Cantice V

Her grin grew even wider, giving him a quick peck on the lips before saying, “Just don’t make it too obvious. But I must return now, lest anyone grow too suspicious. We’ll be seeing more of each other later. I’ll let you know.” She gave him one last kiss, a long, passionate one, before poking head out the door and then quickly exiting. Her mere presence left him smiling as largely as he could, his very being feeling lighter for having been in her presence. It is as though he was now floating on some blissful cloud, free of any and every worry that had ever plagued his life. None of it even mattered at the moment, only his love for this woman.

He was perhaps in there for longer than he had realized after she left, as the slightly ajar door was opened by his faithful Famulus, who took a cloth and wiped the residue of lipstick which had been smeared onto his own lips. He followed him back out through the entrance which he had erstwhile berated for barring his entry. Back in the street, a back alley at best, they made their way to the avenue upon which the main entrance to the house lay, and knocked on the door, to be greeted by the head slave of the household, a shriveled old man who always wore a black tunic, perhaps seeing this as a symbol of his station. The old man quivered out his words, “Lord Didius, do come in.”

Cantice strolled right in past the man, even as if this home were his own. He inquired, despite knowing the answer himself, “Might you direct me to the house shrine that I may pour a libation for your masters? Beyond that, the rest of this jug of wine he carries is for the house.” The elder slave nodded and tottered off at a pace he thought slower than really necessary. They entered the atrium, the large front room with a pool in the middle, and there were already many guests here, in the reception room between the atrium and the garden in the back. He waved towards them, trying his best to make a smile that didn’t seem as a poorly attached façade to his interior which truly didn’t give a shit for them. Instead, he headed into an alcove off the side of the atrium where the shrine to the household gods lay.

Cantice IV

If I do really well, I'll be three quarters the way finished with my first draft at the end of this month. If I don't do really well, I should still get there by the middle of April. I would expect the latter, as my schedule is going to be pretty busy for the next two weeks or so. Regardless, that will have me completed by the end of May, which is something that I'm pretty excited about. And after that? Months of editing. Oh joy.

“Of course, darling,” he responded with a smile. “Your husband shall attend the same banquet as we, but I secretly hope that it should be his last. What am I, left as just another dinner companion to sit and admire this divine beauty that lay before me?” He grinned the widest smile and suggested, “When you lie together on your couch for dinner, you must lie beside him with innocent expression, you must tap my foot and watch my most expressive features. We shall speak with our eyebrows alone! You may lay by him, but you must refuse him. Bid him to drink what he has mixed for you, and eat not that which has been touched by his mouth. Let him not touch your neck, nor engage your thigh with his own, nor your foot to his. Have your husband drink greedily, always adding more wine to his own vessel. He will receive kisses now, but the situation will arise where these kisses will belong only to me, only to their rightful owner.”

She returned her grin in response to him, hers just as big as his, she just as excited as he. He could tell by means of her eyes alone that she felt for him as he did for her. Her response was as such, “A situation may arise where we are able to engage one another, and indeed I plan on it. However, this is a party at his behest, filled with his friends, and making such public motions, however discreet, will be detected by unscrupulous and untrusting eyes, easily discerning our clever plot. No, Cantice. Remember that victory loves prudence, and just as in war, in love. If we do not act with discretion today, then there can be no tomorrow. You do want tomorrow to come, do you not?”

He felt a little bit crushed on the inside, but of course, as always her wisdom shone through and lit the way for a more reasonable decision than his hopelessly romantic notions. He was sure that she could see in his face as well, so he instantly brightened his expression and responded, “Of course, my love. Correct as always. Just know that not a moment shall pass on this eve where I am not casting lustful gazes in your direction, thinking of what is to come later between the two of us.”

Cantice III

For those of you not from North Carolina, we just experienced a pretty bad ice storm which knocked out power for a lot of people, including me, for a couple of days. In fact, three fourths of the county which I live in was without power. That was fun. On a completely random note, I've started watching Hellsing Ultimate, which I don't think is as striking or has as high of artistic quality as a single unit as the other version, but I think I like better. I dunno. Just sort of rambling at this point. Enjoy my writ.

The door quickly swung open halfway, the slave which had opened the door originally motioning with his head to come inside. With a quick look up and down the alleyway, Cantice quickly skulked inside.

He was in the kitchen, surrounded by slaves doing slave things. How dull. He skittered on past them to find his own Famulus eating something off of some plate. He came up behind him and interjected in a hushed tone, “Famulus, my good man, now is not the time for eating. The mistress?” Unaware that his master had come in, he almost spit whatever he was eating out and looked at him with an uneasy toothy grin. Popping the rest of the brown food-like substance in his mouth, he led on, continuing on into another room and then yet another, where he then directed him to a pantry. Cantice put his hands on his hips and asked, “Really Famulus, a pantry?” The slave just shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head to the side. He relented and entered the storeroom amid foodstuffs for later consumption.

Quite shortly thereafter the door opened to reveal the shining light of his life, Catella. She looked over her shoulder and then rushed in, closing the door quickly behind her. Their hands instantly went for one another, each seeming to have one hand grasp the other’s midsection and the other towards the face, pressing their lips passionately against one another. Her tongue pressed against his lips and naturally he parted, allowing it passage into his own mouth, reciprocating in kind. However, he was a bit overly excited, a bit overly anxious, and knocked his teeth into hers. He cursed in his own mind. Cantice’s hand moved towards other regions of her body other than her midsection, but was quickly slapped away as she pushed herself off of him. She quietly protested, “My husband is home. We can’t be caught like this.”

Cantice II

Today you get reference to a Paraklausithyron, a style of poetry which takes place outside a lover's door.You can find examples of these from Horace in Odes 3.10 and 3.26, Tibullus 1.2, Propertius 1.16, and Ovid's Amores 1.6. I don't really have more to say, other than I'm going to be doing a lot of community service in the near future, against my will, and will therefore be exhausted by it. I hope you're all enjoying the wayward poet, Cantice.

Soon enough though, they reached the door to the urban villa which he had made his destination. Not the front door. Not yet. They were at the back, at the kitchen, where after drying himself off with his dinner napkin and trying to make himself up to look the best he possibly could in such short time, he instructed his slave as a teacher his pupil, “Now then, you know what to do Famulus. Let the lady know that I am here, such that we may meet.” The slave said nothing, but turned to knock on the door, and soon enough another had opened the door and beckoned him in. Before he could disappear, Cantice interrupted, “Oh, a cup of wine. Diluted.” The slave who answered the door brought him a small ceramic cup which he quickly swallowed and then handed back, otherwise ignoring the slave, who then shut the door, leaving Cantice outside with nothing but the door.

He began to pace back and forth. It had been but a modicum of time, but how such brief passages of time seemed to stretch on unto infinity whence such occasions occur. Oh door, oh doorkeeper, set the hinge in motion and move the stubborn oak. Oh, how love shows man swiftly how to come to thee, even as his very gut churns against the placidity of his serene façade. Even the spirits mock, so sayeth Amora, spirit of love, as a gentle mother cradling her child, “you must become brave.” Thus here I made my way and hence I am here. Oh door, you listen to my prayer, as solemn and filled with sorrow as it may be, but listen with a heart of iron and a countenance of oak. Oh, how locked doors are useful amidst a city at siege, but when all is at peace, why is it that you should keep lovers from one another’s warm embrace? Why is it that even now you still yet fear a reprisal of arms? Why is it that you should dread my ire and hold yourself steadfast against me?

Wait, what’s this? Do my senses deceive? Do the doorposts groan with a driving hinge? Oh. How I have been deceived by a gentle breeze, the north wind carrying off my hopes and dreams, spoils of war to be violently raped. What is it that you want? What is it that shall make you appeased? What yet must I still do; a prayer or offering of some manner to gain your confidence such that I may pass through your threshold unmolested? Must I now arm myself with fire and iron such as to take you by force, oh terrible doorkeeper? By the seven gods that govern you, let them see that I have tried everything, but your insatiable greed and stalwart defense thwart my heart. Alas, ye cruel doorpost with rigid threshold, body of unfeeling timber, I must be away of you, lest you further rend my heart and leave it ragged.

Cantice I

Well, now here I am starting up a chapter for a new character which you all have not yet seen: Cantice. He's a poet. This week I'm going to try to start up doing my extra posts, but I'm a terrible blogger, so good luck to me on that. That's actually about it, thusfar. Enjoy.

“Oh dear, we’re late. Late. Late. What am I to do with myself, Famulus?” The poet hurried down the street, trying his best to hold up his robes as he scuttled down the street, his slave easily keeping pace with him, despite having to carry a backpack with multiple wax tablets in it and both his dinner napkin and a gift in his hands. The slave said nothing.

His clothing was relatively heavy, and despite it only being early spring, it was too hot for him to be moving this hurriedly. He was supposed to be devoted to his writing, to the practice and beauty of the Erraman language, not running down streets, clumsily clutching at his clothing whilst sweat began to drip. Sweat ran down his forehead from his hair, sweat ran down his stomach from his chest, sweat ran down his buttocks from his back. Oh, how miserable this was. He never understood how people could do this, particularly in armour, when they went off to fight in their foolish wars.

Suddenly it hit him. He couldn’t keep running, despite being late. He had to slow down and make sure that he wasn’t sweating and disgusting looking, even if he were to be late. If he kept running, he would look terrible for the woman that he sought to impress. Why did I not think of that before I started moving so hurriedly? Why did I not just leave in time to get here earlier? Cantice always had the habit of planning too many things to get any of them done efficiently. He wasn’t the sort to tell two friends that he would spend time with them both in the same day. That was never his problem. His problem was that he thought that he could write a bit, have lunch, go to the baths, get something from a shop, get dressed, travel, and about a dozen other small things before he had to go off to a party. This would only take a moment, that even less, but they each take more time than scheduled for both.

Epander 2.VII

And so here ends the second chapter featuring Epander. Thoughts? Comments? Questions? Really, about anything thusfar that I've written. No one really posts comments, so I just assume that everyone is smitten or doesn't read it. There is no inbetween. Also, I'm going to start on my doubling of posting next week. This week didn't work out for me. I'm terrible at blogging.

Also, I've decided to sort of put my writing/editing process into a few phases, the first of which being to simply get this written. As soon as I finish I'm going to rework my map and completely figure out the world. This means not only what places are like and which cultures are next to one another, but also the local flora and fauna of separate regions, such that I can put references to them in peoples food, among other things. I'd also want to better flesh out their cultures and even create a general timeline that goes back at least five hundred years. I want this to be a living, breathing world. I apparently hate myself.

Typhon was a slimmer, smaller man of dark skin and darker hair, immaculately cared for, silky and tied with a ribbon behind his head. One would think him almost boyish were it not be for the look in his eyes, where even when smiling held you at a distance, the look of a man distanced from the world. Perhaps he had seen far too much death for his own liking, being a General in a country whose wars knew no end. The other man was broad in the shoulders and perhaps too broad in the gut for his position. He wore his hair and beard alike shorter, both of which grey, going on white.

“The other two men here are Archons of premier importance.” He gestured to one man and then the next. “This is Diodoros Agathon, the Archon of public works to be built or maintained, such as this palace or the roads which stretch across the Empire. And lastly here is Philippos Herodes, the Archon of taxation. Tribute from all Satrapies are sent here, and he is responsible for them.” Diodoros had tanned skin, but a sandy blonde locks and green eyes, meaning that he must be of mixed blood with the barbarians from the north. Philippos was a tall, lanky man who kept a long, thin beard of black ringlets to match the rest of his body, with hooked nose and multicoloured cap on his head. Epander was actually somewhat surprised that they were so allowing of natives within the court; he had expected it to be somewhat more homogenous.

“At any rate, Epander Theophilos, you must be wearied from the day’s exertions. Come to court in the morning and labor shall be found for you to accomplish. You’ll be provided with lodgings pending you being able to uncover them of your own.” He turned to one of the many slaves bustling across the room, gesturing with cup still in hand, snapping the fingers of his other, “Pemptos, appropriate accommodations for our esteemed guest.”

The slave instantly set down what he was doing and began to approach, but was interrupted by Epander’s response, “And what of my slaves who have brought with me?”

Miltiades grinned, but there was no malice or insult in his expression as he answered, “Do not doubt the ability of poor Pemptos here. He will provide all that is necessary.” He paused for a moment before dismissing them such, “I look forward to seeing you work Epander. I trust your rest shall suit you this night. Farewell.” He turned once more to the men to which Epander had just been introduced, continuing the work which he toiled on before he arrived, and Epander himself followed the slave out of the door, out of the chamber.

Epander 2.VI

So, I moved into my new home last Sunday. I live in a house now. I must say that after not having my own place for a number of months, it is incredibly liberating to live on my own again. With any luck, this means that I'll be able to be more in the swing of getting some writing done. I would have posted sooner, but there was some trouble with getting the power/water/internet/etc all to work, so I've only been here since Wednesday. Unrelated to this, I've decided that I'm going to double the amount of posts that I do a week, but only on Sundays and Wednesdays will I put up fiction. Mondays I'll write about history and Fridays I'll write about writing. Hopefully you all will enjoy it.  Oh, and I had searched for "Persian and Greek" in Google image search, and this was one of the options. I couldn't not use it.

Epander was completely unaware of how he appeared to be, for Miltiades chortled and gave him a light smack in the chest, consoling him, “Don’t look so grim, mate.” But upon just a moment of a quizzical expression, he continued, “Though I do suppose it’s better that than glib, as Kaveh Kshaeta cannot help but to be. Come, allow me your introduction.” Having been unaware of his expression, he managed a slight blush on his olived skin, hoping that his opposite would take no notice.

As they began to walk back towards the others, Kaveh interjected, “I must insist that such jests, such jibes, are inexcusable to my person. You cannot continue down this path.”

Miltiades did not break his stride or his purpose as he retorted, “As I see is as I say, and I can do nothing but. I may speak only truths.”

“As I, from the age of six it was one of three things which I was taught that I must know to do. You speak only slander, trying for naught at truth.” He continued his gesticulation, but it almost seemed as though he was concurrently speaking a second language, invoking emotions with hands as well as words.

At this point, Miltiades did stop. He turned to the native man and musingly replied, “Well then, take your complaints up with the Basileus if you feel so strongly in this way.” A smug grin broke across his face as he said, the inference that he should derive from this Epander was not able to derive. Kaveh threw his head up and marched himself out of the room.

Once Kaveh had left the room, he continued, “His heart is in the right place, but his attitudes, platitudes, and pretensions are not. We may tire of one another, but we are both glad for one another. At any rate, I should introduce you to some of the other courtiers, those with whom I work most intimately.”

“I am, as Kaveh Kshaeta failed to indicate, I have no doubt, the Polemarch, and thus the foremost military figure in Arche Aigaios. Two of the Strategoi which whom I work most here are Androskles Hypatos and Typhon Pankratios. Typhon’s father, Kleitos Pankratios, is the administrator of the Satrapy in which we currently reside, so there is little doubt that you shall additionally treat with him soon enough .”

Epander 2.V

Well, I almost forgot to put this post up. For those of you outside of North Carolina (or the US southeast in general), we're having a sweeping snowstorm which is really nice for just staying in and relaxing. However, this is also being problematic for my moving tomorrow, which may not happen due to the snow. Between that and having trouble with setting up utilities, I might not be able to post this Sunday. But fear not, brave readers! Where I am able, I shall bring forth more things of me having written stuff.

Also, I just sort of noticed how many scenes that I have where people are naked. I don't think anyone is naked in this chapter, but there's at least a half dozen chapters which involve nudity. Also, only one of them involves any kind of sexual activity. [edit: two] I guess I just like to write about people dressing and doing things in the nude.

Miltiades upon the introduction strode round the massive map and brought himself up to Epander, clasping his hand to his opposite’s wrist, gripping his other hand upon his shoulder. His voice was somewhat hushed but somehow still had weight to it as he said, “Welcome then, Epander, to Aigaios on the Oxis. I trust your journey your journey was well?”

Epander smiled, almost wishing that he had to force it, but the smirk upon the other man’s face was contagious, or so it seemed, “As much so as could be, but the rigors of the road compare as naught against the comforts of the hearth; I trust you understand. But here at last I am, and nothing else remains.”

Miltiades clapped his hand once on Epander’s shoulder with a brusque laugh and then disengaged himself from him and began to walk back towards a table near the map and poured two cups, saying whilst he did so, “Most persons would have spat instinctively that they would have been ‘fine’ or ‘good.’ However, I suppose that most do not travel long distances away from their homesteads to become a courtier.” He held out a cup and inquired, “Why have you come so far from your kinsfolk to this service?”

Epander took the cup and promptly a swallow. It was mulled, the naturally sweet and bitter of the wine cut with spices, and was actually quite good. Surprisingly, it was not diluted. None of the men here seemed inebriated, so it was likely for flavor rather than refreshment. He replied, “Why does any man leave more honest professions for the ars politica, but to set aside himself as a service to his kinsfolk, to see that change needs to be wrought and act as that instrument of reform?”

The Strategos’s eyes glimmered as he casually chuckled; they glowed with divine knowledge, or so it would appear. So much tension, so much apprehension, it was all devoted to those individuals who held false façades as masks to hide away intention, but never would Epander have guessed that who he had need dread were not these as aforementioned, but those who veiled themselves behind only their own honesty, those who had nothing to hide. This man was dangerous, it was clear to see.

“Naïve idealism, it would seem, is what brought you here. Your words, nay, your idealism is flowered and honeyed, but I cannot yet tell if for its own sake or to hide the bitter stench of decay.” Miltiades swallowed a long yet shallow sip from his cup, only to approach abutting to Epander, looming over imposingly with a look of nothing short of malice glowering from his eyes. “If your intentions substantiate as anything less than pure, I will know. Remember this well, Epander Theophilos: my eyes are never given the dispensation of cessation, I am always watching.”

Epander 2.IV

As a completely random note, I'm really getting into Jojo's Bizarre Adventure. I haven't gotten into a show this much where I've just wanted to marathon the entire thing in quite some time, so it's pretty refreshing. The map in this scene is partially inspired by the one in Dragonstone in A Song of Ice and Fire, but I've seen plenty of improvised terrain mockups done in the Army where people have gotten very creative and made quite life-like representations in short amounts of time. Also, miniature wargaming.

It was carved wood and exhibited the gentle roll of the coastline, the impulsive juts of mountain and hill. Artisans had come to paint the lands such as they were purported to be, and moss brought to grow in where forests may lay. Miniature cities erupted across every land, itself scarred by the interweaving of roads. Paramount in importance, figurines of men, horse, and ship alike stood silent vigil over their diminutive domiciles, the whereabouts of every army in Arche Aigaios were right there, as well as those informed to have been by the other nations of the world. The circle of the world met with the marble flooring, what lay beyond a yet still enigmatic.

As he drew in the world by means of his eyes, Kaveh performed another dance, a bow similar to the one which he had been greeted with, and loudly exclaimed, “Epander Theophilos of Khatria, I present you to Strategos Miltiades Nikandros.” He motioned towards Epander and added, “He is the prospective courtier with whom you were to acquaint with.”

Multitudes of men bustled about, but it was clear to whom he was addressing. It was not that he was the only one to wear a chiton of saffron bordered with crimson and a belt of gold amongst most of the others who adorned themselves in clothing of an insipid colour; he was encircled by a retinue of men also outfitted in finer fabric. No, it was his stature, it was the command that he exuded; how the attention of the entire room was drawn to him, either wittingly so or not. The Strategos was a taller man of black, wavy hair, pale skin, and bright green eyes. It was his eyes that did it most of all, and his smirk which appeared as though it scarce fled his lips. It bled with compassion and sincerity, a violent juxtaposition to the first man which he had met.

Epander 2.III

Apologies for missing my post on Sunday, but it was the Superbowl and my roommates were hosting others to come over. Long story short, they made a bunch of Jello shots and I was in no condition to put up an entry here. In other life news for me, I'm going to be moving this upcoming Friday (2-14) and so I should not miss an update because of it, but be forewarned that I may.

He sensed that the man could tell, responding in a short manner only, “Very well.” Turning completely about on his heel, he strode briskly from the room, leaving Epander only to do the same, taken slightly off-guard and trailing behind at first, with his slaves scurrying swiftly behind.

They walked through further halls, seeming to take forever. The magnificence of the palace was extraordinary, matched only by its mass. That being said, his heart pounded and his mind raced, his escort making no effort at conversation for the entirety of the excursion, certainly doubling the time that every step took, if not worsening it more so. How the heart does betray one, how bitter anxieties tear at one’s fettered and frayed nerves, only to compound upon themselves both again and again. You have been able to face fearsome men and ferocious beasts alike with lance in hand, yet now here you stride in a citadel of bureaucracy, and this is what you fear? Smiles of gnashed teeth? Courtesies of hollow intent? What manner of craven are you?

The hallways and passages stretched on forevermore, the vestibules and antechambers stretched on forevermore; they seemed to be without relent, without mercy. His apprehensions appeared to additionally unravel, as though the goddess Phronema herself was wrapping her fingers through his mind and stretching it thin into filaments, tatters abandoning him to the floor with every step he took. Alas, where the heart may fail; alack, where the mind may fail; one has nothing left to him but his own resolve to compel him on to deeds which both heart and mind alike counsel him against. This is the true nature of courage. All one has left is the gods to guide him.

As though the gods were waiting for him to manage his mettle, a trial placed before him, they came to where the need end, and with that destination came his resolution. The chamber itself was great, many pillars lining its edge, all marble of a jade complexion, their plinths and capitals alike gilded in silver. At least the walls and floors are merely a white marble. How quaint of them, lowering themselves to this poverty. The majority of the room itself was occupied by a massive irregular mound, which at first obfuscated its proper nature. It was a map.

Epander 2.II

Second update of the second Epander chapter. Don't really have much more to add here, other than that I've been having a Hell of a time motivating myself to write this month. Writer's block is something that I'll probably talk about in greater length later on, making note also of Steven Pressfield's concept of resistance. In the meantime, I have these pictures here in case you couldn't imagine the man that I describe in this passage. Enjoy.

After some length of torment that he had been vexed with, a man came into the room, a slave to beckon him forth to treat with his master. Epander regarded the man for moments more, noting his curly black hair and beard, luxuriously silky and certainly striking, standing him out as of the Haxanoi, the native peoples who ruled a great empire before Agenor Emikelos took it from them and made it his own. He adorned himself with a some manner of achiton, a robe and shawl which appeared as but a single garment, matching a tall cylindrical hat, all in a pale red, all bordered with silk of gold. In addition he wore large hooped earrings of gold and a great hooping necklace just the same, both matching the ornamental dagger which he wore at his belt, the handle and scabbard of gold and adorned with gems. This man that they had sent to him was not a slave after all.

The Haxanoi gave an obeisant bow which to him seemed exaggerated. Perhaps all within the capital acted as such, giving their courtesies with such vigour, they hide the malice behind gritted smiles, stretched as wide as could be. The man rose back up to his full stature and spake such, “It is this one’s pleasure to give greetings unto you, Epander Theophilos of Khatria. It is also this one’s honour to introduce himself as Kaveh Kshaeta, of a long and noble family of the Haxansiya, for centuries we have flourished. If you might accompany me, I will bring you to one of the preeminent members of the Basileus’s circle, Miltiades Nikandros. It is he who shall determine your worth.”

Epander stood quite abruptly at this point, and it was fortunate that this man has stopped speaking, lest that he seemed discourteous. He may have distaste for the behaviors of the court that he was amongst, but it was disadvantageous for him to upset it so greatly. He stood up suddenly, taking his retinue off-guard, but they all rose just as he did, albeit apprehensively. “Very well, Kaveh Kshaeta. Show me to Miltiades Nikandros.” He said nothing more. His distaste bled through his words, rather than to remain in his veins, where it belonged.

Epander 2.I

I decided to go ahead and continue on with the second Epander chapter, straight out of the first one. I would like to say that it was incredibly hard to find any imagery of Hellenistic period palaces, particularly the interior. That none really are left is a given, but has so little effort been put into their reconstruction? Well, by that I mean to say that there are no sketches or paintings or anything. Weird.

He sat in a parlour of bravura splendor, pillars of lavish black marble supporting the ceiling, the capstones profligately gilded with gilt, carved as though they were rose vines joining the onyx pillars to the ceiling. Tapestries hung from near every wall, woven with threads of silver and gold to commemorate victories over lesser peoples, subjugated by right of the strength of the victor, separating lifelike statues of Basileis and generals past alike. The floor was of black and white marble, flawlessly situated with one another. The room was absolutely beautiful and absolutely perfect, and all of it made him sick; absolutely sick to the stomach with absolute disgust.

He waited there with his personal slave, Apistos, as well as two others that he had taken with him, as he would certainly have need of their service. He was a long way from home, in a city foreign to all of them, and had dire need of their assistance in the capital of the largest nation in the world. He had picked slaves whose loyalty he was beyond sure of, as in a place like this, and for what he was tasked to do here, he must be absolutely sure that he would not face betrayal from those who he thought were the only ones he could truly trust. They were all foreigners here.

Epander was certainly nervous. He didn’t even feel particularly perturbed, but as he looked down at his hands which lay placed on his thighs, he could not help but be taken aback by just how blanched they appeared to have been, stressed even further in contemplation of whether or not indeed the rest of him kept the appearance of being so devoid of the sanguine humours, for when soon invariably he should need to make acquaintance with high ranking officials within the palace of the Basileus of Arche Aigaios. He had to be calm, to bestill his beating bosom, to flush his fingers and face.

And so he sat, left to wallow within his own apprehension for the predicament with which he was beset, mere iotas of time stretching themselves thin as they grinded themselves into greater length. Silence harassed him excepting the breaths of his slaves in the room with him, the occasional shifting in their seats or adjustment of apparel. Every correction in their cloth was like a needle to his mind, interrupting everything which flowed through it and bringing him great discomfort. Even so, his mind could only race with every possibility, everything that may possibly got wrong, every terrible outcome that may come of this. He speculated doubtfully within his own mind if silence would have been better than the noises which afflicted him, only for all he would have been left with was for his heart to thump, and thump, and thump.

Keeping It All Organized

So, I'm going to take a brief interlude and talk about worldbuilding, and more specifically, how I keep everything organized as I'm developing the world about which I'm writing. Some people advocate creating an entire world before one begins to work on writing to ensure that there is a set of internally consistent rules that govern it. For the most part, I agree with this, that you need to have some basics covered, but beyond those very basics, I feel that it hampers the story, characters, and world itself by constraining it to certain rules.

As I work I obviously have a general idea in mind, but I more or less come up with specifics as I come to them, even introduction of supporting characters who may or may not end up becoming important later on. One such character, the woman Sentinus meets in the loo, I would actually definitely like to reintroduce later on, but created her on a whim.

At any rate, when I do come up with these characters, cultures, locations, deities, and everything else, I add entries about them to their appropriate file that I've made in what I've labelled as my 'encyclopedia.' Realistically, I've introduced over sixty characters already, and most all of their names are Greek, Latin, or Celtic. There's even a man with an ancient Persian name. It can get kind of hard to keep up with them, so I put a little entry in, how they are described, and how they relate to others, as necessary.

I also have lots of notes, in general and of specific characters, as each of the folders (barring the map one) is of a specific character and things that I've planned to have happen to them. This doesn't even include my plot MSWord file, which I suppose I'll talk about at a later time. I also keep track of things which I'd like to write about, usually specific emotional responses or experiences, as well as potential quotes or my bastardizations of them.

And in reality, I have no idea is this makes me meticulously organized about my writing or not at all. I have no idea what manner of note-taking that other writers do, or how they organize it, but this is how I've managed it, just in case you all were wondering, which I'm quite sure that you were. Worry not though, loyal readers, my next entry will resume actual creative writing.

Epander VIII

And so concludes the proposed first chapter of the novel. I hope that it's actually really entertaining and draws the reader in to read more, as the first chapter is realistically the most important one, as it makes the readers (and publisher) actually want to read more, which would result in money for me. If you have any comments to help make it better, or for any post that I've ever made, be sure to put them here, let me know. I can't make this better unless I get feedback

She looked almost horrified, and he could completely understand why. He was leaving a quarter ways across the world and the last thing that he could remember is her cutting him. He had to laugh, it was the only thing that he could do. After all, at this point he was out of tears. Instead he embraced her and brought her close to his body, kissing her atop her head. “Don’t worry one bit, my darling” he whispered. “At least I’ll be able to carry this and always think of you whene’er I look down. And worry not, I’ll always view it fondly.”

He hugged Korinna as tight as he could and held her that way for more than few breaths and then released her, cradling her face as he came in to deliver another long kiss with closed eyes, punctuated with another two short ones. Her jaw was quivering slightly, but she stubbornly refused to cry any longer. There was nothing more that he could do. She gazed up at him and said, “I’ll miss you.”

He smiled down at her and responded in gentle tones, “I’ll miss you too, darling of mine. And always know that I love you.”

“Just as I shall always love you.” That was it. If there were words from her mouth which he wanted to be the last that he ever heard, it was her profession of her own love for him. Now he had that, and now it was time for him to leave. He mustered the best, most loving smile that he could muster and turned around to mount his horse. Epander grasped its mane with both hands, behind the ear and at the base of the neck and leapt, swinging his right leg over the horse. Upon doing so, three slaves who had accompanied them here, who were leaving with him, all mounted themselves.

He took in a deep breath, and then another. This was the moment. This was it. He was leaving. He tapped his heels into flanks of his steed and it began to walk, to walk slowly away. He could not look back, for he could not bear to look back and see her, to see if she was upset, for it would only make it worse for the both of them. This is how it had to be, and as much as he wanted to turn around, as much as he wanted to turn his horse around, he never looked back.

Epander VII

I was briefly considering change the name of this character to Epandros just yesterday, as I suddenly realized that Epander was the Latin version of the Greek name, despite that it sounds much better as it. I was reconciled, but then when I remembered that there was another character named Erastios, I decided gleefully that it was likely best to keep his name the same to avoid confusion, and then was happier knowing that I was able to keep the better-sounding name. In other news, I've reached 42,500 words, which is roughly my 'halfway mark' for completion before I need to buckle down to edit it and rewrite half of everything. On that note, if any of you, dear readers, notice something that you believe needs revision, whether it be an error in spelling, grammar, or just not phrased well or a scene superfluous, let me know. The more input that I have, the better of an art I can make in the end.

She snickered and she smiled, though with his doubts for himself he could do naught but to doubt the authenticity of her own expressions. She beamed up at him with tear-laced eyes and answered, “Ever since you began to doubt yourself, your own philosophy, everything that you've yet made yourself out to be. As your wife it is my duty to make sure that you are the best man that you can be, and here this is what I am doing.”

His jaw clenched, his fists tightened, his eyes narrowed. Once again she was correct and enforcing his own contemplations upon him himself. What was he to do once he had left and no longer did he have her to advise him of his own judgment? With a sigh he gave her an elongated kiss on the forehead and momentarily made his response, “As you have and as you should. I will be left incomplete as a human without you by my side, but regrettably this is the lot that has been chosen for us. The threads of fate are not so easily avoided, and better I say that man meet his own head-on, rather than to have it breach him unexpectedly.”

“And this is why so many consider you to be a man of conviction, for they are unable to see you here with me. It touches my heart but tears it just the same, to see you like this.”

He pushed himself up onto his knees and then stood, grabbing her hands and helping her to stand up with him. They held one another’s hands for a moment and then a moment more, gazing into one another’s eyes, unable to conjure any words which they could present to the other. Korinna took up her right hands and slapped it down upon his chest, her mouth open as though to say something at last but was interrupted by a grimace upon Epander’s face, a slight bit of pain causing him to look down and observe a scratch dribbling blood which had just formed on his chest. One of her rings had turned around backwards and a gemstone had raked his skin, cutting him.

Epander VI

I'm a bit late in updating today, as I went down to visit with friends for a birthday and had an absolute blast at a 1920s/30s themed party. A chinchilla bit off part of my nail and a towel caught on fire. C'est la vie. However, on the way back the train was delayed by two hours, and then they hired buses to take us up instead, which is much slower and more uncomfortable. Turns out the train had hit someone before it made it to our station and killed two people. Last week I was on another train which had hit and killed someone, but it was only delayed by an hour. People need to learn that they cannot outrun a train. They will die. It is not worth it. Also, it is impossible to find ancient art where people are just hugging or something. They're always having sex or doing stuff like this:

If he had been hoping for words to ease his spirit, these were not they. She broke out into sobbing tears, and he could not help but to reciprocate. He let himself down and grasped her within his arms as tightly as he may, tears draining quickly from his eyes even as he may try to choke them back, hoping that if he should hold her tightly enough that he would never have to let go, that he would never have to leave her. What made this all the worse is that he knew that he was lying to himself. His stomach was still convulsing and his tears still draining as he felt her hands gently caress his face. She was still crying herself, but somehow she was the strong one in all of this, comforting him with words as such, “If you were not weeping here with me, I would not be weeping myself, but filled with anger. That you are in such anguish for me shows me just how necessary that it is for you to leave. I will never again be complete without you, but you will never be complete without leaving.”

He wasn’t sure if he could continue to cry, but her words found a way to make it so. He wept and he blubbered, but was finally able to manage the words, “I love you.”

Somehow even if his tears were unable to move her, his words did, bringing her into a more debilitated state before she was able to respond in words broken with sobbing tears, “I love you too.”

The only resolution which he could bring to the forefront of his mind was to let himself go and hold himself to her, to hold on to her and not let go. His eyes were tightly shut, but he felt her breath upon his ear to precede her voice whispering, “You have to leave. If you cannot leave now, I both pray and fear that you never shall. Would that you could stay my weary heart would rejoice for all that it may, but the voices of many should be drowned. You must not now think for me, you must not think for yourself but for the good of many.”

Epander briefly squeezed her more tightly and bowed his head, nuzzling his face into her neck, before he released her and pushed himself somewhat up and with faintly dryer eyes responded, “Was it not I who said that I must leave, that I must compose myself as you just now say? Tell me please, when was it that we changed in our philosophy?” He smiled and he laughed and tears still welled in his eyes. He could not tell whether any of these were genuine or forced any longer, but that they came to his face just the same.

Epander V

Apologies, I went away and was entirely occupied by participating in a marathon of gaming for 72 hours to raise money for charity, where I was one of the commentators, and was out of town and had no access to my computer for the last three updates.  Today, I'm just really late and have no excuse.  Better late than never, I suppose.  Being gone and away from home for so long also means that I've really fallen behind on my writing.  My goal was to get to 42500 words this weekend, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to make it.  I'll just have to really pull myself up by the bootstraps and just get it done.  (This mosaic is of a sad woman.)

He opened his eyes to see her already gazing back up at him and quickly shifted his gaze from one eye to the other, she doing the same, both their eyes twitching back and forth. He could not but help to close his eyes and lay down a third kiss upon her lips, pressing heavily into them, his eyes still yet a dam on the verge of overflowing. How could he be such a fool? Everything that he could ever have wanted lay here beneath him, her body adjoined to his very own. No. No, he had to tell himself. He could not let his beating heart stop him, could not let it overtake him, as much as he should want it to be able to. His ideal was greater than his heart, it was greater than him, it was greater than them both. Still, how lovely her lips felt.

As he drew himself away once more his jaw began to shudder as his hands shook beyond his control. Tears which had walled themselves up within his eyes freed themselves and poured down upon her own face below. She almost laughed, but it was a laugh stuck in her very own throat as tears streamed down from either eyes. She was crying, yet she was laughing at him for doing the very same.

His voice was caught in his throat, but he mustered all the will that he may to whimper down unto her, “I’m so sorry.” He tried to say it again and a third time but even as he mouthed it the words would not produce, refusing to exit in such sorrow as he was held.

She bit her lip in what seemed almost as a laugh, but what he could really tell was an attempt to swallow her own sorrow. “I know” she said. This made him scoffingly laugh but only weep more deeply before she continued, “But I love you. I love you more than anything. I wish for nothing more than that you might stay with me, but I am resigned to your departure, for I know that you must leave for reasons greater than either of us.” These words meant everything to him, yet nothing at the same time. It was doubtful that anything could be done to abate his grief at this time. “Just go. Just go now and do what is requisite of you. I shall endure as I always have, but never forget me, for know that I shall never forget you.”