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MORE Chapter Headings for Farmer and the Fald
Bundon's and Tyr's adventures take their dark turn...
Productivity could be more proactive here at my desk.
Lots of anxiety and hair-pulling, tempered by slow progress, but progress nonetheless.
The release of the 2nd Edition looks promising; the ‘small’ changes I implemented grew and grew in their implementation, delaying the release a handful of times; the end of the story is— not vastly, but maybe a little vastly different.
I have also finished the chapter headings; these two took twice as long to ‘get right’ as the previous three. I tried a few different compositions and designs, playing on the tarot theme more in some than others… I found the balance and style difficult to maintain… but after a few failed attempts and a couple more false starts, here they are!
They hung there, blistering away in the last of the day’s sun.
Their cheeks had sunk back to their skulls, the crows had taken their eyes, and their hands were bound behind their backs. Bundon saw no wounds save the nooses tight around their crooked necks. Hanging from the man in the centre was a placard. It bore some old runes the farmer made no sense of; they looked different to common words and letters.
By my fire, this was the work of elves.
Bundon knew elves to be rogues and scoundrels. Heathens who worship long-forgotten gods and drink human blood to spy out glimpses of the future.
Beastly folk, to truss up travellers such.
The farmer shook his head. This seemed a tragic and brutal end for anyone, no matter their deeds in life. There was no sign of struggle. Just three bound souls. Helpless.
Praying for home, most like, Bundon thought sadly.
I pray you find it, good sirs.
They lowered a loose shift over her first, one of soft, white linen with a honeycomb stitch at the sleeves and breast. They sat her down on the bedside and rolled woollen hose up both legs, gartering them with silken ribbons. They then slid pointed leather slippers on each foot, lacing them with linen tape. They stood then, lifted her arms and turned her around, pulling over her head a tailored gown of freshly dyed russet wool, red as baked brick. The gown was embroidered subtly with golden thread, depicting autumnal leaves caught on a breeze, gathering densely at her skirts. The seams fell perfectly from shoulder to waist; there was no pinching at the arm, cinching at the ribs, nor constriction at the bust. It felt moulded to her. Perfect, in all dimensions.
They belted it simply with braided leather and draped about her shoulders a cloak of shimmering black velvet adorned with a mantle of burnished fox fur.
She’s dressed you like her.
Tyr’Dalka had never worn anything half so beautiful in all her life. She felt warm and protected by it, coddled, even, bringing with it a silent invitation.
“Calm yourself," it seemed to say. “Breathe. Relax. Enjoy.”
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I am a fantasy author, illustrator and aspiring poet. If you’d like to help support my projects, you can find my fantasy work here. Thanks for reading Greenjack's Journal! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.