Sunday, 25 August 2013

Storytelling… A serious weapon to have in your arsenal

 "When people told themselves their past with stories, explained their present with stories, foretold the future with stories, the best place by the fire was kept for... The Storyteller."

So, one night about a week ago, I was just about to settle down to go to sleep (in the wee small hours of the morning… Damn! Another late one) when I heard one of my girls get up to go to the bathroom… No biggie, when you gotta go, you gotta go… So I closed my eyes and attempted to sleep. Within a minute a loud sob started up and it sounded serious! I walked with some pace to the bathroom and found my youngest daughter in tears on the bathroom floor.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
Well, what had been a mournful sob turned into a painful wail complete with a flood of tears and an incomprehensible explanation.
Something about people in the bathroom with her and they were yelling at her.
‘Hang on…what?’
Hmmm very strange… ‘Please explain’
Same jumbled mess of words through wailing sobs.
‘But there’s nobody else in here.’
Always the sympathetic parent at 1.00 in the morning.
After a few unsuccessful attempts to make me understand she started holding her head and crying now in pain.
I held her close trying to calm her.
‘What’s wrong? Does your head hurt?’
‘Yeeessss!’ Came the shrill scream, ‘it hurts sooo much!’
Okay, midnight nurse shift into gear.
‘Right, lets get you back to bed and I will get you some Tylenol to ease the pain.’
I quickly ran downstairs to the kitchen, grabbed a couple of tablets and was back to her in a jiffy.
By now she was screaming and crying and howling all in one… It was amazing she hadn’t woken up the whole house.
‘Shhhh, shhh, here you go.’
I gave her the tablets to chew and then tried to hold her and hush in her ear to calm her.
Of course medicine isn’t some magical wonder pill that makes you feel instantly better so we would have to wait for the relief to kick in. In the meantime the sounds she was making were horrific.
What else could I do to help.
She was very hot, It was a pretty warm evening so I got out a face washer, ran it under cool water and put it on her head.
Still the pain surged and she filled the room with her growls and shrieks in angst.
I hoped this was nothing more than a simple headache, Jessi was always one for the dramatic but how is one to know for sure?
I didn’t know what else to do, she seemed to be getting louder and more annoyed with it all and I could do nothing but hold her, pray for her and try to give comfort.
Trying to think hard about what could actually help to settle her, without putting her in the bed with dad (as per her suggestion through tears of pain) who had to work the next day and would not be too tolerable having a screaming child next to his ear. I suddenly realised I had one trick up my sleeves that I hadn’t thought to use, my gift of storytelling.
While still carrying on and flailing her arms and body about every now and then, I tried to hold her as best I could, leaned in close and began to whisper into her ear a story.
It began with her and I, in the garden, happening upon a fairy castle hidden within a hollowed out tree… She didn’t seem to respond and it didn’t seem she was listening at all but I continued…
Knowing she is a huge animal lover, I was sure to include animals big and small that would interact and talk to her…
It didn’t seem to make any difference…
Tired myself and aching to head to my own bed, I trudged on through my story, hoping that something of her adventure would bring her some relief.
It didn’t seem to be working.
Then as she hopped up onto the back of a silvery white unicorn, headed for a ride out over the valley… the sobbing quietened and a soft little voice spoke.
‘But where are you?’ She asked with concern, ‘what happened to you mummy?’
I had kind of dropped myself from the story, placing a focus more on her.
‘Umm, well I’m there, I’m just watching you ride.’
We spoke a little more and then I asked her how she felt.
‘Better.’ She said.
‘Are you ready to go to sleep now?’
She nodded.
She was still hot so I ran down to the basement and brought up the fan, plugged it in and aimed it at her. As I did so we chatted about the story, she told me her favourite bits. I was surprised, she had actually been following the story the whole time.
I left her in dreamland to continue her ride on the unicorn in the moonlight.
I have since discovered the power there is in a simple story. The imagination to be cast into a world of make believe, making pains and fears dissipate is a serious weapon against the forces of darkness that plague the dreams of little ones. Just having an image of something special in her mind was enough to distract Jessi from the pain she was feeling and give it time to subside.
The story was nothing special… Believe-you-me, it had absolutely no plot and no conflict or structure to it… It simply had the right elements for Jessi… Animals, fantasy and a nice place to be. That was enough to bring comfort to her.
The funny thing is when I started writing this blog, late the other night, my youngest boy got up complaining of having had a bad dream (he’s five, had watched ghostbusters that evening and was having nightmares about evil marshmallow men or something). I let him get a drink of water and then followed him back upstairs to get him back to bed. As we walked down the hall he veered towards our room with hopes of hopping into our bed…
Hmmm…’I don’t think so, bud.’ As it is, he tends to hop into bed with us a couple of nights during the week anyway…but I don’t need to start the night with an extra body in the bed.
‘Come on back to YOUR bed.’
‘But I’m scared!’
‘Alright, I’ll tell you a story to cheer you up.’ (Now to see if this secret weapon of mine was just a fluke or the real deal).
He didn’t seem too convinced and showed it by his anti-attitude.
‘Would you like to have a superhero story?’
‘What about pirates?’
‘Something about cars?’ ‘No,’ ‘Animals?’ ‘No’ ‘Transformers? action-men? Knights?’
‘No, no, no!’
‘What do you like then?’
‘Oh-kay’ (waterfalls? Really?)
So I started a story that begun with a waterfall that had treasure at the bottom of it, he found a cave with a mermaid that gave him wishes and he wished for a life size train set… Among other things.
When I got to the end he wanted to hear more and I told him that he should close his eyes and ‘dream of the waterfall?’
‘Train set that he could ride around in?’
‘Mermaid? seahorse? cave?’
‘No, no, no.’
‘Then what?’
‘The treasure!’
‘Okay then…you dream of all the treasure you filled your pockets with! Goodnight.’
And he was fine after that, didn’t hear a peep out of him all night and the next night when I put him down to bed, he wanted to hear the exact same story again.
Yessss 2 for 2!
So I now truly believe in the magic of story telling and what a serious weapon it is to have in your arsenal against the dreaded nighttime terrors or whatever else that may come along.

Monday, 19 August 2013

Stop repeating yourself! When pesky repetition plagues your manuscript.

Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

Count Rugen: Stop saying that!

Ever have this problem? You read the same repeated line over and over again in a book and you find yourself wanting to shake the character and tell them to stop saying it! Or perhaps you want to slap the author to remind them that they wrote the same words, the same way 5 pages ago and on page 23 and page 8! Well maybe that's going a little far... slapping an author... I mean.

But there is some truth in it. As writer's there is a certain need to be artists even if we are trying to be true to life. Sure, in real life, we do tend to repeat ourselves... we repeat the same words, we use the same sentences... maybe tell the same jokes or stories over and over until we drive our friends crazy. In writing we need to be careful of such repeats... we hardly want to drive our readers up the wall.

Here's the problem..

It gets boring ; sad but true. A great sequence of events does not need to be rehashed in the retelling of the story by one character to another. It was exciting the first time, the reiteration not so much... I mean we were there after all... Bob's friend Darrel wasn't... Darrel needs to hear about it, but not us. Therefore there can be an explanation that Bob sat down with Darrel and told him about his harrowing ordeal... but reliving is not required. It just unnecessarily fills up space and slows down the story.

It sounds a little like Deja vu; reading the exact same sentence again can give the reader a feeling of having already been there in the story. 'Didn't i read this already?'

It looks amateurish; We may be amateurs in the writing game but we certainly don't want to look it... and lets face it repeated sentences or use of the same word to describe an action or thought kind of looks like we lack a knowledge of better words or are limited in our vocabulary. Quite frankly we shouldn't be, the thesaurus is a wonderful reference tool. Lacking a better word? type it in and see what comes up. I find, sometimes only a certain word will come to mind and when reaching for a better word, my mind decides to turn off and go blank... so I turn to my trusty thesaurus... usually ...and find that pesky word I was searching for. But a word of warning... be careful, not all words, while similar,  mean exactly what you are trying to convey.

It doesn't read nicely; Having a paragraph that describes an ornate window frame but uses the words window frame five times throughout, is kind of repetitive. What about framework or pane, trim or border? (yep just found these in the thesaurus after looking up window and frame) Mix it up a bit. Then again we know we're taking about the window frame... using 'it' a couple of times probably wouldn't hurt either... better than the window frame this and the window frame that. It will read much nicer that way.

 Things to keep in mind...
 Readers DO remember stuff... Hey i rely on the fact that my husband forgets a lot of what I tell him (perhaps he doesn't listen the first time) so I feel I can rehash old stories every now and then. You will have readers perhaps that forget something and end up confused... it happens to me when I put down a book for a couple of weeks, then pick it up again and ask 'what was that about again?' Well that's my own fault and I can look back a few pages and reread it if need be... but its not up to the author to make that provision for me. Readers are intelligent beings and certainly don't want to be reminded of things again and again, unless its absolutely important and crucial to the story but err on the side of caution.

People do repeat themselves... As i mentioned earlier, we've all heard people repeat stories and jokes more than once. We have all smiled and nodded as we've stood there hoping that this time the rendition will be the short, short version (unless it is your fav story grampa tells with all the hand gestures and facial expressions for a correct telling). So yes your character may have stories he repeats... but the reader doesn't need to hear the full version each time. The first time yes... and afterwards just the leading sentence that tells the reader... here comes the story again... without them having to read it again. Or maybe just the suggestion of it... and then he waffled off into his seafood conversion story for the fiftieth time.

There is a time and a place for repeats... Characters (especially eccentric ones) may have a particular word or sentence they say a lot as part of their personality... this is quite appropriate... and is something that may endear you to that particular character... something that when in quotations without any other information there is instant recognition from the reader as to who said it. I like that... its kinda cool.
Inigo Montoya's line killed my father etc... (I wont repeat) was endearing and quite iconic in The Princess Bride. As he repeated it again and again in the final action scene against his mortal enemy Count Rugen, it gave him some kind of power and even after getting a blade to both shoulders managed to get up and defeat him. The constant phrase becoming almost a chant of encouragement. It was brilliant.

So in conclusion... repeating oneself, at least in story form... not such a good thing... unless it is for a good reason where it makes sense and adds to the storyline or character development but in all other instances should be avoided.

Sunday, 11 August 2013

Chapter One... Titanian Chronicles ~ Journey of Destiny

Afeclin sat in a wooden rowboat looking out toward the coast of Marrapassa. The woods were thick with untouched trees making it hard to see very far inside.
He was sure he had made it past the elvin borders of Tebelligan without having been seen. He had been careful to leave under the cover of the morning mist so that he would not attract attention from the coast guard high in his tower. He had wanted to keep his leaving a secret. Even though Tebelligan City was built beside the ocean, fishing was left for the farming and fishing communities in the west of Tebelligan, therefore all boats in the vicinity of the city’s coast were treated as suspicious unless prior arrangement with the coast guard was made and Afeclin had made no such arrangement.
He now scanned the coastline in hopes that he might find the little town of his birth. He rowed closer to the shore to make a keener observation.
It should not be far now, he thought to himself as he rowed further on, heaving the paddles through the water with great effort and strain.
The tiny rowboat was just big enough to hold the tall human as he sat with his knees almost to his chest. Afeclin was used to things being a little too small for him. Growing up in an all elf kingdom, things were never quite his size.
Rounding a corner, that jutted out from the coast a short distance, he put what little energy he had left into rowing on the still waters.
Once around the corner, he stopped, putting down the wide paddles, to rest for a moment before continuing on.
Hunched over, he let his aching muscles relax as he dropped his head feeling immense fatigue. When he lifted his head again he was surprised and relieved by what he saw.
Just beyond the calm beach were the remnants of a little village nestled in a small valley which was surrounded by thick vegetation. 
Afeclin paddled to the shore with renewed excitement and allowed the boat to slide up on the bank. He jumped out onto the wet sand and pulled the boat further up the beach out of the water.
The afternoon was hot and sunny and the sweat poured from him profusely. Mopping his brow with his shirt sleeve, he began to explore the town.
It was a poor but humble village. Built from the timber cut down from the valley and fortified with the clay found in the ground, the crudely erected cottages were small and boxy.
The little nameless town that was hidden away from the rest of the world was now nothing more than a graveyard.
He wandered around the wide gravel streets that were more an expanse between the houses than designed roads. The place was quiet and lifeless, but not peacefully so. There was not a breeze to be felt in the valley and not a sound to be heard anywhere in the sky or on the ground. The only sounds Afeclin could hear were those he made himself as he shuffled his long black boots through the gravel.
Afeclin undid the lace on the front of his off white shirt and rolled up his sleeves attempting to cool himself a little.
He felt an intense heat which was strange, even for time of year. The hot season brought a lot of strong heat and sudden rainstorms, but this place had a different kind of hotness.
It is so hot here, it’s as if the fire still rages.
Traipsing from one cottage to the next, Afeclin examined the interior of each house with due respect.
The insides were empty. What little furniture once filled them had been incinerated under extreme heat. The wooden floors had also disappeared leaving a hole through to the ground.
It was sad to see the ashen walls of the black, soot stained buildings that crumbled with decay and ruin.
While the walls still stood, to some extent due to the clay that had rendered and protected them, the rooves had been completely consumed when the fires raged.
Afeclin stopped still in the middle of the village patting his short chin hair in thought.
It seemed such an out of the way place. It was deep within the Woods of Devan just beyond the border of Tebelligan, hidden away.
Why should anyone attack it? What purpose did it serve?
It didn’t make the least bit of sense to him. Whether as a tactical manoeuvre during the war or as some kind of random attack at the end, it seemed nonsensical. The villagers were mere peasants, ignorant of the bloodshed going on around them and weaponless; unable to fight. Why attack them?
He closed his eyes trying hard to understand.
When he opened them again, his eyes fell upon a small humble abode on the edge of the village close to a steep incline. There was something unusual about it, something that drew his attention to it.
As he took steps toward the little cottage, he noticed that unlike the other houses, this one did not seem to be burned in its entirety. There was a section in the middle of the house that was completely unaffected by the fire. The walls and even the roof were still intact.
Afeclin walked with nervousness to the entry of the cottage, not sure about how he was going to feel. He held his breath as he passed over the threshold.
The inside of the cottage was somewhat dark compared to the others he had seen. Even though daylight streamed through the missing sections of roof, the undamaged thatched area darkened the cottage significantly.
A section of floor was also still intact and it held the infamous cradle that Afeclin had heard about from his adoptee father, the Elf King of Tebelligan.
A little cradle, the only piece of furniture left in the building.
Afeclin examined the crib closely. The finely carved bed was made of strong bankoi wood and apart from being a little dirty and dusty, the cradle seemed to be in as good of a condition as it ever had been.
So this is where they found me.
Afeclin touched the cradle delicately with one finger.
All of a sudden he fell backward onto the floor as an image of the fire burst into his mind.
He had seen a horrified face that screamed amongst red hot flames.
Afeclin looked with cautiousness around the room. There was nothing there and all was still as before.
He stared at the fine piece of woodwork suspiciously.
It is the crib.
He touched the cradle again with more force and held tight to the sides. This time an image came into his mind and stayed there corrupting his thoughts and hurting his brain. Despite the pain he felt, he did not lift his hands.
He saw a woman’s face of ashen white. She was screaming in terror. A man of a tall large stature had his arms wrapped around the hysterical woman trying to pull her away from the blazing fire that was surrounding them. The woman tried in desperation to reach out for something on the other side of the flames and the man was doing all he could to stop her.
Through the thick glass window, many other people could be seen running about and screaming. There were some that tried to run buckets of water from the beach to their house but to no avail. One by one the people outside were hit by burning embers or what looked like fireballs aimed at them and they were killed; smothered to death in murderous flames.
Inside the house the man tried in vain to smash the window with his elbow. The thick glass would not be broken and with his elbow bleeding and torn he started to give in to the smoke that had engulfed the house and was beginning to choke his lungs.
There was a cry from a baby and the woman dashed through the fire to try and get to him. At the same time her flowing dress was caught by the blaze and she found herself being consumed by the flames. Her long golden tresses were burnt to her scalp. She could do nothing to help her crying son in his crib.
There was a last glance before she burned to death. She had a look of relief on her face as she realised the baby was safe from harm.
No smoke, no burning embers or flames touched the child. He seemed to be protected by an eerie blue energy force that emanated from a rock that had been hung above his cradle.
The man mourned only a brief moment over his lost love. He fell to the floor having been strangled to death by the thick smoke and then he too was devoured by the fire.
Afeclin ripped himself away from the crib, his hands were shaking and his legs felt weak and unstable. He felt the need to sit down and he did so, quavering upon what was left of the timber flooring. Thoughts exploded through his mind as he tried to come to grips with the event he had just witnessed.
My mother died trying to save me.
Tears welled in his eyes. He tried to pull back the emotion he was feeling.
Why? Why destroy such poor innocent people?
The scene kept playing over and over in his head and before long he was crying with convulsions upon the ground.
It doesn’t make sense, what kind of people would do such a thing?
The raging fires had killed everyone in that quiet, out of the way village except for one lonely survivor, a baby in a cradle… himself.
They didn’t even stand a chance, he whimpered into his long bony hands. They had nothing of value. They were not any kind of threat and they were out of the way… so why bother with them?
Afeclin could not get his head around the attack. The more he thought about it the more puzzled he became and before long he was no longer crying but sitting on his knees in the dirt trying to figure it out.
They were hit with balls of fire. What kind of weapon was that?
The only people Afeclin knew that could produce fireballs were wizards. But could a wizard have done this? The more he thought it out the more probable it seemed, yet he was still unable to understand why anyone would do such a thing.
He got to his feet, sweeping his fingers through his long, black, sweat soaked hair.
He was determined more than ever to leave Tebelligan and follow his desire to become a wizard. He knew he had a gift but he had to learn how to use it properly and grow it to its full potential.
I was protected that day. Maybe it was for a special purpose.

Friday, 2 August 2013

The Prologue... Titanian Chronicles ~ Journey of Destiny

The sound of horse hooves pummelling the hard wet ground resonated against the rock face of the bluff that overlooked a long winding road on the bank’s edge of Fraida.
A man dressed all in black with a long scar on the left side of his face rode with great speed and determination. His wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair jetted back behind him as it flew on the breeze under a large rimmed black hat that had a single grey feather sticking out of it.
A little inn,  nestled in amongst large leafy red trees overlooking the ocean bank, came into view as he rounded a corner. He pulled hard on the reins, slowing his horse to a trot as he neared the entrance.
Climbing down from his steed and jumping hard onto the muddied ground, he turned around and gave the horse a hard slap on the backside. The horse whinnied and rode away in the direction they had been heading.
The man in black turned around and sauntered up the wooden steps to the front of the rundown inn, then opening the heavy wooden door he walked inside leaving a careless trail of mud as he trod.
Choosing one of the many empty round tables to sit at, he took his hat off and placed it on the table then removed his long black coat and slung it over the chair in front of him.
Scanning the room for signs of life, he gave a loud impatient cough.
A little balding man in an apron and dark blue shirt appeared from a room just beyond the plain wooden bar.
‘Ahhh Master Nagrin, you’re here at last, we expected you yesterday… did you run into a little trouble?’ the man asked in an joyful manner that made the dark man’s skin crawl.
’No trouble,’ Nagrin spoke in a low disinterested tone, ‘I just had to find myself a horse,’ then he mumbled as he took off his heavy black gloves, ‘then of course I had to lose some troops on my tail.’
‘What was that Master?’
‘Never mind,’ the man in black said with indifference waving his gloves with importance at the man, ‘how are our plans coming together?’
‘Good, good… I managed to get you a carriage as requested. Then there are three hooded wagons and a large open wagon that should be big enough for your purposes…’
‘Excellent, and the trolls?’ Nagrin said with a half smile, sitting down in the wooden chair next to the one holding his coat and kicking his booted feet up onto the table.
‘Oh the trolls were no problem, they are eager to help Moorlan in his cause, they fought for his father, you know.’
‘Yes,’ Nagrin said rubbing his scar with absentness.
‘And I have secured a dozen trolls to go with you in the wagons as henchmen,’ the jolly man stated with emphasis.
‘Good. You have done well.’ Nagrin said, leaning back into his chair. ‘What about the purchasing of new establishments?’
The small man looked a little uneasy. ‘At this stage we have secured two taverns and an inn. I’m afraid people have been none too interested in selling their establishments.’
‘Well I suppose we will just have to start taking the ones we want then,’ Nagrin commented then added with a wry smile, ‘people do make things hard for themselves.’
‘Yes Master.’
Nagrin scanned the room of the tired old inn in thought. The walls needed painting, pictures were hung in a haphazard manner around the room and floorboards were lifting up in places.
‘What does a man have to do to be offered a drink?’ he said with scorn.
‘Yes Master…’ the little man said bowing in apology, then clapping his hands together called out toward the bar, ‘Sarvina! A drink for our guest!’
A young woman dashed  from the room behind the bar holding a round silver tray with a tankard on it. She swept into the room and set the drink down in front of Nagrin. She gave him a shy smile.
Nagrin watched her in admiration as she floated around the room. Her golden curls that fell just below her chin and her tall sleek body that glowed in a long flowing blue dress added some colour to the drab furnishings.
The balding man sensing Nagrin’s interest attempted to distract his thoughts.
‘Who will Moorlan get to work in these establishments when they are set up?’
‘Slave girls,‘ Nagrin said with a little smirk as he took a sip from the tankard of brew, ‘the finest girls that I can find, only the best for Lord Moorlan.’
‘Of course master, but how do you plan to collect these girls?’ he asked, ‘I mean, they may be unwilling to go with you.’
‘Well of course they will be unwilling. I will be taking them from their homes and families where they are free and have happy lives. No girl in her right mind will want to come but nonetheless I will take whom I please and they will become slaves, owned by Lord Moorlan himself, whether they like it or not… they will have no choice in the matter,’ he replied with a sly snarl, ‘…let them try to make war with me, HA! I would welcome it!’
‘So you will search towns then…?’
‘And fields, and woodland areas and anywhere else I see fit,’ he said eyeing out the young waitress again, ‘…in fact, I have already found my first prospect.’
The man looked in horror at the girl who was busy wiping tables.
‘Master, you can’t be meaning Sarvina!’ he said, clasping and unclasping his hands as he trembled, ‘she is no slave, she is my daughter.’
‘How many father’s do you think will plead to me with that same story? Would you have me take pity on all of them?’
‘No master but… but she is the only child we have left! Her mother and I lost our other children during the great war,’ the little man said backing up against the wall.
‘Are you trying to tell me that the great war was a mistake on the part of King Ravash?’ Nagrin remarked in pointed accusation.
‘Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no… nothing like that,’
‘Good,’ Nagrin nodded taking another mouthful of brew from the clay tankard, ’grab your things girl, you will be coming with me.’
The girl looked to her father in fear, her eyes pleading with him to save her.
The little man seeing his daughter’s distress gained some courage and stood up straight pointing his chin out.
‘Now, Master I must interject… I have done all that you asked of me, all of it! You promised in return for my obedience that you would leave my property alone and you would let me continue on as before. You cannot take my daughter!’
Nagrin looked at the man with careless nonchalance. Then he seized a small knife that was tucked into a leather holder bound to his thigh and thrust it at the heated little man.
The knife hit between his left side and arm slicing into his dirty blue shirt while securing him to the wall he leaned against. The man shook in fear and the girl let out a silent cry of shock and panic.
Nagrin arose from where he was seated and strode toward the man. Collecting his knife, he swept it up against the man’s neck and held it close while he spoke with a hushed voice into his ear.
‘This is how it’s going to play out… I am going to take your daughter and you are going to go on here in this inn, serving me as I see fit. If you defy me, I will slit your throat here and now, take your daughter AND establishment and leave your wife a widow. What do you say to that little man?’
The man looked up at Nagrin with a pained expression on his face, a single tear falling from his eye.
‘Ye..ssss,’ the man stammered, fearing the knife at his throat.
Nagrin pulled away from the man and slipped his knife back into the leather pouch, ‘girl, get your stuff together, this is your last chance to save your father.’
The man fell to the floor as his legs gave way beneath him. The girl ran to him with concern and tried to help him up.
‘Sarvina, don’t you worry about me… just do what Nagrin tells you and you will be fine… you hear me? No one is going to hurt you if you do what you are told,’ the man said looking her straight in the eyes, ‘now go and get your things.’
The girl looked at her father with sadness and kissed him on the forehead before running out the door.
Nagrin looked at the pathetic man laying on the floor and watched as he raised himself back onto his feet.
‘Your daughter doesn’t talk much does she? A fine quality in a woman…’ he said, drinking the last of the brew left on the table.  
‘Master, there is something you must know about Sarvina,’ the man said with sadness, ‘she does not speak, at all.’
Nagrin raised his eyebrows as he put his hands, finger by finger, back into his gloves, ‘like I said… a fine quality.’
‘Master… I tell you this because I don’t wish for you to misunderstand when you speak to her and she does not reply… it will not be because she is defiant but simply because she can’t,’ the little man stated, wringing his hands.
‘Don’t worry, I will take excellent care of her,’ Nagrin responded with a laugh as he placed his hat upon his head and picked up his coat, ‘now, how about you show me where these wagons are.’
The little man bowed his head. He did not feel at all confident that Nagrin would look after his daughter. He sighed in defeat and stated with a simple breath, ‘This way.’