1. Complete Rough Draft of Chapter 9

    He slept like a stringless fiddle, still, quietly, but with tension on his face, a song that waited to be played. His spirit hounds prowled at the edges of the sacred square among the dryads that had come to preen and bask in the firelight. She slid up until his cheek rested on her lap and stretched out her numb foot and arm, stroked his forehead softly, where he frowned.

    Read More

     
  2. Rough draft of Chapter 9, pt 1

    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.

    Read More

     
  3. Complete Rough Draft of Chapter 8

    An elan gripped Serebryany when he entered the inner shrine. It was a long tall room, warm with polished wood, and long red silks that hung from the rafters so that the warm yellow light was dimmed and softened.

    Elation crept into him as the song began, and it prickled along his nerves while the Irillemeiri’s boy’s voice danced in the fragrant cedar beams of the inner shrine. He had an extraordinarily clear timbre and bell perfect pitch, so true and pure that it ought to have been visible. It wound like unspooled silk among the white antlers that were arranged to hold Brigd’s spirit house and the sacred relics:

    Brigd’s undying flame in its great golden bowl, reflected in a white copper mirror, the jeweled scale armor of the last empress Narjoska, and boughs of golden larch in an opaline vase, their needles in perpetual autumn color.

    Read More

     
  4. Super rough draft of chapter 8, part 1

    An elan gripped Serebryany, slowly, when he entered the inner shrine. It was a long, tall room, warm with red wood, and long red silks hung from the rafters and the ceilings, so that the warm yellow light was dimmed and softened. It crept into him, as the song began, and danced in the fragrant cedar beams of the inner shrine, wound among the white antlers that were arranged to hold Brigd’s spirit house, and the sacred relics; Brigd’s undying flame in its great golden bowl, reflected in a white copper mirror, the dragon scale armor of the last empress Narjoska, and boughs of golden larch in an opaline vase, their needles in perpetual autumn color.

    Read More

     
  5. Complete Rough Draft of Chapter 7

    Chapter 7


    The library vault was unusually chilly, and a draft moved through the labyrinth at random, pushed this and way and that by the movement of doors in the corridors above. Dvrov shivered and wrapped himself more tightly in his woolen overcoat. He flexed his long toes and cracked them in his boots, and tucked his hands into his underarms to warm them. The snow had continued, fitfully, for weeks, and was moving inland, where it threatened the budding fruit trees and farms below Kiengrod.

    Read More

     
  6. sehnsuchttraum:

    Faceclaims for Troika:

    Sorya, Koit, Armas, Dvrov, Tura, Serebryany, Selya, Zenaida

     
  7. Rough Draft of Chapter 6, part 2

     “That stung like venom, but I’m still half-blind.”

      “I’ve dealt with the physical damage,” he drew his hand away with deliberate slowness, “but the impurity isn’t something I can heal.” He sat back on his heels and tilted his head to study her curiously. “You should be a priestess— you’re inviolable and you’ve got the long sight. So how did you slip through the cracks? Here, of all places?”

    Read More

     
  8. Rough draft of Chapter 6 Part 1

    Tura woke up in the washed out light of a grey morning with a pounding head, a cotton tongue and skin so hot and dry it felt likely to tear like paper if she moved. The house was asleep, shuttered and tired. The fire was out, and her breath showed in the air with wisps of water coming off of the heat of her skin. The city moved outside, the muffled thump of hooves and cartwheels on the stones drifted in between the slap of waves against the pilings of the pier. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her good hand, and winced at the pain that tore down her from shoulder to ankle. She lay still and tried to focus on the square of weak light that moved across the ceiling. The plaster was clean and white and sharp, and it made her eyes ache. The room and the house and the world seemed quite empty, devoid of the little continuous movements that she hadn’t realized she’d miss until now.

    Read More

     
  9. image: Download

     
  10. Complete rough draft of chapter 5

    Dvrov sat on the edge of the bed, hunched and heavy in the silence. The scent of bitter almonds lingered in the air with a bitter taste like the metallic tang of cold rain. He knew that Armas was awake, still as a watchful bird under his blankets. He felt that their little rooms had become the pivot point of their lives, upon which this hour hung and wobbled restlessly, pulled and tipped by what waited outside. They hadn’t spoken of it, even when their voices returned. It would have to be spoken of, what was done, and said and not said. Not now, when it still prowled and ticked its tail so close.

    Lassitude gripped him, weighed down his spine until he bent to rest his elbows on his knees and hang his head. There would be so many words, marching in disordered rows, like ants disrupted from their course, and he couldn’t pick out the threads of what to say and what to keep. He hefted himself up and stoked the fire with one more bole of fir and let his skirts and breeks drop where he stood in front of the fire. There was a cold in his bones he hadn’t felt since that first day, seven years ago.

    Read More