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SotS Official Snippet #9 (I think )

Fans of Bahzell and Tomenack come on in! Let's talk about David's fantasy series and our favorite hradani!
SotS Official Snippet #9 (I think )
Post by runsforcelery   » Sun Mar 01, 2015 6:09 am

runsforcelery
First Space Lord

Posts: 2215
Joined: Sun Aug 09, 2009 11:39 am
Location: South Carolina

I know some of you guys have been . . . concerned over my silence for the last few weeks. And I also know that I’ve missed a couple of snippet deadlines in that time period. I apologize for that, and I appreciate the queries and the hopes that nothing serious was going on.

Actually, nothing truly serious was going on, but but there was a whole bunch of fairly serious stuff rattling around. Sharon was still coping with the residue of that nasty bacterial cold she came down with, I managed to catch it from her, the kids’ school schedule — especially their sports schedule — was enough to drive anyone crazy (especially with Sharon unable to drive because of the prescription cold medications she was taking), the bad weather’s snow and ice didn’t help, the furnace stopped working at midnight when the outside temperature was about 11°, I am hugely behind on several projects which have been monopolizing what time I had to spare from Pesthouse Casa del Weber :roll: and other Real Life issues, and our Internet connectivity was not good. In fact, it really, really sucked wind, which is why we are changing ISPs next week. In fact, the technician is supposed to be here approximately 44 hours from now, but who’s counting?

Anyway, please rest assured that I haven’t shuffled off this mortal coil and have no intention of doing so anytime soon. And because I have been incommunicado this long, I am giving you a somewhat longer snippet than usual.

I can’t promise that I will be maintaining a regular schedule with snippets from here on, because of those other projects I mentioned, but I will try to be least a little more punctual than this last round.

Take care, everybody.
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The redhaired man blinked, but his green eyes had lost their glaze of shock. He rubbed his scarred chest absently, considering Wencit’s words. Then he surprised himself by smiling suddenly.

“Well, you’re plainspoken — in some things — for a wizard,” he chuckled. “Basically, I’m damned if I trust you, but doomed if I don’t!”

“Not a pleasant choice,” Wencit conceded. He fished out a battered pipe and filled it, his fiery eyes watching the younger man unreadably. Then he kindled a splinter at the fire and lit the pipe with care.

“If you can’t tell me who I am,” the redhaired man said in a strangely dignified voice, “can you at least tell me what I’m supposed to do?”

“Not entirely.” Wencit blew blue smoke at the waxed cheeses hanging from the kitchen rafters, yet his voice was compassionate. “I can only repeat what I said before. You’re a fighting man, and fighting men are always useful. But you’re much more than that, as well — potentially, at least — and there are things within you which I dare not disturb. Things which may make you of incalculable importance.”

Gwynna delivered two mugs of hot tea, and the redhaired man thanked her and sniffed the steam, grateful for the interruption while he grappled with the wizard’s words and his maimed memory. He couldn’t believe anything special was hidden within himself, yet with only an empty void for a past, neither could he refute Wencit’s statements.

He watched the grim figure of legend solemnly produce a silver whistle from one of Gwynna’s tufted ears, and he smiled as the girl clapped her hands in delight. She hugged the wizard’s neck tightly, whispering into his ear before she took her new treasure to show her mother.

Leeana paused to admire the whistle properly and then touched the red-gold hair gently as she released Gwynna from her tasks. The girl curled down with the direcat, and the huge beast lifted his head from his paws to let her perch comfortably upon his forelegs and lean casually back against his chest. Blanchrach’s head was almost the size of her entire torso, but he rumbled with a powerful purr and rested his chin on her slight shoulder, amber eyes half-slitted.

Wencit’s glowing eyes followed Gwynna, and the redhaired man recognized the fierce tenderness in the wizard’s momentarily unguarded expression. It did more than any words to win his heart, that tenderness, but he wasn’t prepared to surrender his doubt just yet.

“Suppose,” he said quietly, leaning forward, “suppose I accept you’re who you say you are and that, impossible as it seems, I really am important. Let’s even say I have to trust you. If I do, though, what — if it doesn’t sound self-serving — is in it for me?”

“A reasonable question,” Wencit said gently. “And a simple one. But I have no simple answer. I can’t even promise you your life, only the meaning of it.”

“Riddles within riddles,” the redhaired man sighed.

“Of course!” Wencit chuckled suddenly. “I’m a wizard, after all.” Then he fixed the younger man with a kinder gaze. “But I will promise you this. I swear by my art that someday, if we both live, you’ll know your own name and the reason for all my actions. For now, I can’t tell you any more than that. Not won’t tell you, but can’t tell you.”

“I’m afraid I believe that,” the redhaired man said unwillingly.

“And, believing it, will you let me guide you?”

“What other choice do I have?”

“Only those I’ve described to you,” Wencit said softly.

“Then what can’t be cured must be endured, mustn’t it?”

“I’m pleased you take it so well.” The wizard’s tone was desert dry

“I wouldn’t if I could help it!”

“I expect not.”

Wencit fell silent and sipped tea while the redhaired man slowly digested what had been said and tried to envision the implications of his own agreement. Wencit’s pipe smoke curled in strange swirls and patterned clouds that seemed to hold secret meanings just beyond comprehension, and it was the wizard who finally broke the silence.

“I suppose you need a name, don’t you?”

“It might be useful,” the redhaired man said tartly, stretching his arms high in a spine-arching yawn. He held the stretch for a heartbeat or two, then settled back on his bench. “I can’t go on being ‘my friend’ forever. But a man’s name should say something about his life. So would you care to suggest one?”

Unveiled irony glittered in his tone, but Wencit declined to rise to the bait.

“Names are very personal,” he demurred. “I suggest you pick one for yourself.”

“All right,” the redhaired man agreed, concealing any trace of disappointment as his probe bounced off the armor of the wizard’s silence. “How does ‘Kenhodan’ strike you?” he asked finally, green eyes glinting with bitter humor.

“So you remember the Old Tongue,” Wencit said.

“Some of it.”

“A good choice, then,” the wizard agreed calmly, and silence fell once more, emphasized by the crackle of the fire and the hiss of raindrops dying in its flame. Both men knew the name was both acceptance and challenge, for in the Old Tongue of High Kontovaran, “Kenhodan” meant “born out of silence.”

* * * * * * * * * *

A conspiracy of thunder, wind, and lightning-shot rain ruled Belhadan as the night dragged towards a stormy climax. Even the most optimistic finally abandoned hope of a lull, and one by one the Iron Axe’s patrons paid their scores and made their unhappy ways out into the blustering dark. In the end, only a handful of diehards remained, and Bahzell gave up the bar to an assistant and joined his guests in the kitchen.

The staff had withdrawn, leaving their mistress with her daughter and guests. Gwynna’s bedtime had been extended in honor of the visitors, and she half lay across the direcat’s forelegs with the fanged head laid gently but watchfully across her lap. She drowsed sleepily, but her mother sat in deep conversation with Wencit and the man now called Kenhodan.

Leeana’s distrust had been conquered by Wencit’s acceptance of the stranger, and now she sat across the table from Kenhodan, beside Wencit with her head propped against the wizard’s shoulder as she sipped tea and sought to help Kenhodan come to terms with his maimed memory. She couldn’t be many years older than he was himself, yet she approached the mystery of his amnesia with a calm far beyond her years. Her lively sense of humor was never far from the surface, but her verbal jabs were reserved for Wencit, not Kenhodan, and there was something almost . . . maternal about her. That wasn’t the right word, but it came closer than any of the others he could think of, for there was a wisdom behind her compassion which seemed oddly out of place in someone who couldn’t possibly be a day over thirty — thirty-five at the most. Whatever the “right” word might have been, however, he certainly wasn’t about to complain. He found her quiet sympathy and acceptance, now that Wencit had vouched for him, soothing to the raw wound in his mind, and the little group floated in the warm comfort of people who hear violent weather rage beyond a snug roof.

And then Bahzell burst upon the quiet like a jovial thunderbolt, his deep voice echoing until Gwynna roused enough to demand her father’s lap while Leeana shushed them both. Bahzell lifted his daughter from her perch on the direcat, and Blanchrach’s deep purr rumbled as his head butted the hradani’s knee affectionately. Gwynna snuggled her arms about her father’s thick neck as he swung a mighty leg over Wencit’s bench and cuddled her close. Leeana poured tea for him, and their eyes met warmly.

“And would it happen you’ve been and unraveled our mystery, love?” Bahzell asked, bussing her heartily and pressing another kiss to his daughter’s hair.

“Bits and pieces of it,” Leeana replied serenely. “At least our guest has a name and he and Wencit have reached an understanding.”

“As far as we may in a single night,” Wencit threw in, rotating his head slowly to stretch stiff muscles.

“And who could be asking more? By the Sword, though, it’s enough to make a man come all over nervous to hear Wencit of Rūm admit a limitation!”

“I’ve never claimed omnipotence,” Wencit said mildly.

“Just acted the part!” the hradani snorted. “I’m not complaining, mind. It’s more than one scrape you’ve gotten me out of with my hide in one piece — more or less — over the years.”

“But it’s such a large hide,” Wencit said wistfully. “Surely you don’t begrudge a little piece of it every so often?”

“It’s in my mind Tomanāk never promised I’d not bleed a bit now and again,” Bahzell replied cheerfully. “It’s welcome enough any foe of mine is to my blood, if it should so happen he can get it.”

“A hazardous undertaking,” Wencit murmured. “But enough pleasantry. Bahzell, this is Kenhodan, another servant of the Sword God. Kenhodan, I realize it may seem unlikely, but this lump of muscle is both a champion of Tomanāk and swordmaster of the Belhadan Chapter of the Order of Tomanāk. He had too little wit to choose a safe god, so don’t ask his advice about anything important. But if you need counsel on the shedding of blood, you couldn’t find a better advisor.”

Wencit’s warning about the nature of this peculiar household stood Kenhodan in good stead. So did the fact that he’d encountered sufficient impossibilities already for his preconceptions to have acquired a certain punchdrunk elasticity. None of which was enough to keep his eyes from widening in an echo of his astonishment. A Sothōii war maid might have no business in the Empire of the Axe, especially wed to a hradani, yet that was a mere bagatelle beside the notion of a hradani champion of Tomanāk! Of any God of Light, to be fair, but of Tomanāk?

Yet as he met the sharp, estimating gaze the hradani turned upon him, he discovered he wasn’t even tempted to doubt Wencit’s cheerful introduction. Those brown eyes were sharp as daggers, looking out from behind the façade of boisterous laughter and the tavernkeeper mask Bahzell had chosen to assume for some reason, and there was nothing in them of the barbarian brigand which was the hradani stereotype among the other Races of Man. There was intelligence, humor, confidence, and a mind as sharp and as straight as Tomanāk’s own sword. They were the farthest thing imaginable from a barbarian’s, those eyes, and yet deep within them, beyond the humor and part of the compassion, lurked something more implacable than steel and merciless as the war god’s mace. Something that told him that, preposterous though the very notion must be, Bahzell Bloody Hand truly was a champion of Tomanāk.

Kenhodan had no idea how that might have come about. If anyone had asked him, he would have sworn it couldn’t have come about, yet as his mind adjusted itself to the fresh shock, he realized he could actually see how a hradani — especially one like the giant seated across the table from him — might have been drawn to Tomanāk’s service.

Tomanāk was a stern god, the keeper of the soldier’s code, yet that was but one of his duties, and far from the most important. The third child of Orr and Kontifrio and second only to Orr himself in power, he was Captain General of the Gods of Light, the god whose hand had cast down Phrobus himself when he rebelled against Orr’s authority. Beyond that, he was also the patron of justice, the Judge of Princes and the Sword of Light, entrusted by his father with the task of overseeing the balance of the Scales of Orr. And just as he himself was more than a simple patron of warriors, so were his champions. True, they were famed for their battle craft, but their true function was to be his Swords in the world of mortals, weapons ready to his hand for the protection of the weak and the administration of justice.

As a champion of Tomanāk, Bahzell was certainly a fit mate for a Sothōii war maid, and he also held rank equal to that of a Knight Grand Cross of the Legion of the Axe. More to the point, he was entitled to a lucrative income from the Order’s coffers, which only deepened the mystery of why he kept a tavern.

Of course, that last was a minor, virtually insignificant question compared to all of the other mysteries chasing themselves about under the taven in question’s roof.

“A warrior, are you?” the hradani mused. “Aye, you’ve the thews for hard knocks, but is it the skill you have?”

“Wencit says I do, but I’m afraid I have to take his word for it.” Kenhodan shrugged. “I’ve no memory to judge by.”

“Faugh!” Bahzell thumped his tea mug down. “It’s naught I know of lost memories, and little more of wizardry — and that too much for comfort — even allowing as I’ve questionable taste in friends! But this I do know. Take no man’s word for your own sword skill, Kenhodan. It’s advice or opinions you can ask on a ship, a house, or an investment, but know your own worth with a blade or expect a short life! Have you a sword?”

“I’ve nothing but what you see. Not even a past.”

“Well, as to that, it’s not so very much I can do about pasts.” Bahzell waved a callused, oddly compassionate hand against the bitter self-deprecation of Kenhodan’s words. “But if it’s a sword that’s wanted, we might be doing a mite about such as that.” His bright eyes flickered to Wencit, alive with surmise, and then to his wife. “And where was it you were after storing Brandark’s old sword, love?”

“In that rusting collection of ironmongery in your strongroom, along with every other weapon you’ve ever collected,” Leeana replied with a certain degree of asperity.

“Well, be a good lass and fetch it out! Here’s a man of deeds without a blade, and I’m thinking it’d please the little man right down to the ground if we used his sword to set that right.”

“All right, but don’t let your tea cool while you wait. You keep that place in such a state it may take me hours to find it.”

She rose gracefully and swept off, the light of battle in her eyes, and Bahzell threw a glance after her before he leaned closer to his guests. He grinned and spoke in a lowered voice.

“Tomanāk knows what I’d do without her, and whatever it is you might be seeking in this tavern, she can find it in a dark room with her eyes closed. But she does like to prod me now and again. And she’s cause enough, truth to tell, for she’s the only person can ever find aught in that strongroom. Still, she’s after enjoying the game as much as I do. . . I think.”

“And the fact that you’d have to get your own swords if the game ever ended never enters your head?” Wencit asked innocently.

“Of course not!” Bahzell took another long pull from his cup and chuckled deep in his chest, ears half-flattened in amusement, It was a resonant, rumbling chuckle — an earthqake sort of a chuckle — but Kenhodan noticed that Gwynna drowsed right through it with the ease of long practice. She merely shifted to one side of her father’s neck to avoid jostling, and her lips curved in a sleepy smile as she curled more tightly against him. Yet another deathblow to the hradani stereotype, the redhaired man thought dryly.

“Here.” Leeana returned with a long scabbard tucked under her arm. Its black leather was clasped with silver bands overlaid with a patina of vast age, and despite her comments about “rusting ironmongery,” the leather was well oiled and the silver gleamed without a trace of tarnish. “Miracles still happen. It is where it was supposed to be!”

“You see?” Bahzell beamed at her. “The serving wenches and I, we’re after keeping this place in neat-pin order and all you need do is lord over it like a noblewoman born.” His deep voice teased her gently, and his eyes glinted as if they shared some hidden joke.

Leeana made a face and handed him the sword. He gripped the basket hilt and drew six inches of shining steel, examining it critically before he slammed it back. He looped an index finger through the baldric ring to hold the scabbard in place and then flicked his wrist idly, and the sheathed weapon hissed as it cut the air.

“A nice balance,” he observed idly, balancing it easily in the crook of one finger. “An ancient blade, Kontovaran work and made for the Gryphon Guard, or I’m a Purple Lord.”

Kenhodan blinked as light reflected from the silver bands. The runes etched into them were far too worn and faint for any eye to read, yet they teased him with an elusive familiarity. The openwork of the basket was a finely fretted steel cage, affixed to the cross guard and knucklebow rather than directly to the hilt, as was the more common Norfressan practice, and the pommel knob was a plain steel ball. It also seemed younger than the rest of the weapon, which made sense if Bahzell was correct about its origins. If the hradani’s guess was accurate, that pommel knob had once been a stylized gryphon’s head, beak gaping in challenge.

“See how your hand likes its weight, Kenhodan.”

Bahzell tossed the sheathed blade across the table with absolutely no other warning, and Kenhodan’s right hand shot up like a striking snake. His fingers slipped into the basket to grip the ridged wire of the hilt in sheer, automatic reflex as he plucked the weapon from the air. Only then did he realize he’d gone for the difficult hilt catch rather than reaching for the scabbard, and Bahzell nodded, ears pricked forward in approval.

“A swordsman’s speed right enough, by the Mace.”

“And a risky way to prove it,” Kenhodan said tartly. “I’d be missing teeth if I’d missed that catch!”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Bahzell acknowledged. “But I’m thinking Wencit might’ve been wrong, you see, though that’s rare enough to be worth the noting. Any swordsman’s after needing speed of hand and quickness of eye, and it’s in my mind you’d best be finding out if you’ve both of them early rather than late.”

“And I’m sure one of Tomanāk’s champions wouldn’t have minded healing you if you hadn’t caught it,” Wencit said a bit repressively.

“Oh, aye, no doubt at all,” Bahzell agreed, flipping his ears impudently at the wizard. Then he turned back to Kenhodan, and his experession was more serious.

“Best be drawing it to see what you think, lad,” he said. “Brandark and I had it off a Shith Kiri corsair the best part of forty years back, and it’s served him well it did, until he found one as pleased him even more.”

Once again, Kenhodan had the sense of tales yet untold eddying under the surface, but he only cocked an eyebrow and rose, and thirty-eight inches of steel licked from the sheath with a soft, competent whine. It glittered in the lamplight and shadows like blue winter ice, and a strange, distant light kindled in his eyes. His face lost all expression as his nerves and muscles felt out the weight of the blade, and a sudden thrill ran through him as the steel melted into an extension of his hand and arm.

The double-edged blade was worn with use and honing, but the burnished, lovingly cared for metal was bright. The lancet tip shot back the fire glow like the crimson heart of a star, and his grip was light, as natural as instinct, as he moved slowly to the center of the kitchen. He fell into a guard position that raised Bahzell’s eyebrows, but before the hradani could speak, Kenhodan lashed out in a lightning lunge and recovery so swift he seemed hardly to have moved.

Bahzell and Leanna eyed one another speculatively.

“Good,” the hradani said quietly. “Very good.”

He glanced at Wencit’s impassive face, but the wizard seemed not to notice, and Bahzell returned his critical gaze to Kenhodan.

Steel flickered as the redhaired man flashed through a dazzling series of mock cuts, thrusts, parries, and feints. The blade hissed, and his movements flowed so quickly and deftly that only a highly trained eye could follow the glittering blade or the supple smoothness, speed, and perfect balance of his footwork.

“Excellent,” Bahzell murmured. “Clean and sharp . . . and controlled. He’s one as could lunge against a grape without breaking the skin, by the Sword! And I’m thinking —” he shot another glance at the wizard “— that it’s somewhere else I’ve seen a similar style before this.”

Wencit showed him a raised eyebrow, and Bahzell hid a smile as Kenhodan finished with a whirring parry and blinding backhand cut to the side. Then the blade whipped up, sketched a salute, and snicked into the scabbard in a single, flowing motion, and he returned to the table, breathing slightly faster.

“It’s no more I know of your past than you do,” Bahzell said quietly “but it’s in my mind you’ve handled steel before.”

“Yes.” Kenhodan’s voice was distant, as if he found it difficult to recover a focus on the present. “It came alive in my hand . . . .”

“Aye,” Bahzell said. “It’s a master you were taught by, and I’m thinking such as that could lead to your past. Find the hand as trained you, remember whose it was, and it’s not so very far from him you’ll find your past, as well.”

“I don’t remember,” Kenhodan said hesitantly. “Maybe no one taught me. It felt so . . . so much like a part of me . . . .”

“And so it should,” Bahzell rumbled, “but I’m thinking someone taught you, and taught you well. The fingers remember, whatever it is the mind may do, and sword skill runs in the muscles and the bone. A master swordsman’s arm —” he eyed Kenhodan with that same measuring gaze “— is one as knows an art no other can imitate.”

“High praise from a champion of Tomanāk,” Wencit said quietly.

“That’s as may be.” Bahzell shrugged. “I’ve yet to see him in action, you understand, but I’d make no wagers against him.”

“In so little you see so much?” Wencit teased, and Bahzell snorted.

“Laugh if you’ve a mind to, but I’m thinking you, of all people, know how much swordplay I’ve seen, both in practice and in earnest.” Bahzell’s voice hinted at more than his words said, but this time Kenhodan was too bemused to notice.

“I do.” Wencit’s nod seemed to respond to Bahzell’s tone as much as to his words. “But I told you he was a warrior, didn’t I?”

“So you did, and it’s not a term you’re in the way of using lightly.” Bahzell leaned back, cradling his sleeping daughter, and regarded the wizard. “I’ve a mind to see the man in action, Wencit. So could you be so very kind as to be telling me your plans?”

“Actually, that sounds like an excellent idea to me, as well,” Kenhodan said pointedly, laying the sheathed sword gently on the table. “How does this puzzle piece —” he smiled mockingly “— fit into your plans, O Wizard?”

“I need you close to me,” Wencit replied. “Most pressingly, at the moment, to fend off attacks directed at you through the art. But the time will come when I need your aid every bit as much as you need mine. In a sense, you and I are part of the same puzzle piece. Neither can succeed without the other, and I’ll soon need a strong swordarm. I hope you’ll provide it.”

“What choice do I have? You seem to know who I am — I’d be a fool to let you out of my sight. But why does a wizard need a swordsman?”

“I have an errand to the south,” Wencit said easily. “Another puzzle piece to recover, so to speak. I know where it is, but laying hold of it may be a little . . . difficult.”

“‘Difficult’ is it?” Bahzell’s ears pricked at the wizard. “That’s a word you use too seldom for me to rest all easy when I hear it, Wencit. It’s nothing I know about this puzzle, but the south I do know. Of course, it’s most of the Empire lies south of Belhadan, not to mention the Border Kingdoms and the Empire of the Spear. Aye, and let’s not be forgetting the Purple Lords, come to that! So just where would it be, if you don’t mind me asking, as you have in mind to be going?”

Wencit eyed him expressionlessly, clearly weighing his answer, and Bahzell’s lip curled knowingly. He waved his free hand.

“And don’t you be turning that sour face on me, Wizard! I’ve the cost of a good meal and a better sword in our friend here. I’m thinking as how I might just find myself needing to protect my investment.”

“Perhaps,” Wencit said tonelessly.

“No perhaps, Wencit. Spit it out — and none of your evasions! You’d not be beating about the bush so unless no one with sense would be so very happy about your destination, now would you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t deny that.” Wencit’s face crinkled in an answering grin and he gave up. “I’m bound for Angthyr. The Scarthū Hills, to be precise.”

“Angthyr!” Bahzell sat back on the bench. “And just what sort of ‘puzzle’ might it be as takes you into that vipers’ nest? It’s more than enough I’ve heard — from Chanharsa and Barodahn’s factors, and not just the Order — to know Prince Altho’ll be at open blows with Ranalf of Carchon and Wulfra of Torfo by high summer. Aye, and past time he was about it, come to that!”


"Oh, bother!" said Pooh, as Piglet came back from the dead.
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Re: SotS Official Snippet #9 (I think )
Post by John Prigent   » Sun Mar 01, 2015 7:02 am

John Prigent
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Thank you! We're all glad to hear that things are getting better for you all.
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Re: SotS Official Snippet #9 (I think )
Post by Eagleeye   » Sun Mar 01, 2015 8:11 am

Eagleeye
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Location: Halle/Saale, Germany

Thank you, David - and all the best for the wellbeing of you and your family!
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Re: SotS Official Snippet #9 (I think )
Post by cirret   » Sun Mar 01, 2015 9:26 am

cirret
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Thanks for another great snippet. Hope that things return to normal soon and goodluck with you´re other projects
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Re: SotS Official Snippet #9 (I think )
Post by looksbeforeheleaps   » Sun Mar 01, 2015 10:32 am

looksbeforeheleaps
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This is very interesting.

First we have Kenhodan pondering Leanna:
. . . maternal about her. That wasn’t the right word, but it came closer than any of the others he could think of, for there was a wisdom behind her compassion which seemed oddly out of place in someone who couldn’t possibly be a day over thirty — thirty-five at the most.

Then we have Bahzell telling Kenhodan about the sword he just gave him:
“Best be drawing it to see what you think, lad,” he said. “Brandark and I had it off a Shith Kiri corsair the best part of forty years back, and it’s served him well it did, until he found one as pleased him even more.”

So, does Leanna look at least 25 years younger than she should? Or has Bahzell somehow experienced over 40 years since their marriage while Leanna is less than 15 years older? Or (possible but seems unlikely) did Mr. Weber make a rather clumsy mistake?

I love a good mystery!

P.S. Thanks for the update, rfc!
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Re: SotS Official Snippet #9 (I think )
Post by BobG   » Sun Mar 01, 2015 12:34 pm

BobG
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looksbeforeheleaps Wrote:
So, does Leanna look at least 25 years younger than she should? Or has Bahzell somehow experienced over 40 years since their marriage while Leanna is less than 15 years older? Or (possible but seems unlikely) did Mr. Weber make a rather clumsy mistake?

I love a good mystery!

P.S. Thanks for the update, rfc!

I doubt it was a mistake. I still don't know if we're in the same timeline or a similar one, and there is certainly enough magic around - Wencit could have reduced/stopped her aging until Kenhoden appeared because she was needed, or because her daughter was needed (fertility issues), or ??? The remarks seemed to indicate that she was wise beyond her years, which would go well with her apparent vs real age.

And Bahzell is still a Champion of Tomanak, sword master of it's chapter, and running a tavern? That is certainly remarkable. He and his wife seem out of the adventure business for now, which is certainly a good idea while raising a child, who has the most interesting taste in stuffed animals :D

I must admit curiosity about Brandark's new sword, and what he's been up to. Bahzell's sword was enhanced, not replaced, when he became a champion. And it seems unlikely he'd take to a new sword, given all he and the old one have been through, and the muscle memory conditioned into him, unless the new one had some attributes that suggested the change. It seems unlikely that occurred directly from being a scholar.i don't recall a previous mention of a Kontovarian sword in Brandark's possession. Did he find an older and powerful sword, or was one made for him, or given to him, and if so by whom? Or did he know Kenhoughton would need it?

Curiouser and curiouser

I wonder if they're going near The Laughing God, and whether it's still around.

-- Bob G
Last edited by BobG on Sun Mar 01, 2015 1:13 pm, edited 1 time in total.
SF & Fantasy: The only things better than Chocolate.
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Re: SotS Official Snippet #9 (I think )
Post by Brom O'Berin   » Sun Mar 01, 2015 12:47 pm

Brom O'Berin
Captain (Junior Grade)

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David, glad to know you, Sharon and kids are doing better ...

For Looks ... with regard to your mystery .. Kenhodan is going on surface appearance, and Leanna may not be physically aging as fast as her true age. She is descended from wizards bloodline, her husband is a godtouched healer and has a connection to the universal energy pool, and she's been godtouched herself - by two of Goddess' of Light. Not to mention Wencit. Any of the forementioned might have slowed her physical aging.

Also, OoS does not state exactly when the Bazell/Brandark friendship began ..

Lastly, David has a habit of ensuring he's left wiggle room in his stories for teasing comments like this.

looksbeforeheleaps wrote:This is very interesting.

First we have Kenhodan pondering Leanna:
. . . maternal about her. That wasn’t the right word, but it came closer than any of the others he could think of, for there was a wisdom behind her compassion which seemed oddly out of place in someone who couldn’t possibly be a day over thirty — thirty-five at the most.

Then we have Bahzell telling Kenhodan about the sword he just gave him:
“Best be drawing it to see what you think, lad,” he said. “Brandark and I had it off a Shith Kiri corsair the best part of forty years back, and it’s served him well it did, until he found one as pleased him even more.”

So, does Leanna look at least 25 years younger than she should? Or has Bahzell somehow experienced over 40 years since their marriage while Leanna is less than 15 years older? Or (possible but seems unlikely) did Mr. Weber make a rather clumsy mistake?

I love a good mystery!

P.S. Thanks for the update, rfc!
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Re: SotS Official Snippet #9 (I think )
Post by Brom O'Berin   » Sun Mar 01, 2015 12:53 pm

Brom O'Berin
Captain (Junior Grade)

Posts: 268
Joined: Sun Oct 25, 2009 8:40 pm

Maybe Brandark got a new sword because of his new ... urk ...(silence ...)


BobG wrote:looksbeforeheleaps Wrote:
So, does Leanna look at least 25 years younger than she should? Or has Bahzell somehow experienced over 40 years since their marriage while Leanna is less than 15 years older? Or (possible but seems unlikely) did Mr. Weber make a rather clumsy mistake?

I love a good mystery!

P.S. Thanks for the update, rfc!

I doubt it was a mistake. I still don't know if we're in the same timeline or a similar one, and there is certainly enough magic around - Wencit could have reduced/stopped her aging until Kenhoden appeared because she was needed or because her daughter was needed (fertility issues), or she could have been frozen in time due to some bad mishap, or ???

I must admit curiosity about Brandark's new sword, and what he's been up to. Bahzell's sword was enhanced, not replaced, when he became a champion. And it seems unlikely he'd take to a new sword, given all he and the old one have been through, and the muscle memory conditioned into him, unless the new one had some attributes that suggested the change. It seems unlikely that occurred directly from being a scholar. Did he find an old and powerful sword, or was one made for him, or given to him, and if so by whom?

Curiouser and curiouser

-- Bob G
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Re: SotS Official Snippet #9 (I think )
Post by WLBjork   » Sun Mar 01, 2015 3:59 pm

WLBjork
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Posts: 169
Joined: Wed Jan 11, 2012 5:45 am

David, make no apologies for dealing with the important things in your life. Health and family come before snippets.


Brom, I'd go with the touch of the Gods myself - after all, they blessed the marriage, and I can see them tweaking Leena's lifetime to give her longer with Bazhell.
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Re: SotS Official Snippet #9 (I think )
Post by tootall   » Sun Mar 01, 2015 5:10 pm

tootall
Captain (Junior Grade)

Posts: 349
Joined: Mon Aug 29, 2011 1:23 am

OK... I do love Bahzell-- and at the same time ... having a new "person" off adventuring with Wencit is a really interesting idea.
I like where this one is going-
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