Friday Fade-Out! - Bending the Unbreakable, Part 6

Find the entire story here! 

The public whipping didn’t start that same day, as such occasions were always used to organize a fair for the townsfolk and have as many people as possible watch the punishment of a lesser being. The delinquent human was put into one of the many cells in the dungeon, chained to a wall and left there, unable to lower his arms or raise his head. It wasn’t so much a cruel whim, but a protocol made necessary by the manling’s own actions in the past. Niro had broken free from his shackles on many occasions, and no amount of preliminary searching had ever stopped him from escaping. The only way to keep him where he was supposed to be was by a measure of discomfort other species would have called torture.
The Fae didn’t have such limited views of right and wrong, but even they didn’t make it a habit to torture their peers without at least gaining some entertainment from it. Had anyone known beforehand how creative, deadly and vindictive that gaunt boy would get one day, they would never have schooled him in the arts of war. But thoughts like that were now moot. What had been done, was done, and in two more days the house guard known as Niro would be dead.
The pain in his contorted, shackled limbs came quickly, following the thinning blood supply to his arms. Pin pricks and needle stings soon became dull, painful throbbing, and only after an hour of pain-filled restlessness his arms finally went numb. The chains on his arms were keeping him upright, another chain was attached to a steel collar around his neck, pulling his head down. The posture made it hard to breathe, but the pain following the constant tension in his limbs was worse than anything else.
Alone in the dark, the young man finally could admit his defeat. Pain had always been a revelation to him, an epiphany that opened his mind to the universe, the connection of things living and dead. He had been about twelve years old when the Ailill captured him, nothing but a little spud overwhelmed by the power, the force, the charisma his Fae teachers had exuded. Back then, pain had been something to revere, something that had made him shiver with fear, sweat with adrenaline, that had made him feel alive and strong. When he had been in pain, he had forgotten all about the things he had seen in the war, forgotten about his dead parents, the way his cousin had slammed into the stone streets from more than a hundred feet height, forgotten that he was all alone in a city full of Fae. The pain of the whip, the cane and the paddle had set his world right, calmed him down, filled him with euphoria.
Unfortunately, he had been willful enough to warrant many, many punishments, and those responsible for his behavior seemed to think that a lowly beast such as him needed some additional discipline. The beatings weren’t so much designed with intent or comprehension for his reactions to it, they were nothing more than beatings executed by brutes for every small infraction. The feeling of weightlessness, the reverence and the euphoria following Niro’s will to submit were beaten out of him just as quick as his respect, demureness and his instinct of self preservation. To those wielding the whip, it didn’t matter if he begged, screamed, laughed or kept quiet, as long as the lash count was met.
In the end, all that he had learned from those punishments was the cold certainty that it didn’t matter what reasoning he had, or if he repented for his sins and misconducts. The pain had dulled to an unpleasant but inevitable side-effect of life and at the end of his apprenticeship he had been jaded enough to meet the mind-set of his punishers with his indifference.
There were only few things left in his life he felt any kind of emotion for, other than rage. He regretted the loss of his father, who had never come back for him and was presumed dead just like the rest of his family, and he regretted having never tried to run away, to flee the city, his teachers. He didn’t regret being a virgin, though, as he had never understood how anyone would want to get in such close proximity to another being. Intimacy gave strangers too much access to a helpless body, and therefor had to be dodged at all cost.
His body was a thing to behold, but it was also a thing of terror. Niro had never braved the insecurity of showing himself to anyone he might have a romantic interest in and he had never accepted any advances from those who had seen him bare. The fear of their reactions to the multitude of scars he wore on his skin had always been too dominant to overcome and since he had never experienced love, romance or the eroticism of another being’s touch, he didn’t miss it.
Tomorrow at sunset, all his regrets would be forever lost. The path he had chosen would end with his death, and he would be judged by the gods of mankind. Free of the Ailill and their cruel games. Free.
With a harsh sigh, Niro Ravenkin, nephew twice removed to the dead king of Tetharion, sagged into his chains. One more day, then I’ll be home.

Why are Bad Boys so sexy?

The if's and why's of stuff are what spices up life! After all, if someone asks me, 'why do you always write about bad guys?', I like to be able to answer. This means, I have to think stuff through that usually doesn't need a lot of thinking. If you like something, it's enough to know that you do, right? Right.
Unfortunately, the gap between 'that asshole' and 'that bad, bad boy' isn't wide enough to risk ending up on the other side. If you, like me, want to write about the right kind of bad boys, it's important to know which way to go, so I pondered over this for a while and wrote down the few cliff notes I noticed. Here goes!

The forbidden fruit

We all know lots and lots of good, solid, nice, helpful, a little boring people. Those aren't bad qualities at all! It's good to live in a world generally void of crazy people. Makes a lady willing to leave the house in the morning and all that.
Fiction, on the other hand, should be a sanctuary, a ways to escape every-day-life, something new and fresh and titillating. Most of us will never meet- and like- a bad boy in real life, because they are, well, bad. A book, story, movie, TV-series, on the other hand, offers a safe, sane and entertaining way to get a taste. Just a little lick to spice up your mind and then get back to your (hopefully) just as safe and sane real life.

Dangerous people and the dream of protection

I guess I won't have to explain to you what Stockholm Syndrome is, but as much as this plays a role, it's not what I mean with the dream of protection. Stockholm Syndrome plays to the need to live in a protected group, to keep yourself out of harm's way, but it only describes a special set of circumstances. If you're not in harm's way, you can't really call your attraction to a bad boy "Stockholm Syndrome". You'd have to be under duress for that, sorry :)
A blatant display of aggression does trigger something in us, though, as long as it isn't directed at us. I don't mean bar fights or aggression issues, I mean controlled, prepared willingness to defend yourself and use the most effective means at your disposal.
Bad boys control their surroundings and themselves, and that's sexy. They don't light a cigarette in a hospital because they don't know that they aren't supposed to smoke there, they do it despite knowing that, and in full awareness of the repercussions. That they get away with setting their own rules speaks to us mere mortals, and it makes us want to be one of them.

They stand out from the crowd

There are actually loads of psychological studies about the phenomenon of "bad boy attraction" in the world wide web, so please feel free to google yourself into a psychological studies coma if you'd like to read more!
I'll just do the quick-and-dirty short version here, so here goes.
First of all, bad boys tend to have markers for a number of behavioral abnormalities, like narcissism, sociopathy, psychopathy and so on. People with such a behavior challenge have proven to be especially skilled with playing a role to get into women's panties (or a guy's skivvies) - seems like the lack of sociability might be a good incentive to treat group behavior like a skill to learn.
But! Not only do most "bad boys" know how to charm a lady, they also stand out because of how evolution taught us poor humans to identify patterns and notice abnormalities. That means, if a bad guy and a good guy both appear at the same time, we still notice the bad guy sooner, because he tickles our instincts, which in turn tell us to pay attention, gosh darn it!

They are crowd pleasers and a foundation for the hero

This is my final point on the topic of bad boys, and it's one I've only recently started to notice.
The media landscape has gone through a lot of changes over the last decades. Put the audio series of the first "Superman" next to the most recent "Superman" movies, and you'll see what I mean. Characters have become more three-dimensional, more real, more diverse. Good guys nowadays have their own flaws and quirks, some could even be considered bad guys if you cut them out of their environment and have a good look at them. Examples, anyone?
Riddick, for one. He's a bad guy and he isn't shy about it, but because of what he does and how he decides, we still like him. What about Dexter Morgan from the TV-series "Dexter"? Can't argue that he's bad, oh so bad, but we still like him in a disturbing way.
It's gotten to the point that we'd have a hard time distinguishing good from bad, were it not for the surrounding factors and hints, and this is where bad boys and bad guys come in. They not only show us that evil can actually look good, they also underhandedly point us towards the "good guy", without forcing us to choose.
They also show us that bad boys don't equal bad guys, but that's a topic for another time. :)

So, what's your favorite bad boy, and is he also a bad guy?

Friday Fade-Out! - Bending the Unbreakable, Part 5

Find the entire story here! 

- Fifteen years later -

“Ten Ailill soldiers dead, thirty horses lost, and you damaged the duke’s statue!”
Niro was kneeling in a most awkward posture. His shins were crossed, his thighs bent just enough to have his leather clad behind hover above the heels of his soft, black leather boots, his arms hanging down easily. Tension sang through the muscles of his legs, screaming with the strain this unnatural position put on them. He could have simply sat down on his heels, but it would only have increased the punishment he was already getting. Kneeling like that wasn’t meant to be comfortable, it was meant to hurt, and it worked.
The guards had taken his rapier, the daggers from his thigh sheaths, the throwing knifes from his back holster, and they had even found the garrote he wore like a pendant around his own neck. His ‘master’, or rather the man who thought himself to be in that position, had meant to humiliate Niro by taking away the tools of his trade, but it had only poured oil into the fire of his hate for the man.
It was a hate groomed and fed by years of captivity, ruthless training and cruel schooling, and it had brewed down to one big problem for the Earl Firon Wilmoor of Nancarrow; what to do with an assassin he couldn’t trust or control?
The answer was simple: Nothing. Thousands of shillings would be lost if he got rid of his human servant, but at least he wouldn’t have to chafe at that little shit’s behavior anymore. And he wouldn’t have to be afraid to fall asleep any longer, which was increasingly hard to manage each time he looked into that human’s eyes. He saw his death there, and they both knew it.
Still, the earl held on to the idea that he had some kind of power over the kneeling man. Had to have. Everything else was unthinkable.
“This time you went too far. This time, there won’t be any lenience for you, you hear me?” he sneered, slamming his fist down onto the armrest of his throne in what he hoped looked appropriately angry. “I will let the soldiers whip you to the bone if I have to, but you will obey me!”
It was like it had always been; as soon as the earl demanded obedience, it seemed to trigger some innate reflex to disobey anything and everything he had asked in the same sentence.
The sneer on the young, kneeling man’s face rivaled that of the earl himself. “Never,” he hissed, pushing himself to his feet through the pain of his abused leg muscles, screaming with rage and frustration when the guards standing next to him sent him back to the ground with swift kicks to his knees and a sequence of punches to his back, stomach and arms. They looked bored and tense, but the strikes with which they kept the human ball of rage in check were methodical and proficient. It was a dance they all had been dancing for years, too well known to give any of them a trickle of excitement anymore.
Three times more Niro tried to stand up through the rain of bludgeon hits, and three times the stronger, bigger Fae guards brought him back down, finally resorting to twisting his arms into unhealthy angles behind his back to stop this farce. The victory wasn’t a victory and the dull pain of the many new bruises and cuts tasted ashen on his tongue; but still the captive man stared up through his unruly mop of bronze brown hair to defy the earl.
What he saw, though, was a new nuance on the Ailill’s all too familiar face: indifference. The earl looked tired and disinterested, all but anxious for the moment he’d be done with the troublesome pet and able to attend other matters.
Niro forgot to breathe under the sudden rush of adrenaline and fear. Was this going to be the day he’d finally be killed, put down like the inbred mongrel they saw in him? The thought alone brought a rush of ferocious triumph to his heart. It would be his last, most glorious victory, a last parade of his ability to withstand anything, everything, the Ailill might throw at him.
It was the earl’s apathetic voice that tugged him out of his euphoric thoughts.
“I see joy on your face, my dog, and I  am left perplexed,” he said and for a moment, Niro could see the eons pass over the Fae’s face. He looked old and ageless at the same time, and beautiful in his coldness. He had never been beautiful before and for just a heartbeat’s length, Niro’s soul wept over the cruelty of a fate that condemned him to only see beauty in his tormentor when he was finally doomed to die. “You rejoice for your path to death, and yet you are proficient in the art of survival, one of those scholars that are praised for their unshakable will to live above all else. Does it delight you this much to have the last word? If so, you can have it. There was always so much potential in your lithe little body, such capability for greatness, and you wasted it on the one talent I never had any need for: absolute, all-encompassing obstinacy. You are an insurgent, a seditionist, a rabble-rouser, and I have grown tired of servicing your martyrdom.”
The earl raised one hand to one of the side alcoves and two extra guards carrying sets of manacles and chains stepped into the reception room. With a start, Niro realized that this moment had been planned. The chains had been laying in wait, ready for the day the earl finally would have enough.
This time he didn’t struggle when they put him in chains. It was a means to an end he had waited for a long time, so what was the use of prolonging the foreplay?
The Earl of Tetharion seemed to share his opinion on this. “Take him to the main court with first light, chain him to the poles and whip him until he experiences mortality. Give each soldier who asks a chance to revenge their comrades,” he ordered. His voice was as cold and uncaring as his eyes as he turned away from the kneeling, chained man.
Niro closed his eyes and let himself be dragged away willingly for the first time. Finally, the end was near.

A dog named Zampano

I'm a dog-person, always been. My parents tried to get me hooked on cats, and I do like cats, but nothing could ever come near the love I have for those hairy, loyal beasts. When I was five, I met my first 'real' dog. To this day, I don't count my grandfather's dog as 'real', because he was tiny and grumpy and had no love left for children, but I still didn't feel like I knew a dog to that point.
This changed when I met a giant Leonberger-Mix. Just so you can get the mental image right, have a look at this Wikipedia picture of Leonbergers:

From Svenska Mässan from Sweden - Grupp 2 LEONBERGER, C.I.B. NO V&NORD V-14 NO V-15 NORD UCH SE JV-13 SE V-14 -15 Namupalan Bling Smack Chap, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=47878872

So one sunny day, I, being five and therefor both indestructible and invincible, at least in my own little mind, asked if I may take over the leash and walk this pony-sized dog named "Zampano". And since my mother was nowhere around to scream at the lady-owner, she said "sure, here," and gave me the leash. I guess she was so happy that at least someone- namely me- wasn't afraid of her monster dog, that she went a bit overboard with generosity.
Now that I had the leash, I started walking. The lady owner was close behind me, getting ready to grab the leash in case the dog did what he always did, which was dragging her to kingdom come until she found a lantern post to hang on to, but it didn't take her long to understand that this wouldn't happen.
For the first time in big-ass-Zampano's two-and-a-half-years of life, he actually walked calmly, watching out for the little human thing holding onto the leather thing that he usually used to steer mankind around.
We walked her dog for a whole half hour and I would have kept it up longer, if my mother hadn't caught up to us and thrown a fit at the sight of me holding the leash to a dog that the neighbors ran from. It took her a while to grasp the concept of her little angel being more in tune with giant, slobbering monsters than pink dresses and sandboxes, but when she did, she rolled her eyes for the first time in my young life, then decided that being a dog person was still better than getting hooked on drugs.
I, for one, was in love, truly and forcefully so, and what Zampano started was a lifelong obsession with the canine folk that lasted to this day.

Friday Fade-Out! - Bending the Unbreakable, Part 4

Find the entire story here!


Cyril, as the trade guard called himself, did not waste time. As soon as one of the servants brought two more shirts for Niro, a warm felt cloak and a travel bag to fit everything in, they were out of the cells and on their way through the castle. There had been no further talk, no explanations, no reasoning as to why Niro should stick with him or who had sent him, but Niro didn’t press his luck by asking childish questions. Somehow, Cyril’s presence opened all the doors between him and freedom, and he didn’t plan to miss this opportunity. The loss of his mimikry talisman still irked him, but trade guards didn’t stick to the cities and they knew the roads better than most bandits. There would be enough chances to run without the aid of magic, once they left the gates of Tetharion behind them.
Passers-by shot them a few curious glances, as if both a human boy and a trade guard were an exotic enough sight to stop and watch for a moment, but nobody bothered them. Not even the guards at the gate, which opened groaning and creaking as they approached. They walked through unmolested. The chatter of city voices, the steady groan of carriages, the clattering of armor, all those sounds faded as they made their way into the sunshine and the wilderness of Tetharion. A sparrow chirped its incessant territorial song, fluttering away as they approached its nesting site. Cyril kept quiet.
Niro held out for another half hour before his patience finally crumbled. One moment he was walking a bit to the side behind Cyril, the next he was sprinting through the hedges on the side of the road, jumping over toppled logs, dodging brambles, and snaking his way through young trees already conquering the acres of land left barren by the war. His breath and his heartbeat both roared so loudly, he was unable to listen for sounds of pursuit, but he didn’t fall for the urge to turn around. It would only slow him down or let him run head first into a tree, and then he’d be either dead or in chains again.
The trees grew taller and taller, the longer he ran. The ground sloped up and down, although what he could see of the horizon told him he was heading more down than up, and a few times he almost tumbled over a root or a branch and had to slow down just enough to see where he was going. When the hill finally became so steep that he had to catch himself on trees to slow down, he finally stopped his flight, scrambled behind a group of rocks littering the hillside and tried to calm his breath and heart. Niro had to fight against the urge to rub the bloody scratches on his face and arms, where branches or tree bark had casually slapped him in his headless flight. But delving into that pain would take his mind off his pursuer, something he couldn’t risk. Not if he wanted to get away and stay free.
Gusts of wind whispered through the sun kissed foliage, complimented by lovesick forest birds. Niro could hear his heavy breath, his galloping heartbeat, the incessant crunching of old leaves beneath his naked feet, the rustle of mice and other small creatures scurrying about, but nothing else. Instinctively, he pressed closer to the big granite blocks, putting his cheek against the soft, dark moss growing in every crevice. It can’t be that easy, he thought.
Only the way his muscles cramped and hardened told of the passing of time, begging him to sit down or stand up straight, anything but staying as he was. Niro held out as long as he possibly could, motionless, reining in his breathing, calming his heartbeat, straining to listen for sounds of pursuit. He held for all but two hours.
The sun shone almost horizontal through the trees when he finally sagged to the ground, just as breathless as when he had run. This time around, it was the urge to cry with pain that had him sweating, trying his hardest not to let those sounds escape his mouth as his muscles gave, one after another, each one sending a dagger-like thread of hurt through his bones.
Cyril obviously hadn’t followed him, probably thinking he wasn’t worth the trouble. There were so many dangers lurking about in this wilderness, the trade guard most likely assumed he wouldn’t survive the night, and who would cry over another dead human? The landscape was littered with their carcasses, left where they had been felled, gnawed on by scavengers and slowly, ever so slowly, sinking into the unforgiving earth.
Nobody would be looking for him. The thought made Niro sniff and rub his eyes furiously as the tears threatened to fall again. This wasn’t any different from his life in the city. He was just as alone as he had been then and he wouldn’t give in, become weak like his family, because weakness meant death. These woods were known to swallow people whole, without a trace or a body to cry over. Niro didn’t plan to be one of the stories Tetharians told their children to frighten them.
Still sniffing, he started to clear away the leaves, branches and insects from the small depression at the foot of the rocks, then collected moss to pad it and settle down for the night. Tomorrow, he would try to get his bearings and start his travel further south, where humans still reigned and the war was still brewing.

They came at night, ripping Niro out of his exhausted dozing with the dry, muffled sound of leathery wings. The ghostly sound made Niro sit up with a jerk. The darkness had settled thick and oily beneath the old trees, sheltered against the moon by their foliage and impenetrable by human eyes. There was only one creature with wings that big. Niro shuddered and crawled closer to the rocks behind him, pressing his back against their bumpy surfaces as he nervously scanned the pitch black before him.
Nightgigers.
Niro’s wet nurse had told him stories about those creatures and their taste for children’s flesh, but he had always dismissed them as the rantings of an old hag. Now he wasn’t as sure anymore. He strained his ears, trying to penetrate the soft rustling of the night wind by sheer will and failing. He couldn’t even remember what else his wet nurse had told him about those creatures, except that they only came out at night and that no human had ever laid eyes on them, except in death.
They usually acted more like Panders, picking out weak and frail victims who weren’t able to put up much resistance, but contrary to Panders, the Nightgigers didn’t eat dead flesh. No, their prey had to be able to struggle and scream as they ate.
Niro shuddered, biting his fist to keep from making small fear sounds. He huddled closer to the rocks, jerking and twitching each time he heard those wings flapping, praying to all gods to protect him as fear settled deep in his bones and the cold night air started to seep into his shivering body. If he survived this night, he would listen to his elders. If he survived, he would light a candle for his wet nurse and he would pray at the graves of his family. If the gods let him see dawn, he’d stop his selfish ways and try to be a better person.
That night, Niro didn’t sleep and he didn’t move. He prayed until his mind was exhausted and his body stiff, and then prayed some more.
When the sun finally rose and those first rays of sunshine tinted the sky pink, the flapping of wings stopped, making way for birdsong and deer calls… And a voice, coming from the rocks right above Niro.
“So, are you done demonstrating your displeasure?” Cyril asked, calmly sitting on top of the biggest boulder, his right arm propped up by a battered war axe. “I already knew that you don’t want to be here. Neither do I. What am I supposed to do with a young buck like you? You won’t survive a week without help.”
Niro’s cheeks turned pink with anger. Had he been there the whole night, watching over him? Letting him stew in his own fear? “I can take care of myself,” he snarled with a shaky voice and stood up.
“I can see that,” Cyril said. “Now, how about I teach you how to do more than that?”
He waited for a reply for a few moments, then hopped off the rock and sheathed his weapon. “Come on. We’ve got a long road ahead of us and you have much to learn.”
Niro stared after Cyril’s retreating back, trying to decide if he should follow or not. Cyril wanted to teach him not only to survive, but to fight. It was a skill he sorely needed. It was a way to fight the Ailill.
“Wait for me,” he cried and ran after the trade guard, falling into step next to him.

Writing methods I've still got to try

Writing is just as much a freelance job as every other. You're working from home, mostly after hours, and are responsible for yourself and your own coffee supply. That doesn't only mean time, creativity, self-marketing and the writing itself, it also includes advancing your own skills and training yourself. That might sound pricey, but it's actually rather simple: You are bored, your mind is blank, you still have to write so-and-so-many words to finish your self-imposed quota, and you just can't get in the mood. What do you do?
If you're me, you google ideas to get shit done. If you're a writer and trying to do that, there are thousands of websites and blogs dedicated to just that magical thing. Most of them basically tell you the same, but with minor digressions and different emphases.
I tried most of them at one point or another, but here are some I still haven't or didn't want to try yet. Let's take a look at the three runners-up!

The Snowflake Method

... as it is described here! I came as far as step 1, the selling sentence, and that was it for my brain. It's not so much that I can't do it, but rather that I'd lose all those little ideas that start popping up as soon as I've got my one-liner. If I didn't write those down, and then the follow-up ideas, I'd never get anything done. Since this method asks for a full outline and filling in details afterwards, I can't do it. Yet. As I said before, writing is a skill and knowing one- and only one- way to do it doesn't mean you're actually good at it.

Notecard outlining

I've done something vaguely similar to this for NaNoWriMo 2014, but it didn't work out and I dropped the technique before I actually got anywhere. It's basically writing down all the scenes you want to build into your novel on separate notecards and shuffling them until they fit in a neat outline. It does sound useful, especially if you keep the scenes general enough to use one stack of scene notecards for all your stories, color code them into action, love, surprise, violence, lazy, and so on ...
Might be a good way to get unstuck if you don't know what to do next and need some spice. I'd just pick a card matching the atmosphere I want and continue writing.
I haven't gotten to the point of actually writing something on the notecards I procured, though, so there's that. They do make my desk look more sophisticated and writer-y!

Visual Maps

I'd actually love to try this method, because I'm a sucker for visual representations and overviews. But I'm also a lazy bum and I don't want to fumble around with design software for hours, just to get some picture that won't ever be able to give me more information than a block of text, a list, or a notecard.
I'm still hoping to find software that can do both-- generate timelines and context graphics and spit out lists or pre-made summaries at the same time. As soon as I got that, I'll try outlining via visual maps.


So... does any of you use one of these three outline techniques? If so, how do you like them and did you make your own, small changes to make them a better fit for you?

Another URL Update

I've made a booboo - all those google accounts confused me so much, I actually created the new official blog with a wrong account. And since there's no way to move my author's blog from account A to account B, I had to download the whole thing, delete it, and create it fresh under a new url with my author's account.

I've been running around for an hour, updating all the sources where I already published my old new address. A little thinking before acting could have spared me this. Alas, now it is done.
If you bookmarked my new site, puh-lease update and forgive me! No more booboos after this, I promise!

Also, you might notice that I've invited myself as a guest author. I had to do so, because I have more than 15 GB of data on my old account that I can't just up and move all willy-nilly. Inviting myself to be guest author allows me to give you quick updates without having to log out and in again. I'll also be reachable through both accounts, although "Hannah L. Corrie" will always be the better choice.

This will remain the new site: https://hannahcorrie.blogspot.com

And to burn that image into your minds:

Love,

Hannah

Can You Move in Armour?

I just saw this video and I had to share it with you - there are so many fascinating facets to medieval life, it's sometimes hard to keep track of them!

Friday Fade-Out! - Bending the Unbreakable, Part 3

Find the entire story here! 


A bird woke Niro to inappropriately bright sunshine and steel bars, rousing him from a bed that was unreasonably comfortable, if small. The room he was in was of a strange design, obviously renovated,  the rock still pale and fresh where the Ailill had re-purposed the higher ranked servant quarters. It had to be the servant quarters, as the birdsong was that of a blue morngale in full courtship, pointing to the wee hours of the morning, and the sun was burning straight into the small chamber. Since the servant quarters were on the outer east wing of the king’s castle, where it was hot in summer and freezing cold in the winter, there wasn’t any other place to have this kind of sonata as a wake up call.
As for the steel bars, they had been sunk right into the thick outer stone of the window sills. Three steel rods, almost as wide as Niro’s arm, huddled together like lonely trees. The door had been modified in much the same way. A big window had been cut into the elm wood, then criss-crossed with a sprinkle of iron, steel and what looked like copper. Enough space to look through, enough metal to keep anyone from reaching in or out. An eight by six foot prison for a high prized pony. Why they had put Niro of all people in such a nice cage, he couldn’t fathom.
There was nothing in the room to make a weapon from, only a rickety side table with an earthen pitcher of water, a small wooden bowl with bread in it, and a chamber pot. Oh, there was a stool next to the window, but it was made out of woven willow branches. Comfy, but not prone to splintering.
At first, Niro just sat at the foot of the bed, blinking into the sunlight and pondering. He didn’t feel thirsty anymore, so they probably had force-fed him water while he had been out. He was still dirty, but not as much as he had been when he had fainted, so someone had put a wet cloth to him, too. And lastly, he wore new clothes. Well, pants, at least, and they were of a light, soft, tough, woolen fabric. Better than what he had worn in the last weeks, and better than what he had seen on the servants in his father’s household.
So he had survived. He had not an inkling of an idea why he was still alive, but the room, the pants, the watering, it all was a sure sign the Fae bastards didn’t want him dead, and didn’t plan to kill him any time soon. He just didn’t know why.
Adding to that, the Ailill made him wait for an answer. Waiting was a torture on itself for a twelve-year-old, but since he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for weeks, even the mid-day heat couldn’t stop Niro from taking advantage of the bed.

The next time he was woken, it wasn’t a bird, but the door squeaking on its new hinges. Niro jumped at the new sound, slapping his back against the rough hewn stone behind the bed as an Ailill with almost white hair and a crippled ear stepped into the small chamber. Had he been full-blooded, he should have been hundreds, if not thousands, of years old, judging by the wrinkles around his eyes and the sagging in his cheeks. The pointy canines gave his mixed heritage away, though, and the leather armor on his body told its own story. Not a good one at that.
“I see, you recognize the crest, then?” the cross-breed asked, lisping away on the words in his fight against the pointy Lamia canines.
Niro ripped his gaze away from the blackened grooves in the hardened leather, his eyes twitching over his visitor’s face like irritated flies. “You’re a trade guard, aren’t you?” he asked, trying not to think of the stories he’d heard about those who wore the howling dog on their armor. Trade guards were held in the same regard as mercenaries, ruffians with no home and— as the stories depicted it— no morals to plead to.
The man nodded once, then twice, almost as if unsure himself. He kept to the door, blocking it in a thoughtful, awkward way, taking his time to look through the clean, smallish cell, watching dust drift through the last rays of sun playing against the south wall. Finally, he looked back to the boy cowering on the bed like a startled cat.
“I am to take you under my tutelage, manling. Had I known you have no possessions to speak of, I wouldn’t have bothered looking for a ride on one of the ox carts.” He paused, staring at Niro’s naked chest until the boy squirmed. “Do you at least have a shirt?”

This is why women read gay erotic stories

The world of romance novels is big, loud, colorful and open to everyone, be it woman, man, teenager or mature adult. In some ways, the romance genre could be compared to the old porn saying: 'If you can think of it, there's a novel about it.'
For most of my life, reading romance novels was some kind of forbidden pleasure that I wouldn't talk about, hiding books beneath my bed, in cupboards and later in kindle categories my friends didn't bother to look into ('German classic literature' proved its usefulness many times over).
Only when I started writing erotic novels myself, I finally came to the realization that romance is actually the most popular genre out there. I also realized that I had a hankering for gay romance that bordered on odd.

What reasons could a heterosexual lady have to prefer reading about two men (or more) in love to reading about a man and a woman, or two women?

1. It's hard to find heterosexual romance novels with creative interactions and non-standard relationships.

I'm not saying that there aren't any romance novels with dominant female protagonists, but they are few and far in between and most of them still end with her giving in to him and falling in stereotypical love (thanks to Kristin Miller for already putting this together so nicely). As much as a lady likes to be swept off her feet by the love of her life, if she wants to do the mental swiping, it's pretty hard to find a matching story. Which brings us to the next, important point...

2. You can always choose your flavor with gay romance.

This has nothing to do with genre and everything with the two (or more) main characters. A female reader has no hang-ups, personal experience or other influencing backgrounds when it comes to male-on-male-action. We do not feel as involved, as vulnerable, as set in a role, when reading gay erotic stories, which means we can actually pick which of the characters we'd like to 'feel' while reading.
Author James Buchanan was interviewed on this topic, so please feel free to read the transcript for a more detailed analysis.

3. To women, it's just wonderfully kinky.

You know what you probably won't say at the next family dinner? "I read this great gay erotic fiction last night!" Okay, to be fair, some of us might actually say that, but I tried it once and got confused glances and a nervous "that's nice, honey," as an answer.
But when we womenfolk are alone, what's more wonderful than a good, long dive into the dark depths of lust? Homosexuality still has this touch of forbidden desire, especially if you yourself aren't homosexual, and contrary to popular belief, it's actually quite thrilling for me as a woman to think about all those kinky things 'the others' might do in the security of their own beds.

So, what makes you choose gay romance/erotica over heterosexual stories? Please comment and share, I'd love to read your thoughts!

Friday Fade-Out! - Bending the Unbreakable, Part 2

Find the entire story here!

Niro knelt on the granite floor in an otherwise pompous and almost empty vault, shackled to an over-sized ring bolted into the stone beneath his legs. The air was cool and soothing, almost cold after the heat he had endured outside, but the company outmatched the temperature. He didn’t know how much time had passed since the moment he had passed out on the street. The few moments he had been conscious on the way to the reeve’s house were nothing but a confused blur of pain, heat, thirst and roiling street views. Only when his captor— that Fae bitch— had dropped him onto the stone floor and chained his shackles to that ring, his mind had started working again.
He didn’t like what he saw. The reeve was a nondescript looking Fae with brown hair, light brown eyes and a broad chin that didn’t do his bloodline any honors. Niro had always thought all Fae were supposed to be ethereal, beautiful creatures who never got old, bald or fat, but this one definitely didn’t fit his preconceptions. Well, he wasn’t fat per se, but heavy-set and pasty. Only his clothes gave his high rank away, a mixture of deep turquoise, burgundy red, and silver, the layers carefully chosen to give glimpses and flashes of jewelry. ‘Reeve Firon Wilmoor of Nancarrow’ he was called, which meant he was some kind of nobility in Fae society. And at this moment, the noble reeve Wilmoor was interestedly rummaging through Niro’s meager belongings.
“A mimiky talisman? How did a young miscreant like you ever manage to steal something as precious as this?” A long wisp of brown hair fell into his aristocratic and still somehow mediocre face, as he held up the small trinket by its leather band. He had the same hair color as Niro, but on the Fae it looked like smeared horse dung to him.
The first time Niro had said something, it had been a string of swear words and curses. The guard had kicked him twice. His kidneys still pulsed with electric pain now and then, so he had done his best to shut up from then on. Now that he was being asked a question though, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to answer. His whole body hurt, from the bloody soles of his feet to the crusted laceration cutting through his right brow, and his head was still spinning from thirst. The ever-increasing, dry burn in his veins probably was also the reason why he felt numb and distant, strangely fearless and disconnected.  He was simply too tired and exhausted to keep that level of fear going any longer. After all, even panic needed energy.
The guard suddenly grabbed his hair and tugged his head back sharply. “You were asked a question, maggot. Answer the reeve or I will make you wish you had.”
Niro gasped through clenched teeth. The pull on his hair made him contract muscles in his back that sent new shock waves of pain through his body, strong enough to shake him out of his numbness for a few moments. There was no way he could tell them the truth, not if he wanted to survive. He had seen already what the Fae did to human nobility, and he could very well imagine what they would do to royalty, no matter their age. At the same time he had to say something, anything to stop them from hurting him. He wasn’t used to pain, not even after four months on the street, and he didn’t want them to break him. He would spill the truth if they did, and then he’d be dead.
“I—, I stole it from a dead nobleman, sir,” Niro finally stuttered, trying to keep his breaths shallow, “He lay in the bushes near the east gate, six weeks ago. I didn’t even know what it was called, I swear!” He actually had seen a dead man in the king’s colors lying in the bushes outside the gates, but he hadn’t gone anywhere near the cadaver. It had been night and the moon had been hidden behind clouds, and every child knew you didn’t stroll around at such nights, or the Nightgigers would eat you. A corpse was a feast for those dark creatures, and a sure place to end up as a dessert for them.
Wilmoor gawked at him in the way only the Fae could: one eyebrow raised, one eye slitted, one corner of his mouth pulled towards the ear in an impossible angle, like a monumental smirk to hide his surprise in. He set the talisman back onto the table carefully, then he leaned back into his cushioned seat and folded his hands. It was all very carefully orchestrated, like everything the Fae did. “Are you telling me you have been creeping around here for six weeks, alone, without being detected?” he asked incredulously, almost laughing at the idea.
Niro bit his trembling lower lip. “Four months,” he corrected hesitantly, confused by the reeve’s reaction.
Wilmoor’s barking laugh made him jump and hiss with pain, but at least the guard let go of his hair. “You untruthful little braggart, you! I would have believed six weeks, but you had to go over the top!” he jeered, slapping the table in his mirth. He looked almost handsome when he smiled, but there was a nasty glitter in his brown eyes that ruined everything.
“But it’s the truth! I’ve been on the streets since the crown prince of Tetharion was thrown from the tower of the sun,” Niro protested, although he was unsure why he felt the need to make them buy into his story. It felt somehow important, incredibly significant to make them believe what he was saying. He’d had a front row seat to the death of his cousin, and there was no way he’d ever forget any detail from that day, be it small or big. It had been the day his mother had died, the day his father had helped the Earl of Trimeadows flee the city, the day the great exodus of humans from Tetharion had started, and the day he’d been forced to live on the streets as an orphan, or die like the rest of his family.
Why would that gods-be-damned Fae question his words?
“Well then, let’s inspect your words for the truth within, shall we?” Wilmoor sneered, leaning forward with a dark expression on his face. There was no humor left, no good will, no mirth, only cold calculation and disgust. It made his face mediocre again, but slightly more horrible than before. “Have you heard the tales of the Ailill oaths and what happens to oathbreakers?”
Niro nodded, although shakily. He had heard tales about the horrific magic banes that killed those who broke the word they had given a Fae, but he was only a child who didn’t understand the whole magnitude of such things. To his young human mind, lies were only bad if they hurt someone, and if you were caught at it. Gods, he even had trouble understanding that ‘Ailill’ was the Fae word for their own people, and magic was a concept he only knew from trinkets like the mimikry talisman. It simply was beyond his grasp.
“Good,” the reeve said, sneering at him. “You will now speak an oath before the Lord and Lady, professing how long you have hidden in the city, so the magic of the land may lay its bane on your lying tongue. Then we will be done with this charade, and I will be able to go back to my business.”
The guard behind Niro hissed in surprise and tensed up enough to make her armor clink softly.
Niro himself kept his gaze fixed on the Fae behind the desk. He didn’t miss the cruel glee dancing through the eyes of the man, as he waited for Niro’s reaction to what amounted to a cruel, vindictive trap he had no way to avoid.
Silence settled.
When the young boy’s voice broke it, even the guard jumped a bit. “So, how do I do this oath thing?” he asked, chewing his lip steadily.
“Sire, don’t—” the guard interceded, but fell silent under the threatening stare and booming voice of the reeve.
“Hold your tongue, woman. He will speak his oath of his own free will, without being coerced or threatened into it, just like the codex requires it. Won’t you?” Those last words were directed at the cowering boy.
Niro shrank under the icy glare of the reeve, although the movement tugged at his wounds enough to regret it instantly. “Yes, sir. I want to prove I’m telling the truth,” he whispered, swallowing dryly. Gods, he was so thirsty! “So how do I speak an oath?”
Wilmoor seemed to have found pleasure in his little game. “You profess to the Lord and Lady what you want to speak the oath over, that is all,” he explained with a wicked grin, settling deeper into his seat.
That sounds easy enough. Licking his dry lips, Niro thought about how to best say what he wanted to say, then he cleared his throat harshly. Maybe they would finally give him some clean water if he was done with this. “In the name of the Lord and the Lady,”- whoever those people are,- “I swear that I have been in the city the last four months, and I only left it a few times to walk the battlefields nearby for plunder. This is the truth.”
Again, thick silence settled. The air seemed to become heavier, colder, and a soft breeze brushed through the flames of the chandelier above them, but nothing else happened.
Well, nothing except for the increasing paleness on the reeve’s face, and his look of utter shock. “That can’t be true. It mustn’t be, how can it? Four months… Look how scrawny you are, what did you live off, rat corpses? And what did you— what did he drink? We poisoned all the wells except the ones we secured for ourselves,” he rambled, and all the calm and triumph were blown away.
Niro didn’t answer, and this time, nobody expected him to. The guard left his side to walk closer to the reeve’s table, and moments later they were immersed in a hushed, but nonetheless excited conversation.
Only bits and pieces of it drifted over to Niro, who by this point felt dizzy, tired and hollow. The world around his line of sight started to become gray and blurry, and the need to sleep slowly took over his mind as the two Fae kept talking. He didn’t hear the resolution the reeve came to in the end, at that point he was already passed out and in a dreamless sleep.