Here’s a (very rough) sneak peek at Ceredwyn, all grown up, in the hopes that posting this will motivate me to write more.
In a ring of fire on the surface of the black pool in Mab’s fortress, Ceredwyn watched them go. Her father and his princess whore had no idea. They never did. Not that she watched them often. At least, not anymore.
As a child, after she had learned the art of seeing, she had sometimes spent hours gazing into the flames, watching them go about their lives, wondering what it would be like to be theirs, to live with them and be loved by them. That was how she learned that they almost never even spoke of her. On the rare occasion that they did, it was with anger and bitterness on the part of the wife, and shame and regret on the part of her father.
That was how she came to hate them. It was why one day soon, they would kneel at her throne and beg her to show them the compassion and consideration that they never once showed her.
Her fingers wrapped around the crystal pendant at her throat. It was a gift from her mother-her true mother, not Mab. It was all Ceredwyn knew of the woman who had born her and bargained her away to Queen Mab. When Ceredwyn came into power, she would be able to find her mother at last. Find her, and make her pay alongside everyone else who had been content to leave her upbringing to a sorceress with such exacting and unforgiving standards as the Queen of Air and Darkness.
But all of that would wait. At the moment, it was the mortal who piqued her interest. There was something about him, a sense of familiarity that drew her to him. Apart from that was simply the fact that he was a curiosity. Of course she had heard ancient tales of mere mortals slaying dragons and trolls. It was possible. But rare. and why had he been brought across the veil to begin with? What did Taggart and his ancient princess want with this human?
Something told her that the answer to that question would give her the key to their destruction.
From behind her, large, rough hands grabbed her around the waist. She shivered as calloused fingers scraped her bare arms and pulled her back against a rock hard chest. Smiling, she lifted her hand to a furred cheek, found a bovine ear and stroked it. “Not now, pet,” she told the minotaur. “First I need you to do something for me.”
Man, do I wish I had the talent and skill to make myself an icon of that last image.
© 2008 J. M. Bauhaus