Drakeshelm's first name is "Filigree." No, she is not named after my daughter. No, my daughter is not named after her. It's a subtle attempt to make the word a popular name. Just kidding. Sort of.
I asked a few people to give me blog post ideas, and Mirriam, queen of character enthusiasm, said I should just do a gush-dump on Filigree Drakeshelm. Do I love my character? Yes, absolutely! What do I love about her? Well, let's see...
Filigree Drakeshelm is a firecracker - a little, blonde, blue-eyed firecracker. I'd say she's about three-and-twenty in Drakeshelm, so definitely my junior in terms of age, but she's certainly more capable than I am. You know, one of those characters you wish you were, but aren't. Ah, those characters...
|sasha pivovarova // russian model|
"The Higu—they would have come to us with or without her, but with her I feel we stand a chance. Mayhap she is not bred to war,” [Touchlight] mused, “but the consul has war within her.”Filigree has the energy of a puppy, the distrust of a cat, the bearing of an empress, the tenderness of a mother, and the dubious cunning of a fox. She is a treat to write, and I look forward to loosing her on you in the future. She is not generally a peaceful person, and I think that's what I like the balance between herself and my other main character so much - on the one hand I have the thrumming energy of Drakeshelm, on the other I have the rock-steady calm of Herro. Balance. "Balance, Daniel-san!"
Bonus trivia, about a month or two ago I discovered Russian model Sasha Pivovarova, who is pretty much the spitting image of my mental picture of Filigree: haunting pale blue eyes, bleached blonde hair, exquisitely narrow facial structure which is both young and eerily elfin at the same time. Bonus bonus trivial, Mirriam sent me an article about my favourite makeup artist, and it randomly contained a picture of the Russian model, which was weirdly awesome.
There was a sudden crack of wood being opened; the fire guttered down into a hollow of red light, crouched at the base of the brazier. The sound of snow and sleet rattled in the hall, then Alwin heard the clear, cheerful notes of a roundelay being sung, coming closer, the notes golden at their centres like flames from a candle, and fading at the edges with weariness.
Where is the place where morning sleeps?(Can you tell me? Do you know?)Where is the way to dawn’s gold steeps(Cloak of swan-down, feet like snow)?Where is the orchard of the morning(Aisles of silver, fruit of gold,Where the gossamer adorningFeet like lilies, iv’ry-soled?)From the scarps of tempest cloud-hill(Truly! truly! morn is sweet)Pour the notes of jay and hornbill:“Here will peace and justice meet.”
all images via pinterest because duh where else