A few blog posts ago, I spoke about the reality of finding time to write as someone who does not write novels for a vocation. I mentioned a popular quote and idea of "Writing on the edges of the day." Well, I'm building on that and I think it's become a more free-flowing, grab-any-moment-you-can sort of scenario for me: "Write between diapers."
I am the incredibly blessed father of two beautiful children, ages 3 and 10 months. It feels like life is squeezed in between diapers, and crying, and messy meals, and sweet story times, and . . . you get the idea. The "edges of the day" are getting thinner by the moment!
I think what I'm realizing more and more as I try to forge my way to the end of Book 3 of "The Reaper's Seed," is that life is at odds with my writing. The tension is not surprising, but wow . . . it is so hard to keep producing these days. It's a good thing I like endurance sports. The sustained commitment to a long-term goal with the hope of gain translates far better than I would have ever thought. And at least writing can actually fit in between diapers. I can't say the same for endurance sports. (Sigh. You can't do it all).
Keep dreaming, my friends. Dreams don't die in the face of (wonderful) responsibilities, they just . . . take longer to realize. : )
As 2016 draws to a close, I am reflecting on some of the decisions I've made as a writer, and also as a publisher. Being an indie author kind necessitates the two: artist twisted around entrepreneur. It's caused some me to learn some real lessons.
The sum of it is that I spent 2016 breaking a number of rules. Specifically, rules of writing, self-publishing, business savvy, etc, etc. Why? Because I wanted to - I was being a bit contrary, in a way, but in all honesty, most of it was simply because I wanted to have fun. I know that doesn't sound right, but I'll explain.
Pick a Genre & Master It
The first rule I broke in 2016 was to take a hiatus from writing my epic fantasy series, The Reaper's Seed to complete a mixed genre novel I'd starterd writing back in 2010: The Nobleman. If you search the wide world of web opinion (and wowsers, are there some), it's not a real good idea for someone trying to establish themselves in an art to jump around from one art form to another. Writing is no different. Even if you do make it big as an author in a certain genre, it can be pretty hard to mix it up. J.K. Rowling was so successful with young Potter that she has created an alter ago by the name of Robert Galbraith to venture into writing mystery novels.
Hmmm. Well, I just spent the last year bucking that good advice. But let's just remember, such advice is for the writer that wants to make money and establish him or herself with writing as their day job. Inner Self: "Wait, . . . I thought that was what we were trying to do? I've been working hard at this!?" Self: Well, yeah, but . . . I wanted to have fun and play.
Don't Go Until You Know
Not only did I spend 2016 writing a novel outside of the genre and audience that I was only beginning to find footing with, I decided that I was going to publish it as a serial novel online. A smart businessman or two encouraged me to reevaluate my idea given the fact that I was jumping genres/audiences, and that I still hadn't really built a fan base. I had what I still think are some really good ideas, but once again, I was thinking like the author who had already made it and had several hundred thousand fans ready to try whatever ink I dropped on paper.
Hmmm. I did it anyway, as seems to have been my style as of late, had a lot of fun, but ultimately just discovered an expensive hobbie. Inner Self: "If you want an expensive hobbie, we could have kept at the triathlon thing and stayed in really good shape at the same time! C'mon!" Self: It could have worked. And it's not money that measures success, but the love of creating. Inner Self: "What about a loss of money? Does that measure success?" Self: Moving on.
In gearing up for 2017, and the potential completion, publication and sale of both Book 3 & 4 of The Reaper's Seed, I'm looking back on 2016 as a formable year in my artistic identity. In fact, I've actually double down on my "bad decision" in a sense. I wouldn't take it back. Writing and publishing The Nobleman was fun, and I have two more novel ideas like it that I hope to write some day.
So, I've branded myself as a multi-genre author. We'll see whether that's really such a great idea over the next stretch. But, in the meantime, it's back to the epic fantasy. I left a lot of characters in the lurch!
When most people pick up the latest bestselling thriller or murder mystery, they are typically looking for some good entertainment. Makes sense, and with that expectation, they better get what they are seeking or there will be a let down. I've read quite a few murder mysteries and a short list of crime thrillers and that was my expectation too.
But the stories that linger in my imagination, repeat in my daydreams, and give me metaphors for life are not the usual genre fiction. I like to be wowed, but I like even more to be left thinking about characters, analyzing their plights, victories, and struggles. Many fast paced thrillers can only go so deep in a high speed pursuit of the plot.
I began writing The Nobleman years ago while my wife was slaving away on her masters degree. With no toddlers to chase, i.e time on my hands, I took a break from writing the fantasy series I'd been working on (The Reaper's Seed) to venture into a plot line that had been on my mind. I began with a new writing voice, and an idea that fit well into a murder mystery/thriller-like drama. At the same time I began writing this story, I had been doing a lot of thinking about "equality." Specifically one of the opening lines of the Declaration of Independence: ". . . that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator . . ." That next part about the government securing these rights was the political hot topic, but I was enamored (and still am) with the fundamental importance of the Creator part. To me it was, and still is, the keystone to a healthfully functioning American government.
Also around the same time, I had watched and greatly enjoyed a movie called "Crash." For some it was just an edgy, racially charged film, but to me it was inclusive in the way that it showed the ability for all sorts of people in all walks of life to make the right or wrong choice when faced with adversity. It felt to me to be a wonderful expression of equality: all equal in the the value given them by their Creator, but all broken to one degree or another. It resonated with me.
And so, getting back to The Nobleman, I found these thoughts and debates energizing my characters and the development of them. The Nobleman became a mixed-genre novel that is filled with people of various races, sexes, vocations, and economic status. Here's how they are all the same: they are all broken. But I took it a step further in this way - the characters in The Nobleman are all created in the image of God, their Creator, and . . . they are broken. This very much expresses how I see the world. Mankind is a very special part of creation, but we are a messed up species. The sheer volume of evil in this world is staggering. But that is not the end of it - we are capable of doing beautiful things. So what is it? Are we naturally bad with the ability to do good? Or are we naturally good with the ability to do bad? Can anyone actually be a noble person? Or is it that we only ever think we are doing the right thing, only to find that hindsight finds us as lacking? I would encourage you to ponder and puzzle out that question. My own answers to this complicated and very important question are rooted in my Christian faith.
Who fills the jacket? Who fills the trench coat? Who wears that hoodie? People are the point and the problem. I've definitely written The Nobleman to entertain, but I hope reader's will also find some depth where they may not have expected it.
If there is one way I would describe the last three months, it would be "writing on the edge." I know, it's been three months since my last blog post, so that begs the question: what exactly do you mean, "on the edge?"
I don't mean to say that writing, or trying to write has me standing on the edge of a cliff ready to jump. That would be more like the desire to write without the time. And I don't mean to say, necessarily, that my writing has been edgy - so new and exciting that I'm on the outskirts of the craft. (Perhaps one day).
What I mean to say is that I have been writing on the edge of life. Literally, the edges of the day. There is a very popular quote from Toni Morrison that came in response to someone asking her when she found time to write: "On the edges of the day." I think I can relate. Between a day job, my wife, children, a house (that I am trying to renovate), a large garden that I greatly enjoy, yard work, exercise, and my community of faith, there is no time. All that is left is the edges. Appropriately so, I might add.
So I'm no complaining, don't get me wrong. Waking up at the crack of dawn (in mid July), or well before the sunrise is a privilege. I find at this time in my life I have a vision for writing. I have a thirst for it. I have a drive that I can keep alive simply by the art of imagining what my characters really would do in a present situation. And at times, I simply have to wake up to complete unfinished business. People live are at stake! And I want to know how I can better describe a scene, a person, a smell, a sound. I want to figure out how to use words, and combinations of them that enter the reader's head and and paint a picture, giving them feelings that they wouldn't otherwise have in the course of their day.
And in the same way that the sunrise and sunset are some of the most beautiful times of the day, I'd like to think I've been capturing some beautiful writing. I guess the readers will decide.
Soon, very soon, I will be sharing some of what I've been spinning in the wee hours of the morning, and after the children are in bed. "The Nobleman" is coming soon.
As you may or may not know, I am in the throws of writing, Kickstarting, and building a website where I will publish a serial novel by the name of, "The Nobleman."
If you were to ask me what the novel is about, I would say it is a murder mystery and crime thriller that is heavy on drama. It is a murder mystery, and it is a crime thriller, but it is a thoughtful commentary on human nature at the same time. What it becomes at that point is just ... "The Nobleman."
How did I come to write this story? Like most of the stories I come up with, it started out as simple as a one sentence idea. Then, it grew to two sentences, then I started to write an outline. As I wrote the outline, the story began to take form, and things that I saw, heard, remembered, and had seen soon influenced it. My world views became involved. I stepped outside of the writing styles I'd worked with before, and allowed the pictures on the big screen of my mind to find words. Also, I stared at paintings like the one in this post.
I am not a visual artist. I think, I would call myself a cerebral artist, with only one well-functioning filter. My art comes out in words. But here is where paintings like the one in this post relate to my writing. I could write a thousand words about this painting, no problem. Included would be ideas of helplessness, determination, transience, salvation, false assurance, how water is a source of life and death, and on, and on, and ... you get the idea.
A picture is worth a thousand words. But, while again, I acknowledge that I am not a visual artist, I am guessing, that in much the same way, a thousand words is worth a picture. Herein lay the reason we need visual arts, and writing, and why they go well together.
In fact, I'll go another twelve inches out on my existential branch to say: the more we partake of both visual arts and writing, and allow them to interact and build each other up, the more alive we will be.
Just a few thoughts while my two-year old daughter mangles her eggs and toast on a Saturday morning.
An expanse of open blue rippled as with waves, covering worlds unknown, unseen, yet unformed at His command. Complete in Himself, in His joy and His reign, the First One from whom light comes soared over it all. Content within Himself, He existed on His own and for His own. This is how it had always been, since before there was a before, for time and its captives cannot understand what lay beyond its limited dimensions.
What was He, you ask? He is the One, the First One, of untouchable excellence and a mystery too wonderful for us to grasp. We all have a beginning, but he did not. He is a being, if being He be, from which all else has come, and in whom all things find their design and purpose, thus without mention, completion. If I were to go on, my descriptions would fade into a loop, as I am no more than a man. He is too great to be called great in our tongue.
If light comes from him, then from where came darkness? Ah … to that, and so many more things I will speak, for we will at last arrive there, but first we must start with The Cry.
In a place that was not a time, He desired to share what He was, and what He could give with something of His own design. So He soared higher, or further still, to begin a beginning as only He could. With a Cry that had never been heard and will never be heard again, the First One called a new order to the expanse of blue. There, beneath Him, the expanse willingly obeyed His Cry and became ordered in forms of land and water. Illumined by His great light, a world came to be, simply by His will, out of nothing but the great blue expanse.
Enjoying what he had done, the First One carried His Cry forward for more, and from the land sprang plants of every kind, mountains, and by nature valleys, full of life. Shades of every rich and bright color burst forth, expanding their reach over the expanse of earth, from water’s edge to water’s edge. Scents of sweet and bitter, rich color that could now be felt filled the space between the land and the sky. But in the midst of all this reflection of His beauty and life, this new world was completely quiet apart from the Cry. The First One longed to be heard, and for his design to respond to Him in his great beauty.
Thus the Cry called forth yet another kind of design from among the hills, the plants and the water. Beasts great and small, on every surface, with expressions of every kind moved, called, and sang back to the First One with a song of thanks and adoration. With ebb and flow they moved together, His expression of creativity, for Him, and because of Him.
Pleased with his work, the One who uttered The Cry descended toward His design. And as He did, the highest mountain reached yet higher, into what remained of the great blue expanse, to provide a place for Him to stand. His two feet struck the rock, and there he took a form that was fitting for Him to show His design. A King He became to show his great might, with an Eagle above him to explain his powerful flight. One and the same, the King and the Eagle, welcomed the world into their presence.
But there was one last design that the First One desired. He saw fit to make a creature to share his greatness yet more closely than the horse or the bear. A reflection of his glory that would last longer than the waters aptly produced.
Then bending low to the crown of the mountain,
The Only One formed from its rock a fountain
From its flow came an image, two forms, and then three
Like Him, but still His, with a mind that was free
It shared His great might, in a measure it could hold
His power of flight, but with a command less bold
Complete in three parts, like an unbroken ring
His design stood before Him, first servant of the King
With this, His crowning work, the First One finished The Cry. And the beginning began. From that time forth, all time has extended, and from that fountain many more servants have risen to join the King in his work of design. Over all He has remained, none higher or more royal, all subject in thanks to His desire to create.
This is the account of the Beginning.
(Gershan, 4th son of Homsoloc)
How does one properly pay tribute to a man like Rev. Martin Luther King Jr? I purposely include the "Rev" because I believe that the faith of the man was far more crucial to the greatness of the man than our pop culture recognizes. In fact, his Christian faith is sometimes largely absent. That is a huge aspect of Martin Luther King Jr. to omit. Despite the controversies surrounding his doctoral plagiarism, or his low simmering rage, or even his questionable Christian theology, he had some things straight. Martin Luther King Jr was not just a good man, a brave man, or a great freedom fighter - though he was of all those things even with his faults - he was a man who saw the world with moral and spiritual lenses.
The quote in this post is one of my favorite quotes of all time, because of its enduring practicality for life. It is taken from a sermon King gave at a Baptist Church in Detroit, in February 1954. In this sermon he was addressing what he referred to as a relativistic ethic. Here is an excerpt for your edification:
“All I’m trying to say is, our world hinges on moral foundations. God has made it so! God has made the universe to be based on a moral law. So long as man disobeys it he is revolting against God. That’s what we need in the world today-people who will stand for right and goodness. It’s not enough to know the intricacies of zoology and biology. But we must know the intricacies of law. It is not enough to know that two and two makes four. But we’ve got to know somehow that it’s right to be honest and just with our brothers. It’s not enough to know all about our philosophical and mathematical disciplines. But we’ve got to know the simple disciplines, of being honest and loving and just with all humanity. If we don’t learn it, we will destroy ourselves, by the misuse of our own powers.”
Even with all of the practical organization, God-given oratorical talent, study and application of Mahatma Gandhi's peaceful resistance of injustice, Martin Luther King Jr. pointed to and preached the moral and spiritual realities of America's racism. Moral foundations and spiritual control defined the social issues of his day, and they still do.
So, what does this have to do with my writing of an allegorical epic fantasy? First of all, there doesn't need to be much for me to take the chance to thank God for Martin Luther King Jr. But I can say that The Reaper's Seed is in many ways a product of my own core beliefs, some of which I share with King. There is no reality we face that is removed from moral implications or spiritual influence. The Reaper's Seed is an epic story of the struggle between good and evil, light and dark, love and hate. Even a fantasy series has moral foundations and spiritual control.
That is why I love this quote: because of its enduring practically and truth. We've got more things to thank Martin Luther King Jr for than we can cover in one day a year, but here is at least one.
As a writer I believe the importance of story is not simply to entertain, and not simply to grow the imagination. While both of these are in fact the driving demand for fiction and the second is hugely important in a well-rounded human being, if the effect of a story ends there, something is missing. A story and its characters should develop in such a way that they challenge the reader to consider matters of great importance, specifically, ethics and morality.
As a Christian I believe that the importance of Story in sharing the Christian faith is near and dear to the heart of God. I believe this for two main reasons: (1) All of Scripture is a story of the Love of God, culminating in the Good News and (2) Jesus himself often used parables to teach, which were in essence, stories. It is a human term to use in describing the Infinite One, but God is the ultimate Storyteller.
God is the author of the greatest epic ever told. It includes the Creation, Eden, the Fall, the Flood, the Exodus, the establishment of the nation of Israel, the Temple, the Judges, the cyclical rise and fall of Israel’s Kings, the Dispersion, and all throughout it the Prophets and their message of how God was planning to redeem Adam's race once and for all. He promised, and He would deliver a Messiah – a Champion.
This is why The Reaper’s Seed is an allegorical epic fantasy, as I like to call it. It is inspired by what has inspired my faith in God - His plan of Salvation for Adam's race. My own fascination with God's writing is one of the reasons - from among many - that I am such a huge fan of C.S. Lewis. I share his awe for the story of God's plan of Salvation for Mankind. The first of his works that I read was of course the Chronicles of Narnia. Even then, as a child, I knew that these books were an allegory of many of the aspects of the greatest epic, God's Story. The Chronicles of Narnia still entertain me, strengthen my imagination, and bring me to consider matters of ethics and morality. Even better, they've fed me soul.
This is my goal, and remains my goal for The Reaper's Seed. I've sought to infuse this story with meaning, enough of it that it will feed the reader's soul. Either way, I can't rightly try for less with a literary hero like C.S. Lewis.
Many miles west of Wellman, through the northern regions of the Bryn Mountains, beyond the Plains of Shole, lay the city of Shole itself. The largest of all the cities in the Lowlands, it was also the oldest, built by Homsoloc and his sons. Placed on an immense plateau, it overlooked the region around it for miles in all directions. It was a fortified city, originally built for the sole purpose of defense. Made of stone at its center, it had withstood sieges, fires, and the fiercest weather the Lowlands had ever seen. The rock wall that surrounded the city limits, standing four feet high, had witnessed it all. The architecture of Shole was like that of a large puzzle, as if its builders had more than once considered it incomplete. But with each passing decade it had grown larger, its citizens adding yet another section, slowly filling the plateau. Settlers now also inhabited the region surrounding its soft slopes to the north and the east.
Still further west, on the opposite side of an expansive valley of wooded terrain stood the Black Mountain. It rose into the sky like a scar on the landscape. Once a flourishing wilderness, the woods immediately surrounding the mountain were now dead and colorless, like a pile of ashes in the midst of a healthy green field. The very mountain itself had died and hardened. On its peak and along its slopes lay the twisted forms of trees, like men left dead on a battlefield.
At the foot of the Black Mountain there stood a large gate, a lattice of long, sharp spears. For hundreds of years it had remained unchanged, maintaining the dark color of the ore from which it had been forged. Joining together an arching stone wall that ran to the north and south, the gate faced the city of Shole like bared teeth. The wall, standing ten feet tall and five feet thick, curved back toward the Black Mountain in the shape of a crescent, forming a large courtyard of dust, gravel and rock.
On the other end of the courtyard was a pair of guards, each armed with a large battle-axe, standing watch at the entrance of an enormous cave. They were soldiers of Mornoc set apart for their size and strength to be the guardians of the Black Mountain. They wore no helmet but had full heads of thick black hair pulled back from their eyes and tied behind their heads. A fierce, but stolid expression was written on their faces. The chain mail shirts they wore were impenetrable, heavier and thicker than any known to man. Even so, they seemed more ceremonial than anything, as these soldiers were not likely to lose a fight hand to hand.
The cave itself had a roughly hewn entrance, but the floor of it cut deep into the heart of the mountain like a well-worn road. Once the mouth of the cave and the light of day were lost from sight, pairs of torches were set in either side of the cave wall at intervals. Despite these lights to lead the way, it was an unearthly, suffocated place.
Like the main road to a hidden city, smaller tunnels branched off of it, leading to the far recesses of the mountain. Some of these passages were watched by an armed guard while others were merely marked by a lantern.
As the tunnel continued, in time, it gave way to several sets of stairs carved into the floor, leading to higher ground. At the top of these stairs the cave walls opened up into a great hall and the ceiling doubled its height. In this hall, an elaborate array of torches lined the inside of ten massive columns carved from the walls, five to the right and five to the left. On the opposite side of each column hung another lamp lighting the face of the walls and the entrances to yet more tunnels, running to more rooms within the mountain. In the center of the hall, three monstrous chandeliers hung from the ceiling, lighting the way to the far end.
There, with a king’s court all to himself, Mornoc, the father of rebellion and pride, sat on his throne. Positioned against the far wall, facing east, it was cut from the stone floor. Its arms yielded to the shape of his grip and its seat and back to the posture of his body. The right arm of this throne was carved in the shape of a large hand, clenched in a fist. Resting in its grip was Mornoc’s spear, over ten feet long and razor sharp.
The fine garments that would normally have adorned such a magnificent throne were instead carved into it; no ornament of cloth, gold, or jewel was present. Without a single crack or fissure, it displayed such decorations in its surface and structure. But it was colorless. Mornoc himself wore robes in shades of gray and black. Even his skin color was a dingy gray, and his bald head did not shine in the glow of the lamps. His face was worn, lined by centuries past, wrinkled by bitterness and a desire for revenge. His eyes were gray, cold, and piercing.
Staring at the other end of the hall and drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne, Mornoc wore a smug smile. His dirty nails clicked loudly in a slow and ominous rhythm. It was not joy or happiness that moved the corners of his mouth, but expectant malice. Content to remain silent in his hall, he was waiting, patiently waiting.
“One day soon. One day soon . . .” Mornoc whispered to himself. “I will have mine.”
With these words he jumped down from his throne and began to pace back and forth. With both arms held behind him, his robes flowed loosely, barely touching the floor. Turning sharply at the base of one column, he headed back toward the other with a measured pace, following a clear path he had worn into the stone floor. And every time he turned he would look toward the entrance. The guards stationed there remained at attention, not daring to observe the movements of their lord.
Pausing, he brought a hand to his chin. Staring into the thin air in front of him, he muttered under his breath, “I will have mine.”
He did not look upon the splendor of his hall or the size of the chandeliers above. His eyes were peeled on the one thing he had failed to attain so long ago. “I will have my own name, my own kingdom, my own . . .” His thoughts trailed off once again to a place he could not go. Scowling, he released his chin and clenched his fist. “I will have mine!” he said in a deep, suppressed yell. His words pulsed off of the rock walls. With a huff he returned to sitting on his throne and staring at the entrance to his hall.
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Several miles south of Oak Knoll, a lone traveler ran through the woods carrying a lantern. The glass bowl covering the wick was blackened at the top from the night before. His dress was black and on his back was a pouch full of short spears.
Moving swiftly, he made his way along a subtle trail, through thick woods at the base of a rocky hill. His gaunt face betrayed some of its youthfulness, but it spoke also of an unnatural strain. He followed the trail to the lowest point of the woods and there entered a cave. In the entrance he lit the lantern he’d been carrying with one that hung from the cave wall. Crouching slightly, he followed the cave into the heart of the hill.
At thirty yards, the tunnel gradually began to open up, heading into the earth. As he continued, the jagged walls began to grow moist and the air grew warmer. In sections there was a steady trickle of water along the floor at the base of the walls. Deeper and deeper he went, leaving the sun behind. Taking one last turn, he hung his lantern on a nail in the rock, the beginning of a long row of lanterns of all shapes and sizes. From there he followed the lights to a place where the cave opened up into a large chamber.
In the middle of the cave a long stone table was lined with men of a similar dress, feasting. It was an underground banquet hall lacking all of the fineries expected at a banquet. The square room was well lit by a massive candle chandelier that hung above the table and several lanterns that hung at each doorway and along the walls. The air was filled with the smell of meat, ale, and burning oil.
At each of four entrances, one on each side, a guard stood at attention. Above one of these doors, etched in stone, was the name “Casimir.” Ignoring the guards, the returning scout walked up to the table and joined the feasting.
Every man at the table wore a pouch of short spears on his back, black clothing, and had dark hair and eyes. The only things that set them apart were their facial features, length of hair, and height. They were all thin and haggard, like men near death, but there was an apparent ferocity about them all.
The scout took his place at an empty spot on one of the wooden benches and immediately tore into the first piece of meat within reach. All of the meat was in the form of whole carcasses, just cooked, but quite rare. Lining the table were pitchers of cold ale, earthen cups, and tin plates. The sounds of feasting permeated the atmosphere.
“Did you bring his lantern, Selcor?” a scout asked the new arrival in a guttural voice.
“Yes,” Selcor replied over a mouthful of meat.
They both focused on their food for a minute or so longer before Selcor added, “I made him bleed, but he escaped.”
His companion paused to contemplate the words then washed down his food with some ale. His bushy hair hung over his forehead in wavy strands. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he opened his mouth to speak again, but was cut off.
“Hail, your Mallith!” A voice cried from the other end of the table. The command echoed loudly through the chamber, ringing into the tunnels.
All in attendance rose to their feet on the outside of their benches and turned to face the entrance at the far end of the table, the one with the name “Casimir” carved above it. Some spit food out of their mouths onto their plates, or swallowed what was left to more quickly assume a position of attention. Once there was complete silence and every one of them was on their feet, a great gangly figure walked through the stone doorway and paused just under the light of the lanterns to his left and right.
A black robe covered the form of a man no less than eight feet tall. He stood slightly bent over but with square shoulders. In his right hand he carried a long club with a heavy metal sphere on the end, adorned with five large spikes. His long black hair was lined with thick strands of gray and his beard was kept short, appearing just as dark against his pale skin. There were scars on his cheeks running down from his eyes like tears, and his hands and forearms were scarred in a similar manner, as if burned. Like all of those present, he too carried a pouch of spears on his back.
There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. The giant slowly extended his right arm, holding the club out in front of him. In unison all of the men at the table pulled a spear from their pouches, saluting him with the point of their weapons.
“Casimir!” they all bellowed in one voice.
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