Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Friday, November 16, 2007
I will update soon, I promise! I've been playing WoW and drawing and I haven't wanted to make a new post until I got the picture coloured...but I see now that is going to take much longer than any of you guys will want to wait.
As I put quill to paper I find myself suddenly at a loss as how to begin my tale. My old teacher would tell me to just start at the beginning and keep going until I reach the end, but I’m afraid that there are few stories that can be told in such a simple way. Perhaps an introduction of myself would be the most polite, if not the most literary fashion in which to begin.
My name is Celune Cyncad—it sounds an ill-chosen name for one such as I, I know, but my father was Caradoc ap Cyncad and it was thought fitting for me to bear his name at my birth, girl though I am. My mother gave me my first name for the moon, for my hair was as silver as that lunar orb from the day I was born.
Her name was Elanor Wheelwright and she was the daughter of carpenter who had been raised in Westfall. She, however, left home at a fairly early age to seek training and instruction when her prodigious talent in the arcane arts became apparent. She was as pale a creature as ever walked the earth; her hair was so light a gold as to be nearly white and her skin was like ivory. She had great blue eyes and a ready smile—these are the things I remember best of her.
My father was a priest, and he was the son of Cyncad ap Rhys, the great paladin. He was as dark as my mother was light, with skin bronzed to a rich copper from years in the sun and hair as black as a raven’s wing. The two were like day and night—the dawn and the twilight come at last together.
That, at least, explains my mongrel looks.
I inherited my father’s temperament and my mother’s penchant for all things arcane, though my skill is very small compared to what hers was. My love of books and learning is something I got from both of them, though I believe I have taken it to entirely new heights.
I was orphaned at the age of five. At least, I believe I was orphaned—to this day I still have no proof of my parents’ death. We spent the early years of my life traveling a great deal. One of my earliest memories is being tucked up in a sling at my mother’s back while she and my father walked down road after endless road. I don’t know why we never settled down, but we were content.
It was an abominably rainy spring night when all of this came to an abrupt halt. We had stopped for the evening and my mother was attempting to light a cook fire—even her talents were being taxed by the buckets of water pouring down on us from the heavens—when there came the sound of someone crashing through the underbrush. I remember my father leaping to his feet and my mother diving for her staff when, out of the undergrowth, stumbled a grizzled man in torn grey robes.
“Ælfwine!” My mother cried, dropping her staff and rushing to support him as he stumbled. “What in all the hells—”
“No time,” he gasped. “Get your gear and move. They’re right on my heels!”
I heard at that moment the most bone-chilling sounds I had ever encountered in my short life, and to this day I have heard none to equal them. It sounded like a thousand old bones being rubbed together, and the trees beyond the ring of firelight shifted and swayed through the rain as though stirred by some great breath.
“Take Celune,” my mother caught me up and thrust me into the man’s arms. “Take her and go. We will hold them off and catch up with you on the road. There’s no way all of us could get away, even if we run!”
Ælfwine nodded and clasped my mother’s hand for a moment, then turned and ran with me in his arms. My last sight of my mother and father was them standing side by side, alert and straight with their magic crackling around them as they stood to face whatever it was that was coming for us.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
I know, alot of updates in the first couple of days.
Partially it's because I have alot to say lately--while the other part is that it's just sad to have a half-empty blog.
Art is a funny thing. It comes in fits and starts and then abandons you right on the edge of brilliance to fend for your sorry self. Pieces that you were totally thrilled with not two days ago suddenly turn ugly, and things you swore you'd burn turn up as the standard of loveliness.
Then there's the backsliding and stagnation in skill, style and technique, but that's a whole other sort of vegetable.
This piece is easily one of the best I've ever done. I've been trying to emulate its style and flow lately to no avail--I'll just have to keep on slogging through, it seems.
(WARNING: It's GIGANTIC. O_o)
....I'm the one in the upper right corner with the flag.
Monday, November 5, 2007
When I was a child fear took the shape of THE DARK or THE CLOSET or THE THING UNDER THE BED. It was a real fear—as real as anything we ever feel in our entire lives.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Fine. You all win.