This was pure pantsing and it created an interesting dichotomy within one of my main characters. Parl is fire. He is fueled by passion and emotion. His twin brother is water. The fact that Parl has sought solace within the realm of water has piqued my interest. I am sure I will explore this more tomorrow.
Deep below, Parl imagined, something stirred. A great, slitherous body of scales and feelers undulating with the currents. He imagined that, had he simply slid off the dock, that the creature would come to greet him. That the creature would would embrace him in taut, wide fins. Parl hoped that the creature would have a jagged, cartilage spear sprouting from its head. He would be lanced, in the heart, and the fire within him would be flooded and extinguished. There would be no smoldering remains. There would be no heat of rage. There would be no burning jealousy. He would be free to live without fear. He might even live without remembering – all reminders of his past left impaled and drowned on the barbed harpoon of the thing under the water.
Today was my first exploration into Parl and his uncontrollable summoning of magical ability. It will be the event that forces both MCs to flee their home and send them into action. I love the part about the bush burning, but its raw and needs some work still.
Katrissa’s face drained of all color as she watched Parl burn chunks of hair and flesh from his scalp. Bile rose in her throat. Behind Parl, the bushes were now igniting, spiderwebs of fire spreading out along tight, gnarled branches within the larger shapes of the pruned perimeter. His face was maniacal, twisted in a rage that bespoke heartbreak and terror. She remembered that face well. It was the face father wore when mother jumped on the back of a horse and rode away nearly twelve years ago. It was an expression that would fade into the recesses of the eyes but never leave. It was the face that paced back and forth, waiting for some calling, little or not, to bring it back out of the den of calm and into the black night of rage.
Purl starred at his brother. The burned spots near his temples were slick with blood and a clear ooze. A leaf turned golden yellow, stuck near the edge of the ruined scalp. His hair, normally a chestnut brown, held streaks of gray where the blotches of hair had been seared away.
As outsiders, Parl and Purl were forced to the back, behind the elongated skulls of the [Daear]. They could see the center of the ring, flickering with shadows that twirled and danced. The Elder, as she was known, was adorned with long strings of precious gems, bits of bone, twines of vine, and various clusters of natural materials. The necklaces hung heavily from her tanned neck to her dirty knees. They came together, forced into constriction between bare breasts elongated from lack of confining support.
It had taken Parl nearly two days to control his adolescent giggles at the sight of exposed breasts – he was still struggling with control over his untimely risings.