With Commentary

Swirling wildly in the air, a thick cloud of dust cast strange whirling shadows in the late morning. A horse neighed and tossed his head when a man tried to come too close.

Freya sighed and set down the heavy staff she had been beating an old rug with. The dust slowed and settled to the ground as she took a short break. A fine layer coated her long blonde hair and skin, turning everything a soft grey. Sweat trickled down her back under the heat of the late morning sun making her worn dress uncomfortably wet.

She turned her face to the sun, soaking up its warm rays she had not felt for several months. Winter was finally over and spring was well underway. The sweet smell of early flowers in the meadows and rich earthy scent of thawed earth turned over by plow. The heavier odor of decaying leaves from autumn hung under the freshness.

The distant chatter of squirrels could be heard from a forest not far off along the borders of Glarun, the Dead Forest, ominous in name but less so in nature. Living in the nearby village, surrounded on three sides; hills to the south, forest to the north and west. The people had always hunted in the forest. They never ventured more than halfway in though for the Wastelands lay on the other side. The few who braved the Wastelands, a dead, swampy marsh filled with strange and mutated creatures, never returned. There had been only brave spirit in Freya's life. He had been only a little older than she was now, brave but foolish.

The Dead Forest is not entirely inaccurate anymore. It was called the Dead Forest for many years long in the past on account of the Wastelands flooding it and killing thousands of trees, many of which are still standing. And yes, the Darkling Wood as it is called during Freya's time is very ominous. Dead things walk there... "once, a long time ago, this very forest wascalled The Dead Forest. History books described it as an extension of theWastelands where grey, barkless trees rose dead out of the murky, foul waters.Dying creatures, people, went there in their last moments. When the Wastelandsretreated, life began to move in, but the locals said the Darkling Wood washome to monsters of shadows and the spirits of the dead lingered among the trees." It's a fascinating place and deeply connected to the atmosphere of the first part of Dragon Nymph. The Wasteland is a strip of muddy swamp. The Wasteland is not true to the nature of the land itself. It is rich in life and home to many swampy creatures. People just can't really live there, so humans being human decide it is a wasteland with no life whatsoever.

A shout startled Freya and she spun around to see a large horse galloping toward her with hooves the size of dinner plates. Her father ran behind the animal, his long legs pounding the ground.

"Freya!" he shouted frantically, deep voice ringing. With its harness half on, the horse charged at her with no sign of stopping. Calmly, despite her racing heart, Freya raised her hands in front of her. Snorting wildly the horse skittered to a halt, kicking up clods of damp earth. Before the animal could run again Freya grabbed the reins and hauled his head around.

"Whoa, Jay," she said calmly. Jay snorted and tossed his head, he nearly stomped on her foot. Freya whistled a low note and rubbed his forelock gently. Jay huffed mightily and nuzzled her shoulder. By then her father had reached them. Jay reached over Freya's shoulder and lipped the top of his head. Joss pushed him away and glared at Freya.

I love Jay. He made it to the second draft.

"Don't ever do that again," he said sternly but there was a hint of mirth in his blue eyes.

May as well do this now. Freya and Joss in this draft are blond, Joss with blue eyes, Freya with blue-green eyes. This is no longer the case. Joss is Credeite. Referring to Al Briena Kadire, my lore book which you can find on my profile: "Credeites are generally of a medium brown skin and most have darker freckles on their face and sometimes thier body. Their hair is similarly brown, but with reddish undertones and occasionaly dark blond highlights... bright green eyes... they are tall... lean, with broad shoulders, and are generally fair or sharp featured, fae-like."

"He just wanted to run. Didn't you, boy?" Freya said patting Jay's cheek.

"Freya, I don't care. He could have run you over or worse," his breath caught. "I can't lose you like I lost your mother."

"Yes, father," Freya said sullenly. Her mother had died three years ago, struck down by a deadly winter fever that had killed many others that same year. Freya missed her greatly and the simple joy her mother had brought into their home with her radiant smile and open heart.

Yeah, I killed the mother, classic trope, sue me. At least I gave a legitimate reason and the fact that many others died should give me brownie points. This also remains into the second draft.

Joss saw the sadness in his daughter's brilliant blue eyes dusted with flecks of green, much like her mother's. He wrapped her in his arms, cradling the back of her head in his hand.

"I miss her," Freya mumbled.

"So do I," Joss whispered. Freya suddenly looked up at her father with wide eyes.

"Do you ever forget what she looks like?" she asked. Joss smiled and stroked her cheek.

"How can I when I see her face every day?" he asked her. Freya smiled.

"Now. You have chores to do and I have a field to plow. Don't forget to bring those eggs to Eve later," Joss said briskly. Freya grinned mischievously. Eve was a widow living in the village with her three children. Her husband had also lost his life to the same illness that took Freya's mother. Only in the last year had Joss and Eve begun to show interest in each other. The whole village knew and eagerly awaited if there would be further developments. So far there had been none, only an increased amount of discretion between the two.

"I will, don't worry."

"And don't forget to stop by the grain store and pick up some wheat."

"Yes, yes, I know! Go plow your fields!" Freya said raising her staff threateningly, eyes sparkling. Joss grabbed Jay's reins and quickly led the horse away, away from Freya's makeshift weapon. Freya watched her father go until he stepped out of sight behind the small barn.

She beat the rug until no more dust rose and hauled it back to the house, making sure it did not touch the ground. The house was small; a front porch and three rooms, two were bedrooms and the main living room where they ate, cooked, and spent most of their time in.

Freya laid the rug in the center of the room, spending several minutes straightening it out before she was satisfied. There were two smaller rugs in the other rooms she would clean after bringing the eggs to Eve. She headed around back to the chicken coop, eased the creaky gate shut behind her, and nervously picked her way past the hens. She hated chickens especially roosters, they were vile, greedy little monsters. She'd made the mistake of petting a rooster when she was younger and still had the pale scar on the back of her hand to prove it.

Quickly she searched their nests for eggs, coming out with twelve from fifteen hens. Placing them gently in a basket she left the pen, closing the gate securely behind her. As she was leaving the rooster squawked in indignation and ruffled his feathers. His beady black eyes watched her leave.

"Stupid chickens," Freya muttered.

Why I thought it was necessary to list ALL of her chores and describe them in detail escapes me. Also, fun fact about chickens and my characters. They hate each other. This is true almost across the board. Chickens are demons and no one can convince me otherwise.

Down in the cellar of the house she carefully wrapped eight of the eggs in a cloth and set them in the basket again next to a loaf of bread. A small block of cheese, made from their cow's first batch of milk since winter, snuck its way next to the loaf. She set the basket on the table and went to her room to change and wash off the dust. Her light blue dress was tight around her shoulders and a little faded from use, but it still appeared almost new. With her hair loose, like all unmarried women did, she walked out, waving at her father as she passed him along the road to town. As she passed a few more farmers working hard in the bare fields, she waved cheerfully to them.

The small village soon came into view, boasting a single inn, a blacksmith's shop, a butcher's shed, and a tanner's house all on one side of the town. On the other side lay the homes and a small herbalist's home. Several other small shops lining the streets held all odds and ends of produce.

Freya walked along the dusty road that split the village in half. People greeted her by name and she did likewise. Passing by the smithy and tannery she became more cautious and walked swiftly by. Both owners had sons who were just a few years older than her. Philip, the tanner's son, was notorious for catching her unaware and cornering her. His biggest rival, but not the only, was the blacksmith's son, Riggs.

Of all her would-be-suitors, for she refused them all, Riggs was the best. He was kind and never tried to get her alone like Philip. When they happened to cross paths they exchanged a few pleasant words and moved on, usually after that Freya had a flower in her hand or hair. On a few occasions he had given her a small piece of iron shaped into an animal. She kept them all because of the sheer amount of time it must have taken him to craft such tiny things in his large hands. Every time she kept them because, quite simply, they were beautiful.

Philip and Riggs switched spots, with Philip and Freya being engaged shortly after DN begins and Riggs being mentioned only once or twice. Philip is quite the sweetheart, very different from Freya's more aggressive nature in draft two.

Riggs was in the doorway to the smithy now, watching her go by with a faint smile on his big face. Freya waved and he waved a massive hand back. Freya turned around and headed for the southern edge of town where Eve lived. Eve's house was small and neat with small white flowers growing under the windows. She knocked on the rough wooden front door.

It swung open to reveal a dark-skinned boy of seven years with curly brown hair and excited brown eyes. He squealed when he saw Freya.
"Mum! Mum! Freya's here!"

"Tell her to come in, Henry," Eve's soft voice called from the kitchen. Henry grabbed Freya's hand and dragged her in.

"Come, Freya, come!" he said. Freya laughed and allowed herself to be pulled inside. Eve's two girls, Lilly and Ella, squealed with delight when they saw Freya and dropped their dolls, leaving them in the middle of the floor. Each one latched onto either side of her skirt chattering excitedly.

"Freya! Good to see you. Come make yourself comfortable," Eve said, taking the basket from Freya before she dropped it. Eve was a pretty woman, with shiny dark brown hair that refused to stay in a braid, warm chestnut eyes, and cinnamon skin. She was shorter than Freya and would be delicate if her life had not revolved around hard work. Being the third child of six she had spent every working hour helping her father and mother provide for their large, hungry family.

Eve's appearance also changes to that of a Glarunian woman, which you can read about in Al Briena Kadire.

"I wish I could stay," Freya lamented, "but I have a few things to pick up and cleaning to finish. Da's in the fields today. I'll probably have to help him later."

"Oh, I see," Eve said with a distant look in her eyes and a faint smile. Freya resisted the urge to smirk. "Will you and Joss have time to come over this week? I was planning on making a big meal in three days for a few friends and would love if you two could come. It will be in the evening."

"We will try. Thank you for the invitation, Eve."

"Thank you for the food. I hope to see you and Joss there."

"You're welcome," Freya said. She said goodbye to Lilly and Ella and hugged Henry before leaving the little house. Tears threatened to spill out of little Henry's eyes as he watched her leave, flanked by his sisters. Freya stopped by the grain shop and bought two large sacks of wheat. With an empty basket and a sack of grain in one hand and another sack in the other she set out for home.

Just as she was exiting town a large caravan nearly ran her over. Jumping to the side to avoid being killed she twisted around and looked at the driver, he was a middle aged man in dusty metal armor with greying hair. Next to him sat an ugly old man in purple robes trimmed with gold. He was mostly bald except for a ring of stringy grey hair ending at his temples.

So much has happened in this chapter.... NOT! until now. In the next draft I have moved this to happening much earlier with Freya returning from Oakley to Nienerine, her hamlet, when she encounters this carriage.

Freya shivered and looked away to the guards riding in on tired looking horses. In all she counted five of them, each wearing heavy armor crested with a red dragon in flight. Three wore black capes and two wore red. What they stood for, Freya had no idea; however, they were Kingdom Soldiers, to be feared and to be avoided at all times. They were cold and uncaring of the people of these small villages, only bringing trouble. They often drank inns and taverns dry while harassing young maidens to no end.

I wish you could all meet Efrem in this draft. He's a good guy. One of the soldiers who Freya sort of befriends. At the very least he's fascinated by her and is sorry for how rude everyone was.

The company passed quickly without sparing Freya more than a passing glance. She breathed again then stopped when the faint howl of a wolf reached her ears. It was abruptly cut off and silence filled the gap it left. A chill ran down Freya's spine. Wolves hadn't been seen in the area since she was a little girl. She shook herself. There was nothing to be afraid of. She was safe. The soldiers were going the opposite way and probably wouldn't even stop in the village at all. And, there were no wolves, just her imagination.

Feeling somewhat better she began the mile trek back home. The weight of the grain sacks slowed her down a little, but she walked with relative ease. She had made this same trip countless times with much more than a couple of sacks of grain; still, she knew her arms would be aching by the time she reached home.

Suddenly a piercing pain stopped Freya in her tracks. Screaming she dropped the bags of wheat, and the rip sent seeds flying. She fell hard on her knees, tearing her dress. She clutched the back of her leg where the pain radiated from. The pain spread from her leg, up her back, before reaching the back of her head. The whole time she screamed.

As suddenly as it had come the pain, was gone, leaving her with a dull ache in her knees and bloody hands from the rocky road. Freya gasped, breathing in sweet air. Sweat and tears poured off her face into the dirt. Her leg itched, almost painfully. Fearing the worst she carefully moved her leg.

When nothing happened she lifted the edge of her skirt up and nearly screamed and tore her eyes away. Round ridges, like blisters, formed a small, white patch on the outside of her calf. Heart racing, she slowly looked down again. With one finger she gingerly touched the blisters. They were hard and unyielding underneath her skin.

Panic began to set in. She forced herself to take long, deep breaths. Whatever strange disease had suddenly manifested itself in her would have to wait for attention. Right now she needed to get home.

Oh, sweet child, I forgot she didn't know about this already.

She salvaged what she could of the spilled wheat spread across the ground and headed home. The house was nearly in sight when the pain took hold again. It lasted longer this time and when it passed Freya could barely lift herself up from the ground. Crying for air she lay curled on the ground until she was able to summon the strength and will to get up again.
The sun was lowering in the sky by the time she reached the front door. Turning the handle she shouldered the door open and saw her father sitting at the table eating.

"Da!" she cried as she limped over to him. Joss jumped to his feet at the sound of his daughter's distressed voice. He immediately saw her bloodied hands and torn dress and wrapped her in his strong arms, holding her to his chest.

"Freya, what's wrong?" he asked. "Who did it? Was it Philip?"

"I-I don't know. It wasn't Philip."

Nope! Because Philip is the best and we love him... in the second draft.

"Riggs?" Joss asked in disbelief.

"No! It wasn't anyone. No one did anything to me."

"Then what happened?" Joss asked. He cupped her cheek in his hand. Freya choked back a sob. She told him what had happened to her. Concern and worry filled her father's eyes as she described the blisters on her leg. During her explanation Joss' face creased with concern but there was also a hint of fear behind his normally calm eyes. Finally Freya finished. She had stopped crying and now stood without her father touching her. She smiled grimly.

"I spilled the wheat."

"Yes, I see that," her father said. Chuckling softly he took the mostly empty sack and set it on the table while Freya set the other on a nearby chair.

"Now," Joss said, "rest your leg while I finish in the field."

"Yes, father." Freya said. Joss nodded and grabbed his hat before going outside. He whistled loudly and Jay plodded steadily to his side. Freya watched them for a moment before cleaning her bloody hands and busying herself with small chores she could do while sitting. She tasked herself with grinding all the wheat into flour, something she normally did in short increments.

While she was doing so another wave of crippling pain hit her like a blow to the head. Flour spilled across the floor. She sat in the chair gasping and groaning until it passed. When it finally did she lowered herself on the ground and resting her head on her knees sobbed.

What is wrong with me? she wondered desperately. When no answer came she lifted her head to see the flour scattered on the floor like snow. Sighing she rose to her feet and fetched a broom. Within minutes there were only slight traces of flour in the cracks between the floor boards.

Three more times pain assailed her. Each time she was left with a dull ache in her muscles from remaining so tense during the bouts. She finally gave up trying to do anything else and remained seated in her chair. With nothing to keep her mind from wandering, her imagination took hold. Perhaps she was suffering from the same illness that killed her mother. She discarded the notion with a snort. Her mother never had pains like this.

The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon when her father opened the door. Freya twisted in her chair to watch him. He smiled at her.

"How do you feel?" He could see her face was pale and drawn.

"I'm all right. My leg just hurts," she paused for a moment before continuing, "It happened again. Four times." She sounded so frightened. Joss wanted nothing more than to hold her as he had when she was a small baby, but he couldn't now. She was a growing woman and still a rebellious teenager. Earlier she had been so scared he knew exactly what she needed but now he did not.

"Do you want me to go to the healer?" Joss asked. Freya's head shot up.

"No!" she shouted before she could stop herself. "I mean, we don't have the money. Besides, it doesn't' hurt that bad."

Doesn't hurt that bad huh? Dia's blood, girl.

"Okay," Joss said doubtfully. "Shall I make dinner?"

Freya brightened considerably and nodded enthusiastically. Joss set about making their dinner with only minimal direction from his daughter. He was fairly at ease in the kitchen, unlike most men who didn't know butter from salt, having spent a few years before meeting his wife cooking for himself.

Their meal was a silent one. Both of them, hungry from the long day, ate quickly. Neither one minded. They spent much of their time together without a word. Freya finished first and headed to bed early. She was sore and weary to the bone.

Something shiny caught her attention as she began undressing. She lifted the edge of her skirt and stifled a scream. There, barely peeking through her skin, were round blue disks the size of her thumbnail. Looking closer, she saw that they were tinged green at the very edge, giving them a sort of greenish blue coloring.

Her door flew open and her father stormed in. Freya looked up at him, eyes wide with fear. Quietly, her voice wavering she said,

"Da, I have scales."

***

There you are. An early draft of the first chapter of Dragon Nymph!

If you would like more of Alder than this early rendition, War Doves is available for reading also in the first, incomplete draft. I'll get around to it sometime. Check out Al Briena Kadire for lore, art, and other fun things related to Alder!