I don’t usually put a blurb up front of these, but hey y’all:
Check out the original fantasy story that is my current
struggle project in progress. If you dig unique settings, intrigue, slacker anti-heroines, actual main characters who are not white, magic, Slavic folklore and many many double entendres, you might enjoy Troika. Or you might not, in which case you should totally tell my why it’s terrible.
He slept like a silent fiddle, still, and quite quietly, but there was tension on his face, a song that waited to be played. His spirits, white hounds and faint grey winter birds, prowled and flickered around them with tireless agitation, as forest spirits of moss ad flowers burnished and preened themselves in the warmth of the shrine fire. She slid up until his cheek rested on her lap and stretched out her numb foot and arm, stroked his hair thoughtlessly. She eyed Tiertu where he stood and pawed at the young grass that had just begun to stir under the snow. There was another bottle in the saddlebag, and she was too sober already. But Serebryany had his fingers twisted into the cloth of her skirt, and something unquiet moved in the trees, now before them, now behind.