Susan and I have decided to try a new kind of post for a little Summer fun.
We are going to create a magnificent, blog serial for your entertainment. We will alternate story segments, posting approximately once a week each. We plan to run on in an unplanned manner as the muse strikes us, with the only rule being that we will not contest or change the facts and details the other has written.
We may end up with a cohesive tale or only story goop. Either way, we promise amusement, wit, a splash of the bizarre, sweeping drama and spectacularly clashing writing styles.
For inspiration we have decided to select a sentence at random from a well beloved work of literature. This work is The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien. We chose it because it symbolizes the beginning of an epic journey and we are about to embark on an epic journey.
With no more ado, let the magnificent blog serial commence!
~P. 281, The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien
Marianne shifted on the hard chariot seat and jerked at her billows of purple silk skirts. Marianne hated purple. However, according to Anthony it was going to charm those rich relatives. Apparently rich people love purple. “Anthony, you are deluding yourself if you think you and I showing up in a little bit of purple, in our only, and very out of fashion chariot with poor Janth pulling it, is not—” The elderly, dull green dragon in the harness, upon hearing his name, gave a disheartened cough of pathetic flame. “Is not,” Marianne continued, “going to impress anyone.”
Anthony ground his teeth. A tick flickered in his pale cheek.
“I'm sorry, Tony, but that's the truth.”
“I've asked you not to call me that.”
“What? A girl can't have a nickname for her big brother?”
“No and no more of this. Let us endeavor to maintain a dignified silence for the remainder of the journey.”
Anthony flicked the reins and Janth turned off the busy main street leaving the chariots, dragons, servants taking taking household sphinxes for their daily walk, and peddlers of various mysterious and probably illegal things behind them, and onto a quiet, residential street. Tall, disproving mansions rose on either side of them, walled front gardens keeping unwelcome passers-by at a safe distance. The only other traffic was a man on a winged horse coming at a graceful walk towards them. Marianne leaned forward, one hand on the side of the chariot to get a better look.
The winged horse was one of the large, silky black variety. They were rare as diamonds, boots that never wore out, and jars of oil that never emptied. The great horse lifted its big, feathered hooves gently and set them down without a sound as if it never truly touched the earth. The sound on the street was not of hoof falls on cobble stone, but only the scrabblings of the unhappy Janth and the creak of their own chariot wheels.
As it passed, Marianne saw that the winged horse's rider had a young and very handsome face. Blond hair had always been Marianne's favorite. She smiled at him.
He smiled back and nodded, lifting a finger to the brim of his hat in solute. “My lady,” he said.
Marianne opened her mouth to respond in kind, hopefully before her brother could tell the handsome stranger to mind his own business, when the man's eyes flickered away from her face to something behind her. The man paled. Without another look at her, he goaded his horse into a silent canter disappearing up the steet.
Marianne turned quickly to see a man with a face a pale as white marble and hair as black as the clothes he wore watching them from one of the balconies across the street. He had his arms pinned across his chest and what Marianne could see of his sharp face looked forbidding, to say the least.
His eyes widened when he saw her looking and, in a quick motion that made his black robes swirl around him, turned back into the mansion behind him. As he turned Marianne caught a glimpse of the insignia of office embroidered in red on the corner of his robe.
Marianne gasped. She knew that mark.