Dear Readers,
If you are reading this, then it shows that you are ether overly persistent or very much so enjoying my work. Well, this is to let you know that I am about to lock up shop. I shall make it that no one may read this blog unless they are my friend here. If you have been reading and do not have a personification on this site, but wish to continue reading, comment! Otherwise, on the 1st of April, no shall be able to access this site who is not my friend. Why do I do this, you ask? Well, I don't want the whole world reading my book before I publish it in honest!
Stay true,
Hubert Baldar
Race: Werewolves
Originated: Unknown
History: It is said that werewolves first appeared around 1100 B.K., during the Wizards War. The Wizard Zora wanted a group of elite fighters for her battle with the Wizards Omotos, Grongorg, and Gradwin. Her love of wolves led her to think of what is now called a werewolf. She hand-picked twelve of her strongest and most skilled fighters and, through dark and twisted uses of magic, embedded in them inhuman strength, agility, and limited magical powers, as well as the ability to transform themselves into massive, powerful wolves. Somehow, the children of these men gained the same ability of their fathers, as well as heightened senses and unusually thick skin on the palms of their hands and necks, making them able to block blades with their bare hands and such. All this was passed on to their children, and so on.
Appearance: While in human form, only a few things differentiate them from average humans. For one, all werewolf males stand no shorter then six feet tall, and can grow as tall as eight feet tall, though it is rare. Also, without fail, they positively ripple with muscles. Werewolf females average at about five feet tall. Hair colors can range from a golden brown to raven black.
In wolf form, the male all weigh roughly four hundred pounds and stand around four feet tall and, from nose to tail, can be up to eight and one half feet long. They resemble Timber Wolves in appearance, only with a broader chest and larger forepaws and legs. The females are the same in shape, thought smaller... they only get up to three feet high and six to seven feet long. Generally, the hair color of the person affects the color of the fur, though there are times when the color of the fur is completely different then the color of the hair.
Misc.: Werewolves have a very strong sense of family. Like regular wolves, they move and hunt in packs. A pack usually consist of up to six males... the number of females can vary. A male werewolf will only take one mate in his entire lifespan; if that mate dies, he goes and lives alone the rest of his life. The bond between mates is incredibly strong, to the point where one can sense when the other is in danger and where they are. You do not want to be caught standing between a werewolf and his/her mate!
15 days, 23,000 words, and my authoress has writer's block. It's a very sad and puzzling thing to see, since this is her first foray outside of Sarconia, and I have no idea how to assist her.
But it could be the fact that Themeless is tearing his hair out in frustration over Thelred.
Or the fact that Thelred is spending over half of his time in her brain bragging about how amazing he is and driving all of the rest of us characters mad.
And perhaps it's because the last 22,000 words ate her brain.
Who knows?
Any suggestions on how I might jog her mind?
This is a work of fiction. I was listening to Moonlight Sonata and it just....came. So I hope you enjoy it.
I don’t know what brought me to visit the old burned out shell of a warehouse that day, but it changed my life more than I can even begin to tell you.
But when I reached the deteriorating structure, I only vaguely remembered getting there. For a moment I puzzled over why I was there, however, the moment I heard strains of the most heartbreakingly beautiful music drifting from one of the back rooms, I knew. I began to shake and fear urged me to run, but the soft melody pulled me in closer and closer as if the notes themselves were animating my body. When I saw him, something inside me broke, and tears began sliding down my face. Though I had never seen him before in my life, he was dear to me; the exotic refrain resonating from the oddly preserved grand piano he sat at washed through my being, making me feel as if I’d known him my whole life; that beautiful street urchin.
I stood there in complete silence as the last measure dissolved into the dusty air, tears dried on my face, watching him in hushed, sorrowful awe.
Suddenly, he looked up and noticed me, shock and embarrassment frozen on his face. He cautiously moved towards me, one hand reaching up to my face, as if he were about to brush my tears away. He looked to be about nine years old, ash and dried blood caked on his face and matted in his hair. But his hands were clean, as if he hated the thought of dirtying those beautiful white keys he had been lovingly caressing just moments before. I also noticed his eyes; shockingly green with flecks of gold and royal blue.
“What is your name?” I whispered huskily.
“I don’t have one,” he answered listlessly, casting his eyes downward.
Without another word, I kneeled and wrapped my arms around his tiny body, letting my tears flow silently again.
“Hush,” he breathed, stroking my hair, “it will be all right.”
We stayed like that for a very long time, and when the sun began sinking behind the crumbling buildings, turning the sky scarlet, we spoke again.
“Where did you learn to play?”
“Nowhere. I can’t read music,” he said simply, in a tone befitting a much older person.
“How do you get your songs?”
“From my head….they’re there. Always playing.”
“You mean you made up that song?”
“Yes. In a way. You see, I AM my songs. They’re all I know.”
I couldn’t answer. There wasn’t anything I could say. It was if all my words, my entire self, was gone. Absorbed by his aura.
I pulled away from him, staring deeply into his vast enveloping eyes when he began to evaporate. Somehow I knew it would happen and I could tell he always had.
He smiled sadly and placed his tiny warm hand on my face, closing his eyes. A pain shot through me for a moment before it numbed and eventually faded, but I could tell there was something different. There was music drifting through my head, echoing off everything; his songs.
Even now I hear them; all of them, ceaselessly. Sometimes there are new ones. He’s there somewhere, in my head. I dream about him occasionally. But he never sees me. He just sits there at his piano, playing away. And I always wake up crying. Every time I wander the streets I can’t help but check the faces of all the little boys that pass, even though I know he’s not in the world anymore. When I asked him, he didn’t know who he was, but now I do. He was every unwritten song since the beginning of time.
I never really thought about it. It just didn't matter. After all, why did it concern me? I'd never bothered it; why should it bother me? The dark whispers on the street corners honestly made me laugh. I mean, these people were taking things WAYY to seriously! I knew it wasn't evil. It gave us nice things, like school, and money to buy stuff without having to work for it. That wasn't bad! No, it was nice. It took care of us. All these theories were just the mattering of people who had lost their minds from age, or just wanted to chew on something. It's over now. I know more. And I know that it's my fault, not because of what I did, but because of what I didn't do. But before you scream at me for bringing this on you, you should know something about Americans as they used to be. We had everything. Nice homes, nice cars, good food; it all fell in our laps. Even low-income families had computers and iPods. We were invincible. Except from within. Everything collapsed. And all because of greed. When politicians see a rich, happy people, they want some of their wealth. So they promise you food, housing, healthcare, an education, and eternal happiness if you'll just elect them and pay a few more taxes. So you peel off the greenbacks and drink the honey of their talk and sit back and enjoy yourself. And like the old Energizer bunny, it kept going and going and going....And every time, they put the butter on a little thicker and took away a little more, keeping us distracted by throwing mud and worse at each other. It picked up in '09, and people started noticing things. I can remember them, the nutcase conservatives waving signs at the Tea Party rallies. But I didn't understand why anything was wrong, and besides, there was always a flap around election time. But nothing quieted down. People were getting more and more worried. When my dad went to buy ammunition for hunting, almost a year after the election, he had trouble getting some; it was still flying off the shelves. "I wonder where it's all going?" he asked himself and me and we drove home. Were people stockpiling it? If so, why? I tried to laugh it off, but my more conservative friends shook their heads dolefully. "Few forms of government have ever lasted much over 200 years. When they hit the two hundred year mark, there's always some kind of upheaval. The country may remain intact, but the system of government changes." "But this is America," I protested. "So it is, and here lies a spirit of tenacity that, no matter how dormant it grows, is surpassed by few, if any other nations." Their eyes were glowing annoyingly. "And here, if we wake up, there is a chance to break the cycle, or at least have a peaceful transition." I thought they were crazy. Life was good. Seriously! The politicians were working for our good, weren't they? Why couldn't anyone see that? 'Upheaval.' Pshaw! I was wrong. Alot of people were wrong. But things did start happening, and I saw that it wasn't all that I had thought it had been. It was bad, or at least, worse than I had ever dreamed. There was some violence. Shots were fired. People got killed. And we still don't know how it will end, because you're writing the story. The future swings on what you do and what you don't do. What's your choice? --Amelia Turner Amelia Turner is a character of my own imagination, but the things she speaks of aren't. Yes, this is random stuff that drifts from my head, but I hope that, for once, this is more than playful writing.
Well, I haven't been posting here, obviously, due to long involvement with a new story, 'The Soundtrack.' It's home is this facebook page:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Soundtrack/325473000547?ref=ts
I should be posting a part every day all through this November and into December, although the story should be finished by Nov. 30th. Read it and comment, if you like.
~Justyne
Dear Reader,
I am attempting to redefine my story line- where it's going, how it will end, sub-plots, the like. I'm not sure how long this will take me... more then likely longer then you or I wish. So, I shall now post what I have finish of the next chapter. Enjoy, and I shall return soon.
It took Smith and Gradwin a while to find a cave entrance, and even longer to find the secret entrance into the tunnels inside the cave. But in the end, they did.
It was very dark inside the tunnels. If not for Gradwin's foresight in the matter, they would have been in total darkness. However, they were not, for Gradwin brought torches. Now, despite the light, Smith was not comfortable in these tunnels. He didn't feel safe, but rather felt as thought something was watching him from the shadows. He tried to tell these fears and feelings to Gradwin, but Gradwin waved them off. "Your fooling yourself, Smith. We won't come to the inhabited tunnels for a while yet. You have nothing to fear." Smith wasn't so sure.
For a long time, they continued on like this. Smith was no longer aware of the passing of time, for there was no way to tell inside the tunnels and caves. They had to stop and give Gradwin time to think at every fork in the path, for they did not want to find themselves in Goblin territory. That, needless to say, would not end well. Fortunately, they did not, for Gradwin had a remarkable memory, and he had visited the Dwarfs on occasion before.
After much wondering around, a wrong turn or two, and a few dead ends, Gradwin finally lead Smith to a very long, very straight hall. The walls were unnaturally smooth. This was obviously the work of Dwarf hands, as Goblins cared not for things such as smooth walls, and any natural tunnel like this would also have rough walls, unless there was a great amount of water running through here at some point in time, and if it was that, the source of the water was long since ether dried or clogged, for the tunnel walls were dry, and there was very little moister in the air.
They followed the tunnel for a long time, what felt like hours to Smith, and getting nowhere but farther away from the entrance, seemingly. And with the limited lighting, it was impossible to see very far ahead of you. So they did not see the trap they were walking into until it was sprung.
It was very sudden. Ether Smith or Gradwin, even they are not sure which, tripped a hided wire of some sort, and it sounded an alarm elsewhere. The hall was rigged with secret doors that could both open and close soundlessly, and they did, deploying a group of defending dwarfs into the long hall, both behind and in front of Smith and Gradwin. Both the party in front and the party behind were armed, and feeling none too friendly, for they did not like "topsiders", as they called anyone who lived outside the mountain.
They only let the two intruders continue on for a few more steps before stopping them.
"Hold, intruders! Who are you that you feel invited to walk our halls freely?" Said the lead dwarfs gruffly, for this particular dwarf had a special place in his his heart for topsiders.
"Stand down, Uliden. It is I, Gradwin."
The dwarf called Uliden frowned at this. "I know the name, though it is little more then a bad omen for me. Who is the child?" He asked, eying Smith. Smith did not like being called a child, but he had enough wits about him to know that an outburst would not be wise at this point, so he let Gradwin do all the talking.
"This is Smith Phillips. That is all you need know. Now, I have come to see Yonam. Would you take me to him?"
Again, Uliden frowned. Smith wondered if he ever smiled. "He is very busy. I doubt he will have time to-"
"All the same." Gradwin interrupted, giving Uliden a hard stare. A battle of wills took place, which Gradwin won. Uliden bowed his head and motioned for the two to follow him, then turned and stalked off without another word. Gradwin followed closely, tailed by Smith.
As it turns out, the hall came to a very sudden end. And a dead one. Smith looked around, startled. Where did Uliden go? There must be a secret door somewhere, but how do you open it? Then the wall opens, and Uliden pops his head out. "Aren't you coming?" He asked gruffly, though there is a glint of humor in his eyes. Gradwin frowns, and gave no response. After a moment, Uliden moved back through the door, disappearing into the darkness. Gradwin and Smith followed closely. The door lead to a ledge overlooking a grand and glorious sight.
"Behold, travelers," a dwarf behind Smith and Gradwin said proudly. "Hiden Formath, The City Beneath the Mountain!"
And indeed it was. Smith was amazed at the magnitude of what lay before him. Hiden Formath was a city in every sense of the word. It looked at thought the dwarfs had hallowed out a large part of the mountain, creating a huge cavern in which they built their city. And the city itself was no small feat, for the buildings were large and grand, built on a imposing scale. The city was lavishly decorated with gold and jewels from the dwarf mines, and all seemed very well organized. Everyone that Smith could see looked as if they knew where they were going.
Uliden lead them down a narrow path that connected the overlook to the ground level, where the city was built. They were forced to move in single file down the ledge, due to the narrowness of it. Smith quickly saw the benefits of this. Should Goblins ever find the entrance, they would have to move in single file to get to the city, and a troll, from what Smith had heard, would never fit on this path- it would be too big. And nothing would survive the drop from the overlook to the ground level. It was just too high.
Once inside the city, they were met with a great many curious glances, for it was not every day that men were allowed into The City Under the Mountain. As they moved toward the center of the city, it appeared to Smith that there was a portion of the city set aside for housing, a different portion for the blacksmiths, goldsmiths, and silversmiths, and yet another portion set aside for growing food and raising animals. There was a portion set aside for just about anything one could think of that would be needed to survive. And in the center of it all was a structure that was by far the most imposing of all... the Hall of the Dwarf King.
They stopped in front of the massive stone doors that lead into the Hall of the Dwarf King. Uliden shouted something in a language that Smith had never heard before. There was a shouted response in the same language, and Uliden shouted again, a bit angrier this time. Smith wasn't sure what was being said, but he was pretty sure that it wasn't going well. There was the sound of laughter, and more shouting. And the massive doors swung open.
The Hall of the Dwarf King was just that... a huge, long hall. It measured about seventy feet wide by one hundred fifty feet long. The first thing Smith noticed when he entered was two large statues, one on ether side of him, looking to be about seven feet high. Each was of a dwarf, though the two were different in more ways then one, obviously of different dwarfs.
Right next to ether statue was a huge stone column, stretching from floor to ceiling, which was fifty feet above them. Easily ten feet in diameter, the column had a great many jewels inlaid in an intricate pattern. The floors were like a giant mosaic, though the picture was difficult to make out at such a close range.
Uliden continued walking at a brisk past, obviously not planning on being a tour guide. They walked for another seventy-five feet or so before coming to a large empty space. Smith asked Gradwin what this was used for.
"This is the king's dining hall. The table is designed so that when not in use, it can be broken down and moved. Rather ingenious, really." Smith nodded his understanding, still a little in awe of the massive size of the hall.
They reached the end of the hall and came upon another set of doors, a little smaller then the great gates of the hall itself, but magnificent none the less. The guards posted there, snapped to attention when the group approached, and hurriedly went about opening the doors. Uliden walked through without even slowing down.
The inside of this room was apparently where the dwarfs had court, for there were nine dwarfs in the room (not counting the king and his queen), seated in a semi-circle. It also looked like it was the kings throne room, for sitting directly opposite of the door was the throne. "Must be both," Smith thought.
The Dwarf King was the first to speak. "Gradwin! This is... unexpected. And who is this with you?" The king stood in order to great his guest. The rest of the council stood with him. Only a dwarf sitting directly next to the king remained seated. His hair and beard were as black as night, and his eyes were a steely gray. There was a burning hatred in those eyes as he looked at Gradwin.
"A very urgent matter concerning the lives of several of our friends, and a possible act of war."
"Ha!" Scoffed the sitting dwarf, drawling the eyes of everyone in the room. "An act of war, says the wanderer. That's utter nonsense! Peace has held the land for several thousand years. There is no way-"
"That's is enough, Molek. I would hear what Gradwin has to say." Interrupted a dwarf sitting to the right of Gradwin and Smith. Several other voiced their interest. The king let this go on until all in favor had voiced their opinion, then nodded at Gradwin.
"Thank you, good king. Here is the act- a group of Easterners have kidnapped a group of travelers in the Forest of Gorox and are headed this way-"
"Please." Again, Molek spoke out. "Easterners in the Forest of Gorox? Impossible. And even more unlikely is the idea that they would head in this direction!" Several other dwarfs nodded in agreement.
"Gradwin," Began the king, "did you see these Easterners?"
At this, Gradwin paused. "I have it from a very reliable source-"
"See?" Shouted Molek. "He has no proof! This is a second hand account. Hardly reliable."
Gradwin slammed his staff against the floor, and the result was a resounding crack against the floor that echoed in the chamber and caused Molek to flinch. "SILENCE!" Gradwin gave Molek a hard stare. "I will not be interrupted by the likes of you, Molek Dimok."
Several of the council members murmured among themselves at this. Only Gradwin would dare speak like that to the chief adviser of the king with such a tone. Molek seethed at being spoken to in such a manner, but remained silent. The king watch this with something between shock and amusement written on his face.
After a moment or two, Gradwin picked up where he left off. "That source, if any still wonder, is a forest-dweller I know, and with whom I would and have trusted my life with. His word is as good as mine."
The king looked thoughtful. After a moment of thought, he spoke up. "What would you have us do?"
Tina was about to collapse from exhaustion. Fit though she was, these Easterners seemed tireless, and they're leader the hardest of them all. Him being an elf, he did not tire as any man did. Safe to say, he could undoubtedly run longer then any of his men, who could seemingly run all day and all night with only a few hours sleep. What's more, he didn't seem to care about the condition of his men or prisoners- he just kept moving.
Finally, Tina could go no further, and her knees buckled beneath her. She fell, and did not have it in her to get up. Even when the whip of her driver found her back, she could not get up. Then had covered sixty miles in three days time, and that was with only four hours sleep each night and very little food. She was far beyond exhausted. Even to say that she was dead tired would have been an understatement.
After several more strokes of the whip, there was a shout. "Enough!" Tina raised her head just enough to see who came to her aid, and saw that it was the elf in charge of this company of solders. He was not looking at her, but rather at her driver, and there was something very close to rage in his eyes. He snatched the whip from the hands of Tina's driver, a huge brute of a man with tree trunks for legs and arms of steel. "They need to be kept whole! I cannot have you beating her senseless, you moron!" The threw the whip on the ground between them and then turned his attention toward Tina. Seeing her on her back, he look up at some solders standing nearby, watching him. "Raise her into sitting position." They hopped to the task, moving quickly. Once Tina had been rolled over and brought into a sitting position, the elf knelt as so to look her in the eye as he spoke. "What is your name, girl?"
Tina stared at him, not speaking. No amount of exhaustion could take down her defiance. He met her glare, and in fact returned it, though sending a different message then she. He won, in the end, and she responded softly. "Tina."
He nodded slowly. "I am called Myron, and despite what you may be inclined to believe, I'm not your enemy. I'm your friend." Tina smirked at this. "I know you don't believe me, but do not be so quick to swat my hand aside. You need a friend, if you are to make this journey with everything you began it with. These men can and would do far worse to you then simply beat you. Indeed, if they had their way, you already would have lost a great deal. I am all that stands between you and them."
As much as she hated to admit it, she knew Myron to be correct. Many had called her a beauty before, though she had a harden edge some found unappealing. These men, she thought, wouldn't really care about things like that. She looked nice.
"Now," continued Myron, "Do we understand each other?" Tina nodded, but the expression on her face made it clear that she by no means thought Myron a friend. And ally, perhaps, but not a friend. But that was enough for Myron. "Good. Now, can you get up?" In response she attempted just that, only to collapse again. Myron frowned, then looked toward Arcon. "You! Come over here." Arcon, his face stony, complied. Myron stood and removed a dagger from his belt. Then. with one smooth chop, he cut the ropes that bound Arcon's hands. He inclined his head toward Tina. "Can you carry her until she regains her strength?"
Arcon stared at Myron expressionlessly for a long moment, then looked toward Tina. He nodded slowly. With that, Myron gave to order to move out again, Arcon picked up Tina, and they carried on.
For the next four days it continued like this. Arcon, being an elf, did not at all mind carrying Tina; Earagorn used a endurance spell he knew to keep his strength up; Jalor, despite his age, did well, for he was used to long, hard runs like this. It was on the fifth day after Tina collapsed that she started running again. It was on that same day Myron saw a dragon.
It was noon, and the troop had stopped for a brief lunch. Myron had finished his meal before anyone else, but instead of hurrying his troops and their prisoners through the rest of their meal, he stared at the sky, deep in thought. At first the dragon had appeared only as a speck in the sky, easily mistaken as an eagle or some other large bird... if you didn't have eye's like that of an elf. Myron frowned at the sight, then hurried his troops through the remainder of their lunch and pushed them on.
All the way to the mountain, the dragon seemed to follow them, though always high enough up to be mistaken for a large bird to the human eye, and Myron never told his troops or prisoners what he saw. Then it disappeared. Myron thought little of it, thought he was wary entering the mountains.
He followed the pattern given to him by the Norgins to pass through the tunnels. Left, right, right, center, left, right, right, left, left, right, right, center... and then came to a sudden and unexpected halt. Here, according to the pattern given, he was to take the center path. But the center path was caved in. So was the right. This can't be good... Myron thought, puzzled and slightly worried. He recalled the words of the Norgin Commander who gave him the instructions... "If the pattern says's to go center, go center. Any turn you make could lead to your death." Myron ran through the turns he had been making. Yes, he had stayed to the pattern. A cave-in must have occurred, blocking the correct path. Myron spun on his heels and started barking orders. "Make yourselves useful, men! Let see if we can't clear the center path." And so it began.
For a great long while- no one is sure just how long they worked, for it was impossible to tell time in the caves- the Eastern soldiers labored at the rock wall, but seeing how that they had no digging tools, it was almost impossible going. Finally, after what felt like hours of futile digging, Myron ordered a stop, having only made a few inches of progress.
Can you guess what happened to my hair since I last wrote here? No? Well, here we go. You know that I bleached it fairly white, using a mixture of straight bleach, hydrogen peroxide, and lemon juice. It seemed to work pretty well, but lately it had been growing out, and because of the contrast between my bleached hair and my unbleached hair, I ended up with what looked like a black streak down the middle of my head. So I decided to bleach my hair again, and see if I could get: 1. my already bleached hair to be absolutely white, and 2. the hair that had grown out to blend in a little better. To this end, I gathered together a few of the things I'd used last time (clorox bleach, large plastic bowl, dishwashing gloves, large rag-towel), and went outside to work on the first step. You have to be outside, otherwise the smell of the bleach will knock you out. (It very nearly did anyway.)
So I put the towel around my shoulders to protect my clothes (which I had made sure weren't ones I was particularly fond of in any case), put on the gloves, discovered that they were both for the left hand, muttered a bit but decided it wasn't worth the trouble to look for a right hand glove, poured a fair amount of straight bleach into the bowl, took a deep breath, and stuck my head in it. (A note: straight bleach kinda burns. You get this interesting feeling, sort of like your scalp is dissolving.) I swished my hair around a bit with my gloved hands, making sure it was all wet, then gingerly pulled my head out of the bowl and wrapped the towel around my hair. The bleach in the bowl had gone all foamy. It was very odd-looking, but I had seen it the last time I bleached my hair, so I wasn't worried. Holding the towel securely to my head with one hand, I picked up the bowl, carried it over to a russian olive, and poured it on the roots. (Theoretically this should kill it, but I'm not sure even straight bleach has a chance against that overgrown weed.)
Then I went back and did it again. I left the bowl upside down on the rocks by the garage door to drain completely (you can't put bleach in your drains--it does bad things), and went inside, carrying the bleach and wearing the gloves. I waited in the garage for a bit, making sure my hair was well wrapped up and wouldn't drip, and taking off the gloves (a feat I managed with difficulty) before I went into the house. I put the bleach away, and then sort of wandered around for a while, waiting for my hair to dry. When it did, I went into my bathroom with a couple mostly empty bottles of hydrogen peroxide, gingerly unwrapped the towel (holding my head over the tub), and poured as much peroxide on my head as I could. I used the gloves to make sure I was getting everything, scrubbing around blindly.
With the towel off my head, I thought, it seemed extraordinarily light. I hadn't noticed the weight of my head when I put the towel on the first couple of times, but now that I thought about it, hadn't my head seemed lighter than usual when I had taken it out of the bowl of bleach for the first time? I was unsure. My head had been swimming from the bleach fumes, and I hadn't been thinking or noticing things properly.
I finished with the second step, and rewrapped my head. It seemed to take forever for it to dry. I went and got the lemon juice out of the refrigerator while I waited. Finally I gave up. Somewhat damp, I decided, was just as good as completely dry. I went back into my bathroom and repeated the process, this time using lemon juice, rewrapped my head, put the lemon juice back, and started waiting for my hair to dry. I wandered about the house, one hand steadying the large pink towel on my head, and thought uneasily about the comparative weight of wet hair to dry.
Eventually it dried enough for me to remove the towel, and I went directly to the mirror. My hair was a dark, tangled mess. I wondered whether the bleaching had worked. It's true that my hair is always ridiculously dark when it's wet, or even damp, but surely it should be lighter than this, I thought. I was somewhat disturbed by this, and went to borrow Mom's hairdryer. I couldn't find it. It turned out to be in a drawer under one of the sinks in BookFreak and AnonymousGirl's bathroom. I turned it on as high as it could go, and set to work. The truth emerged fairly quickly. Under the blast of warm air, my hair dried into a fuzzy, inch-thick carpet on the top of my head. I ran my hands over it incredulously. It felt nice. I felt hysterical laughter bubbling up in my throat. The bleach had dissolved my light-colored hair almost completely. It was still there--on the sides of my head, in the back--but not on the top. I looked a bit like one of those top-bald hippies who refuse to admit that their hair isn't growing in the middle anymore. The sound of the hairdryer covered my mad giggles as I finished drying the longer hair around the sides of my head.
I think Mom considered disowning me when I showed her what I'd done. I asked her if she would try cutting it so the rest of it matched the top, but she wouldn't. I borrowed the razor she uses to trim the boys' hair, put on the one-inch attachment, and attempted it myself. I don't think it turned out too badly. It wasn't what I was trying for, mind you, but even Mom admits that it doesn't look too grotesque. My cousin Michael says I look sort of like Angelina Jolie in 'Hackers'. (Sadly, he's right.) On the upside, I think I'm done with bleach now. I've had enough fun.
Ah, what can I say? I've been gone for an inordinate amount of time. No one is probably even checking this blog anymore, but...
It's October. The last week of October, to be exact, and for me, being a NaNoer, it means....hmm....chaos? Insanity? Breaking nails while playing the piano?
The issue is the fact that I must rail out 50,000 words in a single month. This involves planning. Lots of it.
Firstly, and most obviously, I have to somehow find a way to create a world that I can promptly immerse myself in (plot-planning, character development, map drawing...) For me, this means internet name generators. Such things in themselves are one of the greatest proofs against micro-evolution; after spending hours clicking through tons of trash to find the few gems, the idea that random chemicals could assemble themselves into intelligent humans without any design seems utterly ridiculous. Random combinations can't hardly produce a decent name, much less your eyeball. No, name generators are not the magic cure for all your naming difficulties, I learned. After throwing out the spontaneously generated junk, I then had to sift through everything else to find names that don't look like they were spat out of a mindless, unimaginative machine....even though they were....and then try and match those with the cultures of the world.
Needless to say, my characters will not be visiting many towns.
Secondly, I must keep my parents happy so that they will let me write like a maniac, scream at my computer, and argue with my characters when they get antsy. This involves three things: Cleaning my room, staying on top of my schoolwork, and not skipping getting out to exercise.
The 'cleaning my room' was finished tonight, despite the blanket/pillow redistribution difficulties, the complex relocation of multiple other objects such as clothes, and the fact that, despite the fact that my room is overflowing with books, no matter, my dad thinks, If she is studying Greek, then of course she needs all three two-inch-thick volumes of the Expositor's Greek New Testament ready to hand! This has decommissioned my electric keyboard to an extent.
Staying on top of schoolwork is 'easier' do I dare say? Perhaps not. To stay on top, I find it necessary to get ahead, and that means that instead of typing this, I should probably be deciding whether to curl up with 'Last of the Mohicans' a well-written adventure set during the French and Indian war that is NOTHING like the (lovely) movie that bears the same name and uses the same characters/setting, or drink tea with 'On the Right to Rebel,' which is a forty-page sermon discussing the circumstances under which Christians are not only permitted but obligated to revolt against their government. And that's not considering Con Law cases, Greek, Humanities, Algebra, Quote Test Making, or the Biology that is slowly consuming my life-blood into its already gore-filled pages (I am the third student this book as attacked). Hm. Good think we're ahead on that pamphlet project...
Of course, I could always combine reading some of this stuff and walking...although people walking around with their noses in books are libel to trip, crash into other people, get weird looks, be ambushed by Orcs, or all of those at once. Which could become awkward. The other option is to be a hermit, dedicate the rest of my teenage life to the accumulation of knowledge (half of which I will use but rarely), and become an eccentric nutcase who dances to the soundtracks from old westerns, wears costumes half the time, and enjoys listening to the teacher that all the rest of her classmates hate.
Or I could just admit that the second option describes me pretty well and add the first option to it...minus the Orcs.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go work on the formulation of conclusions.
Dear Reader,
I know I haven't posted in a long while... this chapter is taking longer then I thought it would, and I haven't had much time to write as of late. However, I am working on it, and I hope to complete the chapter within the next few weeks.
Now with that aside, I will move on to the real reason of this post. Have you ever heard of Wayne Thomas Batson? He wrote "The Door Within", "The Rise of the Wyrm Lord" and "The Final Storm" in his series "The Door Within". He also wrote "Isle of Swords" and "Isle of Fire" in his "Declan Ross Series". I write this because he is one of my favorite authors, and he's come out with a new book.
Working alongside Christopher Hopper (The Rise of Dibor, The Lion Vrie, Athera's Dawn) they have created The Curse of the Spider King, the first book in their new series, The Bernifell Prophecies. I encourage my reader's to look into ether of these writers. If you enjoy my work, I have little if any doubt you will love their's.
A lot of things in my mind, bundled into a few posts...okay, maybe not just a few.OK, I admit it, there will be a lot of posts. I hope despite the "tangled talking," you will enjoy my blog.
