Due to a tension headache and stress, come back tomorrow for a combined Mercenary Heart Day Four/Five draft post.

Mercenary Heart Draft: Day Three - On the Mend

The first thing I notice as I wake is that I can feel my arm. I can feel it perhaps by too much, as the wound throbs slightly.

"It will do that," A voice says dryly. "I didn't heal it all the way. You seemed to take the cure worse than the ill." I look through slit eyes to an older woman, broad with a kind, if smirking, face. "It's not often I get someone from Shadow's Fall here." I nod slowly as I prop myself up on my good arm. I notice boots peeking from the edge of the bed and pull them on.

"Thank you all the same, Mend." I stand from the bed and survey the Mend's tent. "It's dark."

"It's several hours past nightfall." She cocks her head to the side and eyes me. "Is it true you'll only contract to the Steward?"

"Blooded. But yes. If you know I'm from Shadow's Fall, you'll know that I cannot swear to anyone. Not even the King." I glance over myself and realize I'm wearing new clothing. A white tunic and dark leggings. I look about the tent again. "Where are my...?"

"Your weapons, three hells, your arsenal, are right here." A diminutive woman has a sack slung across her shoulder. I can see no outline of weapons on her person in the dim lantern and candlelight of the tent, but I don't doubt that she's armed somehow. "The Hook, at your service, Blade Master." A devilish grin. "Ha. Blade Master. You'll be interesting. Blackshire, right?"

"...Guerrin-Blackshire."

"Blackshire." She repeats it firmly and I shrug. Then wince. The Mend and The Hook both laugh.

"You'll have to heal up the rest of the way on your own," The Mend says simply. "Gods know I'll probably see you often enough. Blade Masters rarely have any sense."

"True enough, Mend." I keep myself from laughing. "So...The Hook comes for a Blade Master. You have me at a disadvantage."

"Highgrass. Ananda Highgrass." She's a bit shorter than me, and opens the flap of the large tent. "C'mon you. I'm supposed to keep an eye on you."

"Honest of you. I'm sorry about Highgrass." I offer up the apology earnestly. The small hamlet didn't deserve to have been turned into a crater by the mage-lords. I follow the shorter woman carrying my gear through a maze of smaller tents.

"We'll rebuild. Eventually. And of course I'm honest. They say people from Shadow's Fall can smell a lie."

"No. We can't. I can smell magic." She seems to take a moment to consider that answer.

"Is it true your folk aren't born?"

"I was. I can't speak for others." I look at the shorter woman. "You look like a Dagger."

"Daggers aren't so friendly, though, eh?" She pauses and ties her hair back. "I look a lil bit more like a Hook?" Her face does seem a bit more open, but the shadows sharper.

"Maybe. By whose order are you keeping an eye on me?"

"The Commandant's. She's concerned about what sort of trouble you'd get into before you contract in."

"I don't cause trouble. I end it...how much further to the tent we're supposed to bunk in?"

"A bit further."

"Nope. No more walking. If I'm going to tire myself out tonight, it'll be something pleasant. Give me my gear." She makes a show of heaving the sack at me. I catch it easily with my good arm, but almost lose balance. I find my bladed gauntlet wrapped in cloth, and shake it slightly, muttering. My arms start burning, but a small purse drops to the ground.

"That was magic!"

"It was low magic. Perfectly in accordance with the damned laws." I swipe up the purse and tuck the gauntlet into my belt. "Please tell me this camp has whores."

"Whores? Sure. Closer than my tent. How did you...?"

"Magic. It takes magic to halt disease and prevent children. Safe bound magic, but magic higher than low. I could smell it." I hope The Hook can't make out my face too well. The lie is plausible enough, but that sort of magic I wouldn't have been able to smell till I was on top of it. It was simply a lucky guess.

"...there's few men among them. Probably already taken, with how late it is." The statement is really more of a question if you think about it, and I laugh.

"I don't need a man. Don't worry, Highgrass. You'll find me in the morning easily enough."

Mercenary Heart Draft: Day Two - Test and Contract

The woman looks at me and laughs.

"The Lion's March?" She digs the head of her axe into the ground and fairly doubles over in laughter. "Their Blade Master? We'll see if you can be half a Blade Master here, much less The Blade Master." With a grin from ear to ear she gestures vaguely. "Get a Smith to see those chains off. Let's see what an up-jumped sell-sword from the Lion's March can do." One of the other kingsmen, not Shorty, shoves my shoulder a bit.

"Get going then, ghost of a woman. If you want out of them chains that is. Ain't our concern no more." I wander a bit in the camp, following the Axe's vague pointing. I listen closely for the sound of hammers on anvils, of bellows and flame. I pass a row of polished tower shields and see my reflection for the first time since I was thrown into that dungeon. The armor they gave me was white, but you can see my blacks underneath leather and chain. I look a haggard mess, with a bloodied neck and uneven hair. My islander skin and dark hair hide the dust of travel only somewhat. The gaolers hadn't chopped my hair evenly at all, and it thus was growing raggedly. I am a beggar in a ghost's armor. At least I have a Blade Master's arms. My dagger and long knife are low on my back, a great axe slung too on my back, My sword on my hip, and a bladed gauntlet hanging loosely from my belt ready to be worn. But of course, there are still the chains. Hobbling me and preventing me from drawing any weapon whatsoever. I trudged past the shields and to the forges proper. Or as proper as camp forges can be...the only Smith attending the flames didn't fit the image of his taken name at all. A lean man, built like a dancing boy from across the eastern sea, he looks up as I approach. The chains have a good way of ruining any attempt at being quiet.

"Hail, Smith. Be a man of your name and get me out of these damnable things?" I shake the chains. "I'm from Kingshome, from the dungeon to a contract. Maybe." He regards me with bright green eyes and strokes his thin beard. He doesn't like the look of me. I can tell.

"Kingshome? All in white and ready to contract? Hail, ghost. What name do you take?" He crosses his arms.

"I'd be The Blade Master of this company, if The Steward will have me." At first, he only smirks in reply and beckons me closer.

"There'll be none of that. Can't have a Blade and Blade Master of same standing. The Blade ain't one to let any master her, less of all some ghost. What's your given name then, since by three hells and three heavens I ain't callin' you Blade Master." I try not to let myself get offended, but my slightly overlong nails dig into my palms as I hold myself still. I let out a deep breath and nod.

"I am Lexnia Guerrin-Blackshire." His eyes widen slightly as he hears the double name.

"Guerrin-Blackshire?" I nod.

"...I'm sorry, I hadn't realized...." He fumbles with his tools and brings out a small hammer, it glows slightly and I inwardly wince. I didn't reckon for a smith with an enchanted hammer. He swings and connects with the collar around my neck. The chains thud heavily to the ground, but I don't notice, I'm on knees in an effort to not cry out in pain.

The magic of a Smith isn't one that's kind against my skin. It sets me aflame, and I start repeating to myself that I should not strike down a Smith. His inquiries to my well-being sound distant at best, but as I get up the world comes back into focus, sounds come into proper volume. I hear his sharp intake of breath. My temporarily sensitized skin feels the slight change in the air. My muscles spasm slightly as I force myself to draw my long knife with my left hand, rising up into a shaky guard against the beautifully etched axe blade that strikes towards my head.

The Axe's weapon sparks along the long blade of my knife and I step back from the strike, allowing the larger woman past me, almost falling into the Smith's works. She stops abruptly and turns to face me. She's faster than her size would lead me to believe her as. I crouch into a guard, considering my options. She is The Axe of a company known for its strength. Honor, what little I have, dictates the weapon I draw next. The great axe is a double bladed brute and her more elegant weapon's brute brother. It is unsteady as I draw it with one hand. I refuse to give up the security my long knife's defense grants me. I choke my grip up close to the head of the axe, and brace the shaft of the large weapon  against my arm. Instead of an arm, I have a weapon. I can't bend my elbow, but i can still strike faster than I'm hoping The Axe can. She has me on reach though, and knows it. She attacks relentlessly, each attack lending momentum to the next. Slowly she becomes a bladed whirlwind, and I find my speed advantage diminished. With my long knife and an aching shoulder, I reflect numerous blows, but several more strike true. White leather buckles if not split and while her axe can't bite past chain, chain rips tunic and embeds itself into flesh. Growling in pain, and half flailing with my arm turned axe I'm sure I've hit her at least once, but ineffectually. I realize that I'll have to take a large blow to give one. I flip the grip of my long knife as if readying to thrust, and dash into her whirlwind. As I feel the blade bite into my  side, i move into it, feeling it actually sever links of chain, feel that blade actually bite flesh, I move past her blade and let it rip into me as my arm wraps between her grip. Pointing my knife at her her face, I wrench her as hard as I can. I jump into her and punch as hard as I can with the tightly gripped axe. Her light armor yields to my axe, but the victory is short-lived as her boot catches me in the chin. She throws me to the ground and seems about ready to cleave me in half. Bleeding and winded, I roll, but not fast enough. Her weapon embeds itself into my axe arm. I continue rolling and drop my long knife and draw my dagger. I hurl myself at The Axe and am able to bring her down with me, my blade at her throat.

She still has the grin, wide as ever.

"A Blade Master, eh?" While I catch my breath and take a mental note of my injuries, I feel myself grinning back.

"The Blade Master soon enough. A lesser one would have drawn sword on you, met your speed with faster still and a reach more delicate and sure. I drew an axe for The Axe." I hadn't moved my dagger from her throat, but I look around, for the first time noticing a small crowd. Then I notice a figure at least a head taller than many of the others easily part the crowd, and one of the most magnificent women I've ever seen fairly roars. A short sword in one hand, a scroll in the other.

"What in the three hells is going on here?"

She's tall, and lean, but not like the Smith. A power seems to radiate from her frame even as her golden eyes sweep angrily, taking in blood and battered warriors. Dressed in a woodsman's skins and leathers, I note that she has at least four daggers out of sight on her person, probably more. Her squared jaw is set firmly, framed by wood-dark hair. The Axe fairly shoves me off and manages a respecful bow as she gets up.

"Commandant. A recruit was sent from Kingshome and I decided to test her."

"Her arm is cut almost to bone. We don't break our new toys before sharing them, Axe." She looks at me as I regard her from the dusty ground. "And you...Blade Master Guerrin-Blackshire?" I startle slightly at both m taken and given names together.

"Yes...Commandant...?" I look at her with even gaze,then consider her with closed eyes. Golden eyes and unspoken power. Far I am from the Lion's March is further still from home, but I recognize her kind all the same and  rise to one knee. Childhood habits are hard to break, and I feel more respect for this company simply by seeing such a Commandant. "Lady. I apologize for not recognizing immediately. I know what it may cost you to fight the mage-lords. Lady, if you are the Steward's Commandant, then I will more than make contract, I'll blood to it."

The elf, for that is what she is, only raises an eyebrow. "Blood to contract? Why not swear?"

"I am a Blade Master of Blackshire, and Shadow's Fall keeps to older ways than the King's Country.  I'm sworn to the the weapons. I'll contract to whosoever needs me wield them."

"Very well." She grips my untorn arm and helps me up, nodding and handing me her scroll. "In The Steward's name, I, Commandant and Witness, will see you contracted into this company, which is sworn to the King's service. But I'll leave you to mark it yourself....perhaps after seeing The Mend?"

I sigh and nod as respectfully as wounds and weariness allow. A Mend's magics will be as painful as a Smith's, but there's nothing in my flesh that'll prevent it from working. I snort and almost smile as I drag myself to billowing blue tents.

"Magic. Damned King. Damned war. Damned mages. Damned Smith with his damned hammer. Now a damned Mend...damn me." I look up suddenly, wincing as a wound protests. There's a scent on the air that likely only I, maybe the Commandant, hopefully the Steward, wherever he was, could smell. High magic, unbound magic. magic against the King's laws, floated past my senses, then was gone. All I can smell is the safe slow burn of bound magic. A Mend's magic...thus reassured I let myself collapse.

Mercenary Heart Draft: Day One - I Am

Shackled, I have a sense of freedom. My stiff, hobbled gait, is a proud march into a future that is a lot brighter than it was in a king's dungeon. A living death, the kingsman had said. It's a punishment reserved for crimes deserving death, and criminals too useful alive. Garbed, armed, armored, shackled, shoved onto a cart headed towards a hell. Battlefield. Close enough. Dasir is a land at war, and while normally that would mean a great deal of fun for someone like me, it's also a land of magic. I have no great affection for magic. I am a woman of the blade. Blades. I like to keep more than one on me at all times, and I was greatly pleased when the kingsmen armed me to the teeth, as requested. Between that and my white armor, a ghost's armor as my soon to be ex-jailors called it, I was feeling more and more like myself. Nevermind the shackles, as I hear the sounds of an encamped army,I'm fairly trotting ahead, tripping on the chains every couple of steps. A living death, you see, to a woman like me, is nothing more than life. We're all guaranteed death, but I'll be thrice damned if I let myself die any way but with a weapon in hand. I keep my head as high as the heavy collar lets me, fairly sure it's carved a bloody furrow into the back of my neck. The kingsmen easily keep pace with me, unhindered and weapons at the ready, just in case I turn out stronger than I look. I suppose I had to look fairly strong, with how heavy the damned chains were. For not the first time I'm actually glad they cut off all my glorious hair when they originally shoved me into that dank hole in Kingshome. If my hair had been intact I'd probably have ripped it out by now from getting tangled in the chains, possibly taking bits of my scalp with it. As we enter the camp proper I keep my back straight as my restraints allow. The presence of kingsmen deter any official stop until I see a stout dark woman with braided hair brandishing an axe in a helmed man's face The helmed man seems unfazed by the deadly weapon threatening to shave his already clean face, but he walks away all the same.

"Ho there!" Calls out one of the kingsmen. His name in my mind is Shorty, if only because if a man is shorter than I, then he truly deserves the title. "Is The Steward receiving visitors?"

I feel the blood drain from my face. The Steward's company, a company known for being heroes. In other words, a load of fools and simpletons ready to actually die for this war. I have to be twice as fast, twice as strong, twice of everything I'd been before if I plan to survive. As the initial shock wears off, I try not to grin; as long as we stay away from actual mage-lords, it might be fun. The woman who I figure must be an Axe and I assume The Axe of the company, with the way she carries herself, simply shakes her head.

"No. You've got me. What in the three hells is that, anyway?" She points her weapon to me. It's a well-crafted axe, intricate etching stemming from the haft, fanning along the flat of the two blades. Surely more trouble than it's worth to clean.

"Delivery from Kingshome," Shorty starts, "A prison---"

"Forget the gods-damned chains!" I snap, rattling the links so hard, the collar cuts upward, bleeding me in a previously untouched bit of my neck. "I came here to fight of my own free will, such as it is. If this is The Steward's company, then I'm gladder than ever to be here instead of that Kingshome hole I was in. His is the best bunch, or so I've heard. Better than the last bunch of supposed soldiers I was with. I'm Lexnia Guerrin-Blackshire, once The Blade Master of the Lion's March, and if you'll contract me and get me out of these damned chains, I'll be The Blade Master for the Steward too."

Camp Nanowrimo 2013: Mercenary Heart

I'm participating in Camp Nanowrimo this year. To keep me motivated about word count, I'll be posting whatever I've written each day here on Wordsmith Works. I won't bother editing anything. Since you know, it's quantity over quality this month. I'll leave the editing for May. Here's a bit about the upcoming 50k(ish) words.

Mercenary Heart
The war-torn lands of Dasir have known the tyranny of mage-lords, the peace of a wise and just king, and now they know war. The former mage-lords have regained power and revolted. The king's forces of mundane soldiers fight a losing war against unbound destructive magic. The peasantry struggle not only with their daily drudgery, but the ravages of war, the fallout of magic, and the cruelty of armies. Dasir's neighbors watch passively to see which side will be the victor. The world is one where selfish survival is the way of life. Lexnia Guerrin-Blackshire is a former mercenary turned criminal. Forced to choose between enlisting in the royal army and an execution, she finds herself among an undisciplined squad of misfits. Trapped in a war she doesn't believe in, she tries to find a way out of her sentence, only to find her way into conspiracy and an unwanted love.

Here's to 30 days of writing!

A Wordsmith Reports In!

Hello there! This blog is currently being resurrected to be a home for my current writing projects that  will likely not be hosted on their own site. It has been cleaned out except for one poem, and one scrap of a poem. The poem is here because it tickles me pink that the first poem in a resurrected writing blog be about death. The scrap is still up because I do think I'll be playing with it soon in the future.

A little bit about the Wordsmith behind the Works:
I, (The?) Amber Knave, am a writer who's bounced between genres and casual projects for a while. At the ripe old age of 24 I've decided to take this whole writing business a bit more seriously. Any fiction on this site will probably be long form serials, although I may pop out the quick flash fiction or short story should the mood arise. I have a background in slam poetry, but you'll probably see more of other poetry types on here as I have yet to find a good slam community outside of academia in this area.

Things you can expect to see here: Different genres of fantasy fiction, perhaps some speculative fiction, romantic poetry, reflective poetry, silly things attempting to be epic ballads, and some scrappy drabbles.

Warnings for some mature themes, queer themes, overwrought admissions of love, delusions of grandeur, pretensions towards nobility, knaveish antics and the occasional point. Especially beware of those. They're POINTY.

Rough Draft:" Eyes"

Some eyes never meet. They take their time and focus their effort completely on not meeting others. Some eyes meet too often in a conspiracy of unspoken thought. Some eyes are too intense: predatory and hungry. Others will pretend to be, outlined carefully brightly stating the queer inflections of personality. Some will look past you, focused only on themselves. Bleary and blurred by exhaustion or drink or something more sinful some eyes see everything not there. Besides these are the cordial eyes which meet and alight, meet and alight. These eyes are truly the most dishonest, not lingering enough to show truth.

Old Poem: Death

Cosmos,
Creation,
Case Study.
What now?
Casket,
Creation,
Cosmos,
Completion.
This now.
Borders blurred.
Skin sloughed.
Shell shattered.
Eggy embryo of life,
Gone.
Welcome to reality.
Where he, she, I, you,
He/she, she/he...
The lines do not linger.
I am you am me is he is she is everyone.
No one.
Someone.
All.
We've shed the illusion that is flesh. Life looms ahead.
And you're surprised.
Finding yourself unchanged
But so changed.
The part of you that wants to be with him
Is.
The part of you that wants to be with her
Is.
The part of you that wants to be with me
Is.
There is only joy.
There are no tears.
But comfort yes.
Feel my not-arms around your not-body.
There is no embrace.
But the feeling,
The emotion
Yes.
I forgave your trespasses long ago
And I know you've forgiven me.
And we are together.
All of us.
Fragments of humanity.
Melted down and stripped
Of the impurity.
Of fleshy form.
That vulgar illusion.
The kingdom has come.
Glorious macrocosm
Astral romance
And yes love,
We are together.
Yes love,
This is forever.
Until you start thinking in patterns
And logic
Instead of love,
And truth.
And take up mortal skin again.
But then I'll follow you.
Back to that mad illusion.