Shawn Weaver's Blog
September 15, 2018
Fall of Ishtabar preview
Though the sun shinned bright, and the day was crisp and clear. None of the people gathered in the tight confines of the wagon could shake the ominous feeling the closer they got to the Kin-Marrow Mountains.
Even with a two night stay in a small inn. Eating well and sleeping on a feathered mattress, did not help their wounds heal any faster. Bruises, cuts and swollen joints, were constant reminders of the failure that they had faced at the Temple of Shell-Marr.
A failure that pulled on Jason Tolbridge’s heart, his son kidnapped. Taken by his former mount, a great red dragon named Brightwing. Now it was up to him to save his son, if that was possible.
Sitting on three bedrolls, a bag of dry rations consisting of dried beans and jerked beef, Tyree Loveland pulled a dry twig from his mass of tangled, dusty brown hair and said, “How much longer?”
“Days by the look of it,” Elizha Ambrose replied with distain. The regal elf hated his uncomfortable perch on the buckboard next to Master Well. The mage did not add to the comment. Instead, he kept his keen eyes on the road ahead.
“Come now, it won’t be that long,” Mee ‘Ahhnalee said. Her long golden hair tied back tightly concealing the sharp tips of her half-Elvin heritage.
“May,” Tyree said, “Do you have any apples left.”
“You finished the last of them yesterday.” The erstwhile hunter, Sayler said from his corner of the wagon.
“Always hungry,” Goldbridge added calmly. Her form showing that of a small framed human female, though inside she was truly a hulking red dragon.
Holding human form was not tasking for Goldbridge to hold for long periods. Only leaving the human guise and changing back into the beast, would be. If she did revert to her normal form, Brightwing could track her. That was something the party did not want at this time.
“He’s not the only one,” Jason said, trying to stretch his legs out in the cramp space.
Though his skin had healed from the lava burns received while underneath the Temple of Shall-Marr. His bruised muscles were taking their time in mending. A sharp twitch jolted through his ribcage as he tried to sit up straighter.
“Master Well please stop,” Goldbridge said, placing a long nailed hand on Jason’s shoulder. “We need to rest and eat.”
“There are still too many miles to go,” Jason said, not wanting to stop. Even though he knew getting up and stretching would elevate some of his pain.
“The front will still be there whether were there today or tomorrow.” Goldbridge said, knowing Jason’s need to keep going.
“Yes, but will the capital?” Jason replied, knowing that while King Ellight’s troops were in a prolonged battle along the shores of the Oak Barrel River. Hordes of demonic creatures were on their way to attack the capital of Ishtabar. If they did not reach the battle lines quickly, the capital would fall, and so would the rest of the kingdom.
Pulling back on the reins, Master Well coaxed the horses to stop. Setting the brake, he wrapped the leather reins around the wooden handle. “We can rest for the night,” he said, climbing off the buckboard.
“The night?” Elizha said, not wanting to spend another night in the wild.
Master Well nodded. The wide brim of his hat concealing most of his face, except for his long crooked nose and white beard, interlaced with grey.
Everyone filed off the wagon. Bedrolls were placed around a small fire of green wood. Still damp, the wood trailed pungent smoke into the sky. Stomach rumbling, Tyree began to boil beans for the night’s dinner. While the ever vigilant, Jason patrolled the perimeter of the camp, his sharp eyes taking in the hills and trees, noting every hiding spot and defensible position.
Dressed in a plain brown robe, Goldbridge stepped away from the fire. Barefoot, the cool moss of the forest floor was an exhilarating sensation on her skin. Only in the guise of a human did the simplest sensations excite her. For when she was in her true dragon form, the grass of the field felt the same as stones of her home deep in the caves of Kinn-Marrow. Her iron scaled hide did not allow the intense feelings that human flesh did.
As Goldbridge stepped up, Jason said, “We are not moving fast enough.”
“Be patient,” came the dragons reply.
Knuckles white from gripping the pommel of his sword. Jason started, “Can you...” “Can I what?” Goldbridge asked as the warrior paused.
Jason spun on his heels. “Take me into the mountains.”
Goldbridge could see pain in Jason’s eyes.
“If you change now, we could be there in minutes.”
A slight smile broke Goldbridge’s face. “Jason, you know that I cannot. We must warn the king. Then, we can go in search of your son.”
Holding up a hand, Goldbridge stopped the rugged warrior from replying. “If I change, Brightwing will know where we are. Is that something you want? Do you want to lose the element of surprise?”
“No, I see your point,” Jason replied bitterly.
Goldbridge took a step closer. “The safety of thousands rests on our shoulders. If we do not warn King Ellight, all that we know will be for naught.”
“Then let it be for naught. She has my son.”
“I know. She has Steel as well. But there is nothing we can do about that right now. One-step at a time my friend. One-step at a time.”
“What is she doing with him?” Jason asked, unsure of what could be happening with his son.
While underneath the Temple of Shell-Marr, Brightwing had cast Stockard and a young red dragon into the lava flow. Surrounded by magic, both of them had merged, creating a mate for Brightwing to bring her plan of domination to fruition.
Deep down Jason knew that if they did not act soon. Brightwing would be laying eggs. Once they hatched, she would create a fire breathing army that was too young to understand what they were doing. Yet old enough to follow their mother’s orders without question.
“Take a deep breath,” Goldbridge said, “Close your eyes, and relax.”
Jason did as he was told. By the forth breath he could feel some of his anxiety start to slip away. But that was chased away as a roar echoed through the trees. Birds flew from the trees as they shook.
Running over, Sayler asked. “What’s happening?”
Pulling his sword, Jason replied. “Something big is on its way. Warn the others.”
“Should we break camp?” May said, as the trio dashed back to the camp.
“No. We will go and see what it is.” Jason replied.
“That’s not good,” Tyree said, as Jason and Sayler dashed into the trees.
“Everything will be alright,” Goldbridge said, noticing that Master Well was nowhere to be seen. “Where is the wizard?” She asked, taking a step to see if he was sitting on the other side of the wagon.
Tyree scanned the campsite. “I don’t know. He was here a moment ago.”
Even with a two night stay in a small inn. Eating well and sleeping on a feathered mattress, did not help their wounds heal any faster. Bruises, cuts and swollen joints, were constant reminders of the failure that they had faced at the Temple of Shell-Marr.
A failure that pulled on Jason Tolbridge’s heart, his son kidnapped. Taken by his former mount, a great red dragon named Brightwing. Now it was up to him to save his son, if that was possible.
Sitting on three bedrolls, a bag of dry rations consisting of dried beans and jerked beef, Tyree Loveland pulled a dry twig from his mass of tangled, dusty brown hair and said, “How much longer?”
“Days by the look of it,” Elizha Ambrose replied with distain. The regal elf hated his uncomfortable perch on the buckboard next to Master Well. The mage did not add to the comment. Instead, he kept his keen eyes on the road ahead.
“Come now, it won’t be that long,” Mee ‘Ahhnalee said. Her long golden hair tied back tightly concealing the sharp tips of her half-Elvin heritage.
“May,” Tyree said, “Do you have any apples left.”
“You finished the last of them yesterday.” The erstwhile hunter, Sayler said from his corner of the wagon.
“Always hungry,” Goldbridge added calmly. Her form showing that of a small framed human female, though inside she was truly a hulking red dragon.
Holding human form was not tasking for Goldbridge to hold for long periods. Only leaving the human guise and changing back into the beast, would be. If she did revert to her normal form, Brightwing could track her. That was something the party did not want at this time.
“He’s not the only one,” Jason said, trying to stretch his legs out in the cramp space.
Though his skin had healed from the lava burns received while underneath the Temple of Shall-Marr. His bruised muscles were taking their time in mending. A sharp twitch jolted through his ribcage as he tried to sit up straighter.
“Master Well please stop,” Goldbridge said, placing a long nailed hand on Jason’s shoulder. “We need to rest and eat.”
“There are still too many miles to go,” Jason said, not wanting to stop. Even though he knew getting up and stretching would elevate some of his pain.
“The front will still be there whether were there today or tomorrow.” Goldbridge said, knowing Jason’s need to keep going.
“Yes, but will the capital?” Jason replied, knowing that while King Ellight’s troops were in a prolonged battle along the shores of the Oak Barrel River. Hordes of demonic creatures were on their way to attack the capital of Ishtabar. If they did not reach the battle lines quickly, the capital would fall, and so would the rest of the kingdom.
Pulling back on the reins, Master Well coaxed the horses to stop. Setting the brake, he wrapped the leather reins around the wooden handle. “We can rest for the night,” he said, climbing off the buckboard.
“The night?” Elizha said, not wanting to spend another night in the wild.
Master Well nodded. The wide brim of his hat concealing most of his face, except for his long crooked nose and white beard, interlaced with grey.
Everyone filed off the wagon. Bedrolls were placed around a small fire of green wood. Still damp, the wood trailed pungent smoke into the sky. Stomach rumbling, Tyree began to boil beans for the night’s dinner. While the ever vigilant, Jason patrolled the perimeter of the camp, his sharp eyes taking in the hills and trees, noting every hiding spot and defensible position.
Dressed in a plain brown robe, Goldbridge stepped away from the fire. Barefoot, the cool moss of the forest floor was an exhilarating sensation on her skin. Only in the guise of a human did the simplest sensations excite her. For when she was in her true dragon form, the grass of the field felt the same as stones of her home deep in the caves of Kinn-Marrow. Her iron scaled hide did not allow the intense feelings that human flesh did.
As Goldbridge stepped up, Jason said, “We are not moving fast enough.”
“Be patient,” came the dragons reply.
Knuckles white from gripping the pommel of his sword. Jason started, “Can you...” “Can I what?” Goldbridge asked as the warrior paused.
Jason spun on his heels. “Take me into the mountains.”
Goldbridge could see pain in Jason’s eyes.
“If you change now, we could be there in minutes.”
A slight smile broke Goldbridge’s face. “Jason, you know that I cannot. We must warn the king. Then, we can go in search of your son.”
Holding up a hand, Goldbridge stopped the rugged warrior from replying. “If I change, Brightwing will know where we are. Is that something you want? Do you want to lose the element of surprise?”
“No, I see your point,” Jason replied bitterly.
Goldbridge took a step closer. “The safety of thousands rests on our shoulders. If we do not warn King Ellight, all that we know will be for naught.”
“Then let it be for naught. She has my son.”
“I know. She has Steel as well. But there is nothing we can do about that right now. One-step at a time my friend. One-step at a time.”
“What is she doing with him?” Jason asked, unsure of what could be happening with his son.
While underneath the Temple of Shell-Marr, Brightwing had cast Stockard and a young red dragon into the lava flow. Surrounded by magic, both of them had merged, creating a mate for Brightwing to bring her plan of domination to fruition.
Deep down Jason knew that if they did not act soon. Brightwing would be laying eggs. Once they hatched, she would create a fire breathing army that was too young to understand what they were doing. Yet old enough to follow their mother’s orders without question.
“Take a deep breath,” Goldbridge said, “Close your eyes, and relax.”
Jason did as he was told. By the forth breath he could feel some of his anxiety start to slip away. But that was chased away as a roar echoed through the trees. Birds flew from the trees as they shook.
Running over, Sayler asked. “What’s happening?”
Pulling his sword, Jason replied. “Something big is on its way. Warn the others.”
“Should we break camp?” May said, as the trio dashed back to the camp.
“No. We will go and see what it is.” Jason replied.
“That’s not good,” Tyree said, as Jason and Sayler dashed into the trees.
“Everything will be alright,” Goldbridge said, noticing that Master Well was nowhere to be seen. “Where is the wizard?” She asked, taking a step to see if he was sitting on the other side of the wagon.
Tyree scanned the campsite. “I don’t know. He was here a moment ago.”
January 30, 2014
Chicago Undead
Feeling hung over, even though I haven’t had a drink in over a week, I stumble off of the couch, which has acted as my bed for the last sixty hours. The sheet tangles with my feet. I kick it under the coffee table, and drag myself across apartment to the kitchenette that shares the same open space with my living room.
Grabbing the coffee pot, I look down to see a thick swirl of black dredge that remained from Friday morning’s breakfast. Disgusted, I pour the stale coffee into the sink, and rinse the pot. With my elbow, I turn off the tap and look through the coffee-stained glass. I figure that it has a semblance of being clean.
I slip the pot back on the burner, check the water level in the reservoir, then pull out the filter cup. The brown filter is filled with a hard block of dark grounds that remind me of a hockey puck. Tossing the solidified mess into the small trash bin underneath the sink, I rummage with my free hand through the cupboard left of the fridge. I find my can of Folgers and set it on the counter. Knowing that the package of filters always sat next to the can, I reach for it, only to end up grasping an empty cellophane package.
Exasperated, I pick up the can of coffee and toss it back into the cupboard. Before the little container can roll out, I slam the door shut. A sharp pain slices through my head, reminding me that I’m still not well.
I grab my best friend for the weekend, a bottle of aspirin, off of the counter where I had left it the night before on one of my many excursions from the safety of the couch to the toilet. Popping the top I down two of the white pills. Dry swallowing, I think about taking a few more, though the way my stomach feels, I don't think it's such a good idea.
The last sixty hours of life-draining flu virus that had hit me as soon as I had returned from delivering Mr. White’s corpse to the North Western Baptist Ministries in Guttenberg, Iowa, had been the longest of my life. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stay awake, and couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the nausea churning in my stomach.
The longer I stand at the counter, the more my legs feel like leaden logs that do not want to cooperate. I can get up steadily now, even though my knees are weak, unlike Saturday when I had to almost crawl to get to the bathroom. Thank god my apartment isn't too large, or I would have never made it in time for the numerous gut wrenching bouts with the toilet.
Walking to the master bedroom behind the kitchenette, I grab a wrinkled pair of jeans and a white T-shirt from the laundry basket sitting on the bed. The soft comfort of my mattress calls to me to settle in for a few more hours. But I had lain on the couch for far too long, and know that I need to move about and get something to eat.
Popping on my sandals, I walk back to the living room and grab my wallet, keys and cell phone from the coffee table. Feeling warm light on my back from the wall of windows that looks out over a balcony to the Navy Pier and Lake Michigan, I head out the door.
Eleven stories up, I walk the clean hallway, decorated with photos of the Chicago skyline on the walls. On my floor, four other apartments exist in this wing of the X shaped twelve-story building. Each floor of the X has access to its own elevator, giving semblance of privacy. All of the apartments are occupied by a myriad of people who can afford such luxury.
I myself am not one of those people. I can barely afford to put gas in my car. But my grandfather, Timothy Briggs, had invested heavily in construction along Lake Shore Drive in the booming days of Chicago’s growth. And with that, he acquired ownership in numerous buildings, including the one I live in now.
At first, my apartment was to be a place for anyone in the family visiting the city to stay overnight. But after my grandfather passed away his assets had been sliced up between the children and grandchildren. I ended up with three thousand feet of prime real-estate, and a small stipend doled out every month. Not a whole lot, but enough to keep food in the pantry and gas in my car.
On top of that, I work with my dad at a job I don't necessarily want, but it pays the remainder of my bills. I help my dad at the Briggs and Sons Funeral Home, with four convenient locations in the Chicago land area, serving all of your dearly departed's needs.
My parents raised me with ethics, and the mantra that I have to earn my keep. So after graduating high school, I went to the Lincoln School of Mortuary Sciences and got my bachelor’s degree.
So here I am, twenty-three, just off a gut wrenching bout of the flu, and a hankering for coffee. I know that I should eat, but the thought of food makes my stomach churn. Maybe I could hold down some chicken soup if the café on the first floor has any today. They rotate their selection of soups daily, and I'm not in the mood for split pea.
Grabbing the coffee pot, I look down to see a thick swirl of black dredge that remained from Friday morning’s breakfast. Disgusted, I pour the stale coffee into the sink, and rinse the pot. With my elbow, I turn off the tap and look through the coffee-stained glass. I figure that it has a semblance of being clean.
I slip the pot back on the burner, check the water level in the reservoir, then pull out the filter cup. The brown filter is filled with a hard block of dark grounds that remind me of a hockey puck. Tossing the solidified mess into the small trash bin underneath the sink, I rummage with my free hand through the cupboard left of the fridge. I find my can of Folgers and set it on the counter. Knowing that the package of filters always sat next to the can, I reach for it, only to end up grasping an empty cellophane package.
Exasperated, I pick up the can of coffee and toss it back into the cupboard. Before the little container can roll out, I slam the door shut. A sharp pain slices through my head, reminding me that I’m still not well.
I grab my best friend for the weekend, a bottle of aspirin, off of the counter where I had left it the night before on one of my many excursions from the safety of the couch to the toilet. Popping the top I down two of the white pills. Dry swallowing, I think about taking a few more, though the way my stomach feels, I don't think it's such a good idea.
The last sixty hours of life-draining flu virus that had hit me as soon as I had returned from delivering Mr. White’s corpse to the North Western Baptist Ministries in Guttenberg, Iowa, had been the longest of my life. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stay awake, and couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the nausea churning in my stomach.
The longer I stand at the counter, the more my legs feel like leaden logs that do not want to cooperate. I can get up steadily now, even though my knees are weak, unlike Saturday when I had to almost crawl to get to the bathroom. Thank god my apartment isn't too large, or I would have never made it in time for the numerous gut wrenching bouts with the toilet.
Walking to the master bedroom behind the kitchenette, I grab a wrinkled pair of jeans and a white T-shirt from the laundry basket sitting on the bed. The soft comfort of my mattress calls to me to settle in for a few more hours. But I had lain on the couch for far too long, and know that I need to move about and get something to eat.
Popping on my sandals, I walk back to the living room and grab my wallet, keys and cell phone from the coffee table. Feeling warm light on my back from the wall of windows that looks out over a balcony to the Navy Pier and Lake Michigan, I head out the door.
Eleven stories up, I walk the clean hallway, decorated with photos of the Chicago skyline on the walls. On my floor, four other apartments exist in this wing of the X shaped twelve-story building. Each floor of the X has access to its own elevator, giving semblance of privacy. All of the apartments are occupied by a myriad of people who can afford such luxury.
I myself am not one of those people. I can barely afford to put gas in my car. But my grandfather, Timothy Briggs, had invested heavily in construction along Lake Shore Drive in the booming days of Chicago’s growth. And with that, he acquired ownership in numerous buildings, including the one I live in now.
At first, my apartment was to be a place for anyone in the family visiting the city to stay overnight. But after my grandfather passed away his assets had been sliced up between the children and grandchildren. I ended up with three thousand feet of prime real-estate, and a small stipend doled out every month. Not a whole lot, but enough to keep food in the pantry and gas in my car.
On top of that, I work with my dad at a job I don't necessarily want, but it pays the remainder of my bills. I help my dad at the Briggs and Sons Funeral Home, with four convenient locations in the Chicago land area, serving all of your dearly departed's needs.
My parents raised me with ethics, and the mantra that I have to earn my keep. So after graduating high school, I went to the Lincoln School of Mortuary Sciences and got my bachelor’s degree.
So here I am, twenty-three, just off a gut wrenching bout of the flu, and a hankering for coffee. I know that I should eat, but the thought of food makes my stomach churn. Maybe I could hold down some chicken soup if the café on the first floor has any today. They rotate their selection of soups daily, and I'm not in the mood for split pea.
February 2, 2013
Tainted Blood
If there is one thing Katrina Michaels does extremely well is she gives life to her characters. Love them, or hate them, you can’t but help finding yourself believing that these characters are alive. The twists that she slips into her storylines are well plotted and enjoyable. Not wanting to give away any spoilers I have to state that I was taken aback to find out whom the bad guy was. And weeks after finishing the novel I still hate the reverend.
Katrina has become one of my favorite authors, and I highly recommend every book that she has written to date. I can’t wait to read her next novel. Hopefully we will not have to wait too long.
Katrina has become one of my favorite authors, and I highly recommend every book that she has written to date. I can’t wait to read her next novel. Hopefully we will not have to wait too long.
September 2, 2011
Read of the Week
The SCM of 2030 is Ami Blackwelder’s new edition to her ever growing library of works. Once again she delves into the future of Alaska, and the world, as it copes’ with an alien threat. You as the reader see this threat as how it really is. And you find yourself growing fond of the characters in this growing series. The SCM is a fun read. Ami throws some surprising twists into the storyline that grow as the series continues. I give the SCM of 2030 4 stars.
Shawn Weaver – Author, The Dark Caravan
Shawn Weaver – Author, The Dark Caravan
August 24, 2011
Fine Reading
Characters that come to life grace the pages of Aurora Lightbourne’s new novel, Brass Hearts. You cannot help but to feel for these characters. Some you will hate, some you will love, and I guarantee you will be not be disappointed with the end. Aurora has an ability that few have. She makes the story stick with you. Long after you finish this novel you will want more of her fine work. 5 stars from me and I see more to come.
Shawn Weaver, Author – The Dark Caravan
Shawn Weaver, Author – The Dark Caravan
July 16, 2011
A Twist on the Vampire Tale
The Judging by Ellen Maze is a unique twist on the vampire mythos. She has taken her religious beliefs and splashed it throughout her work. Not one to believe that vampires can cross over in a religious storyline. I was surprised that Ellen did such a good job of not preaching her beliefs to the reader. And yet put across her message. If you’re looking for a blood soaked vampire tale this is not the book for you. But if you’re looking for something that takes the vampire genre to a new level you will enjoy this novel.
Shawn Weaver, Author - The Dark Caravan
Shawn Weaver, Author - The Dark Caravan
July 10, 2011
Hotel California
Ever wanted to know what happened to the guy who unknowingly stepped into the song Hotel California. Well Donnie Light takes you there. Just like the song, Hotel California is a quick trip into dark mystery. What lurks behind the hotels closed doors, and beware of the sultry woman who lives there.
I give this book 4 Stars
Shawn Weaver, Author – The Dark Caravan
I give this book 4 Stars
Shawn Weaver, Author – The Dark Caravan
June 4, 2011
Fully enjoyable
Women and Other Monsters by Bernard Schaffer was an interesting change from the standard line of novels that I read. Not usually one to read short stories, I was impressed by the depth that Bernard got in such a short space. Each story had a unique take. But I do say the stories were way to short. I could see a novel growing from each, and I hope Bernard continues to write such wonderful pieces. I can’t wait to read his next story and I hope it’s soon.
Shawn Weaver, Author, The Dark Caravan
Shawn Weaver, Author, The Dark Caravan
May 27, 2011
Will work for parts!!!
Book four of the Space Tripper’s series: Will Work for Food/Parts by Aurora Lightbourne is a fun romp on a planet filled with desperate people wishing they had more to life than living in a desert. I found myself pleasantly surprised at the twists and turns that the story took. Aurora has created characters that capture your imagination, and you will find yourself with a vested interest in them. My only question is will Nahni-bot get the grand children that she so desires, and will the crew get home alive or be thrown into a war that none of them want to be part of? I guess I will have to wait for the next installment. So get busy Aurora your fans await!!!!
Shawn Weaver – Author, The Dark Caravan
Shawn Weaver – Author, The Dark Caravan
May 7, 2011
I need a drink of water
Using just the right amount of tech, and the right amount of quirkiness, Aurora Lightbourne has a well-paced novel that leaves the reader satisfied. Unlike most series where you have to read the prior novels to understand what is going on in the next. Book Three of the Space Tripper’s series makes an easy transition for the reader. With well-defined characters that the reader can make an investment in. Aurora shows the skill that she has as a writer. I can’t wait to read the next in her series.
Shawn Weaver – Co-author, Ripper’s Row
Shawn Weaver – Co-author, Ripper’s Row
