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Interesting developments:
Just a little something I thought might be interesting (but which might not be very successful) is to chart the interesting developments that occur in my plot/characters/setting etc. during the SuWriMos.

03/06/2012: Creating this thread forced me to put more thought into Lysander's suicide. His death may now be magic-related to explain Nyssa and Calista's inexplicable fear of being incarcerated. Lysander's madness could be caused my multiple elements.
05/06/2012: Today I realised that my world might need a little more developing before I can be truly prepared for writing. This may be why I'm still only 400 words into the story. rolleyes Not that the world isn't developed already, but I appear to have forgotten that this novel takes place generations before the others; small things may have changed between this novel and the trilogy, not the least fuelled by all of this royalist rubbish. Oops.
17/06/2012: Over the last few days I've not had much time to write, or even really think about my novel. However, in talking about it once with a friend I've decided I need to think much more carefully about my ending. It's not quite where I want it to be. Perhaps I'm trying to link the prequel too closely to my novel. It might be a case of trying to force a connection where it might be best without one. Eep.
24/06/2012: While I was working on my novel last night (and, by Jove I was actually working on it!) it occurred to me why I was having so many problems with my beginning. I honestly don't think it was anything to do with the story itself, but was in fact prompted by the fear I had about starting a new project. I've had this novel idea in my head for a long time, and putting it on paper/the screen was a daunting thought, especially considering I've not had the best track record with finishing projects recently. I didn't want another unfinished piece of crap lying around. However, now that I'm better into the swing of things, I'm beginning to understand that the fear is unnecessary. Yes, this needs a lot of work, but the basis of the plot is getting sounder with every tweak I make. Or at least I hope so... XD
10/07/2012: Without consciously realising it, I was worried that my beginning didn't have enough drama (you know, what with death and running away. All that.) so I decided to spice things up a bit. I'm hoping to establish a huge feeling of foreboding by the time they reach the royal court, but I'm not sure how well that's working. >_>

Characters:
My characters get lost. This is my shiny pin-board.

Nyssa - M.C.
Calista - M.C.
Lysander - M.C.'s father
Finn - Pastora bartender
Venilia - Princess of Ziranel, engaged to the oldest child of the Royal Family of Itur


Soundtrack:
Just a few inspiring/motivational/fitting songs for this novel.

First Aid Kit - The Lion's Roar
Florence + The Machine - Landscape, Dog Days Are Over, What The Water Gave Me, Breath of Life
Cold Play - Viva La Vida, Violet Hill

Pin-board:
Oh yeah. Here's the space for any other junk. =D

Here's the unedited prologue/intro/piece of s**t. Any feedback? emotion_c8

[Creative Title Here]
It was one of the mornings where Nyssa swore she could feel her skin crawl with some far-off premonition. The sky seemed unusually bright; the ripples on the water moved mildly under a certain quivering slant of light. To Nyssa, from her vantage point on the dock at the edge of her father’s property, the world seemed to have come to a standstill. Even the wind refused to blow, rendering the sunny morning almost unbearable. Nyssa’s stomach knotted causing her to clutch at the hem of her dress; it was as though she had just been given a piece of bad news. Only, Nyssa thought, there was no news. Nothing out of the ordinary.

From the corner of her eye, Nyssa saw the surface of the lake ring in pindrop circles. She pulled her feet from the water and shivered. Beneath the murky greenish tint there moved the sickly pale belly of a sundrop eel. Its shimmering body slithered back and forth in circles around the spot where Nyssa’s feet had just been. And after a storm like the one of the night before - the impossibly intense kind only occurring in Pastora once every few years - this could only mean one thing.

Nyssa didn’t even bother to put her shoes on. Suddenly, inexplicably, the young woman was on her feet and her heart was thudding so quickly it hurt. Her long brown hair swung as she thrust her hands against her forehead. How could she have been so stupid! She cursed herself even as she prepared to run back to the house; even as she heard the panting, panicked breathing behind her; even as she knew it was already too late.

Nyssa spun against the sagging wood of the dock, her heels grinding on splinters. Time seemed to fold into itself. All at once, Nyssa felt her heart beating now and five hours ago simultaneously. She felt the passing seconds pulsating beneath her skin as her younger sister stumbled towards her. Calista’s face was contorted into an expression Nyssa had never before seen beneath its usual veneer.

“Oh, thank Dianthe!” Calista cried. She tumbled forward, her knees giving way as she crumbled on the grassy verge that lead from the dock to their house. “Nys, you won’t believe it, oh holy-”

“Is it Father?” Nyssa felt a sinking sensation deep in her stomach that was remarkably like relief. Satisfaction. “Is it?” She couldn’t explain what it was that made her say it, but once the words had left her lips she knew it was true. The shock on Calista’s face was proof enough.

“Yes.” Calista sat back on the grass and pulled her knees up, suddenly exhausted. Nyssa reached forward and grasped the younger girls hands between her own.

“Calista, what happened?”

Nyssa’s sister hung her head, peering through her blonde, dishevelled curls. She shrugged, swallowing hard to hold back the tears that were coming. Nyssa squeezed her hands harder, rubbed her fingers in circles around her sister’s palms.

“Come on, it’s okay. It’s okay. Is he...?”

“He wasn’t breathing.” Calista’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. “He was on the floor next to - to his desk. He was all... bent up, and-” She let out a long sob and buried her face between her knees.

Nyssa felt her heart flutter. They had never been close as a family, but this... This feeling was all wrong.

“I don’t know what to do!” Calista cried. “Nyssa, please, come and look. Please!”

Although everything inside of her was pulling her away from the house, across the lake and to the trees beyond, Nyssa fought into a standing position and folded her arms across her chest.

“Come with me,” she said in a whisper. “Show me where you found him.”

The walk up to the house was like a funeral procession, though both girls already knew it was probably the only procession their father was likely to get. He was a lonely man - they were a lonely family - and it had been years since their father had seen anybody other than the nanny.

The girls held hands like they had done as children, their fingers intertwined so tightly that Nyssa’s fingernails began to tingle. But at least she could feel that; the rest of her body was like an empty shell, filled with no palpable emotion other than a numb sense of shock and the knowledge that now it was her duty to see things through.

Inside the house the walls seemed to echo their footsteps. The cool wood flooring rebounded the sounds of their footsteps like gunshots, and each breath Nyssa took felt like a gust of wind inside her ears. Her pulse was roaring inside of her, making everything else seem far away. The stairs creaked; Calista clung tighter.

Together they stood in the doorwar to their father’s stood, hands still linked in a bond of almost-relief. If Calista was right, then it was over. Or was it? Nyssa knew it could easily be the beginning, but somehow this all seemed so final. She thought of the sunny morning, and the sundrop eel as it almost brushed her toes; she thought of the storm she had lain awake through, the lightning that had cracked so close to her window it might have been inside her head. The night felt so vivid, yet the day was as if it had never happened. It was like moving through a dream.

Only, from the doorway, Nyssa could see her father and she knew that it was real. He was lying mostly on his stomach, with his cheek pressed against an Aephian rug that had cost him four hundred Kulos at a flea market. Nyssa found herself thinking more fondly of her father’s love for the carpet than she did of him; the sight of his body sprawled beside his desk was only disorientating. She nodded to Calista.

“I think so.”

“How? How did he...?” Calista was wide-eyed, tears sitting ready to fall. Until her sister had voiced the question, Nyssa realised that she had not even wondered. Perhaps not even cared. Their father was not bleeding, and there were no signs of a struggle; this much she appeared to have absorbed automatically. What about the rest?

“I don’t know.” Nyssa stepped closed to the bundled mess of a white shirt and tie that used to be her father and bent over. His eyes were closed, and aside from his ungainly collapse it appeared as though he hadn’t suffered.

Nyssa was about to declare that it must have been a heart-attack, about to get as far away from the corpse as possible, when she noticed something. Something that made her stomach lurch and her fingers ache. Something that brought with it fear, uncertainty, everything that she should have felt the moment Calista fell in front of her on the dock. Only now, she wasn’t fearing for her father, she was terrified for herself.

“Calista,” she said slowly, reaching down and drawing a small glass vial from between her father’s fingers. It was a deep purple and mottled with a swirling silver vein from the circular bottom to the neck. “What is this?”

Calista let out a sharp gasp and her hand flew to her lips. Nyssa swallowed hard. “Have you... seen this before?”

“It’s...”

Nyssa knew what Calista was going to say before she said it. She saw her world folding in on itself between the glassy sides of that stupid little vial, and there was nothing she could do about it. Now she longed for the numbness, guilt or no guilt, and wondered if she would ever be able to feel properly again.

“It’s purple.”

The colour of magic.

If anybody found out about this, about that glass bottle, Nyssa and Calista would never see each other again. Nyssa turned to her sister and their eyes met, gold to blue. Nyssa knew that they both felt the same thing; they both understood what had to be done.

“We need to bury him,” Nyssa said.

“I’ll get the shovel.”

Thanks! I like eels, also. :B

The storm and the eel are omens, but I wasn't sure whether to build on that here or a little later. Probably here. XD As for the beginning, there was originally a line a lot like yours before I started writing (like, I had a good one in my head). When I wrote it, it sounded lamer than it had done in my mind. However, I still think it's a good idea to lead into the mystery a bit more.

My original first line was something along the lines of: "When Nyssa was four years old, her father tried to kill her" lolol. But that doesn't fit any more with how I want the novel to start, so... Eep.

Even though nobody is in here, I thought I'd post the next chapter. Ah, well. I need some semblance of activity. Excuse holes, typos, stupid errors and stupid everythingelse. You know the drill by now.

[One]

The overhanging omen of the sundrop eel had left Nyssa more wobbly and uncertain than the discovery of her deceased father. Even while the sisters wrapped the luxurious Aephian rug around his body, Nyssa could think of nothing other than that sickly white belly of the eel, and the surrealistic bright blue of the sky left behind by the storm. Thinking back, it was obvious that something had just been waiting to happen; Nyssa hadn’t been able to escape her discomfort for days. Yet, even her mental preparation did nothing to help the nauseous turmoil in her stomach. She could only be thankful that at least Calista was keeping her head. It was more than she had expected.

It was evening before they managed to dig deep enough into the mucky, liquid dirt on the other side of the lake to bury the body. They dragged him to a small clearing where Nyssa and her sister had often played together as children. The area had since been abandoned for calmer surroundings, and Nyssa didn’t think it likely that the grave would be discovered quickly. The grass led off on all sides into a wilderness of overgrown weeds and flowers, and trees that tangled together at the boughs as though they had been tied there to block out the sun. As children the girls had pretended that this natural shelter was a castle. They were princesses; they could do anything and to hell with their father. Now it felt ruined, haunted by the empty air left behind by childhood memories of better things.

As they dragged their father’s body through the mud, Nyssa wished that she’d been better organised for a situation of this sort. Of course, neither girl could have known about their father’s plans, but both knew that they should have seen it coming. Perhaps, thought Nyssa, she had seen it coming - because she had indeed made preparations. Only the thought of a burial was slow in coming into her plans.

“What about the Rites?” Calista asked, dropping her father’s feet unceremonially into the dirt. She seemed to care little whether the carpet they had hauled him along on was still intact enough to keep the shine on his polished shoes. She didn’t even look to check. She wiped a muddy hand across her pale cheek, leaving behind a stripe of grime that looked like war paint.

“What about them?” Nyssa lowered her end of their cargo as gently as she could and then straightened. Her sister was staring at her so intently that Nyssa felt suddenly guilty. Their father had been a devoutly religious man, even despite his consistent dabbling in the occult.

“We can’t just leave him in there,” Calista said softly. It was as though she could see Nyssa’s thoughts, which was a very uncommon; the sisters had not been very close for some time. Nyssa looked carefully at her sister - the hands folded on her hips, the icy stare, the haughty expression - and wondered at what point everything had gone to s**t.

“No,” Nyssa admitted. “You’re right. But we don’t have any of the requirements - and there’s nobody we can trust to get them to us.”

“What do we need?”

“Incense, candles, matches... And a chalice. Where exactly are we going to get those?”

Calista’s face scrunched up in deep thought. She began to fiddle with the white strings of her apron, wiping mud across the cotton and out onto the blue silk of her dress. It was an old dress, an even older apron, but Nyssa still bristled.

“It’s getting dark,” Nyssa added. “What do you think?”

“I think that we can try. Half-assed maybe, but we can do something for him, can’t we? I have matches.”

Nyssa sighed. Her sister was right, and as much as she hated to admit it, it was undeniable. Calista knew as well as she did what was going to happen as soon as the last shovel of mud was back in place; they knew they would never come back here; they knew that their father was never going to get the proper burial he deserved. They did not speak about what would happen next, but they didn’t need to.

Nyssa squared her shoulders and nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll make the best of what we have.”

Between them they managed to find a sweet-sour smelling stick of lemon pine that hadn’t fallen into the lake, and underneath the dock they recovered an old, rusting tin that had once contained [old fish]. As for the candle they were stuck.

“We’ll just burn some logs,” Nyssa suggested. “I don’t think it matters.”

So they set up the lemon pine in its own sap at the foot of the makeshift grave, and the wood at the head, and consecrated the earth with a tin of lake water. Nyssa muttered the chants that were more familiar to her than her own name. Calista bowed her head. The smell of the lemon pine wafted throughout the clearing, giving everything a slightly yellow tincture of loss.

With her eyes closed, Nyssa could almost imagine a time when her father’s death was about as far off as the mountains of Karajack; a story that was told only to frighten her into submission. She could remember clearly what it was like before their mother died, and although their father had never been perfect, Nyssa remembered that he had used to try. When she opened her eyes now, all she saw was the inky outline of Lysander Myrid’s makeshift grave and her sister’s eyes gleaming in the firelight.

“You know we can’t leave the fire burning,” Nyssa said. Her voice was so soft, it barely made it across the grave. Calista’s lips narrowed against the cooling night air and she nodded.

“I know.”

It wasn’t much of a burial. Nyssa knew that, and it made her heart ache. Lysander may not have been much of a father, but he was all the girls had. They were isolated, alone; they needed each other. Now he was gone, and he had left them in a mess unparalleled by anything they had ever witnessed before.

“What are we going to do?” Calista whispered. The tears she had been holding back slipped onto her cheeks and glistened. “We can’t stay here. They’ll find out about - about it - and then...” She didn’t need to finish. Everybody in Exos knew the penalty for the practice of magic.

“We’ll go to Itur. I don’t think they’ll question our arrival if we send a back-dated letter. Father is... was... They’ll know our name.”

“We have to leave everything?”

“Everything.”

As the darkness became more complete Nyssa helped Calista put out the fire with more water from the lake. The boggy earth beneath their feet was the perfect damper for the ashes. They buried the logs and the lemon pine beside their father, like some sort of offering to his corpse. Then they walked silently back towards the house, Nyssa remembering with every impression of her shoes in the mud yet another thing she would have to leave behind.



The following morning at first light, Nyssa and Calista were already on the road towards Pastora. The sun brought with it a meagre yellow light and little heat, and the air that pushed and pulled at their clothing smelled distinctly of wet earth. They each held one small suitcase containing the necessary clothes for the journey which would probably take several days.

The way to Pastora was down through an overgrown road imprinted with dusty tracks left by wagons. It had been a long time since Nyssa had known this path to be traversed by anybody other than the elderly gardener her father employed to trim the hedges in front of the property. The man only came once a month, and Nyssa thought from the state of the tracks on the road that they probably had another two or three weeks before his next visit.

By the time they reached Pastora, Nyssa’s shoes were so dusty they looked brown rather than black. The hem of her pale green dress was smudged with dirty splatters and the hat shading her eyes had been blown all out of place. Calista, on the other hand, looked as fresh as she had done before all of this mess began. Her cool greyish eyes were unemotional, her jaw squared and her free hand was thrust so deeply into her pocket that Nyssa could barely see any skin below her sleeve. It was clear that Calista resented being brought here on foot when a coach could have been sent for by any one of the four urchins lounging by the fountain.

“Calista, we can’t afford to have so many people knowing where we’re going. Once we reach the Court, that’s all fine and dandy and nobody will care how we got there. But until we’re safe and sound in feather beds I’m having neither of us raise any more attention than necessary. Two unchaperoned girls of our class, third generation nobility or not, are going to look fairly suspicious. Surely you understand that much?”

“I just don’t understand why you’re sending me,” Calista muttered. She refused to look her sister in the eye. “I don’t understand what is so important that you think it’s a good idea for us to split up when I-”

“Trust me, it’s important. I can’t tell you about it, Cal. I can’t. It’s important to me that I do this. Please?” Nyssa bit her lip and reached out to her younger sister. The feeling of fear and nausea was twisting together in her stomach so intricately that it hurt.

“I thought you said we couldn’t trust anybody.” Their eyes met. Nyssa saw steel, but behind that only fear and insecurity. Calista shrugged. “You do what you want, Nyssa, just don’t drag me down with you.”

“I won’t. I promise. You go and find us a coach to Tirachel; we can switch to another from there. There’s a man at the-”

“The Crown and Lily. I know. We’ll pick you up from the gate.”

Nyssa nodded once and began to turn away. Calista’s hand snapped out, suddenly, and snagged the edge of Nyssa’s sleeve. When she turned, Nyssa saw a gleam of animal terror behind the thin line of Calista’s mouth. It was only there a second, but it was enough to shake Nyssa to the point of tears.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Calista whispered.

“I hope so too.”

Calista ran down one of the alleys leading away from the small town centre. Nyssa took a moment to draw gulping breaths of cool air into her lungs, feeling them constrict with every mouthful. Suddenly the world felt too tight, like she was bursting out of it. She clenched her fingers tightly into her palm and let out a long sigh between her teeth. Calista was right to be worried.

She just doesn’t understand, Nyssa thought bitterly as she switched her suitcase into her left hand and began the short walk to The Acre. If Calista had seen what Nyssa had seen, she wouldn’t just be scared for her freedom; she’d be scared for her life. As she hurried towards the bar where she had spent many evenings a few years ago, Nyssa fingered the little purple bottle she had taken from her father’s body. It was buried deep down in her pocket, sewn into another niche where it was harder to spot. She had been too scared to bury it with Father for purely superstitious reasons, but found quickly that there was no other way to destroy it.

When Calista was sleeping she had tried to throw it into the fire burning in the grate, but even that had done little more than advance the swirling pattern across the glass. If she was found with an item like this, it wouldn’t matter where she had gotten it. They wouldn’t wait for an explanation. So, Nyssa had decided she would take it to the one person who just might keep it safe.

The problem was, Nyssa hated him.

At the door to The Acre, Nyssa stopped. She stood out in the cool air for what felt like an hour, working up the courage to push open the familiar oakwood door. She dreaded what would happen once she was inside, dreaded what would happen when she saw him. It had been more than a year since she had even set foot in the place, never mind spoken to him.

Bile rose in her throat.

She took one more deep breath, rolled her shoulders backwards, and bit down so hard on her lower lip that she tasted rust. It didn’t matter what she felt for Finn ___. He was her last hope.

The beginning has very little personality development, but that should come soon. They are indeed scrambling. I'm hoping they come through better in the later chapters. =D

As for the plan, it's sort of to do with his death, yes. It's almost a combination of his plan to kill himself, and what led him to it?

The religions in this world aren't much like Christianity at all, and I like it that way. :3

Their father had his reasons. :3

Well, maybe it's a little more work but it sounds pretty cool to me. =D

If it didn't give you what you wanted, then maybe it's not worth it?