I Know, I Know, This is Getting Old

You ever find yourself starting over and over and over again in the creative process, waiting for that perfect line, that perfect beginning, that perfect twist?

Yeah, I'm there.

In my case, it's the beginning and what comes immediately after. So I offer, again, a snippet of a beginning, something that sounds good and hopefully stays sounding good. Let me know what you think.


Ebram strained against the pull of the current, so strong he felt as if his arm itself might tear away. His eyes half-closed because of the struggle, he saw his son Emon disappear beneath the swirling water for the third time, only to come back up a few moments later. Holding to Ebram's hand as tightly as possible, Emon sputtered and tried to cry out, but water kept filling his mouth every time he opened it.
Ebram tried to tell his son to keep his mouth closed, to fight against the current, to try and swim closer to the shore...and yet no sound came from his mouth. It never did. No matter how hard he tried to scream, Ebram could make no noise. He kept trying, of course, because his son, his only son, was close to drowning. But with each passing moment, his silence grew louder and his grip slipped a little more.
Somehow, Ebram knew how this would end. He got the feeling he'd seen this struggle, this battle for life, before, many times before even. Somehow, he knew that soon, some few seconds from now, Emon would slip beneath the raging river again, except this time he would not surface. Maybe it would be water filling his lungs, or maybe he would get caught on some unseen snag beneath the surface, or maybe the undercurrent was strong, too strong. Ebram didn't know, had never known, would never know what it was that shut his son's eyes for the last time.
He felt, in his mind and heart more than physically, his son's hand slip from his own. With a last desperate look, Emon disappeared from his father's view, his eyes giving Ebram a look that would haunt him until time itself ended. Ebram sat there, on the rock that jutted out into the water, panting and sweating, waiting for tears to come.
But they didn't. For some reason, Ebram felt the tears had stopped coming a long time ago. But where did that feeling come from?
From somewhere behind him, a loud noise seemed to shake the ground itself. Ebram turned to look....

Maybe a Prequel?

A farm in the Plaguelands, overrun by the Scourge

With a thud, Nikolas Tien crashed to the floor, helped by the two hulking figures who threw him there. They were shrouded in dark robes, their faces mostly covered. It was so dark in this room that their faces would have been hard to see even without the hoods. The figures moved to the doorway into the cell, taking up position on either side of the entrance. After a few minutes, in which Nikolas continued to lie on the ground in pain, a third person moved from the dimly lit corridor, between the two guards, and into the dark cell. Nikolas didn't have to look up to know who his visitor was.
"Your resilience continues to astound me," the newcomer said, giving off a hint of false admiration. "Men I would have deemed stronger than you didn't last nearly as long before the madness took them."
Nikolas, still in a considerable amount of physical and mental anguish, didn't look up, but continued to lie face-down, blowing small clouds of dust with each breath. He closed his eyes, though in his mind's eye he could clearly see his tormentor's face, punctuated as it often was with a cruel and sadistic smile.
"What, no comments? No curses or insults?" Falt Greyhaft clucked his tongue. "Were you any other man, you could be the most boring person I'd ever worked on here."
'Here,' in this case, meant a small, abandoned garrison south of Hearthglen, tucked back into the mountains separating the Tirisfal Glades from the region now known as the Plaguelands. It had been called such ever since the Scourge infected the land with its evil, poisonous taint. The soldiers stationed at this garrison had fled before the Undead, though the latter had never bothered to claim it. Greyhaft had discovered it some months ago, and began using it as his own personal laboratory, where he could carry out his "experiments" in relative quiet.
Nikolas slowly, painfully pushed himself to his hands and knees, moving to a sitting position against the wall farthest from the cell's entrance. He finally looked up at Greyhaft, his eyes boring into the other man's.
"Sorry to ruin your fun, Falt," Nikolas said with no attempt to hide the loathing in his voice. "Maybe I'll try to smile more as you fill my head with your demons."
Greyhaft crouched down, bringing his face level with Nikolas. "Three weeks you've been here, and yet you still fail to grasp the importance of my work. I will be the first to admit that my methods are less than desirable, but the potential ends more than justify what I do."
"Ah, so it's justifiable to make a deal with devils, all for the sake of the Light." Nikolas' remark was thick with sarcasm and contempt.
"You mock, Nikolas, but that is exactly what I have to do. You've fought the Scourge, you know of their evil. One must sometimes surround himself with such evil if he is to understand it, to fight it more effectively."
Nikolas scoffed. "I know plenty of places you could go to surround yourself in the Scourge's rot and decay. Somewhere like the Writhing Haunt comes to mind."
He barely had time to flinch before the back of Greyhaft's fist caught him full on his cheek. The blow threw Nikolas to the ground; he immediately tasted warm blood in his mouth, which he spat onto the dirt. He had fully expected such a reaction; though his failed attempt to defend the farmlands now known as the Writhing Haunt had taken place months ago, Greyhaft still carried the sting of that defeat. He gave Nikolas a look full of venom.
"You'll regret that remark, you insolent worm." Greyhaft stood and looked down at his prisoner. "You go back on the table first thing tomorrow."
Turning on his heel, Greyhaft left the cell and disappeared around a corner. Behind him, the guards locked the door and took up their usual positions on the other side of the room. Nikolas wiped the remaining blood onto his hand, then laid back down on the straw mat in one corner of the cell. Not for the first time, he thought about the strange fact that he was physically exhausted from the day's torture, though his body had itself been free from actual torment. No, Greyhaft's punishment was far more sinister, attacking the very mind and soul with dark images and shadowy impressions, and it had taken a terrible toll on Nikolas. Every night his exhausted body practically screamed for rest and relief, but the mental torment through which he went every night denied him all but the most broken sleep.
Tonight, Nikolas knew, would be no different. No sooner would he close his eyes than the terrible imaged would return, burning their terrible fear into his mind and shaking him to his very core. He always tried praying to the Light for relief, but with each tormented day he wondered more if it hadn't forsaken this wretched place. As he turned on his side, Nikolas thoughts turned, as they always did, to his family: to his sister, locked safely behind the doors of the Monastery to the north; to his mother, living far to the south, away from the Undead; and finally to his father, now dead almost a year. Nikolas wondered what they would think if they knew his plight. Turning over on his side, he tried to keep his parents and sister in his mind, knowing they'd quickly be replaced by the horror.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

A New Approach

I'm trying a new approach with the story, where each chapter will start with a glimpe at Nikolas' past as he learns things from his mother and father. These snippets will help explain what makes Nikolas different than your run-of-the-mill spies, rogues and scouts. He isn't, of course, a superhero- he just has some tricks up his sleeves that others don't expect.

Here's my first example of this new approach, found at the beginning of Chapter 1:


"Focus, Nikolas. You've almost got it." Though earnest, Naya Tien's voice was quiet enough to avoid breaking her son's concentration.
Next to her, the boy started to sweat slightly, his face scrunched up in concentration. In front of him, a small pile of sticks stood in a cone, a faint burning smell wafting up into the air. For a second, Naya thought she could see a wisp of smoke rising from the twigs; Nikolas apparently did too, for he gasped in excitement, and in that moment lost his focus. The smoke disappeared.
The boy, barely past his eleventh year, slumped in defeat, and Naya intuitively knew he was about to start crying. She put her arm around his shoulder and pulled him close to her.
"It's alright, son, it's alright," she reassured. "You were very close. Here, feel the sticks. They're quite warm." Naya picked one up and offered it to the boy.
Nikolas took it, and despite a sob seemed to overcome his disappointment. "Almost hot enough to burn someone," he said with a weak smile.
"You see?" Naya turned her son to face her. "You'll have it this time, I just know it." She gave him a kiss on his forehead, and he turned back to the sticks. Half-closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, he started to concentrate on sticks in front of him.
Naya knew her husband wished that Nikolas were more interested in the teachings of the Light. Their son believed in the Light, believed in its power and benevolence. But where his sister desired very much to follow in their father's path, to become a champion of the Light, Nikolas showed no such interest. He had, instead, displayed a greater curiosity toward the abilities Naya had shown from birth, those of a sorceress.
That Altus and Naya had fallen in love and married surprised many, family members and friends and mentors alike. Followers of the Light commonly held wielders of arcane power with little regard, and often contempt. The magi, in turn, held little room for kindness or friendship with the "religious types." Thus it was, when Altus and Naya announced their betrothal to their respective masters, many met the news with disapproval. But the pair never faltered in their love and commitment toward each other, and had so far succeeded in raising a beautiful and happy family.
Despite their seperate interests, Nikolas in magic and the younger Katia in the Light, the two got along well, and for that Naya was grateful. Besides, she knew Nikolas would never show the kind of power in magic she herself had been born with, something that didn't really seem to bother him or her. The fact that he was interested in something she loved was wonderful enough.
A sting in Naya's nostrils broke into her thoughts, and with a spark of delight she realized the sticks before her son were starting to smoke, and in no small measure. She smiled in anticipation, and urged Nikolas on in her mind.
Sure enough, a few seconds later and with a flash, the pile of twigs burst into flame. It wasn't large, but it was strong and hot and bright. Nikolas' face broke into a wild grin as he turned to look at his mother. She returned his grin as he jumped up and yelped in triumph.
"I did it, Mother, I did it!" His voice surely carried across the yard into the house.
"Yes, you did, my boy! I'm so proud of you," she said, hugging her son tight. "I'm so proud of you."
Both turned to look at the small flame again, still burning bright. For a few quiet moments, they basked in the warmth of Nikolas' accomplishment, enjoying this moment. Finally Naya broke the silence.
"You did so well, Nikolas. I know it took time, and it wasn't easy- it will always require some effort." She turned her son to face her again. "It will never be as easy for you to do thse things as it is for me. You understand that, right?"
When he nodded, she continued. "I sense that your life will be much different than either mine or your father's. But you can learn much from us both, things that may help you wherever you go. That's why I teach you this, and that's why your Father has things to teach you as well."
She smiled again. "Now, once you have this down better, I'll show you how to make one that can't be seen." Her eyes twinkled as his grew wide in amazement and anticipation. "Now," Naya said," go and tell you Father what you've done."
As her son ran off to tell Altus about the wonderous thing he'd accomplished, Naya couldn't keep some few tears from coming to her eyes.

Retooling

Right now I'm retooling the first few chapters of the story, changing some minor things that allow for better story flow.

In the meantime, here's a little intro to one of the main antagonists in the story, Falt Greyhaft:

Far to the north, Layette Manor stood safely ensconced within the foothills of the Alterac Mountains. To the south lay Strahnbrad, once a jewel of the former kingdom, now a festering ruin full of brigands, rogues and mercenaries- just the kind of people with which Falt Greyhaft had recently surrounded himself. As a liason from the Scarlet Crusade to the Syndicate, he worked with lowlifes and criminals on a daily basis. His orders came from the highest levels of the Crusade, but he didn't particularly mind them. He didn't hold himself so high and holy as others in the Crusade, and was in fact glad to work away from the tireless and desperate struggles against the Scourge.
With the Light's blessing, the Scarlet Crusade had held its own since the Third War and stood strong in several places. But the Scourge hadn't let up in the slightest, despite their huge setback in the far lands of Kalimdor. With the fall of one master another had risen- this mysterious Lich King, of whom one of the Light's greatest servants had become a lieutenant. Many in Lordaeron, or what remained of it, were bitter against former prince Arthas Menethil, and rightly so. He had stood poised to become Lordaeron's next champion, the greatest student of the legendary paladin Uther Lightbringer. But as the Scourge devastated the kingdom to which he was heir, Arthas lost himself in madness and desperation, to the point where he became consumed by a desire to avenge his kingdom's loss. Somewhere in the insanity that followed he betrayed his own people and allies, taking up arms against them as the Scourge's general in Lordaeron. At last report he had gone to Northrend for some unknown purpose, but his minions in Lordaeron were relentless in their continued attacks. The seemingly endless carnage and defeats had started to wear on many of the Crusade's bravest soldiers- only by the resolve and strength of its leaders had they remained steadfast.
One of those generals had just sent a missive to Greyhaft, updating him with the goings on up north. He saw Dathrohan had nothing of great import to pass along, just the usual casualty numbers and territory changes. Greyhaft noted that fewer soldiers had been lost this month as compared to the last. Well, it was the little things that mattered, isn't that what everyone said?
Putting the missive down, he picked up another letter, this one from much further south and not from any Crusader, though in Greyhaft's mind this was no less Scarlet business. It was old business, relatively speaking, but important nonetheless. Unfortunately, he saw, there was nothing to report. He put the letter down and walked to the window. It was past midnight, and storm clouds had begun to gather to the west over Lordamere Lake.
It had been almost three years to the day when Nikolas Tien had slipped out of his grasp. A captain at the Monastery when they met, Greyhaft had disliked Tien from the start. On the scout's third day, he had reported to the captain for orders. Falt had ordered him to duty in Hearthglen, knowing the precious need for good scouts in that part of the kingdom. When Tien asked if the post was permanent, Greyhaft replied that it was. At that point, in front of a good dozen soldiers or so, Tien had shown the gall to defy the order, saying he intended to stay near the Monastery. When asked why, the scout said he wanted to keep his sister safe. Greyhaft matter-of-factly told him that the sister, a priestess in the Monastery, would be perfectly safe, and that he was needed in Hearthglen.
Then that upstart refused again, at which point Greyhaft said it was an order, not a request. Tien smugly replied that he was not some conscript, that he had volunteered, and was going to stay near the Monastery regardless. With the others watching, Greyhaft had had little choice but to relent, not wanting to seem tyrannical. So he asked if Tien might be pleased with scouting duties in Tirisfal, with the occasional job of taking messages to and from Hearthglen. The latter agreed, even smiling at the compromise, but for Greyhaft, the damage had been done. He knew from that day that Tien would be trouble and a malcontent, though the degree of the problem could not have been known, not at that time. Falt decided to keep an eye on the scout, reporting every infraction to his superiors: in a cause as important as fighting the Scourge, there was no room for chinks in the Crusade's armor, no matter how small.
Over the next few months, to his dismay, Greyhaft had found little with which to criticize Tien. The man's work had been very useful, and for a while it seemed there'd be no problem. Then Greyhaft had begun to hear rumors that Tien was becoming...discontent. Through sources loyal and well-placed, he learned Nikolas had started to express doubts about the Crusade and they way they fought the Scourge. He felt the soldiers and leaders were becoming too brutal and extreme in their methods.
What that...dissenter...failed to realize, Greyhaft now remembered, was that the war to reclaim Lordaeron was more than a seemingly-futile battle. It was a war against evil itself, a war against demons and devils and all that was dark. The Undead had ripped life itself from the land and those living on it, and turned both into aberrations of nature, blasphemies to the Light itself. True, Greyhaft admitted to himself now, some of the methods employed by the Crusade were unpleasant, but they had been absolutely necessary. Faith demanded that all measures be taken to wipe every last abomination from existence. For good to prevail, not one particle of the Undead taint could exist, and removing it was the sacred charge taken up by the Scarlet Crusade.
With time, Tien's complaints grew into treachery. He began resisting orders to carry out the simplest of tasks, claiming he wished to know more about the Undead before he attacked them. His sister, the priestess, had tried to make him see reason, to see the truth of their cause, but the man's mind would not be assuaged. Repeated attempts by leaders spiritual and marshal to bring Tien back to reason failed. Greyhaft began seeking cause to have the man arrested and tried for treason, for in war desperate as the one in which the Crusade fought, anything less than total allegiance was the same as betrayal. Falt's efforts were in vain, however, as the traitor somehow managed to skirt a fine line and avoid going too far.
Then, Greyhaft remembered with a grim smile, Tien did the unthinkable. He and a footman patrol came upon an Undead straggler hiding in the mountains. Their orders at the time were to hold all Undead alive and take them to the Monastery, where they would be subjects for experimentation. But somewhere during the journey north, Tien had lost his mind and attacked his comrades, trying to free the abomination. The two escaped, but soon ran into another patrol. Tien and the monster had been promptly arrested and imprisoned in a farmhouse until both could be moved- the monster for his experiments, and Tien for the Monastery dungeons. Now, in the present, Greyhaft clearly remembered learning of this and his feeling of victory at finally getting his hands on a traitor.
But only two days later, Tien managed to get away, taking the monster with him. To make matters more serious, one of the Crusaders had been killed in the escape, two others wounded. Somehow, when finally within reach, Tien had escaped Greyhaft's grasp. He remembered the pure rage he felt, almost as if he'd had a demon itself in his hands only to watch it blow away with the wind. He had been so close. And he hadn't been about to give up.
For months following, Greyhaft had sent scouts and runners in all directions, trying for even a sniff of Tien's whereabouts. There were many who began turning against the Crusade- many, especially, after the death of Highlord Mograine- but few had proven so elusive. It seemed, to most, that Tien had truly disappeared. Greyhaft tried his sister, Katia, but to no avail. She maintained she knew nothing of his whereabouts, and was quite convincing. But when he planned more extreme interrogations, Katia's mentor- Inquisitor Whitemane- had intervened and commanded Greyhaft to cease his fruitless search.
And so he had, at least officially. From that time he worked in secret, hiring bounty hunters and others to be his eyes and ears, watching always for some little sign.
Greyhaft knew, years later, that his desire for justice had grown into an obsession. He had managed to let it go enough to where it didn't consume his as it had. Over time, the numbers of seekers he had out looking for Tien dwindled, though there were still a skilled few. He rarely lost sleep over the matter anymore, but then there were occasional nights, like tonight, where it all came back to him.
As he looked toward distant Lordamere, Falt Greyhaft wondered, not for the first time, if he might die never seeing the fruits of his dedicated search.

Chapter 2 is Done and You Get to Meet Someone New

First things first: Chapter 2 is done, and I like how it turned out. The whole thing is still in development so there may be changes, though they will likely be small. Now, the few readers I have are all in the family and therefore get the chapters e-mailed to them. If you're reading this and aren't on my e-mail, leave a comment with an e-mail address and I'll be happy to send you a copy to read/comment on/critique.

Now, to the new kid on the block:

Alira Stone- co-owner of the Bear's Brew
In Chapter 2, we meet the person that will likely become Nikolas' love interest- her name is Alira Stone, and she's from a small hamlet called Shadyglen, which lies on the road through the Hillsbrad Foothills, in between Southshore and the border with the Arathi Highlands. Shadyglen is little more than a few shops, homes and, most notably, an inn, owned and operated by Alira and her father, Harac. Alira's mother died of disease when the girl was twelve, leaving her and her father to manage the inn. She is very kind to all her guests, even when they are flat-out drunk and rowdy. But dealing with drunkards and ruffians of all kinds has given her a tough side that comes out when necessary.

At some point in the process, Morena Baccarin stood out as someone who could play the role well. She's best known for her role as Inara on the Joss Whedon bit of genius, "Firefly" (as well as the subsequent movie "Serenity.")

Another Teaser

Southshore (image from wowwiki.com)

Some miles away on the road from Silverpine to Southshore, Fitch Millen wiped his dagger on the ground, leaving streaks of blood on the grass. He looked around, seeing no one except his small band. They had managed to pull off the heist without arousing suspicion, something not easy in the busy travel hours of the morning. Outnumbered almost two to one, the four travelers had been easy to manage. Fitch's sharpshooters had taken the guards out by expertly hitting them in the neck with their crossbows. The other two barely had time to reach for their weapons before Fitch and the other three had them on the ground. Glosser and Bilgi had shaken them down, taking their money and other valuables. Then the men had been stripped before Fitch cut their throats. The bandits dragged the bodies and covered them with branches some yards from the road, out of sight and mind. None of them were worried about discovery- mountain lions or moss spiders would likely find the corpses before anyone else.
Of most interest to Fitch was what had fallen out of one traveler's shoe- a note wrapped around a small key. The note had only a few symbols written on them, Elvish by the look of them. That was odd- the man carrying it was human, as were his companions. Fitch began to wonder where the man had come from, and where he was going.
He looked toward the road- the travelers had been heading east, and by the looks of their provisions would have had to stop sometime soon. That put their likely destinations at either Hillsbrad or Southshore; smaller villages wouldn't have made good refitters.
He looked back toward his men. "Bilgi!"
The mute hulk of a man looked up.
"You get their papers yet?"
The brute nodded, then brought the documents to Fitch. It took him a minute to find what he wanted: the group had come from Ambermill, an Alliance town on the edge of Silverpine Forest. They were headed.....there. Southshore, like Finch thought. Their business was listed as a non-commercial personal visit, and they were to stay only a day or so. Beyond that, there was little useful information. But Finch had a destination, and the fact that the man had hidden this key could only mean one thing: whatever it unlocked was or contained something valuable, and that thing was probably in Southshore.
Rounding up his band of brigands, they headed southeast toward the seaport. Before heading to the bank, Fitch had to find someone who could decipher the symbols on the note. Fortunately, the Syndicate had men in Southshore who could.
Yes, Finch thought to himself, this could be something good, something to win the appreciation of Lord Layette. And that was a rare and valuable commodity.

Thursday Two-Fer

Part One of the Two-Fer: a segment from Chapter 1 of the story. Enjoy!

The Scarlet Bastion in Stratholme

Far to the north, in the city of Stratholme, Falt Greyhaft rode toward the Scarlet Bastion, careful not to make too much noise: the Undead with whom the Crusade shared the dying stronghold were on the other side, but there was no sense in taking chances.
As he came upon Crusaders' Square, the central hub of Crusade forces in Stratholme, he slowed his horse to a stop. He was almost immediately challenged by a loud voice: "Declare yourself, stranger!"
"Peace, Captain Malor, it's just me."
"Greyhaft?"
"Aye, captain, it's Greyhaft."
"Prove it!"
"You owe me seven gold and forty-three copper for our game two weeks ago," Greyhaft called with a smile.
"I'm still not convinced," Malor answered with a smile.
"You smell like burnt rat tail!"
Greyhaft heard several chuckles coming from Malor and the guards with him, then: "Come forth, you pathetic Gilly dog!"
Smiling at the mock insult, Greyhaft spurred his mount forward into the square, soon coming to the fortifications where Malor and the other guardsmen stood watch, keeping an eye out in case the Undead attacked. He dismounted, then strode forward and grasped Malor in a firm handshake.
"Welcome back. Did you meet success?" Malor didn't know the particulars of Greyhaft's mission, but any success was good news.
"Aye, I believe I did. Is Lord Dathrohan waiting for me?"
Malor nodded. "He is. I believe he's at prayer in the throne room."
"Very well. When I get done meeting with him, you'd better have my money ready," Greyhaft said.
Malor scoffed. "It's taken me this long to pay you, what's another two weeks?"
Greyhaft laughed and entered the Bastion. The building's interior was a cool refreshment from the acrid smell of smoke outside. Some Crusaders had expressed their opinion that the fires which burned endlessly across the city were unnatural, kept alive by some magic force. Indeed, they had been burning since that terrible day years ago when the heir of Lordaeron had swept through the city, slaughtering every person, living or undead, that stood in his path. That day, Greyhaft mused, had changed the world forever.
He paused at the entrance to the Crimson Throne and peered through the doorway. Grand Crusader Dathrohan was on the far side of the wide room, kneeling before an ornate throne. Greyhaft waited for his leader to finish praying, and only stepped into the chamber when Dathrohan had risen from the floor. His footsteps turned the Grand Crusader around.
"Welcome back Greyhaft," Dathrohan said, seating himself on the throne. "I trust you met with success?"
"I did, milord. The thieves are willing to work with us."
A grim look crossed the Grand Crusader's visage, and for a brief moment a shadow seemed to darken his eyes.
"Perfect."

************************************

Part Two of the Two-Fer: A Contest!!!

Some days ago, I e-mailed people asking if anyone was any good at drawing. Well, now here's your chance to prove it. Below is a very rudimentary idea of what Nikolas' swords look like (he has two and wields one in each hand). If you are interested in a prize (small, but still a prize), then submit your artist's rendition of the sword pictures below and send it to me. Rules? There aren't really any. You can draw the sword by itself, you can draw it from multiple angles (an artistic ability that REALLY eludes me), or you can draw it in the hands of some daring warrior or something like that. What does the winner get? Well, their picture will be proudly displayed on this blog for the internet world to see. There will also be another prize, like a gift card or lunch or ice cream or something. I'll get to that later. So the contest officially starts now, and will end sometime in the future!

Details of the sword for consideration- the blade is intentionally black. The handle is wrapped in brown or dark grey leather (your choice), and the pommel is a gryphon's claw (like an eagle). Draw the guard as you like, whether straight like below or all curvy-cool. Up to you.

Now.......Draw!!!