Stranger Lands - Sci-fi and Fantasy

So I've had a couple weeks to do the next chapter of Mountains and Valleys and in typical ADHD fashion I planned it and then spent the entire time procrastinating actually writing it. Now, I could do the last couple thousand words tonight but instead of putting that evil on myself, please accept this post as an explanation if you were looking forward to it. I'll have it up this weekend. I know I also promised a blog post too but I wanted to put a bit more time into that as well because I feel like its worth really exploring the subject of it. If that's not enough for you sick freaks, here's a recipe for a creamy red lentil dahl without all the pre-amble. It's a meal I cook often, it's delicious, and it has some real zing. As an added bonus, it takes just 30-40 minutes to make and can be scaled to the size of your pot/party. Gather: 1 Large white onion 5 tsp Cumin seeds 1 tsp Fenugreek seeds 1 tsp Fennel seeds 1 tsp Black mustard seeds 1 tsp Corriander seeds...

Chapter 3 Kemu brings her to the hut where Dehla lays, sleeping now as the night waxes in its depth. Avira draws up a stool, simple wood burnished with a black dye and sealed against the elements. Dehla lies awkwardly on thick covers nestled in a round cot. Her upper torso is twisted so that she is on her back, and a thick wool blanket, woven in intricate pattern, covers her at an angle. The makeshift rag which Avira had tied around her hoof has been replaced with proper bandaging, red spots seeping through the white. Avira can see, across her arms, a thinly spread green paste that covers the scratches. Her head too is bandaged, the nubs of her horns poking out through the gauze. She is relieved to see her breath is easy, aided by the medicine. “Stay here a while,” Kemu says, bass voice quiet. “I must call council.” “What must I do?” Avira asks. “Watch,” Kemu commands. “Pray. Erikind is our small god of healing. You can make an offering come dawn if you have anything to offer, but pray...

Chapter 2 In the high hours of the night, she begins packing. Her cloak - threadbare as it is - is draped across a table in the corner of the room she woke in. She presses on the bulb beside her, feeling it give way under her touch and then build resistance as it fills partly with the luminescent fluid. The dim orange glow casts a muted shadow by her movements. She gathers her few belongings; her goggles, gloves, and moccasins are bundled in her shirt, tucked in a chest at the foot of the bed. When she carefully unfolds the wrapped package, her dagger gleams up at her, catching the light on its sinewy edge. It seems to shiver in the rippling shine, slithering into the palm of her hand. The raider it had belonged to had not given it easily. They had struggled over it, rolling down the salt dune that she’d tucked herself against to sleep. She still felt the sting of white grains in fresh wounds, still smelt the metal tang of his blood as he’d stared up at her from the shadow of the ridge...