However, at my thirteenth year I was not entirely concerned about returning kings. Nay, I had better things to worry about at that moment. It was my birthday and I was hiding up in a tall tree. I could not bear to come down and face my father.
You see, I was the youngest in my family, having three older brothers. They led their own lives, ignoring me for the most part. The same was with my father, but he was sure to notice me if I did something wrong, which I seemed to do a lot. And this time would be no different I knew.
As I sat there I wondered how long I could hide before I would have to go home. I could just picture it; I would walk in the door, and he would scowl and me and snap, “Where have you been young lady?” I very much disliked when he called he that with that horrible scowl on his face. Then, when he found out what I had done, I would receive such a scolding, if not worse.
The more I thought about it the less fearful I became, and the sadder I felt. My father never smiled at me, I had grown to think he would be happier were I not his daughter. As these thoughts played in my head tears came to my eyes, and soon began to fall down my cheeks. How long I sat there crying I know not. I do know I had not yet finished my cry when I heard a whistling and then a “Hallo, what’s this?” Below me I saw a boy stop.
I thought perhaps he had just seen something and had been speaking about that. I stopped my sobbing and waited for him to walk passed, but he didn’t. Again I heard, “Hallo!” And then, “Why are you in that tree?”
Aye, now there could be no doubt, he was speaking to me. My first reaction was to loose my temper, I had a quick temper, but I was too shy to yell at strangers. My shyness won out and I hung my head and said nothing.
Often when I did, the one speaking to me would give up and leave me alone, he was different. “Are you stuck? Shall I come up and help you?”
I shook my head but did not look him in the eye nor speak. “Shall you come down then?” Once more all he got was a shake of the head.
“Can you speak at all?” He asked. This time I nodded. “Then perhaps you are shy.” And with that he grabbed the lowest branch and began to climb up. This was so odd that I could not help but watch. Why would he want to climb the tree I was in?
   Very soon he was on the branch in front of me. He smiled at me as though he was very cleaver for having climbed so high. I did not dare meet his eyes but I did sneak glances at him. He was about my age, tall and thin. He was very brown as though he spent a lot of time in the sun and wind. His eyes were a dark blue and very kind looking. He had a quick smile and even a quicker laugh.
“What is your name?” He finally asked me.
“Carlyss,” I said quietly.
“I am pleased to meet you Carlyss, I am Maddock,” He thrust out his hand and what could I do but shake it? So I did.
“Do you often climb trees to cry?” I was so taken aback by this question and the manner in which he said it; as though it was the funniest thing he had ever heard of, that I snapped, “What is it to you!”
He looked quite startled and I felt bad for snapping, so doing my best to push down my shyness that had once more arisen, I stammered, “I am sorry.”
Maddock grinned. “I’m the one who was rude, I’m sorry,” He said, very kindly in spite of his grin.
I could not help but smile then. “Do you often climb trees?” Maddock asked.
I just nodded my head.
“May I be so bold to ask why you were crying?”
I did not want to answer but did not know how not to answer. So I stammered, “I was just, I, well.”
Maddock noticed my nervousness and said quickly, “It is a very nice day don’t you think?”
I nodded my head. “Would you like to go on a walk? I know a place were there is a water fall and at the bottom a clear, cool lake.”
That sounded lovely, and so I shyly agreed. We descended the tree and I followed Maddock into the dense woods. In spite of all the trouble I got into when I got home that day, I must say that was one of my best birthdays.
Maddock, when he found out it was my birthday, made sure I had an extra special day. We explored the woods around the water fall and then waded in the lake. We climbed to the top of the falls and discovered bushes full of berries. It was a wonderful day, and the best part was making my first friend.
Maddock accepted me as I was; he was not bothered by my lack of talking. Also, he was as adventurous as I was. Though it would take me years to learn to be myself around him I knew right off I would like him. Little did I know were this friendship would lead the both of us.

Part 3  

 That  night  Mordred  wandered  through  the  woods  where  he  had  managed  to  escape. He  finally  came  to  a  little  hut  built  under  the  roots  of  a  great  oak. He  knocked  on  the  door,  hoping  to  get  some  food  and  shelter  for  the  night. An  old  woman  answered  it  and  asked  him  to  come  in. She  was  small  and  looked  like  an  old  brown,  shriveled  up  leaf . Somehow  he  didn’t  like  her,  but  he  went  for  he  was  very  hungry. She  showed  him  a  stool  to  sit  on  and  immediately  set  about  getting  him  a  bowl  of  porridge. As  he  finished  eating  he  began  to  tell  his  story,  thinking  it  only  polite  after  taking  food  and  lodging  from  her. But  half  way  through  his  story  she  interrupted  him  saying, “you  needn’t  tell  my  your  tale. I  already  knew  it  when  you  knocked  at  the  door.”

  Mordred  stared  at  the  old  woman  for  a  moment  and  then  said, “How?” She  laughed,  a  dry  cackley  laugh  that  made  him  dislike  her  even  more. “I  have  a  bit  of  hindsight  and  foresight,  what  the  people  of  your  village  called  magic. They  would  probably  call  me  a  witch,  like  they  called  your  friend  Naman  a  wizard,  only  they  would  have  more  reason  to  call  me  so.”

   Mordred  continued  to  stare  for  a  moment. He  had  no  fear  of  magic. He  had  heard  of  it  so  much  in  Naman’s  stories  that  it  seemed  commonplace  to  him,  though  he’d  never  seen  it  before. Then  an  idea  struck  him. “You  said  you  had  hindsight?” “Yes,” replied  the  witch.

   “Then  can  you  tell  me  who  my  real  parents  are?” The  old  woman  looked  thoughtful  for  a  moment  and  then  said, “Yes. But  its  not  as  simple  as  that. You  must  be  patient.” Then  she  walked  over  to  her   fire  and  closed  her  eyes  and  began  to  repeat  many   words  in  a  strange  tongue. This  lasted  for  some  fifteen  minutes  and  then  she  turned  around  to  Mordred,  who  had  been  watching  in  wonder  and  dislike. “I  have  discovered  that  your  mother  is  no  less  than   Queen  Morgawse  of  Lothian,  the  half-sister  of  the  great  King  Arthur,”  she  cackled  in  triumph,  evidently  overjoyed  to  find  his  mother  one  who  could  pay  her  well. “But  who   is  my  father?” Mordred  asked  hurriedly. “That  will  take  more  time. Be  patient.” Just  then  a  knock  came  at  the  door  and  then  several  more  and  before  the  witch  could  answer  it  the  door  fell  and  a  throng  of  fishermen  poured  in  shouting. “The  wizard  failed  him  so  he  turns  to  the  witch!”

   “Kill  the  murderer!”

   “And  kill  the  witch!”

  The  witch   was  beaten  to  the  ground  in  a  moment,  but  Mordred  flung  the  stool  in  their  faces  and  barged  through  them  with  flailing  fists. He  was  halfway  through  the  door  when  strong  hands  grasped  him. But  he  was  free  again  in  a  moment  after  several  quick  bites  and  a  kick  in  one  of  his  captors  eyes. He  sprang  away  into  the  brush  and  ran  as  hard  as  he  could  through  the  bracken,  disregarding  the  enormous  tears  in  his  clothes. Soon  he  had  outdistanced  his  pursuers  who  had  a  harder  time  getting  through  the  brush. He  sat  down  by  a  stream  after  running  for  another  hour  and  drank  deeply. Then  he  fell  asleep.  

 Does anyone else have a problem with wayward characters who seem to be acting on their own and not doing a thing you would like them to do?

This is when all went wrong. Ulrich stepped down from the throne, seemingly with great delight in the prince’s return. However, this soon changed to hate when it was said that this prince had come only to take the throne.
What a sad day it was when he was drug out into town square and hung. His wife clung to him till the last, begging and pleading. She was a strong healthy woman who took up the task of Lord Protector after her husband. But she met with the same death. Word spread that she wanted the throne for her own son.
She was hung like her husband. But before she died she looked right at Ulrich and said, “You will pay for your deeds.”
Now the young prince’s were left alone in this word, orphans whose very lives were in danger. Knights, still faithful to King Percival, vowed to give their lives to protect these boys. These feature kings of Hemlock.
It may come as no surprise to you that they failed. One dark and bitterly cold night men invaded the castle and killed the young boys and the knights. And with them they killed any hope for Hemlock.
Now the people were plunged into fear. Ulrich, now setting himself up as king, had his men ride out. They attacked the villages, killing, stealing what they pleased. Fear was as common as the people’s daily bread. Most of the villagers fled into the deep woods. Those who didn’t make it were taken to the castle where they were made slaves. I and my family lived in the woods with other families.
And so time passed. By the time I was in my thirteenth year there were whispers of hope. It was said King Percival’s son had somehow lived and had been taken into hiding. Someday soon he would return and free us all! We clung to that hope like a drowning man to a raft. Little knowing what part I would play.

 Okay, I discovered another almost disaster, thankfully dear Beatrix kept it from turn out thus. However, to save from futrue trouble all those who answer PMs need to deleate them afterward unless they are for all the members, then that person needs to infrom the others that they need to read it. The last one must deleate it. This will save from them not being answered or being answered twice. In my case, three or four times :).

 I think this will help keep things more organized.

   Part 2

Old  Polydore  brought  the  boy  home  to  his  wife  who  shared  in  her  husband’s  great  joy  in  the  lad. They  called  him  Mordred,  the  luck-child  of  the  village,  and  all  the  fisher-women  doted  upon  him. But  as  he  grew  older,  and  shunned  their  company,  the  women  began  to  say  he  was  ill-favored  and  feisty. The  older  he  got  the  more  disliked  other  people,  especially  the  other  children  that  were  his  age. He  even  ignored  his  adapted  parents  as  much  as  he  could. It  soon  became  apparent  that  he  had  only  one  friend  in  the  whole  world:  Naman. His  parents  were  even  more  distressed  by  this,  for  they  thought  it  was  the  friendship  with  Naman  that  made  Mordred  so  unfriendly. And  also  what  parent  would  want  their  son  to  be  friends  with  a  wizard? One  day  ten-year  old  Mordred  sat  on  a  stool  up  high  in  the  opening  of  Naman’s  cave,  overlooking  the  little  fishing  village. Naman  stood  a  bit  farther  in  stirring  a  pot  of  soup  that  hung  over  the  open  fire. “Who  were  my  real  parents,  Naman?”

   “I  don’t  know  my  boy.”

   “Are  you  really  a  wizard  like  the  fishers  say,  or  is  it  one  of  there  usual  lies?”

   “I’m  not  a   wizard. But  I  am  a  descendent  of  the  druids. The  people  down  there  remember  that  and  in  their  minds  I  have  been  twisted  into  a  wizard.”

   “You  are  a  druid,  Naman?”

“I’m  not,  myself,  but   my  ancestors  were. There  are  few  druids  left,  but  those  few  are  still  important  forces  in  Logres. The  great  Merlin  himself  was  a  druid.”

    “Will  you  tell  me  a  story,  Naman?”

    “How  about  the  tale  of  old  King  Lear,  who  was  king  of  Logres  long  before  the  coming  of  the  Roman  invaders  or  the  Saxon  raiders?”

    “Yes,  yes! I  love  that  story! It  is  so  sad  and  yet  so  real. Many  of  your  others  do  not  always  seem  so  real. They  always  have  happy  endings.”

    “Alright. Once,  a  thousand  years  ago  lived  the  good  King  Lear. He  had  three  daughters….”

    It  would  have  been  an  odd  sight  if  any  stranger  had  come  upon  them. The  thin,  gray  bearded,  old  man  bending  over  the  fire  stirring  his  soup  with  a  long  pole  and  the  small  dark  haired  boy  sitting  on  stool  listening  to  him  tell  his  tale. Not  the  usual  picture  of  an  evil  necromancer. Mordred  spent  all  his  free  time  thus  until  he  was   twelve  years  old. Though  he  was  very  friendly  and  tame  when  with  Naman,  he  always  avoided  speaking  to  anyone  else  even  old  Polydore  and  his  wife. The  village  boys,  once  they  found  that  Mordred  shunned  their  company,  teased  and  baited  him  without  mercy  whenever  they  got  the  chance. One  evening,  as  Mordred  was  coming  down  from  Naman’s  cave,  after  sharing  supper  with  the  old  man,  they  made  at  him  with  sticks  and  stones  and  one  or  two  threw  buckets  of  water  on  him. Mordred  turned  on  them  furiously,  and  being  bigger  and  stronger  than  they,  beat  them  back  with  his  fists. Several  of  the  boys  were  badly  hurt  and  they  retreated,  letting  Mordred  continue  his  way  home  in  peace. That  night  Mordred  and  Polydore  went  out  fishing  and  Polydore  did  not  hear  of  the  encounter  until  the  morning. While  Polydore  was  eating  his  breakfast  after  taking  a  short  sleep,  several  of  the  fishermen  came  to  him  complaining  of  their  sons  injuries. They  demanded  that  they  keep  Mordred  away  from  that  “evil  enchanter”  who  they  claimed  had  egged  Mordred  into  attacking  their  boys. So  after  breakfast,  while  he  and  Mordred  were  outside  their  hut  mending  nets,  he  told  Mordred  that  he  must  not  go  to  visit  Naman  anymore. Mordred  made  no  answer,  but  as  soon  as  the  nets  were  repaired,  he  got  up  to  go  to  Naman’s  as  usual. As  he  started  away,  Polydore  leapt  up  angrily  and  seized  him  by  the  shoulders  and  shook  him. Mordred  turned  around,  furious,  and  struck  him  a  hard  blow  in  the  head. But  it  was  harder  than  he  intended,  for  he  didn’t  know  his  strength. Polydore  reeled  backward  and  fell  like  stone. Mordred  kneeled  over  him. He  was  dead. Mordred  stood  up  and  looked  around. A  small  was  running  towards  one  of  the  houses,  screaming. The  chase  would  be  on  in  a  minute. He  ran  towards  the  cliffs,  not  knowing  where  else  to  go. As   soon  as  he  reached  Naman’s  cave,  he  told  the  old  man  everything,  tears  running  down  his  cheeks  though  he  didn’t  know  why. “You’d  better  hide,  my  lad,”  said  the  old  man, “My  tunnel,  in  the  back  of  the  cave  is  a  good  place. None  will  find  it.” He  led  Mordred  to  the  back  of  the  dark  cave  and  withdrew  a  stone  that  covered  a  tunnel  that  led  to  the  shore. “Hide  here  for  now. You  can  keep   the  stone  partly  open  for  air. If  anyone  comes  up  here  in  search  of,  you  pull  it  shut.” Just  then  cries  and  shouts  came  up  from  the  village. “Here  they  come. If  they  come  up  here  remember  to  pull  it  shut!”

    Naman  went  back  to  his  pot  over  the  fire. Soon  a  band  of  men  made  their  appearance  at  the  cave,  shouting  for  the  revenge  for  Polydore  against  the  “Sea’s  brat.” “Where  have  you  hidden  the  murderer?” Shouted  one  of  them  who  acted  as  their  spokesman. The  men  looked  fierce  and  strange  against  the  light  coming  through  the  cave’s  opening  to  Mordred,  who  had  not  completely  pulled  back  the  stone  as  he   had  been  told. Naman  made  some  low  answer  that  Mordred  could  not  hear,  but  the  men  were  obviously  displeased  with  it. “If  you  can’t  tell  us  where  the  murderer  is,  then  we’ll  just  have  done  with  you  so  that  you  can’t  cause  any  more  harm  in  our  village!” The  speech  was  delivered  with  a  heavy  blow  on  the  old  mans  head. Mordred  watched  with  horror  as  the  men  brutally  beat  the  old  man  to  death  with  their  fists  and  heavy  clubs. After  a  minute  they  subsided  and  the  leader  spoke. “Lets  search  the  back  of  the  cave. He  must  be  hidden  back  there  somewhere,  because  he  was  seen  entering  by  my  son.” The  sound  of  heavy  footfalls  came  and  Mordred  saw  the  silhouetted  feet  and  legs  of  the  men  move  quickly  as  they  rushed  towards  the  back  of  the  cave  where  he  was  hidden. Something  seemed  to  stop  him  from  closing  the  opening. Fear  and  horror  of  what  he  had  seen  done;  or  guilt  of  the  deaths  of  two  innocent  old  men  that  he  had  caused. He  knew  not  and  the  men  were  almost  upon  him  before  he  snapped  the  stone  into  place. But  to  late,  for  as  he  rushed  down  the  dark  passage  he  heard  one  of  the  men  shout, “There  he  goes  through  the  wall. Hey  man,  light  a  torch!”

Greetings all. Well, after MUCH debate I have decided to post a tiny bit of my tale Hemlock. I have been working on this book for about five years, rewirting it and all. For some reason I am VERY reluctant to let anyone read this tale. But as I am entering it in NaNo I figured it would be better to get friends imput before strangers. So, here is my tale, please let me know what you think!

 Yours, C.S. Lewis

They say all great stories involve a girl. I do not know if that is true or not, I do know that in many of the tales I have read it is so. Well, this tale is no different; it is all because of a girl. Now I am not saying the others in this tale did not play important parts, yet as we all look back over it we all realized this girl was at the middle of it all. You will be surprised to know that this girl is me.
I was a dreamer. I would often hear my mother tell her friends, “She was born with her head in the clouds.” Which I never doubted, I could spend hours walking through the woods, lost in thought, not caring were my feet took me.
From this description you might think I was a witty, cleaver girl who had lots of friends. Well, that is not true. I was a shy, awkward girl who hardly spoke to anyone. I was no one special, yet by the end of my tale you may be inclined to think differently.
I was born in the kingdom of Hemlock. It is one of those places you dream about as a child, one filled with adventure and danger. You may think I was quite happy to live in such a place, but I wasn’t. By the time I was born an evil king had come to power and all that was once good in Hemlock was being stamped out.
Ulrich, the evil king, had come to the throne through deceit, or so many believed. He had been adviser to the former king, Percival. This was all before I was born so I only knew about it from the tales. But as it went, Percival was a good and kind king who was blessed with one son. At the time the boy was about four years of age.
One day the king received word that an enemy was planning to attack Hemlock. So he kissed his wife and son good bye and rode out with his knights. Little did his sweet wife and adorable son know that that kiss would be the last they ever received from him.
During the battle which followed King Percival was killed, and with him nearly all his faithful knights. The queen was heart broken and went into her chamber and wept. Not many days after it was said she died of sorrow.
Now the little prince was to be king, but he needed someone to rule until he was old enough. Thus, the adviser, Ulrich, was named Lord Protector. All seemed to go well, until one day when King Percival’s younger brother returned. It was, of course, made known that he would be Lord Protector for his nephew.

   Hi, everyone! I decided I'm going to post this short story(long short story) first since my novel is mostly in the outling process at the moment. I'm perfectionist so I do a lot of that before I start writing. Hope you like this, though. Since it's a long short story I'm splitting it up to post it. Please comment if you want more at a time(or less). ~ Sir Walter Scott 

The Book of Mordred

Part 1

  The  massive  waves  of  the  Irish  Sea  pounded  the  rocky  coast  of  Gwynedd,  casting  spray  high  in  the  with  a  roaring  as  they  hit  the  high  shore. The  sun  was  setting  as  the  sea  began  to  work  itself  into  a  huge  storm. A  seagull  let  out  its  mournful  cry  as  it  soared  low  over  the  solitary  stretch  of  sand  that  lay  between  the  cliffs  on  either  side. Farther  inland  a  small  village  of  fishermen  lay  snuggled  between  the  forest  and  the  sea,  standing  alone   against  the  driving  wind. “You  may  pray  to  the  gods  that  your  village  will  stand,” Naman,  the  old  weather-prophet  and  hermit  who  lived  up  in  a  cave  above  the  village,  had  said. So  the  village  people  took  care  to  make  all   things  secure  for  the  storm. Not  they  trusted  Naman’s  predictions(they  often  went  wrong),  but  his  reputation  as  a  wizard  made  them  take  care  to  what  he  said  anyhow. The  night  closed  in  fast. The  storm  increased  with  high  winds  and  heavy  rain,  thunder  and  lightning. Though  most  of  the  fishers  stayed  tightly  closed  up  in  their  huts,  the  storm  did  not  prevent  them  from  sending  a  boy  up  to  the  cliffs  to  look  out  for  ships  that  would  potential  wrecks. The  villagers  made  little  or  no  money  on  their  fish  and  relied  on  wrecks  for  any  riches  they  could  hope  for,  or  goods  that  were  not  available  in  the  fishing  village. The  night  wore  on  and  no  ships  were  sighted  by  the  boy  on  the  cliff. Then,  just  as  dawn  was  starting  to  show  signs  of  its  coming  in  the  east  over  the  woods,  a  ship  hove  into  sight,  already  a  wreck  as  it  bucked  up  and  down  and  side  to  side  as  if  unmanned. It  was  driven  closer  and  closer    to  the  shore,  but  instead  of  driving  against  the  cliffs  it  headed  more  or  less  directly  towards  the  sandy  part  of  the  shore. No  matter  how  hard  the  boy  spluttered  out  his  heathen  prayers,  the  boat  continued  its  course. But  just  as  it  seemed  it  would  land  safely,  there  was  a  crack  and  the  already  damaged  boat  fell  to  pieces  less  than  fifty  yards  from  the  beach. With  an  exclamation  of  joy  the  boy  sprang  up  and  sprinted  down  the  rocky  hill  through  the  pouring  rain  to  tell  the  fishers  of  their  good  luck.

Not  long  after  the  sand   was  thronged  with  men  from  the  village  who  came  out  to  glean  the  sands  despite  the  rain  which  still  fell  heavily. They  quickly  spread  over  the  beach   occasionally  picking  up  a  length  of  rope  or  piece  of  sail,  but  this  landing  was  an  especially  poor  one. There  seemed  to  be  no  cargo  or  passengers  for  that  matter. Or  they  thought  there  were  no  passengers  until  one  of  them  overturned  the  bodies  of  two  infants  lying  drowned  in  the  shallows. They  sprung  back  horrified  and  after  burying  the  corpses  they  kept  away  from  the  shallows  for  fear  of  finding  another  similar  find. One  of  the  fishers,  an  old  childless  man  named  Polydore,  was  walking  along  the  upper  part  of  the  beach  when  he  stumbled  and  fell  over  something  half  buried  in  the  sand  that  he  had  not  seen  in  the  still  dim  light. It  was  a  washtub  covered  over  with  wet  straw  and  rags. He  lifted  it  up  and  nearly  dropped  it  again  as  a  faint  cry  came  from  under  the  rags. He  carefully  lifted  the  coverings  off  and  revealed  a  half  drowned  baby  boy,  clothed  only  in  the  wet  straw  and  rags  that  clung  to  him. Old  Polydore  lifted  him  out  trembling  with  joy. “A  son!” He  cried,  lifting  him  up  high  as  if  an  offering  to  the  sea  who  had  sent