Current work in progress is going especially well lately. Averaging over 1000 words per session. Currently sitting at somewhere over 138,000 words. So that's good news.
Tonight's session ended with this:
"I gave you nothing you did not already have. Your father knows, I think, else he would not have called for it."
"Ilmar's fires," Duncan whispered. "Da . . . did you really think this would come? Why?"
Duncan's eyes burned against the mail sleeve that lay across them.
"Why me?" A long moment. "Why now?"
He surged to his feet and stalked back across the loft to the outside wall, where he slammed his fist against the vertical beam, and again, and again, welcoming the pain that shot through his mind like lightning. When he lifted his hand, the blood oozing from skin split over the knuckles seemed only fitting.
Duncan curled his fingers into a fist again, tight and hard, knuckles almost singing from the tension. It shook before him. Heat flared through his body, followed by chilling cold, and his viewpoint exploded from him and flew high enough that it seemed he could see the entire city.
The words that finally came out had to struggle to thread their way through a throat that was so tight that even breath could barely get through; force their way past and through clenched teeth; wend their way through lips drawn so tightly that even an edge of a leaf would have caught. And although the hissing voice wasn't loud, the intensity in it should have shattered the sky above him.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
It needs polish, of course, but for raw first draft, it's not too shabby.