Elizabeth looked fleetingly around before slipping into the cave in the mountainside. She wanted to make sure that no one was following her. The treasures contained within the cave were very precious to her, and the thought of anyone else taking them from her was not only terrifying, but emotionally painful. She didn't want to think of the dangers that could result from someone else finding and taking her treasures. It could spell disaster for her, her treasure, and any town within the vicinity if it fell into the wrong hands. She was determined to prevent that from happening. But she also couldn't leave her treasure alone.
Moving through the rough formation of the cave, she could hear deep within the familiar sounds of sleeping animals. She was not the only one who frequented the caves, though she was the only human. Often times she saw a deer or two lost amongst the rocks, and once she even saw a bear. She was not afraid of these animals, however. She was much more nimble and familiar with the maze like structures than they were. Even if the animals were able to find her treasure, they could hardly do anything to it. They had just as much reason to fear it as any person did.
In these caves, Elizabeth had little reason to fear anything, really. She so frequently traversed it that she could draw a map of the caves from memory, and she could move among the rocks with her eyes closed. She had even done so once or twice, just to prove to herself that she could.
As she drew close to her treasures, she could feel the cold air of the cave begin to grow warm. She smiled to herself as she felt the change in temperature. That meant that no one had come and taken her treasure while she was away. Elizabeth slowed as she drew closer, listening to the sounds of the cave. Deeper within, she could hear the soft snoring of animals. She had gotten there before they awoke. She loved to watch them sleep.
She dropped softly to the floor of an open cavern, the forms of two sleeping dragons curled around each other in front of her. They had hatched from their eggs a little more than a month prior, which was nearly a year after Elizabeth had found them. She had often worried that they would not hatch, but the day they had had been joyous for her. They had stumbled around in the dark for a short while before they found her, and with nothing else nearby, they had adopted her as their mother. She had done her best to provide, bringing them meat until they were strong enough to hunt.
They had long to go before they would reach their full size, but they were already nearly as long as Elizabeth was tall. Their scales emanated warmth, which she loved to cuddle up next to. Ever since they had hatched, Elizabeth had begun to feel for the first time in her life that she had a purpose. She would raise these creatures to be kind and benevolent, and they would be able to help the villages nearby. She would not let them grow to be the cruel creatures of legends old.
She would love them, and they would love her, and someday, she would share their love with the world.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Monday, April 6, 2015
Country
This is a pretty different topic than what I normally write about, and having said that, I would not blame anyone for choosing not to read what I am about to write. But believe me when I say that what I have to say is more relevant to writing than you might think it is.
I'm a fan of country music. That's a thing that goes in and out of fashion depending on when and where you are, but I don't care. There are a lot of things that I thoroughly enjoy about country music, but it's not just any country music. The classic joke about country is "Do you know what you get when you play country music backwards? You get your house back, your truck back, your dog back, your wife back..." There is a subsection of country that this absolutely applies to, and that is not the kind of music I am talking about. Some of those songs are ok, I won't deny, but they're not why I love country.
There's the huge subsection, especially in more recent years, of drinking songs. All kinds of songs about going out and getting drunk, or why you're getting drunk, or why you aren't getting drunk, and all kinds of bullshit. If you haven't been able to guess by some of my stories, I'm not a drinker. I don't particularly understand the appeal of getting drunk, but that's another story entirely. Again, some of these songs are good, especially ones that make me laugh, but these aren't the songs I'm talking about. These don't define country for me.
No, the country music that I love, that I am a fan of, is the music that tells of life. The songs about love, and life, and work, and childhood. Songs that you can listen to and relate to, that you can visualize in your head, and that make you feel something. Funnily enough, a lot of these songs don't sound that country. They're not big hoedowns with lots of guitar twang and thick, southern accents. If you just heard them without knowing beforehand that they were country, you might not even realize it.
If you're willing to take a chance and take a peek at what I'm talking about, I suggest Lady Antebellum's "I Run to You", Darius Rucker's "This" and "Alright", and Tim McGraw's "Live Like You Were Dying".
These aren't the songs people think of when they think country, much in the same way that when I say medieval fantasy I don't mean Game of Thrones and Lord of the Rings. I run on a different system, but there aren't words that distinguish what I'm talking about from what other people are talking about. I can't just pick a single word to describe them. If I could, I wouldn't be writing about it now.
If you've made it all the way here, I hope you realize just how different what I wanted to say came out from how you might have judged me right off the bat. Ideally, that's the kind of character I want to write in a story. But that can be pretty hard to do. Playing with a person's expectations isn't the easiest thing to do in the world, especially when you're making something entirely from scratch. Things have to come from somewhere, after all. But as a writer, this is something that I strive to do. To take your expectations and twist them on their head, but not make you feel lost in the process. It's not easy, and it's not something you can just do. It takes time. It takes explaining and building.
You can't just tell someone you like country that isn't really country, even if it is true.
I'm a fan of country music. That's a thing that goes in and out of fashion depending on when and where you are, but I don't care. There are a lot of things that I thoroughly enjoy about country music, but it's not just any country music. The classic joke about country is "Do you know what you get when you play country music backwards? You get your house back, your truck back, your dog back, your wife back..." There is a subsection of country that this absolutely applies to, and that is not the kind of music I am talking about. Some of those songs are ok, I won't deny, but they're not why I love country.
There's the huge subsection, especially in more recent years, of drinking songs. All kinds of songs about going out and getting drunk, or why you're getting drunk, or why you aren't getting drunk, and all kinds of bullshit. If you haven't been able to guess by some of my stories, I'm not a drinker. I don't particularly understand the appeal of getting drunk, but that's another story entirely. Again, some of these songs are good, especially ones that make me laugh, but these aren't the songs I'm talking about. These don't define country for me.
No, the country music that I love, that I am a fan of, is the music that tells of life. The songs about love, and life, and work, and childhood. Songs that you can listen to and relate to, that you can visualize in your head, and that make you feel something. Funnily enough, a lot of these songs don't sound that country. They're not big hoedowns with lots of guitar twang and thick, southern accents. If you just heard them without knowing beforehand that they were country, you might not even realize it.
If you're willing to take a chance and take a peek at what I'm talking about, I suggest Lady Antebellum's "I Run to You", Darius Rucker's "This" and "Alright", and Tim McGraw's "Live Like You Were Dying".
These aren't the songs people think of when they think country, much in the same way that when I say medieval fantasy I don't mean Game of Thrones and Lord of the Rings. I run on a different system, but there aren't words that distinguish what I'm talking about from what other people are talking about. I can't just pick a single word to describe them. If I could, I wouldn't be writing about it now.
If you've made it all the way here, I hope you realize just how different what I wanted to say came out from how you might have judged me right off the bat. Ideally, that's the kind of character I want to write in a story. But that can be pretty hard to do. Playing with a person's expectations isn't the easiest thing to do in the world, especially when you're making something entirely from scratch. Things have to come from somewhere, after all. But as a writer, this is something that I strive to do. To take your expectations and twist them on their head, but not make you feel lost in the process. It's not easy, and it's not something you can just do. It takes time. It takes explaining and building.
You can't just tell someone you like country that isn't really country, even if it is true.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
How do
We all have questions about how to do things. If we didn't, frankly, no one would ever do anything, because no one would ever be curious enough to figure out how to do it in the first place. Think about all the cool things you have ever done in your life, or ever wanted to do, and realize that somewhere, someone at some point had to figure out how to do that in the first place. Most of us probably have asked ourselves while doing something, "Who came up with this in the first place?" And the things that we may not realize is that that applies to absolutely everything that has ever been. Hell, we wouldn't even be here if way back at the beginning of history, two people didn't figure out how to make a baby.
One thing I've never asked myself though, and you'd think I would, is how to write a book. I've often wondered how to publish one, how to advertise one, how to get people to buy one, how to format it and make a cover for it, but never how to write it. It's never been something that I've been curious about, because I just kind of started doing it. I never thought about it. I just started telling stories when I was a little kid, coming up with new and weird ways things could play out, and as I grew up I wanted to remember them, so I started writing them down. And eventually I found that I enjoyed doing it, so I wrote more and more, and my writing began to become more refined and focused, and then... Well, then I started a blog.
Despite knowing the answer already, I once asked an author how he came up with the ideas for his books. He told me he didn't. There was no process of coming up with an idea for a story he wanted to tell. It just came to him, and as it did, he wrote it down. And the more he wrote it down, the more it evolved and expanded, and so he kept writing, until eventually he had a long and detailed book sitting in front of him.
When I was a kid, I would play pretend all the time. I would lead my friends around the playground, telling them about what abilities we had, and what we were fighting, and where we were. It was like we were really there, and we could see the monsters, feel our own bodies being surrounded in the elements as we called upon our magic to fight them. I wish I could explain what about it was so magical that it came upon us so powerfully. But it did, and I remember it so specifically, and it's something that I try to tap into when I write. We didn't have to think about it back then.
It's kinda weird to think about how there are somethings that you don't have to think about. They just come to you. We all have them, though we might not always realize it. No one had to explain to me how to take words and sentences and put them together to make a coherent story. No one had to explain to me how to create characters and worlds. I don't know how I got these abilities. I just know that I want to keep working at them and refining them, until I can tell stories I can be proud of and that hopefully someone else will want to read.
One thing I've never asked myself though, and you'd think I would, is how to write a book. I've often wondered how to publish one, how to advertise one, how to get people to buy one, how to format it and make a cover for it, but never how to write it. It's never been something that I've been curious about, because I just kind of started doing it. I never thought about it. I just started telling stories when I was a little kid, coming up with new and weird ways things could play out, and as I grew up I wanted to remember them, so I started writing them down. And eventually I found that I enjoyed doing it, so I wrote more and more, and my writing began to become more refined and focused, and then... Well, then I started a blog.
Despite knowing the answer already, I once asked an author how he came up with the ideas for his books. He told me he didn't. There was no process of coming up with an idea for a story he wanted to tell. It just came to him, and as it did, he wrote it down. And the more he wrote it down, the more it evolved and expanded, and so he kept writing, until eventually he had a long and detailed book sitting in front of him.
When I was a kid, I would play pretend all the time. I would lead my friends around the playground, telling them about what abilities we had, and what we were fighting, and where we were. It was like we were really there, and we could see the monsters, feel our own bodies being surrounded in the elements as we called upon our magic to fight them. I wish I could explain what about it was so magical that it came upon us so powerfully. But it did, and I remember it so specifically, and it's something that I try to tap into when I write. We didn't have to think about it back then.
It's kinda weird to think about how there are somethings that you don't have to think about. They just come to you. We all have them, though we might not always realize it. No one had to explain to me how to take words and sentences and put them together to make a coherent story. No one had to explain to me how to create characters and worlds. I don't know how I got these abilities. I just know that I want to keep working at them and refining them, until I can tell stories I can be proud of and that hopefully someone else will want to read.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
Take your time
"Excuse me. Can I buy you a drink?"
Angela glared up at the strange man who had come up to her. He didn't look like the usual bar goer looking to pick up chicks, dressed in simple jeans and a dark grey t-shirt. All the same, his intentions were very clear to her. "I don't drink," she spat venomously.
Undeterred, the man sat down next to her. "A bar seems like a bad place to go if you're not someone who drinks," he replied calmly. "Unless of course you're the designated driver, in which case I would think you would be out having fun with your friends, rather than sitting alone at a table off in the corner."
The man's calm demeanor and refusal to take a hint only served to irritate Angela more. She scooted as far away from the man as her seat would let her, backing herself into the wall. Abruptly she realized that if she wanted to run, she had no way of doing so. She was cornered. "What do you want from me?" she demanded, unable to keep the nervousness entirely out of her voice.
The man made no movement to get closer to her after he sat down, but he also didn't take his eyes off of her. "I just want to take some of your time," he said.
Angela blinked and looked at him, confused. "What does that even mean?" she asked.
"This isn't the first time I've seen you in this bar," he began to explain.
"Have you been stalking me, you creep?" Angela accused angrily.
The man shook his head and held his hands up to appease her. "I have not, honestly," he replied. "I don't drink either. My friends know that, so they know they can rely on me to be a designated driver, and frequently ask of me to do so. While they're drinking, I have a habit of letting my eyes wander, and I've seen you several times, sometimes with friends, sometimes over here alone." Angela averted her eyes from the man as he explained himself, not wanting to acknowledge that this was not, in fact, the first time she had been here alone.
"It got me curious," the man continued, "as to why a pretty lady like yourself, who I have not, now that I think about it, seen drinking here, would be doing in a place like this by herself. I've seen you shoot away the drunk assholes who want to get in your pants, so you're not here to get hit on. You don't drink, so you're not here to forget. It's not particularly quiet or peaceful in here. I don't get it."
Angela looked down at her hands and twirled her fingers, unsure of how she wanted to respond. This wasn't the kind of fare she was used to receiving when she was in the bar. Hesitating, she slowly answered him. "I... I don't really know. My friends drag me here sometimes, but I don't drink, and I don't really enjoy it here. But I keep coming back, cause I feel like there must be something that I'm missing. People come here to relax, right? I want to relax, too, but I just don't get it."
The man smiled gently, but just then the bell over the door rang, and he looked up to see a group of ladies entering the bar. He pulled a small piece of paper and a pen out of his pocket, and began writing on it. "Listen. I don't want to impose. I'm not trying to hit on you. I don't want to make you feel like I'm trying to take something from you, or that I'm taking you away from something else. Those are your friends walking in, I recognize them, and they're probably gonna think I'm some creep and chase me away, so I'll go on my way. But take this." The man stood and held out the piece of paper, which Angela slowly took from him. She glanced down at it to see a name and a phone number. She looked back up at him, confused, and he smiled back at her. "I'm not trying to change your mind. I don't have to make you love me. I just want to take your time."
With that, the man left, and was soon replaced by Angela's friends, who gathered around and questioned her about the man who had just been there. Their questions buzzed around her, but she didn't truly hear any of them. She looked down at the paper again, and noticed an address was written on it as well.
"If you want my time," she whispered to herself, standing up from her seat, despite the protests of her friends, "then I'll give it to you." And with that, she followed after him.
Angela glared up at the strange man who had come up to her. He didn't look like the usual bar goer looking to pick up chicks, dressed in simple jeans and a dark grey t-shirt. All the same, his intentions were very clear to her. "I don't drink," she spat venomously.
Undeterred, the man sat down next to her. "A bar seems like a bad place to go if you're not someone who drinks," he replied calmly. "Unless of course you're the designated driver, in which case I would think you would be out having fun with your friends, rather than sitting alone at a table off in the corner."
The man's calm demeanor and refusal to take a hint only served to irritate Angela more. She scooted as far away from the man as her seat would let her, backing herself into the wall. Abruptly she realized that if she wanted to run, she had no way of doing so. She was cornered. "What do you want from me?" she demanded, unable to keep the nervousness entirely out of her voice.
The man made no movement to get closer to her after he sat down, but he also didn't take his eyes off of her. "I just want to take some of your time," he said.
Angela blinked and looked at him, confused. "What does that even mean?" she asked.
"This isn't the first time I've seen you in this bar," he began to explain.
"Have you been stalking me, you creep?" Angela accused angrily.
The man shook his head and held his hands up to appease her. "I have not, honestly," he replied. "I don't drink either. My friends know that, so they know they can rely on me to be a designated driver, and frequently ask of me to do so. While they're drinking, I have a habit of letting my eyes wander, and I've seen you several times, sometimes with friends, sometimes over here alone." Angela averted her eyes from the man as he explained himself, not wanting to acknowledge that this was not, in fact, the first time she had been here alone.
"It got me curious," the man continued, "as to why a pretty lady like yourself, who I have not, now that I think about it, seen drinking here, would be doing in a place like this by herself. I've seen you shoot away the drunk assholes who want to get in your pants, so you're not here to get hit on. You don't drink, so you're not here to forget. It's not particularly quiet or peaceful in here. I don't get it."
Angela looked down at her hands and twirled her fingers, unsure of how she wanted to respond. This wasn't the kind of fare she was used to receiving when she was in the bar. Hesitating, she slowly answered him. "I... I don't really know. My friends drag me here sometimes, but I don't drink, and I don't really enjoy it here. But I keep coming back, cause I feel like there must be something that I'm missing. People come here to relax, right? I want to relax, too, but I just don't get it."
The man smiled gently, but just then the bell over the door rang, and he looked up to see a group of ladies entering the bar. He pulled a small piece of paper and a pen out of his pocket, and began writing on it. "Listen. I don't want to impose. I'm not trying to hit on you. I don't want to make you feel like I'm trying to take something from you, or that I'm taking you away from something else. Those are your friends walking in, I recognize them, and they're probably gonna think I'm some creep and chase me away, so I'll go on my way. But take this." The man stood and held out the piece of paper, which Angela slowly took from him. She glanced down at it to see a name and a phone number. She looked back up at him, confused, and he smiled back at her. "I'm not trying to change your mind. I don't have to make you love me. I just want to take your time."
With that, the man left, and was soon replaced by Angela's friends, who gathered around and questioned her about the man who had just been there. Their questions buzzed around her, but she didn't truly hear any of them. She looked down at the paper again, and noticed an address was written on it as well.
"If you want my time," she whispered to herself, standing up from her seat, despite the protests of her friends, "then I'll give it to you." And with that, she followed after him.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Transformation
"Hey mom?" the small boy asked in the middle of the day. His mother tried to hide a sigh. It was never a good sign when her son started asking questions. He consistently lead her down uncomfortable paths of questions she did not want to answer, or could not answer, or should not answer. He had a knack for finding the things he shouldn't find, and frequently left her in awkward positions.
"Yes, Brett?" she replied gently, taking care not to let the fatigue show in her voice. She knew that this was a time in his life when he should be learning, but the amount of 'learning' that he did was beginning to wear her thin. "What is it?"
"Is this supposed to happen?" Brett entered the kitchen where his mom had been cooking, his arm held out in front of him, several small blue marks on his arm. His mother at first assumed that they were splotches of paint he had stained himself with while playing with his toys, but upon closer inspection they had more depth and texture to them than paint. "They won't come off," Brett continued, "and I'm not really sure where they came from. They were just there when I looked down at the end of my cartoon."
His mother's brow furrowed and she knelt down beside him, examining the splotches more closely. They were smooth, rounded features, and as she ran her finger over them, they were cold and hard. "Were you doing anything while you were watching tv?" she asked, gently rubbing her fingers against the strange dots, feeling no give as she might something he had accidentally glued to himself. Brett shook his head. "No reading or playing games?"
Brett shook his head again. "I was just thinking about what it would be like to live inside the tv," he explained. "Dragon Tales was on, and I was thinking about how cool it would be to be a dragon, and when the show was over, these were on my arm."
His mother frowned and grabbed a towel, dampening it and rubbing at his arm, to no avail. Whatever the dots were, they simply did not want to be removed. She had only been half paying attention to what her son had been saying, but as she pondered what the things might be, his words slowly dawned on her. "You were thinking about being a dragon?" she asked, unsure that she wanted to hear his answer.
"Yeah."
"Well, honey..." She couldn't believe the words were about to escape from her mouth. She wanted to stop herself, she searched for any answer that made more sense, and as stupid as it seemed, she couldn't think of anything else it might be. She didn't want to imagine it was possible. But it was hard to ignore the smooth, hard scales in front of her. "I think you might be on your way."
"Yes, Brett?" she replied gently, taking care not to let the fatigue show in her voice. She knew that this was a time in his life when he should be learning, but the amount of 'learning' that he did was beginning to wear her thin. "What is it?"
"Is this supposed to happen?" Brett entered the kitchen where his mom had been cooking, his arm held out in front of him, several small blue marks on his arm. His mother at first assumed that they were splotches of paint he had stained himself with while playing with his toys, but upon closer inspection they had more depth and texture to them than paint. "They won't come off," Brett continued, "and I'm not really sure where they came from. They were just there when I looked down at the end of my cartoon."
His mother's brow furrowed and she knelt down beside him, examining the splotches more closely. They were smooth, rounded features, and as she ran her finger over them, they were cold and hard. "Were you doing anything while you were watching tv?" she asked, gently rubbing her fingers against the strange dots, feeling no give as she might something he had accidentally glued to himself. Brett shook his head. "No reading or playing games?"
Brett shook his head again. "I was just thinking about what it would be like to live inside the tv," he explained. "Dragon Tales was on, and I was thinking about how cool it would be to be a dragon, and when the show was over, these were on my arm."
His mother frowned and grabbed a towel, dampening it and rubbing at his arm, to no avail. Whatever the dots were, they simply did not want to be removed. She had only been half paying attention to what her son had been saying, but as she pondered what the things might be, his words slowly dawned on her. "You were thinking about being a dragon?" she asked, unsure that she wanted to hear his answer.
"Yeah."
"Well, honey..." She couldn't believe the words were about to escape from her mouth. She wanted to stop herself, she searched for any answer that made more sense, and as stupid as it seemed, she couldn't think of anything else it might be. She didn't want to imagine it was possible. But it was hard to ignore the smooth, hard scales in front of her. "I think you might be on your way."
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Swearing fealty
Caval approached the princess after the funeral and bowed deeply before her. "My deepest condolences about your father," he said. "As the head of the guard, I regret that I was not better able to protect him. I offer you my deepest apologies."
The princess looked down at the knight, her face drawn and composed, long since trained to hide her emotions in public. Gently, she laid her hand upon the knight's shoulder. "It was not your fault that my father fell in battle," she assured him. "It is the way that he wanted to go, in a blaze of glory. He brought his own end upon himself."
Caval stood up straight and nodded in solemn agreement. "You are wise beyond your years, your highness. Moving forward, I pray that that wiseness carries on in your decisions. In the current conditions of the kingdom, you will have to take on great responsibilities. I wish to offer you my services as you may need them going forward."
Instantly, the princess' composure fell, and the gentle smile that had graced her face was replaced with a bitter glare. "Is that so?" she asked venomously. "And what, pray tell, are you to gain by offering me your services?"
Caval blinked, surprised by the sudden bitterness. "Excuse me?" he asked, confusion clear in his voice. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean."
The princess rolled her eyes. "I have already been approached three times today by men offering me their 'services' in hopes of gaining the wealth and power of the royal family. I am not interested in marriage, Sir Caval. As the head guard, your services should already be mine. So why are you now offering them to me?"
Caval stood upright, looking down at the princess. "I am not your guard, your highness," he stated flatly. "I was your father's, and I vowed to him that I would protect him and his family. Seeing as he is no longer with us, I merely wish to renew that vow with you. If, however, my services are no longer desired among the royal family, I am sure that I can find others who would be appreciative of them."
The princess looked up into the knight's eyes, challenging his statement, but found him unwilling. Slowly her face softened. "You will swear yourself to me?"
Caval kneeled down before the princess, in plain view of the other members of royalty and the guard who had remained in the vicinity. "I will swear myself to you, Princess Fleur, your family, and your wellbeing. I will do all that is within my power to protect you, and aid you as is fit of my position. If you are desiring of my advice, my company, or my strength, I will swear to always be available to you."
Fleur smiled gently and placed her hand once more on Caval's shoulder. "Thank you, Sir Caval," she said. "It is good to know that there are still some honest men in this kingdom."
The princess looked down at the knight, her face drawn and composed, long since trained to hide her emotions in public. Gently, she laid her hand upon the knight's shoulder. "It was not your fault that my father fell in battle," she assured him. "It is the way that he wanted to go, in a blaze of glory. He brought his own end upon himself."
Caval stood up straight and nodded in solemn agreement. "You are wise beyond your years, your highness. Moving forward, I pray that that wiseness carries on in your decisions. In the current conditions of the kingdom, you will have to take on great responsibilities. I wish to offer you my services as you may need them going forward."
Instantly, the princess' composure fell, and the gentle smile that had graced her face was replaced with a bitter glare. "Is that so?" she asked venomously. "And what, pray tell, are you to gain by offering me your services?"
Caval blinked, surprised by the sudden bitterness. "Excuse me?" he asked, confusion clear in his voice. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean."
The princess rolled her eyes. "I have already been approached three times today by men offering me their 'services' in hopes of gaining the wealth and power of the royal family. I am not interested in marriage, Sir Caval. As the head guard, your services should already be mine. So why are you now offering them to me?"
Caval stood upright, looking down at the princess. "I am not your guard, your highness," he stated flatly. "I was your father's, and I vowed to him that I would protect him and his family. Seeing as he is no longer with us, I merely wish to renew that vow with you. If, however, my services are no longer desired among the royal family, I am sure that I can find others who would be appreciative of them."
The princess looked up into the knight's eyes, challenging his statement, but found him unwilling. Slowly her face softened. "You will swear yourself to me?"
Caval kneeled down before the princess, in plain view of the other members of royalty and the guard who had remained in the vicinity. "I will swear myself to you, Princess Fleur, your family, and your wellbeing. I will do all that is within my power to protect you, and aid you as is fit of my position. If you are desiring of my advice, my company, or my strength, I will swear to always be available to you."
Fleur smiled gently and placed her hand once more on Caval's shoulder. "Thank you, Sir Caval," she said. "It is good to know that there are still some honest men in this kingdom."
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Snow storm
The fireplace roared to life as he dropped the match into the carefully stacked wood. The snow outside fell heavy, and its cold seeped through the walls, penetrating the house and dropping its temperature far past levels of comfort. The central heating of the building had broken a few days prior, but fortunately he had been able to collect more than enough firewood before the storm blew in. He had anticipated needing to keep himself warm until the snow had passed and he could get the heating repaired. He had not, however, anticipated having to heat for two.
She sat in front of the fire and smiled up at him in thanks before gently scooting closer to the flames. She had come to visit him by surprise just before the storm blew in. Neither of them had expected the snow to come today, however, as the weather forecast had clearly detailed that it would come the following day.
He went to another room and grabbed the only clean blanket he had and brought it back to the fireplace. "Sorry," he explained, "this is all I have right now that we can use to help us keep warm."
She smiled back at him. "Don't worry about it," she replied. "I don't mind sharing. It'll help us keep warmer, after all."
He sat down next to her and draped the blanket over both of their shoulders. It wasn't the biggest blanket in the world, forcing them to sit shoulder to shoulder so that it could fit around them both. They sat in silence for a time, watching the fire crackle, trying their best not to shiver as the room slowly warmed up, or at least the small area where they were sitting.
"I'm sorry you had to get stuck here with me," he said after a time. "I know that you had other plans that you wanted to get done, but it looks like you're gonna be stuck here with me for a while."
She shook her head. "You don't have to apologize to me. It's not like you can control the weather and made the storm blow in early. Neither of us could have known that this would happen, and it's better to be stuck here than out on the road alone or something like that."
He nodded in agreement. "That's true. You could have been a lot worse off. Still. I wasn't exactly prepared to have you here during the storm. I was only planning on one person. I may not have enough supplies."
She frowned but nodded in return. "I suppose that's true. We'll just have to be careful with the supplies that we have."
He sighed and rubbed the back of his head. "This didn't exactly turn out to be the best day."
She smiled up at him and gently pushed more against him. "I don't know," she replied. "It could have been a whole lot worse than getting stuck with you."
She sat in front of the fire and smiled up at him in thanks before gently scooting closer to the flames. She had come to visit him by surprise just before the storm blew in. Neither of them had expected the snow to come today, however, as the weather forecast had clearly detailed that it would come the following day.
He went to another room and grabbed the only clean blanket he had and brought it back to the fireplace. "Sorry," he explained, "this is all I have right now that we can use to help us keep warm."
She smiled back at him. "Don't worry about it," she replied. "I don't mind sharing. It'll help us keep warmer, after all."
He sat down next to her and draped the blanket over both of their shoulders. It wasn't the biggest blanket in the world, forcing them to sit shoulder to shoulder so that it could fit around them both. They sat in silence for a time, watching the fire crackle, trying their best not to shiver as the room slowly warmed up, or at least the small area where they were sitting.
"I'm sorry you had to get stuck here with me," he said after a time. "I know that you had other plans that you wanted to get done, but it looks like you're gonna be stuck here with me for a while."
She shook her head. "You don't have to apologize to me. It's not like you can control the weather and made the storm blow in early. Neither of us could have known that this would happen, and it's better to be stuck here than out on the road alone or something like that."
He nodded in agreement. "That's true. You could have been a lot worse off. Still. I wasn't exactly prepared to have you here during the storm. I was only planning on one person. I may not have enough supplies."
She frowned but nodded in return. "I suppose that's true. We'll just have to be careful with the supplies that we have."
He sighed and rubbed the back of his head. "This didn't exactly turn out to be the best day."
She smiled up at him and gently pushed more against him. "I don't know," she replied. "It could have been a whole lot worse than getting stuck with you."
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