Unfinished sketch

Rough pencil sketch. I'm torn on whether to clean it up and then finish it up by shading it with charcoal pencils or whether to clean it up and try to work it in colored pencils.


This by the way, is Gwilminawyn, who's character history is what I've been posting this week.

Gwilminawyn, conclusion

to read from the beginning, click here

Evelyn had chosen the sword. Gwilminawyn wished Evelyn had confided in her more. Did she leave to search out her roots? To avenge her family’s death? To simply live among the humans for a while?
What had happened to Evelyn?

There were no answers yet.  Should Gwilminawyn wait for answers? If she was a leaf, or if she was a fish, should she stay in the pool formed at the base of the rock, waiting for answers?

Gwilminawyn contemplated this option, closing her eyes and imagining her life. She would stand up from here, walk back to her home, climb back up the vine and slip into her house unseen. She would sleep and eat, and wake, and go through the rest of the grieving with her parents. There would be songs, music, candles placed along the garden wall, lanterns hung in the trees around her home and around the homes of her neighbors. There would be gatherings, eulogies, memorials attended together.

And then life would go on. Slowly at first, but certainly. Eventually Gwilminawyn would be back at her studies. In a couple of decades or so her parents would be speaking to her about apprenticing, if she knew what she wanted to pursue. Or, if not, they would be speaking to her about spending some years in sampling…rotating through mentors till she found a path that fit her.

Maybe somewhere during that span her uncle would leave, would travel, would find and bring back answers about Evelyn. Maybe.

Gwilminawyn opened her eyes.

One thing she knew now. She did not want her life to go on as if Evelyn had never existed. Surely Evelyn’s life had meant something. Had mattered.

Gwilminawyn couldn’t avenge Evelyn’s death, but surely Evelyn’s life had been more than just a wind through the pines. 

She wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the foil.

 Against whom would she wield a sword? Against orcs for causing the destruction of Evelyn’s first home and first family? Orcs might make a fine target for her anger and her grief. It would be easy to hate them.

But it wouldn’t bring meaning to Evelyn’s life.  And, even as she thought about taking up a sword, training to track and kill orcs, Gwilminawyn knew that wasn’t who she wanted to become…some anger filled slayer. Gwilminawyn, raised in a peaceful home surrounded by beautiful garden and filled with music and love, didn’t want to be so cold, so bitter. “Unforgiveness,” her father had said, “is like taking poison daily and then expecting some other person to suffer its effects.”

Not an orc hunter then.

If not that, then what?

It was not fair, not just, that Evelyn should have lost so much. It was not right that Evelyn’s village was just one of many to fall to flames and violence. That Evelyn, vibrant, brilliant Evelyn should have lived so short a time before she was snuffed out.

Gwilminawyn stood, foil in hand.

Suddenly she knew what she wanted.

Nothing she could do would bring Evelyn back. Not now, not ever. And nothing she could do would make Evelyn’s death right.  She couldn’t change what had happened to Evelyn, but she could step in, and keep it from happening to someone else. Not as a ruthless hunter, or a cold-hearted slayer, but she could step in as a Protector.

She smiled, savoring the word again in her mind, Protector.

The foil felt right in her hand.

A sword for the hand, a goal for the heart….that took care of two of the three realms of being, body and spirit. Now, for the mind, for the intellect…

Gwilminawyn let out an audible gasp as the last piece slid into place. Arcana for the mind. Body, mind, and spirit, she knew what she wanted to become. The realization sent a shiver of excitement over her.

Grinning, she jumped off the rock, landing with a less than graceful splat in the mud on the far side of the small pool. She rubbed her soiled hands and the edge of the foil along a nearby clump of moss to remove the biggest part of dirt. Even a botched landing didn’t serve to damper her enthusiasm.  Her foot and handprints in the silt at the edge of the pool still left a smooth unmarred stretch of mud, and that was what Gwilminawyn needed.

The foil tip was capped with a round knob, making it less than ideal as a stylus. But Gwilminawyn dug it through the soft clay anyway.  It left no graceful elven script in its wake, but fat furrows punctuated with clumps of mud.  Intent on her purpose, Gwilminawyn gripped the foil with both hands, her right around its hilt and her left curved around the blade just below the guard. Letter after chunky letter she carved into the ground.

A few moments later, she stood surveying her handiwork. The thick pine forest filtered out most of the moonlight, so that even her elven eyes had to strain to see. Her bare toes were nearly numb with cold and her shivering now was not out of excitement alone. She’d be running home, cold, wet, and muddy. But the word she stood looking at now, that one word made everything else seem insignificant.

Tomorrow, she decided, she would come and line each letter with flower petals. But now she began slowly, carefully picking her way across the dark rocks, heading for the path that would lead her home.

Behind her, the night would keep her writing hidden for hours. Unseen in the dark, cold mud was one single word of hope.

Bladesinger.

Gwilminawyn, pt 3

Click here  to read this short story from the beginning.

*****

 “One…two…three…four…five…seven…”

“Six,” corrected Gwilminawyn.

“One….two….three…four…five….seven….six…”

Gwilminawyn laid the stylus beside the wax tablet and leaned under the writing desk.

“One…two….three….four….five….six….seven….eight,” she said, tapping on each white buttons in the row as she helped Evelyn count. “Now, can you count the metal buttons?”

While Evelyn’s fingers worked on finding and lining up the four metal buttons, Gwilminawyn picked up her stylus and went back to her copy work.

*****

Hand in hand the two girls skipped down the path. The late afternoon sun slanted through the boughs of the pines.  Though of a similar size and statue, the two looked like spirits of two opposing elements as they flashed between sun and shadow.  Sunlight turned Gwilminawyn’s long elven hair silver, and in the shade it took on a ghostly sheen.  Next to her, Evelyn’s riotous curls became a flaming corona as she bounced along, and then just as quickly a burnished cloud.

*****

 “Hold still, Gwilminawyn. I swear, I should go back to calling you ‘Minnow’ the way you’re wiggling around today!”

“Not fair, Evelyn. I only want to see!”

“When I’m finished. What happened to this famous elven patience I keep hearing about?”

Gwilminawyn took a deep breath. “That,” she said, “was a low blow. But fine, fine, I am being patient!”

“I’m nearly finished anyway.”

Gwilminawyn watched the last of the aster flowers traveling from the bowl near Evelyn’s hand. She felt another pin slide into place in her hair.

“There. Now, you can look.”

Gwilminawyn stood from the chair and turned around to see herself in the mirror. Cool pink and lavender blooms formed a wreath around the crown of her head.  Below the blossoms, fine silver braids hung in delicate loops. Under all this, the rest of her hair hung like a sheen of silk around her back and shoulders. “Oh Evelyn. Thank you. Thank you, it’s beautiful.”

“Well,” said the taller teen with a smile, “you only turn one hundred once. Happy Birthday, dear sister.”

*****

Gwilminawyn pulled herself back to the present. She could not bear to relive Evelyn’s leave taking. The earnest discussions to try to convince the brash young woman to wait. The concern on her uncle’s and parents’ faces. Evelyn’s insistence on traveling alone, without the man she had come to call father. Gwilminawyn sitting at one of the lookout posts, staring at the empty road long after Evelyn had walked out of sight. The sentry gently suggesting Gwilminawyn go home after the last rays of the sun had faded.

Knowing she was close to reckless sobbing, Gwilminawyn stood to take her leave. She wiped her hand over her tear streaked cheeks, a motion that was quickly followed by her mother’s hand caressing the young elf’s face. On other days, Gwilminawyn might have resented being treated as a child. But today she was content to accept the comfort in the familiar gestures of having her face wiped, a loose strand of hair swept back and tucked behind a pointed ear, a kiss bestowed on her forehead.

Her father, she noticed, was sitting with his eyes shut and his fingers twitching rhythmically against each other. Gwilminawyn lips curved to a smile. Surely her father, Master Harpist, was translating his memories into a beautiful melody, a musical eulogy for Evelyn.

Gwilminawyn, on tip toe, kissed her mother’s cheek before mustering the courage to turn to her uncle. She was relieved to see he had slipped into his own reverie. She did not think she could face him, not yet.

Silently, she slipped from the room. The adults would keep their vigil long into the night, she was sure, but youth excused Gwilminawen.

She slipped up the tight spiral stairwell and into her bedroom upstairs. Opening her wardrobe and moving her dresses aside, she pulled out Evelyn’s going away present to her.  Unthinking, Gwilminawen had begged Evelyn to wait to leave until Gwilminawen was old enough for them to go together. Evelyn had laughed and reminded the young elf that she would be an old woman by the time her favorite “Glowworm” would be old enough to leave home. Instead, she had left Gwilminawen her practice foil, promising that Gwilminawen’s time to travel would come.
It was this foil that the young elf now held, Evelyn’s parting gift. The metal was cheap, a dull ugly grey next to Gwilminawen’s own pale skin. The end was knobbed, and the long ‘blade’ itself was rounded and would never hold an edge. Still, it was well made and well balanced, even counterweighted to compensate for the cap on its tip.

For one brief moment, Gwilminawen’s blood rushed and her anger pooled. She stood in her room heart racing, considering swearing a blood oath of vengeance. But vengeance on whom, exactly? All they knew of Evelyn’s death was simply that the wards the elves had secretly placed on the bold young woman had been triggered. The spell returned to her uncle with the information that Evelyn’s life had been extinguished. The where, the how, the why….all of those questions were of yet unanswered. So against who or what could Gwilminawen direct her anger?

Gradually her pulse slowed. Her rage dissolved into weeping that refused to be held in check any longer. When she had finally exhausted her store of tears, her room and fallen into the shadow of evening.

Without really knowing why, Gwilminawen took the foil and headed out to the small balcony off her parents’ bedroom. Slipping the foil’s strap over her shoulder, the girl climbed over the banister and shimmed down the thick vine clinging to the side of the circular home.  It wasn’t her intention to sneak out necessarily, but only to spare her mother more worry. She told herself that going out through the downstairs doors would bring questions and disturb the hushed vigil. Once outside, she kept well away from the arched windows of the front room, leaving her mother’s well designed garden through its back gate.

Elven dwellings are often widely spaced and at this time of day, with most families at dinner, Gwilminawen met no one else as she made her way along the paths. Belatedly she wished she would have thought to slip her feet into some coverings since the fallen pine needles along the paths were prickly.  She was not usually so careless.

Soon enough, the soft dirt path gave way to a simple flagstone walk, which in turn became proper stone as it wound nearer to the edge of one of the many cliff-like ravines that formed the landscape of her home.  Down she walked, disappearing into a crevice in the rock. Smooth steps had been carved into the stone and rock walls rose to either side of her. Along her right, rough tree roots twisted and turned where they were ever working to pry the stone farther apart. Along her left, elven script carved in raised relief harmonized with the sinuous roots opposite. When she was younger, she had loved to run her hands along roots and script alike. But, now that she was older, she knew that each contact with the carvings, however miniscule, hastened their ultimate removal.  She let her eyes delight in the texture instead of her fingers.

The end of the staircase opened onto a natural promontory near the top half of a massive, water carved hollow in the cliff face. Below and to her left, the hollow formed many wide deep shelves, all covered with a carpet of green moss, draped with delicate ferns, and rimmed with low walls so skillfully constructed they blended seamlessly into the vista. It was here where the elves gathered to pray and to offer songs of thanksgiving. Gwilminawyn remembered her uncle explaining that humans sometimes mistook elves worshipping in spots of natural beauty with elves worshipping the natural world. Whereas Gwilminawyn knew the truth was that elves choose to pay homage to the Creator in places where His artistry and masterwork were most prevalent.

Gwilminawyn turned to her right and began descending down a path which hugged the wall of the outer cliff. Soon enough, the path turned back on itself and, still descending, headed toward a gracefully arched bridge that crossed the space between the two arms of the cavern.  As it joined with the bridge, the path widened and passed around both sides of a large stone. The top of the stone was flat save for a perfectly round bowl which the elves kept full of fresh water, even in the driest months of summer. Gwilminawyn paused here, dutifully checking the level of the water. In the center of the tiny pool someone had floated a perfect circle of narrow yellow leaves, connecting them stem to tip, stem to tip, one to the other. Gwilminawyn inspected the leaves as well, ensuring that none were so waterlogged as to be in danger of sinking and disrupting the circle. The neverending circle represented the Eternal and three connected circles, the Eternal Three-In-One. Gwilminawyn smiled, pleased that she had, after years of puzzling, been able to find the other two circles present here.
Across the bridge, she took another flight of steps down to the very bottom of the ravine. It had been a several weeks since the last decent rainstorm. In the spring, a waterfall spilled over the edge of the cliff high above in several shimmering strands. Now, in early autumn, it had dwindled to a few glistening drops seeping from the rock. The streambed, where Gwilminawyn now stood, had dried and left behind many elongated ponds.

Gwilminawyn picked her way across the rocks with ease. The evening cast the ravine into deep shadows, but like a cat, Gwilminawyn’s silver eyes reflected the lingering light. She stopped at the object of her journey, a large wedge shaped stone which perfectly split the mountain stream, forcing the water  to run to either side of it. Now, a pool formed in front of the stone, and only a trickle of water dribbled to either side.

It was a good place to come to make a decision. Gwilminawyn had last been here with her mother who had explained, “As the waters split before the stone so too where there will be times in life when the flow of our lives hits an obstacle. We will have a choice of paths to carry us beyond the obstacle. We also choose in what manner we move beyond the obstacle. We can be like a leaf and just be swept along with the current, or we can be like the swimming fish who navigate the stream.”

Gwilminawyn sat cross-legged on the stone with Evelyn’s foil across her knees. She felt like a leaf, spinning out of control in a current she was powerless to change. She had crashed hard against a cold, unyielding rock. But she did not want to be swept away. How could she change from a leaf to a fish?

She ran a pale grey fingertip down the dark steel of the foil.

Read the conclusion here.

Gwilminawyn pt 2

What the heck is this? Read part one :)

The shadow and sun alternated as the morning chased away the last remnants of yesterday’s rain shower.

“Like this,”  coached Gwilminawyn, speaking human once again. For that is what the small child turned out to be, a little human girl. Gwilminawyn ran her finger gently over the strings of her toy harp in a murmuring cascade of tinny notes.  “Now you try.”

But the girl only stood and stared, keeping one short, and to Gwilminawyn’s eyes, stocky arm wrapped around Galanian’s elbow. Gwilminawyn stared back, marveling anew at how round the eyes, the face, the ears all were; how red and short curly the hair was; how mottled the skin looked. Freckles, her mother had called them.  And they were normal, for a human at least.

Gwilminawyn sat down near the child and held her harp where the girl could reach it. “Like this,” she said, and ran her own slender grey finger along the strings again.

“Don’t push her, Gwilminawyn,” her mother cautioned. “It’s enough that she sat and ate with us. She’ll play with you when she’s ready.”

“I’m not pushing her. I’ll just sit here still and quiet and hold my harp for her. It’ll be like holding nuts for the chipmunks in the garden.”

*****

Once again Gwilminawyn sat on the floor of her family’s front room. The thick rug had been unrolled and served as a soft surface to play on. Gwilminawyn had her doll, Sarananae, and her plush floppy ear bunny and her little wooden dishes on the rug near her. Also sitting on the rug was the small human girl wearing Gwilminawyn’s tunic as a short dress. In two days, she still hadn’t spoken, so the elves did not know her name, but she was playing a little now. While Uncle Galanian had to remain in the same room with her, she had become comfortable enough to venture a few feet from him.

“What. Do.  You. Think? Which. Dress. Shall. The doll. Wear? The blue dress? Or…. the white dress?”

A short pudgy finger touched the white dress.

“The white dress? It is good. Let us. Get. The doll. Ready for tea.”  Gwilminawyn had no idea why humans would need to change their clothes before drinking tea, but Uncle Galanian had assured her that he had watched a group of human girls engage in just this sort of pretend play.

“She is making progress, Galanian,” Gwilminawyn’s father observed from the doorway. “Though, I am still not sure why you brought her here. Would she not be better with her own people?”

“I tried, Thurvial. I tried, but…..here, let me start from the beginning. Perhaps then you will understand how I could not…. Let me start from the beginning.”

A little hand grasped the blue dress and laid it on the head of the stuffed bunny.

“I do not think. Rabbit. .. will go.. into.. the blue dress.”

In answer, the hand patted the dress and the rabbit twice, insisting.

“It is good. We shall. Try. The rabbit is… bigger… than… the dress. But.. we shall try.”

“I came across the remains of another village. The orcs have been particularly brutal in their raids against the human frontier. The humans had taken to clustering their homes together for protection, but a dirt embankment around a group of twenty to fifty small hovels is little defense against a orc raiding party. There is often little left. They have little enough to begin with, and the orcs just leave a cluster of smoldering heaps when they go through. I always make a search for survivors, but what I usually find--“

Gwilminawyn ducked her gaze back down to the dress tangled around a set of felt ears. Too late, her uncle had already noticed her eyes on him as she was listening to the tale.

Her uncle cleared his throat. “This time,” he continued, “the little girl was the only one I found alive. I made a sweep of the area, looking to see if any others had fled and hidden nearby. But I found no one else.  I traveled with the child for several days before I came to a properly walled town where I thought it safe enough to leave her.”

“The Rabbit wears the dress. The dress will not….. close. But… the rabbit wears the dress. Is it good?”

“And then, where should I leave her? With whom could I entrust her? She still had not spoken, no matter how I coached her. I began to wonder if she could speak. That made the choice of how to place her even more difficult. Which family could I trust to raise an orphaned, traumatized, perhaps mute child as carefully as they would their own? I spent several more days in the town, calling upon a few of the families there. When at last I had made my choice, the child had to be pried from my arms and given to the woman that would, I hoped, be her new mother.  And then, for the first time, she made a sound. She started crying so piteously, not loudly, just the barest, heartbreaking weeps. I turned to leave, but if I had walked out on that sound, it would have haunted me forever. I took her back. What else could I do? We had both seen too much, been through too much. What else could I do?”

In the quiet that followed her uncle’s question, Gwilminawyn lowered her voice to a whisper. “Rabbit sits here. Doll sits here. I sit here. You sit there. Here is a cup… for the rabbit. Here is a cup for the doll. Here is a cup for you.  Here is a cup for me.” 

*****

 “We cannot call her ‘Little One’ indefinitely.”

“Of course not, Galanian. But you have been spending too much time around the short-lived humans if you think a few fortnights an ‘indefinite’ period of time.”

“You tease me, as usual, sister of mine.”

“Of course I do. She speaks now, give her more time.”

“She speaks only to Gwilminawyn.”

“But she does speak.”

Under the blanket draped table, Gwilminawyn paused when she heard her name. But the adult conversation seemed nothing new.  “Can you find your nose? Good! Can you say nose?”

“Nose!”

“Right! That is your nose!”

*****

Gwilaminawyn held the book carefully, balancing it on her lap, cradling the spine in one hand and not letting either cover fall completely open….just as she had been taught. It was awkward to do since the book was so large, but being considered mature enough to enter the library unsupervised was a privilege, and not one which she wanted to lose through carelessness. She scanned through the pages of history.

“Hel-eh-wi-sa”, she sounded out. She looked up to study Little One who sat playing with lengths of ribbons. “No.”

She turned a few pages and tried again. “Maz-a-lin-a.”

Little One showed no interest.

“Sarah.”

“Doll!”

“Oh, yes, the doll is named Sarah.” Sweet Sarananae  surely wouldn’t mind having a human name as well. Gwilminawyn turned more pages.

“Ev-eh-lyn.”

“Ev!”

Gwilminawyn gently put the book down. “Evelyn,” she said again.

“Ev!”

“My name is Gwilminawyn. What is your name?”

“Min!”

“No, your name is not Min. My name is Gwilminawyn.  Is your name Evelyn?”

“Ev!”

“You say Ev-eh-lyn.”

“Ehv-L.”


Gwilminawyn smiled.

*****

(Go to part 3.... )

Gwilminawyn, pt 1

(I have a 12 page document I want to share, that's a little long for one post. Instead, I'm going to share it in 4-6 parts. I'll post one or two parts per day to keep it easy to read--I hope!)

It still needs some editing and rewriting, but I need some feedback on it to know *what* to rewrite and *how* to rewrite it. I've already identified a few things that need tweaked, but I'm still not quite sure how to tweak them. All this to say, please leave comments, either here or on Facebook. I'd really appreciate  some specific critiques. 

This isn't for anything in particular. Essentially, this is just a character history, but its turned into an interesting writing exercise for me. 

Thanks so much!)

The silence was not complete.

Outside, the wind still wound its way through the piney boughs. Scattered bird calls punctuated the late morning and the occasional chipmunk chattered. Silvered notes of wind chimes kissed every current of the air. Outside, the mountains breathed their melody with stately grace.

All these lovely sounds traveled easily through the arched stone of the tall windows where inside, four elves sat in stillness and silence.  Their loss was yet too new for words or sounds.
It seemed impossible that she was gone so soon, so suddenly.

Gradually, Gwilminawyn became aware of a new noise in the room. A few soft sobs slipped into their sorrow. No sooner did she hear them, than she realized they were her own.
How could she be gone?

Gwilminawyn pulled her shaky breath back in, felt her mother’s gentle fingers slide through her hair. The young Gwilminawyn, seated on a floor cushion at her parents’ feet, leaned against her mother’s legs and rested her head against her mother. She took a deep breath and let herself slip into an elven reverie as she delved into her memories of Evelyn.

*****

Only the slightest pause separated the soft rapping from the turning of the door handle. Gwilminawyn and her mother looked up from where they sat on the floor drawing the flower blossoms  scattered on the smooth stone around them. Gwilminawyn sprawled on her stomach, and just as much colored chalk had made it to her fingers as did her paper, but she was quite pleased with her efforts, as all young artists often are.  The visitor surprised her, not that someone would come calling, but that someone would let themselves in without waiting for a response.

The door swung open and a man stepped in and wiped his wet feet on the small rug. His hood was pulled up and hung low over his face to keep off the rain...the same rain which kept the ladies drawing their flowers indoors rather than out. The man turned and closed the door behind him, but something about his movements struck Gwilminawyn as awkward. It was then she realized that in one arm the man carried a bundle under his cloak. 

In one smooth movement, her mother rose to her feet. Gwilminawyn, who had never known any danger, remained interested, but unalarmed, on the floor. 

“Eruarwen,” the man said. “I did not mean to startle you.” Using his one free hand to pull back the hood of his cloak, he added, “Surely, I have not been gone so long that my own sister fails to recognize me?”

“Galanian!”

Gwilminawyn could hear the excitement in her mother’s voice and found herself smiling and standing as well. Uncle Galanian had come home at last.

Eruarwen nimbly stepped over the flowers and the pads of paper to greet her brother, but drew back from his embrace as soon as the first kiss of greeting had been exchanged. Gwilminawyn,  close behind her mother, stopped short, wondering what was wrong.

“What have you there, brother of mine?”

Galanian took a deep breath and gently opened his cloak. In human, he said aloud,  “It’s all right, Little One. See, this is my family, which I told you about.”

Gwilminawyn, even after stepping around her mother to get a better view, did not at first understand what she was seeing.  Her uncle seemed to be holding nothing more than a bundle of coarse fabric. Neither did his words make any sense to her. Why switch to a different language than their own beautiful elven? And, though Gwilminawyn was diligent in her studies, she must be translating her uncle’s words in correctly, or why would he be introducing Gwilminawyn to her own mother?

When the coarse bundle moved on its own, Gwilminawyn gasped and jumped back.

“Little One,”  her uncle still spoke in human, and now Gwilminawyn realized he was speaking to the bundle,  “will you let my sister see you?”

The top part of the bundle shook its head no. Gwilminawyn crept closer and found a little foot protruding from the bottom of the bundle, and a little arm coming out the side of the bundle, with a tiny little fist clinging to her uncle’s tunic.

“Oh!” gasped Gwilminawyn, “It’s pink!” Instantly she clamped her mouth shut, realizing she had spoken in haste, and was likely very rude. She looked up at her mother, regret on her face, and received her mother’s gentle nod of pardon.

Her uncle, in turn, chuckled. “Little One, look, there is another little girl here too. She wants to say hello to you.”

On cue, Gwilminawyn, in what she hoped was good human, said, “Hello. My friend. My name is. Gwilminawyn. What is your name?”  Yet the bundle didn’t turn its face away from where it was buried on her uncle’s chest.

“Nevermind, Galanian,”  said her mother, also now speaking in human,  “the little dear is cold and wet and frightened. Introductions can wait. Let’s get your wet cloak off and some warm tea served.  Little One will meet us in time.”

*****

Go to part two.

Finished Sketch

The part to celebrate: I finished the sketch and I'm happy with it.
The part to improve: This is the first sketch I've *completed* in two years. I've started other projects, but haven't seen them through to completion.

Rewrite of Gwilminawyn

Despite my perception that rewrites are supposed to get shorter, this one seems to be getting longer, much longer. But, I hope it is also a little more interesting. More like reading a short story and less like reading a long, boring, and overly verbose, history.

The silence was not complete.

Outside, the wind still wound its way through the piney broughs. Scattered bird calls punctuated the early afternoon and the occasional chipmunk chattered. Silvered notes of wind chimes kissed every current of the air. Outside, the mountains breathed their melody with stately grace.

All these lovely sounds traveled easily through the arched stone of the tall windows where inside, four elves sat in stillness and silence.  Their loss was yet too new for words or sounds.

It seemed impossible that she was gone so soon, so suddenly.

Gradually, Gwilminawyn became aware of a new noise in the room. A few soft sobs slipped into their sorrow. No sooner did she hear them, than she realized they were her own.

How could she be gone?

Gwilminawyn pulled her shaky breath back in, felt her mother’s gentle fingers slide through her hair. The young Gwilminawyn, seated on a floor cushion at her parents’ feet, leaned against her mother’s legs and rested her head against her mother. She took a deep breath and let herself slip into an elven reverie as she delved into her memories of Evelyn.

---

Only the slightest pause separated the soft, rapping from the turning of the door handle. Gwilminawyn and her mother looked up from where they sat on the floor drawing flowers. Blossoms were scattered on the smooth stone floor where the mother and child sat drawing. Gwilminawyn sprawled on her stomach, and just as much colored chalk had made it to her fingers as did her paper, but she, as all young artists often are, was quite pleased with her efforts.  The interruption surprised her, not that someone would come calling, but that someone would let themselves in without waiting for a response.

As the door swung open and a man in dark grey cloak stepped in and wiped his wet feet on the small rug. The hood of his cloak was pulled up and hung low over his face to keep off the rain...the same rain which kept the ladies drawing their flowers indoors rather than out. The man turned and closed the door behind him, but something about his movements struck Gwilminawyn as awkward. It was then she realized in one arm, the man carried a bundle under his cloak. 

In one smooth movement, her mother rose to her feet. Gwilminawyn, who had never known any danger, remained interested, but unalarmed on the floor. 

“Eruarwen,” the man said. “I did not mean to startle you.” Using his one free hand to pull back the hood of his cloak, he added, “Surely, I have not been gone so long that my own sister fails to recognize me?”

“Galanian!”

Gwilminawyn could hear the excitement in her mother’s voice and found herself smiling and standing as well. Uncle Galanian had come home at last.

Eruarwen nimbly stepped over the flowers and the pads of paper to greet her brother, but drew back from his embrace as soon as the first kiss of greeting had been exchanged. Gwilminawyn, close behind her mother, stopped short, wondering what was wrong.

“What have you there, brother of mine?”

Galanian took a deep breath and gently opened his cloak. In human, he said aloud, “It’s all right, Little One. See, this is my family, which I told you about.”

Gwilminawyn, even after stepping around her mother to get a better view, did not at first understand what she was seeing.  Her uncle seemed to be holding nothing more than a bundle of coarse fabric. Neither did his words make any sense to her. Why switch to a different language than their own beautiful elven? And, though Gwilminawyn was diligent in her studies, she must be translating her uncle’s words in correctly, or why would he be introducing Gwilminawyn to her own mother?

When the coarse bundle moved on its own, Gwilminawyn gasped and jumped back.

“Little One,” her uncle still spoke in human, and now Gwilminawyn realized he was speaking to the bundle, “will you let my sister see you?”

The top part of the bundle shook its head no. Gwilminawyn crept closer and found a little foot protruding from the bottom of the bundle, and a little arm coming out the side of the bundle, with a tiny little fist clinging to her uncle’s tunic.

“Oh!” gasped Gwilminawyn, “It’s pink!” Instantly she clamped her mouth shut, realizing she had spoken in haste, and was likely very rude. She looked up at her mother, regret on her face, and received her mother’s gentle nod of pardon.

Her uncle chuckled. “Little One, look, there is another little girl here too. She wants to say hello to you.”

On cue, Gwilminawyn, in what she hoped was good human, said, “Hello, my friend. My name is Gwilminawyn. What’s your name?” But still, the bundle didn’t move or turn its face away from where it was buried on her uncle’s chest.

“Nevermind, Galanian,” said her mother, also now speaking in human, “the little dear is cold and wet and frightened. Introductions can wait. Let’s get your wet cloak off and some warm tea served.  Little One will meet us in time.”

Elven fashion

You can be a nerd right along with me. Isn't the internet wonderful that way?

I went looking for elven traveling clothes, but got suckered into the flowing, impractical gowns. Pretty sure I've found some of these, and posted them before. Sue me.


Ok, this one isn't fitting in the frame correctly. The coolest view of the dress is the one on the right, which is cut out. So you have to click on the image to see the best shot of the dress. Yes, yes, you have to. It's not optional. Click on the image.




(And in case you're thinking, wait, that's a tree, not a dress...yes, yes it is. But isn't it cool?)

Aimee, Part 3

Over three years later, Aimee paused outside another door. This time, it was not the soft clucking of hens that mingled with the early songs of the crickets that filled her ears, but the muffled sound of male voices broken occasionally by bawdy laughter. Going home now was not an option. For how could she go home, and explain to Aunt Nim what had really happened these last few years?

Adaro had kept his end of the bargain to Aimee. She had traveled with him and whatever other performers he could retain in their small troupe. She had done a lot of menial tasks at first, and in turn had been justly instructed and trained by Adaro. As she grew in confidence and ability, she had taken parts in the plays they put on in towns and villages, she had sang duets with Adaro in the winter halls of the wealthy, she had learned the art of “reading” fortunes to entertain women with far more coin and time than productive outlets for their time. But she didn’t know about Adaro’s business “on the side.” Didn’t know, or hadn’t wanted to put the parts of the puzzle together to see the larger picture.

After all, before she left home, she had been full of questions. Why then was it she never asked Adaro what he meant? On those rare evenings when they weren’t performing in some manner or another, when Adaro would drink his wine and begin reminiscing. With the first glass or so he told wonderful tales of places he had seen, parties he had witnessed, adulations he had received. After a few glasses, the tales became more baleful, winters he had been cold and hungry, rich patrons who had cheated him, insults he had borne. Then he would tell Aimee, she would see. No one wanted an old, washed-up performer. She would spend all her days and all her youth and all her energy making others happy….and in return she would spend her old age cold, hungry, alone, trying to make enough coin to keep her belly full and her bed warm. But not Adaro. He would grin slyly, his words slightly slurred, and repeat, no Adaro. He had it all figured out. No one was going to kick Adaro to the curb. At which point Aimee would put the glasses up and the bottle away. She would mutter meaningless phrases in a soothing voice. She would guide the silver-haired bard to his room and bid him a good night, telling him he would feel better again in the morning. And she never asked what he meant.

She should have.

She had the option of sailing away with him. When he finally decided he had built up enough of a nest egg, he had given her the option of coming with him. And he had assured her that he never had taken enough to be missed. He had been careful, he assured Aimee. Oh so careful. The largest parties, the grandest homes. A little here, a little there. Not enough in any one place to be noticed. When the guests were all assembled. When the other performers were going through their routines and the dogs were jumping through their hoops and the halflings were doing their flips and Aimee was managing props and the order of the acts. When everyone was distracted, Adaro would slip away and ensure his retirement.

She didn’t leave with Adaro.

So now, she was Aimee the Seer. She takes a deep breath, drawing herself into a straighter posture, assuming the confidence of the part. The unnatural red Adaro had had her dye her hair was nearly faded out. She had cut off as much as she could on her own, and now her hair hung to her shoulders and was mostly back to its natural honey hues. She jangles the cheap bangles on her wrists and adjusts the vibrant scarf on her head to make sure the points of her ears are clearly visible. Presentation is everything. She was about to walk through a door into a crowded tavern and convince its patrons that they wanted to give her money in return for whatever fortune she could convincingly spin out of the information she could slyly ply from them and she needed to convince the barkeep that he wanted to give her free food and shelter for the night in return for entertaining his patrons in a manner that did not involve dancing on a table. And she needed to figure some other gig out soon, because winter was coming, and she was not going to show up on her aunt’s doorstep during the first winter storm.

Aimee, Part 2

And that was the last anyone heard of Jan, till she showed up with the first winter storm two years later, thin and sickly and miserable looking, and out to here with child. Of course Nimertha took her back in, nursed her back to health, and delivered the babe when the time came. Even under Nimertha’s care, Janaice never did regain the glow of youth. She looked aged and tired beyond the two years she had been gone. When spring came, she kept to Nimertha’s garden and cottage just outside the village. And when the village women went to visit Dear Nim, Jan never even gave a body so much as a how do.

Janaice stayed with her sister and her newborn child through the summer and through the next long winter, but the following spring, when the trader wagons rolled again, Jan was gone. This time, there would be no return of the prodigal child.

Aimee rubs her fingers together briskly. The days were still quite warm, but the evening air was cooler now. Both the mist from the lake and her own private thoughts have chilled the girl. She was not her mother. Was not. Aimee didn’t want to go find a rich husband so that she could live a wealthy life. Aimee just wanted…. Well, she just wanted some answers. She wanted to know what had happened to her grandmother. She wanted to know who her father was. She wanted to know where it was her Aunt Nim went for a few days every month, taking the pony and the two wheeled cart while Aimee stayed with various village women in turn. (There was, Aimee knew, a way to answer that question, if only she could work up the courage to do it. But Aunt Nim would be furious, furious and disappointed, if Aimee slipped away and tried to follow her. And Aunt Nim’s disappointment would be far worse for Aimee to shoulder than her anger.)

Aimee took a deep breath. What was it she most wanted? She wanted to know if her mother was still alive somewhere, and if so, why hadn’t she come back for Aimee? And if not, what had happened to her? What had her life been like for the two years she was gone? What had her life been like after she had left for the last time? What was out there, that had been more important to her than her little girl?

Standing, Aimee begins to carefully make her way back across the small outcropping of rocks to reach the small path back to the village. The sun was low in the west, and the last thing Aimee needed to do was worry her aunt before she broached this topic with her. Feet safe in the dirt of the trail, Aimee continued to mull over her thoughts on her way home. She wanted, she just wanted, to prove herself. To show that she wasn’t her mother, and, ironically, she needed to leave to do that. Because, in Aimee’s mind, it wasn’t in leaving Kissingersee that her mother had erred. It was in expecting her dreams to just be handed to her. As far as Aimee could learn, her mother had left with no real skills and no real plan.

Aimee, on the other hand, had a plan. She had a job and a mentor and would be taken on as an apprentice. She would not be heading blindly out into the world hoping to land in the lap of luxury. Aimee would be traveling under the protection and tutelage of an experienced minstrel, and would in time learn his craft. And while she knew the villagers did not hold the small troupe of traveling performers in the highest of regards, for all that they had flocked to their show, Aimee could barely contain her excitement when she thought of joining them.

At a forking in the narrow trail, Aimee turns aside from the route that would lead her down into the village proper. Instead, she climbs the small grassy hill that hid her Aunt’s cottage from the worst of the winds off the great lake. Topping the small crest, she is relieved to see she has made it home before Aunt Nim had lit the window candles. The houses in the village only placed lit candles in the windows on sacred nights, but each window in Aunt Nim’s cottage always had a candle burning. Women who came to Aunt Nim for herbs or advice always brought her a candle or two as part of their payment. Aimee was certain, was more than certain, that the candles placed in the windows never burned as quickly as the one they used on their table. When she asked her Aunt why this was so, Aunt Nim always answered “just in case.” And when Aimee pressed and asked, in case what? Aunt Nim would smile and reply that the candle was a symbol that warmth and safe shelter was nearby. And when Aimee asked why those candles burned so much more slowly than the others, Aunt Nim would only answer that the candles in the windows were for those who were in true need. Which wasn’t an answer at all.

Aimee lifts the latch and pushes open the low wooden gate. The gate was too low to keep any person or large animal out, and the gap underneath the gate was too high to keep any small animal out. But there the gate was nonetheless. Outside the garden fence, tall grasses and wildflowers rambled in the sun. Inside the garden gate was a wide path to the cottage’s front door and several narrow paths that crisscrossed the many garden beds and all around was an abundance of vegetables and herbs that grew so thickly they made the wild grasses outside look tame. Aimee takes the time to chase a straggling chicken back to the coop in a back corner of the garden. She makes sure the door of coop is firmly shut for the night. How had Aunt Nim missed one of her chickens? And, more importantly, should Aimee mention the magic the minstrel had showed Aimee after the rest of the audience had departed?

Part Three

Aimee, Part 1

The waves broke open upon the rocks and sprayed fine mist into the air. The girl sat just above the spray, the leather of her cloak keeping the dampness of the rocks from seeping into her skirts as she sat. Aunt Nim would never approve. No matter how the youth turned the arguments over in her head, she couldn’t find a single thread that would pull her aunt around to this plan. And it was important, ever so important, that Aunt Nim give her approval. Aimee couldn’t leave here with the silent accusation of ‘just like her mother’ ringing in her ears.

Farther out on the water, the tiny fishing ships of Kisingersee were pulling up their last nets of the day. Aimee could just see the flecks of their sails away down the coast. And that, she knew, was part of her problem. Just like her mother, her gaze was always wandering to the horizon, nor did her curiosity stop when the line of her sight did. Just like her mother. It seemed like she had grown up in the echo of that refrain. Never from Aunt Nim, and soon enough, the townsfolk knew better than to say it in front of Aunt Nim. But Aimee knew it was said nonetheless. What wasn’t said, what no one in town seemed to want to acknowledge, was that Aimee was like her father as well. The tilt of her eyes, the slant of her cheeks, the tapering of her ears…her elven heritage was plain to be seen. Not that elves, or those of elven descent, were unwelcome in the village. But those few of elven blood who did take to sea sailed on merchant ships far too grand to need to lay anchor at the modest little fishing village of Kissingersee. No, what the townspeople avoided discussing, at least openly, was that no one knew who Aimee’s father was. The one woman who did know had refused to say anything.

Aimee’s mother had been, according to the village gossips, always walking along with her head in the clouds, with dreams far too big for simple, hard village life. Janaice had been full of her ambitions to leave the village, to marry wealthy, to have a life of ease and comfort and luxuries. Aunt Nim had raised her younger sister as best she could. Aimee, despite her best efforts, never did learn what had happened to her grandmother. Aunt Nim would only say that she would tell her when Aimee was “ready to hear it”. Others would only make a gesture to ward against evil if Aimee discreetly tried to steer a conversation in that direction. About Aimee’s mother, however, the villager’s were more than happy to spill an earful.

Aunt Nim had raised her younger sister the best she could when… (fingers crossed over heart)…and if anyone could have gotten some sense into Janaice, it would have been Dear Nimertha. And Janaice had been a pretty little thing, even if she weren’t reliable or sensible. She could have had her pick of any of the young village men, though she would have made a poor housekeeper. Still, the boys seemed to dote on her like anything. But she was too quick to tell everyone how she wasn’t going to spend her life scratching a living out of the dirt, slaving in a hovel with a baby pulling on her skirt. Not Janaice. There were better things in the world, and Janaice was bound to get them. First chance she got, she slipped away with some traders heading toward the Capital. Bout broke her sisters heart she did, and after all Dear Nim had been through and all she had tried to do for Jan, ungrateful girl that Jan was.

And that was the last anyone heard of Jan, till she showed up with the first winter storm two years later, thin and sickly and miserable looking, and out to here with child.

Part Two

Character Concept, Part 2

Now, before you start looking through my blog for a part one, there isn't one. How can I have a part two before I have a part one? Cause I'm random, remember? (The part one is actually found in the post Dresses or some such. If I were a friendly helpful person, I'd link it for you, but right now, I'm busy typing and stuffing my face with chocolate cake.)


So, I spent at least two hours today looking through images on deviantart. I could spen all day looking through images on deviantart and loosing myself imagining stories behind the artists' visions. There are a few images that each have a character quality that's relevant to my current daydream. (Christopher Robin, this is for my chickie in a box. I'm justified in spending time on this, cause I don't yet have an aztersil post to reply to.)

Many of the artists on deviantart sell their prints. So, if you like something, by all means go check out the artists and their work.



(computers hate me. It took me ten tries to get this post even legible. This is why I skipped the homeschool memeoirs assignment to share summer photos. AND, to add insult to injury it ATE, yes ATE three of the five comments I had to the memoir assigment I did do. They were there. I selected them. I hit publish. It published two of the five. It ate the other three. Have I mentioned that? It ATE them.)

Dresses

I have no one to inflict my pictures on anymore, so I inflict them on the web at large. Its like random acts of violence, except it random acts of costuming...

Anyway, I'm looking for arabic wedding dresses for a character concept. The top one is my favorite.

Teacher In-Service Day

I love being the one in charge. And since no one that has a job reads this (except Vaya, and I already told her), I was absolutely irresponsible today.

I spent the day reading the third book in this cool series....I don't know what the series is called, but the first book is Twilight by Stephanie Meyer. I was going to post the link to her page...but it has too many spoilers in it. But you must all go to the library and find this book and read it. Look deep into my eyes....repeat after me....'I must read Twilight...I must read Twilight....' "

See how painless that was.

Crap. Ok, I have to post the link...but ONLY THE MAVEN is allowed to go read the link first. The rest of you have to read the book first, then the link. And by saying that, everyone is going to click the link immediately. You nosey people you.

Fine. I'm not going to post it. Tptptptptp.

Blame Smurf

My newfound goal of blogging all the cool things that happened last week a bit at a time is out the window. Whose fault is this? Not mine. That would imply taking responsibility for my choices.

I spent the afternoon, and a portion of the evening on meez. So this is the picture that Smurf sent me that was the bait. Its Fawn.

The rest of the afternoon was spent recreating various rp characters as creepy little 3d dolls.

Color

I'm debating the color of Fawn's hair. I have currently two different color themes going on here. The majority of her hair has more of an amber tone to it. I'm not sure I'm pleased with it. A small patch near her ear is a bit more wheat in tone. Which do I want to go with. Here is her brief physical description:

With soft brown eyes, a quiet voice, and a lightly freckled face, Fawn seems aptly named. Her tawny hair hangs just past her shoulders, and is often pulled back from her face and held by a barrette. She is petite and exudes a sense of calm, gentleness, and inner beauty.

Saved image

I went back to an earlier saved image and started working on hair instead. I wasn't happy with the freckles, or the lips, or the eyes.

Still Freckleless

The key words here are "work in progress."

Freckleless Fawn

Some evil, evil person (smurf) convinced me that I could "totally do freckles." The evil person lied to me. Deceived me. Lured me with false hope only to laugh when my fragile little spirit was crushed.

Freckles are HARD.

The good news is ... a) I'm feeling more like a human being and less like a miserable zombie, and b) I have new *tablet* PC cause the Jedi *loves* me.

The pox.

My freckles look like the pox. This entry could also be titled "I should take some cold meds and go to bed".