Holding back the eager power of his own spirit, Alistair closed the rest of the distance between them, and his son’s spirit came into view.
“Spirits, Father. You’re a wolf!”
“You too? Good. I’m glad it isn’t just Aisling who sees it that way.” Alistair peered at the creature sitting timidly in front of him. “You are… odd-looking.”
The thing lifted its forepaws and looked around as if seeing itself for the first time. “Why? What am I?”
Alistair frowned and let out a groan. “Oh, I know the name. You know in all those Cyrille and Althaean fauna books your grandmother gave you when you were a boy?”
The thing put its forepaws down and its nose and whiskers twitched. “Yes…” Continue reading
First off, my sincerest apologies for not being around much lately. As per the fairly recent blog about moving, you may have guessed that I’m, well, moving. This is the first ever time, so it’s a bit stressful. Next week I’m shifting all my shit into a new place and getting organized, so I can’t promise to be around much until I get all my shit together. That being said, I’m moving into my own place all by my onesie, so it’ll be a buttload of fun once I get there!
In the meantime, have a clip of new characters from an as-of-yet-untitled Changeling threequel.
Something tickled his nose, and he glanced up. The sky had been grey and overcast all day, but now as night was approaching it was beginning to look ominous. Snow had been expected, but not so soon. It was time to go home.
He cupped his hand around his mouth and called, “Astrid!”
His voice echoed off the bare rocks and trees, bouncing back and forth until it faded into ghosts. He counted the seconds while he waited—it was nearly forty-five before he got a reply.
“Yes, brother?” A fair head popped over a rock and the body of his sister soon followed.
“Do you see the snow?” He gestured around him. The snow was thin still, but falling fairly steady now. It wouldn’t be long until the night was thick with it, and then it would be impossible to get home. Continue reading
“I will go with you, Father,” Logan spoke up, just as Alistair started to argue back. The three paused and glanced at him. Aisling watched with interest. She expected him to back down—he didn’t seem quite man enough yet to hold his own—but he lifted his chin and returned their stares with a bold one of his own.
Alistair looked at his son as if seeing him for the first time. A flicker of emotion crossed his face, and he groaned. “If you come with me… I would prefer Aisling and Sophia not go alone.”
Aisling shut her eyes. “I will go with Sophia,” she said, and instantly had a foul taste on her tongue.
When she opened her eyes a moment later, everyone was gawking at her. Sophia could barely hide her distaste and stared with a horrified grimace.
Alistair opened his mouth, but before he could even make a sound, Sophia blurted, “But why?”
“Alistair does not want either of us searching alone,” she snapped, shooting the woman a glare. “Logan cannot be on his own; he does not have enough experience. Alistair cannot be on his own. Clearly the only one who can is Lord Hession, which means you and I must go together. Surely you can withhold your immaturity for the few hours it will take to find Riane?” Continue reading
What a loaded question. So I’ll start off simple and chip away from there.
I write to tell a story. I write to entertain people and to cement ideas that are whirling about in my head. I’m not here to make a point. I’m not here to put some subtle allusion to society, to politics or religion or war, into my novels. If that happens on its own, or someone sees it that way, so be it.
But I am here simply to tell a story.
Some people want to make a point, and I admire that. Deeper tales knitted into something light are necessary to get you thinking. I certainly have opinions on things, some quite passionate, but I’m not the type of person to shove them into my book just to get someone to notice it.
Four stone towers, only one moderately intact, connected by walls that had long since crumbled in the middle. Vines crawled up the sides of the weathered stones as nature tried to reclaim what was rightfully hers. A flagpole still stood from the highest tower, the one closest to me, with a scrap of fabric still attached. It drifted lazily in the evening breeze.
Another shiver danced down my spine. The highest tower was one of the tallest buildings I had ever seen, aside from the castle in Nallis. It was majestic and magnificent, even with one side gone.
“I don’t like this,” I said to myself, and walked slowly past the tower, alongside the south wall, which was mostly intact. A few holes like slits were carved into the stone—places for archers to keep watch and ready their bows in case of invaders—and from one still dangled the ruined remains of a tapestry. Continue reading
Because they can be insightful, because I have nothing better to do
that’s a lie, I should be developing the world of Changeling more, or writing more Abomination, or editing Purity, or starting on the rewrite of Of the Arbour, or–
And hey, maybe it’ll give everyone else more of an idea of just why I do what I do, and where this all comes from.
Taken from the deviantART page of Elisa Nuckle.
1. When did you start writing?
I’ve been writing stories for most of my life. I cleaned out my closet recently and discovered so many little half-baked stories that I’d come up with when I was younger than ten. I’ve known I’ve wanted to be an author since I was 13, but only recently have taken the major steps toward that goal, and actually written something worth publication.
2. When you were a beginning writer, what did your write primarily? What do you write now, primarily? (i.e. romance, fan-fiction, poetry)
I wrote plenty of Star Wars fanfiction that will never see the light of day. From there, I began to write sci fi stories that were based closely on Star Wars. In grade seven, a friend and I wrote a novel about vampires called Tears of Blood, which was completely scrapped save for one character: Fane, the son of Dracula, who now resides in Purity. I now usually write fantasy, high and epic. Continue reading
When I first started writing Changeling, the story was set on a single continent: Cyril. It was, like much fantasy, a decidedly medieval European setting – of the thirteen territories, five are based on England, one on France, one on Scotland, one on Wales, one on Poland/Czech Republic, one on Greece, and one on English colonies. Then as the story progressed, I added a second continent, which was based on Indian and Arabic settings of the real world; this was called Kriss.
Imagination progressed, as it is apt to do, and a third continent was imagined: Althaea. Although none of Changeling is set on Althaea, references are made to the culture to the east, and it is mentioned in passing. Althaea is based on German and Native American cultures, as well as English colonies, because the people of Cyril have shipped across the sea to try to claim it as their own.
So here I am, 70 000+ words into Changeling’s sequel, Abomination, and out of the blue while I’m working, I come up with a fourth continent idea, the tentative name of which is Thörstaag.
It, obviously, will be based on Norse and Scandinavian cultures. Continue reading
Learn about the Magic that exists in the world of Changeling, including the different specialties, the languages used to control them, and the nature of the casters.
I swallowed a lump in my throat and my hand drifted to my knife, which I had taken to wearing on my hip instead of my leg once we entered the Old Lands. “Logan, I am the one who lives in this territory,” I said weakly. “I am the one who had to convince you that it wasn’t haunted. But this place… it feels wrong.”
Logan stopped and looked at me, head cocked to the side. Sophia crunched away, oblivious to our hesitation. “Riane, this is why we came here. My legs haven’t stopped hurting since we left home, and I have never been filthier. But this is why we came, remember? We were going on an adventure to break from the monotony of our lives.”
I bit my lip and stole another glance in the direction of the fort. “I like the monotony,” I whispered, but he ignored me and jogged away to catch up with Sophia.
I watched their retreating backs, and my grip tightened on the hilt of my dagger. Night was quickly falling; soon we would be lost in the darkness, and I knew I wasn’t about to camp next to the ruins of the fort. We would have to walk back to Vavenby, and that would take all night.
My gut twisted and a shiver crawled down my spine. We were trapped. Continue reading