It is an odd thing for a lot of us tinkering writers, where midnight moments form the best timing. Timing for what? The timing concerns writing and their odd inspirations. I am not sure why the witching hour seems to prominent in these moments of expression. Perhaps it has to do with the complete stillness of the rest of the house, the right lack of energy or the complete data dump of the day's activites turning into experienced memories which then flop through the mental filters that churn the inspiration machine.
I know not.
That aside there is some good news.
Character descriptions have become clearer and more formalized. The first chapter is finally up on the Ernest Blog. Right now readers are most likely feeling a bit like they're being dragged by a hand covered in fishing hooks. If they weren't turned away by the first filter - ahem - I mean the prologue, then they will be getting some nice experience and just a drop of action suspense with the first chapter.
For those starving in anticipation for setting details and just some form of grounding as to what in the world am I devoting my time to here, fear not. We're getting there. Actually working around getting to it shortly. Chapter two should have what you're looking for.
I do hope readers will enjoy the conversations between the characters as they go. The fun is always in those little conversations where the person does something utterly unexpected. Without those moments, life would be boring and there wouldn't be any adventure.
It is Christmas TIME you know. Some moment of holiday cheer should be written in Ink I imagine... Well since there's little here except for figurative ink and paper I believe the least I can do is give a bit of a show... So here we go. A Holiday Time gift.
- * -
"What's this Love, a gift? For me?"
"Oh it's just a little something."
He took the package gently in his gauntlet covered grasp. Ever so carefully he drew his finger across the wrapping, slicing through the thin protection to get at the box beneath. Deft fingers peeled away the lid to allow their owner to gasp in pleasure.
"Oh you shouldn't have Love, what a magnificent pen."
He lifted the instrument from its velvet bed. Gilded in bronze engravings the pen glowed in the afternoon light. Pale snowflakes melted on its metal surface. The water trickled into the surface, revealing the nymphs in relief.
Standing up from the tea table, Pensmith spun the instrument then flicked. At once ink spurted out at his command - whorls decorating the air. A figure eight. A representation of of liberty in imagery. A flock of ravens. He called the ink back and sat down while she clapped at the show.
"Thank you again love, though I feel now compelled to give something in return."
"Oh you know the tea and company are all I need," she replied in that expectant sort of way recent gift givers speak.
"Well I do have some news to share."
The witch's lips perked just enough for Pensmith to see that he had her attention.
"And that news involves Lanval."
"Oh that other Handsome Knight?"
She was already gone in the eyes.
"Yes yes, the barber. He recently got into it with another Gentleman. Who? Who indeed... I think it was Hoover. Yes the one with the handlebar mustache. Did they fight? Hahaha OF COURSE they did. This is what happened..."
- * -
On the wind swept precipice of the dark cliff, Lanval the guy who everyone mistakes for a girl, stood watch at the approaching army of darkness. It was late in the day, the sun was going to lose as always. Pushing back a lock of hair, Lanval turned to one of his journeying companions. He long accepted the fact that what he considers a week ago [it is so hard to keep track of time here], he was just a simple barber. A barber in just your average superstructure city on a planet far away from Earth and its descendants. He was enjoying his simple life of styling people's hair after his favorite characters, taking no part in the latest excuse the nation used to get into war with their old rivals. They were always looking for a reason to take out those world-ender robots. Anyways. Barber. Science fiction boy's dream city. Somewhere far away from Earth though sadly still in the same galaxy. Simple life. No longer simple as he was dragged into a life of adventuring.
One of his clients was running away from Agents. That was interesting enough. Ever since Agents began to work for the Publisher Nobles and their Houses instead of Writers, anyone running away from them had to either be very gifted or desperate to leave. It seemed his client was both.
"It was a good thing I sharpened my scissors that day..."
"Did you say something Lass? It's my turn to stand watch."
"I'm a man Noodle-Maker. How many times do I have to remind you?"
"Sorry, from behind you really do look like a woman. And call me Chef. Please. Noodle-Maker is such a hassle. It's not like we're back home."
Lanval bowed in apology and gave Chef some room to watch the sunset.
"I was just thinking about the day our lives were changed."
"You mean when we were dragged from complacent existence, grabbed by the throat by this cute girl with a cellphone calling herself Fate, and then thrown into a bubbling pit of water to drown ourselves into a new and fascinating world far away which only now leaves us stranded in a forest filled with hostile monsters from children stories warped by dark gods and with only Hoover as our guide? Not to mention the fact that I swear one of our number is a cannibal which leaves us with one less party member... Ever since that pasty looking guy, Phil got eaten."
"I still think that it was a wild beast. The guy was practically covered in pastry dough. He was a pastry chef after all. And no I was referring to just that first day. Not the week that followed, but thank you for the abstract recap."
They watched as the cold air clawed the warmth from their breaths, turning it into fog. The Sun was throwing its last rays of light into the sky.
"Have you seen the girl since?" Chef asked. He pulled out a sammich, but Lanval politely refused.
"You mean Fate? Or the watery looking girl."
"Yeah the second one."
"No. I haven't seen her since we all gathered together at the water pool. She was in tears about not having that sword we were told to pick up. Something about going ahead of time to check and make sure the place was clear... She was afraid about monsters being there so she swung the blade through the water's surface. Some young guy with metal around his head grabbed the sword, said thanks, and rowed away. Proclaiming her to be the Lady of the Lake or something. Some old guy on the shore hurried the guy along and they ran for it despite her cries for them to stop."
"For some reason I think I should've heard this one somewhere."
"Like in a fairy tale?"
"Yeah."
They could smell burning from the campfire.
"That isn't wood." Lanval remarked after a whiff.
"No. That's dinner. I'll go see what they're doing to it."
This time an older gentleman took Chef's place at the cliff. He was covered from head to foot in armor that glowed despite the dying light. His handlebar mustache was magnificent. Even if there was a possibility - however remote - that a single hair was out of place, his wax covered fingers would keep things in line. Lanval wondered how any of the hair is still there with twisting and tugging.
"I have come to ask you a question, Sir Lanval. IF you are Indeed a SIR at all."
"Go ahead Hoover."
"Why must your armor look so Feminine. It's so distracting."
"Why must your armor look like an Old Geezer with a handle bar mustache."
"DO NOT INSULT THE 'STACHE THIS IS TRADITIONAL MANLINESS!"
"BRING IT ON! LET US DRAW BLADES AND ENTER INTO GLORIOUS COMBAT!"
"Why must your armor look like an Old Geezer with a handle bar mustache."
"DO NOT INSULT THE 'STACHE THIS IS TRADITIONAL MANLINESS!"
"BRING IT ON! LET US DRAW BLADES AND ENTER INTO GLORIOUS COMBAT!"
Let's rewind things for a second here. Hoover, being a local in this realm of fantasy, has notions. Those notions include forms of manliness which are taken very seriously in these parts. They are not limited to, but include muscles in armor, flexing your real muscles underneath, and having exquisite mustaches. Lanval is none of these. In fact his normal clothing was shredded and all they had were a mass of enemy belts with which to make some form of clothing with. That was how they originally figured out that they were in a fantasy realm in the first place. There were a lot of belts. Lots of buckles. No dragons yet spotted.
Lanval has always suffered from a rather womanly appearance. Fair skin. Angular face. Long thick hair. Lightly toned, lithe body. Fine hands. With only belts to work with till they got to the first armor smith, the poor barber suffered spoiling hot afternoons and freezing evenings. The armor smith thinking that Lanval was a scantily clad female adventurer in the party, produced armor to match that image. After being beat up by Lanval, twice, he remedied the original [hardly anything] armor and came out with what Lanval is wearing now. A perfect example of fantasy influenced full-plate. Complete with chainmail skirt at the hips to protect those internal joints, a fancy tabard that tails between the legs, flutes to add to a winged image that goes with his wing accented helm - and of course a heavily armored bust area. And hips. The spitting image of -
Well. You get the idea.
Now where were we...
"..Let us enter into GLORIOUS COMBAT!"
"It is good to hear you pick up our culture so quickly! TO ARMS VILLAIN!"
Hoover pulled out his long sword while Lanval pulled out a rather large block of metal that looked like two bars folded over each other.
"Hah! Do you not even have a sword to-"
He swung one end with a flick, causing one metal bar to swing out and pull out blades that were hidden within. After a nice click the device revealed itself in the shape of a large pair of scissors. They were more like tree shears.
Snip Snip Snip.
Hoover's sword was sheared into three shorter bits. The screams soon began.
"You devil!"
Snip.
"You demon!"
Snip.
"I take it back, you're a man, just stop cutting into my armor-"
Snip.
"M-M-My.. 'Stache .. Uaah.."
WINNER
K.O.
The rest of the party gathered just as Hoover fainted. In his hand were several strands. All that remained of his precious manhood in facial hair form.
"Oh now you've done it Barber."
"Lanval. Dinner's burned and now... Is our only Guide dead?"
"No Chef, he's just experiencing some culture shock."
A party member covered in smoke and coughing came up to the remains of Hoover. Prodding the ruined armor with a charred stick he grinned.
"So we still have anything to eat?"
Chef frowned and snapped the stick away.
"No Butcher. Nothing except nightmare juice and howling screams of man eating creatures."
- * -
"I'm sorry my Love, that is all I have at the moment. I will be stopping by that war torn world next to do some story trading. Yes the one with the airships and romantic steam engines. I'll get more for you on Lanval later. Hoover is fine. They haven't eaten that sardine yet."
Pensmith brushed off the snow from the glass tea table and looked at the sky through the pine tree's branches.
"Yes it will be time to get to work soon. Safe journey to you. Oh."
He took a sip of the hot chocolate.
"And say hello to Jack for me. Merry Christmas."
