*rubs head* Some folk got sharp fingers. Just sayin'.
I should totally be better at this blogging thing. I have so many random thoughts, running narrations and absurd moments in my life that it should be easy to keep a daily record of all the things that go through my head that I really shouldn't share. Somehow, I never get around to writing them down.
Some people would think this is a good thing.
Some people would bug me to get on twitter. Which isn't happening. Because I would post nonsense. And follow no one of any import. Or ignore it completely until people with sharp fingers poked me.
Which really? Some of you should trim your nails.
(I am in a really strange mood tonight. I'd say ignore me, but some of you wanted me to post.)
Milestones. I thought about going deep and emo with this, but I decided instead just to comment on two missed milestones. My car - which used to be
And on April 3, Katheryn turned 14.
Don't judge me. I'll finish the damn thing someday. Before I die. Or after. Lots of authors have finished stories after they die. JRR Tolkien did it. Twice!
To punish myself, I'm going to do a writing exercise. (Someone said it was a meme, but I don't do memes. That makes it a writing exercise.)
Concept
One of your OCs is being interviewed. Make up a reason why, if you really need one.
Rules
- You must choose only ONE of your OCs. Do it again if you wanna use another OC.
- Your OC must answer every question as truthfully as possible.
- When you're done, tag as many people as you want.
- Have fun!!!
If this were really just a meme, I could get away with writing it with questions and answers as opposed to writing a quick scene. So, I'm going to write a scene.
The girl sits across the white marble table, in front of the windows. The sunlight spills around her in a halo - a spotlight she'd never want. She is a tiny thing, with the delicate features of a child. Her pale skin is washed out against the stark, unrelieved black of her clothing. High-collared and military cut, it makes her seem even smaller, even more striking against the bright white marble and the golden sunlight.
It's hard to believe this girl is the one they say will save us all. At least, until you look into her eyes. Her eyes are dark blue, flecked with violet and streaked with silver. They are alien eyes that remind you who her mother was. It makes you think maybe, just maybe, she really does have Immortal blood running in her veins.
She smiles, but the expression doesn't quite make it to her eyes. Her mouth quirks into a half-smile, charismatic and knowing and enigmatic while seeming to share a private joke. It's hard not to like her, despie the distance she tries to keep between herself and everyone around her. She's alone in the room; she wanted to answer questions without anyone else around.
Some might call that brave, but it seems more like she doesn't want witnesses to what she might say.
"Everyone knows you as the Daughter of the Stars, the Silver Champion. What's your real name? What do your friends call you?"
She shrugs, her eyes following the holo-drone recording the interview. She sits perfectly still, utterly motionless, except for her eyes. She's at ease, calm, relaxed, with the hint of barely suppressed motion. Like a predator. It's vaguely disturbing, but seems to fit her well.
"I'm Katheryn Tariana, gaija of the First Blood of House Neila, Second Blood of House Liera, Heir-Apparent to the High Seat of the Outworlds Alliance. Duchess of the Katarian Holdings, Knight-Defender of the Empire of Terran Worlds, Warlady of the Disinherited." She pauses. "Most people call me Katheryn. Others call me less flattering names."
It's hard to know what to say to that. She's not the most popular girl with the First Blood or the Houses. She did start a war - two of them, actually. She's never so much as apologized for either.
It's also hard not to think she might have been right. What would have happened if she hadn't killed the Eridani envoy? What would have happened if she hadn't led the Disinherited to attack the Combine?
Regardless, no one can deny her tiny hands are soaked in blood.
"You've done so much the past few years, been at the epicenter of so much. You look to be so young, but no one knows for sure. How old are you?"
She shrugs again, putting layers and depth of meaning into the simple action. "I don't know. It's been...15 years, give or take, since Lord Treshair took me from my home and brought me to New Ontario. I don't know how old I was when he took me. I could be anywhere from 20 to 25."
So young to have done so much. To have so much blood on her hands, to have so many lives resting in her hands. On her word, millions go to die. By her decision, our entire civilization rises or falls. It's sometimes hard to put faith in prophecy or Power when you don't walk the Halls or stand with the Houses, but sometimes, it's hard to deny that logic or reason make it impossible that one girl could do so much, be so much without some greater reason.
But who is she?
"You're a mystery, Warlady. You're known for galactic upheavel, epic grandstanding and starting fights other people have to finish. But what does the interstellar heroine eat for breakfast? What's her favorite food?"
She smirks. It's a smirk that's just a fraction of an expression away from being scorn or a sneer or even a snarl. "Simple stuff, mostly. Sandwhiches, wraps. Food you can eat on the go or sit down and enjoy. I grew up eating fancy feasts or field rations, so 'normal' food is a bit exotic to me."
Her answer feels honest, at least. Maybe she's opening up, de-mystifying herself?
"What about a favorite drink?"
She actually looks a bit sheepish. "Herbal tea."
While she seems off-guard, it's time to find out something deeper, something to give people a way to understand her.
"People want to know more about you! Do you have a lover or someone you're courting?"
Her expression changes, becoming unreadable. Her strange eyes grow hard and sharp and her head inclines ever so slightly, her long, dark hair shifting with a whisper of sound.
"Next question."
"There has to be someone! Have you kissed them? Have you had the romance every First Blood girl dreams of?"
She shifts and the air crackles around her in a not-so-subtle reminder that she doesn't need a weapon to be dangerous.
"Next question."
"Right, then. How about another classic? Favorite color?"
Her expression changes and the tension drains out of the air. She relaxes a bit again, the half-smile tugging at her lips. "Not black."
It's hard to remember that she wears black because she's gaija. Tainted blood. A bastard child. Some say she wears it as a concession to the Houses, others say she has other, deeper reasons.
Stick to safe questions for the moment. Let things stay calm. "What about a favorite author?"
She's quiet for a moment, thinking. "I don't know. I don't read much for fun, though I love the works of the bard StarFreedom."
Of course. The bard who set her on her path, who inspired her to stand against what she saw coming. Against the Combine and the Immortals she claims control it.
"What about your biggest fear?"
A smirk again, eyes bright with bitter amusement. "I'm living it."
"Many claim you're a hero. Some claim that you're their personal hero. What about you? Is there anyone you look up to?"
"My father." Her voice is a whisper. Her father is a dead man; a warrior who stood against a veritable army of Treshairi Assassins on the steps of his own Palace. He died with his blade in his hand and the blood of his enemies running in rivers to stain the reflecting pools red.
She continues speaking. "He never doubted me. He never let me want for his affection, his love, even when it was forbidden for him to give my even that much. He stood against a corrupt system, held to his Oaths to protect his people. He gave up the love of his life, his daughter, his family, everything that mattered to him to do what was right. He was killed for it."
Time to press deeper. "Your worst enemy?"
Her eyes flash, flaring bright with luminescence. The air crackles again and the temperature drops in the room as her Power wraps itself around her in a mantle of barely suppressed energy. Silver and indigo burn on the edges of vision.
"Lord Treshair. Treadwell. The Grey Lord." She whispers his names as if he can hear her voice. And it's possible he could; the Grey Lord is the boogeyman in every closet, the knife at every back. Ageless, powerful beyond hope or reason - the last of the Immortals. A remnant of a lost age, the only survivor of a war that shook the foundations of the universe.
The most powerful man alive, some say. A myth, other say.
"He was my teacher, my friend. He was my father's closest ally." Her smile grows, but it is a cold, hungry expression. "He killed my mother so he could manipulate me into being your fucking messiah. He let my father die so I could take his place. I'm going to kill him."
The matter of fact delivery of that statement is enough to make anyone shiver.
"You face things most people can't even imagine, Warlady. You've seen things, been a part of things in ways that defy understanding. What would you do if you met your creator?"
Her face contorts. "Which one? Does it matter? I am already what they made me. I know why I am. I know what I am. I was never allowed to know who I am, because if I know that, they can't control me."
Enigmatic, much like the lady herself.
"What's your worst nightmare?"
She shakes her head, her hair falling around her like a curtain. Her voice is strained. Hoarse. "That everyone is right. That I am a savior, a messiah. That I have a destiny."
"You say you fight for everyone who can't fight for themselves. Do you have any dreams for yourself?"
"No," Katheryn chokes the word out. "No. I can't. I can't have that hope, because if I do, I might forget the path."
Okay, that sucked. Next time, I spend more time on it. Now, bedtime.
Maybe a bit of reading. I do have a signed copy of Turn Coat to read.
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