The Prophecy

When feather and fang do clash in war, 

Much is forgotten, remembered no more, 

Darkness comes upon us again 

This time, from within 

When our country needs us most 

We turn away; unity is an empty boast 

Now a darker evil lurks near at hand 

A shadow soon will fall upon the land 

The dragon-fell, cloaked in black 

Despair comes soon, death no lack 

Quartorlen shall meet its doom 

We have dug our own stone tomb

Comparisons

So I spent several hours editing Feather and Fang last night, getting the first parts written on par with the last parts as far as style, continuity, and all-around quality is concerned. By doing this, I am able to reconnect with the story, add where it needs adding, and take away what needs taking away.
For example, my descriptions of several years ago were quite wordy and rather bland. I left little to the reader's imagination, tended to more boring than helpful, and usually made references to the real world (something I am trying to avoid). Consider the following:


But where the hawk had been a man was just rising from the ground, as if he had been kneeling. But as the wolf and the man he had turned into were alike, so were the hawk and his new form. His hair was composed of large, flat locks like feathers that flared out as they reached the back of his neck, giving him a low-lying crest. His garments were much the same as the other’s, but his shirt bore a fringe under the arms, also like feathers. His high boots had spurs like those of a rooster on the heel, and his face had strange marking along the jawbone, tattoos that resembled the black markings of a red hawk.

Not bad, but definitely not good either. So I did some reworking; and this is what it turned into:

And as the wolf and the man he had turned into were alike, so were the hawk and his new form. While his garments were much the same as the wolf’s, they were decorated with strips of colorful cloth, bright threads, and pendants of stone and metal. He wore his hair in flat locks like feathers in which were intertwined bits of shell and bone, and his face bore strange tattoos like small wisps along his jawbone. He had bone spurs on his boots and a fringe of leather ran along the arms of his shirt.

Much better. Not only do I accurately describe Crestlen's appearance (now that I know what he actually looks like), but gone are the clumsy references to real hawks and roosters. And it actually flows now, as opposed to the rather disjointed pattern of the former iteration.

That's the taking away part; now for the adding. This mostly comes in play during dialogue, which I've gotten a great deal better since writing this first chapter (this is my oldest piece of work still in current use, predating even Freeborn and Freegiven). For example:

He chuckled. “Indeed, our paths have finally crossed.”

The other snorted. “As well they might, twould be difficult for two assassins to seek each other without ever meeting.”

“Ah! So that is why you seemed not overeager to cover your tracks. I had begun to fear they were a false lead, so obvious were they.”

The first snarled again. “Yes, tis not often that Redpaw, chief of the hunters in Burndell is careless enough to let his tracks go uncovered.”

“Aye, but even if they had been covered, Redpaw Wolf-hunter, not often is Crestlen, Hawk-assassin of Embervale hard pressed to find the trail, however hidden.”

Redpaw nodded scornfully. “Indeed? Know this, Crestlen, Hawk-assassin; if I were to hide my trail with all my skill and cunning, even the keenest hound-scout would be at a loss.”

It was Crestlen’s turn to toss his head in scorn. “Ah, that stumble-footed, keen-nosed kind! Yes, but I am no hound-scout. I track not by smell, but by sight, and I warn you, I can spot a hare-runner from three bowshots off.”

Now, my imagining of this has been forever tainted by an ill-fated attempt I made at a radio theater, in which I did all the voices. And my attempt to make Crestlen sound like a sneering, cold assassin, just made him sound like he had a cold. So now I hear that in my head whenever I read these lines. So... I needed to change them, obviously. Hopefully, the rework is better:

“What sort of civilized talk can there be between us, Redpaw?”

The former wolf, Redpaw, chuckled. “Well, you could at least thank me for waiting here for you. When I learned you had heard of me, I decided it would be far easier to wait for you to come to me than to chase you across all four provinces.”

“Is that so?” replied the other, Crestlen, a sarcastic edge creeping into his voice. “No wonder you left your tracks so plain! They were so obvious I had begun to fear they were a false lead!”

Redpaw’s easy grin faded. “Watch what you say, Hawk-assassin! Not often do I let down my guard without good reason! Him named chief of the bounty-hunters in Fanglen faction is never at a loss to cover his tracks!”

Crestlen snorted in derision. “Even if they had, Wolf-hunter, not often am I hard pressed to find the trail, however hidden.”

Redpaw nodded scornfully. “Indeed? Know this, Crestlen, Hawk-assassin; if I were to hide my trail with all my skill and cunning, even the keenest hound-blood would be at a loss.”

It was Crestlen’s turn to toss his head in scorn. “A pox on that stumble-footed, keen-nosed kind! I am no hound-blood. They may track by smell, but I hunt by sight, and I tell you, I can spot a my prey from near on three bowshots off.”

Not only did I fix most of the Yoda-esque style of speaking, but Redpaw's speech actually fits his character, and all the "Ah!"'s and "Aye!'"s have been deleted. I mean, who starts every sentence with "Ah!"?

Well, that's where I be, sitting in the shadows of a cave deep in Flamehope, watching two master hunters face off in a fight to the death. Call me if you need me. :)

 

Why Do I Learn The Sword?

Because swords don't run out of bullets.

Ha ha. But really, why dedicate time and money to learning a long dead art? Why go to the trouble when there is no apparent practical use for it in the modern world? Well, to answer this, I must define the sword.

I actually practice two forms of swordfighting, fencing and broadsword. Fencing is the modern/classical style used for dueling in 1600-1800's.The swords used are foils, sabres, and epee's, all different styles of the same form, which is basically a thin blade with a basket hilt of some sort. Think The Three Musketeers. The foil and epee are only used for stabbing, but the sabre has one edge with which to cut. It is wielded in one hand, with the fencer turned almost at 90 degrees to his opponent to provide as little a target as possible. Movement is strictly linear up and down the strip and the bouts are decided by points. Certain parts of the body are off target, and there are cards for fouls and the like. As you can see, modern fencing is a highly regulated, systematic art.

The distinct opposite is broadswording, which uses, (who knew?) the broadsword! Double-edged and broad-bladed with cross-guard hilt, this is a fearsome weapon. The rules are far simpler than those of fencing, but the repertoire of techniques and tactics is tripled. There are certain guards which always keep your point threatening the enemy, binds which enable you to close in and pommel your opponent, parries which enable you to snap your blade around the other. See, the art of the broadsword is as complex as any eastern martial art. Keep your karate and taekwondo, and give me a sword!

But, I know what you're thinking... unless you carry a sword around in your back pocket... it's not exactly the same! Never fear, I always keep one sheathed at my side. 

Sike! (Though I do keep one in the trunk of my car, in case me and a friend want to have a bout out in the woods). But see, broadswording and fencing deal a lot with balance. In fencing, you learn to keep your balance at all times. In broadswording, you learn to upset your opponent's balance. So if I ever was caught in a situation where self-defense became necessary, I wouldn't necessarily need a sword to apply what I know.

But that's not why I learn how to use the sword. Why I took up both broadswording and fencing was something deeper. See, there is a layer of honor and courage woven deep into the use of the sword. When you use a sword, you must look your opponent square in the eye, face them toe to toe, and test your metal (or mettle) against theirs. And there is something concrete and real there. Not only that, but you must be strong enough to wield a three-foot weapon of steel (or polyurethane, or pvc and noodle, or...) effectively, you must be sturdy enough to block an incoming blow, you must be able to not flinch as your enemy's sword comes swinging towards you. In the end, being able to wield a sword brings a depth of character and strength that a gun could never do. Oh, and it never runs out of bullets. And it's just epic. Period :).

But there's one thing more. See, every Christian is called to use a sword as well. That sword is the Word of God, the Bible.

"For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart." Hebrews 4:12 (ESV)

And that's why I love the sword. Because every time I pick one up, whether it's made of steel or rubber, I'm reminded of The Ultimate Sword, and what it is made of. May I learn to use the Bible as effectively in my heart war as I use my foil in a bout.

Moment of Realization

Sometime, as an author, you have a particular moment when you suddenly realize something important. Like when I realized that this is what I was going to post about today. Well... maybe not. But definitely like the moment I had yesterday evening.

See, I've been muddling along in Feather and Fang, getting bogged down constantly, but not wanting to stop. There's so much in mind for it, and I don't want to let it drop by the wayside. But something's been hindering me from writing as freely as I'd like. And yesterday evening I realized why.

I was telling two different tales. And pretty obviously so. Crestlen and Redpaw struggled through the Brightgorge, turning from mortal enemies to brothers-in-arms, and Daegless and Korra trekked across Thunderfell, changing Daegless from the Tiger-scourge into... something else. The two stories joined at the end, which is why I was telling them together in the same book, but now I think both stories would benefit if they were told separately, and then joined in a third tale.

Woah... trilogy...

So! Trilogy, eh? *thinks hard about names*.... Feather and Fang... Fellborne and Fearless... Faith and Fallen... those'll do nicely, I think. And as a whole? The Faction Trilogy. Because, of course, everything revolves around the featherwen and fanglen factions and their chaotic war.

As of right now, however, work will proceed strictly on Feather and Fang, until that tale has been told in full. I do try to keep the number of projects I'm working on to a minimum... if that is even possible. So expect talk to be mostly about Feather and Fang, and Daegless and Korra to not show up for a while.


Buuut....


Remember that plot bunny? Well, work was so slow yesterday I pulled out some printer paper, sat down in a corner, and started writing. And I liked what I found. So I may or may not be following him further in the next few days, depending on what it looks like when I transfer my illegible scribbling to the computer.  We shall see...

Plot Bunny!

I know every aspiring author's had one. That cute little rascal of a plot rabbit that slips out of the game bag of your mind and just starts running. Well, one escaped last Tuesday, started running, disappeared behind a bush, and reappeared this morning. And I think I'm going to have to chase him down... which is unfortunate, considering the three or four more mature rabbits I am currently trying to grow with large helpings of caffeine cabbage and creative carrots. But he's just too interesting to let go!

So I started out on his trail this morning, and pretty soon found signs enough to begin tracking him down. This is what I found:

My name is Arson. But only a few folk call me that. To most, I am simply the Stallion-burn. And though this tale is not about me as much as it is about another, it began with me, and I was there when it ended. The place was the Levelcourt, the time late summer. My trial before the Conclave had just begun.

“Arson, sometime called the Stallion-burn, you are brought before the Conclave today, on the third of Summerfall, to answer charges brought against you by the people of Cloudford. These include arson of public and private buildings, thievery of private goods, destruction of private and public property, and the assault of three freeborn. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

The court erupted in angry shouts and cries.

“Say for himself? The criminal can say nothing for himself!”

“He does not deserve the right to speak at all!”

“He is guilty, there is proof enough!”

“Silence!” thundered the judge, bringing his gauntleted fist down with a crash on his podium. “Let the accused speak!”

I said nothing. There was nothing to be said. I was guilty.

“As the accused has nothing to say, I hereby charge him guilty, and sentence him to twenty-nine lashes in the public square.”

A muttering filled the open-air court. Evidently most folk thought my sentence far too light.

“Your honor, if I may speak?”

The clear voice cut through the low murmurs in a way that could not be denied.

“Name, master freeborn?”

“Marcel, Fox-brave.”

I made no movement to see the face of the speaker, but the voice was young.

“As is written on the walls of the Hope-Chamber, it is the right of any freeborn to take the punishment of a criminal on himself. I now exercise that right, and ask that the twenty-nine lashes be placed on my back instead.”

The crowd gasped, and any attempt at remaining stoic on my part fled as I whirled around to face the speaker. It was a young girl.

Coincidentally, this is the first time I've ever used first person. Well, at least since my very first story... which I try to forget usually... :)

Criminal's Death

I wrote this after this morning's message. May it affect you as it affected me.


Criminal's Death

The winds sweep cold across the hill
Noon draws quickly near
A man is hung in public shame
Let all who pass by see and fear

Three criminals strung up high
Come out and see their fate
Agony binds their limbs in pain
The crowds hurl stones and hate

Does no one feel pity for them?
Tried and guilty as they are?
Thieves and blasphemers all
For them, death is not far

High noon has come at long last
But dark spreads instead of light
As if the earth itself protests
When it's people mock and spite

Shall we leave this awful place?
Leave these criminals to die in peace?
Let us turn our eyes away
Before the crows begin to feast

But wait! The one in the center speaks!
And what he says, can it be true?
The words come low but ring out
"Father God, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Then he cries out in pain and suffering
As His spirit leaves this space
He has died, and with his death
The world seems a poorer place

Then the entire universe screams in pain
As the earth itself begins to shake
The wind begins to cry in grief
And the rocks their silence break

And so it becomes painfully clear
The center man was free of guilt
Perfect, blameless, the Son of God
Saving the world as He was killed

Jesus Christ, ruler of this world
Crucfied as a common thief
But even death could not hold Him
And he rose again from grief

Ressurected, ascended to on high
King over this world forever more
Saved me by his sacrifice and death
He holds my heart, my life, my soul