Yes, well the words “Epic Failure” are ringing in my head, bouncing back and forth across the void between my ears.  This relates to why I have posted so infrequently and why the excellent writing projects that I’ve begun and even committed to have gone begging.

Now calling them excellent may be a bit of a hopeful valuation, but if you are reading this perhaps you feel as I do.  I’ve got to say that I love my world of Tir na Nua, I want to paint my world of Tir na Nua, I want to share my world of Tir na Nua. 

So I feel like a complete idiot for being seduced by Writing dot Com.  I’ve so little time to write, so reviewing and doing contests is clearly not what I aught to do, it disipates me.  Beyond even the tasks of writing is the research that leads to what I want to write.  Instead I’ve spent time trying to gather information to write stories that I don’t actually care about.

I have a lot of illusions (had planned to say I don’t have any illusions but I realize that I am probably rife with them) but a claim to writing excellence is not currently one of them.  I know I need to work on my craft, my story-telling skill, my clarity. 

That is part of what I wanted to do at Writing dot Com.  I think my instincts, my realization of need, was correct.  At times I really suck as a writer.   Unfortunately, sometimes I don’t even realize when I’m sucking and when I might be tickling something that is of actual value.  Sometimes I discover how truly vomitous my writing can be while re-reading something that I thought was pretty good.

It is all part of what this blog is supposed to be, my process, my development, my journey.  Have I drifted into the vomitous?  I think perhaps I have.  But I need to get back to what I want to do with the little time I have to do it.  That includes writing on the projects I’ve begun.  I do think that I should re-work some of what I wrote that stinks.

So this is my confession.  I’m an idiot.  I hope to be more focused.  I’ve known I needed that for a month and yet failed to effect the proper changes.  Maybe now I can.  I’ve just finished George R. R. Martin’s latest and though it only left me wanting more it did help me realize that I really want to write on my projects.  The world of Tir na Nua should not wait.

It was at the end of his Twentieth Form.  Buuluchk had a bit of small change left after his Paladin training.  It was not much, but it came to his mind that he might be entitled to some sort of gift, a present to himself.

The Auction House held nothing of real benefit for the pittance he had, so he wandered out toward the gates of the city of Ironforge with his few coppers in hand.  The coins jingled pleasingly, perhaps they are better in my hand than gone for all and good, thought Buuluchk.  Call it a down payment on my future, the wee bit I’ll need for some future purchase.  But Buuluchk did not put them away as he walked out the massive gateway and into the icy air.

“Hey there, paladin.  Might I have a word with you?”

The dirty ragbag was a dwarf, perhaps, but he smelled more like a murlock than a man to Buuluchk.  “Is it a bit of drink you’re needing?  You’d do better to work than beg,” began Buuluchk condescendingly. The dirty man reddened, building toward rage at the slander.

“That was unkind and untrue, I’m a stonemason, and I work hard every day.  Likely harder than the likes of you, an adventurer who knows nothing of what normal men do.” The man turned away and walked on toward the gates.

Buuluchk instantly regretted his harsh words, “See here sir, I’ve wronged you, no doubt.  I apologize.  You must admit you look the part of a beggar, but I had no right to condescend.  I’ve had great good fortune.”  The coins rang in his hand and now he knew what to do with them, “See here, I’m off to make more, I’m well acquainted with work.  I dig metal from the earth and take the pelts of the beasts that fall to me.  Still, I think you can use this far better than me.”  And with that Buuluchk pressed the coins into the mans hand, “There is an inn just inside the gate where you can get a beer and a bath and likely your clothes clean in the bargain.  Go with the gods, friend.”

The man stared down at the coins, but as Buuluchk began to turn, feeling good about the kindness he’d shown, he saw that the man was growing more angry, not less.  “Oh I see, you’ll make me the beggar you’ve accused me of being.”

Buuluchk blinked non-plused as he turned back, “See you friend, I mean you only good.”  One hand went out, opened in friendship, but Buuluchk’s other hand felt for his axe.

The man dug inside his filthy garment and brought out a wrapped package, “You keep calling me friend, but you’d make me a beggar.  Well, be a friend, and for your slander I put a geas on you, that you be a friend to me, to Garglan the Stonemason, and when you learn this thing’s provenance and it’s purpose, you bring word to me, for I work every day and have no time for adventures.  This thing I found at my work preparing a foundation for the bridge I am making.  My curiosity has been on me, I look at it in my tent, I look at it each time I stop my labors, I puzzle, and wonder ’til it drives me half mad.  Be it on you now, slanderous pompous paladin. You figure it out and when you do, if you do, you will tell me.  Garglan, son of  Harglan, the Stone Mason.” and then with a sneer, “friend.”

With no more word than that Garglan, son of  Harglan, the Stone Mason marched off down the hill from the gates of Ironforge.

With nothing to say nor anyone to say it to, and now with a mystery in hand, Buuluchk unwrapped the package to see what fate had delivered him.  Fate and Garglan, son of  Harglan, the Stone Mason, Buuluchk thought.

It was heavy and hard, metal for sure, but worked in a way that made it look organic, as if it had grown into the broken form he now held.  It was not whole, of that Buuluchk was certain, though little else. 

Two figures seemed swathed in the organic network of metal, both bodies without heads.  They seemed of the same stuff as the viney coverings, and yet, looking at it, one could easily judge them separate from parts that were clothing, and parts that were something other, and then the parts that seemed to be the flesh of two tall beings.  It was missing much of what looked to be a background that seemed to almost be a language of some kind.  The clothing seemed missing, especially around the heads and shoulders which were largely missing.

All was hinted at and yet baldly obvious when taken as a whole, but as Buuluchk looked closer he was startled to note that it all seemed one in texture and color and material.

“Hey dolt, get out of the gate. Will you stand there all day, you dunderhead.  You’re holding up progress!” shouted a dwarf driving a cart.  Buuluchk had no idea how long he’d stood in the gate, but as soon as he had stepped out of the way of the carter he went back to examining the artifact.  What a curiously marvelous thing, he thought.  What have you brought me Garglan, son of  Harglan.

“See you there,” asked CuRuada, “I see a man at the fording place.  What mischief might he be at here at the West gate of Ulster?”

“Not hard to learn,” shouted Felmid, “and with a whoop, he set the team to racing, the chariot leaping down the fall to the Ash Ring.”

“This is like to be trouble,” said Fionn to Conall.

“How could it be other?” said Conall, his face set hard and grim.  “Let us go quickly lest that youth leads all these others to death.” Nodding Fionn set the whip to their team and they started down behind CuRuada and the other two chariots.

The young men of the boys troop of Ulster rode down to the banks of the fording place of the White Dash shouting their battle crys and displaying their martial abilities.  As they went, at their head both in order and in ferocity, was CuRuada.  He it was who rode the chariot pole between the team and displayed his spear throwing skills and his spear catching skills as they went.

Felmid drew up at the edge of the water with the left side of the chariot to the man standing across the fording place at the edge of the pool of the Ash Circle.  CuRuada leaped from the chariot and stood in the waters edge facing the man who calmly leaned on his spear with his sheild resting under his hand.  “Who are you that stand at the West Gate of Ulster?” He shouted across the way.  But the man made no answer nor any move save to spit casually into the river at his feet.

“Hey you!  Speak or I’ll come and remove you from the way and your head from your shoulders,” shouted CuRuada.

“A mighty boast for an Ulster brat.  Aren’t you from the famous boys troop that play well at hurley and prance around patting each other on the back?” The thick armed man in mail that looked like the scales of a fish laughed low in his throat, but there was no humor in his eyes and he made no more move save to taunt, ”Any idiot but an Ulster idiot would see that I’m not standing at the West gate of Ulster at all.  You can be glad of that.  I’m standing here, guarding the East gate of the Tenth part of Airgialla.  Go on home to your nursemaids Ulster boys you’ve not the stomach for this, nor any fur on your balls either I’ll warrant.

Rinnchu stepped from his chariot and called, “Who’s the idiot?  Everyone knows that there are but nine parts of Airgialla and that it lays South of Ulster, not to the West.”

“Is that so?  Don’t look now, soft-headed Ulster welp, we are surrounding you!”  The man at the ford laughed a nasty laugh, “Are there any men at all among you?  I thought I might have to call for help, but I only see a pack of boys.” The man shaded his eyes and made a show of scanning the ridgeline, “Did you bring your mothers?  I’d like to meet them, seeing all you pretty boys.”

This taunt brought all the boys but Conall and Fionn out of their chariots and hot to fight, throwing insults back across the White Dash.  The man ponderously slipped his arm into the straps of his heavy sheild and made ready his spear, “Very well, I know you Ulster bleaters are going to want to rush me all at once, since any idiot knows that a fair fight in Ulster is ten ‘gainst one.  I’ll probably need my sheild.  Right, well come on boys, come get your whipping.”

“Hold up!” cried Conall, “don’t you know who that is? That’s Fer Ulli, the champion of the Airgialla.”

“I know him for a fact,” said Fionn, “He’s the one that  Concubar forced their king to excile when we defeated them and took the king captive.  Only Fer Ulli and the sons of Nechtan were not defeated, they only withdrew when we compelled their king to send them away.  I was there, he killed many many good men.  His armor is impenetrable and he is a demon with that spear of his.”

“What are you chatting about girls?  Come now Ulsterlings, my spear is thirsty.”  Then the man began to wade into the stream, “Uh oh, now you’ve done it, here comes the bear at the precious West gate of Ulster.  What will the boys troop do?”

“I claim this combat.  I will face this mocker.” Thus saying CuRuada charged into the ford.”

“Tell me your name boy!” Shouted Fer Ulli, “I like to keep track of all the Ulster boys I kill.”

“You’ll have no name from me but CuRuada.  I can say my true name to the King alone.  You are little better than filth so you’ll have to do with that.”

“Red haired hound?  Little fox is more like it.  You came a long way to die little fox.”

“You talk too much.  I’m going to let all the air out of you.”

“Defend yourself if you can little fox.  I’ll make you famous.”

“You’ll never know the tenth part of my fame.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“You’ll not know anything beyond today.”

This is a project that doesn’t begin and end with my writing fiction.  I plan to involve my daughter and perhaps my son in writing these stories.  Perhaps I’ll be able to learn to appeal to a different audience through this process.  I haven’t intended to write children’s stories even if some of my writing has come off childish.  Now, perhaps, it can be intentional.

***

Aivi was in her place, her secret place, her private place.  There was no quiet in her house, her little brother, Ro saw to that.  Here in the little cave by the little stream, Aivi could get a little peace. 

“Aivi!” came the call on the wind.  It was mother and she sounded angry.  Aivi, for her part, wanted nothing to do with angry mothers.  She hunkered down a little more and planned on returning later than she might have otherwise.  She took up her flute and played low and soft so that sounds from without were masked, but her secrets weren’t revealed.  Sometimes girls just needed a break.  Mother should understand that.

So it was a great surprise, as she played in her little cave, when there were shadows at her cave door, her mother stepped in with Ro held by his elbow.  Realization that she was discovered was replaced with anger that mother had betrayed her privacy and brought her little brother, replaced at last by cold fear.  Aivi expected to see anger on her mother’s face, but instead there was only fear.

“Aivi, stay here with Ro.  Hide.  There are soldiers coming.  Father is gathering things that we will need to survive in the forest.  Don’t come back to the house no matter what happens.” And then she was gone and her brother, Ro, remained staring at her with big frightened eyes.

***

So, the scene is set.  A girl who is a little rebellious.  A younger brother who is not her best friend, to put it kindly.  Trouble on the horizon like nothing she has faced before.  In this story I imagine that Aivi is at least 13, and probably a little more.  Because girls mature faster than boys in general, I imagine that Ro is perhaps only 2 years separated from his sister but probably seems younger. 

They live next to the forest, but it has never been their home.  They are the children of farmers so that the woods are a place to visit, but they are not highly schooled in forest craft, it will be a strange new world and very threatening.

I believe this story will be told with reference to the children’s past interactions with their parents, but at least at the beginning here they will be alone.  I hope this situation will not provide yet another “kids do better without their folks” fodder, that isn’t my intention, quite the reverse.  So I will try, in my writing, to avoid that.  –  LSO

Iamerge stepped out into the day and closed the guesthouse door behind him.  He was more than a little disappointed that Rhuary UiBirlinn was nowhere to be seen.  Another opportunity squandered, he thought.

Nothing to be done about it.  I’ve things to do anyway.  Iamerge headed for the refectory.  The wounded men were waking, and along with herbal remedies to deal with their pain would be a their need for food. 

Fortunately, the monks had done a good job supplying that need after a bumpy start.  At first, they counted up mouths and imagined they need only supply that much more, but the monks of the Biblious Monastery kept themselves on very short rations.  Wounded men needed much more, not just to feed them what they were accustomed, but also more to fuel their recuperation.

Iamerge had benefited from this realization.  It was a benefit of being with the wounded that he was fed like one.  The monks were unstintingly generous as soon as they realized their error.  Iamerge expected that there would be ample food waiting for him in the Refectory.

In a community without doors one hears things.  It wasn’t long before Iamerge began to hear urgent words.  It seemed that the meeting between Gospels and UiBirlinn had moved indoors and the refectory had become the conference room.

It was awkward, but Iamerge decided he might best be served by hovering near the door while the conversation continued.  It was not difficult to hear Rhaury UiBirlinn, “This hill of yours is indefensible as it now stands. . .” Perhaps my opportunity is not gone, Iamerge thought.

“We do not need to defend it, this place is the Lord’s,” said a voice that Iamerge guessed was the new abbot.

“Master UiBirlinn, you needn’t worry about us.  Our lives are in God’s hands.  If we die we gain reward, if it is for Christ’s sake.  Every man of us is commited to it.”  That seemed to be from Gospels.

“What madness is this?  If you mean to commit suicide, go find the monsters.  I am sure they will oblige, but do not provide the meal that brings them to my gates.”

“We do not wish death. . .” began Gospels, but the new abbot spoke louder.

“For a chance at martyrdom we would indeed count ourselves blessed, every man of us.  We do our duty before the Lord, and if He will offer us this cup of martyrdom then how can we refuse?”

“You are mad then.  These are not devils to tempt you, they are monsters who will eat you.  If you think defeat at their hands will be some honor, you go to them, but you will do nothing but feed them.  You will gain no honor, at least nothing that I would call honor.” Iamerge thought about stepping in, but then UiBirlinn continued, “Is the cow honored to be roasted, or the hog blessed bacon to be?”

“It is not that,” spoke Gospels, “ just, all things, even something that might seem senseless or tragic, can be made into good by our Lord.”

“That would be some trick, that.  The lot of you killed and consumed and that to the good?  Will you sour in their bellies and so bring them down?  Wear thee hemlock and nightshade as you go, for eat you they will.”

“Pardon us Master UiBirlinn.  We take your point, I think, but you do not know our Lord.”  Gospels had a way of speaking that could silence you with a whisper, his very softness seemed to make his words more potent, “At one time we had plans for a tower.  It was to house our bells, famously, the very ones for which the town is named.  Perhaps we should consider making a tower to hold us safe as well as to house the bells.”

“It seems to me too late for that sort of effort. . .”

“Indeed, it was half a century ago that the plan was abandoned Gospels.”

“True, and yet our guesthouse is the foundation of that tower and the bells rest in vaults beneath it.  If God provides this extremity, perhaps he can provide the stone masons and crafters to make us a tower now that we need one.”

“Do you imagine that it could be so, brother Gospels?”

“Give glory to God brother abbot.  His timing is not man’s timing nor are His thought my thought.  Still, I have long wanted to see those bells installed, and if God will have a fortress, perhaps he will provide it and home for my bells as well.”

“If you find stone-masons then you’ve found a rare thing.  I need such myself.  I plan to raise a wall above the current palisade, but at low tide an army could walk around the fortifications near the water.  I need to extend the wall into the bay or perhaps build a wall across the dockside and fortify the wharf.  Either way I’ll need stone work if it is to be done right.”

“Are you going in?” The question from behind nearly made Iamerge jump out of his skin.  Iamerge whirled to find brother Corinthians behind him.

“I hadn’t yet decided,” he managed, but Corinthians seemed unaffected by his eavesdropping and he calmed.

“They ran me out, or rather invited themselves in and started all that and I felt the call else-where.” Corinthians smiled, “I expect you’re looking for the victuals for the wounded and the pain mendicants.” a look like concern drifted across the old man’s face, “What do you imagine they are on about anyhow?”

Not wanting to reveal what he overheard Iamerge said, “God only knows”

Corinthians beamed, “Surely that is true. He does.”  Being reminded of Providence seemed good enough for Corinthians.  God knew and so he had no need to concern himself.  “Wait here, I’ll get you what you need and be back in a few moments.  Corinthians patted Iamerge on the way by and slipped in to the refectory.

Again I’ve let my chance pass, Iamerge thought.  With nothing to do but wait, he let his attention drift back to the conversation within.