I'm being kept in line...

This is Max Riemelt, a German actor who is worming his way into my mind as the image of Simon, albeit at a younger age. He fits, in so many ways, but especially his eyes.

It's interesting that's the name the main character chose, in Misdemeanor. Reminds me of the children's game of Simon Says...except my Simon don't want to say a damn thing. He wants to keep his words to himself, because he knows what they will reveal or can lead to. And that is going to be damned hard to keep up throughout the book.

I love working up meaningful dialogues. Sure, I can go overboard and have to pull it back, but it's also one way the characters reveal themselves to me. Show me how they express themselves. I guess that stems from my screenwriting days, when dialogue was everything...and nothing, because the actors would just change it.

But Simon...he's not merely being taciturn. He uses his silence to protect himself. He was in a vicious relationship with a guy named Chris (real name: John James) where just one wrong word could hurt him, and it took him moving to another city to break the cycle with the bastard. 

He's like a cat that's hidden in a bush and licking his wounds after a brutal fight that it damn near lost. And he's found that staying there, silent and observant, is the only way he can feel safe. Even though it's been 40 years since Chris died.

A telling moment has come out about him and Chris. As his abuser is slowly being taken by AIDs, Simon cares for him. Sees to it he gets the help he needs. Reads to him. And despite this, Chris is still verbally abusive...until one day, near the end, he says, "You're just doin' this because you wanna see me die, aren't you?"

To which Simon merely replies, "Yes." And leaves it at that. But when Chris does pass into death, Simon grieves...and doesn't understand why. And I'm not sure I want to explain that.

Or can.

Or even if I should.

Tug of war...

One of the joys I've found in writing is when a character starts talking back at you. You build him. Lay out his who, what, where, how, when and why...and then he takes that and says something like, Yeah, but isn't this better, for me? And it's not what you want to do.

Simon's started that with me. He wants to go left when I'm aiming right in his storyline. I want him to speak...mainly when he's angry and irritated at the other person, but he wants dead silence. Go internal on me, he says. I can think about anything, but I don't share with people. No matter what. 

This happened because I'd started writing sections that hit me. Then I arrange them into the story, once I have enough of them. One was a lovely little exchange between Simon and Walstead, set just before the beginning of the trial. Walstead's learned Simon writes gay erotica and it went like this:

Walstead: We need to talk.

Simon: You have nothing to say to me.

I dunno. Been doing some research. You write some pretty intense stuff. 

What’ve you read? 

I don’t read things like that, so... 

So you think you can discuss something about which you know nothing. 

The synopses alone tell all I need to know. Kidnapping straight men. Tying them up. Raping them. 

You’ve been perusing what’s on Gay Portal. You have to be a member, for access. Was that smart of you, signing up? 

I didn’t. I know some gay men, and one had a membership. He’s a pretty mellow guy but even he was freaked out. Said it got brutal in the...how’d he put it...non-con area. 

Am I supposed to respond to that in some way? 

Makes me kind of wonder if that’s what you planned for Paley. 

This is why you need to read the work, not learn about it second hand. If you had, you’d have seen that every one of the men in my stories who’s abused is described as well-built; hair on their chest, legs, arms and belly; middle-thirties; good strong features; and a thick mane on their head. Paley is their polar opposite. 

He’s well-built...

He’s a juicer who shaves the hair off his body. Including his pubes. 

How do you know that? 

Oh, stop it. I specifically note in every story I write that I despise that. It’s like they want to come across like a little boy instead of a man. 

Y’know, steroids are illegal. I mean, for muscle enhancement...and without a prescription. 

Oh, that’ll prevent its use. 

What makes you think he's on them? 

Look at his face. His jowls. His skin. How his hair is thinning and his muscles are blown up like balloons. He’s even getting bitch tits. It’s like, if I stuck him with a pin he’d pop. 

C’mon, man, you gay guys go for muscles and... 

Don’t be insulting. 

I can still use the stories against you. 

Do you want a list of my work? It’s not just on Gay Portal. There’s Plumbr. BDSM2. My blog on WordPlay has some of the more palatable ones, for you. Oh, and GayTrip. Queer2, too. 

You’re pretty cavalier about what these could do to you, in that courtroom. 

Did your gay buddies tell you whose name is on them all? Did you think maybe that was why they found them so quickly? Google me and the first one that usually comes up is "The Best Way to Take a Straight Man’s Cherry". It’s been banned a few times. People thought it was a how-to manual. 

It’s not? 

Again, the main reason you should read my work for yourself. Courtroom’s open. I’m going in. 

If we don’t deal, here and now, I’m aiming for jail time. 

How the hell did you even get into Harvard Law, let alone graduate and pass the bar? How?

------

Walstead's dialogue is a fine start. Keepable, for the most part. But the only line that's important for Simon to say about his writing is, Whose name is on them? That, alone, tells Walstead to fuck off, without the hyperbole.

Characters laid out...

Lots of chit-chat, today with my characters and the storyline of Misdemeanor...

The treatment  is 7 pages long and fairly detailed. Here are quick snippets of the other main characters. Still working on depth for each...but may let that just happen as the story goes.

Frank Paley, 32, Cop for Barrington Township, Power builder, Straight, he says, tattoos, probable use of muscle enhancers, friends with Brian Walstead.

Olivier Deskin, 56, antiquarian book dealer in London, knowledgeable but prickly, snarky about Simon’s sexual orientation, claiming he’s just joshing. 

Tannen Northridge, 72, worth millions, hard to deal with, wife dead, kids gone all over the world, alone in great house, not a book person. Refers Simon to Villiers.

William Villiers, 80, defense attorney, won’t consider trial, just deal. Anything else is a waste of time and effort, and just stupid. 

Brian Walstead, 32, Assistant District Attorney, Very good-looking, Divorced, friends with Paley, trying to prove self to father. 

Elissa Manville, 30, Walstead’s second chair, Rubenesque but pretty, Boyfriend is not very attentive, has little boy and mother at home to watch him. Sole income.

Vin Tran, 50, owns store where it all starts, doesn’t want to give Simon security tape, thinks will piss off cops. 

Judge Alexander Denton, 49, Criminal Court, Distinguished but right wing, Married, 5 daughters, three grandchildren, may be closet case.

Christopher Westridge, deceased in 1984 at age of 27, involved with Simon in mid-70s, gorgeous but cruel to him. Real name? John James. Sociopathic. 

Dr. Delon Aristide, 36, PhD in Jurisprudence, Attractive and well-dressed, Married, 2 sons and a daughter.

Raymond Harver, 54, District Attorney, Self-satisfied about self, Married twice, son and daughter from first marriage don’t speak to him. Friends with Brian's father.

Arlon Walstead, 62, powerful lawyer in town, wealthy, used friendship with Harver to help Brian because he thinks Brian is no good on his own.

Georg Garisov, 38, Cop for Barrington, About to become sergeant, Married, three kids.

Angelo Corelli, 26, Cop for Barrington, Good-looking and upright-seeming, Single.

Dominqua Lambert, 34, ACLU Lawyer, recent hire. Pretty and self-assured. Involved with Walstead, on the sly. Anti-gay. Did podcast a few years back under a different name, praising MAGA crap.

ReShawn Greene, 46, Attorney with Kaplan, Halliwell and Greene, Stocky and neatly dressed, Married, three girls, seven grandkids. Decent.

Collier Allendale, 74, Superior Court judge., Tall and stately, Married, two children, two grandchildren, one great-grandchild, level-headed.

Benny Reacher, 23, techie, AKA: Snack Attack. He can fix any phone, computer, electronic stuff, tattoos all over, quirky smiles, read some of Simon’s work. “Wild shit.”

The framework begins building...

I spent much of today sitting and talking with my main character in what I'm now calling Misdemeanor Murder...and which I'm still not crazy about. I do need a better title.

This is what he's revealed of himself.

Simon Halloran, 69, gay but celibate. Insulted people think he'd make a pass at the juice-junky cop who arrested him. Looks like an older Bing Crosby. Thinning red hair. Slim but not skinny. 5’9” and 155 lbs. Bites nails.

Born in Nathalia, Texas Moved to San Antonio when dad got job at Kelly AFB.

Had a brother and his wife get $2500 out of him to help with dental expenses, turned out was really for one of her sons from a previous marriage to get him out of a jam. Never paid back.

Aunt, uncle and cousins cut him off when found out he’s gay, nothing overt just went silent on him, no sharing, nothing.

Now lives in Buffalo, NY, away from everyone in his family.

“I can’t be hurt when no one is around to hurt me.” 

Mom neurotic but kindly. Passed away 15 years earlier.

Father dismissive due to being effeminate, focused on brothers and sisters. Died from diabetes 23 years ago.

Trained himself to be more masculine as he grew older, now just kind of bland, on the surface.

Presbyterian upbringing.

Writes and posts stories about kidnapping and raping men, what he calls ditties on his blog, on Tumblr, through GayDemon and other threads. Some very brutal. Unapologetic when confronted with it. “I don’t do it; I just fantasize.”

Loses self in SF and Fantasy, and writing gay erotica. Always worked in book stores on a minimal existence, but lots of free reading. “What more am I worthy of?”

Semi-retired, talked into going to Barrington, OH to archive a book collection as a favor for a friend.

When in 8th grade would draw sketches for girls (of boys they liked) and boys (nude females), for 10 cents each, till two boys tried to blackmail him. He refused. Got in trouble, suspended. Picked on when returned but stabbed one tormenter in arm with a pencil. Said was an accident. Uproar but nothing could be done. Here is when he first realized he will not back down in the face of being threatened. Quietly told the boy the next pencil would go in his eye, so left him alone, after that.

As a young gay man in San Antonio, got into a relationship with Darren and was treated like shit. Emotionally and physically abused. Raped, but when he tried to report it was told he’d go to jail for being queer. Financially devastated but managed to move to Houston to get away.

Darren died of AIDs, in Austin. Simon both glad and sad about it. HIV negative.

Near end of the book, in a confrontation with the cop who first arrested him: What a stupid man, Simon thought. He can’t think beyond his nose. Can’t see threats are nothing to me. I’ve never given into threats. Never will. I can’t. There’s something in me that refuses to allow that. And I told him. But he doesn’t believe me. The stupid, stupid man.

Stephen King on writing successfully

This is from 1988...and some is no longer valid. But still good to check out...especially if you've violated 7 of the 12, like I have:

1. Be talented. This, of course, is the killer. What is talent? I can hear someone shouting, and here we are, ready to get into a discussion right up there with “what is the meaning of life?” for weighty pronouncements and total uselessness. For the purposes of the beginning writer, talent may as well be defined as eventual success – publication and money. If you wrote something for which someone sent you a check, if you cashed the check and it didn’t bounce, and if you then paid the light bill with the money, I consider you talented. 

Now some of you are really hollering. Some of you are calling me one crass money-fixated creep. And some of you are calling me bad names. Are you calling Harold Robbins talented? someone in one of the Great English Departments of America is screeching. V.C. Andrews? Theodore Dreiser? Or what about you, you dyslexic moron? 

 Nonsense. Worse than nonsense, off the subject. We’re not talking about good or bad here. I’m interested in telling you how to get your stuff published, not in critical judgments of who’s good or bad. As a rule the critical judgments come after the check’s been spent, anyway. I have my own opinions, but most times I keep them to myself. People who are published steadily and are paid for what they are writing may be either saints or trollops, but they are clearly reaching a great many someones who want what they have. Ergo, they are communicating. Ergo, they are talented. The biggest part of writing successfully is being talented, and in the context of marketing, the only bad writer is one who doesn’t get paid. If you’re not talented, you won’t succeed. And if you’re not succeeding, you should know when to quit. 

When is that? I don’t know. It’s different for each writer. Not after six rejection slips, certainly, nor after sixty. But after six hundred? Maybe. After six thousand? My friend, after six thousand pinks, it’s time you tried painting or computer programming. Further, almost every aspiring writer knows when he is getting warmer – you start getting little jotted notes on your rejection slips, or personal letters . . . maybe a commiserating phone call. It’s lonely out there in the cold, but there are encouraging voices … unless there is nothing in your words which warrants encouragement. I think you owe it to yourself to skip as much of the self-illusion as possible. If your eyes are open, you’ll know which way to go … or when to turn back. 

2. Be neat. Type. Double-space. Use a nice heavy white paper, never that erasable onion-skin stuff. If you’ve marked up your manuscript a lot, do another draft. 

3. Be self-critical. If you haven’t marked up your manuscript a lot, you did a lazy job. Only God gets things right the first time. Don’t be a slob. 

4. Remove every extraneous word. You want to get up on a soapbox and preach? Fine. Get one and try your local park. You want to write for money? Get to the point. And if you remove all the excess garbage and discover you can’t find the point, tear up what you wrote and start all over again . . . or try something new. 

5. Never look at a reference book while doing a first draft. You want to write a story? Fine. Put away your dictionary, your encyclopedias, your World Almanac, and your thesaurus. Better yet, throw your thesaurus into the wastebasket. The only things creepier than a thesaurus are those little paperbacks college students too lazy to read the assigned novels buy around exam time. Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule. You think you might have misspelled a word? O.K., so here is your choice: either look it up in the dictionary, thereby making sure you have it right – and breaking your train of thought and the writer’s trance in the bargain – or just spell it phonetically and correct it later. Why not? Did you think it was going to go somewhere? And if you need to know the largest city in Brazil and you find you don’t have it in your head, why not write in Miami, or Cleveland? You can check it … but later. When you sit down to write, write. Don’t do anything else except go to the bathroom, and only do that if it absolutely cannot be put off. 

6. Know the markets. Only a dimwit would send a story about giant vampire bats surrounding a high school to McCall’s. Only a dimwit would send a tender story about a mother and daughter making up their differences on Christmas Eve to Playboy … but people do it all the time. I’m not exaggerating; I have seen such stories in the slush piles of the actual magazines. If you write a good story, why send it out in an ignorant fashion? Would you send your kid out in a snowstorm dressed in Bermuda shorts and a tank top? If you like science fiction, read the magazines. If you want to write confession stories, read the magazines. And so on. It isn’t just a matter of knowing what’s right for the present story; you can begin to catch on, after awhile, to overall rhythms, editorial likes and dislikes, a magazine’s entire slant. Sometimes your reading can influence the next story, and create a sale. 

7. Write to entertain. Does this mean you can’t write “serious fiction”? It does not. Somewhere along the line pernicious critics have invested the American reading and writing public with the idea that entertaining fiction and serious ideas do not overlap. This would have surprised Charles Dickens, not to mention Jane Austen, John Steinbeck, William Faulkner, Bernard Malamud, and hundreds of others. But your serious ideas must always serve your story, not the other way around. I repeat: if you want to preach, get a soapbox. 

8. Ask yourself frequently, “Am I having fun?” The answer needn’t always be yes. But if it’s always no, it’s time for a new project or a new career. 

9. How to evaluate criticism. Show your piece to a number of people – ten, let us say. Listen carefully to what they tell you. Smile and nod a lot. Then review what was said very carefully. If your critics are all telling you the same thing about some facet of your story – a plot twist that doesn’t work, a character who rings false, stilted narrative, or half a dozen other possibles – change that facet. It doesn’t matter if you really liked that twist of that character; if a lot of people are telling you something is wrong with your piece, it is. If seven or eight of them are hitting on that same thing, I’d still suggest changing it. But if everyone – or even most everyone – is criticizing something different, you can safely disregard what all of them say. 

10. Observe all rules for proper submission. Return postage, self-addressed envelope, all of that. (Not really valid, anymore)

11. An agent? Forget it. For now Agents get 10% of monies earned by their clients. 10% of nothing is nothing. Agents also have to pay the rent. Beginning writers do not contribute to that or any other necessity of life. Flog your stories around yourself. If you’ve done a novel, send around query letters to publishers, one by one, and follow up with sample chapters and/or the manuscript complete. And remember Stephen King’s First Rule of Writers and Agents, learned by bitter personal experience: You don’t need one until you’re making enough for someone to steal … and if you’re making that much, you’ll be able to take your pick of good agents. 

12. If it’s bad, kill it. When it comes to people, mercy killing is against the law. When it comes to fiction, it is the law.

That’s everything you need to know.

Coming together...

A Simple Misdemeanor is the new working title for this next book. A story of how a small incident escalates to the point of murder and destruction. I've been going over an outline I wrote, back in December, and making notes. Adding details. All in red pen.

I've also worked up a basic idea of how the convenience store is set up, where things get started. A rough sketch but it's just for my visualization, since it plays an important part in the story.

Of course, I'm getting into something I know very little about--the true legal processes involved in escalating a simple misdemeanor into a full-scale legal war. Simon doesn't need to know much about it, but Brian does...well enough to manipulate the law to benefit himself.

I guess I can write it out using what little knowledge I have...from watching LA Law and Law and Order...not to mention Perry Mason, once upon a time. Then go over it with an attorney who handles defense, in court.

There's also the issue of the judge and what standards he or she has to have. What is considered misconduct in criminal court? I know they're usually handled by the issuance of a citation instead of a full-scale arrest...

But the cop needs to actually arrest Simon, making this a bigger deal. Could his claim Simon exposed himself within 600 feet of a school be sufficient cause? Even though it's around midnight?

Oh, man...I have a lot of research to do. See what I can get away with and what I can't.

Psycho me...

As is usual for my manner of writing, suddenly I'm lost in thought about a story outline I worked up over Christmas, back when I was trying to figure out what to do now that I'd finished A Place of Safety-Home Not Home. And I blame a quote by Lao Tzu I saw in an Instagram clip for it.

Care about what other people think and you will always be their prisoner.

It's not the quote that got me, so much, as how his name was spelled by the people who made the post. Loudsu! Check the screengrab.

Yeah, sure, that's how it's pronounced, but spelling it phonetically was way off the beam...and shows how stupid even smart people can be.

Anyway, that kicked my brain in an odd way...and I started thinking about Arrested, again. (Bad title. A Simple Misdemeanor would be better.) It's the story about Simon Halliwell, a man who claims he was arrested without cause or justification and won't take a deal, so the case goes to trial...and gets nastier and nastier.

A couple of the characters started talking to me -- Brian Walstead, the assistant DA, and Elissa Manville, his associate...but they were not talking with each other.

Brian realizes he fucked up, big-time, by prosecuting Simon based on Officer Paley's word...and it's coming back to haunt not only him but the whole team in the DA's office. He and Harver, the DA, are in an intense discussion over who to blame in order to minimize the damage this is causing.

Paley is now facing accusations of perjury and false arrest, and two of his fellow cops are accused of conspiring to commit perjury, to help him. Harver is pissed because if Brian hadn't gone through with the trial he'd have had just the false arrest to deal with and could have made it go away. But now IAD has to look into it, and the police department is furious.

Brian thinks blaming Manville might work, despite the fact she cautioned against him pursuing the case. His father did it once, blaming an intern for a late filing in a legal matter and saved not only the case but his own reputation...albeit at the destruction of the intern's chances of becoming an attorney. Harver thinks that might work.

However, neither of them knows Elissa is friends with Harver's receptionist, who's letting her listen in on their conversation via the intercom. And she's recording it on her phone. When the man calls her in to prepare the path to blame her for the growing fiasco, she uses that recording to protect her own position. I support my mother and my child, so don't try to fuck me over.

That's when Brian's father joins with his son and the DA, and they decide the best way to handle the growing crisis is to have Simon permanently disappear. Otherwise, they're all going down. But Mr. Walstead is even more pissed off at his son...and disappointed in him...and is letting him know it.

It's turning into a serious storyline, for me...and I do not want to let that go.

Now comes the fun...

I need to figure out a way to make Darian's Point compelling and scary and meaningful, but as of right now, I don't know exactly what to do to achieve that. I know the outline. The structure. The characters. Who does what to whom and why...all except for the why it matters part of the project.

I know it does have a reason to become a tale...but right now, no one is sharing that with me. There's the basic moral attitude of cheating on your spouse is bad and causes problems way beyond anything you can imagine. Not very interesting, really. You can get that in any romance novel.

There's the idea that a slavish devotion to honor before death is not the same as doing what is right. But that seems contrary to what a story like this is aiming for. Especially since the rest of the book will show that Caoimhín's death brings a sort of horrible peace to his clan, giving them the opportunity to rebuild their lives after years of war and destruction.

With A Place of Safety, it took me years to find the meaning in it. That Brendan was just a lad who wanted to live his life...but the world would not let him. Even then, it took me writing the whole of the story to finally accept that he was fighting to not let history rule his life. I was going to have him join the IRA and commit a murder at the end, as a sort of surrender to the inevitable.

But after I wrote it, the whole moment felt hollow. Then he slowly...deliberately...dragged me back to show how he did not want to surrender to that sort of evil. He found a path he could take that would let him be who he is, and would protect his family. A quiet path separate from the slaughter. Not perfect, but by his choice.

That was hard to get to. I'd rather not have to go through that, again. This is a gothic/horror story...and maybe I'm attaching too much importance to it. But I'm going to be working on this beast for a couple years, and I want it to have some meaning to it.

I'm just that grandiose, in nature.

Last part of the prologue...

The soft, tender, chilling laughter continued as the creatures slipped up to dance around Caoimhín in movements as playful as they were sensuous. Three of them, there were, twisting and turning, so well-wrapped in the thick mist they almost seemed human. Their laughter verged on being musical. Joyful. Welcoming. 

Caoimhín watched them grow closer and closer. Refused to look away until their forms began to shift into the beasts he knew they were. His first thought was to escape. To pull himself free from the straps and run. But that meant a coward's life and would not be worth living. So he gripped the stones tighter and focused on the whispering gray around him. 

A talon appeared from within it to caress his cheek. Cut into his skin. He grimaced and grunted in pain. Blood coursed down to his neck to stain his tunic. 

He shook with fear but still made himself growl, "You will toy with me!? Now!? Play your evil games!? Now!?" 

The laughter grew darker and more cruel. Hisses worked within it. Another talon appeared from the mist to slice across his chest, rending both tunic and skin open. 

He barely kept from crying out, then gasped in a breath.

It was time. 

It was time. 

He closed his eyes and choked out a whisper. "Caera...Caera, I...I come to you. Forgive me." 

Then another talon whispered up, accompanied by the cruelest laughter, and sliced through his throat.

Mícheál heard his brother's strangled cry and had to fight back sobs of grief. This was Caoimhín, his brother, his dying brother, and he was losing the battle to control his pain, losing, and that could not be because then he'd be crying before the men he'd sworn to lead, men who needed to respect him and follow him and he could not allow that but he could not stop the towering waves of loss and sorrow crashing over him until in desperation he gripped his brother's sword and thrust it into the air and howled, "Caoimhín Ui Briúin! Caoimhín Ui Briúin!"

His men joined him, in unison. Swords high above their heads. "Caoimhín Ui Briúin! Caoimhín Ui Briúin!" 

Over and over and over they cried the name. It echoed across the water to their land. A lament to let their world know that the evil which had terrorized them had finally been tamed. 

And that Caoimhín Ui Briúin was of this earth, no longer.

--------

This prologue sets up the horror and tragedy of what the rest of the story will be about...and adds a level of fear to the parts set in 1910 and in modern day. Knowing what is in store for the lead male to face.

The image I used to illustrate this section is of Poulnabrone, a portal dolem I visited on my first trip to Ireland in 2002. It's an ancient burial site, and I nearly drove past it en route back to Galway.

I took the photo.

Continuing...

From the 17th...Until the first laughter came...

-----

It drifted past him as a beautiful whisper of tenderness. Soft. Gentle. Cold and cruel. Seductive. Like the quietest of bells. More followed, echoing through the darkness. 

"Stand firm!" he said, stronger but barely in control. He ached to reach for his sword. To slash at the things he knew were close by. He had to grip the edge of his tunic to keep from doing so...and tore the fabric.

Then a hand barely caressed his face. Soft fingers trailed along the line of his chin. Tenderly touched his cheeks. The laughter light but joyous and teasing. It drifted into his ear on the barest trail of breath. The finger gliding down his neck, still soft, almost loving...until he felt sharp talons drag along his skin. Cut into it. Tear open a sleeve of his tunic. 

"We are not to be harmed!" Mícheál cried, fighting his fear. His hand on the handle of his axe. "It is your promise!" 

The laughter echoed around him. Hollow and terrifying. Evil to the core. 

But also softer. 

And softer. 

The sounds drew farther away. They were keeping the oath. They were headed for Caoimhín. 

Mícheál felt such relief in this. His men had not been harmed. But an instant later, the horror of what was about to happen returned to him. 

Caoimhín heard the soft genial laughter draw closer and closer. But this time...this time there had been no cries of pain or terror, not like so many times since the beginning. For that, he was thankful. 

The mist grew lighter and three forms appeared in it. They had the look of women, beautiful in shape and movement, but he knew what they were. He was the only man who had seen them and lived.

It was in the midst of an attack on his settlement. The mist surrounding them all, to where nothing could be seen. He was searching under Aoibhinn's flowing branches, trying to find his brother, who was protecting the child named Pádraic from one of them.

He could barely hear the sound of howling, from both Mícheál and that beast. And the sharp whipping sounds of his axe, the only thing that could keep one of them at bay. 

Caoimhín was rushing to help but heard shrieks of death and turned to see the mist part for a moment... 

To show four of his best men being slaughtered by a thing that had the form of a woman, to be sure. Her head and upper body. But in place of hair, black shining feathers flowed over her neck and shoulders, and while she did have hands, they were part of powerful wings that made up her arms, black and shining, each of them longer than a man was tall. Sharp cruel talons gleamed on her fingers, also black, and her lower body was covered in more feathers with claws for feet and larger, sharper claws.

She used them to tear his men to shreds without the least bit of trouble, their swords and spears having little effect against her. When she was done, she'd flicked their bodies aside like they were nothing.

Then she had turned to him and that hideous laugh had drifted from her. She had flown at him, shrieking like some mad beast. 

“Femlimid!” he had screamed at Mícheál. “Femlimid!” 

Then he had slashed at both the creatures with his sword and knife, distracting them enough to give Mícheál time to grab the boy and dive into the stream under the cover of Aoibhinn’s drifting branches.

One’s claws still dashed into the water to grab for him, but Caoimhín used its distraction to plunge his silver dagger into the base of its skull. It screamed in full horror and anger, causing her sister to dance back, in shock. 

This gave Caoimhín the chance to jump into the water and hide in the reeds. The wounded beast’s screams of pain cut through even the silence of the water. Shrieks that would chill the blood of any man, living, as she slowly, slowly died. 

Then came the howls of anger and frustration, roaring wild enough enough to make the bravest man run in terror as her sister flew about the reeds, trying to find him. She dove and danced around and dove, again. 

But then another of her sisters howled in pain and others called in fear and she danced up and dashed away, giving Caoimhín time to slip away...and find Mícheál had hidden the child in a narrow cave between the roots of the great towering oak, Fedlimid. 

It was after this attack that Morriggan and The Dagda had joined with them, and within the course of one moon a treaty was forged with terms agreeable to both sides.

Now the Ui Briúins were honoring their part. And it seemed these things would honor theirs, as well.