The Battle of the Muse

   The last several weeks have been some of the most frustrating days of my life. As some of you may know, I reached the last chapter of my WIP and the ink in my pen dried up. No matter what I did, the words would not come. I took my notebook and pen with me everywhere I went and sat down with it in front of me day after day. The blank page just sat there mocking me and I could see my muse sitting in a corner, feet up and making faces.
   On Monday, I'd finally had enough and with pen in hand, I challenged my muse. The fight was on. It was like arguing with a two year old.
   "We need to write this last chapter," I would say. My muse would stick out his tongue and respond with, "I don't wanna."
   Finally I said, "Alright, how about if I start with a chapter number and title?"
   "Go ahead. Knock yourself out."
   Almost an hour later and a lot of back and forth, he said, "The least you could do is add an opening sentence."
   I had him! The ink started to flow again. Of course we had to argue over every sentence but soon I had at least 500 words on the page. It's now Wednesday and I'm almost finished.
   I hope I never have to go through this again. It had such a negative impact on my life and I'm sure it affected those around me also.
   To celebrate, here is the first scene of the last chapter. I will share the whole thing on Saturday.
   Thanks for reading.

He had read about the morning after glow, but Aldan never understood what that meant until now. It was as if, for this short period of time at least, all was right with the world. The doubts and concerns of yesterday were forgotten, and his insecurity a thing of the past. Maybe it was an after-effect of the magic he used last night to bind them together, but a golden mist covered them like a warm blanket. Unfortunately, the gravity of their situation filled his thoughts with a clarity he’d never experienced before.

He rolled up on one elbow to gaze with wonder at Odessa’s beauty and the realization that she returned his love. She surprised him by reaching up, entangling her fingers in his hair and urged his lips to meet hers in a passionate kiss. He sensed the smile behind her kiss and opened his eyes to dark green pools that threatened to drown him.

No words were needed as Odessa’s eyes mirrored the regret that he knew was in his own. There was no time. The King had made it clear that he intended to mount an attack on his old court mage as soon as possible. AS promised, a knock at their door signaled that the King was awake and expected them to break their fast with him shortly.

They rolled out of the old four post bed on opposite sides and turned to smile at each other, the bond between them still strong. Aldan washed and dressed quickly so he could help tie the straps holding Odessa’s leathers as she attempted to brush the tangles from her hair. With a look of regret for the warm, cozy nest they had to abandon, hand in hand, they approached the door. Aldan opened it just as a surprised young page raised his hand to knock. Caught off guard, he stared in amazement at Odessa in her armor before recovering and bowed low.

“Your Highness. The King sends his regards and awaits your pleasure in the dining room.”

“We would be honored to join him,” she replied. “Lead the way.”

King Rodger and a grizzled, uniformed old man stood as the pair entered, then resumed their seats after Aldan escorted the Princess to a chair next to the King. Aldan chose to sit across from the old veteran.

“Princess Odessa, Mage Aldan, may I present Regis Erikson who has commanded our guard since the time of my father’s reign. I took the liberty of inviting the Commander to join us in an attempt to save time.”

“Well met, Commander,” Odessa responded, raising her glass to him. “I only wish we were able to meet in better times than these.”

“Forgive me your Highness, for my boorish manner, but if we are to assemble and depart soon, I must eat and ask questions at the same time,” he said while cutting the food on his plate. Gesturing to Aldan with a piece of meat on the end of his knife, he asked a question before jamming the food in his mouth.

“The King tells me that you and a group of villagers defeated a nest of goblins. How is this possible? When the goblins first appeared, I sent out two patrols and both were destroyed to a man attempting to protect the residents of the city.”

“Commander, without a mage, the chances of killing a goblin are slim. They were conjured up for the sole purpose of killing men in the dark. Their only weakness is total blindness in bright light.”

It was Aldan’s turn to quickly fill his mouth with eggs and a slice of ham as the Commander thought over what he’d said.

“So as a mage, you were able to cast a bright light, blinding the beasts so the villagers could attack.”

Odessa spoke up to prevent Aldan from choking on his food. “Aldan sent a ball of light into their lair to drive them out. The sunlight blinded them. Even so, it was a close thing as their reach is greater than a man with a sword. Crossbows and long handled pikes are the best weapons to use against them. Even blinded, the goblins are extremely hard to take down.”

King Rodger, having finished his meal while listening to the others, leaned back in his chair and fixed his gaze on Aldan. “Mage Aldan, you do understand that Bartleon will stop at nothing to kill you. How will you fight him and the goblins together?”

Aldan continued to chew for a moment as he considered his answer. “I’m afraid it will be the task of your guardsmen to kill the beasts. They were designed to be resistant to the spells of a mage, so keeping them blinded and casting what protective shields I can, will be the extent of my abilities while confronting Bartleon.”

At the Commander’s look of resignation, Odessa attempted to reassure him. “Take heart, Regis. I am a Blood Mage and if you can enlist the services of several townspeople to carry the injured to me, I can heal them of anything short of a mortal wound. They may not be able to continue with the battle but should live to fight another day.”

Commander Regis rose from the table and bowed to the King and the Princess. “By your leave, I must go and begin preparations for departure. I believe I’ve heard enough here to implement our plans and brief the men.”

He headed for the door after a nod from the King, but stopped and turned back to the table. “Mage Aldan, regardless of the outcome of our impending battle, you have already achieved a great victory here. Your kind words and actions yesterday, while riding through the city, have lifted the spirits of the people. The confidence level, both in the castle and out, is higher than I’ve seen in a long time. For that, I will always be in your debt. Thank you.”

The click of the door closing behind him was the only sound to disturb the silence that settled over the room. Odessa reached out to take Aldan’s hand in hers and squeezed. Her eyes spoke volumes.

Rodger stared into the glass in his hand and softly spoke. “What he said is true. As much as I hate to admit it, the morale in this kingdom has declined from the day I took the throne. I swear to you both that after this is over, I will try and persuade my sister to return to her rightful place and rule as I have failed to do.”

Aldan tore his eyes away from the Princess and answered the King in kind, “Majesty, this I swear to you that whatever the cost to me, Mage Bartleon will not survive to trouble your kingdom.”

Dialogue to the Rescue

   Ever get stuck in a scene, not sure how to continue? Add in some dialogue and the scene will come to life. Worried that you're using too much telling and not enough showing? Use dialogue to describe the surroundings and/or the body language of the other characters. Visual media such as TV and movies rely heavily on the viewer's perception of body language and facial expressions to convey the mood of a scene. Obviously, that is not possible using the medium of words on paper.
  Don't fall into the trap of transferring your telling from the narrator to your character. The character can be just as good at telling as you are. How they react to a situation or another character can be shown through how they speak. This includes internal dialogue. Face it, we all talk to ourselves and our characters should be no different.
   All emotions are easily shown through dialogue. You don't have to tell us your character is angry, happy, sad or apprehensive. Their dialogue will let the reader know how they feel. It can also give us a clue as to what they are seeing in the body language of another person. You don't have to tell me that a character is an old grump when they say something like, "Great, another picture of a stupid kitten." Compare that to, "Oh look! I just love pictures of cut little kittens." The personalities of these two characters is shown quite clearly.
   I love to read and write character driven stories, so it stands to reason that character development through dialogue is important to me. Fortunately, dialogue is one of my few strong points and I like to think that makes my stories more enjoyable.
   Today's shared scene from my fan/fic is a snippet of conversation between Thom, Mat and Moraine after they rescued her from the Tower of Genji.
   Thanks for reading.




 

   “Matrim,” she asked. “When you went through the redstone arch in the Stone of Tear, what answers did they give you?”

   Mat got up and started pacing. “What bloody answers,” he protested. “Those flaming snake faced sons of goats didn’t answer any of my questions. All they gave me was a bunch of gibberish that didn’t make any sense at the time.”

   “Is it possible the interpreter misunderstood?”

   “What interpreter?”

   “Matrim, the Aelfinn and Eelfinn only speak in the Old Tongue,” she informed him.

   “I know,” he smiled significantly.

   “Interesting. So what did they say, exactly?”

   As Mat got a faraway look in his eye, he whispered, “You will die and live again; You will marry the Daughter of the Nine Moons; You will give up half the light of the world to save the world.”

   Tears welled up in Thom’s eyes and a lump the size of a juggling ball filled his throat as Moraine cried out.

   “Oh! Matrim. You knew, didn’t you! You knew before you came for me what you would lose, but you came anyway.”

   “A true hero of the ages,” Thom said softly.

   “None of that now, Thom,” Mat muttered. “I told you before, I’m no bloody hero. It needed to be done so we did it. Did you think I would let you and Jain have all the fun? Besides, Jain is the real hero. He gave up his life for us. Isn’t that what heroes are supposed to do?”

   “Sometimes Mat. Sometimes.”

Fear of Finishing

   Around age eleven, I became interested in electronics as my father was an Electrical Engineer and I was always fascinated by how things worked. After some basic instruction from my father, I soon began to repair the neighborhood TV's and radios. I never doubted my ability to fix anything that was brought to me. At thirteen, cars took over my world. I bought my first car with a blown engine for twenty five dollars, rebuilt it and sold it. Over the years, I have built hundreds of engines, transmissions and made money on the side by flipping cars. I picked them up, either wrecked or not running, fixed like new and re-sold. Never once did I lose confidence that when I was done, the finished product would fire up and run like a top.
   Three children, six grand children, two marriages to the same woman, a career in the Navy, retired shipyard worker, owner of a construction company and one aneurism later, I found myself at age sixty living in an old mobile home in a trailer park. Having lost everything and no longer able to do the things I was good at, I found my days reduced to sitting in a recliner reading books. At the rate of 2-3 books a week, new release fantasies could not keep up, so I would re-read the ones I had over and over.
   Frustrated with the lack of new fantasy titles available, I decided to write my own stories. Of course my children had to know what dad was doing, read some of what I'd written, and convinced me to take my writing seriously. After some minor success in a couple of writing contests and gaining the attention of a local independent publisher, I attempted to write a full length story. It's taken a long time but I'm ready to put the finishing touches on the story and write the last chapter.
   So what's the problem? The problem is that I have zero confidence in what I've written. Fear has dried up the ink in my pen. What if I put this all together, finish it and it doesn't start? Has this just been a total waste of time? I don't know if anyone else has ever felt this way, but it's a new experience for me and I'm not sure how to deal with it. I know some of you will tell me to suck it up and just write, but that is easier said than done.
   Maybe I'll surprise everyone, including myself, and have something new to share next week. In the meantime, here is another short scene from my fan/fic.
   Thanks for reading.




  

   As the men sat back down, Thom on his log behind her and Matrim on his stump, Moraine felt the weight of despair start to settle on her. From the look of the forest around them, the world had gotten much darker. Tall pines and leather leaf trees were completely brown without a hint of green on them. What looked like oak trees didn’t have a leaf on them. How long had she been held captive? Was Rand still sane? Would she be able to catch up quick enough to be able to help? So much had changed if what she saw in Matrim was any indication. It was obvious from the way Thom looked to him, that the young man was now the leader between them and had been for awhile. What could have happened to cause the role reversal between them?

   Alongside the pain that was still evident on Matrim’s face was also a much deeper pain of loss or memories of loss. Oh, he was still a trickster at heart and a defiant spirit, but there was something new. She would just have to figure it out. Yes, many things had changed, including her, but she felt she still had a part to play. Taking a deep breath, Moraine pushed aside the despair and smiled up at Thom.

   “Please tell me what has been happening. From the look and feel of the forest around us I can tell something is very wrong in the world.”

   After a quick glance at Mat, Thom tucked his knives back up his sleeves and snorted, knuckling the ends of his mustache. “Wrong?” he replied. “It would be easier to tell you what is still right in the world. But first I must ask you something, dear one. Do you have any idea how long you were held captive?”

   “No,” she answered. “I think time passes differently in their world. It could have been weeks but felt like years.”

   The compassion in Thom’s eyes as he looked down at her warned her that the time was longer than she imagined. As he hesitated, Moraine stiffened her resolve. “Thom, I need to know.”

   “It’s been over a year since you and Lanfear fell through the Portal Arch.”

   Her resolve and everything else in her mind disappeared as she struggled to breathe. A cold chill coursed the length of her body as she finally managed to take another breath. A year! How was that possible? When she looked at Matrim he gave her a slight nod to confirm Thom’s announcement and then grimaced as he looked away.

   “What?” she asked.

   After a moment of contemplation, Mat said with a sigh. “Bloody ashes, Moraine, everyone believes you are dead. How can they not? The Warder bond you had with Lan was broken and everyone knows that can only happen when one of you dies. I don’t know what kind of reception you will receive, especially from those crazed Aes Sedai. With the Amyrlin being deposed and stilled, the White Tower itself divided and Aes Sedai snarling and spitting at each other like tomcats, they’ll probably convince themselves that you are a creation of the Dark One.”

   When Thom saw the emotions vanish from Moraine’s face and the Aes Sedai mask slip into place, he knew he had better step in before Mat got himself into deeper trouble. “Lad, I think you better let me explain to Moraine what’s been going on first. Besides, I tell a better story than you do.”

   “I can tell a good story too,” Mat grumbled, “sometimes.”

   “Tell you what,” Thom said smiling. “I’ll tell Moraine what I can about Rand and Perrin and what has been happening in the world and you can regale her with tales of the indestructible, majestic, amazing and infamous Lord Mat Cauthon!”

   “Bloody old goat of a gleeman,” Mat snarled. “There’s no call to get nasty. I don’t care what you say, I’m no bloody lord.”

   As Thom snorted through his mustache and the corners of Moraine’s mouth twitched, Mat pulled the front of his black hat down to cover his missing eye. “Go ahead and tell your story, gleeman,” he said. “And I’ll make sure you don’t leave out any of the important stuff.”

Should You Hide Your Identity When Writing Different Genres?

   This post was inspired by a conversation I saw several days ago based on a female writer's negative experience after submitting her manuscript to a publisher. She re-submitted the same manuscript under a man's name and received a positive response. That got me to thinking about the reality of writing in several genres that might require the use of a different name in each genre.
   Even though I read primarily fantasy, over the years I've also enjoyed a number of stories in different genres. Honestly, I don't pay any attention to the name of the author, whether it's male or female, when deciding to read a book. I go by the cover and the blurb on the back. If the story is character driven and fairly well written, I'll remember the author's name and look for more titles written by them.
   I imagine if you are just dipping your toes into a genre and no one knows your name, it would be advantageous to follow perceived convention and use a name that best fits that genre. If I was to write a romance, for example, I'd probably use only my initial for a first name.
   However, if you are well known, or already have a number of people who follow you, why not use your real name regardless of the genre? If Robert Jordan had decided to write a romance, C.J. Cherryh a western, or Nora Roberts a fantasy, I wouldn't hesitate to read them because I'm familiar with and love their writing style. It would be fun to see what kind of a story they came up with.
   In keeping with today's theme, I am sharing a scene from a western story that I've been playing with, rather than another scene from my fan/fic.
   It's rough, but it's me. Thanks for reading.

Head bent low over his horse’s neck, Sonny was still pelted with dirt thrown up by his brother’s mount, and the flecks of sweat flung back in his face made it hard to see. He could barely make out the outcropping of rocks his brother headed for. Their old saddle broncs were no match for the ponies hot on their trail, and at this pace, wouldn’t live long if they didn’t stop soon. Of course, a sudden stop now could kill them anyway, but it couldn’t be helped.

The warbling cries of the war party rose above the pounding of the horse’s hooves. They were too close.

“Joshua!” he yelled several times until his brother glanced back. “We get hunkered down behind dem rocks, toss me your repeater an I’ll hold dem off whilst you load up da pistols.”

Joshua nodded in agreement, slowed down and angled to get behind the rocks. He was well aware of who was the best shot between them.

Sonny shook his head over the lack of cover the rocks provided, but it was better than nothing. Grabbing his own repeater, he swung down off the horse, caught the one Joshua threw at him before scrambling to a prone position behind the rocks. The first two Indians he dropped were easy targets since they were headed straight for him. Instead of backing off, the rest spread out to either side and continued to ride.

“They’s gonna surround us!” he called out.

“Afeared of dat,” his brother grumbled.

An Indian on the ground is easier to hit then an Indian on a horse, so Sonny began to target the ponies. Two more fell and didn’t get up before the others disappeared on the backside of the outcropping.

Sony laid down the repeater, pulled his knife, and took back his revolver from Joshua who had re-loaded both pistols. The brothers knew that the next few moments would determine whether they lived or died.

“How many, ya figure?” Joshua whispered.

“I reckon four, maybe five. Jus keep yer eyes peeled on dem rocks above us”, Sonny answered.

Two shots rang out from Joshua’s Colt at the same time that two knife wielding savages sprang from the rocks on either side. Sonny quickly dropped his pistol and grabbed his opponent’s wrist holding the knife. The warrior’s momentum carried him over Sonny and dragged them both to the ground just as the bodies from above landed. One struck between them and knocked their knives loose.

Sonny scrambled backward, his left hand falling on the dropped pistol, and was able to bring it up in time to catch his attacker in the chest. Transferring the gun to his right, he took careful aim at the Indian who was inches away from driving his knife into Joshua’s throat, and shot him in the head.

Collapsing on his back, Sonny stared in horror as the last Indian stood up on top of the rocks and released an arrow down at his brother before the slug from his pistol knocked the savage backwards and out of sight.

He crawled over to his brother, quickly untying the bandanna around his neck. The arrow was embedded in Joshua’s right thigh, so the first thing he needed to do was stop the flow of blood.

Joshua tried to smile around the pain.

“Who learnt you how ta reckon?” he forced out between gritted teeth before passing out.

Does Genre Dictate the Level of Description?

   I've been reading books for almost sixty years now, starting with the typical dog and horse stories for children, then graduating into historical , science fiction and finally, fantasy. The one thing I've noticed after thousands of books, is that the amount of description varies depending on the genre. This makes complete sense if you think about it.
   For me, the more words in a book the better. This is one of the reasons I love fantasy and science fiction. A true fantasy is based on a world totally different than our own with creatures and landscapes never seen before. I'm a visual reader, so the more description provided, the better the picture that forms in my mind as I'm reading. The same applies to stories based on space travel. I've never experienced space or the feeling of approaching a new planet for the first time. Fill me up with the sights, sounds and smells so that I can experience it.
   On the flip side, if I'm reading a mystery, thriller or romance set in our present day world, very little description is needed. If I haven't actually visited a place on this earth, I've probably seen enough TV shows or movies to form a pretty good image without a lot of description. Just let me know the story is based in New York, Southern California or the Great Plains and not much more is needed.
   Don't get me wrong, I am not a fan of info dumps. Character driven stories are what I like best, but keep filtering in little tidbits of description throughout the narrative to help me form a complete mental picture.
   There is not a lot of description in the following scene from my fanfic because, let's face it, after thirteen books, the reader should have a pretty vivid image of the world. There is just enough description to highlight things that have changed and to place the reader in a specific place.
   Thanks for reading!

Now that Alanna knew when Lan was planning his attack, she needed to hurry and inspect the borders of Kandor and Arafel before returning to Rand. Having spent the last couple of nights inside the wagon, she knew it well enough to open a gate to a small stand of trees about a league west of Chachin, the capitol city of Kandor. The skies here were darker here than anywhere else she had been. The underbrush showed no signs of life and the trees were dry, bare skeletons, their branches hanging limp. Littering the ground were the bones of small animals who had called this spot their home. As she hurried away from the death and decay, she couldn’t stop brushing her hands against her skirt in a vain attempt to wipe away the evil she felt.

The time for secrecy was past so she removed the weaves that hid her features and her ability to channel. Alanna knew that there were Aes Sedai with the army camped around the Capitol and they would be the best source of information.

She strode, unchallenged, through the rings of sentries surrounding the camp and after receiving directions from a young officer, approached a large isolated tent. A privacy weave had not been raised since she could hear voices from inside the tent which meant she wouldn’t be interrupting. In a normal voice she announced, “Alanna Mosvani of the Green Ajah. May I enter and speak with you?”

A moment of silence from within, then the tent flap was thrust aside revealing a tall, fiery haired woman with a boyish figure, a multitude of freckles and wearing a dark green dress.

“Alanna!” she exclaimed with a smile lighting up her face. “It really is you. Light be praised! It’s wonderful to see you again. Please come in. We have been in the dark for so long, hopefully you can separate truth from rumor for us.”

Alanna relaxed and returned her smile, “Candance, what a relief to find a friendly face. I will tell you what I can but my time is short. I was sent to assess your situation and report back quickly.”

Entering the tent she scanned the faces of the women gathered inside. It appeared that every Ajah was represented by at least one woman. Graciously accepting a chair and a cup of tea handed to her by a young Yellow, Alanna relaxed even further as she recognized every Sister there and none were on the list of suspected Black Ajah that the Amyrlin had been circulating.

“To avoid wasting your time and mine by asking me questions I might not have answers to, I will tell you what I know to be truth. The White Tower is whole again and Egwene al’Vere was properly raised as Amyrlin. She chose Silviana Brehon of the Red Ajah to be her Keeper of the Chronicles. Let me assure you, Egwene may be the youngest Amyrlin the Tower has ever had but she is no one’s puppet. She has already defeated one of the Forsaken in a direct confrontation and managed to un-mask the Black Ajah. I will see that the list of known Black Sisters is sent to you. Also, Rand al’Thor, along with Nynaeve Sedai, cleansed the male half of the Source which means we no longer need to fear men who can channel. The Dragon has gathered all the armies of the south and plans to send them to the areas of the Borderlands which are in greatest need. Possibly as early as tomorrow he plans on traveling directly to Shayol Ghul , break the remaining seals and confront the Dark One.”

 Alanna paused to take a sip of her tea and wait for the Sisters to absorb what she had just told them. She knew they would have questions even though she had asked for none.

Candance glanced at the other Aes Sedai, stood up brushing her skirt and then cleared her throat. “Alanna, my old friend, we are here because we disagreed with the Tower’s intention to guide and control al’Thor. The Prophesies are clear. The Dragon must be free to fight this battle in the way he decides. We believe that the Aes Sedai will only play a supporting role in the upcoming battle. So, how can we assist you in accomplishing your mission?”

Alanna saw nothing but determination in the faces of the women around her and a real desire to help.

“I have heard that some of the Watch Towers north of here have gone silent. Do you have any estimate of the number of Trollocs moving south or when they might attack the Capitol?”

A few of the women lowered their heads while several raised tea cups to pursed lips, but none would look her in the eye. A moment passed in awkward silence as Candance sat down, then answered Alanna in a quiet voice.

“Heath Tower, which is about halfway to the Blight, was the last tower to be heard from and they went silent last night. None of the other towers have reported in days. We’ve opened small gates by several of the towers to send out scouts but none have returned. We could see Heath Tower in the distance and it had a column of smoke rising from the top. The other towers appear dark and deserted.”

Alanna surged up out of her chair, threw her cup to the floor and glared at every one of her fellow sisters. “Why has no one traveled to Heath Tower to bring men and supplies or at least check for survivors? How can you sit here and do nothing when you know that men could still be alive out there?”

“Alanna Mosvani,” Candance fired back. “Do you think we would just sit here if we could do something for those men? I am the only one of us strong enough to open a gate and then it’s only large enough for one person. The Queen decided it would be a waste of lives to try and send men through one at a time.”

Scorn dripped from her voice as Alanna surveyed the room. “Have I discovered a tent full of Novices? Since when do Aes Sedai listen to the whims of a Queen. Bloody ashes, Candance. There are enough of you to link and form a full circle which would enable you to open a gate large enough for a full squad of men to pass through.”

Earlier she had felt Rand move to a spot not far to the south which meant that he was at the Fields of Melinor and would need her report before meeting with the rulers gathered there. She was running out of time.

“Candance, I don’t have the time to sit here long enough to learn this spot so you will open a gate for me as close to Heath Tower as you are able. I will do what needs to be done from there. Set up two poles on the west side of your tent and I will use them when I return.”

Since Alanna was stronger in the Power than anyone else present, Candance had no choice but to obey. A small gate opened in the center of the tent and Alanna strode through into an area of desolation with signs of the Blight already beginning to show. Heath Tower sat on a slight rise just to the north of her with a faint wisp of smoke rising from the top but no flames that she could see.

Before the gate had closed behind her, she began the weave to travel to the top of the tower. At the faint rustle of dried grass she started to spin around but froze as the blinding pain of two, cold steel spear points burned their way into the small of her back. As she collapsed, the last thought before darkness over-took her was, ‘I have failed him’.

 

Add a Little Humor

   I have always enjoyed reading stories with a little humor mixed in. Too much drama and eventually I feel mired in the emotion and the story becomes depressing. Too much tension and I feel I can never take a breath or I might miss something.
   Injecting humor, especially after an emotional or intense scene, gives the reader a chance to catch their breath and lift their mood before continuing on to the next scene.
  Humor also adds dimension to your characters, who without it, become boring and predictable. A protagonist who can poke a little fun at himself or others, becomes a character I can identify with. The antagonist who can crack a joke in the middle of his evil plans, is more interesting.
   In this week's scene from my FanFic, Perrin and Faile are winding down from a fierce argument when Perrin invites his friend Gaul into the tent.
   Thanks for reading, and as always, this just reflects my opinions on writing.


                                                                *          *          *

   With a deep sigh, Perrin put his arms around her and held her tight. In a quiet voice he began to share his painful thoughts.

   “From the moment Rand, Mat and I left the Two Rivers, the Shadow has been trying to kill us or break us. The Pattern has been using that to shape us and make us stronger. I can barely face the pain of losing my entire family, many of my friends and the terror I felt both times I thought I might lose you. I know you don’t like Mat because you think he is disrespectful and a scoundrel, but remember I can smell emotions. What I sensed from Mat was stronger and more confusing than anything I’ve ever sensed before. Not only was the pain of loss so powerful, but it felt ancient, which doesn’t make any sense. It was as if there were a hundred different men in front of me, all feeling the same intense sorrow. I think his flippant attitude is his way of dealing with so much pain.”

   “Never forget, Faile,” he continued. “Mat and I have an important role to play, but only Rand has the power and the knowledge to face the Dark One. If the Pattern has been using pain and sorrow to mold Mat and I into what is needed for the Last Battle, I do not want to even try and imagine what Rand has been subjected to.”

   A change in Faile’s scent made him look down into her dark eyes. The love and compassion he saw there was at complete odds with the anger and fear that was rolling off of her in waves. How do women manage to do that? Her scent was so prickly he wanted to touch his nose to make sure there was no blood.

   “Light woman,” he growled. “Did you think this was a contest between the three of us to see who would become the most powerful? Mat and I are here to support Rand in any way possible. I will do whatever is necessary to help Rand in the upcoming battle. If that means sacrificing my life or the lives of those with me, then so be it.”

   Taking a step back while still gripping his arms as hard as she could, the fire flared back up in her eyes as she gazed up at him. “So be it, Husband,” she said quietly. “You do whatever it is you feel you have to do and I will do whatever I have to do to make sure you live through it.”

   As the fire in her eyes changed to that which made Perrin’s blood warm, she purred, “How else are we to present grandchildren to my mother? How many did she say she wanted? Six, wasn’t it. You certainly don’t want to disappoint my mother now do you?”

   Perrin had to turn away to hide the smile that formed on his face. If he didn’t put a stop to this pretty soon, Faile would start talking about feeling as forward as a girl at harvest time and they would never get out of the tent in time.

   “You can come in now, Gaul. It’s as safe in here now as it will ever be.”

   As Gaul parted the flaps and entered the tent, a sniff from Faile told Perrin, without looking, that she knew what he had been thinking and wasn’t amused.

   “May you always find water and shade, Perrin Aybara.”

   “May you always find water and shade, Gaul. Is everyone ready?”

   “All are gathered and waiting outside, even the Wise Ones,” Gaul answered.

   Something in the way Gaul spoke of the Wise Ones made Perrin pause and look at his friend.

   “What?”

   “As you know, Perrin Aybara, the Aiel as a people consider themselves to all be equal. With the exception of the Clan Chiefs, Roof Mistresses, and Wise Ones, all Aiel treat each other with the respect and honor they expect from others. The Wetlander concept of Kings, Queens, or Lords and Ladies who feel they are entitled to respect only because of who their parents are, makes no sense. However, there is one among all the Aiel who is given more respect than any other. It is whispered that when Sorilea, Wise One of Shande Hold, walks the Three Fold Land, even the fierce Sand Lions bow their heads and leave her unmolested. My father once told me that as a small boy, he remembers Sorilea coming to meet with the Wise Ones of his Hold and she looked the same then as she does now. A wise man would do well to walk softly and treat that one with all the respect he possesses.”

   Pausing to see if his words had any effect on Perrin, he continued. “She is waiting outside to meet you.”

   Perrin shrugged his shoulders. “I will treat her with as much respect as I’ve given the other Wise Ones.”

   “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Gaul muttered.

I Love Emotion in Stories

   As promised, I'm sharing another scene from my fan/fic. I may have already shared this at one time, but that's okay, I love this scene and the emotions in it. Hope you enjoy it also.
   For those of you who might be interested, I'm finishing up the last chapters of my novella, "The Path of Exile' and should have it ready for beta readers in a couple of weeks. I'm not entirely happy with the title, so you might see a change there. I've made some progress on my epic fantasy, "The Eyes of the Deluti" and will get back to it full time once the novella is done, so expect some new chapters on Saturdayscenes soon.
   Thanks for reading.

Her thoughts soon turned sour again. Blasted mood swings! She would find a way to make bloody Rand al’Thor pay for the difficulties she’d been experiencing because of her pregnancy. It wasn’t totally his fault but she would make him pay regardless. It was also entirely possible that her mood was being influenced by the pain and despair seeping through the bond from Birgitte. Something was eating at the soul of her friend and Elayne cared too much not to try and help.

“Bloody ashes Birgitte! Will you please sit down and talk to me. I haven’t been able to get more than a few words out of you all day. I can feel the conflict inside of you and it will destroy us both if we can’t find a resolution.”

Birgitte snorted as the faraway look fled from her eyes. “Such language from a Queen. You’ve been spending entirely too much time around soldiers Elayne.” Then in a quiet voice she continued, “Especially a soldier like me.”

Elayne said nothing. The look she gave Birgitte spoke volumes as she pointed to a chair opposite hers. She had assumed the mantle of Queen now and would brook no more nonsense.

“You will not like what I have to say Elayne,” Birgitte murmured.

“I don’t like seeing my dearest friend suffer like this either, so I will just have to find a way to deal with it,” Elayne replied.

She waited patiently as Birgitte struggled with what she needed to say. A flicker of fear began to dance around in the back of Elayne’s mind as the suspicion of what her Warder wanted flared to life.

“You want me to release you from the Warder bond,” she whispered. “Why?”

Taking a ragged breath, Birgitte slowly walked over and sat in the chair facing Elayne. Hands tightly clenched in her lap, she looked up and saw her tears reflected in the eyes of her beloved friend.

“In all of my previous lives, I have never had a sister. You have shown me what I never knew I’d been missing. You have given me a precious gift Elayne. Not only by saving my life but also the gift of the love for a sister. You will always have a special place in my heart.”

“I don’t understand,” Elayne cried softly. “I need you now more than ever. Please don’t ask me to do this.”

“I must.”

Springing up out of the chair, Birgitte began pacing back and forth. She had never been comfortable sitting while trying to marshal her thoughts.

“Do you understand what I am Elayne?”

“Of course. You are Birgitte Silverbow, heroine of the Ages. She who never misses what she aims at.”

“No Elayne. That is who I was and as long as I’m your Warder that is all I’ll ever be. But that is beside the point. What I am is a hero tied to the Horn of Valere. I must be available to answer the call when Mat blows the Horn at the Last Battle.”

Unable to hold back her tears, Elayne struggled to control her voice. “What are you saying Birgitte? Do you want to die?”

“No one wants to die,” Birgitte murmured as past memories of death rose up to haunt her. “But I am afraid. I shouldn’t be here Elayne. Moghedien ripped my soul out of the World of Dreams and thrust me into the world of the living. Her intention was to see me die the final death and I would have if you hadn’t bonded me, giving me a link to this world. I have felt the Pattern twisting itself around trying to fit me in.”

Stopping at the side table where one of the servants had thoughtfully left a pitcher of wine and a pitcher of goat’s milk, she poured herself a cup of wine and after a moment of indecision, poured another one for Elayne. The Queen wasn’t supposed to have anything other than goat’s milk during her pregnancy but Birgitte felt they both needed something stronger.

Returning to her chair, she handed the cup of wine to Elayne and at her questioning look Birgitte smiled, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Why now?” Elayne asked.

“It seems that one of the requirements for being a Hero of the Horn is sensitivity to the needs of the Pattern. Maybe that is why so many of us are born over and over, each time accomplishing something important. Gaidal and I have lived more lives than any other because we are the most sensitive to the Pattern. Yesterday I became aware of what the Pattern requires of me. Somehow I am now tied to Mat. If I am not with him he might die and the Last Battle will be lost before it ever begins.”

“Birgitte, I know that Mat blew the Horn of Valere and he seems to have a certain flair for fighting but Rand is the one who is destined to battle the Dark One and save the world.”

Birgitte leaned forward and gripped Elayne’s knee, her braid of golden hair falling from her shoulder. “Think Elayne. Even if that too handsome man of yours manages to seal the Dark One back up in his prison, what then? Will the hundreds of thousands of Trollocs just roll over and die? Will the Seanchen shake their heads, disappointed that they missed the Last Battle, climb back onto their boats and head for home?”

“Of course not. We have one of the largest armies ever assembled along with the greatest military minds of this age. We will deal with the Trollocs first and then push the Seanchen back on their ships whether they want to go or not.”

Bounding out of her chair, Birgitte resumed her pacing. How to make Elayne understand? Her need to find Mat had become almost painful. It was like an itch she couldn’t scratch. The worst part was she knew she couldn’t do anything until he returned from his insane quest into the Tower of Ghenjei. That would have to stay a secret for now but maybe he would forgive her for revealing just one of his many secrets.

Her eyes glazed over as she remembered the desperate, blood soaked battles many generations in the past. “I fought and died several times during the Trolloc Wars Elayne. It took many lifetimes before they were finally defeated. Your armies are impressive but from the number of Trollocs rumored to be massing at the border, they will roll over your armies like a storm flattens a field of young wheat. Your armies are too fragmented with different loyalties and agendas. You must have one Marshal-General in command of all the armies to have a chance. Who will you choose? Toward the end of the war when all looked lost, one man stepped forward. He rallied the nations together and fought with cunning and a certain amount of luck until they finally drove the Trollocs back across the border.”

Coming to a stop in front of Elayne, her body quivering with emotion, their eyes locked.

“That man was Mat.”