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About Literature / Professional Member Michael-Israel JarvisMale/United Kingdom Recent Activity
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Michael-Israel Jarvis
Artist | Professional | Literature
United Kingdom
I've been a member of DeviantArt for over eight years. In that time, I more or less grew up and learned to write at the same time. I completed a First Class BA Degree in Creative Writing, with Honours; but it was DeviantArt that fostered my first writing. It was DeviantArt that gave me my first taste of feedback, encouragement; and criticism.

Since University I've independently published three books, two of which were born here, on DeviantArt. You can find Osric Fingerbone and Gravedigger chapters in my Fiction Finder over on the right, in draft form, unedited and unimproved. Meanwhile, I've signed with the Publisher Booktrope, that offer an entirely new model of publishing.

As a result, I'm now working with a professional team to republish my books. I dreamt of this kind of progress over those eight years. I am still dreaming of the successful future I hope I have in writing books, and selling them to people who want to read them. It's that simple for me.

DeviantArt is still here. So will I be. I will always owe this community much.

My books are available still in their indie form, here: www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Israe… (UK link) and here: www.amazon.com/Michael-Israel-… (US Link)

Gravedigger will be republished within the next couple of months.
Interests

Activity


Well this is new! I like it!
Gravedigger, originally a serial fantasy posted in this very community, is now officially being subjected to the attention of my editor. It will be republished in about three months. The cover designer just so happens to be a dA person as well - Ameliethe - so I am more than psyched to see what will be.
I have been accepted by the US based Publisher Booktrope.

Initially, "Gravedigger" which started on this site, and "Osric Fingerbone and the Boy Murderer" which likewise was first drafted here, will both be published.

Chapters from both of these works are available to read in my gallery, or quickly found via the fiction-finder.

I am now looking forward to forming up with a creative team and republishing these formerly self-published books.

As always, thanks deviantArt. You were there for me first of all.

---------------------
Get hold of me on here, or email me at m.i.jarvis.author@gmail.com

I'm also on facebook. www.facebook.com/michael.israel.jarvis

All the best, power to your art.

camar yo adh

xxx
  • Mood: Triumph
  • Listening to: Eluveitie / Lyndsey Stirling
  • Reading: Raising Steam by Terry Pratchett
  • Watching: House of Cards
  • Playing: Minecraft
  • Eating: Port Salut and crackers
  • Drinking: Coke
I never seed a woman like her. Fuh one thing, she tall. Moves thru the mark with her head up, wrapped in old tatty furs, strapped up with leather and webbing for water bottle, knives. She got a hard face, a bony face. Brown hair like coiled rope. She come my way, where I hunch in the corner by the scrap xchange.

‘Kid.’ She look down with clear eyes. Colour of dust. There’s scarring on her knuckles, a white line crossing the corner of her thin lips. She’s crook-nose too, just a little. Enough to see it once broke. ‘Are you fit, kid? Are you fit and healthy?’

‘Yes’m.’

‘Do you want to earn some barta?’

‘’pends. Fuh what?’

‘A bit of carrying, spotting, gathering. I’m going into the jungle. I need an extra pair of hands.’

I laugh. ‘Nobody goes into the jungle. Nobody witted. It’s dangerous.’

Her eyes wrinkle up, bird feet at the corners, as she smiles. ‘Yeah, it’s dangerous. You afraid?’

‘Course I’m ‘fraid. Think I’m witless?’

‘No, I think you’re hungry.’ She looks me up and down to push the point. Feel a prickle in my skinny arms, bare and bony knees; she sees all of me. Not much to look at.

‘What’s the barta?’ Important question. She reaches into her furs, pulls out a handful of scrap metal. Not much rust, a good packet in my reckoning. Some steel. A week of eats fuh that.

‘S’not much.’

‘You get a bag of this. Similar quality. Plus, you get to keep anything you salvage for yourself in the jungle.’

I swallow. I can almost taste porridge. Bread. I could get snails, every day, for a week or so. Still, a coupla week’s food is no good to a dead boy.

‘C’mon kid. I haven’t got all day.’

‘How long? Your trip to the jungle, fuh how long you going?’

‘Six days, there and back, if all goes to plan.’ She waits, her long fingers tapping at her hip.

‘Alright. I’m yours, mam. When d’we go? Can I get some of that barta now?’

She reaches down and I let her pull me to my feet. I grin, to show I’ve got most of me teeth. She starts to walk off, a hand waving to draw me after her. ‘Come on. I’ll feed you first and clad your little bones.’

‘Outta my barta?’

‘Out of mine, kid.’

Joyous! That’s what I wanted to hear.



I beg in the mark, making a crust every other day. The tatty stands are bunched up on the gravel, snugged in the curve of the river. The water goes by sluggily, brown on cloudy days and pale steel under blue sky. There’s a stunt-willow ‘cross the water, like a bent woman with her hair in the shallows. Beyond that are the tumbledowns, and they go as far as looking goes, until they smudge at skysmeet.

They’re empty, the tumbledowns. I tell the woman this, while she hands over good barta to get me garbed, pig leather and dog leather and good shoes. The tumbledowns on this side of the river are lived in, roofed over with sheeting. Bricks hold warmth better than cracked boards.

‘Where’s the furthest out from here you’ve been?’ she asks. I slurp down brown stew, panting and puffing to cool my mouth between sucks.

‘’cross the river?’ She shrugs, I go on. ‘Well, I never gone out of sight of home, not ‘cross the river. There’s nothing to be found in them tumbledowns. And the jungle is that way. I’ve done miles the other way. West. There’s country, some woods, then more tumbledowns for a way, then country for as far as looking goes.’

She nods, gesturing for Gordy to fill me bowl again. He scowls at me. I grin back. Gordy don’t like me, but I don’t hold him hatred; I wouldn’t like me neither, if I was Gordy.

We’re walking East, toward the river when she sez, ‘How many people live here, kid?’

‘Oakpark used to be bigger.’ I gesture around me, big hand sweep. ‘Twice as big, mebbe.’

‘Sickness?’

I nod. ‘That and raids. Big one three years ago. Big black chief and his gang from over Lagrange way, took slaves, gals and women, killed thirty odd men, most slow-dead from hurts, but still.
She frowns, stopping short of the slat bridge over the water. ‘That sounds like Jaims Williams. Did they have horses?’

‘Yup. Don’t know the name though, mam.’

‘Did they have a tag?’ She started us walking again, slow over the bridge.

‘Yeah, their tag was a wheel. Rubber wheel, with a spear through it.’

‘Then it was Williams. I ran in to him before he came East. I Kept my ear out for news about him, after that.’

‘His gang likely to come Oakpark again?’ I sez, nervy. I bin matterafact about the killing and the slaving, but I think I only got left alone back then cos I was little. Mebbe cos I’m brownskin, and the chief weren’t pink either, so I got lucky. I dunno.

‘No, Jaims Williams is dead. The Wheelers are broken up, some dead, some split.’ She said it like it was no big news. Big news for me though, big for Oakpark.

‘Fuckyes! Joyous!’ I grin, all teeth. Never been so happy to hear of a death.

‘Don’t be so cheered,’ the woman sez. ‘When a monster dies, it pays to know how.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because the Wheelers didn’t get sick, and Jaims Williams didn’t fall off his horse. They were beaten and broken up.’

‘By another monster,’ I worked it, sudden. She smirks, pleased.

‘You are witted after all. Yes. Somebody beat the first monster, and they did it by being cleverer, or stronger, or fiercer. Better.’

‘I ain’t cheered now, mam.’ I sound it bright, but truth is I’m fearing now.

‘Good.’ She looks down at me, wind whipping her ropey hair. We both look back at Oakpark, before the rubble and the tumbledowns around us get in the way of that view.

‘Don’t be cheered, be sharp. We’re going into the jungle.’

I turn and look that way. The sky is coming down, black and glossy and heavy. Sunlight slides underneath them clouds, lighting the land up all yellow, all the way to a distant silver mirror on the skysmeet. But the light doesn’t properly catch on the great, heaping, snaggletooth smudge that gets in the way of it.

She puts a hand on me shoulder, shoves me on. ‘Long way yet to go, kid.’

The Chicago jungle makes me shudder, but still I put foot in front of foot, and off we go.
Broken Jungle
Just a bit of fun with post-apocalyptica.

May expand on it, if the mood takes. I'm thinking I could get a long short-story out of this.
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(Contains: violence/gore)
West coast of the Skalderlund –
Skibergekop docks




Emme walked high above the rocks and the foaming water. The sun was setting beyond the ragged arms of the bay, turning the sea orange and iron. Dwarf pines clung to the rocks of the mountain, high above Emme’s head, their branches atremble in the wind.

At last the path turned inland again, switching back on itself many times, dropping to the sheltered inlet where ships docked. Emme could see her house from where she stood. She could also see the squat block of a tower, the kop that guarded Skibergekop, sitting across the harbour.

The cliff path was an unnecessary and dangerous detour, but it meant that nobody could see her coming and going, or ask about the tears in her eyes.

Now it was time to face what was coming. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and turned off the path into a thin belt of firs. A few moments later she found the rock face of the crag and the clearing where her elders were already waiting, talking in hushed voices despite the screen of trees and the distance to the kop. Emme’s father saw her at once and met her eyes, smiling slightly despite the sadness in his gaze.

‘Emme!’ Riun Eswelt stood and greeted her, ‘we’ve been waiting for you. Come, come, sit by your father.’

Emme sat on the halved log next to her father. He reached down and gave her hand a quick squeeze. Riun looked around the small group. His smile faded as he began to speak.

‘Gertha Ramusdatte would have liked to have been here tonight but she is grieving. Her son, Ramus, has been sent to the Morskyde Isle.’

There was a collective noise of sympathy. Emme glanced at her father but said nothing. Riun’s fists clenched as he went on. ‘They’ve taken all our sons to dig the black fire. How many come back from the isle? Ramus was fourteen. A few months your senior, Emme. They have not yet resorted to sending daughters, but what if they do? What if the Damskalde finds tomorrow that not enough of the cursed stuff is making its way to the Stonewood? What if our wives are made to join the dockhands, putting black fire in jars, feeling the years shorten in their veins?’

Emme winced. Riun noticed and calmed himself. ‘We can only plot for so long. Jorve Damskalde’s army needs changesmiths. Changesmiths need morskyde to work their craft. Without the black fire and those that can work it, how would Jorve keep his headmen in line? How would he take the warm northland away from the Owerisi?

‘I say we can only plan for so long. The King is sending his Harthers and his soldiers north. The roads have never been so empty between here and Stone-Storharthen. So we take action.’

Riun sat down. Karla Birksdatte stood to speak, the grey tresses of her hair seeming silver in the failing light. ‘Riun, we all agree, I think. But we’ve talked of assassins this and assassins that for years, my dear, since we started these meetings. Who can do what needs to be done? No one has ever come close to killing Damskalde.’

‘They say he wears a morskyde charm that makes him immortal,’ Riun said.

Karla dismissed the idea. ‘Shit that may be and shit I believe it is, but to kill the King – it is an asking that puts life in the balance. We have no lives to spare.’

‘We have no lives at all.’ Anvar stood up. He caught his daughter’s eye and Emme looked away. ‘Myself least of all. I am dying. I will be dead before winter.’

‘Anvar...!’ Karla raised a hand to her mouth. Riun half rose from his seat. Elga Helmswife looked from Anvar to Emme and back, her eyes bright with emotion.

‘I knew. He told me,’ Emme said, to their gazes away. She did not want to be hugged or comforted. She could meet her father’s eyes, that was all. He looked on her with pride and nodded. She nodded back, the slightest movement.

‘I would go.’ Anvar continued. ‘No risk to my life matters. But I cannot kill the Damskalde. I will weaken too soon. The task will take time, time I do not have. But...Emme...Emme has time. Soon she will have no father, no shelter, nothing but time.’

The shock this statement brought was greater still than the last. ‘She’s a child!’ Karla protested.

‘No shelter? We would... of course we would take her,’ Elga spoke across the older woman, ‘Helm and myself, how could we not?’

‘She is not a child.’ Anvar looked weak. Emme did not want to believe it but she could see it now, in his bent posture. He seemed tired and her heart ached for him. ‘She has had her first red month. She is a woman...’

‘A maid!’ Karla’s grey hair came loose of her tresses as she shook with emotion, though Emme could not see if it was more anger or sorrow that moved her. ‘She is not an assassin!’

‘Neither is my father. Do you know an assassin we could ask?’ Emme found herself speaking. ‘Father would be asked questions – Riun the same, and he would be missed, reported. I can disappear. Maidens are sent off for marriage often enough. Our hut belongs to the kop and when father... when father dies...’ Emme began to struggle. Unborn tears hurt her eyes. She blinked and carried on. ‘When father dies, I will lose him and the hut both.

‘Elga, thank you. But you can’t feed me as well as yourselves. If Headman Ochse finds you harbouring me... orphaned boys go to the ships and orphaned girls to the kop. I do not want to slave, in a kitchen or a bed!’

‘But sweetheart...’ Elga put out a hand as if to reach Emme that way, ‘how can you think... to kill a man... a king!’

‘I will attract fewer eyes. Fewer questions,’ Emme insisted. Anvar nodded, his eyes glistening. Elga shook her head but said nothing more. Anvar put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder and smiled down at her.

‘Emme is right. I have spoken to Rerrik, on the docks. He is bound for Morskyde Isle, then Hvaldrekop, where he goes inland. He will get to Stone-Storharthen, this year or the next. Rerrik has been breaking king’s-law longer than we, and he will know a way. He will bring the tools to Emme and Emme will do it, if she can.’

‘If she’s caught, they will kill her,’ Riun said bluntly. ‘Worse than that, most like. Torment. Rape.’

‘You’ll not scare me.’ Emme looked him in the eye. She was barely fourteen, but he couldn’t meet the fierceness in her. ‘I will face that anyway and you know it. Ochse is a cruel headman.’

‘There is no safety for a maid in the kop,’ Karla conceded.

‘It is settled.’ Anvar stood behind Emme, his hands protective on her shoulders. ‘Before I begin to waste away, she will take the Stonewood road. This week. I do not want her memory of me lessened by... the way I will become. She goes this week. To the Stonewood and the citadel.’

Emme steeled herself, but the elders raised no protest. She was going to Stone-Storharthen.
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: violence/gore and strong language)
Southern Oweris on the Rissiyan Peninsula –
The edge of the Verdalund



One of them was already bleeding.

Obrin watched with growing interest as the two men circled each other at the crossroads. The ground was uneven with cart-rucks, the mud dry under the sun. The younger duellist seemed to see with his feet, moving light and easy. His sword was dripping.

His opponent was fully armoured on his torso, broader and a head taller. Even his sword was larger. His feet scuffed at the dirt as he tried to reach the younger man with lunging swings. In Obrin’s estimation the man was probably not from nobility, a lowborn who had risen to become a pactor, swearing his sword to some minor lord.

The big pactor missed, stumbled. The other man’s thinner blade nicked him between the plates of his suit. The pactor’s arm dropped. So did his shield.

The young swordsman turned aside as he came on, whirling away from the big man’s last dogged swing. His arm straightened and his blade flashed. The point and a few inches tore into the pactor’s neck from the side. The blood began to bubble, then squirt, washing across the big man’s breastplate as he fell sideways, his shield arm raised, empty hand reaching.

The victor bowed, almost in parody of tradition. His breathing showed that he had been pressed hard by the fight. Obrin could tell that if the younger man had been held longer, he might have been the loser. The boy – he couldn’t be older than sixteen – was a good fighter, but by no means exceptional. Fast, but not strong.

Without further ceremony, the boy sheathed his sword and knelt to strip the armour from his foe. The watchers began to return to their business, the farrier and the carter arguing over their wager. Obrin waited until the attention of most was elsewhere and slipped forward to talk to the duellist.

‘Well fought.’

‘Thanks. Friend.’ The boy’s voice sounded young, to match his looks. He frowned warily up at Obrin, taking in the elder man’s battered mail, the long knife at his belt. The boy had green eyes, quick to take in detail. ‘Is that a longbow?’

Obrin’s longbow was unstrung, wrapped in canvas across his back.

‘Yes. Sharp eyes, you’ve got. Are you an archer then, as well as a sword?’

‘No. You going to help me with this?’  the boy gestured at the dead pactor. He’d got the breastplate off and was working on the backplate straps.

‘No lad. I’d rather not. I’ll drink with you when you’ve sold the steel, but I don’t want to see the sharp end of frontier law – the war’s not far away lad. They’ll hang or head you for stealing.’

‘It’s mine by right!’ The boy stood up, affronted. ‘All the Lords and the Three Fathers decreed that a contest of honour gives the victor right ownership of a pactor’s armour. If he’d had a horse, that would be mine as well!’

Obrin smiled. ‘Their law, lad, not ours. The contest of honour is for the pactors. Are you a pactor?’ The boy shook his head. ‘No. So if another sworn man comes along; a captain or just someone that knew this poor sod, and wants your head for it, they’d get it.’

‘Shit.’ The boy looked around quickly, then got down to pull off the man’s mail coat. ‘This’ll be the last one then. Thank you, Coz.’

Obrin laughed, ‘I’m near twice your age, so don’t make me your cousin. You’ve done this before?’

‘Every inn along the coldroad from Greenwheat Keep to here. Four men. Never get the armour’s worth, of course, but I get it off my hands and get to sleep on feathers. And what do you do, Uncle?’

‘I’m not your uncle either. Call me Obrin, or Bowman.’ Obrin waited for the boy to gather up his spoils. They walked off the crossroads and across the yellowed grass towards the inn.

‘Ameryn,’ the boy said at last. ‘My name.’ He seemed loath to give it.

‘Worried that will mean something to someone? I reckon you’ve come further than from Greenwheat. Am I right?’

Ameryn looked evasive but he was smiling. ‘Buy me beer and we’ll see where I come from.’ He shook his dark fringe out of his eyes, keeping his grip on the pillaged armour. ‘Looks like some new freemen are in off the coldroad. Might be one of them needs some good steel.’

Obrin looked back over his shoulder at the crossroads. The pactor was diminished, seeming naked despite his padding. Ameryn had left the boots, at least, but one of the peasants or another wayfarer would get them. Two labourers were already dragging the corpse to the side of the road, laying it in the shade of a hayrick. One of them straightened and shielded his eyes from the high sun, staring darkly back at Obrin. The bowman shrugged slightly and turned back to the inn.

The innkeep poured dark beer into clay tankards and left them to it. Obrin drank and found it was clean and full flavoured, which was a surprise.

‘I’ve not had a drink this good since Delverkeep. In a little hamlet just off the coldroad, good strong cider they gave me. This is good too, but I didn’t have to pay for the cider.’

‘You stole it?’ Ameryn asked.

‘No lad. They gave it me. A gift for going to join the fight, down in the Verdalund.’

Obrin mused on the plan as he drank. He still wasn’t sure of it. The bloody Verdalund. A hundred years ago it had been Sufower, the southern stretch of Oweris. What’s it to me? Hay and root crops, and some good vines in the warmer north, near Greenwheat town. Not my town, not my land. But a hundred years before that, the whole of the Skalderlund had been Rissiyan. Rissiyans would fight for it, even if they had to fight the Skaldermen.

‘Bloody Skaldermen,’ Obrin said aloud.

‘You hate them, do you?’ Ameryn asked, bored, eyes scanning the inn.

‘Nah. Not as such.’ Obrin tipped back his tankard. ‘I’ll fight ‘em, kill ‘em if I can. If I can get paid to do it, at least. I’m going south to find a decent company. If they’ll have me I’ll sign up. It’s not got much to do with hate. I’m too well seasoned to hate the men I kill.’

Ameryn didn’t seem that interested. Obrin cursed the young for their youth.

‘Well I have bought you beer, lad, like you asked. Where’s home to you?’

‘You first, Bowman.’ Ameryn’s reluctance to talk about himself seemed a little forced. Obrin shrugged.

‘Alright. So I’m from Yastaris. Big land, nearly as big as here. East and north.’ Obrin found himself doing that fool thing men did, trying to draw a map in the air with his hands.

‘I know where Yastaris is,’ Ameryn said scornfully. ‘What are you doing in Oweris?’

‘You’ve been educated then. Most people here don’t know what lies twenty miles away. And I’m here to earn a fortune by the stretch of my bow. And you’ve still not told me where you’re from.’

Ameryn shrugged, making a show of draining the very last of his beer from the tankard. Obrin snorted, amused by the lad’s bravado, and waved over one of the inn’s girls.

‘More beer for both, fill us up, pet. You’d like Yastaris, lad. The sun is warm in the north, and it’s all easy slopes and olive groves.’

They said that in the south, the mists would freeze solid, binding the forest together, tree to tree. Obrin doubted that tale, but cold was cold. He was not marching south for the weather.

Before Obrin could try the boy for more of his past, more armed freemen came into the inn, and Ameryn became focused on selling his loot. He sold the greaves and pauldrons to an infantryman from Lord Randin Westower’s foot regiment. The plate harness went to a captain from Lord Pollyn Daysong’s pikes, for twenty silver risi. It wasn’t quarter of what the armour was worth, but the man looked suspicious and Ameryn didn’t seem to want to give him a reason to ask questions. Understandable. Lord Daysong would lose his lands if the Skaldermen won through and came north. If Ameryn was accused of murder or even theft, the lord wouldn’t hesitate to take his head.

‘I’m from Ousinghall,’ Ameryn told Obrin halfway down his third tankard, with all the armour sold, ‘but my mother came from Silrada. I favour her, looks-wise.’

‘Freeangbhari lass was she?’ Obrin asked. ‘You’ve the right colouring. Skin with a touch of sand, my papa would call it. Olive-dark.’

‘Does it matter?’ Ameryn asked tersely. He put his drink down.

‘Not a bit.’ There was silence between them for a while, while the inn filled up with officers and their men from the road. Obrin drank comfortably, unbothered by his companion’s attitude. He wondered where the lords’ regiments were making camp.

‘So you’re bound south to fight?’ Ameryn asked at last, as if he hadn’t believed the longbowman the first time.

‘If I can find the right company to march with, yes. Otherwise I’ll keep myself to myself. The risk of death is one thing, but I don’t aim to fight under fool pactors who’ll get me killed quick, or lords who’ll get me killed quicker.’

‘I heard the Lord of Westower is a good commander.’

‘A successful one, yes.’ Obrin chuckled. ‘He earned that reputation fighting the lords of Highower, and he won all his battles. Spent too many men to do it. Some lords will spend men like copper, but I’m worth more to me than coin. A free company won’t waste its men if it can help it. It’s good to fight a war you can win, as long as it’s a war you can survive. No coin in the other sort, not that you can spend afterwards.’

Ameryn considered Obrin over the rim of his tankard. ‘You’ve no more honour than me, Bowman.’

‘Leave honour for the pactors. Talking of sworn men, it’s not many lowborn lads that can fight and kill a proper warrior like you did – you’ve been trained. I know it. C’mon, tell Obrin, and he’ll keep it to himself.’

‘Do keep it to yourself, or you’ll die before you ever smell a Skalderman.’ Ameryn grinned to show how little he meant it. ‘I was an armiger for Gorday Cassimer.’

An Armiger. It made sense. Ameryn moved like he’d been trained to fight and he had natural talent, but he didn’t have the character of a pactor. He lacked the finish that came with the weight of baptismal honour; the refusal to fail.

‘Did you ride with Pactor Cassimer at Stow Point?’

Ameryn scowled. ‘No. I’m not much good on horseback. He took his son. I was a better armiger than Verilyn but he always out-tilted me. I’d put him on his back in the melee though, that’s for damn sure.’

‘When did you get out of his service?’

‘When I deflowered his niece at harvest feast.’

Obrin snorted dark beer as he laughed. He put the tankard down and wiped his mouth and nose, still chuckling. ‘That would get you out of his service, aye.’

‘She wanted me as much as I wanted her.’ Ameryn was melancholy, Obrin saw. The boy was staring across the dark room, his hair falling across his eyes. ‘She had to cry rape, didn’t she? Else Gorday would have given her to the Bowl Sisters. He’s very religious. Fornication is a sin.’

‘So is lying about something like rape,’ Obrin pointed out. ‘You should have run away with her if you wanted her that bad. Or otherwise kept it in your britches.’

‘I don’t blame her for it.’ There was a slight quaver in Ameryn’s voice. He shook himself and tipped back the last of his beer.

‘I fucking would.’ Obrin watched his companion with an odd sense of compassion. The boy wasn’t anything to him, sure, but he was a poor little fool. Some advice couldn’t hurt him. For a moment Obrin considered suggesting that Ameryn join him in searching for a banner to fight under, but he dismissed the idea at once. He was a veteran and he knew green boys well. Ameryn wouldn’t last in the press, against a veteran Skaldermen army.

A lot of green boys would die before summer ended, green boys fighting over green land. They would bleed red.

‘You should go north,’ Obrin said after a while, ‘forget about the girl. Silly cunny would only have brought you grief. Or children. Or both, most like. Go north, Penhower, or Owervayle. Silrada maybe. See the city your mother came from.’

Ameryn considered the advice, turning the empty tankard in his hand, so that the clay grated against the table. His eyes were distant but he nodded. ‘Yes. Maybe I will. Maybe I should. I’ll never be a pactor, but there’s other work for an ordinary blade in Silrada.’

‘So I hear.’

‘Thanks, Obrin. What will you do?’

Obrin looked into the depths of his beer and shrugged. ‘Drink this up. Find a company. Loose arrows at some hairy Skaldermen. Live and come back north with money in my purse, or die and see if my spirit really does get poured into God, like the Bowl Brothers say.’

‘Luck, Bowman Obrin.’ Ameryn gripped the older man’s arm as he rose.

‘Aye. Luck, Ameryn of Ousinghall.’

Try not to get killed.
I have been accepted by the US based Publisher Booktrope.

Initially, "Gravedigger" which started on this site, and "Osric Fingerbone and the Boy Murderer" which likewise was first drafted here, will both be published.

Chapters from both of these works are available to read in my gallery, or quickly found via the fiction-finder.

I am now looking forward to forming up with a creative team and republishing these formerly self-published books.

As always, thanks deviantArt. You were there for me first of all.

---------------------
Get hold of me on here, or email me at m.i.jarvis.author@gmail.com

I'm also on facebook. www.facebook.com/michael.israel.jarvis

All the best, power to your art.

camar yo adh

xxx
  • Mood: Triumph
  • Listening to: Eluveitie / Lyndsey Stirling
  • Reading: Raising Steam by Terry Pratchett
  • Watching: House of Cards
  • Playing: Minecraft
  • Eating: Port Salut and crackers
  • Drinking: Coke

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ChimeraDragonfang Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2014
Birthday cake  icon 
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:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2014  Professional Writer
Thank you! :D
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:iconpaintedwolff:
PaintedWolff Featured By Owner Apr 16, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Wow I love your writing, it's much more... real, I guess (sorry, I'm bad at describing things)
Especially Skin Deep; you kept me reading, the story was fanastc. My writing's to dark  XD
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:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Apr 21, 2014  Professional Writer
Cool, I'll check yours out when I get a chance!

Thank you very much!
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:iconkadarian:
kadarian Featured By Owner Apr 4, 2013
Featured here: [link]
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:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Apr 7, 2013  Professional Writer
Thank you! I'm honoured.
I will be following your blog!
I hope Gravedigger satisfies your appetite for gore and excitement.

I'm on Facebook: www.facebook.com/michael.israel.jarvis

Please stay in touch, and once again, thank you.
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:icondelorean7:
Delorean7 Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2012
Happy Birthday!!!
As a small present, here's a link to a great song: [link]
Laters
-7
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:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Nov 8, 2012  Professional Writer
Twas cool!
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:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2012  Professional Writer
Cheers dude! Will listen to this in a bit.
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