Blood of the Lamb Excerpts- Catching Up

Okay, so I appologize for not posting a lot of my works lately. I've been very busy with drama, school, friends, etc (excuses, excuses, excuses!). Anyway, I HAVE done more work on The Blood of the Lamb, so I wish to update you on everything with these new excerpts. Here they are, so enjoy!

The oaken panels swung back, revealing before them a colorful court of nobles, adorned with the luxuries of the lands. Men and women alike, their little children clinging to them, lined the aisle. Near the back of the room, standing imperious over the others, a throne sat. And embraced by its cushioned comfort, Illana, Arrenia’s stepmother reclined, flocked by her daughter Isabel on one side and a slave from the exotic corners of the world on another.

Inevitable chatter rang incessantly through the air, interrupted only when all pairs of eyes, some nearly blinded by age, others having not yet seen the fruits of their days, turned upon the guard and the small, frightened girl he led behind him.

Arrenia hugged herself, looking into one emotionless face and then the next. With every sense, she felt their sharp pity. Noble after noble, lord, lady, and child alike- their large, sad eyes- burdening her with despair’s ready trust, until she stumbled, catching herself upon her hands.

Like one big wave, the sea of courtiers rose, their gasps eliciting her from her reverie. Warmth rose in her cheeks, and she scrambled to her feet, covering the remaining distance to the throne in long strides. Her eyes remained on the ground, her hands folded in front of her. She clenched her teeth together, subduing the tears tugging at her eyes. So, crushed beneath the world’s conflicting weights, she crumpled to the floor in front of the queen.

“Your Majesty.” A mere quiet tremble it was, but a tremble all the same.

“Stepdaughter, you have returned. What a pleasure to see you again.”

Arrenia opened her mouth, searching her brain for the right words. Several rose to her tongue, but the leaden lump in her throat choked all sound. Nervousness twisted her hands into a tight ball. Seconds dragging on, the acuteness of time stabbed at her soul. Silence sung of the expectancy of the court, ringing in her ears louder than any melody. A soft whimper escaped her lips as she raised a pleading look to the queen.

Arching her thick brows, the woman said, “Well?”

Arrenia held her sorrow in with soft little gasps. It was all she could do not to cry.

Sliding from her seat, Isabel moved with graceful strides over to the grieving girl. Her midnight- hued robe carpeted the steps, the silver stitched crescent moon glittering dully in the light of the large chandelier. The schism of speech deepened and widened with each lengthening moment. Forcing it upward, a cold bony finger poked at Arrenia’s chin.

“So cold…so dark…so sad….” Isabel whispered. A cruel smile tipped the scarlet corners of her mouth. “Mother, perhaps we should give her a bit more of a…well…warm welcome.”

Black curls swung in Illana’s face as she shook her head. “No, darling. I think it best that she hear the sad news in front of the court.”

Arrenia’s heart pounded in her chest, beating like a booming drum until she knew everyone could hear it. Chills rattled through her body, shaking her with the intensity of their ruthless ravage. More sad news? Her mind ran wild over the possibilities each idea worst than the next. She set her jaw, trying to shun them from her thoughts all the while bracing herself for the awful truth.

“But of course,” Isabel said. “I simply thought that she might need a bit of comforting. I, after all, know how hard it is to lose a father…let alone a brother…on one night. But, as always, you are in the right, Mother. It would be good for her to be crowned before the people, since it was, after all, the people’s decision to place her upon the throne. Besides, she would have hundreds of people to share her misery with.”

Shots of pained grief ran through Arrenia as stared into the dark eyes of hypnotic deception. Drenched in doleful mournings, her stepsister’s voice was. But the statuary masquerade of stone-faced sympathy failed to conceal the truth. The eyes staring down into her own twinkled in the merriment of their wicked amusement.

A slow tear meandered down her cheek, wandering aimlessly until it fell into the palm of her hand. Her jaw clenched against the sharp throbbing of her heart, she studied the girl.

Isabel. Bewitchingly beautiful Isabel with her bottomless promises and pretty words! She could say anything, unchecked and unlimited by the world, and her people still revered her radiant beauty and held her in high esteem. She could cut and hurt all she liked, and the land would never see past her pretty pretense. With every laborious pound of her wounded heart Arrenia recalled an instance when Isabel’s slicing sayings had gone by unpunished. And with her brother gone, she found herself trapped, cornered, and hopelessly helpless in the arms of her only family.

“For that is what you would want, someone to commiserate with, is it not, little sister?” The smile widened, revealing flawlessly white fangs.

Arrenia pulled herself free and fled down aisle, hands covering her face, shouting behind her, “Get away from me!”


A Lamb stepped from misty fog of sleep, entering into the old scholar’s mind. The trees around him creaked and swayed, their old boughs nearly breaking under the breath of a light wind. A deep, strange sound of wailed distress resonated in his ears as the Creature approached, as if the very depths of the trees were calling out. Their boughs lashed at the air, their leaves falling to the ground in a flurried frenzy as the sound escalated. Bewildered and afraid, the scholar curled into a tight ball upon his mat.

But then the clouds rolled away, and a facet of moonlight struck the Lamb, playing briefly upon what He carried in His mouth. It glittered and glowed, projecting its beauty throughout the forest. He dropped it gently into a soft carpet of lush grass and nudged it toward the man.

“The time is right. Give this to the one who shall conquer.”

“It will be done, my Lord.”

With a start, the old man jumped from sleep. He stared around the cave, eyes skimming the shadows spun on the wall. The hearth hissed its harrowing farewells as the flames vanquished in the ashes.

Chill pierced the ancient one’s skin, penetrating deep into his bones. He pulled his blanket closer about him, the scratch of the worn wool soothing to his soul. Like a languishing light, the dream faded from his view. The moonlight. The trees. The forest. Even the golden glow emanating from the object.

But the voice was still there. Still, silent, and insistent, it sang its message in his ear. Like a lute on a summer’s eve, the resonating notes flowed through the air. Beating out all sound. Making it the only voice to be heard.

Tossing his blanket aside, he stood to his entire hunched height. His walking stick forever tapping the ground, he probed his way through the darkness until he came to the door.

Rap, rap, rap!

“Cora!”

An old cracked voice croaked its way down the hall. Cora threw her shall over shoulders and picked up her candle, allowing the light to crawl into the corners. Her feet sped over the ground, guided by the call of her master’s voice. She stopped in front of the door and rattled the knob.

“Is all well, my master? Are you ill?”

The age-marked hinges screeched their protest as the door was drawn inward. Candlelight leapt upon the scholar’s face, its dancing spark tracing every line furrowed
hardships of the past.

He waved his hand. “No, my dear. I am quite well. All I ask is that you take me to the library. I…have a sudden urge to be among my books.”
The young girl bowed her fair head. “Anything you wish shall be done.”

While they traversed the narrow hall, the elderly gentleman’s hand searched the inner recesses of his sleeve. Extracting a ring of keys, he fingered them one by one.

The passage yawned and stretched before them, an endless twisting trail leading deeper into the heart of the cave. A soft draft of wind blew throughout it, sweeping dust into small flurries before gently setting it down again. The candle flickered and wavered, but never went out, firmly standing its ground in the breathing battle that threatened to put it out, leaving the world forever in darkness.

Gradually, they came upon an old wooden door, cracked and splintered from centuries of use. The scholar stepped forward and nudged it with the palm of his hand, forcing it to squeak open. He squinted into the dark recesses, his age-impaired vision unable to grasp the form of what lay beyond.

“Place that candle in the alcove there, Cora….Thank you, that’s much better.”

Illumination haloed walls lined with bookshelves, revealing the forsaken religious writings- the laws by which all of Sleyvink used to run. Books of the ages, abided by men and women of years ago, now stood beneath the layers of dust, heeded by only those called to the prehistoric priesthood. They cluttered the desk and carpeted the floor- wisdom untapped by all but the very wise.

The scholar, leaning upon his cane, limped over to the desk. Half seeing, half feeling, he traced the inner edge down to a small drawer. Fingering the key, he inserted it into the lock and twisted it with slow surety.

Click!

The compartment sprang open, its single content glittering in the candlelight. He removed it from its resting place with reverence, staring in awed silence as he held it up. Then, in hardly a murmur, soft speech whispered past his lips. “The half medallion of the Lamb, our Lord and our Light. Blessed be ye, for ye will take part in the redemption of mankind!”

With that, he closed his withered hand about it, sending up a silent prayer. Oh, Lamb, keep it safe. Let the bearer who is chosen serve you well, for long and dark is the road ahead of him!

“How may I serve you, my master?”

The man shuffled back towards the doorway and grasped the girl’s shoulder. “Run Cora. Run all the way to Sleyvink. Tell the king that I have a great prize for the tournament. Say it is a great prize, and it must be given to him who will conquer.”


Clouds of gray hovered over the city of Sleyvink as the solemn procession made its way through the gates. Women lined the streets, their children before them, watching warily as the weary travelers rode by, trying to spot loved ones.

From his mount, Castor looked upon the bereaved expressions born by the passersby, and he knew why. Although they had succeeded in destroying a good part of Lydacia’s defenses, many lives lay wasted upon the cause. The newly widowed broke out into wailing as the last of the men rode by, marking the somber city with their screams of grief. Some knelt upon the ground, tossing handfuls of dirt into their hair. Others, weeping, fed the last of their coins into the hungry hands of magicians and fortunetellers. One girl of about fourteen even tugged on his leg, begging him to run her through with his sword and end her misery. With a slow shake of his head, Castor urged his horse on, his mind made up. There was no joy in the city of Sleyvink.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” a young voice shouted above the commotion. A girl shouldered her way through the multitude, her carrot red hair like a streak of sunshine in the sea of black scalps. Guards closed in around the king, making his passage nigh on impossible. Castor reined in his horse, a reminiscent pang of pain pounding in his chest. That hair. That long, golden-red hair.

Sweeping his lids with a swipe of his hand, he shook his head. His heart burned deep inside his chest, tingling every nerve with the tale of its lovelorn sorrow. He closed his eyes, trying blot out her memory with endless black bliss. The blood sizzled in his veins, the scorching simmer scourging him as it coursed through his body.

Setting his jaw, he clenched his fists. He must compose himself. Was he not a warrior? She was a woman! Had he not fought stronger foes than this?

Oh, but what a woman! Sweet and shy, and yet he sensed something else, some inner resilience. His pulse quickened as she danced across the field of his imagination.

A tug came upon his mantle. “My liege! My liege!”

With bittersweet sentiment, he opened his eyes, allowing reality to flood through him. She was his past. This was his future.

He looked down at the fair-haired girl and forced a grin. “Hello, Cora. What errand gives us the honor of meeting once again?

“’Tis my master, my lord. He has a very important message for his Majesty the King, but the crowd is so large I cannot reach.”

“Then I shall deliver it for you.”

She gripped the strap of the horse’s girdle, pulling herself closer in, the tone of her voice tumbling from its wild shout to a scarce whisper. “It’s important. Too important to be made known here. Allow me to accompany you to the palace. Please. The message must go to the ear of the king and none other’s.”

Castor pressed his lips into a fine line of indecision, eyeing up and down the girl who struggled to keep step with the trot of his steed. She had always been good and gracious to him and his family. True, she had never cared much for Lucrious, but, come to think of it, neither did he. No sword or bow adorned her person, only a small, traditionally-stylized hunting knife which accompanied all Sleyvinkians whenever they should fancy to leave their abodes and venture into the robber-ridden streets. The corners of his mouth began to tip into a smile, and he held out his hand to her.

“Fine then. Accompany me you shall. But I shouldn’t dare to let a lady go on foot.”

She took his hand, and he hoisted her behind him, instructing her to fasten her grip about him. Through the thoroughfare they ploughed, the scars of war reflected on the saddened expressions. Castor didn’t dare to look at destitution’s deathly face, preferring rather to concentrate on the crude castle before him.

Lurking in the looming shadows elongating across the abandoned hall, Lucrious pressed an ear to the wall. Its rough, sharp cold sank into his cheek, biting it with all its forbidding ferocity. His mouth curved into a sly smile as muffled mumblings emanated into his ear.

Surreptitiously spying, the painted eyes of his ancestors looked on as he softly stroked the smooth, black feathers of the bird perched upon his shoulder, speaking to it in inaudible undertones. The sly, cutting words flowed from his tongue, sifting slowly into the winged creature’s brain. It cocked its head, watching him with hypnotic attention, their gazes locked in comprehensive communication. Nodding, it soaked in the ancient Sleyvinkian language, assimilating everything into its memory.

The shadows suddenly summoned him into their depths as the door creaked upon. As candlelight crept into the dark corners, he pressed himself back, seeking to become one with the dull stones upon which he sought shelter. Covering the beak of the bird with his hand, he waited, his breath drawn in with slow, shallow drags.

His father exited the room, his wife striding with graceful pride beside him. Their words slurred together into a low hum as they sped from their lips, urgent and barely above a murmur.

Behind them, a second flicker of light fanned its way into the world. Cora came quietly, her thoughts masked by the blank white slate of her face that was determinable in the darkness. She cradled a scroll in the crook of her arm. Lucrious cast his eye upon it, its scarlet thread glowing crimson in the candle’s glow.

Cold chills cut through Cora as her arm snagged into the snare of an unseen grasp. She stopped, not daring to breathe, not daring to move. The taut, terrible grip constricted her flesh, her hand turning the ghoulish gray of marked demise. Goosebumps pricked the surface of her skin as shadowy silhouette engulfed her own. Eyes warily watching, she tensed, bracing herself for whatever must come.

The wind howled through the open window, tumbling into the corridor, its ferocity unchecked. Swept away by its murderess breath, the candle flickered faintly, then went out. Darkness crowded Cora’s mind, seeping into her soul, dilating her senses until the very stones had eyes and the people portrayed in the tapestries smiled schemingly down at her.

“Scared, are you?”

The candleholder clattered to the floor as the whisper slid into her ear. Turning about, she started once again.

A man stood before her, his features cloaked in a robe of mystery. He stood tall and erect, clenching his fingers into her. Out of the cavernous depths of blackness which covered the eyes, beaconed his glare. His nose and mouth jutted from the darkness, glowing a rotting white in the moonlight. She stepped back, her gaze fixated upon him in horror.

He extended out a pale, fleshy hand to her, the bird upon his shoulder squawking hideously. “Don’t be afraid, little one. All I wish to know is information. What is you are holding?”

She stepped further back. “It is my master’s. I don’t recall you being among the few that it interests.”

The silence about them screamed of deadly doom. Cora’s ears rang the resonating drum of her heart, her knees buckling beneath the burden of fear. With every recoiling retreat, he took a step nearer, his lips bent in a belyingly cruel smile. His fingers slid over the handle of a dagger.

“My interests are my own, and I know them full well. Give me whatever it is you carry, and no harm will be done.”

With one hand, she reached out, her grip groping upon the stones until their sharpness summoned scarlet drops of blood. Using this as a guide, she slowly began slipping her way into the shadows.

Her mind reeled as she eyed the dagger. All she desired was to be free of it all, to turn and run. But that would be a grave mistake. For that, he could have her hunted down and killed. She clutched the scroll tightly in her hand, wondering whether or not she should relinquish it into his power.

She shook the thought from her mind. A decree of her master’s! How could she? Her jawline tightened, and she stared defiantly into the man’s unseen eyes.

With a blurring movement, the man pinned her to the wall, baring the blade of the dagger against the pumping pulse of her throat. It bore into her skin, her chest swelling as it blockaded breath. An unheard plea to an unseen God wrenched its way out of her mouth. Sobs rattled through her, soft and seemingly unperceived.

Lucrious leaned into his victim, the edge of words slicing deep into her soul. “Many lives has this blade taken. Much damage has it done. If it did all it then, what is to stop it from doing it now?”

Perspiration pouring down her face, Cora gasped and gagged. Small, red rivers trickled into the groove of her neck, tickling her with a tinge of horror. The night seemed to close in around her, suffocating her in the closeness of its proximity. Seconds slurring together, the moments of her life drained with every tick, tick, tick of her internal clock.

Was it really worth it? Was the secret of the medallion really that great? She glanced from the scroll in her hand back up into his eyes.

Life versus loyalty. Loyalty versus life. Her head pounded until it hurt, the knife ever pressing against her throat. And those eyes, those ever-hidden eyes, boring through the blackness that shrouded them penetrating her skin and slicing to the soul.

“You’d best hurry,” he said. “I’m not going to wait.”

Cora could feel the thump of her heart slowing steadily. She knew she didn’t have much time. The sweat of her hand bled into the paper as she clenched in her palm.

Should she do it?

Burning in her chest, her lungs begged for air. The darkness was closer now than ever, almost blotting her vision entirely. Shakily, she extended out her hand, the scroll tucked neatly inside it.

Lucrious grasped the object and released the knife’s grip on her throat, allowing her to droop gently to the ground. Unrolling it, he scanned it over, a crooked grin sprawling across his face. Stuffing it into his cloak, he exited the room, his wicked cackling accompanied by the crowing of the bird.

Creating Francine Bentley- the Complicated Fraud Facade

Francine Bentley. Friend to all she knows. Sweet and hospitable. Middle-aged and cultured. Masquerading murderess.

What? You might be thinking, but you read right. A Party to Murder, written S.O.S. (Shine On Stage) drama director Sharon Manacapilli, centers on this deceptively docile individual and her plight to keep the Seven Chimneys inheritance for herself. But, when she hosts a birthday party for her best but ever-forgetful friend Abigail Pennyworth, she finds some of the nosey party guests know a little too much. As bodies are found dead and tension builds, Francine begins to aim the threats at herself. But, with the rest of the curious assortment she calls friends terrified into taking action, can she really keep her secret?

This is the character that I want to audition for. She'll a bit different than any character I've ever done, because her cool calm has to be backed by a motive. Many actors play their lines. If I want Francine, I'm going to have to play my part.

Perhaps the hardest aspect about Ms. Bentley is that she's two-fold- sweet to your face but plotting behind your back. However, she hardly has a minute to herself on the stage where her true nature can be revealed. How is it done, then?

Well, part of acting is reacting. When I said above that I'll have to play my part in order to get Ms. Bentley, I meant that I'll have to shed Brittany altogether for however long I must and step into Francine's shoes. A sweet disposition and a smile can easily be adopted by almost any false personality, but only for a time. Often times our expressions, the way we hold ourselves, the hardness or softness of our eyes, or a habit such as the popping of fingers or twirling of hair betray our true emotions when we do not realize it. And that's how I'm going to play Francine's part. It'll be the subtle nuances- the wringing of hands, the cold probing of her eyes, watching everyone's every move, the reaction to the bodies being discovered, and perhaps even her nervousness when encountered by the police. But when she speaks, all of it will evaporate into an inviting smile, keeping the audience guessing.

And that's probably what I love most about Francine. The magnanimous facet of her role is not what she says, it's the screaming silence waiting to explode when her slyness sits back, watching all even as she schemes the fates of some.

But what's especially hard about her? She's not me at all! In fact- she's just about as opposite me as you could get! She'd be a lot of work, and I'd probably not master her until the night of the performance, but if acting were being who you really are, would it be called acting? I doubt it. Plus I can always thank God for the chance to stretch myself, try new things, and reach for the stars.