Drakeshelm is finally over 50,000 words! You know, two months after NaNo (which I was not participating in), I finally reached that benchmark. Boy oh boy, that's ridiculous. And before you say, "Oh, but Jenny - " (do you call me Jenny? I usually do go by Jenny) " - you have so many other things you have to do!" let's be honest here and just take a gander at all the times I could have been writing, but I sat staring at Pinterest instead. Okay? Let's get real here. No excuses.
Despite some serious terrain alterations in the novel (and accidentally forgetting to take care of a plot point), the novel is coming along smashingly. I am very pleased with this particular book. Talldogs gave me heapsuh trouble, but Drakeshelm is being a much better-behaved creature thus far. Even better than Plenilune, if we're honest, although the scope of the two is wildly diverse and I don't think you could fairly compare them. Well, anyway, I'm just going to keep saying I'm chuffed as a cat what got in the cream with this book, and I'll keep saying it until I spill the cream all down my front and I'll let you know when it's being a booger.
He nodded. “Heretofore,” his eyelids flickered open, caught in a circle of lamplight as hazel-coloured shards, “I had held it off. But this time I knew it was coming up. Couldn’t stop it.”
“That sort of demon, only thing to get it out is with prayer and vomiting.”
A bleak snow-sky overcapped them, but in the west there was a break in the clouds where the golden evening furnace burned and washed the air with light, so that the few soft-blown flakes of snow which were falling were tinged on their sides with yellow and looked like scattered petals of white roses going by. Alwin sat in the shade of the porch, bundled in his lionskin with a heavy rug of wadmal thrown across his lap. Destrian lounged against the railing beside him where the west made a silver-lined silhouette of his helm and a spark off the chape of his scabbard, and together they watched the consul come up the street on horseback.
“I will take it as a compliment,” he lashed back angrily, “for I have seen that you measure no one genially, and your praise, hard-won, is rarely forthcoming. Thank you!”
She leaned back upon her heels, her head up and her hands dug down into the froth of her furs. The back of the wind feathered her figure for a moment…then she rocked back down into the shelter of the porch wall and murmured,
“Don’t let go your anger yet, Commander. It is at present what gives you strength.”
“I have more than you know,” he replied crisply.
...something caused her to look round once more, just once, to see the orderly sitting forward, touching his Commander as if to anchour him to life, his other hand draped limply over his knee. She was put in mind of a sudden of a tapestry she had once seen, a picture of paradise, in which the massive gilt lion with its scarlet maw and flashing tail lounged side by side with the lean, pert greyhound.
She smiled like a wolf in summer.
He turned his head to look at it, feeling an odd detachment from the gesture, wondering why it did not strike him as outrageous that the slip of golden demon, which spun free of any sort of touch from mankind as a feather in the wind, should be human enough and solid enough to put her hand upon him and not vanish into the air. She had a ring on her middlemost finger, rather heavy for a woman’s piece, and it was a real, red thing in the muddled, blackened room.
Mars, he thought. Her ruling house must be Ego.