Two Whole Years!

Dear readers, once more I am interrupting my A-Z series in order to gush . . .

You see, today marks two years since I married my wonderful, swashbuckling hero! And I want to share pictures.

First, my pretty dress!

This is maid of honor . . . sewing me into the dress. LOL.

(She was pregnant at the time with my namesake, Baby Annie!)

 

Next, after the ceremony, sitting a rock. Because that's what married folks do, right?

 

 

He's so strong and handsome!

(gush gush gush)

 

One last pretty picture in color!

 

"And they fully intend to live happily ever after!"

 

Today, Rohan is going to celebrate our anniversary in typical Rohan-fashion . . . filling it with surprises! (I am ridiculously easy to surprise. Even when I'm expecting it. And I love to be surprised, so that makes everything fun!) And we're going to eat white-chocolate raspberry cheesecake, like the one I made for our wedding cake!

 

YUM!

 

Thanks for putting up with my yearly gush-fest, dear readers.





Fan Fiction Contest

Note from the Judges: "Well written and a great idea, snugly fitting in within the already established world of Goldstone Wood!"

A Day in the Life of Sir Miles Leitflaur
By: Victoria

 

Sir Miles Leitflauer sat in the wide, rolling fields beyond Goldstone Wood, his eyes closed in peaceful meditation.  The rippling green grass stretched for miles beyond him on every side, blending into the deep and sparkling blue sea on his left.  A salty breeze stirred his hair, and seagulls soared gently overhead. Sir Miles, after a few moments of peaceful thought, picked up the pencil in the grass beside him and stared at the sheets of old parchment in his lap. The touching romance story unfolding on the paper came not from his imagination. No, for Miles Leitflauer knew that true romance was not contrived or built. The words of flowing script that filled the parchment had been torn straight from his heart—a heart already stolen and broken.

Ah, but that was long ago…and the lovely image of a beautiful brunette with soft and deep gray eyes haunted his memory.

“Iris.”

A tear rolled down his downcast, troubled face, glistening like a…pure crystal? Yes, “pure crystal” was perfect. Miles hastily wiped the tear from his face and scratched a few more words on the parchment. He held the paper away from his face and reviewed what he had written.  It was perfect…so far. But not yet complete. No more words came to his mind, and the story would have to be finished another day. He gathered the parchment into a stack and tucked it under his arm, pencil in hand. A glance at the sun told him it would soon be time. Sir Miles realized he was glad for the interruption. Perhaps the extra time would bring with it fresh inspiration.  He looked behind him at the rolling ocean just as another wave crashed on the shore, foam and seaweed and salt and driftwood from distant lands.

Beyond the Final Waters falling…

The beautiful works of Sir Earnin, or Sir Earnin the Great, as he fondly thought of the renowned poet, filled his mind as he slowly made his way back to the palace. Oh, to have the skill and talent of that brilliant poet…

“Dragon’s eat you, stupid cat!” Miles Leitflauer sat up from the rough grass and dirt, brushing off himself and his clothes with as much dignity as possible. An orange, fluffy ball of cat, brushed against Miles, purring with an unmistakable grin on his eyeless face.

As if he hadn’t just walked between Miles’ legs and tripped him flat into the dirt.

As if Miles had a single reason in the kingdom to be fond of the cat.

Miles rolled his eyes in disgust and glared at evil, fluffy creature rubbing against him as he stiffly got to his feet.

The next time I get a fancy for a new fur coat…

Sir Miles Leitflauer opened the palace door with a bit more force than necessary. His footsteps echoed on the shiny tiles on the floor, which were gold with swirling silver patterns. Now he wished he did not have a commitment, for words and scenes were forming in his mind, brought on as always by the beautifully decorated palace halls.

But he had to stay focused.

Perhaps I’m late already…

Sir Miles walked faster.

He turned a corner and opened the cherry-wood door at the end of the hall quietly.  He cautiously peered in, and let out a deep breath in relief. The room was empty. After opening the windows, which let in shafts of sunlight that warmed the wood floor beneath them, he walked to the desk at the far side of the room and sat down in his old, rickety chair.

Just as a new and beautiful storyline began working its way into his mind, his peaceful, quiet world was exploded by a loud bang as Princess Una and Prince Felix burst into the room. Fond as he was of the royal children, Sir Miles often wished they would lower their voices. He sighed and attempted to clear his mind from all thoughts of romance and adventure as he opened the textbook in front of him.

Sir Miles Leitflauer somehow managed to quiet the children down. He felt a bit sorry for them, two young people to whom life was a grand adventure, cooped up in a small room such as this. Felix’s boredom had already begun to show, as evidenced by the fact that he was drawing.
“At what are you so diligently working, Prince Felix?” Perhaps he had even created a work of art this time.

Prince Felix, seated at his desk in the front of the room, held up a piece of paper with crude cartoons sketched on them. Miles saw behind the exaggerated features as he realized the drawing was supposed to be him. But he refused to let an immature young boy aggravate him, and decided to give a response that was opposite of what Felix had obviously tried to get out of him.

“Most amusing, Your Highness.”  Reverse psychology. That ought to work. But no, the mischievous prince was not to be discouraged.

“See how big I made the nose on this one?”

Miles looked closely. Yes, he had indeed made the nose big on that one.

“A remarkable likeness, Your Highness.”  The cartoons were, after all, exceptionally good for a boy his age. Princess Una, who had been unusually quiet during the exchange, peeked at the paper and wrinkled her nose in disdain.

“Doesn’t look a thing like him.” she sneered. At least someone was on his side.

“Not supposed to be.” said Felix decidedly. “This one’s you.”

During the heated verbal fight that followed, an idea began to form in Miles’ mind. Yes, this was what his story needed…a fight, sparks flying, and a heated debate that would bring his characters even closer in the end. He closed his eyes as he watched the drama unfold in his mind.

After a few moments, Sir Miles Leitflauer realized the room had grown quiet. The fight was ended, the moment of inspiration gone. With a melancholy little sigh to himself, he mechanically began to read the lecture he had hastily prepared the day before, but his thoughts soon drifted back to moonlit fields and fragrant roses.

“Meow!"

The cat.

Yes, once again, it was the cat that had interrupted his thoughts with his grating yowl. Despite all his plans for the slow and miserable end of the furry terror, Sir Miles remembered Princess Una’s orders to “treat him nice” (That is improper grammar, Princess! he had insisted), and, after another small and uninteresting debate that proved Felix never listened to him, continued reading the lesson with as much patience as he could manage.

“Abundiantus V was never intended to sit on his father’s throne, being the second son…”

“Meow!”

The cat…

“Princess Una, we have had this discussion. Would you kindly remove that creature from the room so that our studies may continue uninhibited?”

Princess Una, fortunately, made no protest. Miles’ patience was wearing dangerously thin. But when she reached over to pick up the orange nightmare, he wriggled from her grasp and dashed out of reach.

I could use a new fur coat.

The cat was now sitting on the windowsill, looking very smug. But when Una reached the window, she paused, staring outside.

Not another daydream…

“Oh.”

That was all she said. But the tone of her voice told him that something abnormal was happening outside. Something interesting enough to keep her even from stroking her beloved cat. Felix’s curiosity was aroused, and he too walked over to the window.

"Oh.”

Miles could wait no longer. He walked to the window, expecting to see a dead mouse or injured bird. What else could interest a cat?

But Miles Leitflauer was astonished at the beautiful sight that met his eyes.

“Oh.”

Against all of his previous vows, he forgave the cat.  Because if it were not for the cat, he would never have seen this. The children had already torn out of the room, but Miles did not notice. This would change his story, all of his writing. The inspiration that flooded his heart awed him. Who was he, a humble writer by the name of Sir Miles Leitflauer, that this beauty should be revealed to him? His heart overflowing with thoughts of romance, he quickly took his pencil and parchment and rushed out the door.  He made his way through the huge, echoing halls, practically ran out the palace door and threw opened the gate. When he reached his favorite spot in the tall grass by the sea, he sat down. After catching his breath, he began to write fervently.

___

In the quiet and green palace gardens outside the classroom, deep ruby red and sparkling with fresh dew, bloomed a single rose.

Literary Embarrassment

So last weekend was the meeting of my lovely Ladies' Literary League (always a pleasure).  As we partook of delightful potluck goodies (including spicy chili, sparkling cider, and homemade ice cream) we discussed Things Literary as Literary Leagues are wont to do.

I asked the question: "So, what has everyone been reading these days?"

Literary Lady #1: "I've been reading the poetry of Pablo Neruda in both English and Spanish."

Literary Lady #2: "I've been reading the wonderful epic, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell."

Literary Lady #3: "I've been reading Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English Nation."

Literary Ladies All: "What have you been reading, Anne Elisabeth?"

AE: "I've been reading a book called Shades of Gray--"

*Corporate Gasp*

*Hands Pound the Table*

Literary Ladies: "You WHAT?!?!?!"

AE (blushing): "Um . . . not to be confused with a work of similar title, 50 Shades of Gray. Just Shades of Gray. It's, um, by Jasper Fforde. It's a dystopian . . ."

Ah! The agonies of literary embarrassment!

(Then we all had a good laugh, discussed Jasper Fforde, and ate more homemade ice cream!)

Friday Tidbits

Declarative Openings

During last week's Friday Tidbit, Victoria asked me what my favorite kind of book opening is. Here is her question:

"Anne Elisabeth, what is your favorite kind of book beginning? More specifically, I mean. A lone person crying? The middle of an extremely important discussion? A frantic search for someone or something missing?"

And I started to write up an answer, got so caught up in it, that I found I'd written an entire blog post's worth of material. So you're going to get that answer now for this week's Friday Tidbit!

My favorite type of book opening is something I will call a "Declarative Opening." By this, I mean that the story starts with an important, stated piece of information. Something intriguing that soon points to the primary character and an important conflict, but without immediate action or dialogue.

Jane Austen did this kind of opening to most famous effect when she wrote: "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife."

This is a declaration of what will end up being the driving conflict of a great part of the novel. Ms. Austen goes on with a certain amount of narrative embellishment and then, eventually, moves to the characters themselves.

I did something similar with the opening chapter of Veiled Rose, which begins:

They said a Monster lived in the mountains.

They couldn't say where it hid. They couldn't say when it had come. They certainly couldn't say what it looked like, though they had plenty of conflicting ideas on that subject. But they all agreed that it was there. Somewhere.

They being no one in particular and everyone in general who lived and worked at Hill House, where Leo spent the summer of his eleventh year. (Veiled Rose, p. 16)

You see how this begins with one of the important conflicts, but it's neither a conversation nor an active scene. It's a an opening statement that declares a conundrum and that eventually leads on to our hero, who will now face the conundrum for himself.

This is a trick that works very well if your story is written in the omniscient narrative, as my stories are. Doesn't work with every narrative voice, but I'd definitely recommend experimenting with "Declarative Openings."

How might it look in your current novel?

 

Fan Fiction Contest

Note from the Judges: "Wow! You gave me chills with this real-life battle for the heart and soul of a young woman."

 

The Call

By: Christy Shimamoto

    A wood thrush sang its sweet and wild song in the distance. “Won’t you follow me?” The silver voice asked. “No! I won’t!” She cried, “It’s my choice! I’ll serve myself! I’ll do what I want! You and the dragon are the same! You demand my full allegiance! I’ll be free!”

    “You can’t stay on the fence forever,” the voice sang, “if you stay too long, you’ll fall over. I love you. True freedom is found in serving me. Won’t you follow me?” “No! It’s my choice! I’ll stay on the fence for as long as I want!”

    With that, she tried to run away from that pure melody, tried to go far beyond where the song could reach her ears. Another voice took its place. “You’re already mine. You’ve been mine since the day you were born!” This voice was hard and cruel. The dragon was always taunting, always torturing her soul. “You’re mine. Look at all I can give to you! Pleasure, money, and no obligations! You can’t escape me, so why try? Just give in.”

    She took up drinking and smoking, weed and cocaine. And yet still the thrush’s voice called “I still love you, won’t you follow me?”

    Then one day, she saw a church sign. It read: “Sinners Welcome”. But how could there be forgiveness after all she had done? The dragon screamed in her ear, “You’ll never be clean! You’re mine forever!” And yet the bird still called, “Follow me.”

     In she went, besides all the dragon’s protesting. “You see,” the young pastor said, “we don’t have to stay on the devil’s side of the fence forever. If you just accept, you can be taken over from death to life.” At the end of the service, the pastor said a salvation prayer. The wood thrush asked once more, “I love you no matter what you’ve done. Won’t you follow me?” And the girl surrendered. “Yes!” She cried.

Will you follow Him?

He’s calling you.

 

I is for Imraldera

Oh, dear. I got so distracted by all the wonderful Fan Fiction, I almost forgot to continue this A-Z series on Moonblood! But I'm back now, and with one of the fan-favorite characters: The lovely Lady of the Haven, Dame Imraldera.

We had met her once before, of course, in Heartless, when she tended to Prince Felix's wounds. She was described there like so:

The woman . . . stepped through a leafy curtain, bearing a silver tray that held a tiny silver bowl and a thin silver pitcher. She wore a long lavender tunic and billowy trousers of light green beneath, after an old and foreign style that Felix had never before seen. A filmy scarf draped over her hair, which was black, and her eyes were blacker still. As she came closer, Felix frowned. At first he had thought her not much older than Una, but now he  guessed that she must surely be far older, though her dark features were smooth and soft like a girls. (Heartless, p. 266)

Imraldera is not a Faerie. But neither is she a mortal, as Felix swiftly learns. She is the Lady of the Haven, servant of the Prince of Farthestshore. And she has a history, hinted at in the pages of Heartless.

"And the Prince is my master, yes. but he is more than that to me. He rescued me from . . . from an evil such as I will not describe to you here and now." A dark expression passed across her face as she remembered, but she shook it aside. "He rescued me, and now I call him my brother as well as my lord." (Heartless, p. 268)

But Imraldera remains for the most part a mystery through the course of Heartless. It isn't until Moonblood that we begin to learn a little more of her. She keeps a library, a vast and eclectic library in the Haven, where she records the histories of many worlds and prophesies of worlds to come. She and her library have both gone down in legend and myth, even in the mortal world.

But there is far more to Dame Imraldera. Indeed, when Lionheart first encounters her, he is shocked. "Silent lady!" he calls her.

"Why do you call me that?" Imraldera responds.

He cannot say why. But somehow, Lionheart recognizes her at once. He recognizes Maid Starflower, the Silent Lady, from the most famous of all Southlands' legends: the story of Starflower and the Wolf Lord. There have been statues built in her honor, including a great fountain that once stood in the main courtyard of the Eldest's House. Her likeness (and that of her great foe) has graced more paintings and murals and decorative reliefs than any other in history!

So at one glance, Lionheart recognizes her.

 . . . her face, while the features were unlike any he had ever seen portrayed, was unmistakable. "You are the Panther Master's daughter, aren't you? Maid Starflower, the Silent Lady?"

But she responds only, "I am called Imraldera . . . and I am not silent." (Moonblood, p. 222)

This is fiction, however. So we know there is a whole lot more going on here than Lionheart comprehends! We know there was some connection between her and the phantom youth Lionheart encountered in the Wood Between.

It came like smoke through the fir trees, seemed to solidify into the semblance of a young man, then returned to smoke, drifting over the moss-grown ground. Lionheart did not breathe as it drew near him, could not move a muscle. Yet the smoke or youth, whatever it was, became aware of him suddenly and wafted toward him. Hazy tendrils reached out like pleading hands, and Lionheart heard a voice.

"At last, you've heard my cries. Brother!" The accent was thick and ancient, making brother sound like brether. "Take this, my cord's frayed end." The smoke wrapped about Lionheart's fingers, and he thought he felt something pressed into his grasp. "Take it to the Panther Master's folk and be sure you fasten it to the stake."

As though some wind that Lionheart could not feel  had caught it, the cloud was dragged away. But the voice lingered, crying, "Bear word of me to the Starflower! Tell her I will yet slay a beast!" (Moonblood, p. 125)

And Lionheart did as the wraith said, giving Dame Imraldera the beads on a cord which the phantom youth pressed into his hand. Dame Imraldera, however, never did acknowledge either her identity or her ownership of those beads.

But she did keep them.

We all, of course, know the far more interesting little exchange pertaining to that phantom, those beads, and Dame Imraldera. For Lionheart was not the only one to encounter that wraith. No, indeed . . . blind Poet Eanrin was there, and he heard the whole exchange. Afterwards, he spoke to Lionheart briefly explaining to him who the phantom might have been.

"You know the custom, don’t' you?" said the cat, sitting once more at his feet.

Lionheart knew. "The rite of passage into manhood. In bygone days, boys would climb down to the Wilderlands and not return until they'd killed a beast. Most often a bird or a squirrel. But some would bring back creatures more fantastic. Creatures which, they say, turned to stone, then to dust when daylight struck them."

The cat nodded. "They never entered the Wood without first tying a long cord about one wrist, the other end to a stake. The village remained by the stake as the boy entered the Wood, and they pulled the cord occasionally to remind him of his own time, his own place . . . But sometimes, the cord would break." (p. 126)

Later on, when Imraldera and Eanrin sit together by Lionheart's sickbed, Imraldera asks Eanrin if they met anyone in the Wood . . . only to find Eanrin hesitant to tell her. Later still, Lionheart, giving her bead tells her:

"We . . . I . . . Eanrin and I met someone in the Wood. He said to tell Starflower that he would yet slay a beast."

"Is that so?" Her face was quiet. She whispered, more to herself than to Lionheart, "Is that, I wonder, what he did not wish to tell me?" (p. 222)

So much mystery! And so much unresolved drama. But, sadly, the uncovering of those mysteries is not the course of Moonblood's tale, so you will, dear reader, will have to wait a little . . .

In the meanwhile, I will say that Dame Imraldera is one of my very favorite characters, not only in Moonblod, but in the series as a whole. She is a character about whom I've been writing since high school. And, indeed, she had a brief feature in a short story I wrote for a college creative writing class, back in my sophomore year! So I'm very attached.

And looking forward SO much to sharing more about her in upcoming novels!

So what are your thoughts on Dame Imraldera? Anything you find particularly intriguing? A very different lady knight than our beloved Beana; more earnest, but no less brave!

Fan Fiction Contest

A Note from the Judges: "This story is completely charming! A real talent on display here!"

Artistic Liberties

By: M. J. Morgan

 

The next chord he strummed came in an almost irritatingly beautiful tone.  He faced the opposite side of the small grove, his ears tuned to the sound of the instrument, which bore a striking resemblance to some sort of lute, leaning in the crook of his elbow.  He frowned, picking the strings individually as if he was in the middle of deciding something.

A woman sat on the other side of the grove, twiddling with a large, plumy quill pen while staring at a blank piece of parchment.

She tapped her fingers on her knee for a few moments before her cavernous dark eyes lifted to address her companion, “Eanrin, whichever way you want to end the tune, it sounds beautiful, but I cannot write anything until you tell me the words.”

The man acknowledged her with a smile, “Well, shall I serenade you with the ballad of Rose Awaits the Moonlight so far, then?”

Dame Imraldera sat on an immense fallen log with the parchment propped on a large book for ease of use.  Her inkwell was nested in a knot on said log as she prepared to pen another one of his pieces.  For now, they had chosen a small outcropping of trees in relative distance to the festivities so Eanrin could allow his creative spirit to “breathe” before he would have to escort a young audacious prince back to Parumvir.

The poet readied his voice and strummed the first chord, and Imraldera prepared her pen.

Dark was the night upon which begins

A tale of passion to rouse the soul

Queen mother bore child ‘cross the gates

Atoning for acrimonious sins

Or so the tale’s been told.

 

Oh, beauteous girl

How deep is thy skin

That thy mother should leave thee

With world of beasts therein

 

Amongst the Wood for many long years

In shadow of a mischievous prince

So frozen and dark that no one could see

Past the mask that veiled the tears

And such it has been ever since

 

Oh, beauteous girl

How fair is thy skin

That thy prince should banish thee

To broken world of thy kin

 

King father didst thus prepare the night

With which he was to seize a dream

To redeem lives from a most gruesome fate

Knights and princes did pursue to fight

For lady whose eyes did gleam

 

Oh, beauteous girl

How deep is thy skin

That many would see thy zeal

And seek for thine heart to win

 

Mischievous prince arrived to give his life

For lady fair who would become queen

When reunited the prince spoke many things

To one who may become his wife

Or so has yet to be seen

 

Upon his parting the prince obliged

To sweep her from her feet and then

Bestow a gift upon the young queen’s lips

To profess truth instead of lies

And journey through forests Golden.

“Eanrin!”

He raised his head to her, his eyebrows high on his head, “Yes?”

“That last part didn’t happen.”

Imraldera had stopped writing.  She was regarding him with a very slightly amused frown, that, of course, he could not see, but probably felt nonetheless; especially considering the impish smirk that was curling across his face.

“It makes for such a wonderful tune, though, does it not?”

She sighed, “Eanrin, were that the world was a perfect place…”

“The dragon-eaten rascal most certainly should have stepped up as a man would have done.”

The woman raised her eyebrows, “Oh, you mean like you?”

“Of course.”

Though there was very evidently much to say on the subject, he said nothing more about it and moved on, “So, what do you think?”

Passing off the subject and attempting to focus, she tapped her chin with the feathery end of her quill.  Licking her lips, she considered her words to the famous musician carefully, “It’s beautiful, Eanrin, but it’s certainly different from the usual.”

“Oh?”

Narrowing her eyes to pinpoint her focus, she spoke again, slowly, “Well, the musical style’s a little different.  You are direct and to the point through most of it, normally you have a tendency to babble on whatever subject the work is about.”

He scrunched his nose, “What does it matter now?  The tale will go down in history and be known for its—”

“Bizarre rhyme scheme?”

Feigning offense, he pressed a hand to his chest and scoffed, “Now, now, old girl, you should really know by now that jealousy is quite unbecoming.”

A roll of the eyes accentuated her words, “So what’s the reason for the directivity, Eanrin?  I know you are not fond of Lionheart, but must the entire tale be boiled down into a single song?  I would have thought you would have written a few of them, at least.”

He huffed again, “Really now, this is a masterpiece for the amount of time I had.  I had to have something before I lose the rest of my sanity taking Prince Felix back to the Near World.”

A smile crossed her face, “And the last part of that song, Eanrin?  I would hate to have to write in the scrolls that you lie in your music as well.”

His expression flashed with something strange for just a quick moment, almost too quick for her to catch, but she knew better.  If she asked him about it, he would undoubtedly state once again that a man is entitled to a few secrets, so she need not bother.  Eanrin’s devious smirk returned, “As far as I am concerned, that is what happened, and that is all.”

Placing her quill to the side, she responded, “Why must you insist on taking these things to extremes?”

The musician sighed and shook his head, a smile still on his face, “Do you not know, my dear, that one day, the world shall be mine?”

Her smile widened, “Oh really?  Is this your new conquest, oh notorious musical one?”

He nodded, “Of course.  And when I do, everything will be as it should.  Lads will become men and profess their undying love, whisking their ladies into a world of happy endings.”

This time, she nearly choked on her laughter, pressing a hand to her mouth to hide its sound, “You know, Eanrin…”

Imraldera’s abyssal eyes held on him, and he inclined his head most slightly to listen to her without making it obvious to the untrained eye.

Her grin was badly hidden, “I do believe you are slightly delusional.”

 It was unclear whether Eanrin took her seriously or not, for the pout that hung on his lips was characteristically vague.  He crossed his arms, his instrument in one hand as the other hand clenched around his bicep, waiting for her to continue.

She did, “As the self-proclaimed Prince of High Romantic Verse, you show nearly no emotion for yourself.  I must say, I begin to wonder if you have any at all; perhaps your music is your way of trying to adopt others’ emotions as your own?”

This time, his golden mane visibly bristled, “Really, old girl.  And how, might I ask, are you going to prove this one?  I am not a man to run from a challenge.  Very well.  Find proof of your plight and I will concede.”

It was a little difficult to try not to have a little bit of fun at this point.  She had to consider all her options with the most care.  He would undoubtedly try to argue with the Gleamdren excuse, but perhaps that would do her argument more good than harm.  A thought came to her.

It was a sad thought, and if she had been alone for a few days, it probably would have hurt a great deal. 

In this situation, however, in a setting fresh from festivities and loved ones, she felt perhaps it was a thought that could easily be passed from her mind until a later date when she was once again relatively alone with words and flashbacks spiraling about in her head.

With the warmth of those loved ones nearby and the comical nature of the challenge, Imraldera felt more intrepid at the thought of saying such things.  And because the notion was a bit painful would be exactly why she would emerge the victor.

So the woman took a deep breath and answered the challenge, a calm expression, save the curious raised eyebrows, settled on her face.

“Eanrin?  When…was the last time you sang to me?”

When he made to object, she finished, “Not for me, Eanrin.  To me.”

It was evident then that both knew exactly what she was asking.  It had been a frightfully long time, if at all, since the poet had ever written a thing concerning or directed at her.

However, Imraldera was sadly mistaken to think that this would secure her victory in this challenge with her companion.

Eanrin’s voice had spluttered.  And as Imraldera’s dark eyes found their way to his face, his whole hand was clasped across his mouth and nose, the skin under his eye patches visibly heated.  His eyebrows were low and drawn together, and, though he couldn’t see her, he turned his head away. 

Enveloping the man’s face was an altogether flustered and troubled expression.

To see the epitome of grace and charm fumbling like a disconcerted boy over her suggestion, Imraldera was sure she was seeing things. 

Then the blind poet uttered a feral growl, his voice barely above a murmur as he seemed to concede on an entirely different notion of defeat, “Dragon’s teeth, woman.”

Fin.