She guided me – taught me, which by design should not have been possible – to never kill children, to avoid the unwisdom of well-armed cities. She taught me, friend, to stop before my prey would die.
I had discovered a state of existence other than hunger, and I wanted more. Tranquility spins a siren-song of its own.
Tiny yearning tugged at me. What would I find, if I could find my way there?
We carried stories from town to town, transmitting parables like pathogens, connecting people via the thin threads of empathy and imagination who would otherwise never meet.
So many things seem eternal, seem, in the moment, to be without end and culturally permanent scars. The great flood; the memory of dragons; the knowledge that there are demons in the dark.
I now present an unedited snippet from Notte, the dramatic hero of my WIP. SO dramatic. Oh my.
A bit of writing process and a brand-new NOTTE snippet.
The tower was filled with breaking. Breaking wills, breaking minds, breaking cries. At every turn, every landing, even every stairwell, Saqalu draped and twisted, wings out, faces stretched, and if they were aware of me at all, they told me to run.
Flames dance thanks to exothermic reactions, a process that releases energy to its surroundings in the form of heat and light.
So did she.
She sort of… skipped, boots barely touching the treacherous ground, keeping on her feet even as I slipped and staggered and relied solely on her grip to keep me on mine.