Daughters of Oyr
Fiction Friday 8: Conifer Rosin
Dec 4th
photo by robert young
The following is an excerpt from an early draft of Daughters of Oyr, my fantasy novel-in-progress.
The world around him moved at a crawling pace. The crowd of people were nearly still, save for a slight sway, like blades of grass pushed by the slightest breeze. One serving woman eased through the crowd, tray raised high. With each step the wine swished within glasses upon her serving tray, her curled bangs bounced. A patron lifted his arms, adjusting the straps of his devil mask. A disguised thief reached out and casually plucked the coin-purse from the patron’s exposed belt. In that long intake of breath Prince Weathermark was able to perceive all these things and more at once. But he pushed it all aside as this woman approached, the groping hands of patrons brushing upon her. He focused intensely upon the breeze of her passing. She smelled mostly of fine conifer rosin, of tarragon and other herbs, and vaguely of a dark, feminine musk. When he released his grip upon the Rhythm, much time passed instantly. Many of the patrons who had been standing around him were no longer there. The woman cleared the twenty some feet between her and the stage in an instant, and was being hefted onto stage by a man wearing a jackal mask. Prince Weathermark heard nothing but an intense ringing for a few moments as his ears adjusted to the passage of time.
As always, all original fiction is copyright Keith Potempa 2009. If you enjoyed this passage, check out more here.
Fiction Friday 6: New Beginnings
Nov 6th
photo by wolfgang
The gods had forsaken this land long ago. If the scorching prime-light of the Patriad was not enough to prove this, then certainly the dust-storms were. Evensong’s cloak was pulled tight across her body, though every bit of loose fabric whipped furiously about her. The pack full of instruments rested heavily upon her back, triple wrapped. But a few hours ago the streets of the Patriad had been a cornocopia of sights, sounds and smells. Incense, fruits, and the fumes of a nearby flame swallower. The thick gray clouds of the storm had swallowed everything beyond an arm’s reach. Evensong could not even see that far, for her face was covered with two thick silken cloths. Yet still she could taste the tiny particles of bone and ash on her lips. Bone and ash, she laughed to herself. At least that’s what that overzealous friar had always said they were; the bones of gods long slain and forgotten, the ash of their funeral pyres, lit by mortal men. It didn’t matter how many thousands of times Evensong had heard the tales; it all tasted like sand to her.
I’m starting Daughters of Oyr completely over. Whisper, as a main protagonist truly was too uninteresting, too passive. Her replacement in the tale, Evensong, is over-confident, cocky, and powerful. She’s unreliable, selfish and dangerous. Though she has money and power now, she still clings to her gypsy-wanderer roots. Already, within ten pages I feel more confident in her as a character than Whisper had in some hundred. Like it is often said, all that had to be written to find the real story. But that never makes scrapping it all easy…
Fiction Friday 3: Brother Madrigal
Aug 21st
photo by argo
The following is a short excerpt from Keith R. Potempa’s high fantasy novel-in-progress Daughters of Oyr. More >