|credit to: ~dman, deviantART|
Friday, April 19, 2013
Announcing My New Fantasy Series
Scribes and songsters alike immortalize many a hero as they traverse through time— terraforming the past with their footprints. Daring knights pulling out sabers drenched in draconian blood… Mages toppling barbaric dynasties and repelling raiders with sheer force of mind… Peerless Elven marksmen summoning a hawk’s eyes to snipe out evil via treetop… The cunning stratagems of Shaadric thieves turned princes… Resourceful Dwarven warriors crafting fate upon a hot myrthralean anvil … All such figures are commonplace epics in the annals of time, told through their various channels. Alas, the handsome champions of yore are propped up by the jewels reaped from their spoils, overshadowing the true saviors— too humble or foolish for fame.
Aye, this tale I shall tell is one you can now only hear in passing at a pub— uttered drunkenly by a godforsaken creature with the longevity to have the memory but without the airs to deny its existence. This is an unsung hero, ignored even in the wake of his greatest of triumphs. Not forgotten but blacklisted from glory. Though fully deserving of the praise, fate played out in the hero’s favor anyway as anonymity was his only desire in life. Ugliness hath spared the soul in question from the limelight, and though he left this harsh realm without a tombstone and barren treasury his blood still courses through the veins of his closest companion… and his impact on the world remains. When the master scribe’s scrolls unravel, this tale shall be omitted… but I am writing it nonetheless. There shall be nothing to substantiate my claims. for a request for this story even mutes the boldest bards.
The hero’s life, though tragic, drips with so many important defining moments that I am forced to tell it in its entirety, beginning at its very start so as not to rob you of the full effect. Rest assured that I am a man of numbers and logic, devoid of the fancy regularly associated with practitioners of my craft. There shall be no falsehood, bias or embellishment— just the absolute truth, magically transcribed from time itself. I have no motive, no lesson to teach. I make no request of you beyond your ear for a day or two. You shall be better for listening anyway, at the very least for amusement’s sake. For it is a tale without equal, filled to the brim with heart, intrigue… and bloodshed.
This is the foreword to my upcoming fantasy series, Orcblood. To supplement my writing, I will be releasing high quality and well fleshed out fantasy novels-- to be published in e-book form. I will provide these books cheaply, at about 2.99- 3.99 a pop on Amazon in the future. Until then, I shall be posting the first few chapters free of charge here on my blog, similar to how I posted the first two chapters to my Steampunk novella. This will be done on a weekly basis, and it will be written as flash fiction. One draft only. (though proofread of course) Look forward to release, as well as the three books to the Vermilion Years Trilogy which will also be in e-book format.
Hopefully, this will generate enough money to allow me to quit my job and let me focus on being a full-time writer! Thanks for your support and interest.
Oh, and here's a short look at Chapter 1 of Orcblood!
“Dear cousin, you have been ‘sick’ for six seasons pass. The inane chatter has trickled to lesser society. You are looked down upon by bought nobility, Mayaline.”
The ill maiden pulled her magi-silver infused Narivean sheets above her jade encrusted tiara, attempting to shelter her ears from the acid spewing out of the gaping hole above her cousin’s chin.
“PRINCESS MAYALINE, do not bury your head like a startled riding ostrich,” the young Duke ordered as he angrily stomped up to the princess’s bedside. “What shall you do if your Aunt’s fears come to fruition and this disgrace leaks even further? Pray tell, how long do you presume you will be able to maintain this ridiculousness?”
“Torren, tell Lady Jaceanda to put her horrid mouth to her loins,” Mayaline retorted into her shimmering silk pillow, frivolously woven from the same magical material that made her sheets. “After all, no man seeks refuge between her deceptively child-rearing thighs.”
“Still your pronged tongue,” Torren said shrilly. “Your coarse indifference to those who share your blood is appalling. The woman you scorn is still second in line for the crown. She exudes beauty, more so than you or your mother could ever hope to match even on your best of days. Do not mistake an intimidating presence for ugliness… or power for undesirability. She commands a force of will that men cannot handle. You of all people should understand Jaceanda’s predicament.”
“Men clearly desire me, thus MY predicament,” the princess muttered. “Carnal needs govern the minds of the fouler sex. Men are aware of your disgraceful mother’s… persuasion.”
“In your current state, I’d say you’d best steer from the hypocrisy of judging with whom my mother chooses to invite to her chambers,” replied Torren.
“It’s by a miracle you even came to be,” Mayaline continued to taunt. “Did I say miracle? Sorry… I meant to say sorcery. If the rumors are true, she—”
“YOU DARE SPEAK OF RUMORS!?” Torren snapped, set off by his cousin’s jibes at his birth. His middle and index fingers glowed as he pressed them together. He swiped his two fingers through the air and the magic blanket flew off the princess. Torren conjured a mirror in front of Mayaline’s haggard face, forcing her to look upon herself.
“The physical form finally matches the beast within,” he snarled. “Look at your grotesque body, Mayaline. LOOK AT IT. Observe the extent to which your abdomen has been inflated, distorted and mutilated. Yours is a scandal that cannot be hid, as clear as the putrid green hue that now paints the horridly stretched skin around your stomach. Your ignominy exceeds your royalty and extends to your very species.”
“You act as though I MEANT for this to happen,” the princess cried, brought to tears by her own horrible appearance. “How am I to blame for this, Torren? Should you chastise me for personally taking arms against a siege? I personally lead the charge as you flicked your dainty fingers in the foes’ direction. As they laughed off your futile flame, my axe cleaved their wretched arses in twain. If not for my cunning, my capture would have been prolonged— and our disgrace the greater if the ransom paid.”
Torren stared into the teary yet fierce eyes of his cousin. He could feel the abuse harbored in her trembling purple irises. The loneliness quivering in her chapped lips. The grudge stored in the scar sliced across her broken face.
[More to come!]