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A Cycle of Seals: Writing Excerpt “The Fount of Infection” (Oeden I)
It’s been almost a year since I last posted an excerpt from my WIP novel, A Cycle of Seals. As penance for my absence, here: take the (tentative) first scene of the novel and see how far this work has come since we last reconvened.
CHARACTERS:
Oeden Sincairn, a boy imprisoned due to an inexplicable illness
Nadielle Sincairn, royal seneschal and mother of Oeden
Isolde Godewine, the Pure Warden of Norire and friend of Nadielle
Royan Godewine, Crown Prince of Norire and nephew of Isolde
LORE GLOSSARY:
Norire, a winter-ridden kingdom devoted to personal purity
Wardens, the clergy and their military
Pure Warden, the head priest and one of Norire’s two rulers
Goodmen, the Norian nobility
The Sealed God, an ancient deity imprisoned by humanity
Undying Night, an annual day without sunlight
The Hunt, an annual contest to procure the best offering
Cycle, an expression of the world’s metaphorical seasons
Crystal Sickness, the makeshift name for Oeden’s inexplicable disease, which causes crystals to be produced from his skin
(All “foreign language” herein is complete gibberish, to be replaced with a handmade fictional language in the final copy)
CONTENT WARNINGS:
Imprisonment, Mentions of Arson, Sickness/Physical Deformities, Ableism
THE EXCERPT:
Veiled by the hollowed-out halo of an unpredicted eclipse, the convicted-sickened charged towards salvation. A Norian midnight provided the ideal escape for those otherwise locked out of the blessed’s sight, its marriage of moon and gloom casting an indiscriminate shroud over the immaculate and the infirm alike. One night to walk as commoners instead of as criminals. One chance to change the minds of ministers. One opportunity to prove themselves pure.
Prison carts rushed shipments of the crippled in their holds to the Hunting Grounds. Wardens perched beside their silent drivers, as cold in their countenance as they were in their war robes, ringing handbells in unarticulated warning: make way for the marred. A useless precaution – no one wanted near the invalid.
Were the Wardens as wise as they preached, they would pry their eyes from the wilderness beyond and keep them on the wiles within. Not every patient in Norire pretended they had hope of earning the priesthood’s approval. Some would sooner slip out of their cells and gamble with the monsters that lurked in the groves rather than those who awaited them back home. Their captors assumed no one would be stupid enough to defy the odds.
Oeden Sincairn – overlooked and underestimated – would outsmart them all.
Wardens had barred every window, but none could ban Oeden from spying on a freeman’s world. If the nation sentenced him to premature imprisonment, he would steal every illegal glance at a life forever outside his reach.
The gray moon hung overhead in apathetic observation. Not red, Oeden realized, not like in my dreams. Its ghastly luster slithered around the soldiers, dispersing as moonlight met metal. Their enslavers – preservers, the Pure Warden would correct him – flanked each cart, clad in all-consuming alloys. Steel medallions sat engraved in their breastplates, a mark of rank, while shackled hands held tight to torches, a sign of servitude. In Norire, even the nobility was bound. As is our god.
Every rut on the road elicited a hissing chorus of chains, rattling arising from the adjacent carts. Inmates coiled together, writhing inside the cramped quarters of their makeshift cells. Every cart had been packed with prisoners – except for one. Oeden required isolation.
If he played his part right, Oeden could present them all with that same exemption and more. Soon.
In the mind-numbing meanwhile, Oeden entertained torching his cart. A dramatic exit, for sure, if he could draw a Warden near enough to the window. But I wouldn’t be the only one seared.
“Burn the cage and the bird goes down with it,” a voice behind him warned.
Nadielle Sincairn now sat opposite Oeden, an unfettered master amidst a veritable aviary encaged. All skin had been hidden five times over, bundled in layers of fur and fabric combatting the frostbite to which Soli blood would otherwise succumb. Only her face remained uncovered, and for good reason – that gaze was weapon enough to pierce what no dagger could. And right now, she wielded it against Oeden.
“Don’t tell me I’m wrong, either. I know my son.” The fowl confined at her feet clucked in affirmation.
Oeden kicked the nearest coop in unrepentant retaliation. “I have to get out one way or another. Fire’s the fastest.”
“But not the safest. You have another means: today’s Hunt.”
True enough – not that Oeden would admit it aloud. Every year, before the Undying Night swallowed Norire in day-long darkness, people pleaded with the Sealed God for protection from the shadow. They begged with gold. With goods. With game, wrought from the most-holy Hunting Grounds.
The rarer the sacrifice, the better His blessing. Each boon increased one’s influence. Accrue enough integrity and no priest could deny your promotion to aristocracy.
Oeden did not dream of purity, only of parity. But the sick had no coin to spare, no cow to skin for their Savior. Yet the Pure Warden, head of the priesthood, had defied tradition and permitted their participation in this sacred convention. It had meant making the trip in the dead of night, before even the depraved but able-bodied awoke. All the more, it meant that Oeden could pray for prey that would pry open the bars of his imprisonment forevermore.
If the Goodmen didn’t get to them first.
“Bold of you to assume the nobles will leave behind any worthwhile leftovers,” Oeden spat. “None of them need the points, but you’d never know it, given how they clear the Grounds.”
Nadielle folded her hands overtop of her lap. She had heard him bemoan the nobility many a time before, but sympathy crinkled her crows feet all the same. “Forget the Goodmen: how many points do you need before the Wardens free you?”
“Counting any automatic detractions for my ‘corruption that precludes a cure’?” Oeden could not suppress his rolling eyes. He had neared the Iron Tier half a dozen times. The Wardens met each approach with random claims of iniquity that dragged his ranking down into insignificance. If he failed to find healing, surely he lacked faith. Surely, he withheld wickedness. Surely, he would bite the next Warden that devised such a bold-faced lie unbidden.
At least one of those was close enough to coming true.
He ticked the calculations off on his fingers, a sin for each digit. Crystal coiled down from his shoulder, the fount of infection, glinting its grim reminder. I’ll prove myself despite you, Oeden vowed. But to do that… “I’ll need a premium offering. Or a miracle.”
“Then consider this your lucky Cycle…” Nadielle hoisted a birdcage onto the bench beside her. Its inhabitant squawked beneath the patchwork concealing it. She snatched the fabric off in one smug flourish.
Inside the iron, a living legend bustled about, blissfully unaware of its mythic status. A crown of black feathers faded into a shroud of white that enrobed the body and extended into translucent wings. Unblinking eyes like crystals – like me – accosted the creature across from it. It was monster and majesty and something immeasurably more.
“The snow crow,” Oeden breathed in disbelief. A premium offering. “Only one appears each year, and you managed to find it?”
Nadielle shrugged with feigned indifference. The castle staff knew better than to question their seneschal’s methods, the mysteries of her efficiency discussed only in wine-loosed whispers. Her knack for working wonders had won her unwanted rumors of witchcraft, reports of spiritmongering, lies of lying with devils and rebels alike. And yet, still she served these ungrateful foreigners.
Sila mido, she would say. All for you. Always uttered with a victor’s grin and a victim’s grace, that same triumph threatened to betray her nonchalance now. “When the Pure Warden tasks you with populating an entire stadium with enough game to satisfy a nation,” Nadielle gestured to the abundance of birds occupying the cart, “you don’t skimp on quality.”
“You mean your friend called in a favor.”
“Or my employer.”
“Bosses don’t schmooze with the servants,” Oeden replied, recalling achingly-late nights spent pouring tea for royalty. Shared talk, shared cups, shared dusks – all the components of conjoined hearts. “Call her what you like, Isolde would let no wrong be done to someone she loves. Not without payback, anyhow.”
Nadielle should have sharpened her stare. Should have leveled him with one look. Instead, her lips drooped like a melting spear. “Don’t mistake friendship for safety, ido. You remember what I taught you?”
“Ifiti yira, ifito kala.” Oeden recited, expression practiced but accent lacking: wooed today, wounded tomorrow.
Before their conversation could continue, the cart lurched to an unexpected halt. A Warden tumbled straight through the sheet dividing operator from passenger, collapsing into the cages. His mangle of gold-laden limbs now lay about the accidentally-assaulted wildlife in dazed disarray. No amount of blind fumbling about could fix his soiled dignity.
Oeden, unsurprised but entertained, leaned down to lift the visor of their graceless guardian. If he failed to withhold a smirk, well, he could withstand that temporary heresy. “Have a safe trip, Your Highness?”
The trespasser spit a feather straight into Oeden’s mouth before his own slid into a lopsided smile. A tangle of blonde locks framed the beaming face of Royan Godewine, Crown Prince of Norire.
“Whoops. Ah, well...welcome to the Hunt?”
#original writing#writing excerpt#original excerpt#writeblr#my writing#writers of tumblr#writers on tumblr#writer things#writing things#writing#write#writer#writers#a cycle of seals#oeden sincairn#acos
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Hello there, friend! Happy anniversary. I'd like to submit the mother-son duo, Oeden and Nadielle Sincairn, from my WIP "A Cycle of Seals" for the art giveaway. I can provide faceclaims, descriptions, etc. as needed! As for fun facts? Oeden's name comes from a canonical, in-universe poem entitled "O Eden" (which I've also written) and every time Nadielle makes a new appearance, she has an additional layer of clothing on. It's symbolic, sure...but also because she just hates the cold THAT much.
awesome, thank you so much! you’ve been entered in the giveaway :)
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A Cycle of Seals: Writing Excerpt (Princess of Impotence)
After three months of continual debate on whether or not to post this excerpt, my friends convinced me to submit it on-stream tonight. While it imperfectly handles heavy topics I myself am still working through, I hope you see the heart and healing process behind it - and, most importantly, behind Eirys.
You may remember these three from my recent Character Description Challenge! I can never get enough of writing their dynamic, even as their in-canon scenes continue to dwindle through editing. Whomp.
___
Project: A Cycle of Seals
Timeline: Pre-Book One
Canonical? No
Context:
The House of Salvation has long isolated society’s sick. The Godewine twins - Royan and Eirys - visit every dawn and tend to the condemned. While Royan attracts the masses with the supernatural power of his Timekeeper’s Seal, the powerless Eirys attends to one individual: Oeden Sincairn, locked away even from the other infirm.
Content Warnings: Illness, Isolation, Mentions of Ableism
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The Yoreword warns of a wickedness more contagious than any sickness, one bestowed upon the lowest amongst them. Eirys has never - paragons forgive her blasphemy - believed that. Illness did not demean one’s internal divinity. Not when the skin-deep sainthood of her fellow nobles could nauseate an angel. Even still, sacrilege guides her away from those surrounding her blessed sibling to instead seek solace with the kingdom’s most corrupted citizen.
With the crowd thoroughly enthralled by Royan’s abilities, Eirys slips outside their thinning scope of notice and down the western hall. While the main chamber had been filled to overflowing with the infirm, naught but a begrudging servant files through the passage here. Those who notice her appearance regard her with the civil disinterest paid to one of their own. Or had they purposely dismissed their princess? Nonsense, she thinks (but does not believe).
Would such insolence not make sense? She is no Shepherd. She bears no Seal. She does not sway the hearts of nobles like Isolde, does not command the arms of soldiers like Sigrid, does not awe the minds of scholars like Ciaran. She is but another stumbling block to the damned’s salvation, a scourge to kiss their scars.
Why must power inhabit those who refuse to wield it well? That question had no answer, or at least not one the spirits deign to supply.
Yet, despite her inherent impotence, one resident still awaits her entrance.
Eirys shuffles down the corridor, around the corner, and up to a room quartered off from the rest. With a knock for courtesy, she slips in without awaiting permission.
Inside, the chamber holds little else other than Oeden, perched at the edge of a bed as unkempt as he. He is dressed, thankfully - not that a medic cares much for modesty - with a tunic hanging loosely off his wiry form. The tension that inhabits his shoulders evacuates whilst registering his visitor’s identity.
You’re safe, she thinks, willing the assurance to reach him. Safe, but not saved.
A flicker of mischief lifts his lips, too weak to raise the bags beneath his eyes. “Abandoning your brother, are we?”
Eirys huffs, indignant fists finding her hips. Even Oeden thought only of Royan! “I do hope that’s not a disappointment.”
He does not answer, and so Eirys sets to work. Oeden needs attention - medically, at least - every day before sunrise, lest their superiors deny him access to the sanctuary. If coming here every morning means her friend can escape isolation? Well, it made her wartime training worthwhile. Her bag unpacked, the bedside table stands littered with supplies of every shape and size: needles and knives and salves that would unnerve even hardened warriors.
Oeden refuses to flinch.
“You should have seen them,” Eirys says as she rifles through her satchel for a binding beneath the draughts. “All those patients, pawing at his Seal like it might peel off if they rub it right. They were two fools short of a parade!”
Oeden cannot see it, can see little else beside this room, and instead snorts from imagination alone. “With Royan there, they only need one more.”
She swats him with the wad of bandages in hand but cannot hold back her laughter. How tragic that such wit must stay locked away. “At least someone pays him any mind.”
“Ironic, isn’t it? His only admirers come from ones the rest of the world admonishes.” The laugh that follows lacks all humor.
There is a sickness in Norire. One that spares the poor and spoils the pure. One whose unholy hand reaches across the nation, fingers of infirmity digging into every manse and mansion. Even her own. Eirys knows this, intrinsically. Hates it, irrefutably. But, like every other illness, she cannot cure it. Not anymore than she might will away the wickedness of kings who condone quarantining the chronic, the heresy of priests enslaving the impoverished, the sinfulness of princesses submitting to these societal normalities.
Instead, she sits down. Shuts up. Prays behind sealed lips to an imprisoned god for forgiveness, for change.
Oeden never minds the silence. His proclaimed disdain for company disproved itself with every unspoken show of appreciation. This time, it crumbled beneath a subtle repositioning atop the bed: an invitation for intimacy.
Eirys accepts his summons, scooting closer, the equipment her plus one. A once-over of his body shows no sign of his condition having spread, but she can tell little with the glove that disguises his limb. Her hand hovers above, but does not touch. “May I…?”
Oeden nods. Neither required consent – thus why she elicits it. No one asked Oeden permission to burden him with this power, any more than they had asked Eirys to deprive her of it. He deserves this small dignity.
With measured tenderness, Eirys peels back the fabric encasing his left arm. Each inch of cloth stripped away reveals the crystalline protrusions carving through calloused skin in misshapen patches. Flesh split in bloodied fissures, ore corroding the body into its personal deposit. No worse than before, she thinks. The thought does little to placate her concerns because that does not make it better than before either.
Oeden evades her gaze. Witnessing her displeasure would surely confirm a deep-whispered suspicion: that he was, even to her, grotesque. She knows that he spies her reaction when he thinks her attention lies elsewhere, awaits a well-deserved grimace or an artificial grin. Instead, Eirys freezes her face in cold indifference. It comes naturally, she realizes - her family has done the same on the throne for one hundred years, after all, for far less noble a purpose.
She pulls a rag from the pouch at her hip and dips it into one of the pungent balms scattered about the bed top. The whiff of peppermint briefly assaults her before the musty scent of Salvation overpowers it. “Ready?” she asks. His nodded ascent initiates the delicate process of cleaning the crystal. Eirys traces the edges of fractured skin with her cloth as if she painted a masterpiece - with precision, and with respect to the canvas.
Oeden winces with each misplaced press of fabric. He never complains, but none could deny the pain he endures on the nightly. The momentary sting ebbs away at the gritted teeth and tensing posture until relief resumes its rightful mantle upon him. Eirys has never seen such strength from someone so weary. Weary, she realizes, and lonely.
He needs tending to. In his body, yes, but even more so in his soul.
“It’s not, you know,” Oeden says suddenly. He still refuses to meet her eyes, but he picks up on her confusion nonetheless, for he continues, “a disappointment, I mean. That you’re here.”
Had he dwelt on her greeting this whole time?
Eirys slips her free hand into Oeden’s, clasping it with desperate compassion. You deserve deliverance, but I can only give you decency. “I’d sure hope not,” she teases, “but we both know you’d prefer my brother’s company.”
“Royan would have only worsened this,” Oeden reminds her. The Seal of Progression could do little to cease the spread of crystal. It could only comfort those who conformed to its whims - and Oeden had never been one to obey. “Besides, who knows what I would have seen, had anyone else done this…”
Ah, yes. The visions.
Eirys understands next to nothing of them, despite her supposed spirituality, but she does not doubt their existence any more than she doubts that their god remains trapped in some undiscovered vault. One touch of crystallized skin could send Oeden into an unconscious stupor. Foreseeing an unfortunate future from unprompted contact became an all-too-common occurrence.
“And with me?” Eirys entangles their fingers, drawing his hands up. “What do you see?”
Oeden’s breath hitches as she scales the goosebumps raising across his arm, but he does not deny her. His left hand rises to meet her, ore-crusted finger brushing against a freckled forehead. A breath. A moment. A hope.
“…Nothing.”
Oeden exhales like oxygen had always evaded him. His head slumps against hers. “Thank the Seals you’re safe, Eir.”
You’re safe for me, is what he means.
She hopes he knows he’s safe with her, too.
They sit there, undone and unsure, in each other’s presence until time unwinds itself around them and Eirys realizes: the military, the clergy, the royalty - none of them need her. None of them need to. Oeden does. And a flustered, wistful part of herself believes she needs him too.
She always loathed her own powerlessness, but this powerlessness to resist him? She could live with that. She might even love it.
#writing excerpt#original writing#writeblr#my writing#writing#writers of tumblr#writers on tumblr#writer things#writing things#write#writer#writers#eirys godewine#oeden sincairn#a cycle of seals#acos
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Character Description Challenge (ft. The “A Cycle of Seals” Cast)
Last night, my friend @ayzrules (who is unrivaled in edits and graphic design, be sure to go check her out) posted a prompt challenge to our Discord server: “describe your character’s appearance without mentioning color” and/or “show us how your character looks through interaction rather than description”. I decided to go for broke and tackle both in one go, featuring a handful of the A Cycle of Seals cast.
Since it turned out so well, I wanted to share it with you all, as I have undoubtedly starved this blog for original content.
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“Oblige an old woman her shallow wish,” Old Gurtrune pleaded. Shining eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling. “Tell me: my grandchildren…what do they look like now?”
Oeden stopped dead in his tracks. Old Gurtrune, as the locals likened their ancient matriarch, had not beheld the beauty of Edenfell since before Oeden’s own birth. Would she remember hues? Would she remember shadows?
His mother had once tasked him with explaining color to a blind client, a failed venture for sure. Now, faced with the impossible once more, Oeden wondered: how do you describe what one has never seen?
So he did what had always worked: look to them, at them, for answers.
Royan stood tall - too tall, this tangle of giggling limbs - as a guard against the encroaching darkness. Warden steel hung off his body in ill-fitted lumps. He had yet to touch the sword at his hip. No soldier’s armor could disguise the pacifist inside it. He hugged his cloak of woven fur, the Godewine wolf enshrouding him in its everlasting protection, tight against the slightest wind. Wide eyes swept the horizon for signs of an imminent snowfall. No predator’s skin could disguise the pup beneath it.
But Oeden need not depict the armored mask this picturesque society plastered overtop of his body. Gurtrune would want to know the son inside, the wick within a silver suit awaiting illumination.
His hair shone like sunlight against the night sky. Each lock entangled itself amongst the stars, weaving constellations together in radiant array. They wove downwards, tugged the stars with them, until they met lips split in careless bliss. That practiced delight birthed dimples that pushed back his freckles like a fortress wall against scattered forces. Even Eirwyn’s Breath - her exhaled aurora reaching out overheard - held no candle to his light.
And then Eirys came, the match to his wick.
Slender fingers still sticky with balm embraced her brother’s iron-clad arm. One poked him in the nose. Another prodded at his hip. By the pout in her lip, Royan must have laughed off her compassion. What an unfortunate expectation - no one ever listened to Eirys until they needed salvation.
Whatever treatment she intended for her bruised sibling she now stuffed into the satchel at her hip. Oeden remembered every vial and vessel crammed therein, its contents spilled onto his bed as his medicine woman worked her ineffective magic. The faith healers of Norire, it seemed, allowed their princess to forgo the stuffy uniform in favor of more girlish garb so long as she retained their supplies. What did Eirys mind? Blood and earth dirtied the rim of her skirts either way. “Best to look beautiful,” she once assured him. “Better to keep the patients eyes away from their own bodies.”
She shook her head in reluctant surrender. Royan’s mane might have mingled amongst the stratosphere, but Eirys’ took a torch to the heavens. The waves of his hair bowed beneath her wild locks and the sky, too, succumbed. Each strand flowed like a comet crashing into orbit, a shooting star to wish upon.
How he wished to run his hands through it. How he wished no dying hands had.
Oeden understood the damage that marred their otherwise-unblemished facade. He had noted the twitch of Royan’s hand when the Timekeeper’s Seal stung his wrist, memorized the callouses Eirys had accrued from amputating her impaired protectors. The world and its Cycles had stolen perfection from them.
Yet, their brilliance never dimmed.
Together they - the only source of warmth in all Norire, in maybe all of Edenfell - turned towards Oeden and deigned to smile. One look set his cheeks to burning, his heart ablaze with affection. He needed these people. These renegades of resplendence. These arsonists in darkness.
One look and Oeden knew what Gurtrune needed - no, deserved - to hear.
“They are a light,” Oeden answered at last, “when the rest of us cannot see.”
#writeblr#original writing#my writing#writing excerpt#writing prompt#writing#writers of tumblr#writers on tumblr#writing things#writer things#write#writer#writers#a cycle of seals#oeden sincairn#royan godewine#eirys godewine#gurtrune godewine
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CAMP NANOWRIMO DAY ONE: COMPLETE!
I’ve got 1891 words down for the day. I started out writing ~1100 of them that I loathed, and then rewrote what I had into one cohesive scene of ~700 words that I liked! It’s not perfect, but it’s got a lot of promise.
Favorite Writing of the Day:
“The Wardens had barred every window, but they could not ban Oeden from peeking into a freeman’s world. If the nation sentenced him to premature imprisonment, he would steal every illegal glance at a life forever outside his reach.”
How many words did YOU write today? And what was YOUR favorite part?
#nanowrimo#camp nano#camp nanowrimo#national novel writing month#writeblr#writers of tumblr#writers on tumblr#writing#writer things#writing things#my writing#original writing#a cycle of seals#oeden sincairn#acos
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So, I heard you were feeling a little down about Valentine’s Day. Don’t you worry: the cast of A Cycle of Seals - Oeden, Briggid, and Imanu - and I had these personalized cards made just for you! Now, don’t you feel special?
Thank you to @christinawritesfiction for the original idea! I invite anyone else in need of some amusement today to do the same with their own original characters.
#Happy Valentines Day#a cycle of seals#oeden sincairn#briggid o'haven#imanu ben-emet#this is the dumbest thing i've ever done#and i love it so much
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KINGDOM COME: Writing Excerpt (”One Way Onward”)
So, guess what? Ya boi moved out of his parent’s home and into his own apartment this past week! Emotions abounded, which resulted in this. What better way to process change than through your characters, right?
In honor of my move, I wanted to present you all with an excerpt you would not have read otherwise. While this event happens mid-canon, the travel sequence itself is skipped over. As such, you get a glimpse into an overlooked moment in the midst of the story, have a chance to see through the eyes of a non-POV character, and you get to hear my a cappella pipes! I hope you all enjoy.
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E X C E R P T D E T A I L S
PROJECT: Kingdom Come
CHARACTERS:
- Nadielle Sincairn: Norian Spymaster, wife of Elyk and mother of Oeden
- Oeden Sincairn: Norian bellringer-turned-priest’s apprentice, son of Nadielle
- Elyk Sincairn: Norian Knight Commander, husband of Nadielle
SETTING:
- Inside a carriage on the road to First Haven in Selhearth, the nation’s capital and the neighboring kingdom of their snowy homeland, Norire.
CONTEXT:
- The Sincairns are on a carriage ride headed for a worldwide festival, the events of which Nadielle believes will tear her son from her forever. The Way of the Sealed God awaits him in First Haven. Recognizing the sign of the times, she wishes for one last moment of comfort with her only child.
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To the unknowing eye, the carriage escorting Nadielle and Oeden Sincairn from their home in Norire to the Havinic Convention would have become a common sight. Merchants, innkeepers, highwaymen: all manner of folk welcomed the traffic, what with half the world on their way towards their continent’s capital at once. None could resist the call of a festival.
Nadielle, however, had never followed the path of men. She tread the Way of Seals - and none could call its roads kind. By dawn, her son would follow in her bloodied footsteps.
The time to turn back had long since passed.
Nadielle knew: the tie between them loosened more by the minute, each moment lost a reminder of their imminent separation. Destiny had set a noose about her son’s neck and pulled it taut each turn of the moon. The apocalypse would have roped him into its approach eventually, had Oeden not tightened the knot himself.
Why, she mused, must I have made a boy as stubborn as me?
Could she even call him “boy” anymore? All baby fat had faded from his face, once-plump skin fading into haunted hollows. The youthful lilt of his lips had sunken from prejudice she could not protect him from. Even his hair had grown half as much as him!
At least his chin steered clear of stubble. Had that too betrayed her, she could envision the catastrophe to follow: Oeden, eyes arched and arms crossed, standing opposite his father. Elyk, blade raised in determination, would trim every last lock from his son’s throat…only to nick the skin and start a feud. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d fought.
And it won’t be the only sword at his throat, a memory reminded her. How could she forget? Nadielle did not need the Timekeeper’s Seal to know the clock counted down to Oeden’s endangerment. It ticked in time with her heart.
A sword might one day rest at his throat, but until then, it made its home in her soul.
Ignorance, at least, still graced Oeden. For now. Revelation would visit him as soon as their ride arrived. But here, he was just her baby. Just her boy. Just hers.
Hers to hold one last time.
Nadielle reached across the carriage and clung to Oeden’s hand. The unexpected contact caused Oeden to rear back, fearing an unforeseen vision. When no portent of tragedy showed itself, he eased into her touch. “What, did we hit a bump?”
“The only bumps I see,” she said, with a waggle of her fingers, “are under your eyes! You need sleep.” Nadielle patted the space beside her. It was not a request. “Come on - better rest while you can.”
Oeden cocked a brow but did not otherwise protest. He stuffed himself into the cramped confines of their now-shared seating until a pool of flame-kissed hair coalesced about her feet. The bells on his chains rung out as he laid his head in her lap.
How she wished she could silence those bells forever.
“You’re hiding something,” Oeden noted. He need not question her: the Spymaster of Norire preferred to keep clandestine at all times - even from family. Even still, he searched her face for a secret he could not find.
“Can’t a mother want to hold her son?”
“Can’t a son want to hold his mom accountable?” His eyes abandoned their hunt. They sought the ceiling instead. “Neither of us have ever been the touchy type.”
“True,” Nadielle agreed. But only one of us regrets it. She threaded her hands through his hair and imagined each strand was a wisp of fire. If she let it burn the wagon down, would it keep them from the coming maelstrom? “You’ll understand one day, when ‘am’ becomes ‘was’ before you’re ready. Then, you’ll remember this moment, and cling to whatever still is.”
Oeden scoffed. “Well, I ‘was’ at home and now I ‘am’ going to a convention - one you will also be at, might I add. Does the clinginess come on the ride home or…?”
“It will not come at all if you keep flapping that mouth of yours,” she corrected. It will not come at all either way. “Aren’t you supposed to be napping? How can you rest when you keep disrespecting your mother?”
“You know I can’t sleep.”
I know. Nadielle had endured a lifelong nightmare, but nothing compared to the terrors in her child’s mind. And I know why.
“Not without a lullaby, you can’t!” Nadielle countered his snorted retort with a cluck of her tongue. “Don’t doubt your elders - my mother passed this song onto me, before I left home, and now it will guide you on your Way, too.”
That caught Oeden’s attention. “You never talk about Grandma.”
“I never want to,” she admitted. “God willing, I’ll never have to again. But I am willing to make an exception: for your last night with me.”
Whatever discretion Oeden carried surrendered to his curiosity. One longwinded exhale later and his entire form stilled. He awaited his serenade.
When you walk away
Will you walk the Way?
When you cannot stay
Will you go astray?
For the wolves ahead devour sheep
And the nightmares hunt you as you sleep
Although you I can no longer keep
I pray that you walk the Way
I pray you won’t walk away
Oeden peeked open an eye. “Is this supposed to soothe me or scare me?”
Nadielle hushed his sarcastic inquiry. The Way would bring him both, she knew, but he need only know the warning for now and await the blessing to be.
When you walk away
Will you walk the Way?
If you leave my home
Where now will you roam?
For I’ve kept you safe here in my arms
Far from the world that wished you harm
When wanderlust has all but lost its charm
I pray that you walk the Way
I pray you won’t walk away
Each completed lyric eased the limbs bundled into her lap. Oeden’s breath evened with every beat, even as Nadielle’s hitched in her throat. This song plucked at heartstrings she assumed had long since snapped inside of her. How out of tune she was with her own heart’s cry.
But only the benediction remained. If her son could not hear it, she prayed that God, at least, would heed it.
May Waymaker see and Seal you
When you set forth from His throne
May you follow in His footsteps
Until His Way becomes your own
Until His Way becomes your own
I pray that you walk the Way
I pray you won’t walk away
I pray, I pray the Way
The mournful lament continued until its lyrics ushered Oeden into a still-troubled sleep and its sentiments sent Nadielle into a hushed, heaving grief. The only noise left to soothe them came from the coachman. His whip did not wait for their wailing to relent. It did not anticipate another needed night together. It drove them on, and on, and on. No matter what.
Nadielle would have hated that sound, if its absence did not herald the end of her world.
___
Thank you for reading! This both pained and pleased me to write.
If you would like to listen to a recording of Nadielle’s song, performed by yours truly, please click here! Fair warning: I am not a songwriter, nor is the a cappella track particularly well-mastered. But it’s all for fun, right?
#writing excerpt#original writing#writing#writeblr#writers of tumblr#writers on tumblr#my writing#writing community#writers#writer#write#kingdom come#kingdom come excerpt#nadielle sincairn#oeden halflife
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WIP REINTRODUCTION: “A Cycle of Seals”
Title: A Cycle of Seals
Genre: Epic High Fantasy
Status: Drafting (Fifth Revision)
POV: 3rd Person Multiple Limited
Alleged renegades unseal a long-imprisoned god to renew truth in a bewitched world
PREMISE:
Edenfell has lived enslaved to the Cycle of Seals - an endless partition of supernatural power based on saintly and sinful bloodlines - since its inception. Every generation has relied on its Shepherd, ruler of the seven divine elements, to unite the Sealbearers and restore the world’s lost glory. Until now.
For the first time in history, a second Shepherd appeared. The world could no longer discern savior from imposter and threw itself into a decade of conflict. With the Two Herd War having ended five years ago in the new Shepherd’s triumph, all his followers seek the means of ending this Cycle once and for all. Their mission? To force the God who started this revolution to cease the eternal succession. But first, they must free Him from the Seven-Sealed Vault buried deep underground.
Yet not all in Edenfell support this endeavor. When the three people capable of unsealing the Vault are ensnared in a conspiracy to undermine their new overlord, they must rush to save the God of old before the lies swallow them whole.
THE THREE SEALBREAKERS:
Imanu Ben-Emet, a candidate for national heroism, has inherited the curse of Edenfell’s foremost enemy. Now branded with the Seal of the supposedly-profane Shepherd, Imanu must prove his virtue the only way he knows how: unlocking the god who made the mark.
Briggid O’Haven, the low-class member of a criminal syndicate, has been tasked with one final mission before entering a life of long-sought honesty. But when said assignment leads her into a conspiracy that places her father in the crosshairs, Briggid must uncover the truth before her family comes under fire.
Oeden Sincairn, a persecuted servant of the clergy, has nightly envisioned a Vault slumbering below the earth - and those who would threaten the savior therein. As these prophecies point the finger at his closest friend, Oeden must clear his name before both are cleaned from this earth.
#original writing#writeblr#writing#my wip#wip intro#writers of tumblr#writers on tumblr#creative writing#wip introduction#write#writers#writer#writer things#writing things#a cycle of seals#acos
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OC Theme Song Tag Game
Hello, o’ glorious writeblr community!
While I rarely have time to fill out lengthy tag games, I wanted to throw my hat in the ring and design a game that can take as little time or as long as you’d like!
Rules: Come up with the name of your OC’s theme song(s), were they to appear in a movie/show/game/etc. and tag one person per OC included! Musically-inclined participants can include how the songs would sound, such as what instruments or vocal parts would be included, but this is not required.
___
Royan Godewine: “A Path Premade”
Oeden Sincairn: “Apocalypse Unshackled”
Sigurd Godewine: “Phantom Pain”
Isolde Godewine: “Frostbit Lips”
Sigrid Godewine: “Birthright Revoked”
Eirys Godewine: “Blind Eyes Can Still See Sin”
The Theophany: “Ex Cathedra (Exalted Incarnation)”
Jerial: “Dance for the Damned”
Farukh: “Smile, You’re a Rebel”
Esmaire: “Desire is a Sold-Out Dream”
Carmila Ramos: “Love Speaks (But Money Preaches)”
Cesar Ramos: “A Future Reforged”
Emerico Castillion: “The Sun Still Shines (At Least on the Other Side)”
Jacinta: “Three Shots, Two Swords, One Sail, No Soul”
The Ambassador: “Currency of Niceties”
Banker of Evelis: “Keep the Change”
Kasumi: “Darkness Unmasked”
Yesenia: “Blood of the Beast (It’s a Feast for Me)”
___
Tagging: @ardawyn, @ratracechronicler, @incandescent-creativity, @lynnafred, @alittleyellowdinosaur, @perringwrites, @minawrites, @jewellsfrommaruss, @hannahs-creations, @writingamongthecoloredroses, @myhusbandsasemni, @cogesque, @fatal-blow, @odysseywritings, @lady-redshield-writes, @paladin-andric, @quilloftheclouds, @songsofaleria
#writeblr#writing#writers of tumblr#writers on tumblr#tag game#writing community#writeblr community#writers#oc#oc theme song tag game
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Kingdom Come: Writing Excerpt (“A Baptism by Blood”)
With my hiatus nearing its inevitable end, I’ve found myself looking for a means make writing natural again. Not having done so for a long time left me feeling anxious whenever I wanted to wipe off the rust and write my heart out. Thus, I want to try something new: writing prompts.
These won’t always be canon, these won’t always be excerpts from the actual project itself. They’re glimpses into the past, into the could-be future, into alternate timelines. They are what will allow me to expand my imagination and hone my skills until I feel confident transforming my outline into a draft once more.
For now, enjoy a snippet into the pasts of two protagonists: Royan and Oeden. Before friendship, before prophecies, before princehood...before the Vault.
___
EXCERPT DETAILS
Project: Kingdom Come
Timeline: 5 Years Before Book One’s Beginning
Character(s): Oeden “Halflife” Sincairn, Royan Godewine, Sigurd Godewine, Elyk Sincairn
Content Warning: Blood, Warfare, Character Death, PTSD
___
The battlefield drank the felled king’s blood with vampiric patience. Each inch of soil sat agape, holes dug from the rush of boots and hooves sitting open like anxious mouths awaiting dinner. Common bodies could not satiate this thirst - the ground hungered for a royal feast.
Oeden could taste it, too. His tongue, his lips, his fingertips: each bore the gravemaker’s stain. Blood had baptized him, a life of innocence laid to rest. He had expected to die somewhen in this war. He had not considered death could take his youth but leave his life.
Royan, however, had not just lost life - he had taken it. And it, in turn, took its toll on his soul.
Hundreds of soldiers, Norian or otherwise, encircled them like a carrion banquet. Anointed armor lay entangled between the mangled limbs of their unnamed assailants. Whoever wished them harm had done well to ambush them. Swords, arrows, the clash of steel and Seals: all an unexpected prelude to this newfound cemetery.
How had they survived when so many a knight met their end? I almost didn’t, Oeden realized. I wouldn’t have, if not for Royan.
Their king, however, had not his nephew’s fortune. Sigurd Godewine, once seated on the Frozen Throne of Norire, now sunk into a basin of bone and snow. The lance that stole his life still sat lodged in his torso, its tip stretching upwards as though it might break through this bodily barrier at any moment and continue its skyward course.
Yet, of the innumerable bodies of knights strewn about, none looked half as bad as the only survivor amongst them.
Royan shivered from a cold no winter could summon. His hands gripped the spear that pierced his uncle’s chest, the very thing that felled his family now allowing him to stand. What armor of his remained intact would soon rust from gore. Most remained in place, despite the casualties - a lost plate strap, the misplaced bracer.
But even through the blizzard, Oeden could see the shine of magic thrumming from Royan’s bared skin. He could feel it, the power a song that beckoned him. Oeden ignored the summons and approached Royan.
Mumbled apologies - or were they prayers? - fumbled from his mouth into unhearing ears. Noticing an unexpected presence, Royan spun about. Blue eyes froze upon recognition of a friend, a glare thawing into gladness. His knees buckled, tipped, spilled onto spoiled dirt.
Royan crumbled, but Oeden caught him.
“Royan? Listen to me,” Oeden pleaded. When his requests went unheard, he yanked his liege’s helmet towards him. “Look at me, Royan. Not at him. At me.”
Royan’s gaze flickered away but once. He met Oeden’s eyes without thanks.
“There you are.” Royan’s face did not mirror the smile in Oeden’s tone. “You see me, right?” A pause, and then a nod. “Then hear me: I know you want to stay, think you need to, even, but we must leave. Now.”
His eyes followed a red tear trailing down the metal helm. Before there be no more blood to spill. The teardrop dripped off of the visor, both boys watching its descent, until it rippled across the back of Royan’s hand. Crimson waves could not drown the truth beneath: a Seal had surfaced on his flesh.
Not an hour ago, that skin had remained devoid of defect. Now, the Timekeeper’s mark made its home on his hand. Had it always been lying dormant within him? Or had Sigurd done something to awaken it in his last moments on earth?
Oeden would have lingered in his dread, had that Sealscarred hand not lurched forward to clutch at his cloak. It searched for an escape Oeden could not provide.
“What do I do?” Royan asked, his voice a quiver. “Everyone will know what I am. They’ll want to make me king, Oeden!” He screamed the word as though it were a curse. “I can’t hide it, can’t ignore it, can’t discard it.” He sobbed: a single, broken howl. “I’m...trapped.”
Oeden knew all too well of such bindings, had borne invisible shackles that chained him to pariah-hood since conception. He refused to let another life be lost to unwarranted imprisonment. “Not if I can help it”.
One hand ripped a strip from his cloak. With the other, Oeden sought a weapon. A knife, a sword, anything would work. The only solution within reaching distance - as Royan made no motion to rise - came attached to the once-king’s corpse: Sigurd’s clawed gauntlet.
Before Royan could protest, Oeden had unbuckled the straps that kept the armor intact. You’ve already doomed his future, Oeden thought with a spite he was glad only God could hear, at least spare his present. One last tug and the gauntlet came free.
Oeden did naught but mumble an apology as Royan stared on with muted confusion. This might hurt, he thought, and swung the gauntlet across his master’s hand.
Royan scrambled backwards with an unseemly yelp. For a beat, the fear of betrayal ran rampant across his face.
Oeden waved the fabric like a white flag. “Trust me.”
Whether out of need or desire, Royan obeyed. The prince bowed in submission as his squire bandaged his hand - an unthinkable act elsewhere. But in the aftermath of battle? No one cared for class, race, creed. Those that outlasted death clung to the living with blind desperation.
As the treatment neared its end, Royan whispered what might have been a word of gratitude, if Oeden had not awaited the inquiry.
“...why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Oeden sensed from his lord’s blank stare that this trauma had overridden his survival instinct. “You can’t keep this a secret forever. But for now? Making it look like an injury will let you avoid suspicion long enough for us to - God willing - get back to Almsgard unscathed and out of enemy territory.”
“No, that’s not...I meant...” Royan fumbled, biting his lip. He seemed a child all the more then, somehow lost in a war zone. “Why, as in, ‘why are you helping me?’”
Oeden could have laughed, should have, even. What a ridiculous question! Oeden’s very existence as a squire meant ensuring the survival of his liege. Sure, they had never shared an intimate bond before, but that did not annul his duty. His occupation aside, who would not seize the chance to have the Northern royalty indebted to them - especially one as persecuted as he?
But the truth? That confession confused him, frightened him. But it spoke to him of a kindness he had not seen in all of Norire - a kindness, he hoped, could become consistent.
“You saved my life,” Oeden reminded him, “or have you forgotten already? Given the choice between protecting me and protecting your uncle, you came to my aid. Couldn’t tell you why you would do something so stupid - something I cannot, might I remind you, ever hope to repay. But I’d say I owe you this, at least, don’t you think?”
“I wasn’t looking for a refund...”
That sincerity warmed the frozen corners of Oeden’s heart. “Be that as it may, I’m indebted all the same.” He rose to his feet, dragging Royan’s weakened form along with him. “But we can decide on debts later. For now, we need to find the other survivors.”
If there are any, he thought. The battle’s gruesome nature left little guarantees of finding life amongst the carnage. Sealed God, if you’ve ever listened to me, let Lord Elyk have lived. Oeden didn’t dare imagine his mother’s reaction should she learn her husband died. She did not deserve to lose anything else.
The boys stumbled about the bodies, avoiding the ravens that had already begun their scavenging. They dared make no further noise, lest the survivor they see be an enemy in waiting. Oeden noticed Royan searching every face, some making his own fall.
These are his men, Oeden realized. His servants, his soldiers. Lifelong friends and family. All to save a king he damned...a king he might become.
When they had thought their search fruitless, Oeden heard a faraway cry. In the distance, obscured by sleet and mist, stood a host of knights. Two men, arms outstretched and voices raised towards them, awaited their arrival: Knight-Commander Magnus and Knight-Captain Elyk.
Our fathers live, Oeden thought, and the relief was enough to set him sprinting. Elyk did likewise, bounding towards his son until he could scoop him up in his arms. Oeden did not swallow his laugh or roll his eyes the way he would when his father embarrassed him elsewhere. Elyk did not think of dignity or disguise his affection for the sake of his men’s approval. Here, now, all that mattered to them both was that they had defied the odds. Their family had outsmarted death.
When both their breaths had been spent, Elyk placed Oeden back down, a kiss pressed to his forehead. “Thank the Seals you’re safe...”
Oeden curled further into his father’s embrace, but his gaze ventured beyond them to hover over Royan’s hand. No one is safe anymore...
#writing excerpt#my writing#original writing#writing#writeblr#write#writer#bookblr#author#drabble#kingdom come#oeden halflife#royan godewine
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