I have a confession. I epically failed at writing a chapter this week. I could blame it on having to travel, or that my days off are now spent working with an awesome and entertaining group of kids. But the truth is that I just haven’t had my mind on it this week. Lately I’ve been feeling the fantasy bug nipping persistently at my creative conscious, urging me to return to a book I wrote years ago and was halfway through editing last year. And I recently wrote the prologue for the said book.
I haven’t introduced the series yet via my blog. In fact, I’ve been pretty quiet about it as of late. But for fun I thought I’d share a glimpse of it for people who haven’t read any of my fantasy work. So here’s a piece of the prologue (and an old drawing to go with it)
“Write it down,” the flaxen haired gypsy bid as he slid several pieces of parchment and a quill before the disgruntled prince who stubbornly tossed the plumed feather aside. Resigning to a defeated slouch, he stared somberly at the blank pages in front of him.
“Why?” he demanded. “What purpose will it serve?”
Patiently, the gypsy picked up the quill and placed it in the prince’s hand. “Because one day a boy will come and he will need to know the truth.”
“I gave up everything I was; everything that mattered. Wasn’t that enough?”
“He’ll need answers. He’ll never find them if you don’t write them down.” The prince still didn’t move, so the gypsy put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Do it for your people.”
The mournful royal sighed. Tucking his chair under the table, he hovered over the ominous yellow parchment in search of the right words. At first, it seemed impossible. The memories – both precious and painful – were still too fresh and too vivid inside his head.
“Try starting at the beginning,” the gypsy coaxed. “Start with you. Write about who you are, what you are, where you come from. T’will get easier as you go along.”
Lifting the quill, the prince began to write. Slowly at first, but eventually he found his written voice and the words began to flow…
As I write these words, I wonder what eyes they will fall upon. Will they know the name of the prince who wrote them? Will my city, Nevaharday, be that of legend, or will it too be forgotten like the ones that came before it?
My name is Prince Jaycent Connor of Nevaharday, and within these pages is my story. This soil is the birthplace of my people, the Rahenyans. But I fear we shall be but folklore by the time these pages are unearthed. So let me explain. The Rahee (or ‘horse-hearted’, as it translates in the common tongue) are a unique people, different from men and elves and dwarves. Youngest of the four civilized races, we share a kinship with equines that has caught the attention of allies… and enemies.
At first glance, one might think this relation is physical because of our horse-like ears. But the true connection between horse and rahee lies within. For every rahee there is a hoofed half we affectionately call a Companion. The Companion chooses a rahee on his or her own accord, though the decision is often made when both are still young in age. Once chosen, Rahee and Companion are bonded as two spirits that are physically autonomous, but innately joined. Neither is dominant over the other. Instead they are a team, inseparable and irreplaceable.
This is the bond that made us famous. Through it other races came to know us, admire us and some, well, some even feared us. But to speak of that would be to jump ahead of ourselves. For now, let us start with simpler times.
Before the shadows.
Before the mistakes.
And before the sacrifice that led me here, hunching over wavering candlelight as I write down memories of things that were, but can never be again…