Introductions Need To Be Made
The walls are a soft blue and the grey carpet reminds you of a storm at sea.
Opposite the doorway you’re standing in, there’s a small bed with crisp white sheets and inviting pillows, but you move your attention on and your eyes rove across the blank walls landing on the light wood of a circular table that has an elegant shining sword balanced across it.
The light, from the windows behind the table, dances and shimmers over the surface mesmerising your mind until a soft “hmm” distracts you.
Your gaze locks onto a pair of honey brown eyes, surrounded by heavy lashes which add to the pure intimidation in that gaze, which clearly states that you’re here by invitation only ... and that could be revoked.
As your mind again becomes your own you realise that you have advanced into the room and that it’s more than what it seemed from the innocuous doorway. It’s now larger, with weapons and armours mounted upon the walls, shelves upon shelves of books and yet more items whose purpose eludes you; but the bed and table with matching chairs have stayed the same.
“This weapon is dangerous, but less so under sunlight” the strong yet strangely smooth voice that matches honeyed eyes reaches your ears and draws your attention back to the character before you.
Distracted from the mystical lure of the sword you’re able to study this woman intently and she bears your scrutiny with amused patience that makes her eyes dance, and her bow shaped mouth seem to smile without moving.
At first glance there’s nothing extraordinary about her, however the longer you stare the more aware you become of a secondary layer and the presence about her that demands respect. You once again study the, almost familiar, eyes which are a subtle almond shape framed with lashes that match the waves of black hair that rests around her face and falls gently down her back. Her cheek bones add a soft curve to her face but the jaw’s strong and her long neck’s adorned with a simple sapphire pendant. The strange woman has a well proportioned hourglass figure and although she’s sitting back in her chair, her generous frame gives the impression that she’s too tall for the table set.
She’s dressed in a purple shirt of a warm cotton-like material, and the long sleeves nearly cover her hands which are folded on the table, content to let you finish your note taking.
She knows you need this. You need to see that her dark trousers are made from a strong fabric, like leather yet softer than velvet, which has never been seen before. She knows that you need to notice the inch of heel on her boots is hard enough to resist many miles of travelling over harsh ground; as you finish your inspection and return your gaze to hers you can see the reluctance enter her gaze, but she sighs.
She knows that you will need this also.
“This sword was forged over many hours using pain, anger, hatred, joy and peace as tools to shape it” she pauses, still reluctant, but you wait her out, now filled with a patience that echoes her own.
“The blade is constructed from a shard of my soul, and when it was created I endured many hours of torment and pain ... many die when consenting to this process, and I heard the screams of my sisters fade, but I knew you would need me, this ... and so I clung to life, and came through with one of the most dangerous weapons I know”
“What is this?” you ask, indicating the sword, and the woman before you
“I’m a Spirit Warrior, my Soulblade responds only to me, but if I kill with it, I must see and momentarily endure the life I have taken” she pauses, “To commit an act of darkness, I must see the light in the life I have taken ... one defines the other do you see?” For a moment you believe her mad,
“Why do I need this? Need you?”
“To fight a war, to save a world”
“What world?” at last she laughs a true laugh, a deep rich laugh, the madness recedes from her eyes and you can’t help but smile with her
“That is not for me to decide ... that is your choice”
I frown and sit back, glancing out of the number 9 bus window and sigh. I sort of love and hate it when characters introduce themselves this way. I’ve had elves leap from trees, seers greet me at the doorway of their farm’s and now, apparently, a spirit warrior who wants me to help her battle a war and save a world.
A spirit warrior who appears remarkably like my mirror image; Just healthy, and without the glasses ... and with a ‘Soulblade’.
She hasn’t told me her name, which is unusual, so for now I’ll call her Spirit. It seems to suit her somehow.
I start paying attention to the bus I’m on, rather than the page before me; and notice a young mother in heels, jeans, and a white shirt, who’s half-heartedly trying to stop her child screaming.
Ah, that would explain my abrupt re-entrance into reality then...
Glancing out of the window again, I drag my MP3player from my bag, and drown out the world. I’ve got an hour, and that’s enough time to grill Spirit about all that she may know.
This is my craft. My home. This is where I am safe, untouchable. Within my stories and tales, with my characters and spells and unique weapons, I am guarded. I do not ‘aspire’ or ‘hope to be’ a writer. I AM a writer. I may not be the best, most fluent, or original at what I do, but every one of my worlds proves that’s what I am and every character in my heart will fight for me to protect themselves.
Opposite the doorway you’re standing in, there’s a small bed with crisp white sheets and inviting pillows, but you move your attention on and your eyes rove across the blank walls landing on the light wood of a circular table that has an elegant shining sword balanced across it.
The light, from the windows behind the table, dances and shimmers over the surface mesmerising your mind until a soft “hmm” distracts you.
Your gaze locks onto a pair of honey brown eyes, surrounded by heavy lashes which add to the pure intimidation in that gaze, which clearly states that you’re here by invitation only ... and that could be revoked.
As your mind again becomes your own you realise that you have advanced into the room and that it’s more than what it seemed from the innocuous doorway. It’s now larger, with weapons and armours mounted upon the walls, shelves upon shelves of books and yet more items whose purpose eludes you; but the bed and table with matching chairs have stayed the same.
“This weapon is dangerous, but less so under sunlight” the strong yet strangely smooth voice that matches honeyed eyes reaches your ears and draws your attention back to the character before you.
Distracted from the mystical lure of the sword you’re able to study this woman intently and she bears your scrutiny with amused patience that makes her eyes dance, and her bow shaped mouth seem to smile without moving.
At first glance there’s nothing extraordinary about her, however the longer you stare the more aware you become of a secondary layer and the presence about her that demands respect. You once again study the, almost familiar, eyes which are a subtle almond shape framed with lashes that match the waves of black hair that rests around her face and falls gently down her back. Her cheek bones add a soft curve to her face but the jaw’s strong and her long neck’s adorned with a simple sapphire pendant. The strange woman has a well proportioned hourglass figure and although she’s sitting back in her chair, her generous frame gives the impression that she’s too tall for the table set.
She’s dressed in a purple shirt of a warm cotton-like material, and the long sleeves nearly cover her hands which are folded on the table, content to let you finish your note taking.
She knows you need this. You need to see that her dark trousers are made from a strong fabric, like leather yet softer than velvet, which has never been seen before. She knows that you need to notice the inch of heel on her boots is hard enough to resist many miles of travelling over harsh ground; as you finish your inspection and return your gaze to hers you can see the reluctance enter her gaze, but she sighs.
She knows that you will need this also.
“This sword was forged over many hours using pain, anger, hatred, joy and peace as tools to shape it” she pauses, still reluctant, but you wait her out, now filled with a patience that echoes her own.
“The blade is constructed from a shard of my soul, and when it was created I endured many hours of torment and pain ... many die when consenting to this process, and I heard the screams of my sisters fade, but I knew you would need me, this ... and so I clung to life, and came through with one of the most dangerous weapons I know”
“What is this?” you ask, indicating the sword, and the woman before you
“I’m a Spirit Warrior, my Soulblade responds only to me, but if I kill with it, I must see and momentarily endure the life I have taken” she pauses, “To commit an act of darkness, I must see the light in the life I have taken ... one defines the other do you see?” For a moment you believe her mad,
“Why do I need this? Need you?”
“To fight a war, to save a world”
“What world?” at last she laughs a true laugh, a deep rich laugh, the madness recedes from her eyes and you can’t help but smile with her
“That is not for me to decide ... that is your choice”
I frown and sit back, glancing out of the number 9 bus window and sigh. I sort of love and hate it when characters introduce themselves this way. I’ve had elves leap from trees, seers greet me at the doorway of their farm’s and now, apparently, a spirit warrior who wants me to help her battle a war and save a world.
A spirit warrior who appears remarkably like my mirror image; Just healthy, and without the glasses ... and with a ‘Soulblade’.
She hasn’t told me her name, which is unusual, so for now I’ll call her Spirit. It seems to suit her somehow.
I start paying attention to the bus I’m on, rather than the page before me; and notice a young mother in heels, jeans, and a white shirt, who’s half-heartedly trying to stop her child screaming.
Ah, that would explain my abrupt re-entrance into reality then...
Glancing out of the window again, I drag my MP3player from my bag, and drown out the world. I’ve got an hour, and that’s enough time to grill Spirit about all that she may know.
This is my craft. My home. This is where I am safe, untouchable. Within my stories and tales, with my characters and spells and unique weapons, I am guarded. I do not ‘aspire’ or ‘hope to be’ a writer. I AM a writer. I may not be the best, most fluent, or original at what I do, but every one of my worlds proves that’s what I am and every character in my heart will fight for me to protect themselves.
