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Darling Doesn't Like Having Feelings


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Guess someone has to be the first to post a proper excerpt from their writing. I read not quite half of this in our last Storying class, so if you wanted the conclusion, such as it is, here you go. 

Context: In addition to being the POV and protagonist of the novel(s) I'm writing, Darling is also my player character in our friend group's Dungeons and Dragons game. Sometimes I write short stories of what Darling gets up to between sessions and share them with my group. In this one, our adventuring party just escaped the secret prison of the queen by the skin of our teeth but loss a lot of our kit in the process, including Darling's revolver, Retort. Also relevant is that Inamora is a mostly finished clockwork man powered by a magic core. He has the memories (and therefore the mind) of a guardsman who lived in the city two centuries ago. 

I'mma be honest, I don't know how much this excerpt will mean to someone without any familiarity with my characters, cause...not a lot happens. It's mostly two people talking and one (Darling) trying to hold off a panic attack. But it's here if you're interested, and you can let me know what you think in comments below :) 

Here we go...


The tiers rolled by and I watched them through the carriage’s small window, unable to unlock the muscles in my back and neck. Any second I expected to see a swirl of arcane power and have Distelrath appear in the street and snatch me back for whatever interrogation he’d been planning.

My heart and stomach still hadn’t managed to calm. Every few seconds I remembered just how close I’d come to being taken away and very possibly never coming back. I didn’t have the faintest idea of what the queen’s foremost arcane adviser's preferred method of interrogation might be, so my mind decided to be creative, showing me a string increasingly horrific possibilities. As much as I tried to think about something else, anything else, the thoughts kept their claws hooked into my brain and my throat and my heart. I’d think the worst was over and focus on the trees passing by, then the thoughts would tug again and I’d see myself hanging from the branches by my tongue or squirming underneath the powder-white bark, trying to scratch my way out with bloody fingernails.

Throughout the ride I kept reaching for Retort, only to have my fingers find emptiness where my holster was usually fastened. I wanted the gun’s weight in my hands. I wanted to trace it’s familiar shape and wipe down every tiny nook and seam with an oiled cloth. Just as I'd been taught.

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