The Militiverse

  Good evening my dearest ones, isn’t it biting outside? Well, do come in, take off your coat and warm your hands by the fire. There’s coffee or a little hot toddy if you fancy it. Don’t mind Lady Cora , she has been mischievous all day. You know tonight I want to talk to you about research . Yes, the bane of every writer’s life but a necessary part. I was having a wee chat with two writer friends, one was a playwright , and the other was a military history buff . Both very dedicated to their craft. The subject of research came up, and each of them had definite opinions on it. My friend, Sara , said that though needed, research was a black hole that a writer could get lost in, and she’d prefer just two sources. Her husband Neil , who loves history and particularly military history from World War 1 and 2, agreed that though it was gruelling, he found it stimulating. Both turned to me and with an assumption that because I write a combination of crime and gothic fantasy with a ...

  Good evening my lovelies, I’ve been resting up, listening to the rain outside as it bashed against the window like an angry ghoul. Though there is something quite lovely about a storm raging outside the house and the rain falling against the glass. It always makes me think back to my childhood, and when it rained, you’d need more than an umbrella. Anyway, my dear friends, pull up a chair and let me tell you about this evening and how I almost broke my neck, and Lady Cora’s nonchalance at my misfortune. Storm lit pilgrimage to the high shelves As I mentioned earlier, it has been raining nonstop all night and all day. The electric breaker on the fuse box, wouldn’t behave, the gremlins were playing their mischievous games. I couldn’t continue writing, there was only a bar left on the laptop, and I couldn’t charge it, so reluctantly I decided to close it. I took a throw from the back of the sofa and sat by the fire and read, yes by candlelight. But the flickering flame just...

  Good evening, my lovelies. Come in, come in. The French Roast is warm, the night is soft, and I promise I’ve hidden the worst of the day under the rug. Sit. Let the quiet settle around us like a velvet cloak. A message came to me recently from a dear soul named Gwen, asking: “What is the camaraderie like among the Tempus Militibus ?” Well. Pull your chair closer to the fire because we are not alone tonight. Mention Midleton whisky once and suddenly Remy , Emile , and Karl materialise like polished ghosts, trying (and failing) to look casual by the sideboard.  They  do  love a dramatic entrance. When Immortals Slow Down The Militibus are not merely vampires, they are the memory of old crossroads and forgotten cathedrals, the echo of history when no one is listening. They’ve lived too long for theatrics alone. Eternity forces reflection. One mild May night in Montmartre , Remy, Emile, and Karl escaped duty and found themselves basking in that rare th...