Flawed Femmes wielding Whips, Guns, and Blades
The surrounding nobles are silent, fidgeting, fingering weapons, and exchanging glances. The commoners say nothing. Only Kasspar’s snuffles break the silence. He holds his chin up, his red-rimmed eyes downcast off the end of the crossbow. Merreth wants so Read More …
Tiandraa shifts in her saddle. Stone-faced Red Hand nobles stare hard at Merreth, pausing while reaching for sword or crossbow. A mount snorts, bends its neck, begins cropping the dried scrub grass along the roadside. The breeze off the river Read More …
Agaric runs a hand over his face. It comes away slippery with sweat. He frowns at the faint blue tinge on his fingers. The Shaman’s mark is rubbing off. The chests and faces of his warriors also show their wards Read More …
Welcome to part 18 of my series: Let’s Make a Book Trailer. The list of previous parts is getting a bit long, so I will merely link to the first and most recent posts: Part 1 and Part 17 respectively. Read More …
“Fire!” Bhenny ducks as a collection of flaming branches spins through the window and hits the floor, throwing up sparks. He tries to stomp it out, sending flecks of glowing wood skittering across the room. Narrius kicks a small Read More …
Agaric wrenches the sword from the dirt-scratcher’s throat and the man spasms one last time. Pain-filled gurgles, and the slick crunch of steel hacking through bone fills his ears as his warriors dispatch the last of the armoured men Read More …
“Well, get yer ass up on the roof if you’re so damned set on getting it shot off.” Droellen resumes shoving a ramrod down the matchlock barrel, grunting as he pushes the wadding home, muscles rippling across his bare shoulders. Read More …
Hurry, damn, it. They’re coming. In seconds a thousand clan hooves will be pounding up to Little Westhold! Merreth looks up sharply and peers along the road. No clan. Of course, if they were on the road there’d be Read More …
Merreth’s mount stamps its foot and snorts. She leans forward and rubs its neck. A bead of sweat rolls down her cheek, drips onto the saddle horn, and vanishes. It’s is well past mid-afternoon and the air is stone still Read More …
Gytega sits back in his saddle, bow in one hand, water skin in the other. He raises his chin, closes his eyes against the merciless sun, and takes a small sip. Not enough to replace what he’s sweated off, but Read More …
