24 January 2023
Sorry about yesterday; I completely spaced it. I did get my writing in for the day, though, so I’ll be back on track after this.
This is a direct continuation of my interview with Moira in this post; I’d already figured out the last story was 90% BS, as I mentioned there, but I pulled a lot of good information this time. Though this early in the drafting process, any and all of it is subject to change. Also, this was the day when it felt like I finally snapped out of the funk I’d been in all month. Not really sure what did it, but I’m grateful. Still had ups and downs since then, of course, but it’s been much more manageable.
I start jotting notes, then I pause and glare at Moira. “You just made that up, didn’t you?”
She shrugged and flashed me a cheeky grin. I groan and rub the bridge of my nose. “Is it at least something that did happen to you, pre-dragon or was it completely off the cuff?”
“Who know?” She pointedly avoids my gaze and swishes her drink.
With a frown, I shuffle through my notes for other things I wanted to ask her. “Ah right. What can you tell me about dragon culture? That vale you mentioned.”
The drink stills in her hand. Slowly, Moira turns to look at me, eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”
Hm. That is an interesting response. I hesitate only a moment before a wicked smile forms on my face. “Oh, I was considering sending Arylwen there in book 3, sometime after she’s become queen. I want to know what she’d be getting herself into.”
Moria’s eyes flash, and the next thing I know I’m slammed up against the wall with her claws around my throat. Good thing I’m not actually physically present; that seems like it would have hurt.
“Don’t you dare,” Moira hissed, “send my girl into that pack of arrogant, self-serving pigs.”
The version of me she’s holding collapses to dust. She spins around to see me leaning against the table, utterly unconcerned. “That’s very interesting.” Moira growls at me, but I ignore that and ask, “Were they all like that? Arrogant and self-serving, I mean?”
“No, you also had the ancient relics, that might as well have turned to stone for all the good they do.”
I raise an eyebrow, and for quite a long time, neither of us say anything. Then Moira sighs. “There was one–maybe more than one, honestly, but it’s not like I stuck around long enough to find out. He was… kind. But he wasn’t the most powerful, or charismatic. I don’t think most of the world’s ever heard of the country he ruled.” She looks away; it feels like she’s looking at something specific, far in the distance. “I couldn’t stand the way they treated him.”
“So you left?” When Moira nodded, I asked, “Did he come with you?”
Her expression softened into sorrow. “That would have required more confidence than he had left, I think. And he was never the impulsive sort, anyway.”
There. There it is. That fits, to me. I think that’s who Arylwen’s father is. And may have been what attracted her to Jasper’s brazen arrogance, too.
I put my papers away and look Moira in the eye. “If it’s any consolation, I’m not sure yet whether or not Arylwen does visit. I don’t know enough about the plot of the 3rd book yet to know if it’ll make sense.” I grin. “And if she does, well. Let’s just say you raised her well.”
Moira raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“One of them makes the mistake of referring to her as Charles’ ‘pet dragon’. During the ensuing duel, she doesn’t even bother going dragon; it stirs up quite the hornet’s nest.”
For the first time since I brought up dragon culture, Moira laughs. “Oh, that’ll be fun to watch.” Then her face falls. “Still, I would greatly appreciate it if she didn’t have to go at all.”
I shrug. “We’ll see where the story takes us.”
Moira grimaces, but she nods. “Was there anything else?”
With a shake of my head, I say, “That’s it for now. I’ll swing by again if there’s anything else.”
“Cool.” She signals the bartender, who hands he a six pack. Beer, I think. Not sure how I feel about that. She waves as she saunters off down the beach. “Take care of yourself, old man.”
I frown, but before I can protest I’m still in my thirties–and anywhere from a couple decades to several centuries younger than she is–she walks off, out of sight.