Honestly I just closed two sites to make time for it. I have a list of priorities and running those extra sites was low tier. I felt shitty doing it but it’s done and it’s not like I can’t reopen later.

Honestly, I second @Arceus You kinda just have to do it. It's like forcing yourself. It doesn't have to be perfect, or right. You don't even have to keep it in the story, but you have to do it. It has to be as scheduled as laundry, cause otherwise something more fun will always take its place. Like RP. That being said, I'm not good at this at all. It takes will power and practice. Both of which I am incapable of exercising on a regular basis. One day. NaNo (Camp and November) help me the most, because it's somewhat punishable if I don't do it. (I want that award darnit!) It kicks you in the rear to get you started. Keeping the momentum after is the tricky part.

Though the snow swirled around her, she couldn't feel the cold. Peace settled on her like snow might blanket the fields, as one porcelain hand raised to brush the tufts of white as they drifted down. She blinked instinctively as violet eyes noted the close proximity of a bit of snow, but they fell into her lashes and vanished seconds later. Snow... There was something to be remembered about snow, though the young woman couldn't recall what that was now. She didn't have time to muse on it. Someone called her name across the white expanse. No, that wasn't her name. And still, so it was. "Khaleesi!" The sound was so slight, the voice so distant, Daenerys almost didn't hear it. The title brought back pain, but she couldn't recall now what the pain was about. Involuntarily, she winced. "Khaleesi!" The voice was louder, closer - "Khaleesi!" - just behind her - she whirled around to face it, and for a painful, never-ending moment she hardly recognised the woman that spoke. Swirls of charcoal hair framed the woman's face, copper skin slightly dusted with the sand the Dothraki bathed in. Daenerys' face scrunched in disbelief. "Irri?" she asked. "Of course, Khaleesi," Irri replied. "A Khal must always have their bloodriders, too," a male voice said. Daenerys' violet gaze was drawn away from Irri's soft features to the male suddenly now standing beside her; Daenerys' heart twisted in her chest as she recognised Rakharo. "Ser Jorah is waiting, and a frizzy haired girl from somewhere called Naath." Jorah. Missandei. Why didn't they hate her? All of that time and that work, she'd wasted their lives on her stupid childish dreams of a world where slavery didn't exist, and the poor weren't killed just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She didn't even achieve that much, that world she'd dreamed of had been so close, and ripped away from her as soon as she'd believed in it too hard. So what was the point, then? The distress was plain to see on her face, and Daenerys bowed her head. "I can't," she whispered, shaking her head. "I can't face them." Loose wispy waves of silver fell into her face. Her braids were gone. The whole world knew her shame. "Khaleesi, you didn't waste our lives," Irri said. "We died in service of our khal, and our khalasar. It is the highest honour, this is known." "It is known," Rakharo echoed softly. "We believed in you. And you believed in that world you wanted." Irri reached out, resting her hand gently on Daenerys' arm. Daenerys both did and did not feel the contact. The confusion blossomed across her face, but yet soon was gone. "Come," Irri said, her hand dropping to Daenerys', tugging the young woman toward what was now a flickering campfire. "There is mud and ash in your hair." Daenerys didn't have the heart to argue, anymore. Some corner of her mind wondered when Irri and Rakharo had learned to read her mind, but perhaps they were simply very close to her. Jorah, at times, had seemed able to read her mind, and yes, she'd loved him. He'd been with her since the beginning. He watched her grow her wings, and helped her learn to use them. Laughter sounded from the crackling fire in the distance. It seemed to take so long to reach that fire, and yet no time at all. Daenerys smiled as she approached, apprehensive. Jorah and Missandei were telling stories. "Tyrion was staring at him," Missandei said, "and then he said, 'I make joke.' I couldn't stop laughing." Daenerys looked perplexed. Who did Missandei mean, but Grey Worm? She did not remember him being the type to joke. Oh, but Missandei had watered the small seed of joy in Grey Worm's heart, and it had begun to grow into a tree. Now she was gone, and maybe, so was the tree. "Your grace!" Hurriedly, Missandei stood, shuffling to Daenerys. "Your hair is a mess," Missandei said, moving behind her. The other woman suddenly had a brush in her hand, as did Irri, though Daenerys never saw either of them pick one up. "Caked with mud and ash," Irri repeated. Missandei took one side, Irri the other. "We'll have your braids redone soon." "No," Daenerys said, instantly. "No, I have no right to braids, anymore." "Khaleesi -" Irri started. "No," Daenerys repeated, more firmly. "I lost a battle." She turned to look up at Rakharo, but beside her, it was not Rakharo. Standing there was Drogo, and Daenerys squeezed her eyes closed, clenched her fists at her sides, and turned her head down. "I lost," she whispered. She thought for sure he'd be angry, or scream at her, or agree with her, tell her she did lose, she lost that battle, and to shame, it was so shameful - but no. Even as she stood there, Irri and Missandei's fingers still gently entangled in her hair, trying so hard not to cry, because she'd made it this far with her head held high, she could feel up watching her. "All great warriors," Drogo said, "someday lose. That is why the Night Lands are here. You are home now, moon of my life. You are home." He moved around her, strong arms wrapping her in his embrace, and holding her. Somewhere in between his words and his embrace, Irri and Missandei had backed away. "Khaleesi," another voice said, and Daenerys opened her eyes, peeking around Drogo's large frame to rest her eyes on Jorah. "It was not an honourable battle, Khaleesi." No, it wasn't, was it? Why wasn't it? What was so unfair about it? How did Jorah know? "Jon Snow is easily swayed a man, in this," Jorah said. Daenerys' eyes widened. Yes. Jon Snow. He killed her. It was him. And oh, the vibrant sting of betrayal and loss returned anew, and Drogo's arms tightened around her. "You are home, now," he said again. "You belong to the Night Lands. We will rebuild our khalasar here, and we will be in death as we should have been in life." But no one was there to burn her body. Would her khalasar have done so? She didn't remember any of them being very close to her, since her bloodriders were gone and Irri, too. How was she in the Night Lands? There was something wrong. Something felt wrong, and Daenerys couldn't quite say what it was. How utterly... frustrating. She'd forgotten something else. She'd remembered Jon Snow, though; she'd remember that, too. Instead of worrying about it too much, she nodded mutely against Drogo's chest. "Rhaego will return soon," Drogo said. "Rhaego?" Daenerys asked. "He is learning to track with his bloodriders," Drogo replied. "He is but an infant," Daenerys said. "No," Drogo answered. "He is growing. Rhaego will soon be twelve summers." That long had passed? Daenerys stepped backwards, uncertain gaze searching Drogo's. She saw no lie. Her small baby, whom was never destined to grow up, had become a young boy, a future she'd believed had been torn from him. Something hurt. Another twist in her heart, sharp and sudden and real, jolted through her. Daenerys let go of Drogo, pressing her hands to her chest. "Khaleesi?" It was Irri that asked, but Drogo's hands rested gently against her jaws. Come back, a small, tiny voice in her heart whispered. Don't leave me. Daenerys raised her head, staring into Drogo's eyes again. The light from the fire flickered and danced in the obsidian of his gaze, beautiful and strong and mysterious. Just like... "With scales that sparkle like your eyes..." Drogo looked confused. Jorah answered him. "Drogon." "Drogon," Daenerys murmured. He's gone now, the voice urged. It's safe. Come back. "I'm sorry, my sun-and-stars," Daenerys said. "But I can't stay here." "No one leaves the night lands," Drogo said, his tone perplexed and perhaps a bit concerned. Daenerys grimaced at another twist in her chest, one hand reaching up to brush gently against Drogo's cheek. "I am all he has left," she said. "I can't leave him. Drogon needs me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't stay. I have failed too many of you already. I cannot fail Drogon. The sun still does not set in the east, and rise in the west." She blinked, and they were gone. It was silent, and dark. The fire wasn't there anymore, its crackling silenced. "... Drogo?" she called. Her own voice answered her, echoing through the blackness. Swirls of shadow tangled at her feet. "Missandei? Irri!" They'd been there once, where had they gone? No. No, she needed to find Drogon, not them. "Drogon!" To her right, a draconic shriek sounded. Daenerys whirled around to face it. It, too, echoed through the darkness, and it was hard to determine where it'd come from exactly. It was just as dark over there as it was anywhere else. "Drogon, Drogon I'll follow your voice! Where are you?" Come, the voice urged. Another shriek reverberated and died in the shadows. Daenerys started to walk towards it. Don't leave me. "I won't leave you, I promise. Drogon, I'm coming!" Her steps became heavier. Her body became heavier, and it was harder to walk, but Drogon never stopped chittering. She could feel him calling her to him. Mother, come home. With a loud gasp, she awoke, breath coming in rapid bursts, and her eyes snapped opened to see scales that sparkled with the blackness of Drogo's gaze. This is specifically based on the HBO series, and basically I tried to... start fixing it. It was kind of a personal challenge, because it was like "Okay, can I salvage this utter train wreck and make it less disappointing?" I needed to do something with this septic tank of bad writing or I was never going to be free of the bitterness. What I can’t tell you, is if I’m going to keep going on it. Not sure if I want to or not. Like on one hand yes, but on another not really. If I do, comeuppance will be gotten. Girl-power will be restored. And there will be dragons. Probably more than Drogon. Season eight of Game of Thrones made me so mad that I broke my silent internal vow to never write in fandoms whose authors don't condone fanworks, you guys. I'm so mad. But honestly, this is probably one of my best pieces funny enough. I really am powered by salt, I guess.

Mao is a meowstic shifter. He is currently naked in human form. So the double entendre in his comment makes me laugh.

I am a part-time college student who has lots of free time. I spend most of my time creating character profiles and writing their stories when I should be doing my chores. I write whenever I can so the plots/ideas/characters do not disappear before I can write them down.

I am finishing a short stories collection before starting NaNo with a contemporary romance.

I had wondered the same thing for a while. Then I started consciously making time for novels, not only during NaNoWriMo. And even when I was writing in the same genre, it was all right, I could write on my own what I was limited in writing with others. I have days for posts and days for novel.

I am writing a contemporary romance. Yes, you know me with historicals... and this time it's different. And I am nervous if I can manage it properly. A romance with 40-years-old protagonists, titled "The second shuttle boat". It is the follow=up of the YA novel which will appear soon, but the characters grew up, it's 20 years later 😛

Honestly, by... doing both. I know that's probably not terribly helpful, so I'm gonna try and explain. For me, at least, writing with others gives me bigger, better ideas, and staves off the boredom that tends to come from solo writing; it's all fairly predictable (errr well, at least right up until your characters do that plot <= => them thing, but that brings its own problems), and being able to fully see and understand all sides of the story-line can lead to it feeling really stale and being a chore to write, rather than being fun. A big part of the draw of role-play is the unpredictability factor of writing with someone else whose mind you cannot read. But! That's what ping-ponging with others once in a while is for. It helps me stay not-bored, remain focused and grounded, and sometimes, gives me some neat ideas as I go. Incorporating new concepts thought up during role-playing really helps keep the story feeling fresher and funner, too. Now, obviously, if you role-play and write in the same general setting, it tends to all get annoying very quickly, so I wouldn't recommend that, but you can mix it up and keep things clear for yourself. A big part of it also really boils down to doing it. Set aside some time here and there where you'll focus on solo-writing projects, and really stick to it. Even if all you get out of it is a few sentences or a paragraph, that's something, isn't it? I feel like, in a way, role-playing kind of skews our concept of what constitutes "progress" and "good enough." If this chapter in this book was a role-play thread, I'd have thousands of words in it already, you say to yourself. I write so slowly by myself. NO. Be kinder to yourself. It's okay if you only get a bit. It's still more than you had before.

I am! and here at the 11th hour I'm still debating writing this fully plotted fanfic or doing a rewrite from the ground up again of my book from a couple of years ago that I got to 44k words on. The fanfic is based on RWBY with a lot of my own elements added to the story, and the original novel is a high fantasy story following a teenage half-elf while she navigates the political waters of being introduced to her mother's people (the Elves) as, essentially, a living symbol of peace, due to the fact that her parents were wed as part of an effort to end a generations long war between humans and elves. Current problems with that draft is the story is too shallow and I need to do some serious world building to deepen it. (and if you guys are doing NaNo you should consider joining the coterie!)

Are you doing NaNo this year and what are you writing about? We're excited to hear!

What's your current writing project/s? I'm working on taking a storyline I had developed for RP and shifting it into it's own complete story. Initially, this was set during the Age of Sail but for me, the story is partly about transformation in a new environment, which (for me) requires a strong sense of place. I would struggle to write that for a location I have never been to, so I've shifted the story to early pre-super strict and horrible penal colony Van Dieman's Land (Tasmania) and let me tell you, the research has been fascinating. I can't really talk strongly about what it's about (beyond historical with eldritch elements/ladies transformed by the environment) because the change in location means I need to change the plot. But that's ok! I mean, secret lesbian bushranger instead of secret lesbian pirate.

I've always struggled to maintain writing by myself and in a roleplay setting. Which is to say....I've never been able to write by myself since I discovered roleplay XD I think roleplay offers instant gratification, so I think I struggle where that instant gratification isn't present. How do you manage to do both?

I am hilariously proud of this one, despite its shortness 😄 it was just too funny an image to not do! (This is in response to a plot random event that hit the thread - an earthquake ;D)

The first answer seemed to satisfy Krepta. The second, not so much. She frowned at him, and for a moment she seemed to be sizing him up. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," was all she said. Because if it did, then she'd have to stop him. Killing wasn't an option, and the destruction of someone's world was unacceptable. She turned and looked over her shoulder, down the mountain at the lonely remains of the village. "There are some things you can't take back." --- Part of a Bat-Post There was no noise to signal his arrival. One moment there was just the night, the natural shadows of the city, and then one of those shadows separated itself from the rest, stepping out into the relative light of the clock tower. The shadow formed itself into a vaguely man like shape, though the sharp points of the ears atop his cowl made him look decidedly less. "You're a long way from home," was all he said.

Okay so two things (My favorite quote - my best friend and I reference it a lot!) And my favorite overall post:

I wrote this one forever ago. But I still love the heck out of it. (It's a freeform, journal-style app for John Winchester from Supernatural)

This will be a big one, so I will just add a piece of it and you can see the whole thing here if it interests you. It was an app for Death of the Endless made for a reincarnation board.

If Gavin de Luc was less of a leader, there would be no way he could convince anyone else to follow him on this insane mission. Luckily for him and the frontier, though, the Mad Dog could have his men chomping at the bit even for a suicide mission with just one good speech. Because that was what this was at worst, a suicide mission. And even if everything worked out perfectly, there was no way all three ships were making it out once they had gotten themselves in. Rhylenor or Skystead could blockade the only exit, and seal them in extremely easily... especially with word spreading quickly to Skystead on the wings of the black. This should have never happened... or at least, he should have had a plan ready. He was actually having a meeting with a lesser, allied solo captain when the fishing boats came in... right towards them. Filled with humans, waving flags and desperately trying to get attention. Screaming about how the Rhylen elves were going to kill everyone, and how they were coming en masse. An uncountable horde, they had said. Obviously they were exaggerating, but the fear and the fact that they were desperate enough to sail right up to a pirate ship with the black fag raised for help belied just how dire the situation was for them back home. The elves had come and given warning that any remaining in their homes after a day would be killed to a man, with their city razed to the ground in the process. The Mad Dog took control over the situation, then. He organized the lower level captain to guide the refugees to the nearest port, and rush to Skystead with word. If he were to see any allied captains along the way, the captain was to pass the message on and call in all favors on behalf of the Pirate Lord, Captain de Luc. The message was simple for the pirates: All offensive actions on Skystead naval and merchant ships were to stop immediately, and a bounty was set for each Rhylen ship or village put to the torch. The man the Mad Dog sent on this quest was reasonably loyal, and a bribe was also included to help ensure that loyalty stayed. If that message got across to who it needed to, all the enforcement he would need didn't even need to come from his own crew. Gavin's allies could do the brunt of the enforcement while the Mad Dog just protected the frontier. He even gave the lesser captain a crisp, new flag so that he could pretend to be a Skystead ship on the way back to reduce the chances that he was accosted by the very people he was sent to help on the way back. For his men, he used a different tact and went all out. He appealed to them personally, because there was absolutely no point in hiding how personal of an affront it was to him. He appealed to their ego and pride, by telling them how much of a message they could send and how much respect they could gain my repelling an actual military. He appealed to their shame, by telling them that any man who was not willing to take this plunge with him could take the fastest ship, the Elves Bane, and leave with zero consequences and a severance package. He appealed to their greed, by forfeiting his share for the next ten hauls to be spread equally amongst the crew for doing this favor for him. He knew damn well not a damn man would be the first to express cowardice by stepping off first, and he played on their emotions like a finely tuned instrument. At the end, he even appealed to their sense of camaraderie by expressing his gratitude and heaping praise upon the crew as the best he had ever sailed with. While he did deliberately play with their emotions, Gavin was not a heartless man who cared not for their lives and well-being... but his priorities were different than most other pirate captains. The Mad Dog would always be a frontiersman, first and foremost and would always rush to protect his homeland from hostile forces who wished to invade. The numbers estimate by the refugees also terrified him, because his own hometown was very much in the line of fire if this was a frontier-wide assault like the fishermen claimed while the rest of the world was distracted by the celebrations in the capital. A coward's move, to be sure, but one that would be countered by the third party the knife-eared bitch in power least expected. When they sailed to the major frontier port of Beverley where the refugees came from, Gavin had allowed dozens of the leaders who sailed under him to stand and sit in his own quarters as they had planned what their course of action and means of attack were going to be. Every major officer on each ship was included, including the leaders of the three boarding parties for three different frigates. There were some senior crew members without explicit titles on the outskirts, as well, listening in on the room packed with people. The trip past the strait into Lake Emravil was quiet, and filled with the impromptu planning session that lasted most of the day it took to get to their destination. They had been positioned just outside the strait for the meeting before, and did not have far to go to get to the place the refugees were running from. There didn't seem to be any Rhylen naval power in the lake, so that left some room to counterattack. An oversight by the elven military that would not go unpunished, because they did not account for outside intervention in their invasion plans. The end plan was not the most elegant, but was workable. In defensive actions, they would put up the flag and pretend to simply be Skystead naval ships so as not to freak out the villagers. They would go to land with the full force of all three boarding parties to stamp out the first village's invasion force, and then Gavin would go inland leading a smaller group inland while the vast majority of the forces remained on the three ships and liberated the coast where possible and moved on to attack Rhylen cities and ships whenever possible after that point. Beverley was the name of the port which they landed, and they had arrived at the start of the attack. Defenders were holed up in hastily fortified buildings as the elves began to swarm in, but they did not expect hundreds of reinforcements to come in. An entire company's worth of approximately a hundred raiders littered the city by the time the three full boarding parties of the Mad Dog hit the shore, and approximately one hundred elves died to pirate steel and spells that day. The outlaws outnumbered them heavily, and chased that advantage with the type of brutality that did honor to the black flag they normally sailed under. Gavin's rare flash of sustained outward emotion displayed earlier in the speech had died down to the typical cold aloofness that permeated when engagement was nigh. His crew helped him find the knife-eared animals, and Gavin butchered all the raiders unfortunate enough to be in his line of sight with his signature shadow blade flurries. Those who weren't killed ended up fleeing back into the forest, but at least for the moment the town was secured. Those that would be part of Gavin's excursion force were more heavily armored than the rest, with gambeson under a maille shirt under a brigandine jacket. On land, and in hostile territory it made sense to go with the heaviest armor that they had for those particular troops -- and they even managed to scrounge up enough sallet helmets with adjustable visors so the thirty odd men assigned to that detachment could have helmets as well. At least it wasn't summer anymore, and the bright side was that they did not have to wear this armor in the daytime where their torsos would essentially become ovens on the hotter days. They would be wearing them at night, without the sun beating down on the metal and making actually wearing the armor damn near unbearable. The villagers were given some relief supplies in the form of food and water for the entire town, and the quick gathering of weapons mostly from the fallen elves to give to the largely intact of the town guard and remaining men who looked like they could fight. There were very few casualties due to the fact that Gavin and his crew had showed up so quickly, but large portions of the port’s outskirts were heavily damaged by the fighting. It was not the most ideal of outcomes, but it could have been much worse. The pirates identified themselves as a mixed crew, with Captain Solomons leading the charge on the sea with his three frigates and Lieutenant Blake leading the charge on land with a platoon of thirty men. Gavin had used the alias before, at the start of his career, so it was just the first fake name that came to mind. Skystead military, all of them, who just happened to be in the area when the call for help rang out. Fortuitous timing, to be sure, and they were all just glad they came in time to save at least some of the villagers. The crew of the Mad Dog went their separate ways, then, with the best swordsmen going with Gavin and the best mages going with Alfie. The pirate lord needed good fighters to cover his own weakness, since he was more than confident enough in his own magical ability to carry them through any rough patch they encountered. Alfie, on the other hand, needed the rest of the firepower with him in order to more effectively raid and engage in naval warfare when needed with a very magically inclined enemy. Each port town that they liberated from elven control, another small group of volunteers would go to land to help ferret out the bastards on land at least for a time. Gavin's platoon would likely be the only permanent land based patrol, but the stated goal was very much making damn sure that they saved as many civilians on the frontier as possible. For Gavin in particular, though, he had a very specific and very real goal in mind -- making sure his own town was not razed and his own hometown not butchered at the hands of the Rhylen. By the time the separation had occurred, it was well into the morning hours and at least for the day the Mad Dog's platoon was to make camp in the ruins of Beverley both to fend off a second wave of assault and to bide their time until nighttime where they had the significant advantage once more. From there, they would cut their way inwards town by town until they made it to Leeds... hopefully in time to save it. The ground portion of this mission was obviously the most dangerous, so the captain did not coerce anyone or manipulate them emotionally to have them join. It was just the best swordsmen of the volunteers, which turned out to be the best fighters of each boarding crew. Gavin was more than willing to die attempting to save the people he cared about, so he only wanted and only got men who were loyal enough to die right alongside him if it came to that. If he ended up surviving this foolhardy and suicidal quest, he mused to himself, he would have to lay off the dangerous missions for a few months and just find a way to sell off all the weapons in his hull for a tidy profit to hold everyone over for a long and well-deserved break from action. The only problem, of course, was not only surviving... but surviving with enough of a crew to actually give a break to. From here on out, all he could do was hope that his own and Alfie's leadership and tactical ability would be enough to see them through to the end. Given the lack of time to actually prepare fully and an unwillingness to wait until more information was available... This was the only shot that they had, and the only pillar which they had to lean on. Leadership ability and an ability to improvise honed off the whetstone of a thousand engagements. Gavin just prayed it would be enough, this day and for each day this liberation assignment lasted.

My freeform app for Kylo Ren:

For some, the world ended in early August. The cataclysm began in Florida and beat back every attempt to stop it, spreading in all directions until it had- so far as anyone in the Americas knew- consumed everything. It left cities in stoic ruins, families broken, and made existence a game which only the most stubborn, resourceful, and lucky (or, perhaps, unfortunate) continued to play. For them the world dies a little slower, and its dangers grow with each passing day. Night is when it’s worst. And night comes now to the northern state of Maine, at the tail-end of a furious spring storm which lurks gray and heavy on the horizon over a wooded area gone silent with uneasy anticipation. The ground was still covered in dead leaves, made soggy by recently-melted snow. They squelched quietly underfoot as he made his purposeful way through the woods, but the biting wind caught the sounds of his journeying and whipped them away into oblivion as easily as it cut through his tired clothes and bones. If the traveler was bothered by the chill, he did not show it. In fact, the only thing he advertised was the fact he was alone and his desire to stay that way. The former was subtly apparent in the way his gaunt eyes moved- with a calm so perfect he couldn’t have been missing, or expecting, anybody. The latter was far more obvious, thanks to the long rifle slung over his shoulder. It seemed out of place with the rest of his belongings in a way that suggested it hadn’t originally belonged to him. Where his pack and the attached bedroll were neatly-kept, every utility on his belt positioned precisely and well-cleaned, the gun was banged up, dusty, dented. Almost an abandoned dog it seemed, nursed back to health. On his left shoulder was strapped a navy blue walkie talkie. It was a few steps above the cheap garbage one might find in the kid’s section of a store. In these conditions, its range would not be more than a few miles. It made a garbled sound. Pausing, his dark eyes swiveled again through the dim surroundings to check that they remained clear. Then he turned his cheek a little towards the device and carefully turned the dial on it, listening.

He shrugged indifferently, and then realized that Lane wouldn't have been able to see. There was a quick frown. And then, smiling, he clicked the talk button on the walkie and said helpfully: "I'm shrugging indifferently."

Epilogue Someone forgotten, in Orlais She’d given a start when she saw him sitting there, waiting. But the fear ended there, had melted into timid curiosity. One leg crossed over the other and with his hands in his lap, he gestured to the seat beside him and offered a lopsided smile. The woman eyed him cautiously, and neatly stepped forward to seat herself. “My apologies for bargin’ ‘n on you like this,” he said. “Why are you here?” she asked, not sounding like she was sure she wanted to know the answer. His smile twitched wider. “I’m here t’offer you the Orlesian Empire.” Her eyes narrowed, betraying her desire to believe him more than any disbelief. Tilting her head away from him and looking at the points of her knees beneath her gown, she waited for him to continue. “It’s yours, if y’keep the two of ‘em squabbling over it,” he finished. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper when she said: “I know that.” He didn’t reply, simply studied her. The way she nervously smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress at her knee, how her eyes moved as though she was reading something written on the fabric. Lips pursing briefly, her head angled to the other shoulder. “That’s it?” The question was light, asked to her joint. “Keep the war going?” “That’s it,” he rumbled in reply, “We’ve a friend intrested in keeping Orlais nice an’ busy, so busy we’re t’make it.” Folding his arms over his chest, he settled into the chair. Nodding his chin at her, he asked: “Any ideas?” “Plenty.”