his thin-bladed nose at her. “You slapped me,” he stated with a derisive and incredulous manner. She glared up at him, crimson rage fading from her face as she slowed her breathing. “Now, that was pathetic.” he added, copying the tones of his most sententious tutor. “What a real Sidhe would do is hit me where I’m bleeding. You have to make it count or everyone will know you are soft-hearted.” He smirked, “They already know you are soft-headed.”
Kalita looked up into his face, so close to hers still as he still gripped her by the shoulder. She surged forward and stuck her thumb into the sluggishly bleeding hole the arrow had punched through the meat of his shoulder. He grunted, not the pained howl she was hoping for, and shoved her away. Her thumb and most of her hand were wet with his strange pale blood, and she wiped it on her britches leg. 
A slight smile quirked the corner of the prince’s mouth, “Just remember who taught you that and you’ll do just fine.”

The Bringer of Storms

I had totally forgotten I had written this. It is sort of fanfic, sort of canon, for my fiance’s novel: Dark Apotheosis Weirdly I do remember what music I was listening to! Omnia – Taranis

 

 

Bringer of Storms
As told to the Director of Imperial Affairs, Ganymede Reese, serving under Her Majesty Empress Shashka Augustus of the Golden Lion Throne. Gods save the Empress. My name is Thaddeus Gracius Centus, and this is my official report as the last surviving member of the 17th Imperial Legion.

The beginning of this report has already been submitted at the watch commander of the constabulary in the city of Valencia, as I recovered from my injuries sustained upon the road and my identity confirmed. I will reiterate the fate of my Centurion and the rest of the 17th Legion. We were sent to investigate the destruction of a small village between the town of Crossroads and our posting in Caer MacMorden. Centurion Cato was confident that it must have been a large band of Goblins, likely lairing in the thick forests surrounding the area. Bannock was a small logging village and if the wood cutters had disturbed a large enough nest of them it would wrap up the conclusion quite neatly. Cato was angry that we had been assigned to such a detail, rather than crossing the Crags of Darkness to protect the Heartland from the insurgents, excuse me, Rebels in service to Her Majesty the Empress. He was mistaken that we would make short work of the creatures and be back to Caer MacMorden
The horses became restless when we approached the outskirts of the town, even Fierce who is the steadiest mount I’ve ever owned, seemed to want nothing more than to turn and go back towards the city. My usually stoic warhorse fidgeted and rolled his eyes so that white showed all the way around, the tension in every line of his body matching that of his fellows. In the lead, Cato’s mount Felicitus suddenly screamed and reared as things boiled out of the ruined gates of the village and then immediately out of the woods around us. They weren’t any damn goblin, that was for certain… I wish I could make my report more clear but I have no idea what those things were, nothing human, at least not anymore. Some of them wore clothes such as the people around those parts would wear, bloody and torn to shreds and rotting. The creatures were rotting themselves, bloated and oozing as they launched themselves at our line. It took no time at all for the so called engagement to turn into a route as men screamed and horses bolted, throwing their riders into the claws and jaws of the enemy.
A huge beast bellowed as it shoved its way out of the line of thick trees to the west of the road, and I’ll have nightmares about that thing for the rest of my days. Cato, having been thrown from his mount almost immediately, drew his sword and attacked it madly. I think we all went a bit mad there for awhile. The thing dripped gore and pieces of itself as it reached out a massive fist and slapped our Centurion as if he were nothing of consequence, his neck snapped as it struck him and he was dead before he fell among the hooves of the panicked horses. Five rest his soul and comfort his family and the rest of our men. Being near the back of the line, Fierce nearly bucked me out of the saddle as the creatures clawed at his flanks, and spun about. I tried to control him and turn him back to defend my fellows, but he would have none of it. He ran for miles, sweating and heaving until he collapsed. There was nothing I could do, for him, or for my compatriots. We were no match for whatever horror had befallen that place. Therein is the report of the events that led me to this point…
Six Months Previous
July 14th
I built a funeral pyre for Fierce. Some might have said it was sacrilegious to offer prayers to the Five for a mere horse but that beast was my best friend for four years, closer to me than most of the men my regiment. When I groomed him at night I could tell him everything, and he wouldn’t judge me. His chestnut flanks and black mane and tail would be impeccable long before I finished telling him my worries. He wouldn’t say I whispered treason when I wondered if the insurgents might have just cause. My father had been quietly contemptuous of the noblemen who flocked to Wotecorix’ banner without so much as offering prayers for our murdered Imperial family and he lit incense for them in a part of our family shrine for a year. He never spoke out against the new emperor, in order to keep us safe he said, but he also told me I should be careful and remember the ethics he taught me when I told him I was going to join the Legion. All of this I could only share with Fierce, my father’s gift to me before I left home.
Many men and women in the 17th spoke out about wanting to go down to the frontier to help squash the insurgents, and they got louder as they began to move up to the heartland. I was grateful, silently, that our orders kept us in the Willem Valley and the light duties assigned to us. To be honest, the Greencloaks are far more useful in country like that; but our Legion was assigned to guard the Consul of Caer MacMorden and there we stayed until call came in about that gods be-damned town. Both regiments of the army were on other assignments, or at work in the city with the constabulary. Centurion Cato said it was time to stretch our legs. Damn it.
It took me awhile to get my bearings, as Fierce had run for a good five hours and then still wouldn’t stop until it was nearly nightfall. I remember crying like a child as I tried to control my friend, knowing he would founder if he didn’t stop and let me see to his wounds. Blood and sweat rolled down his flanks as he finally collapsed beneath me, and I rolled off his back to grab his bridle and stroke the spot just between his eyes like I always did. He shuddered and twitched, claw marks riddled his legs and sides where his barding had been torn away. Small chunks of flesh of the same size as a human mouth were missing in places. It wasn’t until then I realized I was injured, the backs of my own legs unprotected by my greaves had been sliced by claws as well. I ignored my own hurts as I comforted my horse.
“I’m sorry old friend,” I whispered as I began to pull off his tack. I had some sorry hope of finding help nearby and coming back for the valuable saddle and packs. As it was I could only carry my bedroll and field pack. I tucked the tack away in a crook of rocks and brush at the base of a set of rocky hills where we had ended up. We’d run so fast and hard I could only imagine this was the very edge of the Thermalite Mountains, but I couldn’t tell exactly where I was. It had taken us nearly two weeks on horseback to reach Bannock and I seemed to be even further south from Caer MacMorden, possibly even past Crossroads. I never was as good at reckoning by the stars as I should have been, always relying on others in my regiment to worry about that sort of thing. I’d barely passed that section in my training. The light from the fire was smoky and flared at intervals as it consumed my friend and sent his spirit on its way. I’d heard some of the barbarians in the Valley still buried their dead, saying prayers to the Five but whispering to the ancient Willem Valley gods they had shared with the Forgotten. I shook my head at such blasphemy and said a last farewell to my loyal Fierce.
I walked upwind of the funeral pyre, feeling sweat drying on my skin beneath my shirt and the chain maille hauberk over it as I moved to set my back against a sheered off piece of rock. I sat on the cooling ground and lit my lamp, although I only had a small amount of oil with me I needed to see to my wounds before I rested. The moon was only a thin sliver in the night sky, waning towards the dark end of its cycle. I stripped off my greaves and rolled up the tattered remains of my trousers, hissing as the fabric peeled away from the dried blood. I cleaned my wounds without much fuss, wondering if any of the others had survived and were even now doing the same. But somehow I knew I was the only survivor. As uncomfortable as it was, I re-armored myself and rolled up in my bedroll to catch a few hours of sleep before sunrise. I’d be walking back to the City and had no idea if I’d find any other villages along the way.
The Imperial Cartographers tried to keep up with the little thorpes that sometimes seemed to pop up overnight like mushrooms in the Willem Valley but it’s a chore to track them all down sometimes. Maps of the Valley and the Frontier are more frequently incomplete than Heartland maps. Sometimes it even seems like the little villages don’t even want to be found or put on the maps at all, and some cartographers don’t even want to bother if it’s just a few farmhouses and families all connected by marriage. They just make sure to send the Census and tax collectors in the right general direction and hope they find everyone.
By the time I awoke in the morning it was already sweltering, my wool blanket had been kicked off in the night and sweat rolled down the back of my neck to soak the collar of my shirt. The pyre had burned down and a tear rolled down my cheek as I looked at the last remains of my friend. The fire hadn’t gotten hot enough to burn everything but I couldn’t justify staying long enough to take care of the rest. I said a final prayer and turned away, hefting my pack filled with what I could carry from my saddlebags. A small part of me felt horribly guilty for mourning the death of my horse more than the rest of the 17th.
It took me ten days of walking to reach the farming village of Kilnathen. After the first three days I took to walking in the early morning, resting during the hottest part of the day, and continuing to walk in the afternoon and evening. The heat was oppressive, and water was scarce. I filled my water bottle at every tiny pool or stream I could find and rationed it carefully. I’d heard the southern part of the valley had been having problems with drought for more than six months but I hadn’t been expecting this. As I approached the village near the end of the day I saw that the fields were empty. If things had been normal people would still be working in them, but the soil was sad and dry. The crops, far shorter than they should have been, waved in the dry breeze that did little to cool the sweat on my brow. In the distance I could see a grove of trees centered in the middle of the fields, likely the goats and cows took shelter their in the rain – when there was rain at any rate.
The village was really just a tiny group of now failing farms, the livestock in their pens were as thin and sickly looking as the wheat. The little boy looking at me from an open doorway didn’t look much better. About five years old, with a mop of dirty red hair, he sucked on his thumb for comfort. As I walked toward the house he slipped inside the dim interior and a thought entered my mind that before Wotecorix came to power the Greencloaks would have been patrolling here, and the Office of Imperial Affairs would have distributed food and water rations to the people so affected. Now all the resources were being hoarded in the Heartland, or doled out at the mercy of the local consulate. Mercy was certainly in short supply it would seem. Before I could reach the home an older woman appeared in the open door, a long butchers knife unconcealed in her right hand as she pushed the little boy behind her.
“What do you think you want, pure blood?” she asked in a light brogue, a scowl on her face at the sight of my uniform. I sighed slightly, licking my dry lips before answering.
“Pardon me, madam. I didn’t mean to intrude but I’m looking for directions to Caer MacMorden…and maybe a place to stay the night.” my eyes stayed on hers but I remained aware of the weapon in her hand. I kept my own hands loose at my side in an attempt to appear nonthreatening.
“Awfully far outta your way ain’tcha pure blood?” she continued, her tone still hostile but her shoulders relaxing slightly. The little boy pushed her skirt aside to peer around her hip curiously. He stuck his thumb back into his mouth and watched me with wide eyes.
“Yes Ma’am,” I said, keeping my tone civil, “My horse foundered about five days back from here.” I couldn’t keep the knot in my throat from making my voice sound tight, “And I’m afraid I don’t know quite where I’ve found myself.”
“This’s Kilnathen, or it will be till it dries up and blows away.” she wiped a strand of greying red hair from her eyes and stepped back into the house. “C’mon in, I been to the city a couple of times so I can tell ya the way.” she paused and added, “I’m Agatha Thornborough.”
“Thank you Ma’am, I appreciate your help.” I noted that she said nothing of offering her hospitality for the night, and I wondered for a moment at the entire village seeming silent and abandoned. The cooler air in the house was a welcome relief and the woman thrust a pottery mug full of water at me. The door had led into a small kitchen with a battered table and stools. She returned to what she had been doing before my arrival, washing dishes, but kept the knife in easy reach by her hand. Sipped the water and a slight metallic taste coated my tongue. It explained why she could waste something so precious in time of drought. Their well must have derived from an underground mineral spring; I didn’t know much of farming but I was fairly sure that some minerals would be good for crops but others would kill them just as sure as no water at all.
“M’ Edoric,” The little boy blurted out, “M’ six,” he added looking up at me hopefully. I finished swallowing the water and thanked the woman as she took it from my hand and washed the cup immediately in the soapy water as if she thought anything I’d touched would be especially dirty. The boy reminded me of my own cousin, although their stations in life were so wildly different. I knelt down so that my head was nearly on a level with his, the jangle of my maille sounding very loud in the small quiet space. Outside a group of men talking urgently in low voices passed by the house, moving toward the center of the village. Agatha looked up sharply and watched them pass by the window and dried her hands on her apron. She looked at me and her expression softened when she saw the boy smiling at me.
“My name is Thaddeus,” I smiled at him, and it felt odd on my face. I’d been grim for such a long time that the corners of my mouth ached from the unaccustomed muscle movement. Outside a bell tolled three times and I wondered if they had a small chapel somewhere in the town center. I hadn’t seen any such building in the distance, but some of the Arcane order’s missionaries built small homes with even tinier chapels in out of the way places like this. Likely it was just big enough to hold the people of the town in the chapel portion of the house with an even tinier part left over for the comfort of the Proctor.
“A’right,” Agatha broke in sharply, “Look pure blood, ya can sleep in the barn for this one night.” her eyebrow raised as if she expected me to protest at sleeping somewhere so undignified and I restrained myself from mimicking her expression. I’d been sleeping on the ground for ten days, any night under a roof would be welcome, especially if it came with directions home in the morning.
“Madam, if that is the call to evening devotionals at a chapel of the Five I would humbly ask to join your folk at them.” I asked hopefully, I desperately wanted to speak to the Proctor. Most missionaries out this far didn’t have much in the way of power so far as being an Arcane went but he or she might be able to get word to Caer MacMorden, or even have maps that would show me the way.
More people passed by the window and Agatha began to usher me towards the back door, “No.” she said shortly “Edoric’ll bring you somethin’ to eat in a bit, rest ‘o the town won’t be so happy to see your face at evenin’ services so you can say your own prayers if you’ve a mind to.”
I suppose that was when I began to get suspicious that something in this town wasn’t right, more so than just the awful conditions of the crops and animals. Many in the Willem Valley would look down their nose at an Imperial Legionnaire, even the Greencloaks who took many of their recruits from the local folk were considered unwelcome in these out of the way places. However, I couldn’t imagine why they would have wanted to deny me the comfort of the Chapel and it’s minister. I was weary enough, and sick enough of my bad cooking, to let her lead me to the almost empty hayloft and strip off my armor.
It wasn’t long before the little boy called up to me from the bottom of the ladder, a small metal pail in his hands. The light outside had nearly faded entirely and I’d lit my lantern to see by. I smiled down at him from where I sat against the barn wall, mending some of the rings of my maille and cleaning it. I climbed down and took the pail from him and lifted the lid to find lukewarm soup. “Thank you son.” He beamed at me and turned, running back towards barn door.
“G’night mister,” he said with a solemn look on his face. “Auntie tol’ me to stay in tonight or the bogles would get me. You should too.” he nodded succinctly and darted off across the yard.
As I ate I considered Agatha’s strange behavior and Edoric’s words. I wondered if perhaps I’d come across a nest of rebel sympathizers, it would certainly explain the lady not wanting me to be seen by the rest of the village in that case. Everyone had heard that some members of the Arcane Order had allied themselves with the rebel leaders and were aiding them, perhaps the Proctor here was cut of the same cloth and thus would not have been happy to see an Imperial soldier on his doorstep. I wondered if Agatha was protecting me, if she was a loyal citizen of the Empire caught between that loyalty and the rest of her village. I wondered what my father would have me do.
As I turned the situation over in my mind I heard a strange sound from outside. There was a small window I’d propped open for a bit of breeze at the end of the hayloft and I quickly blew out my lantern and crawled over to it. Peering out into the twilight I saw a strange procession of people trickling in groups of two and three leaving the houses and walking towards the fields. My heart hammered in my chest. At the head of the procession looked to be an Arcane proctor, pale colored robes billowing around him as he walked. It seemed all of the adults in the village were following him somewhere. Perhaps they had a secret meeting place in the grove of scraggly trees that had likely sheltered their livestock when sent to graze.

As soon as I feel better…

I have this extensive list of things I want to eat when I can eat proper food again. For some reason number one on this list is some Funyuns, then tacos with guacamole and nachos, spicy orange chicken and brown rice, crab rangoon, white pizza with tons of ricotta, flat bread and kebabs…. Ok I need to stop now. 

I’m getting ready to try taco meat with rice and cheese, I really need some protein. I have been able to talk for a couple days even if I haven’t been able to eat much but I woke up today and I couldn’t speak at all. All I’ve been able to eat is potatoes, scrambled eggs, and jello. Monday I had some ramen but now my jaw won’t open enough to chew it. I hope I can eat this because I need something substantial!

I Was A Zombie PI?

I found this the other day. I’d forgotten all about it since I literally write it in five minutes whilst half asleep: I had a dream where I was this character… I’ll just paste it here and see what people think. I would love to give this to someone as a plot bunny and see what they do with it in all honesty!

 

As I walked into the hospital lobby I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. The sense of revulsion that came from the nurses, the doctors, and everyone else continued to prickle the back of my neck as I entered the elevator. It’s sort of a given that I rode it up alone.  

The hallway on the burn unit was blissfully empty of people, and it took less skill that I would have thought to slip past the nurses station where a middle aged red-head was buried in a romance novel. 

I walked right in to room 217 and took a good long look at my friend. “Horace, you look like shit.” I drawled, my thick southern accent only slightly slurred. Even swathed in bandages and hooked up to machines he coughed a weak version of his booming laugh. As he continued to take in my appearance he continued to chuckle, and a little wetness seeped into the bandages around his eyes. 

“Maybe I should’a gone to Gideon too.” He said, getting control of himself. He seemed a lot more tired after his outburst of mirth. “Prob’ly would’a hurt less” 

I shrugged, then frowned as I felt something beneath my shirt crack a little. Brownish fluid seeped into my Hawaiian shirt, and I pointed to it. “Little more socially acceptable, goin’ to a hospital I guess.” 

Horace’s eyes crinkled in mirth, and he would have shook his head if it wouldn’t of hurt him so much to do so…

 

Since it isn’t obvious the MC and Horace were some sort of private investigators/bounty hunters of some kind. They had gotten into some dreadful trouble and there was an explosion. Horace ended up being found and taken to the hospital but the MC dragged himself half dead to Gideon who was a voodoo priest and turned him into a zombie to save his life. I’d love to have someone play with this!

So I’ve gotten home from my surgery and I seem to be doing ok. I’m really tired and my throat hurts, but worse than that is it feels as though there is something huge stuck in my throat. Eating ramen feels like the noodles are rubbing against my scabs and as if they are stuck in my throat. I wish I was like other people and could pass out from meds 😦 I have way too high a tolerance! When I feel better I will post some more. 

I haven’t been doing much of anything lately, although I have a good reason for it I still feel guilty. I’m getting ready to go in for surgery on Monday, to get my tonsils taken out and my uvula shortened. I am really very nervous, I’ve never been in the hospital except the emergency room a handful of times. I am scared of the pain afterwards, I’m scared of anesthesia, I’m scared of a ridiculous number of unlikely things that could go wrong, or that I will be a huge baby about the pain and spend a week lying in bed crying. I had a coworker today be incredulous that I was taking a week off, even though my doctor said I might want to take two. It is just a frustrating situation.

I have to look at the good things that will come of it. My neck won’t be a little swollen all the time, I’ll be able to sleep lying down without my uvula choking and gagging me until I wake up puking, I won’t have these infernal sore throats and laryngitis all the time. The doctor even says my chronic heartburn may be caused by the uvula and tonsils constantly being infected. They never would have known it was so bad until the cysts appeared.  

Maybe I won’t be in too much pain, maybe I’ll just be loopy from meds and make some crazy amazing art or write a bunch of stuff I don’t remember writing. That would actually be a lot of fun. 

Maybe by Monday morning i won’t even be scared anymore.

Getting these ideas out of my head…

I spent a goodly portion of my workday deciding how to write out the next part of the prologue. But now that I’m home I feel less sure of myself and feel like I want to sort of hide and surf the internet and not write at all. I also really want to paint a picture. I saw an adorable picture of a friends baby and I want to try and do a portrait. I’ve not done a watercolor portrait in at least 12 years or more. I have ideas all the time, all locked inside my head and I don’t know why I can’t get them out. I feel like it is 1 part procrastination but 99 parts low self esteem. It isn’t that I need hand holding or for someone to give me a banana sticker, but I can’t really articulate what is wrong. I’m going to do my best to post the next part tonight, at the very least to post it tomorrow. I’m also going to draw and draw this portrait but no promises.

The Huntsmen – Morgenna’s Tale

 

So I’ve been working on creating a world for a fantasy novel, I’ve got the bones and muscle of this place created and now I need to get to the meat and actually write. I used to be in a writing group and miss the feedback and writing tips I used to get so bear with me.

I will also be posting the music I was listening to, so that when I go back and edit later I can try to use the songs to get back in that headspace.

 

 

 

Prologue

Music- Philip Wesley- Dark Night Of The Soul and Dan Gibson – Cool Forest Rain

The corners of the room were cast into deep shadows, the glass lantern creating a warm pool of light over a round table in the center of the room. A design had been etched into the glass, twining clover and fat striped bees on two sides and a geometric honeycomb design on the other two. The design had been created just for the tavern, by a glass-wright friend of the owners. The Bee’s Bonnet tavern had four of these above the bar and two outside the doors to welcome guests. Although it was early evening and the public room below was certainly full of patrons, very little sound filtered up the stairs to the living quarters above. The owner of the Bonnet, Vittoria, had married the master carpenter who’d designed and overseen the building of the place. It was well insulated above for dampening the sound of rowdy patrons late into the night.

The three figures sitting at the dining table were silent for a long while, the light of the single flame wavering and flickering across their faces. Marten, a slim and narrow faced man of average height steepled his fingers before his thin lips and tapped his thumbs against his chin thoughtfully. His light brown hair shone beneath the lamp and caught hints of gold and brown in a glowing nimbus around his head. One hand was heavily bandaged, blood staining the white linen wrap with a wide reddish brown streak across the palm. His heavy black coat hung on a peg by the door, and the rest of his clothing was much the same. His black linen trousers were reinforced at the knees with stiff leather, and his tunic was the same at the elbows and shoulders. The weight of a knife in a plain sheath and wrapped in more of the stiff leather at the hilt seemed heavier than ever as he rubbed the plain pommel absently. He wasn’t much of one for sighing but he felt one rise in his throat anyway and swallowed it back down.

A small sharp knife in one hand and a block of wood in the other his brother made almost no sound as he carved; the sharp flat blade shaved curls of wood from the block that fell away into a small pile growing on the table. Three finished knobs rested by his elbow, meant for the front of a set of drawers. They were elaborate, and other tinier carving implements stood ready at his elbow to incise the finer details into the design. His heavy dark brows knitted beneath a tightly curled mop of hair. Marten’s aquiline nose was mirrored in Malcolm’s face, although it suited the carver better with his broad wholesome countenance. He had a full lower lip that some had said made him look romantic for all that he was not particularly handsome. Though he was nearly 7 years younger, he was much taller and broader in the shoulder than his brother; but both shared the same blue-gray eyes.

“This is certainly the oddest story you’ve told me.” The woodcarver intoned in a wry voice. “And I’ve been hearing your wild tales since I was old enough to understand what you had to do to get me my apprenticeship and keep us both fed.

“I’m sure there have been stranger tales, most of them even true.” the paler man answered blandly, unlacing his fingers and running his unbandaged hand down his face. “ Either way this one is the unvarnished truth. I’ve had more difficult jobs,” He winced as Vittoria smacked his injured arm with the back of her hand. Her dark face fairly glowed with annoyance. “You know what I mean Vi!” he said defensively. “I was going to say that this one was one of the hard ones alright?”

“Then stop being so… so blasé about it.” she huffed. Her handsome face was tear streaked. “If I had known the sort of things you get up to before I married your brother I might not have.” she added. Then betrayed that remark by leaning into her husband’s side for comfort. He lay down his knife and wrapped an arm around her shoulder for a moment.

Marten’s eye caught upon the cuff of his shirt sleeve and he winced. Three drops of dried blood had stained it. Undoing the buttons, he rolled both sleeves to his elbow to hide it. His mind drifted back to the morning. So few choices and none of them particularly good ones. Thoughts and emotions ticked away in his brain, with none of them showing on his face; his expression was carefully schooled to an unassuming attentiveness as his brother picked up his tools and continued his work. The sound of the blade slicing through the paper thin layers of wood made a subtle sound that reminded him of his childhood in some obscure fashion. He couldn’t remember his father ever carving wood, but much of the idyllic parts of his childhood were hazy and insubstantial in the face of the harder times.

Vittoria had seemingly calmed, her head pillowed on her arms. She looked up at Marten with an accusing gaze, obviously she wasn’t done with him, “And why would you take that kind of job in the first place?” she hissed in a low voice heavy with emotion. “What in the world possessed you Marten?!” her hands clenched where they lay before her, ocher painted nails leaving small crescent marks across her dusky palms Vittoria’s dark eyes snapped at them beneath curved brows; dark auburn curls spilling across high cheekbones a few shades darker than fresh cinnamon. Her sensuous plum colored mouth was set in a tremulous scowl. Ordinarily Marten’s sister in law had very little to say about the occupation and life choices of her husband’s brother. If she had been in fact scandalized he thought she would have mentioned it before. It was not as if he or her husband had hidden it from her; both had known that secrets were better kept from the public rather than family because secrets hidden from kin usually ended by blowing up in one’s face.

She stood and turned her back on her brother-in-law, stalked across the room and twitched the curtain slightly to look out into the rain-shrouded evening. After a moment she turned back and began to pace, her slippered feet slapping against the smooth polished floor made no sound at all as she reached the carpet beneath the table, then quietly padded back the other way.

“If I hadn’t, they would have found someone else to do it and killed me to keep their plans a secret.” He whispered back calmly. “Not to mention that they had already paid the Keeper his half of the fee.” he muttered mostly to himself. He shook his head and the annoyance that bloomed on his face slipped away like a mask to be replaced by his usual grim resolve. “If I had said ‘No I will not do this thing’ like some fellow in a tale who turns away from his dark past and joins up with the noble hero; there is no doubt they would have killed me then and there and the target would still have been killed and some guard would be made a captain and be hailed as a tragic hero right now, having exacted vengeance upon the foul killer.” He couldn’t keep his mouth from twisting in a sneer. It would be like some dreadful storyteller’s idea of a good ending for an assassin. “I could just see it too, cried at the corners by the boys who hawked newspapers and his face illustrated badly to make him ever more a villain on every front page.” He balled his hand into a fist and hid his wince as his wound reopened and bled afresh.

“With the duke dead and his wife pregnant with a legitimate heir I am really not certain how she is going to keep herself from looking like the villain.” Marten muttered, once again lacing his fingers before his mouth. The smell of blood under his nose, while not unfamiliar, unsettled him for some reason. He tapped his bottom lip gently. “Everyone knew that Tian was not a legitimate heir, and bless Duke Argenne for never pretending she was.”

Malcolm sighed, placing wood and carving knife softly on the table, the drawer pull unfinished but taking form from the oaken blank. “Yes. Everyone knew. The highborn folk up on the hill have all been walking softly and talking even softer since her father died. Landless sons were all ready to throw themselves at poor Duchess Petra as soon her year of mourning for her husband was well over.”

Vittoria snorted, “Oh now they’ll have to wait another year or more until she is out of mourning for the little girl as well, unless she decides to be very brave and declare her mourning for both of them over at the same time next year.”

Malcolm caught his wife around the waist as she stalked by him on her distressed circuit of the room and tugged her onto his knee. He reached up a calloused hand and began rubbing her back in small soothing circles. Tears gleamed wetly on her cheeks as she buried her face in his weather tanned neck.

“I just thought that Petra would be satisfied with getting her married off as soon as she came of age, maybe treating her babe a little better when she comes but no one expects a mother to…” Vittoria shook her head and pulled away from Malcolm’s shoulder. Her eyes fell on Marten, “To hire an assassin to kill her husband’s child? What kind of person can do something like that? It isn’t as though he was unfaithful to her, their marriage negotiations were barely underway when Tian had her first birthday.” She pressed her lips together and pulled away from Malcolm. “I need to check on the girls.” she said flatly, pulling up her apron to swipe the tears from her face. The two men sat in silence as the rain pattering against the windows intensified, sheets of water lashing the building furiously. Beneath their feet they heard a murmur of voices as conversation became louder to be heard over the storm.

“What are you planning to do about this now?” Malcolm asked as he took up his task once more. He glanced at his brother. The room seemed to have grown darker with the absence of his wife, and the shadows wrapped themselves around the younger man as he scratched the stubble on his cheeks with his uninjured hand. “There are long term plans you need to consider, very long term,” he muttered. The soft sound of the tool slicing through the oak was inaudible with the rain beating down on the roof.

Marten gave a soft chuckle, but there was no amusement in his expression. “Yes, well…” he trailed off slightly. He looked towards the door Vittoria had closed behind her. He thought he could hear her speaking softly, perhaps even singing a lullaby, but it could have been his imagination.

The assassin shook himself. “I have to go,” he said quietly, “I’ll be back in the time for breakfast.” Neither man mentioned him returning to his apartments tonight. He pulled his black tunic over his head and tightened the laces. His coat was still slightly damp but warm enough.

“Don’t be careless,” said Malcolm, pausing in his work. He watched a ghost of a smile flicker across his brother’s face before it was smoothed away

“Am I ever?” he asked, somewhat amused.

“Until today I’d have said no,” he answered, frustration edging into his voice.

With a soft laugh Marten slipped out the door and downstairs.