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tamingthemuseTitle: Untitled excerpt.
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Window
Warnings: The start of my NaNo story. Fear the length.
Rating: PG
Summary: The introduction of my characters.
Tintagel ached in his heart. The humans were becoming tiresome and he hated that he was thinking that. Maybe it was the way they warred, or maybe it was the way they were slowly turning away from him and toward his brother, the sun. Or maybe he was lonely.
He sighed at he looked down at the earth through the latticed window where small dots of lights showed encampments of humans, gathering together in the winter night with friends and loved ones while he was alone in the sky. True, there were thousands of stars, but they were so silent and far away.
He was lonely. Did gods get lonely? They must, for he was. He was warmed by his bother’s light, but not nearly enough. He brushed his dark black hair away from his face and wondered if he could find someone to be at his side forever, the way wolves were with their mates, forever.
Dare he hope that the moon wasn’t doomed to be lonesome forever?
~*~*~
Talmon growled at the papers that seemed to multiply while he wasn’t looking. He rubbed his eyes and wondered just why it was him sitting here, doing the work fit only for a scribe. Finally tossing another sheet of fine vellum covered with lines of thickly drawn numbers away from him, he sat back in his chair and stared hard at the door of his tent. Silently, he wished for a distraction, but when none came, he forced himself to return to the work before him. Running an army was not cheep.
Pulling his ledgers toward him, he cursed under his breath and tried to make sense of his late scribe’s handwriting. It didn’t help that he wasn’t all that well with numbers. In the next town that didn’t hide away their women and children from them, he was going to have to find someone to replace the man. Someone with a legible hand.
Thinking of women brought his mind around to the sorry state of his personal life. He was greatly feared throughout the land; his warlike ways, his short temper, and his merciless tactics followed him like a dark shadow that he couldn’t escape, not that he had ever tried, mind. Women cowered from him before he ever turned his eye toward them. When he did find one to his liking, she feared him.
Dropping the books from his grasp yet again, Talmon propped his chin in his hand and gazed at the pattern embroidered on the tapestry that hung on the wall of the tent, blocking any from without from seeing within. Behind that tapestry was an old rip that his uncle had laughingly called the tent’s window and never had repaired. Instead, it had been sewn together with a thin piece of his wife’s lace, allowing light in, when wanted. Talmon’s aunt had done the sewing herself, the summer before she took ill with fever and passed before the year was out. The battlefield was no place for a woman, no matter how bull headed and strong-willed and courageous they were.
The women he picked, on the other hand, were all afraid of him, shivering in fear with tears in their eyes, or worse, merely letting him have his way with them. He was bored of them. He was tired of the fear his name brought with the speaking of it. He didn’t want a woman that would cringe when he touched her flesh, so he had stayed away.
Not that he’d ever change a thing.
His father had been a great lord in the north. Owned a castle and lands and sheep and farms and all that. Talmon always had wanted more, so when his uncle started a campaign to conquer more lands to the south, Talmon eagerly joined the ranks. He quickly made a place for himself, a name that was respected for more than what his father was worth, and the beginnings of fear.
When his uncle had fallen in battle, Talmon was given command of the army and he continued the wars, claming lands nobody had ever thought would fall. The great king in the East gave him gold to keep him away from their lands, and honors to keep him loyal. Talmon conquered all of the lands he passed over, and mercilessly killed those that stood in his way.
Shaking out of his thoughts, he scowled at the papers and sorely wished for a distraction. Or a miracle. Neither came, so he set to work, doggedly working through the rough handwriting. The sooner finished, the sooner he can go after more pleasurable pursuits.
~*~*~
Lutelvo held his hands over his eyes in frustration as he heard the late lord’s nephew ordering the new arrangement of the house and lands. The man was wealthy enough to keep all the slaves and servants and freemen his uncle had owned, along with the lands and keep while still living his life of leisure in the city, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
Instead, all slaves were being sold at the soonest hour, the servants were being turned out of the house, and the lands sold. Never mind that the lands had been in the family for nine generations, gifted to the noble family by a king for heroics well done. No, everything was to be just thrown away like so much garbage.
Tel sighed and leaned his head back against the rough wall, eyes staring sightlessly up at the whitewashed ceiling. As a slave, he was to be sold.
The late master had been kind and loving to all his people, from the lowly slave that was Tel, to every last beggar that came to the kitchen door. There was none other like the man in kindness and Tel gave a silent prayer to the Moon to protect his soul and guide him to the afterlife beyond the moon.
Not so much for the man’s nephew. He was lazy and fat and Tel was surprised that he had even made the trip from the city to this far distant land. He could have just stayed in the city and ordered someone else to deal with all this.
But then again, he wouldn’t have been able to snoop through his uncle’s personals and steal all the silver. Tel sorely missed the necklace the old master had gifted to him upon his thirteenth year. He raised his hand to his neck, missing the comfort it had offered after his mother’s death.
But it was gone now, just like his mother, just like his master. Just like his home. Shivering, he stood from the floor, and walked to the window, wishing for things that could never be. His master had often told him that he thought of him as his own son, as he had had no children of his own. If there had been a way, he would have given him his freedom. Tel had no doubt about it.
But, there wasn’t a way. Slaves were slaves. Serfs were serfs, and freemen were few and far between. And he had been born a slave. He leaned out the window and let the winter wind lift his light brown hair from his shoulders and closed his eyes, silencing his mind and hoping for the best.
After all, after the master died, what was left for him here anyway?
~*~*~
Gerrego slammed his hand down on the table, shaking the lamp and making the little flame dance. He glared at the young man that had just delivered the news of Warlord Talmon’s latest conquest. Said youth paled and quickly backed out of the office, stammering incoherently.
Gerrego let him go, knowing that his temper oft got the better of him and his king had reprimanded him several times this week already. Once alone, he dropped to the chair he’d been occupying before the interruption and ran an agitated hand through his short brown hair.
On the table before him, maps of the region littered the surface, marked in places by pervious battles and fiefdoms soon in danger of falling under Warlord Talmon’s sword. There were too many and too few knights and warriors to stand against him. If things continued as they were, all of the smaller fiefdoms will have to be abandoned to their own devices. Gerrego hated the thought of losing any more to that man.
He slammed his fist on the table once again and shoved his chair back. Standing, he went to the window and threw open the shutter, letting in the cold wind from the north, cooling his anger if only for a moment. He narrowed his eyes as he looked over the city lights flickering through small cracks in other shutters as families huddled in warmth, away from the danger their countrymen faced at the hands of the Northerner.
There had to be a way to stall his advance. Turning away from the window, Gerrego resumed his seat before the maps and again retraced the pattern of the battles. Maybe if he learned to fight, to lead like the Warlord, then he could get into his mind and predict his tactics, and maybe he could save his kingdom.
~*~*~
Verica couldn’t remember his childhood, although he must have had one. Well, it wasn’t that he couldn’t remember his childhood, only that it seemed so distant. Surely he must have been a child at some time, grown into an adult at some time. Only, he didn’t remember much about behind young. Hadn’t he always been in this body? In this state of mind?
He tugged at his hair as it laid over his shoulder, worrying his lip as his pale eyes roamed over the temple, but seeing nothing of the beauty surrounding him. It was a problem, wasn’t it, not having anything to reflect back upon in one’s past? Where had he been born? When had he been born?
Who was his mother?
He didn’t need to ask who his father was, he thought with an idle glare at the relics of the moon god, Tintagel. If there was anything he remembered from his youth, then it was the stupid god, always coddling him, being far too familiar than Verica ever wanted any being to be with him.
Shoving his hair back over his shoulder, he stood and walked toward the altar, mentally reciting the prayers that he’d been made to repeat until he could say them in his sleep.
He hadn’t always wanted to be a priest. He had a vague memory of telling Tentagel that he would serve him forever, a childish proclamation, but that’s not what adult Verica wanted. But will he or not, he was a priest of Tentagel, blessed and all.
Or cursed, as Verica liked to think. What other priest had to have the stupid god as a father?
Behind the altar, there was a window that looked out upon the ocean. Putting his feet to the wall, and his elbows to the sill, Verica propped himself up until his head poked out the window into the darkness of the winter night. Salt scented air greeted his nose and he glanced up to the heavens to make sure that the moon didn’t see him with his back to the altar. It wasn’t a crime, but his father would become distressed, and a distressed moon god made for annoying company.
Was that what he was going to be like in his own old age? Was he anything like his father?
He sorely hoped not. He didn’t think he could stand himself if he were half as annoying.
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Window
Warnings: The start of my NaNo story. Fear the length.
Rating: PG
Summary: The introduction of my characters.
Tintagel ached in his heart. The humans were becoming tiresome and he hated that he was thinking that. Maybe it was the way they warred, or maybe it was the way they were slowly turning away from him and toward his brother, the sun. Or maybe he was lonely.
He sighed at he looked down at the earth through the latticed window where small dots of lights showed encampments of humans, gathering together in the winter night with friends and loved ones while he was alone in the sky. True, there were thousands of stars, but they were so silent and far away.
He was lonely. Did gods get lonely? They must, for he was. He was warmed by his bother’s light, but not nearly enough. He brushed his dark black hair away from his face and wondered if he could find someone to be at his side forever, the way wolves were with their mates, forever.
Dare he hope that the moon wasn’t doomed to be lonesome forever?
~*~*~
Talmon growled at the papers that seemed to multiply while he wasn’t looking. He rubbed his eyes and wondered just why it was him sitting here, doing the work fit only for a scribe. Finally tossing another sheet of fine vellum covered with lines of thickly drawn numbers away from him, he sat back in his chair and stared hard at the door of his tent. Silently, he wished for a distraction, but when none came, he forced himself to return to the work before him. Running an army was not cheep.
Pulling his ledgers toward him, he cursed under his breath and tried to make sense of his late scribe’s handwriting. It didn’t help that he wasn’t all that well with numbers. In the next town that didn’t hide away their women and children from them, he was going to have to find someone to replace the man. Someone with a legible hand.
Thinking of women brought his mind around to the sorry state of his personal life. He was greatly feared throughout the land; his warlike ways, his short temper, and his merciless tactics followed him like a dark shadow that he couldn’t escape, not that he had ever tried, mind. Women cowered from him before he ever turned his eye toward them. When he did find one to his liking, she feared him.
Dropping the books from his grasp yet again, Talmon propped his chin in his hand and gazed at the pattern embroidered on the tapestry that hung on the wall of the tent, blocking any from without from seeing within. Behind that tapestry was an old rip that his uncle had laughingly called the tent’s window and never had repaired. Instead, it had been sewn together with a thin piece of his wife’s lace, allowing light in, when wanted. Talmon’s aunt had done the sewing herself, the summer before she took ill with fever and passed before the year was out. The battlefield was no place for a woman, no matter how bull headed and strong-willed and courageous they were.
The women he picked, on the other hand, were all afraid of him, shivering in fear with tears in their eyes, or worse, merely letting him have his way with them. He was bored of them. He was tired of the fear his name brought with the speaking of it. He didn’t want a woman that would cringe when he touched her flesh, so he had stayed away.
Not that he’d ever change a thing.
His father had been a great lord in the north. Owned a castle and lands and sheep and farms and all that. Talmon always had wanted more, so when his uncle started a campaign to conquer more lands to the south, Talmon eagerly joined the ranks. He quickly made a place for himself, a name that was respected for more than what his father was worth, and the beginnings of fear.
When his uncle had fallen in battle, Talmon was given command of the army and he continued the wars, claming lands nobody had ever thought would fall. The great king in the East gave him gold to keep him away from their lands, and honors to keep him loyal. Talmon conquered all of the lands he passed over, and mercilessly killed those that stood in his way.
Shaking out of his thoughts, he scowled at the papers and sorely wished for a distraction. Or a miracle. Neither came, so he set to work, doggedly working through the rough handwriting. The sooner finished, the sooner he can go after more pleasurable pursuits.
~*~*~
Lutelvo held his hands over his eyes in frustration as he heard the late lord’s nephew ordering the new arrangement of the house and lands. The man was wealthy enough to keep all the slaves and servants and freemen his uncle had owned, along with the lands and keep while still living his life of leisure in the city, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
Instead, all slaves were being sold at the soonest hour, the servants were being turned out of the house, and the lands sold. Never mind that the lands had been in the family for nine generations, gifted to the noble family by a king for heroics well done. No, everything was to be just thrown away like so much garbage.
Tel sighed and leaned his head back against the rough wall, eyes staring sightlessly up at the whitewashed ceiling. As a slave, he was to be sold.
The late master had been kind and loving to all his people, from the lowly slave that was Tel, to every last beggar that came to the kitchen door. There was none other like the man in kindness and Tel gave a silent prayer to the Moon to protect his soul and guide him to the afterlife beyond the moon.
Not so much for the man’s nephew. He was lazy and fat and Tel was surprised that he had even made the trip from the city to this far distant land. He could have just stayed in the city and ordered someone else to deal with all this.
But then again, he wouldn’t have been able to snoop through his uncle’s personals and steal all the silver. Tel sorely missed the necklace the old master had gifted to him upon his thirteenth year. He raised his hand to his neck, missing the comfort it had offered after his mother’s death.
But it was gone now, just like his mother, just like his master. Just like his home. Shivering, he stood from the floor, and walked to the window, wishing for things that could never be. His master had often told him that he thought of him as his own son, as he had had no children of his own. If there had been a way, he would have given him his freedom. Tel had no doubt about it.
But, there wasn’t a way. Slaves were slaves. Serfs were serfs, and freemen were few and far between. And he had been born a slave. He leaned out the window and let the winter wind lift his light brown hair from his shoulders and closed his eyes, silencing his mind and hoping for the best.
After all, after the master died, what was left for him here anyway?
~*~*~
Gerrego slammed his hand down on the table, shaking the lamp and making the little flame dance. He glared at the young man that had just delivered the news of Warlord Talmon’s latest conquest. Said youth paled and quickly backed out of the office, stammering incoherently.
Gerrego let him go, knowing that his temper oft got the better of him and his king had reprimanded him several times this week already. Once alone, he dropped to the chair he’d been occupying before the interruption and ran an agitated hand through his short brown hair.
On the table before him, maps of the region littered the surface, marked in places by pervious battles and fiefdoms soon in danger of falling under Warlord Talmon’s sword. There were too many and too few knights and warriors to stand against him. If things continued as they were, all of the smaller fiefdoms will have to be abandoned to their own devices. Gerrego hated the thought of losing any more to that man.
He slammed his fist on the table once again and shoved his chair back. Standing, he went to the window and threw open the shutter, letting in the cold wind from the north, cooling his anger if only for a moment. He narrowed his eyes as he looked over the city lights flickering through small cracks in other shutters as families huddled in warmth, away from the danger their countrymen faced at the hands of the Northerner.
There had to be a way to stall his advance. Turning away from the window, Gerrego resumed his seat before the maps and again retraced the pattern of the battles. Maybe if he learned to fight, to lead like the Warlord, then he could get into his mind and predict his tactics, and maybe he could save his kingdom.
~*~*~
Verica couldn’t remember his childhood, although he must have had one. Well, it wasn’t that he couldn’t remember his childhood, only that it seemed so distant. Surely he must have been a child at some time, grown into an adult at some time. Only, he didn’t remember much about behind young. Hadn’t he always been in this body? In this state of mind?
He tugged at his hair as it laid over his shoulder, worrying his lip as his pale eyes roamed over the temple, but seeing nothing of the beauty surrounding him. It was a problem, wasn’t it, not having anything to reflect back upon in one’s past? Where had he been born? When had he been born?
Who was his mother?
He didn’t need to ask who his father was, he thought with an idle glare at the relics of the moon god, Tintagel. If there was anything he remembered from his youth, then it was the stupid god, always coddling him, being far too familiar than Verica ever wanted any being to be with him.
Shoving his hair back over his shoulder, he stood and walked toward the altar, mentally reciting the prayers that he’d been made to repeat until he could say them in his sleep.
He hadn’t always wanted to be a priest. He had a vague memory of telling Tentagel that he would serve him forever, a childish proclamation, but that’s not what adult Verica wanted. But will he or not, he was a priest of Tentagel, blessed and all.
Or cursed, as Verica liked to think. What other priest had to have the stupid god as a father?
Behind the altar, there was a window that looked out upon the ocean. Putting his feet to the wall, and his elbows to the sill, Verica propped himself up until his head poked out the window into the darkness of the winter night. Salt scented air greeted his nose and he glanced up to the heavens to make sure that the moon didn’t see him with his back to the altar. It wasn’t a crime, but his father would become distressed, and a distressed moon god made for annoying company.
Was that what he was going to be like in his own old age? Was he anything like his father?
He sorely hoped not. He didn’t think he could stand himself if he were half as annoying.
