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Enchanting Prose Lesson 1 (K.A.V cycle)
I have been world-building for 3-4 months now while dealing with a host of life’s burdens. This has has rendered my writing “rusty”. So I decided to go back through “Writing Enchanting Prose” to see how much I digested the first time I took the course and how I can now apply those concepts to subject matter of growing familiarity.
Thank you in advance for any and all observations.
Jeff
Muttering profanities under the clamor of the sacred procession I stand with my back to the Haad Gadol. He is the High priest of the Haaduic people, generally he commands respect in all circumstances, but he will find none from me, not today. No, I will remain sullen and still amongst the song and dance. This of course elicits stares of reproach from our clan chief Tuhar-Agah and the rest of my people. Reezah, my little sister is floating towards me, suspended by Haaduic magick. She has been stripped of all finery and agency. I’ve never seen my sister so vulnerable. We Tuhar don’t do vulnerability well and forbearance is not one of our strong suits. The truth is, If I could could raze their temple to the ground I would. I swear it on our G-D Q’Kett and the Holy Flaym. But, alas, we are guests at this procession. Mother and Father are growing old, when they die my ties to this temple and rite will be obsolete. This will be the last time I’ll have to endure the insult of losing another one of my clan to the Haad Gadol’s antiquated puppet shows.
Mother looks at me from the corner of her eye, she know’s all too well the resentment I hold toward the Haad after losing my brother Khal to their monastery in Old Bezz. It is only out of highest regard for her and father I endure watching my little sister being wing-blessed. I can’t help but snicker at the notion of something so shattering to the self being considered a blessing though.
More like a damned curse!
Mother’s hand finds a gentle place on my clenched fist, though my ears are spared no pain. Haaduic chanting is like warring between beetles and cicadas. Clicking and gnashing floods the temple pinging off of smoking braziers, echoing down cold granite halls. At the height of their religious fervor the cacophony turns tortuous , but that is only because I am “Tuhar-Arath”, a Tuhar without wings and illumination. That only a Haaduic priest can bestow. I rejected those blessings, my supposed birth rite, and now I pay the price of being persona non grata, even amongst my own.
The Haad are not diabolical though, nor are they hideous, just self righteous and old. In fact, most that cross paths with them are struck with a sense of awe at their quiet ways. Outside of their processions and temple services they are rarely animated. They sit in calm repose, meditating the day away. It is impossible to differentiate where their robes begin and their skin ends for the Haad are a seamless race. Clothed yet not. No matter how many times encountered, one never feels a sense of familiarity when crossing paths with the Haad. As indistinguishable their leathery exo-garments seem at first glance; like fingerprints on the same hand, no two are alike. Their robe-like and jewel fashioned hide sports sacred gilded embroidery that mirror the constellations of the superior sky
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