amusing bit

The library was full of books unpublished in Peterny, detailing the histories of Britaca’s tributaries, the Ten Castles – eight, since Peterny had taken over Plock and Worster within two years of their creation. Matthard tried to read them, but too many of the books were on people killing one another, horrible betrayals, complicated politics, and he gave up after the third beheading, deciding that Plock and Worster had been lucky to be invaded while there was still hope for their civilians. Landria had started off with a good king in Macleese and so had some of the other Castles, but most were ruled by corrupt or insane officials.
Treburn fared worst, with a king who had decided to marry a duck and appoint a family of swans as his chief executioner, treasurer, and royal advisors. Britaca had wisely avoided confronting him, probably because their last messenger had returned covered in beak bites.
That, unfortunately, had been the most entertaining part of the book Matthard had tried to read. Everything after that was beheadings and Matthard had trouble enjoying those. He tried talking to Ire, but the younger man was deeply involved in his reading, surfacing only when Matthard asked where the privy bucket was, or if they could yell at the peasants in line from here. He ignored all questions about the election and Matthard decided that was a telling ignorance.
“If I win, what will you do?” he asked. In the past hour, he had adopted the phrase ‘if I win,’ though he didn’t particularly want to think about what would happen if he did.
“Oh, clap, I suppose,” Ire said distantly, turning a page.
“Any special services? Ceremonies?”
“I suspect we’ll elect you with a funny circular hat and people will swear their swords and services and codpieces at you.”
“I think that’s for kings.”
“Is it? I’ve never known the difference.” Another page turn. Ire was a suspiciously fast reader.

Beaches

Late one night, Matthard lay awake in the darkness of the palace. Selah slept near to him, unaware, and he didn't really want to wake her, but the air was so cold.
"Selah?"
She groaned quietly, as she did whenever he spoke her name into the darkness, but she responded and that was something. It had always been something and something had been enough.
"Have you ever been to the sea?" he asked. Now the groan had something of weariness to it.
"No. No, I haven't."
"Could we arrange a trip there?"
"Why, love? Why do we need to go to the sea?"
"Because I went there once. There were seagulls and salt in the air and you could watch ships sailing past without having to worry about unloading them or getting the shipment on time. Habbard has a nice port but even farther north, like the Meridian Straits. They have wonderful beaches."
"Maybe. For now, sleep."
He let her turn over, watching the curve of her shoulder and when he was certain she was almost asleep again, he brushed it with his fingers.
"Can we go in the morning?"

Write or Die goal

AHAHAAAAAAA!
Now I should edit it.

Today's goal - hit at 1941

HA!
I hit my goal and a single-spaced page beyond.
And wow, working on paper, then retyping, works well for me. I've got some awesome details that work well.
I'm like... excited. It's not amazing all the time, but 1,700 is a good daily WC and by the time I slog to 1,700, I'm warmed up, getting in there. Writing.
I just wish I could do it a little faster. =)
I still think Matthard should GIVE Selah the amulet at some point. Here's the snippet I put on AA's LJ.
It's got errors I'm sure. But I want to believe in this story. I think it has the most solid plot since... well, Painting the Match Girl. And I like Ire's pride, Matthard's attempts, and Selah being just... enigmatic. I don't know her well yet. I have to believe in it, even with the skill of the things I read. It may not be the best, but it teaches me and that's all I can do.

By the time Matthard had made it to the meeting place, the lights had gone and so had Ire. It wasn’t until the next morning that he met with the younger man, over breakfast as it turned out.

“Now that you’ve set lateness as a precedent, I can indulge in all my vices,” Ire said, gesturing at the laden breakfast table. Though Matthard had learned Landrians ate small breakfasts and made up for it in various snacks throughout the day, the table was stacked with porridge, eggs, flaked bread, and a jam Matthard couldn’t identify but smelled regal. Was Ire’s vice gluttony? Matthard wondered as he picked up one of the two plates. But no, the younger man was just waiting for him, hands free of plate and food.

“Fill your plate and follow me. We work and eat.”

“You aren’t eating?”

“I might take some from your plate later. Move, we don’t have much time.”

Matthard obediently began loading his place, though he had the unsettling feeling that he was being watched. When he chanced a glance upwards, he saw the cook—it had to be the cook, normal people didn’t have eyes like that—glaring at him from the doorway.

“You make sure he eats,” she said sourly. “I made enough for two.”

“Thank you,” Matthard said, mentally disagreeing. She had made enough for five and Ire had chosen today to be picky. He stocked his plate with enough food that it would be like eating at home only not, as it would seem, at a table. They left the dining room and headed to a branch of the hall Matthard had assumed led only to the gazebo in the courtyard.

Ire unlocked one of the doors and lifted the heavy wooden bolt, setting it to one side. He then took an unlit torch from a holster in the wall.

“It will get dark once we’re inside,” he warned. “Don’t trip.”

It was pleasant of Ire to warn him, Matthard decided as they entered and Ire shut the door. It was, as advertised, dark and the younger man brushed past him.

“I don’t want egg running down the back of my neck when you fall,” he muttered.

“You don’t have many friends, do you.”

“Vivi and I are friends,” Ire said simply and lit the torch. There were no haunted stairs leading down into a hellish dungeon, which all the castles in stories seemed to have. The torchlight flickered against a barren stone corridor with a dirt floor. It was undecorated except for unlit torches holstered in the wall, their number continuing down into the darkness of the end of the hall, where Ire’s torch didn’t reach.

“There are windows and vents, so don’t worry about the smoke,” Ire said, starting down the corridor.

“Glad you thought of that.”

“Are you angry with me?” The younger man asked, sounding bemused. “I made you breakfast and everything.”

“After I asked you to a meeting and didn’t show up.”

“Perhaps I had that coming,” Ire said, lifting the torch higher to navigate a series of turns in the route. Matthard wished he hadn’t— now he could see the webs of spiders that could eat a mouse.

the goal today

Goal for today?
Get to the beginning of the Ire scene. I really like that transition.
But I get to do Selah/Matthard cuteness. SO I WILL GET ON THE BALL.

Here's what I have so far, and will probably edit as I write:

It had been hours since anyone had seen Matthard, so Selah went to search for him in the darkness of the city, armed with a knife that could, with the right amount of sawing and grating, cut meat. It gleamed in the moonlight though, and that was all it needed to do.

But Matthard wasn’t at the hospital, the first place she checked. He wasn’t lost in the marketplace and he wasn’t at the latrine ditch. She paused, upwind of the ditch, and looked hopelessly at the broad fields of grass that were waving their bright heads in the moonlight.

It felt like she was standing on the moon itself, alone and suspended with a space of silence hanging around her.

“Selah?” asked the field, as if it weren’t quite sure. She fumbled the knife into position, dropped it, and the blade dropped shining into the dark earth.

“Matthard?” she asked, belatedly recognizing the voice. A head poked up from above the field like a dwarf coming up from the mines, gold-eyed. Matthard looked so excited she struggled not to laugh. That would only encourage him.

She could see the signs of his travel now, the line of bent grass and moved stalks that led to where he sat, body cloaked by the yellowed grass.

I smell food. Should make food.

Applied to jobs at General Physics and Amazon. Yay. That food smell is really strong.

hm

Write.
Write write write and drabble about it. Later.
Howl and Ire and Michael and Tern would get along. Maybe.
I can feel my style shifting and that's semi-annoying and semi-pleasant, since I know it gets better when I do...

phoo

Now-now I just want to share the story.
Damn.