WiPpet Wednesday: The Reconstruction of Kirill

I will freely admit that I have a problem with knuckling down and finishing things.  I've somehow ended up with several projects on the go at once, some of which should really be a lot further on than they are, and I'm one of those downright useless people who freezes when they realise this.

Panicking gets me absolutely nothing, of course, except a headache.  So instead I decided to give myself another challenge, and hopefully one that I do a lot more frequently than my Pinup Boy Sundays: WiPpet Wednesdays, created by K. L. Schwengel.  I've seen Nicole Nally do some in the past and thought they looked both fun and interesting (or at least, she makes them look that way!), so after a little deliberation I've signed up.

This handily dovetails with the fact that, having hit a small impasse at the end of the chapter of the Rose Queen I'm working on and done no planning on Dust & Ash, I'm going to resume working on The Reconstruction of Kirill.

Since it's the 7th January, and WiPpet Wednesday excerpts should be related to the day and month--and I don't feel the equal to even basic maths lately--I'm going to share the first seven paragraphs from the first chapter of TRoK:

The clash of blades rang out as sunlight streamed through the massive arched windows.  Kirill stumbled back from a jab that almost perforated his gut, flicking his rapier down in a clumsy attempt to deflect the sword darting towards him.  He succeeded but he was on the back foot, his muscles burning; one misstep, one false move, and—

The tip of the blade pressed against his chest, dangerously close to his heart.  “I win.”

“That’s the third time now,” he murmured with a smile, batting the needle-sharp point away and ignoring the flare of pain in his wrist.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll ever be as good at it as you are.”

“If you’re going to finish that sentence by insisting I stop teaching you,” Niko said, sliding the rapier into its sheath and smoothing down his rumpled shirt, “then you already know what the answer is.”

Kirill stretched his arms above his head and arched his back, basking in the way the afternoon sun inscribed distorted, criss-crossed arcs over the polished wooden floor and heated it beneath his bare feet.  What had once been Niko’s kitchen and a bunch of makeshift storerooms had been transformed into a massive dining room, huge windows dominating the back wall and leading onto the patio.  There was really only one thing missing.  “When are you going to put tables and chairs in here?”

“Why would I do that?”  Niko grinned.  “Waste a perfectly good room like this on waiting for the few occasions a year I can bring myself to put up with company?  I thought you knew me better than that.”

Kirill returned the grin, only to fumble his sword down as Niko’s weapon flashed out from the sheath again.  “Wait, I’m not ready!”

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