Sarah Tubbs

This made me smile! Very cozy. Love the vibe you've set up 

 

Opening scene: introduces protagonist, side character, setting, and foreshadows the underlying conflict.

“Soothsayer”, my mother had called me, but I scarce believed. Assuming I dreamt through the eyes of another, she held hope that I embodied the gift of prophecy. Yet I bore no divination. These scenes dancing behind my eyelids left no poetic riddles to distill in their wake. For a time, I called them memories, believing the gods made a mistake when weaving my soul and instead of one, had woven many. Seamed together in jagged lines, each fabric of being stitched unto the other like a quilt made in darkness. The wistful tales of a child for soon those dreams plunged into horrors, ones reluctant to return me to the waking.

And then when I spoke of the dreams, fear had replaced my mother’s wonderment. To stave off my mind’s turning in slumber, she rubbed on me salves of poppy and pig’s fat to deepen rest. Rosemary and jasmine she used to make me smell sweetly for the gods’ pleasure because surely, I’d incurred their wrath if they sought to dangle me in the realm betwixt the living and the free souls. All the while, she muttered prayers learned from the clan she fled, for they, above all others, knew how to please the gods. Or so they said. Though, I did not believe the gods held sway over anything anymore. For five thousand years, they had left us to their silence. 

 With the dull pulsing behind my eyes, I felt the charm my mother made me like a brand between my breasts. Another dream suppressed, its madness resulting in such twisted aches. Herbalism. Rune magic. I found I cared little for their connotations so long as nothingness awaited me past sleep’s grasp. Naysayers riddled the land, pushing comparisons of witchcraft, of debauchery, feigning ignorance from which such gifts the gods sprung, but I knew better. Within the splintering walls of my village, most of us did. 

As I wove a copper strand of my sister’s hair under the next, Rory squirmed, pulling loose the beautiful intricacies of my work: well, as beautiful as one might expect given the head of hair being attached to someone who refused to hold still.

I heaved a sigh at the ceiling. In the pale light filtering in, my attention snagged on the cobwebs clinging between the beams. Lazily, they waved in the waft of heat from the fireplace. 

 “Stop wiggling, Rory,” I said, and with all the same gentleness, I faced her forward—again. 

“Niamh.” Her voice reached for its shrill whine. “Do I have to go?” 

I drew in a breath to assuage the tightness in my chest, but it did nothing. “Yes, you do have to attend.” I continued weaving the ivory ribbon in with her braid—a twin to mine. “Just sit still. I’m nearly done.” Fant shouts drew my gaze up to the adjacent window. Across the freshly shorn wheat field leading to my village nestled in the grove, those in the community busied themselves with preparations for the offering. A bit frenzied, honestly, from the sound of it. Perhaps they’d gotten a late start. 

Being so far away from the everyday commotion offered us a much needed reprieve from their antics and though Father never said, I suspected that to be one of the many reasons he'd chosen to build our home separate from the others. 

Our home of stacked stone stuck out like a ram among sheep. Father built what he knew, what his father knew, and his grandfather before him. Sat atop the slight slope butting up to the forest of yellowing aspen, the window caught the sun perfectly most days, bathing the patched armchair across the way in a rich, buttery glow just as it had when my mother had occupied its cushion. 

Rory slumped in her chair and threw her head back to frown at me, nearly ripping her half-woven braid from my fingers. I eyed the bit of dirt smeared across her jawline, her cheeks, and even the pointed tip of her ear—as if she'd been the one rummaging around in the garden all day and not myself. 

Rory was caught in those awkward in-between stages of adolescence and maturity—her face still rounded by youth, making the dimple in her chin far less noticeable than it otherwise would be. Each freckle splattered across her nose reminded me of red clay and matched her round eyes in near perfection.  

While I shared in the coloring of my mother’s hair, I did not much look like either of my parents. While my father’s eyes had been as bright as star flecked skies, and my mother's dark and chaotic as the churning Saor with its blue-gray tint, I'd been told my eyes were reminiscent of fractured sea glass littering shores and harboring a soft green. 

I pinned her with a warning glare, but she eyed me with vague innocence. 

“Can I skip it?” She fanned her pale lashes at me. “Oh, come on! Just this once!” she added when I shook my head, and I felt a twinge in my neck from how often I seemed to do it.

I twisted my lips, trying to ignore the pulsing which quickly surmounted to a throb. No matter the amount of willow bark tea I’d forced down the pain had yet to ease. 

“Searmanas is only once a month,” I reminded her, carrying the left strand over the center—a few wild spurts of hair darting off in different directions here and there, refusing to behave.

She glowered. “Keely doesn’t go.”

“Keely is full grown, my love.” I offered her a wry smile. “It’s her decision if she chooses not to honor the gods. You, on the other hand, are not."

Elven from all walks of life, clan or no, offered sacrifices in the names of the six gods during Searmanas—a ritual held once a moon. The hope that the gods would someday again stretch down from Spéartha to brush their fingers across the realms had yet to be relinquished, however hollow. 

“Niamh,” she drew out my name in a long-winded groan, "please! I’ll do anything.” Ah yes, the bargaining. “I’ll go to the garden right now and finish pulling the weeds and gathering the herbs and—” Her eyes brightened as she twisted to face me, the ends of her hair slipping from my grasp altogether. “I’ll even hang them to dry,” she waggled her brows, her lips stretching in a near-fiendish grin. 

 I watched as each strand uncoiled itself down the back of her dark blue dress in a cascade of copper seemingly out of spite and made the mental note to rid myself of such futile efforts come next moon. “Clever.” I flicked her nose, and her hand flew up to bat me away. “But I finished that this morning.”

My gaze flicked to the string of drying herbs and flowers above the soot-stained hearth on the far wall, a myriad of dulling purples and greens and blues.

Another groan, and I looked back in time to see Rory’s face fall at the sad state of her plait. “I’ll do it myself,” she grumbled, scooping her hair over her small shoulder. Her fingers set about twining the strands back together.

I blew out a breath. “You know, my efforts on your hair would’ve looked wonderful if the head it is attached to would’ve stopped moving,” I said, as I sidled in between her chair and the wooden dinner table to the wall brimmed with closed shelving. Though they were not labeled, I knew precisely which drawer my henbane rested, in the furthest top corner to keep it far from reach of little hands. From aniseed to yarrow, my herbs had their place tucked within.

 Rory quieted her quibbling enough that I couldn’t discern her words from the crows grating coos and rattles.

Even long dried, the henbane’s foul odor wafted to greet me when I pulled open its drawer. Stains soaked into the wood’s grain and shriveled leaves still remained from my mother's time, yet I kept them as a reminder of her years in my place. 

I coiled my fingers around the twine binding the stems together and carried it to my worktable beneath the window. 

“That’s not lavender.” Rory felt the need to state the obvious.

“No, it certainly is not.”

Carefully, I unbound the leafy stems to separate them over the wood. Like thorns pricking my skin, I felt the poison riddling its fibers. With a breath, I willed it to flee. The black spores of its toxins seeped from its pores and arched beneath my nails. 

“What is it for?”

“Len tells me Darrah has refused to sleep since the other night,” I answered, dunking my hands in the clear bucket of water I kept by the table and scrubbing my nails against the soft pads of my palms. “And truthfully, I can only heighten the effects of valerian root so much.”

I couldn’t be entirely certain it would be effective, but the soporific properties of henbane were potent, feared among common folk as it often plagued one with creeping visions. Yet with its poison swirling in the bucket before me, I hoped its remnants might be enough to send Darrah into a dreamless sleep. 

“But what does Darrah say?”

 I threw her a glance over my shoulder, drying my hands in my skirts. “That, of course, he’s fine.”

“Then why—”

“Because he’s never fine, Rory.” I pitched my voice over hers, unable to shield her from the bite of my words. “Now, mind your work and I’ll mind mine.”

Her expression pinched with a huff, her fingers working down. 

She held no understanding of what it meant to fear sleep. 

 

1: 

Niamh must escape the Blaidd and journey to the kingdom of Eithearius to find her sister and reclaim her home.

2:

The Blaidd are dark spawn of a devil by the name of Aoshmer. Starting in chapter three, the Blaidd rampage Niamh's village to take those with great power prisoner with the objective of weeding out the weak for the purposes of creating half breeds powerful enough to fell the Northern kingdom of Eithearius.
The Blaidd are a warrior race and are very brutal in their attempt to seek out the strong. The slightest inconvenience sends them into a rage. Many of them suffer from bloodlust which forces them to remain in their beast form as half of their former self for the rest of their days, thus the curse of harboring the blood of a devil.

3:

Of Gods and Myth
The Stain of Night
A Lasting Darkness

4:

The King of Battle and Blood, by Scarlet St. Clair
This novel explores themes of skewed perceptions and reincarnation similar to my work in progress.

Not entirely sure about the second comp yet.

5:

After a slew of beasts rampage her village, Niamh is separated from her sister and must find a way to escape Eadochas Dun, a fortress built into the mountainside, with the help of an unlikely ally.

6:

Inner conflict:
Niamh’s inner conflict is fueled by her need to survive the Blaidd's cruelty to make it out alive and find her sister, Rory. Their parents were murdered on the road to Éithearius a decade prior when Rory was only two and Niamh fifteen. The dual role of parenthood was forced upon Niamh at a young age, and she knows little else aside from raising Rory. Niamh knows that since all who they knew before are likely dead or imprisoned, she is all Rory has left in the world. In the same vein, Niamh is unable to stand back and watch as her fellow inmates are slaughtered before her for the slightest mistakes. She is unable to quiet the inner voice telling her to stand up and fight back. This leads to Niamh landing herself in precarious situations that had she not had an unknown ally, would've landed her in the belly of a Blaidd.

Secondary conflict:
After their escape, Niamh struggles to trust Loch since he masqueraded as the warden during her time in Eadochas Dun. This distrust is worsened when she discovers he has blood bonded them. This creates internal as well as external strife between the two characters as she struggles to sort out his true intentions. His role in the prison mixed with his position in King Cian's court leads her to doubt whether the king will be a willing ally in the fight that is sure to come against the Blaidd.

7:
Much of the story takes place in the Unclaimed Lands, the realm located between the Clan Territories and Eithearius. The Unclaimed Lands serves as a refuge for many fleeing clan law and tradition; therefore, a myriad of differing cultures and tradition seep into the everyday lives of those born and bred upon the land. The final major settings being in Eithearius, the northern kingdom.
1: The story begins in Niamh's childhood home built by her father in the village of Garran, which is bathed in the vibrancy of autumn. It is made of stacked stone, a thatched roof, and an oaken door carved with the relief of a willow. It is merely big enough for two, fitting Niamh and her sister Rory perfectly, even if it does feel a tad tight at times.
In the second chapter Niamh goes into the main village nestled in a grove wherein the Sacred Lur tree is poised at its center. The leaves of this tree hold the remnants of an iridescent gleam. It's thick roots jut in and out of the ground, spreading throughout the village and causing moderate structural issues to the half-timbered homes encircling the edges of the settlement. The main village is bordered with a tall gate as well as several wards to deflect the Creatures of the Night.

In the next segment, the story takes place in an ancient prison at the base of the mountain built under the scrutinizing eye of Chief Sean five centuries prior, Eadochas Dun (ae-doh-hus dun). It is painstakingly precise. In the cells that are no more than an arm span wide, the prisoners are kept in complete darkness. However, curiously, one wall of their cell is made up of bars leading to a chamber masked in shadow, and Niamh cannot make out what is beyond.
Below the fortress itself are tunnels less carefully hewn, the walls are sharp and jagged from the bludgeon of pickaxes. These tunnels branch endlessly, though if one pays attention, one might feel a draft coming from a few of them. There are many excavated rooms with barrels, heavy sacks, and lanterns. These are the rooms the prisoners are forced to mine yet they never harvest anything.

After her escape, Niamh and Loch travel through the foothills, straying from common paths in the hopes the Blaidd will lose their scent. In this segment, it takes place in various nature-based settings such as streams to give the horse rest, caves they find shelter in, and narrow paths winding through the pass.

The fourth part of the story takes place inside the mountain in a settlement comprised of ex-clan. Here there are budding crystals clinging to the ceiling which emit an amber glow comparable to the sun and are warm to the touch. A waterfall cascades from the cliffs above and it's waters flow through the forested settlement, yet where it leads no one knows.

The fifth major setting is in the northern kingdom of Eithearius, a land rich and green and abounding with life despite the clutch of winter. It is a peninsula with sprawling hills and lush forests. The capitol, Caislean, is perched upon the cliffs overlooking the churning waves of the Dorcheen ocean. The city itself was built around the garden sprung by the goddess of life centuries prior.