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Author Topic: Coins of Memory - Chapter 8  (Read 1774 times)

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Offline Laurna

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Coins of Memory - Chapter 8
« on: April 16, 2013, 04:35:36 am »

Previous chapter:  http://www.rhemuthcastle.com/index.php/topic,1061.0.html


Chapter 8 - JK 9.18.985  3rd Coin


Three wagons rolled into the makeshift camp filled with supplies for the battle weary knights.  Tent canvas, food supplies, and medicine were unpacked in orderly fashion.  The company was thankful for the supplies, as they had expected to be in Cynfyn by sunset, causing their provisions to be thin.  The canvas made into several shelters.  Each went up quickly around the earl’s already standing pavilion.  Several cooking pits sprung up before the shelters, allowing fresh stews and rolls to warm in large pots on the fires.  Cots came out to get the wounded off the ground, and camp chairs allowed some to sit and rest, at least temporarily, before finding other jobs to do.  The work slowly got finished, with more and more of the men settling by the fires in the fading light.  As the camp settled, the brethren of the abbey, of which there were about a dozen in total, made time to move among the warriors, offering medical and spiritual aid to anyone that requested it.  Minor cuts and bone breaks were treated with care.  The dead were given absolution, and their comrades were consoled.  Such were the hazards of war; all the men were quite familiar with the hardships, and were grateful to the abbey brothers for making it less so.

Quite contrary were the experiences of the three women with the Abbess from the convent.  None of them had been this close to a battle aftermath before.  Nonetheless, they bore the experience without complaint.  Sister Isabel had accompanied Reverend Mother Phyla Mary among the supply wagons from the abbey.  Upon arrival, the Mother had entered the earl’s pavilion with the senior members of the abbey, and as yet she was still within, even after the abbey priests departed.  Sister Isabel took it upon herself to excuse Sister Vivian from her ministrations to the wounded.  She requested Vivian to stay with Jessa, off to the side.  Neither woman was too pleased with this sudden over-guarded protection.  Soon a small pavilion was set up near the earl’s, and once completed, Sister Isabel ushered the two women inside, out of sight of the men.  She seemed of the opinion that upon the brethren’s arrival, her sisters of the convent were completed in their assigned task.  Both Jessa and Vivian felt quite the opposite; there was so much more they could be doing.  At the very least, Jessa desired to return to Sir Thomas and Sir Ronald to confirm their improved health.  She, however, was not permitted to leave the pavilion now that she was trapped within it.  Jessa sat on a cot in the corner, too emotional to rest.  She turned the silver medallion on its chain repeatedly, desperate for news.

Mother Phyla Mary returned pleased by the praise Lord Muir had bestowed on her novice Healer.  Though she had not seen him, she had been informed that the Knight Captain was now sleeping comfortably behind a curtained off section.  He had been given a sleeping draught to help regain his depleted strength, but by private account from the earl himself, the young novice had saved his brother’s life.  A separate accounting from Father Pernal praised Sister Vivian’s assistance, but scorned Jessa for her inexperience.  This too pleased the Reverend Mother, proving their deception had not been broken. 

When asked, Jessa truthfully told them she had seen the lord’s wounded brother a second time.  She quietly told them of his horrific treatment received from the physicians, and the condition the priest had left him in.  In brief, with little detail, she explained the quick Healing required.  The women were in awe after her short recitation.  Still, there was much Jessa held back: the apparition of her angel, for one, and the communion of mind and soul with the healed man, for another.  She was not willing to share these things with anyone.

Now that the convent women had successfully fulfilled their duty, Mother Phyla Mary formed plans to retreat early the following morning.  They would be within their own convent walls before the majority of the encampment was broken down, and the host made ready to travel on its last four-hour stretch to Castle Cynfyn.  Exhaustion outweighed emotions, and Jessa finally succumbed to an uneasy sleep on her cot in the far corner.


As full darkness enveloped the camp, the sudden sounds of stomping horse hooves and whining cries broke the silence.  All the women, jarred from their private reveries, ran out of their pavilion only to see three men attempting to calm a large, injured horse.  The black war stallion staggered, whinnied in agony, and then staggered again.  He snorted with haggard breathing.  The commotion brought the earl out into the night.  His eyes were stricken with pain as he recognized the stallion.  Voices near at hand spoke of concern, and Jessa quickly realized the warhorse was Sir Washburn’s own mount. 

The stallion flinched and reared as hands brushed at a hard protrusion sticking just out from his deep chest.  The area was swollen and caked with dried blood.  Apparently, no one had noticed it until now.  Hands tried to sooth the animal, allowing the arriving physicians to get closer to examine the mass.  The frown on Father Pernal’s face told the whole story. 

“It’s a cross bolt shaft the same as we removed from Sir Ronald’s knee.  That’s 14 inches in length.”  He scowled toward Muir.  “This horse is alive on his strength of will alone.  Removing that shaft will kill him assuredly, but neither can it remain.”  Father Pernal shook his head waiting for the earl to make the call.  The stallion, ‘Shadowed Nights’, quivered.  His four locked knees seemed the only thing keeping him standing.  Muir’s glance came around to Jessa, pleading.  She well understood his request.  Even before all these men, she would do anything for the house of Cynfyn.

Jessa took a step forward, only to have two sets of hands grab her at the sides and pull her back.  Mother Phyla Mary and Sister Vivian held her firmly in the back of the crowd.  Not even for the life of so noble a steed would they allow their Healer to become discovered before the monsignors of the Abbey.  Muir nodded to them, defeated.  She had saved his brother; he would not risk her now for a horse, even Washburn’s great war stallion.

Earl Muir sighed deeply.  Shadow staggered, blowing hard, unable to breathe.  One last whinny and the horse’s knees unbuckled, sending the stallion floundering to the sand.  With haste, Muir was there at the R’Kassi head, his expression stricken by knowing what he must do next.  He quieted the strong-willed horse with hands over his eyes.  As the black stallion’s thrashing quieted, the Earl of Lendour brushed the open wound with his hand. His fingers appeared to clench in anger, then release, and then clench again.  Only a few men were close enough to hear their lord murmur a series of harsh foreign words.  Though few noticed it, Jessa saw that his fist clenched and unclenched with the rhythm of the syllables.  Then, suddenly, his fingers closed tight.  Shadow stiffened and then relaxed, head to the ground, eyes vacant.

Muir lowered his head in grief.  Jessa let out a short scream and buried her face in Vivian’s shoulder.  With just a touch, she could have save the proud stallion, but of those who knew this truth, they also knew the need for protecting her secret.  To them that was greater than the need of the life of that fine animal.  At that moment, Jessa hated the world and everyone in it.  Unable to do anything otherwise, the women half carried her back into the pavilion, away from prying eyes.  Jessa continued to cry until the Reverend Mother gave her a sleeping draught.  Even then, she seemed to cry in her sleep.


Jessa’s world was turned around.  The eighteen year old woke in the predawn hours in misery, her faith shaken.  With the death of a horse, the innocence of convent life was torn away.  She desperately wanted a caring arm to support her through the turmoil.  The sisters of the convent were her guardians, but her closest friends had moved on.  There was no one left in the convent that would understand this traumatic questioning of her powers and her beliefs.  She had been stunned by the harsh reality of being Deryni in a world that condemned that existence.  Until now, her life had been carefully guided between the lines of prejudice, and guarded from the hatred.  This first foray outside that protection had made a frightening impression upon the maiden.

Desperately wanting someone to show her what her true heritage meant, she thought of Sir Artimus and his secure hands holding hers.  He was thoughtful and strong.  He had already shown her things she had never known.  She could learn from him easily.  The Earl of Lendour, too, was a gracious man, powerful and authoritative, though far above teaching an orphaned child her roots.  The younger Lord Cynfyn...  her mind paused at the memory of his touch.  That stolen moment of their accord was so profound it enveloped every part of her senses.  She questioned if it had been real, or only a dream.  She lay there within the dark pavilion wondering, had he truly responded to her in kind, or was it just the whimsy of an exhausted maiden’s mind?  She admonished herself for thinking it was more than the Healing of a sorely wounded life.  He would thank her for that gift, but it was beyond reason that a man of his standing would ever love a common girl such as herself.  Realism lost its sway as she played with the imaginings of life as his wife; his love forever hers, her children forever his.  She toyed with the musings and found peace there.

She had made no binding vows to the church.  Even had she wished it, Mother Phyla Mary had forbidden her from such a life.  She was told that Deryni women were welcome to live within the convent walls but they could not lawfully marry the House of God; her soul would be damned and if discovered her life would be at the mercy of the abbot.  Mother Phyla Mary did assure Jessa that if she practiced no more than the benign gift of Healing, she would be protected within the walls of the convent for all her living days.  Jessa’s life was not leisurely.  Her daily chores often took late into the night to complete, but her life was safe and she was thankful to the sisters of Saint Clair for this protection.  Deep in her heart, she now realized she wanted more.  She ached for the love of family and the desire to have children with whom she could share what her father had once given her: a parent’s love.

At the darkest hour before dawn, Jessa could stand the weight of her mind no longer.  She stood quietly and wrapped a shawl over her shoulders.  She tiptoed silently across the rugs and slid out into the dark night.  The fires had died down and the horses had quieted; there was barely a sound to be heard around the camp.  A guard a few paces away turned to watch her. If he would just turn away, she might find her courage.  Courage to seek the embrace from the man who seemed to understand her; just to have his strong arms holding her tight the way her father had done would be worth more than all the riches of the Kingdom.  She would settle for returning to the younger Lord Cynfyn side, if only to reassure herself of his recovery.  For a novice the mere idea of entering a warrior's tent alone was far too brash to ponder.  She could never dare such a thing.  Annoyed by the way the guard keenly watched her,  she gave up her insane plan and sadly turned back into the nun’s pavilion. 

The Reverend Mother was standing just inside watching her.

“You cannot see him again,” her guardian whispered sternly.  Was she Deryni?  Had she read Jessa’s mind?

A tear brushed the young, pale cheek.  “If you say I mustn’t, than that must be so, but I am suddenly lost, I…”  She could not explain, dared not explain, what thoughts his touch had inspired.

The old abbess softened in her expression.  She wrapped an arm about her novice whom she had watched grow from the age of six and into adulthood.  “In time, dear, you will see that your life in the convent will offer more freedom than any secular marriage.  You have saved many lives this last day, and those who know of it will always love you for it.  That love, however, is not the same as what brings a man to a woman.  Men of station marry for family positioning, wealth, and the prospect of heirs.  Very different, I suspect, than the romance stories I hear you young girls sing.”

Saddened and embarrassed that her thoughts were so apparent to one who could not possibly have read her mind, Jessa bowed her head.  “I am forbidden to give my hand to God, and neither can I give it to a man.  What is to become of me?”  Her whisper was so infused with pain that the abbess, in a rare gesture, gathered the girl in her arms and hugged her close.

“There is time aplenty to figure that out.  No need to worry it out just now.  Come back to sleep, there are still a few hours before we are homeward traveling.”  The abbess walked her back to her cot and watched the girl lay back down before returning to sleep herself.  Jessa did manage an hour of rest before dawn.

The early morning saw the four women packed and traveling by wagon westward along the road, well before the eighty or so men and youths were readying to break down camp.  Jessa imaged, or so she thought, a pair of vibrant blue eyes starring from the entrance of the earl’s pavilion.  A whisper of “Thank you, sweet angel of mine,” brushed her mind.  She stared back toward the tent, but no one was there.  In her shaken state, she prayed it had been real.  Not certain of so many things, she wondered all the way home if maybe instead her mind had made it up, and she had imagined it? 


*******

“There you are.  I thought for sure, by now, you would have quit this dusty old office, and found the sun shining brightly outside more to your liking.”  A tall handsome man in black leathers and green velvets swept into the room with a subtle flourish that was so natural to his gait that he was not even aware of the consternation it caused in the eyes of the women who would witness it.  Richenda was not immune to its effects, even after four years of marriage.  She suspected that it was that glint in her smile each time that reinforced his self-assurance, and she did not intend to ever suppress that.

“Briony is down there chasing Brendan and Derry around the old gardens.  The boys are indulging her whimsy that she is a dragon swooping in and they are knights protecting the old oak tree.  Our three year old is running free like a banshee.”
   
“And you left Derry there alone to run reins on her?  He is a real knight and an earl in his own right, not our children’s nurse maid.”  She looked up admonishingly.

“Oh, Uncle Seandry loves Briony like she was his own daughter.  He can handle her for a time.  Derry and I were just leaving the vaults and stepping into the sun when our little girl escaped the care of her governesses to ambush us.  I don’t know where she gets all this energy.  Were you this wild as a girl?”  The blond lord stepped round the table, absently dropping three swords upon it and reached down to kiss his wife’s lips with a lustful need.
   
Blushing, she held back; he would not win her over so easily.  “And you, my Lord Alaric, would have no influence on our little girl?  I dare say you indulge her too much and let her run wild; the fault, Sir, is all yours.”
   
“I was a boy of total decorum, never permitted to run wild,” he responded with false severity.
   
“Oh I recall a few memories shared that would tell quite another story.”  She looked up at him with bright, shining eyes.  His gaze softened as his lips widened to a mischievous smile.  Oh, how that smile melted her heart!  Still she was not ready to give in.  When he would enfold his arms around her, she distracted him, pointing to the three blades discarded on the table.
   
“What in your treasure hunting have you recovered here?”
   
His fingers caressed her check, than he turned back to the treasure trove he had rescued from the armory in the dungeons at the castle’s feet.  He separated out a dagger, short sword, and long sword.  All three were matching in hilt and scabbard.  The scabbards were made of steel, inlaid with white gold and red enameled designs, not of the ornamental kind worn at court, but strong and serviceable with a wealthy flair.  At inspection, their appearance showed slight burnishing and an occasional dent, all indicative of long years of use.  The hilts of all three were black pearl inlaid with white gold filigree and small rubies.  The gold thread-wrapped handholds were well worn and in need of repair.  The long sword appeared to have seen the most use.
   
“There is a reason these blades appear to have been well used,” Duke Morgan said.  He unsheathed the long sword and extended the forty-seven inch double-edge blade into the sunlight of the near window.  He held the perfectly forged folded steel to catch the light’s reflection.  “When I touched this, I knew this was as much a part of the man who wielded it as his own arm.  It is of the highest quality forging I have ever found.  Not even my forges could match the heat needed to fold this steel.  And I have the best swordsmith in all of Gwynedd.”
   
“I’ve seen this blade before,” Richenda said.  She stood and walked up to the window, her eyes full upon the hilt.
   
When she reached for it, Alaric pulled it back in warning.  “No, I think not.  The first impressions are the last of the man that wielded it.  At that time, the man was white-haired and elderly, but he died wielding this sword in full and honorable defense of the King on the Schilling Ford fields.  That slaughterhouse battle of a hundred years ago is all too vivid in the memories imprisoned here.  I would not have you witness such an event.”
   
“I am not as delicate as you would suppose, my lord,” she said, her hand still waiting near the heft of the hilt.  “But I think I know who that man may be, and I would like a chance to prove my theory.”
   
“Those three days were enough to cause the most stoic of men to take pause.  It earned the title of the ‘Battle of Killingford’ for a reason.  I would not subject you to an event such as that.  Let me see if I can find an image of the man in his younger years.  It seems the blade was gifted to him by his father at his knighting, and he wielded it throughout his life.”  Alaric’s eyes went unfocused as he shifted through the blade’s imprisoned memories.  He gently touched the fair cheek of his wife and let the images appear of a tall blond youth at his knighting.  His head was bowed as this very blade, held in his father’s hand, dubbed him on the steps of Gwynedd’s throne room before the King.  The youth finished his pledge and his vows standing proud, taking the proffered sword, and adding it to his white knight’s belt.  Richenda smiled.  In youth, here stood no other than the man she had seen in her memory coins.
   
“Washburn Illiff Cynfyn, second son of Erwin Cynfyn, the 7th Earl of Lendour,” she softly proclaimed.
   
“Studying my family history, I see,” Alaric responded, turning his head quizzically at the table with the jeweled box and coins piled there.
   
Little Kelric woke with a soft fuss.  Alaric turned from knight to father in an instant.  He placed his treasured sword back in its scabbard on the table and then he lifted his son up to kiss the innocent face.  “What a wonderful young man you are!”  Alaric laughed, beaming at the faces the boy made.  He bounced his son in his arms and watched as Kelric giggled and squealed with joy.  Richenda grinned as the father dotingly loved on his son.  After a few minutes he settled his son in his arms and let the boy pull at his fingers.  The baby scrunched up his nose and brought his papa’s fingers to his mouth giving them a taste.  “I think he’s hungry,” Alaric surmised with a grin.

   
“Again?  So soon?  The men of Morgan have voracious appetites,” Richenda lovingly stated, kissing the side of her husband’s cheek as he graciously held their son.  Alaric Morgan was the perfect man.  She was often amazed at her turn of happiness in the last four years.  Alaric’s left arm encircled her waistline and he held her close.  A blush warmed her face as she looked from son up to the father.  Their eyes locked as they leaned together for a truly passionate kiss.

Kelric squealed happily, causing his parents to look down at him with a laugh.  “Deryni children are too intuitive,” Richenda stated with a smile.

“Then it is a very good thing we bring love and happiness into their world.  I have no qualms about letting our children see that.”

“I will certainly agree with you.  Some things, however, are best kept for after they fall asleep,” she said with a wink before taking Kelric back into her arms.  “Let me satisfy this little one’s appetite.  And then perhaps—”

“My lady, are you teasing me?”  Alaric asked, still holding her hand as she settled on the settee with Kelric. 

“My lord, fear not, I am not a convent girl,” Richenda replied, getting a quizzical look from her husband.  “See the Cynfyn coins on the table?  I think I have found something as treasured as your swords, but I have yet to review it in full.  Perhaps you would care to scan the first three memories yourself, while I feed our newest Earl of Lendour.  Then together we can read the last, and see if it tells the story that I think it will.”  She gestured at the items on the table, and then settled her baby in her arms. 

Alaric gave her hand a curious squeeze.  Then obligingly he walked back to the table, reviewing the items there.  He sat in the plush chair and fingered the first coin with the stag of Cynfyn embossed on the face.  He sensed the coin had a story that wanted sharing.  With a whispered spell, he was engulfed in flames of the memories of a child….


Richenda finished giving her baby boy a Deryni Bath and then she swaddled him in fresh blankets and kissed his flushed rosy checks as she settled him back in the crib.  He was a good eater, that one.  Soon she would need to supplement his appetite with more solid food, but for now, he was growing strong on what she could provide.  She loved children, and was already thinking she would love to give Alaric one or two more.  With her other children downstairs distracted, perhaps there was time for the adults to play.
   
The duchess slipped up behind the duke at the table where she had left him.  She wrapped her arms over his shoulders, and kissed his forehead.  The three coins were set back on the far right side of the table, the last coin laid alone on the white velvet pouch.  The duke was not looking at that coin, however.  He held the silver Saint Camber medal that always could be found lying against his chest on a quality silver chain.  He turned the medallion absently between his fingers, his eyes not quite focused on the portrait of the saint on the face of the brilliant trinket.  Richenda moved her hands forward to enclose both his wrists.  Without any resistance, she was with her husband shuffling through the in-depth imagery that was imprinted upon this ancient family heirloom.
 
Reading the impressions from items like the sword, which were owned by one person then locked away, was a straightforward linear progression.  Most passionately owned items, especially items made from metals, retained emotional recordings of the hands that touched them.  The stronger the emotion was, the clearer the imagery that became retained.  This is how, with the help of spells, the memory coins could hold such detailed information.

The medallion in Alaric’s hand was on quite a different magnitude from the sword or the coins.  It had been passed down, hand to hand, through generations of family, for two hundred years.  It had been consecrated at its making, venerated, and blessed by every hand that enclosed it.  It had a strong magical vibration all unto itself.  It had become a relic stronger than a shiral crystal.  It allowed the owner to attune his focus, and clarify his magical purpose.  Alaric’s mind shuffled past thousands of emotional moments made by a dozen individuals’ hands.  There was no linear progression; all was encapsulated in a collage of events, some blurred one into another, some strong enough to stand alone, all indifferent to the sequence of time.  To focus on one individual or one event was like looking for that one shiral crystal on a mile-long pebble beach.
   
“This medallion was passed down to me from my mother when I was but four.”  Alaric spoke abstractly aloud as much to his wife as himself.  “It has seldom been apart from me in thirty years.  I have used it as a focus point for every form of Magic— from Location spells, to Truth-Reading, to Healing.  I have searched for my mother’s impressions in this medallion, and I have searched for Saint Camber’s visions, but I never stopped to consider all the other hands down the decades of time that have held this token in similar light.”  He stopped turning the medal and held it flat between thumb and forefinger.  “The impressions on here are numerous, crowded and blurred, but I think I have found our elusive Jessa.  She did not leave images as much as she has infused emotions into the silver.  Joy and sadness, elation and fear are all here, but the strongest emotion is love— love of life and love of family.  I don’t know how I could have missed this before.”
   
“So it is the same medallion?” the duchess asked.  “Jessa’s medallion is now yours, only separated by time?”  Richenda placed her hand behind the round of silver and allowed Alaric to press it into her palm.  Alaric helped her pinpoint the impressions she sought, and found one of love; a woman touching the medallion to the chest of a newborn baby, with a man’s strong arms enfolding both mother and child in singular devotion.

“Can you see the father holding the mother and child?  His emotions are captured but not his image,” Richenda stated, searching through the impression.  “It has to be Washburn; there could be no one else.”
   
Alaric smiled up at his wife.  “My love, you are a romantic.  I would like to think it is Washburn as well, but there are numerous obstacles to that outcome.  This man could as easily be Sir Artimus, or Sir Thomas, or some man she had not even yet met.  You need more facts before you can jump to such conclusions.”
   
“You may need facts,” she said with a coy smile.  “But as women in love, she and I share a similarity.”  Richenda slid around to Alaric’s side and sat on the arm of his chair, leaning her head over his shoulder.  “Perhaps if we read the last coin, you can have your proof, and I can see that love prevails.”
   
In agreement, Alaric lifted the last coin from the table.  He held it in his open hand and invited his love to interlock her fingers with his.  Together, they enclosed the coin between their palms.  A simple spell cast and the visions stored on the coin came to life in their minds.
   

Next chapter: http://www.rhemuthcastle.com/index.php/topic,1073.0.html


« Last Edit: April 23, 2013, 05:10:59 am by Laurna »

Offline Jerusha

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Re: Coins of Memory - Chapter 8
« Reply #1 on: April 17, 2013, 02:25:37 pm »
*Sigh*  I wish the horse could have been saved, but it would not have been as good a chapter, so I forgive you.   :)

Nice domestic scene between Morgan and Richenda, and I like the fact they are going to view the last coin together.

I also liked Briony pretending to be a dragon.  ;)
From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggity beasties and things that go bump in the night...good Lord deliver us!

 -- Old English Litany

Offline Laurna

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Re: Coins of Memory - Chapter 8
« Reply #2 on: April 20, 2013, 04:02:50 am »
Wow, it has been a busy week. I am so happy it is Friday night; I can sit back, relax and truly enjoy the return of my lovable little spaniel.  My little "Sugar"  has settled back to her old routine almost like she never left. She has put some weight back on and enjoys sitting in her favorite spot on the couch.

I'm not one to believe in superstitions or in predetermined destinies but sometimes I do things to avoid "tempting Fate."  Back in chapter four Evie had told me that Sir Thomas needed a last name. I am terrible at making up names, I have a tendency to use the names around me.  Such as the name Sir Artimus Cavalien, came from one of my dogs named Arty who is a Cavalier.(Sorry now you will never see the image of Sir Artimus the same again, oops). So Sir Thomas's last name had become "Sughar" after my little Sugar. I had to delete that name when Sugar went missing. Knowing what was to happen to Sir Thomas gave me pause and I suddenly did not want to temp Fate with my missing little dog. Because of that and because all of you as readers have stressed better outcomes, I have rewritten a small part of the story yet to come. A character is saved, and low and behold, my Sugar is safe too.  And I am ecstatically happy about both outcomes.

Hi Jerusha, I'm gad you liked my domestic scene. I really enjoyed writing that little moment. In case it is not obvious I truly adore Alaric and I love the relationship he and Richenda have. I praise Mrs Kurtz for her mastery of creating characters to love.
 Now I wish to say that I am so sorry about the horse. In my first writings, Jessa had saved the horse too, but that seemed a little too perfect.  I needed a catalyst to make my sweet novice question her world. So I rewrote the story the way it is.  A couple of weeks ago, I tried to reconsider this event, but could not make saving the horse work. However, as I stated above, because of you and a few other people's comments I have managed to save another.
 
So I give thanks to you and to everyone else for posting. This story will not be totally set until I can deliver it here to all of you. Sorry Evie, I keep giving you more work to do. Have I said Thank you lately, because I really mean it.

To everyone , please have a wonderful week.
« Last Edit: April 20, 2013, 04:10:50 am by Laurna »

Offline AnnieUK

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Re: Coins of Memory - Chapter 8
« Reply #3 on: April 27, 2013, 04:49:35 pm »
Hi Laurna, I'd put up to here on my Kindle, and now I see you have added another chapter, so I'm behind again!

Just wanted to say I've enjoyed your story so far. I haven't read any fanfic for ages, and this was a nice reintroduction to it. I like your dual timeline and Alaric and Richenda both poking around amongst artefacts that interest them. :)

I do like your little fill-in bits, too. While many readers will know the history, it's often easy to overlook that people may just happen across a story and not have the necessary background. You've woven them in well, without massive chunks of infodumping.

And I agree about the horse. Sad, but sometimes bad stuff has to happen in stories. I agonised over the end of The Mischief Makers for ages before writing it, but it had to go the way it went, and your horse had to be sacrificed for dramatic effect!

I'll catch up on your next chapter soon.

Offline Laurna

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Re: Coins of Memory - Chapter 8
« Reply #4 on: April 27, 2013, 05:08:33 pm »
Hi Annie,
 I am so glad to see you here. It was one of your earlier comments months back, along with others that gave me the courage to play on this web site.   This whole week has been about rewriting or not rewriting the chapters ahead. As of yesterday I have decided on my course of action. I won't let the cat out of the bag here, but I have agonized the answer and with hope strengthened my views on the story yet to be told.
I understand you are writing a fresh story, let us know when and where we can find it to read.
That you are still reading my chapters gives me courage. Thank you for the comments.
Launa

 

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