And it's hard. I mean really hard, to keep the transitions smooth, to avoid head-hopping and that splintering, whiplash sensation, to learn a whole new skill in a skill-set I had fooled myself that I had more or less mastered....
But it's interesting, too, although I'm still learning what it's useful for.
And now I'm writing this:
A Kelpie who was not named Whiskey watched as the poet who wasn't named Thomas knelt by the grave of a Prince of Faerie, and didn't shed a tear. It wasn't precisely unmarked, that grave, bowered as it was by the overarching branches of weeping willows and cradled between their roots in a gnarled embrace. Thomas dug his inkstained fingertips into the greensward and uprooted a tuft of grass, turning it over and over in his hands. Two waxy grubs shone among the grassroots. He touched one idly and closed his eyes to feel it writhe against his skin.
"Your Queen's mother is a mortal woman," he said, some time later. Kelpie had not moved from his place beneath the tree.
"Our Queen's mother is a Mage," the Kelpie answered. "High up in the counsels of their Promethean Society, so-called, who were the other side of this war-- You've heard of the Prometheans, Sir Thomas?" The sudden lift of the bard's chin revealed as much, even before the Kelpie asked.
"Known with some intimacy," the bard replied, in a tone that suggested it hadn't been a pleasant knowing. He turned the green grass in his hands, careful not to shake the grubs loose, and tucked it back into the wound he made in the turf over the grave. He scrubbed earth-stained fingers on his trousers, and then rubbed them across his face. "What is her name, this Maga?"
"Jane Andraste, Sir Thomas." The Kelpie didn't mind saying. Didn't mind at all, when he felt the wind blow across his ribs and lift his mane, and smelled the sunlight of Faerie on it.
"I'm only a knight in Faerie," the bard said, standing, and tugging his cloak about him as if the warm air carried a chill. "That honor was never conferred on me in all my service to mortal queens." When he angled his head just so in the sunlight, it caught more coppery sparks from his sand-colored hair, and his right eye was brighter than his left.
About 150 words on Whiskey & Water today. Nothing on One-Eyed Jack. I plan to spend the rest of the week playing computer games.
Nobody tell my agent. *g*