Writing Round Robin

I love you, my lurkers. As a long-time lurker of blogs, I don’t mind the lurking so don’t take this as an attempt to oust all of you. Now, I just happen to think this might be a good idea – I am starting a writing round robin. Remember those adventure stories where you get to decide what happens next? It’s something like that, with you suggesting what happens next. And me choosing one option and writing it (Is that too authorial? I would do a poll, but that’d stretch the project out a longggggg time, no?)

Of course, no one might choose to comment and this idea tanks, at which point, it would be put away in the box of ‘Bad Ideas’.

So, the timetable goes:

Friday: The continuation comes up

Friday – Wednesday: Comments/What happens next….And for this week, a title too?

Let’s keep it PG-13, cos I have no idea how to turn on the “above 18” warning.


Diandra watched, her lips curled in amusement, as Tihalt gulled the young gentleman of another hefty bag of coins. Naive, young men were Tihalt’s specialty, as he had the knack of projecting an insulting air of faint scepticism that young men could never resist challenging.

She lifted her mug of ale, hiding her widened smile behind the heavy earthenware. In response to Ty’s smirk, the young man gesticulated wildly, then produced a handful of coins. He tossed them on the table, upping the stakes.


The door swung open.

Tihalt tossed the dice. Her attention drawn to the beautiful planes of the face at the door, Diandra noted the mark’s groan absently. A double twelve again, of course. Despite the odds, Tihalt always managed to throw double twelves. As he liked to say, he made his own odds. It was, really, a way of saying he cheated.

She had never seen such an intriguing blend of fireshifter and airwalkers in any individual, pairings of the two rare to begin with. The sharp blades of bones befitting the shifters contrasted with the soft curves of the walkers in his eyes and mouth. As he passed her, he glanced at her. His features shifted for the briefest moment, rounding out into a nondescript human one. She blinked up at the halfling, confused. Lead coalesced in her stomach as she stared through the flickering glamour.

Startlement crossed the haughty face as he too realized the inefficacy of his glamour. He looked around, realized she was the only one who saw through the glamour, and narrowed his eyes at her.

Diandra dropped her gaze in haste. She did not want to be party to any secret. ‘Twas the fastest way to getting knifed in the dark.

But his gold-green eyes had burnt into memory.

Watersprite eyes.

She swallowed hard. No angel blood purified the handsome stranger. A child born of violence, the man’s eyes bore testement to his parent’s rape. She could sense his hesitation.


About A. Faris

A. Faris spent her formative years at libraries and scribbling odd tales that somehow always end up romantic. She writes in between running after her son.
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