D: Of course I am. He has charm, A. And wit. And has played a great many men with pathos and gravitas.
A: And he’s a bit blonde… when he has hair.
D: A. I’m dark-haired now. We’ve discussed this.
A: We’ve also discussed that you have a horrible tendency to channel Voldemort and until you can control it, Ralph Fiennes is out as your voice actor. Because, you know, I could afford that salary. In my dreams. And, just so you know D, my appreciation for The Grand Budapest Hotel has nothing to do with my willingness – or lack thereof – to hire you a voice actor. In fact, the two have nothing to do with one another. I would even go so far as to say that my appreciation for the movie has nothing to do with you, D.
D: . . .
A: What? No witty rejoinder?
D: The cruelty and envy of the people who have all forsook me, hath devoured … and suffered me, by the voice of slaves, be whooped out of Rome.
D: According to your file, you’re a psychopathic personality with schizophrenic delusions, suffering from recurring amnesia based on traumatic repression leading to outbursts of antisocial and violent behavior. Knight to king seven. Check.
A: D? What is going on? Who are you talking to? When did you learn chess?
D: Oh, A. There you are. I’d almost forgotten you were here, standing on the bones of my father.
A: What are you talking about? You’re—you’re a fictional character and that sounds an awful lot like a line from Harry Potter.
D: It is. I’m trying out his lines.
A: Whose lines?
D: What is my name, you ask of me often? It is a name unmusical to the people’s ears, and harsh in sound to thine.
A: . . .
D: Oh, for heaven’s sake A, if you must be obtuse, I’m trying out Ralph Fiennes as my voice actor.
A: Again, I’m going to have to give you a confused silence as evidenced by these three dots: “. . . “
D: Very droll, A. You and Green are at it again with the ol’ podcasting out to the world bit, and if you insist on talking, then so shall I. I shall prove that there are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity.
A: And before D starts spouting words of wisdom from Sunshine or the English Patient, which would probably sound sacrilegious coming from the figment of my imagination, please head over to Green Embers, to read the fourth installment of the Not-So-Shocking News Dialogues!
* * *
Is this the voice of D? Photo courtesy IMBD
D: As I was saying, A. Mr. Fiennes would be spectacular as me.
A: I will agree insomuch as Mr. Fiennes is spectacular–
D: And of course, someone of my history and pathos needs someone of his caliber.
A: Well, certainly, D, but—
D: And since you’ve watched Grand Budapest Hotel, you know he can do humor.
A: That he can.
D: And yet, I sense your reluctance.
A: Well, it’s just that I fear if he were to play you, you’d insist on quoting him all the time, and you have yet to plumb the full depths of his Voldemort—
D: Don’t you turn your back on me, A! I want to see the light leave your eyes–
A: Okay, that is quite enough!
D: Oh, sorry, A. I’m not sure what came over me there.
A: See what I mean?
D: Perhaps. But, can he go on the list?
A: If it means you’ll stop quoting him, sure.
D: (Sigh) Alas, all my power is spent. . . who knows? I may be stronger without it.
A: Google is famous for it’s April Fools jokes, and though I saw this yesterday, the Shelfie (among others) was pretty bizarre. But this one was weirder – only because I’m not sure it was a joke: Deja Google. Real or not, I was amused.
D: Why’s that?
A: Apparently, Google-a-Day is powered by a wormhole.
D: Nice, Google.
A: Indeed. And last, but certainly not least, Leonard Nimoy has recorded the end-credit song for the third Hobbit movie, There and Back Again. Just in case you don’t want to click over, here is the video:
D: That was a joke, right?
A: Yeah – that’s why it’s called the April Fool’s Roundup and not the Oh-So-Serious News at 11.
D: A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed.
A: Perhaps. Of course, this video was not a joke – someone put it together back in 2012. And the single is available on iTunes.
D : I could have done without “Scroto Baggins”
A: I don’t know what you’re talking about, D. I thought that was awesome.
D: You would.
A: So did The Boy.
D: I can see you’ve been a bad influence on the child.
A: Okay, okay- how about a music video incorporating the original song and the original animated Hobbit movie?
D: Only marginally better.
A: Oh, come on, you have to admit – it’s catchy.
D: (Humming absently) Bilbo-Bilbo!
A: Ha! I knew it!
D: Uh-oh, I mean – um–
A: No way you’re getting out of this one, D.
D: Oh, yes there is – April Fools!
A: (Eye roll) Nice try, Druid.
D: And with that, we will bid you all a fond farewell – before A decides to add any more ridiculousness to the menagerie she has collected here.
A: So, I’m a huge fan of Papi Z’s prompts. For some reason, he picks words out of the sky and my fevered brain just cooks up something – or wants to cook up something. There wasn’t a prompt last week, but I did have a half-finished story, prompted waaay back on Feb 3. I never got around to finishing it, until this weekend . . .
D: And by this weekend, she means five minutes ago.
A: Yeah, well, I thought it was finished.
D: Uh huh.
A: Snitch.
D: Procrastinator.
A: . . . Okay, you win. So, without further ado, a vampire tale for the last day of March . . .
* * *
“So I says to her, I says, ‘hey, dame, the non-sparkling Vampires walked into the room—‘“
“And what did she say, Jimmy?”
“I’m getting to that, you goon. I says, ‘the non-sparking Vampires walked into the room—‘“
“Why weren’t they sparkling? Everyone knows Vampires sparkle.”
The bar was still. Even Harry, pulling what was usually a beautiful pint of Guinness (damn near had to go to school just to get the right to do that in McCreary’s Pub), let the stout dribble over his fingers.
No one – but no one – was allowed into McCreary’s if they thought Vampires were supposed to sparkle. Hell, Sparkle-lovers were supposed to be shot on sight for ‘aiding and abetting’ the enemy.
Vlad did not sparkle.
It had started way back in ‘58, when everyone discovered the things that went bump in the night were real. Vampires existed – Werewolves too, though they weren’t shifters like Grandpappy’s stories said. No, they were just big, mean sumabitches the Vamps trained to take down the unwary.
For twenty years, we fought the bastards – and for twenty years we kept them at bay. Until some poor shmuck found old film footage from before – before the night fell on us, dripping blood. Now, the blood-suckers are winning – if only because they managed to get us to fight each other.
Whoever thought of imitating that footage – painting themselves in that teeny-bopper glitter and shining a light – was one smart son-of-a-bastard. Sparkle-lovers insisted Vamps were our friends, like they had gone vegetarian or something. Right, because fake-bacon is so fabulous when you have a ton of thick, mouthwatering strips of Ms. Piggy flinging themselves at you.
Harry was staring at me through the taps. His ruined Guinness sat on the edge of the bar – a sad victim of the runt’s ill-chosen words. It just didn’t make sense. Sparkle-lover was a newbie, a runt fresh out of Strix. He’d had so much promise.
With a shrug, I nodded to the man in charge. Harry took Sparkle-lover by the scruff and hauled him to the back with me close behind. Nobody in McCreary’s was a sparkle-lover, but it was just best to do these kinds of things behind closed doors – ya know what I mean?
“H-hey guys. Wh-What’s up?”
“What’s up?” Harry shoved the kid against a row of metal filing cabinets. “Just what do you think is up? We don’t take kindly to sparkle-talk, boy.”
“Wait-wait, I can explain—“
“Explain what? You rolled outta Strix and came in here talking about damned sparkling vamps. All I gotta think is that you’re either sick in the head or lookin’ to get staked.”
Harry was shaking the runt hard but the kid pulled free from the big man’s grip and shoved his sweaty face at me.
“No, look – Jimmy, you gotta believe me. I said that so you’d get me outta there. Yeah, I rolled out of Strix, just like every other hunter, and I was good, too. But the Vamps got to me as I came out – it’s my sister, Jimmy. They got my sister.”
“What do you mean? You said that so–they gotta mick on you?”
“Yeah, but I killed the bug – changed it, like – before you started tellin’ your jokes.” He flashed us the mangled bit of pin on his lapel. It winked at us in the dim light. I reached for it.
“No – no Jimmy, you can’t do that. I’ve got it rigged, see. They’re hearing pub chatter but if you touch it, they’ll know I set ‘em up.”
I looked between the runt and Harry. Could we even trust this guy?
“What’s the deal – what do they want you to?”
“It’s your warehouse. They wanted me on the inside to gain access to it.”
“They know about the warehouse?” The dread was burnin’ holes in my gut.
“Don’t listen to him, Jimmy. He don’t know squat. Get him out of here.”
I grabbed the runt by the scruff but he struggled. “Jimmy – no! They’ll kill her! You gotta help me.”
“We gotta do nothin’, runt.”
Harry was growling but I could tell by his eyes that he was planning something. That ruined pint still rankled, but word was, the runt’s sister was just a little bit of a thing.
“Take him outside, Jimmy – rough him up, but not too much. Let those damn vamps know we’re not going to be had that easy. We don’t just let any trash walk in here.”
I did as I was told, but I gave the runt a hand sign. Anyone who’s been through Strix knows it. We’d help him get his sister.
* * *
Donny Corrigan let Jimmy Malone smash his fist into his face a couple of times and then walked away from McCreary’s with a smile.
“It’s done,” he whispered into the lapel of his jacket as he walked around the corner. “We’ll get into the warehouse – no, leave the humans to me. You take the vamps.”
The first appearance of the Druid – I think The Boy did a great job as a stand-in!
A: It’s the final piece of the D/A Dialogues origin stories, written in response to the Weekly Challenge: Reflections.
D: Because we all know that, for A, following the rules and only posting one thing in response to a challenge is boring.
A: Too right, Druid.
D: (Eye roll) Today, it’s my turn to speak about my origins – about the man I am in A’s books.
A: And don’t worry – he’s not blonde.
D: Thank the gods. Anyway, some of this is from the two defunct books that make up my back-story – the tale of my parents and that first-person narrative I mentioned yesterday.
A: Mentioned is a nice word – I would have said blabbed.
D: You say tomato, I say tomahto.
A: Indeed – and without further ado, the Big Tomahto himself, Dubh an Súile. . .
An old woman, a priestess of a goddess now banished from the minds of men, once laid her hands on my mother’s belly. Long before my small movements could be felt, long before I even looked like the man-child I would become, the old woman felt my spirit, strong and true. Bidden by this, she uttered words that, on the eve of great tragedy, gave my mother greater calm: “They will know him as Dubh an Súile, and he will be a great leader of men.”
My origins – my life and its path – can be traced to that prophesy. Whether or not the old woman was correct, it followed me through to the end of my days. It haunted me as much as it bade men to follow me. It was, in turns, used as a curse against me and to rally me from despair of my own making.
The monks of the Christos and the priests of the Druid grove each had a hand in my education, but at seven years of age, it was to the grove I was sent. I was the second son, and while they knew I would not lead the clan upon my father’s death, it was hoped I would lead the grove.
It took me nine years to earn the right to sing at the hearths of my people, counsel kings and delve deep into the heart of men to see their path. I was a Druid true – not a magician but skilled in the Sight and a reader of the stars. I returned home only to have my homecoming interrupted by war. We – the mac Alasdair clan of Craig Ussie – went to aid our brethren against the Kingdom of Northumbria.
We were betrayed; my father and I were captured and held by our enemy for over a year. Our kin thought us dead, but fought on regardless. They said our deaths lead them into victorious battle. Our southern brothers were free once more, but I lost everything that mattered: my father, the woman who had given me her heart and the life we could have led together.
When we returned home, I knew I could not stay – and yet I could not lead the grove, either. I went to Éire – Ireland. I put aside my training as a mystic to earn my keep at whatever hearth could keep me. I roamed the country so long I thought I had escaped the life I once led – I sang tales of my own bravery in battle, and none knew that it was I.
The moment of my becoming – the moment when that old woman’s prophesy claimed my soul – happened as I stumbled upon an old hermit, living atop a sidhe mound. These mounds dotted the land – sacred and feared – and marked the places where once the Milesians led the Tuatha Dé Danann after they conquered the land. That he lived so close to the Fae was a temptation I could not resist.
It was a temptation that would prove the undoing of me – and be the key to my salvation.
D: I can’t actually say more, or A will interrupt me.
A: You know me too well, Druid.
D: Well, it could hardly be helped – you’ve been singing “spoilers” in the background for the last fifteen minutes. Singing off-key, might I add.
A: (Shrug) It’s what I do.
D: . . . I’m not going to suggest just what it is you do, but do you realize, A, that in all of this, we never actually gave the blog’s origin story?
A: I think we’ve been over that more than enough times.
D: Sure, but you know, the short version. . .
A: Okay, the short version is that I used to write notes between us in the marginalia of edits. Or in the back of my head. Or on napkins and notebooks. I’d giggle. I thought others would, too.
D: And . . .
A: Relentless much? And I was faced with the idea that if I wanted any agent/publisher/reader to look at me, I was going to have to learn to promote myself – otherwise known as putting myself out there. For an introvert of massive proportions, it was a big deal. Having a dialogue with you seemed like a great way to get started.
The Dialogues’ very first logo – my poor, aching head.
D: Also, it lets people know, right from the start, that you are stark raving mad.
A: Well, it helps. It lowers the expectation threshold.
D: Indeed – and with that, I do believe we are going to bid the internet a fond evening.
A: We are at that, D. I have Spartans to watch with The Boy.
D: I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that – those Spartans—
A: D – D in no way is the movie we’re about to watch historically accurate. Just sit back and you know, think of England or something.
D: . . .
A: (Grin) Thanks for reading everyone – have a great weekend!
Whenever I think of D’s origins, I see these two images.
A: What is a character’s true origin story? Is it their personal history, or is it the story of how they came to reside in an author’s imagination?
D: Both.
A: Okay, which one would you prefer to tell?
D: I think, actually, it would be a better if we told the people how I came to live in your head, first. It started with that bookshelf you so lovingly carted across the sea.
A: Indeed it did. Take it away, D.
D: What A didn’t tell you was that she continued to write while she lived in Ireland. When she left university, and became a pub’s writer and web designer-in-residence, she dug out that dusty old manuscript and started editing it again. She even showed it to someone to read. He’s the one that introduced her to me. He’s A’s ex-husband, and he lives back across that sea. The Boy and I are all that remains of his time in our lives.
That was the first moment to define my life as a character – that introduction. A knew I belonged to the story. I can’t tell you much about that time in his head. I was a different man. I was angry – more warrior than mystic. I was proud, yes, and skilled, but young.
A: You were also blonde.
D: I was?
A: Yeah. I read my original notes. Blonde warrior. Blue eyes. Tattoos. You were cold and cruel, too – with a massive chip on your shoulder. No wonder I didn’t like you.
D: Which brings me to the second moment that defined me as a character: being ‘gifted’ to a writer who may have appreciated me (for all her whinging, she did appreciate me, otherwise I would never have gotten anywhere near her precious manuscript), but did not understand me. To make matters worse, despite not particularly liking me, she stuck me in the book without really trying to find out how I fit. Yes, it was my story but there were certain things . . . missing.
Much of Changelings is not about the youth I had been – I had already been tempered by war and heartache by the time I step out onto the stage. As much as Changelings is an adventure story – a romp through time, as it were – it’s also about living with past mistakes, and creating a future worth living.
As A’s notes indicate, the me she met originally was not suited for that tale. She had to find out who I really was, and as life got in her way, she did not have much incentive to do so.
When she discovered the religious and political strife of seventh century England and Scotland – when she re-discovered many of the myths that were echoed in her work – she started to find me. Not only that, she wanted to find me. It was quiet, that desire, but it was there.
The final moment of my origin came relatively recently. I had existed rather quietly, I think, in A’s head for all those years. She never talks about the first-person narrative book she wrote – my book. It may not have gone past 100 pages, but she did write it. I won’t say she failed – she just wasn’t ready yet.
Then I started bugging her friends to make her start writing again—
A: True story – had a friend call me up and tell me she was dreaming about D, and perhaps I should start writing again? That was 4 years ago. I’m stubborn.
D: So am I. My persistence was rewarded, and though she didn’t write anything of note until last year, bugging her friends resulted in a redraft of the book outline. She revisited what she had written in my book and brought those elements into the story. I finally had a place – a real place.
Of course, A is still learning – we’ve hit a roadblock on some of the timelines for the sequel, but we’re working on it. We can do that now – thanks in part, to this blog. It’s ever so helpful to be able to snark at her in public. Cathartic too. Plus, she has the support of other writers. Without you, she’d be a hermit. And I don’t think a hermit would be as willing to get my life out onto the page.
Could you imagine this guy as a blonde? (D as imagined by Green Embers)
A: Well, gee, D. That was pretty complimentary. Kind, almost.
D: I know. I’m not such a bad Druid after all, am I?
A: I suppose not.
D: In fact, I think I’m pretty spectacular.
A: I was going to say, just don’t let it go to your head, but I can see it’s already too late for that.
D: Go to my head? Whatever do you mean, woman?
A: Exactly – watch it, or I’ll make you blonde again.
D: You wouldn’t dare!
A: And I think that wraps up the origin story of a character–
D: A, we are not done here – promise me you won’t make me blonde!
A: Stay tuned for tomorrow’s exploration of D’s origin as a man. Have a great day–
A: I’m not interrupting. This is an addendum to yesterday’s origin story post.
D: Oh, sure.
A: Oi, Druid – you get 2/3 of this 3-part origin story! Besides, I think the germ of you may be among the books I decided I could not live without.
D: Yeah, well, just don’t take too long. Can you do that, A? Can you strive for brevity?
A: . . . (sigh).
Okay, so Melissa Janda asked yesterday which 30 books I absolutely had to bring to Ireland. Since I took a picture of those books (don’t ask. I love books. I just. . . don’t ask), I was able to recreate some of the list. Frankly, I think there were more than 30, but these are what I could (sort of) see in the picture and recall from what was stashed in my room.
In no particular order:
“I’d just as soon kiss a Wookie” Quotable Star Wars
The Jesus Incident
The Lazarus Effect
The Ascension Factor
Absalom, Absalom
The Russian Revolution
The History of Ireland
The History of Costume & Fashion
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
Gone with the Wind
Mists of Avalon
The Last of the Savages
The Prince, Machiavelli
The Gratitude of Kings
Unnatural Exposure
The Stranger
Heart of Darkness
King Lear
Ireland, A Graphic History
The Folklore of Ireland
Medicine Man, Shaman (Something – too small to read)
Anne of Green Gables
Emily of New Moon
Scarlett
The Witching Hour
Lasher
Taltos
The Feast of All Saints
Cry to Heaven
The Barbarian Conversion
Not all of these books were read, mind. I had been given The Barbarian Conversion: From Paganism to Christianity as a graduation gift, and it sat on that shelf, looking pretty, for a few years.
Eventually, it became my bible – and inspiration when I was writing about the lives of a clan of Picts and the convergence of religious and political strife. I never knew about the Celtic monastic resistance to Rome (Oh, that’s why St. Patrick was sent back to Ireland? To bring the de-centralized monasteries to heel – those same monasteries that had maintained Christianity and the shreds of civilization while various invasions swept across England and mainland Europe? Huh.)
D: Nice rant, A. I could have told you that.
A: I think you did – someone whispered it in my ear and said “This – this is the world I came from. Write me.”
D: Which we will delve deeper into when A lets me write my origin story.
A: Indeed – enjoy your day, folks, and thanks for reading!
D: Does this ‘grand’ adventure mean he can be my voice actor, now?
D: According to your file, you’re a psychopathic personality with schizophrenic delusions, suffering from recurring amnesia based on traumatic repression leading to outbursts of antisocial and violent behavior. Knight to king seven. Check.
A: Google is famous for it’s April Fools jokes, and though I saw this yesterday, 
“So I says to her, I says, ‘hey, dame, the non-sparkling Vampires walked into the room—‘“
Harry was growling but I could tell by his eyes that he was planning something. That ruined pint still rankled, but word was, the runt’s sister was just a little bit of a thing.
The D/A Dialogues 
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