The stretch is only 15% away! We only need about 800$ to fully fund this project!
I took time out of my own schedule to start the process of ordering the Tapestries. In the case that the Kickstarter isn’t fully backed, I’ll provide them for sale or as a raffle bundle!
As for the project of the Kickstarter, we’re VERY close to completion.
There’s only a few more hundred dollars before we make it to the goal! The CherriTeam decided to release an incentive!
With this incentive in mind, please be sure to share the post for the Kickstarter! I’ve taken to putting up posters in all different kinds of places. I’ll be heading off to do more in terms of spreading the message, but ultimately, I’ve been working on some side stories to go with the prose and lore of Sins of the Fire.
I’m excited to share those snippets.
The next event will be at the Sharon Hill Library on April 25th, from 10:00am to 3:00pm! Put that in your calendars for more great things to come!
Now, I’d like to share a little excerpt. I hope you enjoy!
For the humble Steward Gunther and his two guardsmen, Leon and Thomas, the carriage to the top of the mountain took them until the sun’s full stretch above the horizon to travel. Departing by the hour of the dark sky’s transition, they arrived by the start of the morning. It would be close to noon by the time they travelled back.
For Mysherra, it only took three, perhaps four wingbeats to reach the half-way point. By the time she flapped her wings the next four, she was already approaching the village square, where people were suspiciously gathered in a wide semi-circle just a few paces away from the water well. Hovering above her sudden audience, she pulled herself a little higher, carefully flapping her wings away from the people, lest they were battered by gusts of wind. Backlegs touched the supple grass, then the front.
At last, she arrived in a town that was silent. The sounds of hens clucking were the only things she could hear. Taking a moment to survey her surroundings, the town itself was quaint. Foliage lined the buildings, dressing them up in hanging moss in full bloom. The clear skies and sunny weather made the flowers beneath her feet hold their leaves up in praise of the light, though some turned towards the dragon’s direction, as if she were the sun itself, coming to rest upon the earth.
Right away, she couldn’t discern if the town hid daggers behind its demure appearance. With how sweet smelling and pretty everything was, she expected an ambush. Perhaps that was what the people were expecting as well. Perhaps leaving the Steward and his men at the crest of her cave wasn’t the best decision. She hid a brief grimace. There would be no way she would let any grimy human ride on her back. Walking with them would have been the better option, but this was something she would rather get over with quickly. A war would only last as long as the fuel that fed it.
Tucking her wings, she sat herself tall, slimming her silhouette down before her audience. With a deep breath, she finally spoke.
“Greetings. I am Mysherra. You may refer to me as Eman, if my dragon name fails your human tongues. The Steward will arrive—I…” She trailed for merely a second. Without Gunther, her credibility was shaky. Humans would likely think she ate him. “…I was in a rush to arrive so I left him to his own slow, bipedal devices. He should be cresting the ridge by midday, perhaps earlier on horseback. My mission is simple; to ensure your…”
She trailed again when she noticed one of the villagers approaching—a boy with a bouquet of pure white flowers clasped in his hands. They were arranged in a circle— a crown fit for a young prince. Setting it before Mysherra’s talon, he looked up at her and smiled.
“You’re our angel, sent by God, aren’t you?”
Mysherra’s jaw was held slightly agape. “I—I am no angel. I am simply a beast willing to help your kind. I need no offerings from—”
“Here!”
The parent of the child stepped forward and pulled them to their side—a rugged father with eyes filled with fear. He tossed a bag beside the flowers that clinked and jingled when it hit the ground. “This is our life’s savings. It’s not much but please, accept this and keep us safe.”
The dragon recognized that look. It was a look shared by the residents all gathered here—tense glances and anxious shifts, children hugging their parents close, all mixed with those that stared at her with bated breath, chambering offerings in their hands or under their arms. Everyone was expectant, but no one wanted to move. Eager little ones tried to wrestle their way through the crowd, only to be stopped by the elders that scolded them and kept them firmly ten paces from Mysherra’s feet.
Yes. She knew that look well. The same look given to her by the people of Egypt. They did not truly regard her with respect and appreciation—it was reverence through fear.
Another person brought their gift to Mysherra—a tiny reliquary cradled in her arms. Another followed suit, a colorful plate lined in gold. Most of the villagers began to come towards the two offerings presented to her, adding to the pile.
“N-No, you don’t—” Mysherra stammered as the people shared their valuables, stepping away from them one after the next, “You don’t need to give me anything. I don’t— I can’t accept these. Are any of you listening to me?”
It appeared some were. Some in the crowd shrunk away, pulling their ilk along with them. Others backed away, keeping a watchful yet wary eye as they left. Yet the people who stayed continued to present their offerings. A rumble rose from the dragon’s throat.
“Enough.” She said, keeping her voice level enough to ripple the water in the central well, but not so loud as to shatter the windows of the nearby cottages. To speak too loudly would frighten the people. “I need neither your alms nor your groveling. Your Steward requested I serve you people during the wartime and that is what I will do. Do not approach me with anything else!”
The crowd hesitated. Someone shifted their pouch of gold back into their burlap sack. Mysherra scanned the expanse of the leftovers from the crowd. Only about fifteen people remained, seven of them still holding their gifts. No one moved. Glances were shared, words were said without speaking. Mysherra was able to read the silent conversation and sighed.
“I am simply here to perform my duty. I will not bother you, nor will I stay here if fear tugs at your innards. If need be I will…”
She trailed the moment she caught sight of one elderly woman approaching her just out of her peripherals. The woman lived a long life from the way she shuffled her way towards the dragon’s talon, slowly removing her necklace of gold and silver from her neck. . Pulling back, Mysherra growled.
“I beg your pardon, I said no alms. You may be old but I know you can hear me.”
The old woman did hear her. She chuckled, in fact, drawing the dragoness to pull her head back in bewilderment. Looking up at the dragoness she carefully stretched her shaking arms forward and proffered it.
“Oh, I can hear you. We all can.” she said, holding her trembling arms out. “Yer like an’ ol’ dog bristlin’ at their new owner. You don’t trust us. We don’t trust you. Not yet, anyway. But one of us has gotta make the first step, else we’ll all be standin’ around till the sun comes up.”
Mysherra wrinkled her snout and pressed her eyebrows. “I am no dog.”
“‘Course you aren’t,” replied the old woman, “But you’re a guest in our home, and we’re the hosts. It’s bad luck to turn away a gift when it’s given with an open heart. Call it a ‘thank you’ in advance for not eating our goats.”
She chuckled. Mysherra didn’t. Her stern face twitched, but the old lady didn’t move from her spot, still holding up her necklace. The dragoness growled and grumbled, groused and rolled her eyes, finally lifting her talon for the woman to put it on. “Fine! If it brings you all pleasure then do what you must! But know that gold and heirlooms alone will not buy my fidelity. I am not a mercenary—I do not fight for coin.”
“What about food?”
Another villager, a man that had less grey hair but had the same nose and eyes as the elderly woman, stepped forward, a plate in his hand. A slab of meat from an unknown animal was drizzled in a fine layer of what looked like a jam. The man proffered the plate like his grandparent. Such a tiny slab of meat wasn’t enough to satisfy someone of Mysherra’s stature, but she skipped the morning hunt and was feeling the slightest bit peckish. As delicately as a feather, she lifted her talon and prodded the piece of meat. It held, long enough to turn her digit to her mouth and snap it up in a single, lightning-quick movement.
The sweetness of the jam—likely a wild currant or blackberry—hit her tongue first, followed by the savory, slightly gamey taste of well-seared venison. It was a tiny morsel, a mere spark in the furnace of her stomach, but the flavor was exquisite, far more complex than the raw elk she usually tore into on the mountain peaks. Swallowing, she did not break her poise.
“I will consider it.”
The Dragon's Den 
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