Total Wordcount: 7,994
It may appear that I have written less today, but what I actually did was run through and delete and rewrite some portions of the former passages, therefore dropping the word count before adding to it. So the results are somewhat skewed and I have no idea if I actually made it or not. It matters little, as I am still running somewhat ahead of schedule. Woooh, go me!
Tired now. Rakoto's storyline seems to involve a lot of talking and a moderate amount of him whining about being royal blood (or not, as the case actually is). I am not sure if I shall ever warm to Rakoto as a character. The sooner I get him kitnapped and in the paws of Misosokoso (I'm looking forward to introducing people to him), the better.
Will go to bed now, and ponder the next passage - I suspect it shall involve a wanna-be assassin crashing Ramava's Biannual Deth Festival and trying to kill Ranavalona. Maybe Rakoto will learn a few home truths re: his mother's rather debatable way of ruling.
A screech rent the air, a sound so terrible that Rakoto leapt in the air, fur bristling as a lemur tumbled from the tree. It crashed into the ground beside him, dragging itself into a crouch. Stared up at him with wild, pale eyes. Her fur was spiked and crazy, jutting out at all angles, a tattered lambas hung about her. Her fur, once white, was now stained with dirt and matted with twigs and grim.
“Doom,” she proclaimed, rising one finger to point at him. “Doom and death, death and doom. The curse of your father flows through your veins. The curse of your mother poisons all that it touches. Doom, death and doom, doom and death. You will pay; Rakoto, son of Ranavalona. Rakoto, son of the black. Doom!”
Her finger shook as it pointed at Rakoto. “My family,” she hissed, “are dead. My children – taken to the mines. My brothers and sisters – recruited as dealers of death. All dead. She killed them. She killed us.”
With those words, she sprang back up into the tree and disappeared through the leafy branches. Rakoto sank back against the tree branch, shaking. Who was she? He wondered. What is she doing here? Why does she hate me so? Then, after a moment. What has my mother done to deserve such hatred?