Dag sat in a feasting hall, but by the sight and sound of those around him, it would be easy to believe the great space had been cleared for the aftermath of battle to tend to the wounded. Faces stared back with patched eyes or sunken pits where the orb had been plucked out long ago. Flat, broken noses. Cauliflower ears. Scars warped the skin. Hands missing digits. Arms missing hands. Bodies missing limbs. Those who had a body still intact sat bowed, frail and weak, like Dag’s own. He’d never recovered from the breathing sickness which had struck home nearly seven years ago. Now he could only sip the…
Two things can be said about becoming a writer and penning your first novel. Life can never be boring. You're never bored and you're never completely alone.