27 December 2012

Back to Basics

The recommended away time for story revisions is close enough.  The synopsis is posted on the page appropriately titled "Synopsis - Storm Clouds" for quick reference.  I've allowed comments on this page: the usual reminders to keep it constructive.

Prologue
ZUKALEE (POV) has a vision while she is trying to collect a rare plant for one of the spells she needs.  When she is prevented from doing so, she is furious when she realizes that she had been tricked with this vision.
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The dawn star was crystal bright in the purple of the morning sky.  Another star blazed in a bright white light as it streaked for the western horizon.  On the plateau, night shadows were still in the slight wind.  The moonlight shone on a bush near the center of a meadow.  Silver flowers released a sweet scent as their petals waved in the dance they had danced since the beginning of time.

One shadow waited at the edge of the meadow near the path to the lake.  The Windigo held her bag for the proper moment to pick the night blooming flower.  She came a long ways since the night her brother died.  She tracked the edge of the star’s flight.  Silence, perfect silence, reigned in these last moments.  The culmination of her long, long life researching the Book of the Dead was in reach at this very moment.

She glided over to the bush, circled it, stood facing the west.  There! The Grandmother’s Flower.  She reached out. A flicker in the trees.  Her hand trembled just the tiniest. The Flower closed its’ petals. Her lips tightened. Her shoulders tensed.  She turned.

A woman was coming toward her in the early morning light. When she was a few yards away, she stopped, looked around the ground and searched the treeline. She raised her hands for a moment.  Zukale’s heart beat in an unfamiliar fear. She raised her own hands and prepared for battle. Then a child walked into view.  She looked directly at Zukale.  Her eyes widened and she spoke to the woman who turned in Zukale’s direction.  Their eyes met.

Zukale was disconcerted at the intensity of the hatred she saw.  She started the chant for Spirit Walking.  The other woman was equally amazing with her reaction.  They started fading before she could finish the chant. All that remained behind was the woman’s eyes.

Zukale stood for a minute, let the power drain into her amulet.  She was cold inside with the knowledge that she’d have to wait another hundred years for this particular flower to bloom in this particular moon.

She took a deep breath, let it out very slowly.  She took another. Finally, she turned her eyes to the moon.  A slight shimmering.  She tightened her lips.  The leaves rustling in the wind that had come up was the only sound for long moments.  The wind tugging at her dress became an insistent reminder of why she was still standing here, empty.  Empty hands, empty mind.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the rage built until she vibrated with its intensity.  Once, once only, had she felt rage this intense.  She needed to calm herself.  Daylight was mere seconds away.  She turned to the path where she had seen the woman and followed that line of sight.  

Her rage intensified when she could find no tracks.  No use to check for the child’s  tracks.  It had been a vision.  A test of her concentration, her commitment to the path she had chosen so long ago.  She would find this woman, this child.  How had this happened?

Zukale rode the wind back to the Vale of Comfort.  Once there, she sat in her library and contemplated the books sitting neatly on the many shelves.  She had a long day’s rest to consider her moves.  She had a long night ahead.  A long night of preparing her mind to face that hatred that still lingered in her mind’s eye.

She gazed into the water clock, then readied herself for her rest.  A movement in the corner of her library.  Already the sunlight was creating long shadows.  Her eyes fell on the reflection in the silver plaque hanging by the desk.  It had been placed there to capture and reflect the sun’s light while she read and studied.  It had been a gift, a wedding gift, from her brother.  She hadn’t thought of him in so long that she was amazed that she remembered him at all.

Aaiiee.  His eyes.  Her eyes.  They were the same.  And the child’s eyes were familiar.  She moved to study her reflection in the plaque.  Oval face framed by long black hair with black eyes under eyebrows plucked after the fashion from the old days.  A long nose over full lips.  A long slender neck held her head with a grace that covered great strength.  She compared the child’s face with her own.  Her eyes narrowed.  She would find these two who carried her father’s eyes.
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Stats: 750 words for the prologue.

Edits: Highlighted areas changed.  Corrected spelling.
Questions:  Does the plot match what I've written?   Is this a good beginning?


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