Hey guys,
Thought I'd go ahead and post this here. I don't think it needs a lot more for fixes (unless it should be completely removed), but curious what everyone thinks.
Thanks. The section I'm posting is 1415 words
Chapter 1
The small, battered mirror revealed her lightly-furred face, a sight her friends would find mortifying. Alara picked up the small bottle of salve, meant to hide who and what she really was. Full-blooded kenthai didn’t have such short fur, not unless they were a newborn kit, and Alara clearly wasn’t that. Her ear twitched, heavy with the viscous substance, but the salve stayed in place. She inspected her ear and saw it was still too rounded. She ran a claw along the edge, a light stroke that shifted the fur, made it so the pointiness of her ear was more evident. Once satisfied, Alara took a liberal smearing of salve and ran it over nose and cheeks, forehead and neck, sure not to miss a spot. She did the same to her arms and stomach, ran it up past her colorful shirt, followed by her neck, then pulled up her pants and coated the bottoms of her legs. Always best to be careful, her father had said, and she was nothing if not a dutiful daughter.
She put the half-empty container on the nightstand and lowered her ears. That, combined with her short fur, made her look childish. She preferred how she looked when she wasn’t wearing the salve, the way her face was a bit less puffy, how her neck and chin looked sleeker. Of course, leaving her room without the salve had been forbidden. That, and her rounded ears.
Her tail flicked irritably. It didn’t matter how she felt, only how she looked. She inspected the other ear, but it was already complete. Alara growled low in her throat, amber eyes flashing in the morning light. She nurtured her anger at this process, at the injustice of her condition, let it build. Once it had fully formed, she reached inside herself to her nether-core. It sat quietly inside her, gently rocking with power, and then became a chalice overflowing. Nether seeped into her body, attuned to fire, and she concentrated briefly before releasing a small portion from her nether pores. Alara’s ears and body warmed, and she watched the salve distort, then absorb into her fur. Almost instantly, the slimy feeling faded, and hair sprouted across her body like some sort of fast-growing grass.
Alara inspected her work but found no flaws. She now looked like a full-blooded kenthai. Satisfied with the results, she aired out her shirt. It’d begun to get small on her. This was another embarrassment of being half-kenthai. Her shoulders were wide and strong, body built more like a human’s than a proper kenthai. She’d heard the giggles of other merchant’s daughters, the mocking eyes and facetious grins. If only they knew what she was, they’d never talk to her again.
Alara turned from the nightstand. It was a dangerous thought, that. If anyone knew she was a half-breed, it would ruin her family. She looked out the window and realized the sun was starting to rise. She cursed and tucked her amulet into her shirt, then grabbed a large glass vial. Alara was late to breakfast, maybe even to manning the store. Alara passed the study, and then she was in the den.
The family room was painted in pastel hues. It had a low-lying dining table at its center, with mats laid out for sitting. A statue to Thakiri, goddess of the kenthai, stood in the corner of the room. Her face was uplifted in solemn beauty, her ten aspects surrounding her, both dominating and yet subservient to her wishes. A punk had been set to one side of the statue, the end burned with use, and Alara heard the clink of dishes. Mia, their maid since she was a child, was clearing the table, her movements economical and neat, though she moved slower than she used to. When she saw Alara she frowned, ears turned down in disapproval. Alara returned the look with a guilty smile. She’d been up later than she should’ve been.
“Is there anything left?” Alara asked, and Mia harrumphed and held out a plate of dhull cheese and crackers. Alara took some of each, her guilty grin turned to one of pleasure, and Mia shooed her away with mock sternness.
She hurried down the stairs, her boots clumping loudly. The stairs had recently been reinforced, repeating the work done when the building was made, each rune painstakingly replenished by a rune-carver. Her father had chosen a younger man for the job, figuring Magician Earlden’s back wouldn’t be up to the task. He was likely right. Runes of strength and stability flowed across each stair, and the silvery metal glowed with the dim light of nether. Between the sturdy construction of their store and the magic of the runes, they’d little to fear from Roihan’s earthquakes.
She jumped down the last few steps and into their workroom, sputtering a bit from the puff of dust, then stepped through the door to the front of the shop.
Methan, her half brother, was already on the floor. A customer stood by his side, and when he saw her, he threw her a not-so-subtle tail-flick. He seemed irritated, though he didn’t break once in his speech to the customer. Unlike Alara, Methan wore finely made merchant’s clothes. His red vest was embroidered with silver patterns, his long-sleeved white shirt puffing out beneath it. His pants were a dark blue, and an end cap tipped his tail, white with the symbols of the Merchant woven into it. He was lithe and thin, and moved with careful grace, the image of a kenthai merchant. He was everything Alara wasn’t, and she hated it.
She didn’t respond to the insulting flick. Alara leaned heavily on the store’s glass case and finished the crackers and cheese. Methan was born from her father’s first wife, the daughter of a minor noble. She knew little about the woman, except that she was a raging she-demon, and the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Alara eyed Methan. He would have fit perfectly in court. But here, in Rethan’s Antiques, he was unhappy at best, and a constant pain in her tail at worst.
While Alara watched, the customer shook her head at some vases in the corner, then turned to leave. Methan’s tail curled in frustration, and then the guard, Korthal, opened the door for her. The Lady ignored Korthal and stepped from the building with a sniff. Methan rounded on Alara with an irritated scowl.
“You scared her away, Alara.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” she mumbled, mouth still full of crackers.
Methan wrinkled his nose at her. “Your body speaks for itself,” he said. He gave her a once-over. “You missed a spot. Neck.”
She looked at him in worry. Alara felt at her neck, but she didn’t notice anything. She’d missed spots in the past. The patch never made it obvious what she was, but it did make it look like she was balding.
For a moment, Methan enjoyed her confusion, then made a dismissive gesture. There was a small grin on his face. “I was only teasing,” he said, and Alara flushed. They didn’t talk, let alone joke, about her condition.
“Thakiri-cursed twit,” Alara said under her breath. The words came out before she could stop them. Loud enough for him to hear, and only him.
Methan’s ears twitched, but he said nothing, only stared at Alara with angry eyes. The door closed with a gentle thump, stillness descending on the shop. Korthal shifted and his leather armor creaked. If they were younger, they’d be wrestling each other on the floor, Alara the stronger, Methan the older. Instead, her half-brother turned away.
“You’re an idiot,” he said. He walked to his corner of the store, a cranny with a comfortable chair and a sleek, darkly-grained reading desk. He took a seat, back straight, and Alara glanced at the title of his book. History of the Oran-Ho. She raised an eyebrow in surprise. Methan had always been a voracious reader of romance, and he’d never been one for history, or, nine hells, anything all that practical.
Thought I'd go ahead and post this here. I don't think it needs a lot more for fixes (unless it should be completely removed), but curious what everyone thinks.
Thanks. The section I'm posting is 1415 words
Chapter 1
The land of the Kenthai flows in an endless expanse both north and south, up to the furthest sun-scorched northern reaches to the frigid southern depths. At the center of it all lies the great magical city of Sentathi. Mages both strong and weak practice their arts, elementals are a way of life, and the Eight Great Arbiters rule absolutely.
The small, battered mirror revealed her lightly-furred face, a sight her friends would find mortifying. Alara picked up the small bottle of salve, meant to hide who and what she really was. Full-blooded kenthai didn’t have such short fur, not unless they were a newborn kit, and Alara clearly wasn’t that. Her ear twitched, heavy with the viscous substance, but the salve stayed in place. She inspected her ear and saw it was still too rounded. She ran a claw along the edge, a light stroke that shifted the fur, made it so the pointiness of her ear was more evident. Once satisfied, Alara took a liberal smearing of salve and ran it over nose and cheeks, forehead and neck, sure not to miss a spot. She did the same to her arms and stomach, ran it up past her colorful shirt, followed by her neck, then pulled up her pants and coated the bottoms of her legs. Always best to be careful, her father had said, and she was nothing if not a dutiful daughter.
She put the half-empty container on the nightstand and lowered her ears. That, combined with her short fur, made her look childish. She preferred how she looked when she wasn’t wearing the salve, the way her face was a bit less puffy, how her neck and chin looked sleeker. Of course, leaving her room without the salve had been forbidden. That, and her rounded ears.
Her tail flicked irritably. It didn’t matter how she felt, only how she looked. She inspected the other ear, but it was already complete. Alara growled low in her throat, amber eyes flashing in the morning light. She nurtured her anger at this process, at the injustice of her condition, let it build. Once it had fully formed, she reached inside herself to her nether-core. It sat quietly inside her, gently rocking with power, and then became a chalice overflowing. Nether seeped into her body, attuned to fire, and she concentrated briefly before releasing a small portion from her nether pores. Alara’s ears and body warmed, and she watched the salve distort, then absorb into her fur. Almost instantly, the slimy feeling faded, and hair sprouted across her body like some sort of fast-growing grass.
Alara inspected her work but found no flaws. She now looked like a full-blooded kenthai. Satisfied with the results, she aired out her shirt. It’d begun to get small on her. This was another embarrassment of being half-kenthai. Her shoulders were wide and strong, body built more like a human’s than a proper kenthai. She’d heard the giggles of other merchant’s daughters, the mocking eyes and facetious grins. If only they knew what she was, they’d never talk to her again.
Alara turned from the nightstand. It was a dangerous thought, that. If anyone knew she was a half-breed, it would ruin her family. She looked out the window and realized the sun was starting to rise. She cursed and tucked her amulet into her shirt, then grabbed a large glass vial. Alara was late to breakfast, maybe even to manning the store. Alara passed the study, and then she was in the den.
The family room was painted in pastel hues. It had a low-lying dining table at its center, with mats laid out for sitting. A statue to Thakiri, goddess of the kenthai, stood in the corner of the room. Her face was uplifted in solemn beauty, her ten aspects surrounding her, both dominating and yet subservient to her wishes. A punk had been set to one side of the statue, the end burned with use, and Alara heard the clink of dishes. Mia, their maid since she was a child, was clearing the table, her movements economical and neat, though she moved slower than she used to. When she saw Alara she frowned, ears turned down in disapproval. Alara returned the look with a guilty smile. She’d been up later than she should’ve been.
“Is there anything left?” Alara asked, and Mia harrumphed and held out a plate of dhull cheese and crackers. Alara took some of each, her guilty grin turned to one of pleasure, and Mia shooed her away with mock sternness.
She hurried down the stairs, her boots clumping loudly. The stairs had recently been reinforced, repeating the work done when the building was made, each rune painstakingly replenished by a rune-carver. Her father had chosen a younger man for the job, figuring Magician Earlden’s back wouldn’t be up to the task. He was likely right. Runes of strength and stability flowed across each stair, and the silvery metal glowed with the dim light of nether. Between the sturdy construction of their store and the magic of the runes, they’d little to fear from Roihan’s earthquakes.
She jumped down the last few steps and into their workroom, sputtering a bit from the puff of dust, then stepped through the door to the front of the shop.
Methan, her half brother, was already on the floor. A customer stood by his side, and when he saw her, he threw her a not-so-subtle tail-flick. He seemed irritated, though he didn’t break once in his speech to the customer. Unlike Alara, Methan wore finely made merchant’s clothes. His red vest was embroidered with silver patterns, his long-sleeved white shirt puffing out beneath it. His pants were a dark blue, and an end cap tipped his tail, white with the symbols of the Merchant woven into it. He was lithe and thin, and moved with careful grace, the image of a kenthai merchant. He was everything Alara wasn’t, and she hated it.
She didn’t respond to the insulting flick. Alara leaned heavily on the store’s glass case and finished the crackers and cheese. Methan was born from her father’s first wife, the daughter of a minor noble. She knew little about the woman, except that she was a raging she-demon, and the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Alara eyed Methan. He would have fit perfectly in court. But here, in Rethan’s Antiques, he was unhappy at best, and a constant pain in her tail at worst.
While Alara watched, the customer shook her head at some vases in the corner, then turned to leave. Methan’s tail curled in frustration, and then the guard, Korthal, opened the door for her. The Lady ignored Korthal and stepped from the building with a sniff. Methan rounded on Alara with an irritated scowl.
“You scared her away, Alara.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” she mumbled, mouth still full of crackers.
Methan wrinkled his nose at her. “Your body speaks for itself,” he said. He gave her a once-over. “You missed a spot. Neck.”
She looked at him in worry. Alara felt at her neck, but she didn’t notice anything. She’d missed spots in the past. The patch never made it obvious what she was, but it did make it look like she was balding.
For a moment, Methan enjoyed her confusion, then made a dismissive gesture. There was a small grin on his face. “I was only teasing,” he said, and Alara flushed. They didn’t talk, let alone joke, about her condition.
“Thakiri-cursed twit,” Alara said under her breath. The words came out before she could stop them. Loud enough for him to hear, and only him.
Methan’s ears twitched, but he said nothing, only stared at Alara with angry eyes. The door closed with a gentle thump, stillness descending on the shop. Korthal shifted and his leather armor creaked. If they were younger, they’d be wrestling each other on the floor, Alara the stronger, Methan the older. Instead, her half-brother turned away.
“You’re an idiot,” he said. He walked to his corner of the store, a cranny with a comfortable chair and a sleek, darkly-grained reading desk. He took a seat, back straight, and Alara glanced at the title of his book. History of the Oran-Ho. She raised an eyebrow in surprise. Methan had always been a voracious reader of romance, and he’d never been one for history, or, nine hells, anything all that practical.
