This is not the first time I've set out to write my blog... A blog. As a first post, they are often inflated dreams and ambitious desires and the world sits back looks at your post and lets out a gutsy breath of air. 'Not another one of those,' you might say. So I will keep it short with the complete knowledge that a first post is more for myself than anyone else and really, really, that's what writing should be about. We write for ourselves and if we are lucky enough to get paid for it then hey! It is five am here, Australasian Eastern time and I got kicked out of the bed by my nine month old baby who happened to throw up in it and on me. I laid down a towel over the spew and tried to go back to sleep, as many of you would have at 4 in the morning bu the leftovers from my cold came back to haunt me and my mind awoke with the words 'You could be writing.' 'Don't waste this time while the world sleeps, while you're husband and your baby lay passed o...
The hut was old and worn, its thatched roof hung and dribbled in pieces, nothing added or repaired in years. This land was Malin occupied land and everything had burned at least once in the last year as their guns and men had swept through the plains. Everything except this hut. There was no door, only a slip of hanging reeds intertwined. Marcus slipped through his spear leading the way, his stance low and readied as he inhaled the sharp tang of blood and magicke assaulting his senses. She was old and worn, covered in reeds and blankets, bracelets and bones littered across the hut, a femur bone clutched in her grasp. She held a likeness to his people setting the hairs on Marcus’s neck dagger straight. The thing rocked a subtle movement but made no further move as Marcus Ambruge ent...
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