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| What to call this place? Besides, HOME! How does a writer, or storyteller (in my case), spend his/her free time? Well, aside from Twitter, Facebook, or other ventures to waste precious minutes we should be writing, there are those strange searches. I spent plenty of time this week looking up druids, shaman, tribal headgear, and synonyms for campfire. Invention is a wonderful thing, but sometimes writing about what we already know is better. History holds within weathered hands a boundless list of human tradition and events that should feed the writer's search for realism. Strange but true, realism is the key to good fantasy. Can anyone say, oxymoron? Well, now I stand on the slope of Mount Equinox, or more appropriately, the characters I have grown to know so well. Strange rituals, stranger alliances, and an altogether nasty creature called Grunthagamor -- I hope it all makes for a fun read. (and easier whenever my glossary is done) If you want a hint as to where I am going, chapter two of book one (page 35, hardcopy) describes the Lords of Nordhiem and the accursed Lord Turran-Set. We get to know him better in book three, and I am excited to watch where this goes. Coming soon to a reader near you... |
Excerpt : Chapter Four -- Prince of the Furies Between the grove and what appeared a small graveyard, the shrine rose tall and elegant. The building seemed a newer construction, and smelled of fresh cut oak when Jascha opened the double doors that were solid and stained a reddish-brown. They stepped into the vestibule and its silence held them. The building was square and not large, but adequate for a small village. Light came from stained-glass windows within the main chamber, which was open to them, and rowed clerestory across the nave of the roof. A beam of sunlight streamed into the rear of the chamber onto what appeared a bare table, without cloth or candle; and beside it knelt the girl they saw earlier. Jascha insisted they wait. Andro studied her from across the room. She appeared statuesque, illuminated by the sun, but innocent and beautiful. As still as an angel in a painting, she startled him when she suddenly turned. In a soft voice she spoke, “Come.”
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