A/N: THIS IS A FIRST DRAFT.
I'm posting it as part of my "First Draft Fridays", for the enjoyment of those interested in reading and commenting on a first draft. That means that each Friday, barring something like Internet cutout, I'll be posting at least 1 scene (I'll be aiming for at least 2, but you know how life can interfere).
Because this is a first draft, this will be rough. There will be errors. There will be contradictions (some because other narrators have been wrong). There will be typos. There will be "Hey, what did y'all get from this?" questions, where I test to see if something's mood came across how I intended.
That's part and parcel of being a first draft. You may comment about any and all those things, you may just point out things you like or dislike, or you might quietly read and enjoy it without giving any feedback. It's up to you.
I mean that. It's up to you how much feedback you want to give, if any. Even when I ask a question—that's to give those who want to opportunity to participate. You don't have to. I won't be offended or upset or anything.
This is also book #4 in the Chronicles of Marsdenfel.
Book #3 isn't even out yet. It's still in first draft format (which you can read here: http://www.wattpad.com/story/4631822). But this being #4 means there will be spoilers for earlier stories.
So if you've not read any of the Chronicles of Marsdenfel, please go back and pick up the series, which is currently all available on Wattpad.
Book 1: http://www.wattpad.com/story/4549970
Book 2: http://www.wattpad.com/story/6039622
Book 3: http://www.wattpad.com/story/4631822
Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy the series/story!
— Carradee, a.k.a. Misti Wolanski
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I don’t get sick. If I did, I might have recognized the nausea in time to get to the water closet, but I doubt it.
To avoid looking at the man beside me in the bed, I stare at the mess on the blankets, the stench souring my nose. Should I clean it myself or find someone else to do it? This realm doesn’t exactly have maids.
My bedmate stirs, then promptly stills as memory or realization hits him. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Oh, Creator. Tuelzi—”
I quickly shake my head before he can beat himself up too terribly. “Not virgin.”
Though I’m not his wife, I know him well enough to feel his hard stare. He wouldn’t put it past me to lie, though I wouldn’t do that. Not to him.
I keep my shoulders loose. He won’t expect me to explain thoroughly, because as far as he knows, my mountaineer is little better than his elvish, and his montai is non-existent.
“I…heal.” My choice of words makes me sound like a prosti who heals herself after a trick so she can get better pay, but better for him to think worse of me than for him to be more angry and frustrated with himself than he already is. I’m not his wife.
Unfortunately, we both partook of too much vodka last night to remember that, though we’re both far too old for such folly.
We both doubtless indulged more than we intended. Too much stress for too many years…too few people we trust to not stab us in the backs. Secrets like ours eat at a person, in ways that others can’t or don’t want to understand, much less help.
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1st Draft Fridays - A Fistful of Deception: Book #4, Chronicles of Marsdenfel
FantasyThis book is FOURTH in a series + a FIRST DRAFT. It may not make sense without having read the rest of the series. This is being posted as part of the First Draft Fridays run by Carradee, a.k.a. Misti Wolanski. Thus, this version is rough and may or...
