Interview with Fairivel, Part 4

Part one here.
Part two here.
Part three here.

“Were you ever in love with anyone before Varia?”
He considers a moment, then shakes his head. “I never had many friends. I thought I loved a girl when I was thirteen, but I never really knew until I met Varia.”
I look at the question this leads in to, one from Nathanael, and wince. I forgot to explain to everyone that he didn’t know his wife was a sorceress. He’d have to message me that question later, if he wanted it answered.
Fairivel is staring at me. “Do you have any more?”
“Um, yes.” I fidget, hoping, hoping, hoping he didn’t hear me. “Nathanael asks if you have ever wondered if your son had contact with Varia secretly?”
“Oh, I know he has. Though I don’t know why she would come back just to see him.”
I know why. I ask another question to keep from thinking about it. “Emily asks if you’ve ever tried to reconcile with your son.”
“After he left? No. I can’t just go gallivanting off when I have a country to run.”
Touched a sore spot there, Emily. “Amanda asks why your son doesn’t respect you.”
Fairivel slaps his hands on the table. “I don’t know. I just don’t. Are you quite finished with questions about my wife and son? Because I have a meeting to go to.”
“I only have a few more.” I begin to get nervous until I realize that he can’t possibly go anywhere unless I let him. "Sandra/Charis asks what kind of books you like to read. History, nonfiction, poems, romance? Or a little of everything?" I narrow my eyes at him. "This is a good friend of mine, so be nice."
"Romance," he begins, his tone echoing my own views on the subject, "is a waste of time. I prefer history and nonfiction with the occasional poem, but usually only historical poems. Fiction itself isn't very ... productive."
"Which is why you exist only in fiction. If I thought the same as you, then you wouldn't exist."
"That's different."
"So you say. Nathanael asks if you’ve had any military training, and if you have, what the story is behind that.”
Fairivel squints up at the ceiling again. “Not military training, exactly. I know how to fight and I theoretically know how to lead an army, though I’ve never brought one to field. I learned that because any prince is expected to know it.”
“This is from Amanda: how do you feel about your brother running away?” Another how do you feel question. Oh joy.
“We never got along very well,” Fairivel replies, stacking the empty bowls together. I bite into the bread again. A maid comes to take the dishes. “I was always wishing I was the firstborn and he was always wishing he wasn’t. Though he’d never have let me have the privilege. Not willingly. I suppose I’m glad he’s gone. I can only imagine what he’d say about me ruling.” He rolls his eyes.
And I can only imagine what you’d say if you knew he had a country of his own, I wonder smugly, catching the thought and tucking it away before he sees it. I’m getting pretty good at this. Too bad I didn’t figure it out sooner. “Do you wish you knew where he was now?”
“Not a bit.” He fidgets, glancing at the sun and how far it is above the horizon. “I really –”
“Why did Vytorin run away?” I say, unconcerned about his meeting. I’m finally in control of the interview. Maybe I could handle a villain after all.
“No one really knows. Barron Rey had no idea and mother was too upset to try to figure it out. But” – and here his face takes on the air of someone who has had an idea for a long time and has only now found someone to share it with – “I think Barron Rey – father – was trying to make Vytorin into something he wasn’t.”
“Vytorin didn’t want to rule?”
“Not at all. He didn’t care about who ruled, but he did know that it would be hard work and trouble if he did. He was always lazy.”
“Did you want to, or was it forced on you?”
He looks down, forgetting to fidget. “Yes. I wanted Barron Rey to see me rule and see how well I could do it, but I only got to rule after he … after he died.”
“Two more questions,” I say gently, not wanting to watch him remember his father. “Amanda wants to know why you never sing if you love music so much.”
He rubs his chin again and smiles. A wry smile this time, one that does reach his eyes but in an odd, jaded way. “No use embarrassing myself. Listening is plenty.”
“Embarrassing yourself?”
“I’m about as musical as a boghopper.”
“Nah. With that voice of yours –”
He bows his head and takes the compliment graciously. “Thank you. I’ll just listen.”
“Someone told you that you couldn’t sing, did they?” I demand, leaning across the table over my cooling bread.
He makes a meaningful gesture at the notepad. “What is the other question?”
I won’t forget that, and he knows it, but I let it rest for the moment. “The last one is from Emily, and she wants to know what you thought about her accidentally calling you a girl, which she apologizes for.”
Fairivel smirks. “I thought it was funny. I’m not like a lot of kings who are all worried about their honor, so you may put your friend to rest. Although no one had better tell my son.”
“Don’t worry.” I know he takes it to mean that I won’t tell, but of course his son already knows. I cover up a smirk of my own.
“Well,” he says, standing up. “It has been lovely, my girl, but I’m afraid I need to run.”
“So do I.” I look down at the bread and wonder if I could eat all the rest of it in one bite, because I can’t bear to leave it behind.
Fairivel hears me and winks. “Go ahead. I won’t look.” He bows from the waist; I nod back, and he leaves.
I glance down at the bread, at the kitchen staff – all busy – and pick it up, and fold it, and smell it one last time, and stuff it into my mouth.
I walk out of the kitchen, swinging my arms.
Maybe I could take a villain after all.
Maybe. Maybe next time.

Interview with Fairivel, Part 3

Part one here.
Part two here.


An oven door clangs open in the kitchen, making us both jump; we’ve been so immersed in the interview we’ve forgotten the world outside. More elves are bustling around the kitchen now, tying on their aprons, staring at us with questions in their eyes. Probably wondering why their Lord is talking to a strange girl and why he’s still at breakfast even though it’s an hour past sunrise.
The baking bread smell multiplies tenfold and I perk up, wanting to gobble down the air. It smells that good. Fairivel grins at me, and it’s that genuine smile that doesn’t reach his cool eyes again. “Laon has quite a treat he fixes up when I ask. Mostly on festival days. I imagine he’ll make it for you. It’s not every day we have a visit from our author.”
My heart begins to shrink with guilt because he’s still not upset with me even though I’ve been sitting here for an hour digging up his most painful secrets. I consider the remaining questions. We’re only about halfway through, which makes me cringe, but the rest of them shouldn’t require such long answers. Probably. “Let’s do some more from Emily next. Do you like to read?”

“Of course! You should see my library. You would love it.”
I wonder briefly if his truthful, vulnerable side has retreated for a break. I’ll ask innocent questions until he’s recovered. Surely no one else would be able to get this much out of him. “I have seen it. I designed it. I have a scene there. Remember –” I stop. No, he wouldn’t remember, because here it hasn’t happened yet.
I know he’s waiting to hear what he should remember, but I’m not about to spoil the end of his story for him. “Do you ride? Do you have a favorite horse? What breed and what color?” I glance up. “Girl likes horses.”
“Evidently.” He gives another absent-looking half-smile and for a moment he looks ordinary. “I love riding almost as much as I love swordplay, and my favorite would have to be my light draft mount, Whisper. He’s a red roan and the loudest horse you’ll ever hear.” A chuckle bursts from him. Soon he’s laughing outright. Some of the kitchen staff stare, but then they smile as he slaps his leg and leans over the table. “Whoever named that horse ought to be sold to the pirates! You should hear him when the groom is late with his feed. Wakes me up all the way on the fifth floor some mornings.”
I laugh with him, my voice sounding like a little girl’s giggle next to his hearty chortle. When we stop, he rubs a hand over his face and picks up his teacup. I scan the list. “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”
“Ice…cream?”
“Oh right.” I hiccup from laughing and press a hand over my mouth. “This is fantasy.” I think of ice cream in a cone, ice cream on pie, ice cream on my little sister’s face. Fairivel’s brow furrows in puzzlement. “A treat made with frozen milk,” I explain. “And even if you don’t know what it is, I know your favorite flavor would be vanilla.”
“If you say so.”
“Would you rather be imprisoned or wander in the desert with just enough food and water to keep you from dying?”
“Odd question.”
“Odd people.”
“I suppose so.” He sips his tea and sets the cup back down on the saucer. I can hear the crumbly sound of Laon slicing the new-baked loaves and my stomach flops over, purring.
“Imprisoned. Prisons you can escape from. And we Fairbrows supposedly sunburn easily.” He flashes a smile, so wide and white and playful that for a moment all I can see is his son’s face, staring out at me. I swallow. “Do you have any other siblings?”
“No, it was just us two. We were probably enough for mother, especially. Barron Rey was always too busy to bother with us. Except when he wanted something.”
Laon interrupts, carrying in a little teacup with some of what Fairivel’s drinking and a gilded saucer holding a steaming slice of fresh bread. He sets them down in front of me and smiles, indigo eyes locking on mine for a moment, dusts his hands on his apron, and leaves. I gape at the food he left me.
It’s a slice of steaming bread, yes, but there’s some kind of creamy, brown-flecked yellow sauce oozing from it. Tiny, paper-thin slices of pink apple adorn the top in a delicate fan and a sprig of mint peeks from the center. I pick it up, my fingers tingling, and bite in.
It’s like a carnival in my mouth.
Fairivel is over there rediscovering his own food, but at my incoherent grunt of admiration he chuckles again. “I told you.”
I still can’t say anything. It’s a tart apple and an impossibly sweet, buttery sauce with the hearty burn of cinnamon. The bread is fluffy and soft but still dense enough to keep the sauce from soaking through onto my fingers.
I find myself not wanting to ask Fairivel any difficult questions ever again.
I pull back, my bite half-chewed, wondering if the treat is enchanted. Fairivel whoops with laughter. “Laon!” he calls into the steamy kitchen. “Elizabeth thinks your bread is magic!”
“Ha!” says the cook.
My face burns as hot as the cinnamon and I put the bread down to consult my list again. “What –” I remember the bite in my mouth and swallow, then begin again. “What does your name mean?”
Fairivel eats a forkful of now-cold steamed vegetables and raises his eyebrows at me.
“Right, yes, I don’t know either. Have you ever broken your own standards?”
“Of course I have. Everyone has.”
I stare down at the bread to keep from having to look at him, wondering how long I can make it last. “Any particular example?”
“No,” he says, and takes another bite.
I know there is, but I don’t have time to force it from him. Besides, that could be an interesting scene. I file it away along with the little tidbit about him swirling the stuff in his cup and begin to think that this interview might be useful after all. “Have you ever done anything off the cuff?” He looks confused and I realize it’s a phrase that’s new to him. “Unusual for you.”
“I…tipped over my brother’s boat once,” he says, almost shyly. I take another bite, letting him know by not being ready to ask another question just yet that I want more of this story. “I think I was fifteen, and we were out boating past the coast. Little things, barely big enough for three people. Vytorin and Barron Rey were sitting in one and mother and I were in another, and I had our oars.” A sly smile seems to catch him unawares. “Mother was in the back seat of our boat and I in the front, but Vytorin and Barron Rey were both in the front of their boat. Unbalanced. It didn’t take much of a push to send them over.” He coughs. “Of course they were both furious.”
“I didn’t know you were a prankster.”
“I’m not. That’s why it was…off the bluff?”
“Cuff.”
He nods, but I know he doesn’t understand.
“What was your happiest moment?”
“There were several with Varia,” he says, but doesn’t share. I’m relieved. She freaks me out. “I almost won a tournament once. Just a little too slow. On my tenth birthday I got my first practice sword. I would say that would have to be it.”
Go figure. “Would you ever give up the throne if it meant saving someone or something you care about?”
He looks up and an unnerving hardness comes into his eyes. “No.”
“No?”
“No.” He finishes the last bite of fish slowly, but I know he wants to say more. I nibble on the bread in between.
“There’s too much at stake here to just…give it up. Leave the outcome uncertain. There’s war out in Lalind and I have to protect this country from it. There are too many lives, too much knowledge here to risk. It’s taken us too long to get where we are. No. I wouldn’t give up the throne.”
“I see.” I stare down at the saucer holding my half-eaten slice of bread. It’s white with a thin gold inlay, with eight-pointed stars at four points along the rim.
Fairivel swirls his tea. I wonder how long it would take for all his teacups to get thin at the middle.

My Adventure in the Dark Pt 3

"Aaron's discovered your water closet," Wyn said, leaning on the back of the chair.
I blinked and nearly chopped the end of my finger off with mom’s chef knife. "The wha -- oh, the shower." I looked up. "Is he actually using it?"

“No. He’s just trying to figure out where that water comes from.”

A clunk from the bathroom made me wince. “He’d better not break it.”

Iri snorted and sprawled in the chair by the window. “Are you kidding? That’s what he’s best at.”

I sighed. The knife slipped again. Wyn stepped forward. “Let me do that.”

Raising an eyebrow, I handed her the knife and watched in astonishment as the carrot under the blade’s edge flew past within ten seconds. She reached for another. I shook my head and headed for the ‘water closet’.

Aaron hadn’t, in fact, broken it, at least not yet. I explained about the pipes in the wall. He asked where they went. I told him the water tower. His face showed a blank. “It’s a tower,” I said, slowly. “A tall one. With water in it. When I turn this” – I yanked the faucet around – “the water rushes down from the tower, through the pipes, and out that hole. I think.”

Aaron looked out the window. “Where’s the tower? And how do you heat it?”

I closed my eyes. “I have to go cook supper.”

Aaron tagged along behind me, barely restraining his other questions. I didn’t know how I could tell, but I did.

Strangely, I found Wyn in complete control of the supper preparations. Mom stood back, looking dazed. I watched the vegetables seem to mince themselves under her hand, then leaned over to whisper, “She grew up in an inn, working for food. Of course she’s a good cook. You’re taking this awfully well.”

Mom looked at me blankly. “I’m either dead or dreaming. You pick.”

I grimaced, yet another hope of help falling from my hands. “Dreaming, most likely,” I said, patting her comfortingly. “You’ll wake up soon.”

“I can’t wait to tell you about it tomorrow morning,” she sighed, wringing the dishcloth in her hand. I groaned.

Something clanked at the other end of the kitchen. I whirled to see Aaron standing on a chair, investigating the light fixture. “Why don’t your torches smoke?”

I grabbed his arm and pulled him down. “You’d have to talk to my dad about that one. Try not to break anything, please?”

Aaron shrugged and wandered into the living room.

“By the way,” Iri said lazily, trying too hard to look casual, “you still haven’t explained this author business.”

I forced a laugh. “There’s really not that much to explain. You all are basically my imaginary friends.”

Wyn’s knife paused. “Your what?”

“My only friends, actually.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Do you want to show them? I can take over.”

“Do,” Iri said, levering himself out of the chair. “It might clear up a lot of things.” He followed me out of the kitchen. Wyn trailed along behind. I dragged Aaron out of conversation on my way to my room, promising that this wouldn’t take long. I should have known that the technologically-minded elf would find a friend in my engineer dad.

“They’re over here,” I said, flipping on the light. The others peered around my room. I knew it was a mess, but there wasn’t much I could do about the multiple stacks of papers, books and clothes at the moment. I pulled the notebooks off my desk and passed one to each of them, keeping the last one for an example should they need one.

It turned out we didn’t need one. Aaron flipped open to the first page, read a line or two, and dropped it onto my bed, rubbing his temples. Iri reacted similarly; opening to a random page, skimming over it, then setting it down carefully with a grimace of what looked like pain. Wyn just stared blankly. I cocked an eyebrow.

“Headache,” Aaron grunted. Iri nodded and sat slowly, blinking hard.

I took the third notebook from Wyn’s unresisting hands. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“What, the writing?” Aaron squinted up at me. “The writing’s good. But I can’t … it’s …”

“Too much,” Iri groaned.

I glanced at Wyn. She looked ready to faint. I hurriedly piled the notebooks back on my desk and tossed a sweatshirt over them. “Better?”

“A little.” Aaron shook his head. “I think you’ve proven yourself, Author.”

Wyn nodded reverently.

“Don’t call me that,” I snapped, feeling guilty for everything; Aaron’s scars, Wyn’s past, Iri’s discomfort. This was one time that guilt was accurate. “It makes me feel important. Here.” I pulled my camera down from the top of my bookshelf. “Look at this.”

Aaron examined it, his pained expression fading. “What is it?”

Iri and Wyn gathered around to look. “A camera – that is, a painter, of sorts.”

“Painter.”

“It makes pictures.” I pushed the power button. Aaron jumped as the lens shot out. I grinned. “Say cheese.”

All three of them puzzledly said cheese, then jumped back when the flash fired. I sighed and turned it off. “Let’s try that again. One, two three …” This time, the picture was slightly blurry, but recognizable. I tried again, separating the three and putting them back together again in different shots from every angle. Grinning, I hit the playback button. “Wait’ll I post these!”

“How does it do that?” Wyn bent over a picture of herself, mouth open in wonder.

“There’s a … device inside, that paints pictures.”

“It’s awfully fast. How does it not run out of paint?”

“It’s digital,” I answered, then remembered that my modern descriptions didn’t do anything for them. Earth to Carseld. Elaya, we have a problem… “Listen, you’ll have to trust me.”

“The last time you said that, it got messy,” Iri grumbled.

My Adventure in the Dark, Pt 2

I should have felt safer, with three armed people following me, but I didn't. Especially not with my back to Iri, in particular. As has been said before, I knew him too well, and I knew that at the moment his hand was probably wrapped around his dagger hilt for comfort. Well, his comfort, anyway. It didn't do much for mine.

I rode a little closer to the middle of the road this time, deciding not to risk meeting someone else in the ditches. It could be Klista. Or possibly Faulkner. I shuddered at the thought. Iri was as close to a villain as I wanted to get. At least Aaron and Arionwyn weren’t fond of wantonly killing people for the least offense. You also never knew what offended him. Unpredictability, that was the plan. He was one of my most vivid characters. I had, however, never counted on meeting him in person, but relegated that honor to other less fortunate individuals. I found my thoughts spinning.

They solidified into one horrified mass when two blinding pinpoints of light appeared on the road ahead.

Three swords flashed in the dark. “Um,” I said, tongue-tied. Again. “It’s just a car – an automo – it’s a ... oh dear.”
“You were saying?” Iri growled.
Arionwyn edged a little closer to Aaron. Aaron narrowed his eyes at me. “What is that?”
I adjusted my grip on the handlebars again and stared straight ahead, my shoulders inching upwards and guaranteeing a headache. “You’re just gonna have to trust me.”
“And we should do that exactly ... why?” Iri asked, shifting nervously.
“Look, this isn’t your world.”
“We guessed.”
“And things work ... differently here.”
Iri glanced at Aaron. “Should I shut her up?”
I involuntarily pedaled faster. The elves kept up easily, but Wyn started puffing. Aaron came around in front of me and clamped his hands on my shoulders. The bicycle fell over. “What kind of monster is up there?”
“M-monster?” I said innocently.
He spun me around. “There. The glowing one.”

I felt his hot breath on my ear. “S-step off the road.”
“Why?”
The car zoomed closer. I shut my eyes. “Just do it!”
“Should we attack it?” Iri volunteered, twirling his blade. “I think – ”
“We all know w-what you think. Get off the road. Now.”
Iri shrugged and stepped onto the shoulder. Aaron let go of me and followed. I scrambled to collect my bike and get out of the way. The four of us stood panting in the dark. Aaron hefted his sword. I wanted to slap him. Closer, closer. The headlights filled the night. Iri squinted into the light, leaning forward to get a look at the ‘monster’, probably so he could figure out how to kill it. I closed my eyes.
I later wondered if I held them all back by sheer force of will. Whatever happened, the lights zipped past us and on into the night. I nearly collapsed with relief.
Miraculously, we met nothing else even remotely frightening until I pedaled up our driveway. The three behind me stared up at the brightly lit house. An explosion of laughter and wild screams trickled out of the open windows. Yep. My house, alright.
I parked my bike on the front sidewalk and ran up the steps to the bright blue front door.
Someone behind me cleared his throat. I jumped. “Oh ... right. You three had better stay here?”
“For how long?” Iri asked, eyebrow cocked.
“Until I can explain ... well, you.”
“And then what?”
“I’m figuring this out as I go along, alright?” I snapped. Aaron shrugged. Wyn craned her neck to look in the window. I winced. “I’ll be back.”

A flood of hot air and smells from the kitchen flooded over me as I stepped in the door. I shut it quickly, resisting the urge to lock it behind me, and nodded to my dad, who sat with a newspaper in his favorite chair. He winked.
The kitchen was a morass of dishes, sounds of popping grease and various items simmering or frying or flaming on the stove. My mother clamped a lid on one unfortunate pot and emerged from the cloud of steam. “‘ello. You’re home.”
“I am!” I said, more enthusiastically than I felt. She enveloped me in a hug that smelled like biscuits and raw bok choy. “Mom?” I mumbled into her shoulder.
“Wossname?”
I grinned in spite of myself. It had been a frequent joke between us ever since reading the Discworld novels, and we had to laugh every time. “I ... had a bit of a run-in.”
She pulled back, one eyebrow raised and mouth curved into a mischievous smile. “With what?”
“Who is more like it.”
She looked at me.
“I think I’d better show you.”
She shrugged, looking more worried now. I took a deep breath and led the way to the door, motioning through the window for the trio to enter.
A minute passed. Someone fumbled with the unfamiliar doorknob. I sighed, stepped forward, and pulled it open. My three siblings chose that moment to race through the room screaming, happening to dash in front of Iri as he stepped into the room. My three-year old brother yelled, half in fright and half in fun as the elf tripped over him and sprawled to the floor. My nine-year old sister stumbled and ended up on top of him. They stared at each other. I wanted to crawl under the couch and die. Trouble was, the space under the couch was only about a inch high.

Aaron stared down at Iri from the doorway and burst into laughter. Iri glared at my sister. Her eyes went round and she scrambled off of him, hiding behind the couch. My brothers watched from the kitchen, howling with laughter. Wyn peeked out from behind Aaron’s back, then stared at my mom. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”
I frowned. “How?”
She stepped forward, over Iri, and into the room. “I don’t know. But ...”
Mom stood like a large icicle, the dish towel limp in her hands. “M-mom,” I began, “this is – ”
Aaron settled it for me. “Aaron Darkstar, at your – ”
“Russel,” Iri said, slowly getting up from the floor.
“What?”
“Yes!” Wyn exclaimed, jumping forward. “Russel. I knew I’d seen you somewhere.”
Mom blinked.
Aaron blinked. “How is that possible?”
I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t know. She doesn’t look like Russel. Russel’s red-headed–”
“And chubby with freckles,” Mom finished. “I don’t know what made her think to base him off me.”
I glanced around. No one else seemed to think this was entirely nuts.
A remote control car zoomed past Iri’s feet. He stared at it.
Mom gallantly recovered her composure. “W-would you like supper?”
“Please,” Aaron said, ever the gentleman.

Race No. 5 -- Haethor

Haethor are humanoid with large silver eyes and slit pupils. The Haethor's eyes, whether they are of mixed blood or pure, are always a bright nearly luminescent silver with flecks of metallic color that match their hair. The pupils of their eyes are created for precision sight in any lighting, from being a nearly invisible slit in full sunlight to filling almost their entire iris on a moonless night. They are not usually deep-set.

Their hair is usually fairly thin and fine, rough in texture with a low level of shine. It is worn in short ponytails or cropped close in men and is worn long for women and boys. The males prefer to have facial hair of some sort. A beard denotes age and commands respect. Their noses are soft and shaped without angles and are not prominent. Their skin is medium brown in color and not easily sunburned. It's thick and leathery and built for work. They are not easily wounded, but are notorious for long, drawn-out recoveries and frequent relapses.

Their emotions are hard to read if they do not wish them to be shown. The forehead is low and wide. They have to prominent cheekbones. They have a very strong, prominent jawline. The Haethor's build is not at all delicate. Their height averages between 5' 7" and 6'. They are thickly built and very strong and muscular. Sense of sight rated at 4 1/2, touch at 2, hearing at 3 1/2, taste at 3, smell at 2 1/2. Their movement is slow and deliberate with moderate grace and agility. Strength and stamina are both excellent.

Mountains or other areas with difficult terrain are ideal habitats. Their talents or gifts from God are mining, smithing and stonemasonry. They learn at a very young age to shape rock and metal to their will. They forge marvelous weapons, armor, and other implements with amazing speed and skill. Often the things they make will take much longer to wear down or break than identical objects forged by another race. Their stone palaces are said to stand for hundreds if not thousands of years.Swords forged by them always fit the ones they were made for, even if they were not measured beforehand. By tradition, almost all Dragonrider swords are Haethor-made.

One of their faults is unsurpassed stubbornness, like the rocks they work with so often. They value solid, unchangeable things. It is very hard to provoke them to anger, but once they are angry they are virtually unstoppable. They hate arguments. They are not known for friendliness to strangers. Their leaders are chosen by tournament.

Their native language is called Hae and is similar in sound and structure to Spanish. They usually speak softly but quickly. They live in secluded, secret locations known only to friends of the race. Because of their affinity for stone, it is often hard to remember things about them. They usually have single children every five to ten years. They live for around 150 to 200 years on average, though some cases have been recorded as dying at 300 or older.

They are comfortable in many climates, and can live nocturnally or diurnally as they please, Overall, they are a gentle and humble but strong people. If you want them on your side, you will have to prove yourself first.

My Adventure in the Dark, Pt 1

I'd never much liked unfamiliar places at night. True, I'd been along this road hundreds of times, but not usually alone and never after dark. I shifted my bike one gear higher and felt sweat slip between my hands and the handlebars. My dad had once bet me five dollars that I couldn't go out alone to the pole barn behind our house at night. Ever since the age of four I'd been too proud to admit defeat to anything, whether it was a race against someone five feet taller than me or my own (incorrect) choice of key that would open the garage door. I'd taken him up on the bet. Getting to the barn at a reasonable pace wasn't the problem. Turning my back to it on the return trip was.

I'd received my five dollars and never turned my back on the dark since. Willingly.

But I couldn't stay at Wednesday night youth group forever. So. That meant at some point I would have to turn around and go home. I'd never been a particularly irrational person, so I knew not to be afraid of the bug-eyed boogeymen every normal person (probably) imagined in the shadows. But those terrible rabbits along the road, just waiting to grab me and --

I grunted in frustration, suddenly reminded of a very cheesy Monty Python clip. The handlebars were getting slick. I felt rather than saw the steep, deep ditch next to me and considered the possibility of paying it a visit if I tried to wipe off that sweat...

I shouldn't have seen it. The moon was a faint, pathetic blotch of light behind soupy clouds and there was no one else on the highway besides mosquitoes, and they aren't known for generating any sort of light to glint off anything. But glint something did. My hands forgot their job of steering and flew up to my mouth as I stared into the blackness of the trees beyond the ditch. And, as any bicycle veteran knows; where you look, you generally go. I had a very bad habit of looking in the wrong places.

I had often imagined what it would be like to fall into one of those ditches. It would be nice to say that my imagination was right and more, but all I really remember is a lot of "Oof" and mouthful after mouthful of grass and assorted insects. As I landed at the bottom and began the customary procedure of gasping, groaning, and searching for whatever limbs had gone missing, the sharp, cold tip of the glint rested at the hollow in my collarbone.

"Light, please?" said an oddly familiar voice, sharp, accented, and distinctly male. My heart went ker-thlunk.
"Blast the light," growled someone else to my right. "Can't."
I edged my hand downward toward my pocket and grasped a tiny flashlight with a texture like snake scales. The thought didn't help much at that particular moment, lying in the rather squishy grass at the bottom of the ditch, but I had more pressing things to worry about at the moment.
"Hold still," said the first voice, sounding oddly frightened. "Don't try anyth --"
I flicked my light on and beamed it upward.
The shiny blade of a broadsword angled from my collarbone to the hand of the man who held it. "Um," I said, feeling the light slip in my shaking hand, and shone it where I guessed his face would be. I almost fainted.

He winced and moved backward. I flicked the light to the side, where it came to rest on a young, fair-haired girl shifting nervously from foot to foot, then a broad-shouldered man leaning against a tree and trying to look nonchalant. I didn't fall for it.
I knew him too well.
The light landed back on the man holding the sword. He squinted into it. I swept my gaze over his face, once, twice. It didn't change. High, proud features, untidy black hair, and four scars across his left cheek.

"You might get that out of my eyes," he grumbled.
"What?"
"That hurts," he said patiently, glowering. "Get it off me."
"Oh," I said, still eyeballing the sword. "You might let me up."
"Might I?"
"Give it up, Aaron," said the other, shifting from his stance against the tree. His entire body radiated tension.
"I wish Smoky was here," whimpered the girl.
"That's it," I said, dropping the flashlight. "I'm dead. Maybe unconscious. Lord, help me, I want to wake up now."
"What makes you say that?" said the shape in the darkness.
"You. You can't be here. You're in Carseld, chasing whats-his-name."
Silence from the unlikely trio.

"Iri," I said mechanically. "Irivel Fairbrow, only son of Fairivel Fairbrow and Varia Moonchild. Forty-one, birthday June 23, height 6 feet 1 ½ inches. Gold ring on the third finger of your left hand. Am I right?"
"Um," said Iri.
"Thought so. Aaron. Naryn Darkstar, firstborn son of Kherin and Vialyn Darkstar. Forty, birthday March 5, height 6 feet 2 inches. Rider pendant with red stones around the rim. Wyn. Arionwyn Genevieve, raised by -- "
"Enough," Aaron snapped, the sword trembling in his grip. "Who are you?"
"Dead," I responded, close to tears or hysterical laughter, I couldn't tell which. "Or dreaming."
"She's not ... I mean, she can't be the Auth --" Wyn began.
"If I had a notebook I'd prove it. But I don't. Fresh out of pencils too." I began to giggle.

Aaron sheathed his sword, evidently deciding I was too insane to be much of a threat, which was probably true. "Is this Carseld?" he said slowly, clearly.
"Um ... no," I supplied, helpfully. "This is the United States ..."
"The wha --"
"Look," I said, sitting up carefully and checking for broken bones, "I think you'd better come home with me. If I'm not dead, we'll need somewhere brighter to sort his out -- please?"
"Lead the way," said Iri grimly.

Character Discussion No.1

Me: Alright, I promised that I would have conversations with you guys on my blog, so have at it.

*profound silence*

Me: Why is it that you can always find something to say when I want you to be quiet and now you can say nothing?

*Aaron shifts uncomfortably, and Arionwyn looks at the floor*

Me: Alright, fine. We'll all sit here and keep our mouths zipped. See if I care.

Me: *two minutes later, a bit embarrassed* Can't you find anything to talk about? You can even argue for all I care.

Arionwyn: Wh-who's involved?

Me: Involved?

Arionwyn: In the conversation.

Me: All three MCs and some extras. Just you guys for now. Why? You've never been nervous about how many people are talking to you before.

Arionwyn: Before what?

Me: Nevermind. Is it the blog aspect that bothers you? Is that why you won't talk?

Aaron: Well, you never know who's listening. Uh -- reading.

Me: Iri, are you joining?

Iri: I feel...strange.

Aaron: You're in the Void.

Me: Not here.

Arionwyn: Then where is he? What point in the story is this? Is he still a villain? Has he even shot Blaze yet?

Me: Ummmm... I'll have to work on that. *pause* Honestly, do you have to be so difficult?

Arionwyn: I wanna go back to HW and play dodgeball.

Me: No. Aaron, aren't you used to tech and such yet? You have a facebook.

Aaron: You neglect it.

Me: Whatever.

Aaron: Do you have to do another battle?

Me: Are you complaining?

Aaron: No. Just asking.

Me: Yes, I do. It's the only way to vanquish Klista.

Iri: I want to help.

Me: No.

Iri: You never let me do anything.

Me: Oh, shut up.