A Star Reckoner's Lot - Cover Image
Today, we are in the company of an author that has chosen the brave path of self-publication. Darrell Drake is the author of The Flameforged Saga, a fantastical adventure set in the magical world of EverAutumn. He's now set to publish his next novel - A Star-Reckoner's Lot. The tale is set in a world analogous to 6th Century Sassanian-Iran and is filled with drama, magic and adventure, with great attention paid to historical accuracy. Darrell Drake was kind enough to sit down with us and discuss his new book and the hardships of self-publication.
Declan : Thanks for taking time away from working on your novel. I know you're busy so let's get right to the questions! First up, why don't you tell us a bit about yourself.
Darrell : Thanks for having me. Well, I'm a Canadian by choice, not birth. I've never been fond of hot weather—you can only take so many clothes off. Most of my days are wiled away playing games, watching the birds I've coaxed onto my balcony (which is now covered in a fine sheet of seeds), and reading of course. But nothing comes close to sleeping. As far as I'm concerned, that's the ultimate past time.
Declan : We can both agree on that! So where does writing fit into your life? Is it something you always enjoyed?
Darrell : It's been around for a while. Reading is great, and it without it writing hardly has a spine to stand on. But I think I'm more disposed to bringing characters to life than getting caught up in someone else's. Not that I'm at all averse to it or avoid it. I'm reading A Promise of Blood at the moment, and it's truly captivating. There's something about realizing a world of your own, though: a drive to do so once it's taken shape in your head. It's nagging at times, almost frustratingly so, as if you're compelled to get it out before something catastrophic occurs.
Declan : Ah! The Powder Mage Trilogy! I'm not long after reading it myself. It's a great story, and a great example of a unique world brought to life. Using the great analogy of Brandon Sanderson - There are two types of writers in the world: There's The Gardener that plants the seeds, lets their flowers grow themselves and picks out the weeds, and then there's the Architect that plans everything in meticulous detail and only changes their plans once they're forced to do so. Would you consider yourself a Gardener or an Architect? Or if you don't identify with either, how do you go about crafting your characters and the worlds they inhabit?
Darrell : Yeah, I'm looking forward to the next two books and I haven't even finished the first. I've answered this as "archener" in the past, meaning somewhere in between. Generally, I spend a great deal of time visualizing what's going to happen before I put it to paper, but still letting characters do as they will. While that definitely had its part in A Star-Reckoner's Lot, I'd say this one was written much more from an architect's perspective. Weaving the fantastical characters into history called for a more precise approach than I'm accustomed to.
Declan : That makes for a good segue into discussing your latest novel and the approach you took with it. On the Kickstarter page for the novel, you say that you spent a significant portion of time on researching Iranian/Sassanian history and lore. Did this change your original outline much? What drew you to that particular region and history?
Darrell : Going in I mainly had the idea of the character, her lot in life, and where I wanted it to take her (in addition to some secondary roles). What Sasanian Iran, One Thousand and One Nights, and the Shahnameh did was help bring clarity to the details. The core of the story was the same, but through the history and legends I was able to forge something . . . better. Ashtadukht's character was rounded out, and her path was illuminated. This was mainly a result of the national epic, the Shahnameh. With its wonderfully fantastical account of history, it set me on the path to Sasanian Iran. Not solely through the narrative, but because I discovered the supernatural elements best suited where I wanted to take Ashtadukht's role as a star-reckoner.
Declan : Tell us a little about the story of A Star-Reckoner's Lot. Who is Ashtadukht and what makes her a star-reckoner?
Darrell : Ashtadukht's the daughter of a nobleman, a decorated general, who's been having quite a rough time of it. Her husband was murdered by a div (an otherworldly, mischievous, often evil creature). She's brooked a debilitating illness since birth. What's more, she's looked down on by her peers for her unusually unpredictable star-reckoning. A Star-Reckoner's Lot is told through glimpses of her trials as a star-reckoner, and what becomes of her after that path becomes something more.
As far as star-reckoners are concerned, that's more complicated than it might seem. I did a write up on it here , but for the sake of an answer . . . Star-reckoners are trained to attune themselves to the war of the luminaries. Up there, the planets and the stars wage endless battles, and star-reckoners are taught to redirect portion of the glory exuded from those battles to performing feats of magic. They use star-reckoning in many ways, but their prime objective if so rid the world of the divs mentioned earlier.
Declan : It sounds like Ashtadukht's world can be a dangerous place to live. What sort of experience can reader's expect from A Star Reckoner's Lot? Would you recommend it to younger readers or would the content be more suited to a mature reader?
Don't let the themes of a book, whether through maturity or unseemliness, turn you away from a good story.
Darrell : It's a grim world. Not grimdark by any means, but Ashtadukht's role as a star-reckoner inevitably takes her to some of the darker places. As servants of the lie, divs seek to spread chaos and corruption, so in her dealings with the creatures it is unavoidable. At the same time, it's regularly magical—don't mistake divs for the demons of the West, as they're much more varied in their methods.
As far as the audience is concerned, I've always thought younger readers should have unlimited access to books. But there are a few mature scenes that may classify A Star-Reckoner's Lot as unsuitable for younger readers.
Declan : I believe I'm of the same mind. Granted, I don't think that a young reader should be reading Fifty Shades ( for more reasons than just its content) but stories like Malazan, Book of the Fallen are so superbly written and insightful that the more mature content within is overshadowed by the richness of the world Erikson created.
Speaking of which, I'd mark Stephen Erikson out as an influence in my own writing with his ability to handle multiple characters and realize each one. From where and who do you draw you influence from?
Darrell : Maybe I'm a bit more liberal where books are concerned. Good or bad, let them go at it. I agree with the overall sentiment, though. Don't let the themes of a book, whether through maturity or unseemliness, turn you away from a good story.
Erikson is without question a beast. I believe it's nearly impossible to pick out any one person. We're all affected in some way by everything we've read, even if we didn't particularly care for it. I will go as far as saying Lewis Carroll is one of the first to come to mind. His imagination is wonderful, and surely seated deep in my mind. The same goes for Nabokov and Sapkowski.
Declan : They're noble influences to draw from. Nabokov has a great way of luring the reader into a story while both Sapkowski and Carroll are masters of skewing reality and making the fantastical seem commonplace. As you rightly say however, we're affected by everything we've read, so with that in mind, what's on your reading list at the moment aside from A Promise of Blood?
Darrell : Lots and lots of Pratchett. Working on Men at Arms at the moment. I put that down for Promise of Blood, but I'll get back to it afterward. I should have mentioned Pratchett in my last answer. His creativity knows no bounds. Also some academic papers relating to Sasanian Iran. I tend to follow what's new on that front through Twitter. Hoshruba was suggested during my AMA on r/fantasy, so I need to pick that up at some point.
Declan : I never heard of Hoshruba until now. A quick search has piqued my interest - the world's longest fantasy? I do like an epic!
All your novels so far have been self-published. What made you decide to go this route and how has it served you?
Darrell : While traditional publishing certainly has its benefits, I don't like the idea of kowtowing to a publisher or literary agent in hopes of being represented, much less the odds of not getting lost in the slush pile.
Self-publishing gives you so much more freedom. Unfortunately, that's at the cost of connections, clout, and acceptance by all sides of the literary community. Unless you're one of the fortunate few they've embraced, it's tough goings.
Declan : Sticking with the topic of self-publication, you've chosen to use the crowdfunding platform Kickstarter to help cover the costs to get A Star-Reckoner's Lot published. What made you decide to try it?
Darrell : A simple answer to that one. An author and game designer friend of mine who's had some success on Kickstarter convinced me.
I wasn't really leaning that way until he did.
it's a matter of having an established following beforehand. And not setting your goals too high.
Declan : How do you feel about it now? Was it the right choice? At the least, do you think it's increased your exposre?
Darrell : At this point it certainly seems like the wrong choice. I guess I overestimated the support I'd receive from a few pivotal communities. As far as exposure is concerned, it's hard to tell. Maybe. Marginally. If the current state of the campaign is any indication, then not by much.
Declan : That must be disheartening. Have you any advice for anyone else thinking of turning to kickstarter to fund projects? Is there anything you would have done differently?
Darrell : My advice would be to seed yourself in as many relevant communities as possible. I followed the suggestions of authors who ran successful Kickstarters before me, and that certainly helped, but I should've worked my way into some communities. It may sound disingenuous, but it needs to be done. And that's what I would have done differently.
Declan : I suppose it shows that crowd-funding isn't the guaranteed success that it's sometimes made out to be - the run-away successes are few and far between.
Darrell : Yeah, I think it's a matter of having an established following beforehand. And not setting your goals too high.
Declan : Nevertheless, your Kickstarter campaign isn't over yet so there's there's still time to drive it home. Here's you chance to convince our readers on pledging their support - Give us your most unmodest, unabashed sales pitch. Why should we pledge?
Darrell : Because you aren't small-minded scum who hate other natio—I mean because it's a great chance to get to learn about the rich history of a country that just happens to be topical without poring over history books. It's a bracingly tragic journey of fantasy inspired by Arabian Nights and the Shahnameh that doesn't get so caught up in its own tragedy to explore the wonder of the time or have a laugh along the way.
Declan : Finally, what's next for Darrel Drake? Anything else in the making? Can readers expect more from Ashtadukht in the future?
Darrell : While there is room for a short story here or there covering her many travels, A Star-Reckoner's Lot covers Ashtadukht's tale in its entirety. I've been so focused on getting this book research and written, then getting the Kickstarter prepared and off the ground, that I haven't really considered much of what's next beyond perhaps a short story starring Tirdad, one of the secondary characters who travels with Ashtadukht. But there's always something on the horizon whether I know it or not, and I'm sure it'll come out once I've given A Star-Reckoner's Lot its due attention.
Declan : And right you should! I'm looking forward to reading my hard-cover edition of A Star-Reckoner's Lot in the near future - Knowing your focusing all your efforts on it is comforting.
That just about wraps it up, I think. Is there anything else you'd like to add before we part ways?
Darrell : I'd just like to say thanks for having me. I hope I can get A Star-Reckoner's Lot in your hands, and the hands of anyone who'd enjoy it.
Declan : Thank you for taking the time to answer our questions. Best of luck with the remainder of the Kickstart campaign and all the best with anything else you put your pen to!
There you have it, folks! Darrell Drake, author of The Flameforged Saga and the upcoming A Star-Reckoner's Lot. I hope you enjoyed reading the interview as much as I enjoyed conducting it!
Before we go however, I'd like to ask you all to visit the Kickstarter page for A Star-Reckoner's Lot and make a pledge. It only costs you if the campaign is a success and in such an event, you'll get a copy of the finished novel and whatever else your kind donation to the project grants you. Personally, I'd recommend the EARLY BIRD CORVUS tier which nets you a hard cover copy of the book, complete with dust jacket - Just look at the sweet mock-up!
For anyone interested in learning a bit more about Sassanian-Iran, Darrel did a picture-filled write-up on it here.
Also, don't forget to like and share this interview across your social network and help Darrell become the Kickstarter success he deserves to be!
The Drink and Draw Exhibition is now open in Billy Byrnes on John Street. The display won't be up forever though. The exhibition ends next tuesday so you only have a few more days to check out some of the best work of the group's members.
The opening night went great. The night kicked off with some live Jazz and plenty of people turned up to catch a glimpse of the work on display. The group even had a visit from Don Conroy, the man that first thaught many of us to draw as we were growing up watching The Den. In total, there are 61 works on display.
Unable to make opening night, I recently dropped into Billy Byrnes to have a gander at the member's work. It's no exaggeration to say I was blown away! The art on display is amazing and it's great to see how some of the early members have grown and improved.
Virginia Black is a South African artist and has produced many wildlife themed works in acrylics. Since founding Drink and Draw, she has branched out into using charcoal and pastels on black card. Virginia loves depicting animals and people because of the expression of emotion that can be found in the eyes.
Kevin King is a Dublin-born artist living in Kilkenny. Kevin creates stunning works full of fine detail portraying monsters, aliens, superheroes and more. He has recently has moved his focus towards recreating Irish landmarks, such as Kilkenny Castle and Kells Priory in his unique style. Viewed from afar, his work is fantastic but his use of depth and perspective draws the eye in and before you know it, the viewer has their nose against the glass examining the fine details of his works.
Ciaran Hyland is an Irish art student who has been creating art for the past three years. Ciaran likes to work in a variety of different styles and mediums and has just recently started experimenting with digital art. The art featured by him at the exhibition is some of his more realistic work.
Kersty Evans is originally from London but has been living in Kilkenny since 2006. She enjoys pencil drawings and painting in a variety of themes from landscapes and townscapes to animals and dreams. In her words: "My pictures have their own unique style, showing a place the way it should be, not always the way it is."
Patrick Neary, is a local artist that uses iron/oak gall ink (created with reference to a medieval recipe from the 14th century) to explore themes of darkness as suggested by a variety of human experiences and emotions, including death, anxiety, fear, depression and inertia.
Laura Moran is a self-thaught artist based in in kilkenny that produces works that are both personal and emotive. The pieces she has on display during the exhibition were created during significant events over the course of the past year and express the emotional impact that those events had upon her.
Sonja Horgan has been living in Ireland for 6 years where she has been working as a professional artist and art teacher. She originally hails from Novi Sad, Serbia where she graduated with a BA in Fine Arts from the Art Academy University. Sonja has been developing her style in figurative and mixed media abstract art by using vibrant mediterannean colours in her landscapes and an earthy colour pallete. Combining various martials of collage and decoupage, she likes to experiment with various textures by layering colours and various other materials into her painting to create an added 3-D impression. Her paintings are currently on show in Gallery @ no.6 on South Anne Street in Dublin.
Aimee O' Neill is an Inistioge native, now living in Kilkenny city. Aimee has a love for all things Disney and likes to use bright and vivid colours. This come across in her work in which she recreates classic Disney characters and adopts a Disney-esque style to create her own original pieces. She enjoys using coloured pencils and ink to create beautifully clean drawings but has recently started experimenting with painting where she brings her steady hand and good sense of colour to bear. The works Aimee has on display at the exhibition includes a dream-like rendition of Princess Ariel from The Little Mermaid and a psychadelic canvas painting with flowing rainbow-like colour.
A quick reminder to anyone in Kilkenny tonight that's looking for something to do. The Kilkenny Drink and Draw group are opening their Art Exhibition for Arts Week tonight from 7:30pm onwards in Billy Byrnes on John Street.
Pop down and pay them a visit! They're very friendly people and quite talented to boot!
If you don't know what Drink and Draw is, check out my recent article on the group here.

This is the final part of a three-part short story. Be sure to read Part One and Part Two first!

Beneath the shelter offered by the large boulder, Ainé slept in Calder's arms, her head rested on his shoulder, his arm holding her tight. The storm overhead had begun to recede and the clouds broke to reveal twinkling stars. In the distance, the first amber hues of dawn filtered through the sky.
They had survived the treachery of the night and remained free from the clutches of Ainé's father. When she had slept enough, they would set out to find the road and finally be off to start their life anew. The thought of the future they would spend together comforted Calder and with the gentle pitter-patter of the rain upon the leaves and rocks, he too found himself lulled into dream.
'Thievery is evil.'
Calder was shook awake by the voice. It was gruff and accusatory and seemed a distant thing. Had he imagined it? He looked around and saw no sign of who it came from. The sun was still rising lethargic upon the horizon so he figured he hadn't been asleep for long. Was it one of the Baron's men, come to take Ainé home, to kill Calder in the process?
'Thieves should be punished.' Closer now, more vehement.
'Show yourself!' he yelled. 'Are you one of DeLane's men? You won't take her! I won't let you!' He looked about once more, still no one.
Ainé woke abruptly at the shout and looked to Calder with fear in her eyes.
'What's going on?' she asked. 'Who is it?'
'I don't know. They're hiding.' he said, 'Get up. We should go. Now.'
Calder made to stand but as he did the large outline of a man appeared from beneath the shadows cast by the the trees. He held his arm out protectively in front of Ainé. If he was to die here, he would at least give the one thing that mattered to him the time to flee.
'The first step in repentance is to feel guilt.' said the mysterious man. His long shaggy hair hid half his face. His tatterdemalion attire ancient in appearance. The man walked forward in slow, plodding steps dragging a pegged leg behind him through the soft earth.
'You're not one of the Baron's men! Who are you?'
The man continued as if Calder had never spoken. 'The next step is to confess.'
'We have nothing for you, stranger! Leave us be!'
Calder could feel Ainé's white-knuckled grip on his arm shivering with fear, found he too was unsteady on his feet. The large man lumbered on, dragging his pegged leg behind him through the brush and rubble. It made a painful screeching sound that grated Calder's ears and he fought his instinct to cover his ears and faced the man with as much will as he could muster.
'Then, one must beg forgiveness, for the wrongs they have done and the evil of their ways.' The man began to smile gleefully and bared sickly yellowed teeth sharpened to points.
What could Calder do against this mad man? Fool that he was, he had never equipped himself with anything more than a knife better suited to peeling apples than fighting off foes. Hell, now that he thought of it, he had no idea if he still had it, what with the chaos of their escape. He slowly pushed Ainé away, loosened her grip upon his arm, and felt around his waist for the blade. The cold metal of the knife granted him brief comfort, but it was quickly lost as he looked back into the eyes of the stranger walking towards him.
The man seemed to be growing larger, his one visible eye darting about wildly. Calder could swear it was even changing colour, slowly turning orange in reflection of the amber-lit sky of dawn. Then he was sure of it as the pupil became oblong and the eyes became undoubtedly animalistic; wolf-like in appearance. The man's muscled popped and bulged. His shoulders, arms and legs expressing a deeper strength than they had before. Fur sprouted from his body in thick tufts and his face elongated to form a grotesque snout. The pegged leg became a sinuous limb ending in a cloven hoof, the other a monstrously muscled leg ending in a paw. A spectral wind swept back his hair and wrapped about his amplified form as he bent over, his back crooked in a painful arc, and a long, muscular, and reptilian tail surged from his lower back.
The thing howled to the brightening sky and Calder could see that the eye previously hidden behind unkempt strands of hair was missing, no hole visible to ever mark its presence. If he had felt fear before, it was a paltry thing and now felt true terror, magnified to new heights. Ainé shrieked behind him and it came distant against the deafening bass of his thumping heart. His death was nigh. He knew it. He could fight against the inevitability all he liked but he knew he would die here.
The monster straightened and in his hands there formed a long-handled wood axe, its head huge and fearsome. 'Restitution must be made!'
The beast resumed his advance and picked up pace, charging Calder with a snarl. Drool flew from his gaping maw like a rabid dog. Calder struggled against his belt rings to free his knife but the beast was too fast, Calder's fingers too clumsy with fear.
The monstrosity raised his axe high above his head as he closed on the young man. He drove it down with overwhelming force towards Calder's head. Calder dived, rolled haphazardly across the uneven ground. He regained his feet as quickly as he could manage and saw blood streaming down his tattered sleeves. The sharp rubble of the earth had scored his arms raw and only as he looked at the damage it had done, did the pain of it sink in. He screamed like a child, stricken by fear and pain and woe and emotions so mixed together that he could neither tell or conceive from whence they came.
Another scream from Ainé brought him back to the world and he became horridly aware of her proximity to the monster. She was backed against the boulder, making every effort to melt into it, to use it as a shield to protect herself. Yet whatever dark magic brought this beast to plague them had no mercy for a frightened and senseless girl.
Strangely, the monster seemed transfixed only upon Calder, as though Ainé did not exist. Calder struggled again against his belt and finally won the knife free, a faint glimmer of hope sparking in his chest. Then he looked to it and dismay washed over him anew. He would be lucky to trim a nail with the thing, let alone kill a beast such as this.
'Quick!' barked the monster. 'Not smart. That thing won't save you. Try this! Try me, boy! Justify your crimes! Your right to forgiveness.'
A heavily ornamented sword appeared at Calder's feet, formed in wisps of red smoke drifting slowly away. Calder threw the knife down and grasped the foul gift. It was lighter than he had imagined and seemed oddly suited to his height and build. Of course, he was no more than a tailor's son. His only experience with playing the warrior came from childhood games with sticks and stones. Still, he had to try, had to hang onto some hope of getting out of this alive; getting Ainé out of this alive.
He had only just steeled himself against the crippling fear when the beast charged once more in his direction.
'Calder!' screamed Ainé, but it was too late. The beast already had the jump on him.
'Repent!' he growled.
Calder just barely had time to raise the sword up to block the powerful blow the beast launched on him. Sparks flew as the steel blade ground against the head of the axe. The blade flew from the axe and and sent it thudding to the ground. Calder felt the harsh vibrations of the clash rush up his arms and threaten to steal the blade from his hands. His grip tightened and he tried in futile mockery to mimic the stance of a swordsman, as he had seen from the tournaments held at the Baron's enclave. He felt fool enough holding the sword and more fool now that he pretended talent. Yet this was his only chance, as bare as it was. He leapt forward, slashed and thrust with crazed, ungraceful motions at the monster. The thing dodged his pitiful attacks effortlessly then lunged at Calder with a foray of his own. Calder narrowly avoided the deathly blows with impotent efficacy and meekly checked a handful of slices, each one sapping ever more strength from his tired and injured arms.
The beast bound backwards and stood tall. He let out a roaring laugh that echoed through the clearing. 'You seek to outmatch me, boy? Very well, be your head upon it!'
He came on again, faster this time, strafing swiftly from side to side. Calder had no time to react before the monster was looming over him, its breath driving him to dizziness with its cadaverous stench. The beast pushed into him with the handle of his axe, its inhuman strength driving Calder back at breakneck speed until his retreat was arrested as he slammed against the rough bole of a tree. The blunt end of the axe head pressed up against his neck and into his throat, cutting off his supply of air. He coughed and spluttered, tried with all the might he could muster to remove the beast from him. It was all in vain.
Calder's vision blurred and darkened. He was on the verge of passing out. He had been right. He would die here today and Ainé along with him. At least, they would meet the gods together. At least, they would be hand in hand as they reached the shores of Tír nÓige. His arms slackened and the grip on the sword loosened. The weapon dropped softly from his hands as he drifted off into amaranthine slumber. It was over. He had made a mistake taking Ainé from her father. He was ready to repent.
The pressure upon his throat softened then disappeared. The pulsating pain left behind telling him he was still alive, could still fight to remain that way. His eyes remained closed as the blood rushed painfully through his head. A monstrous roar broke through the fog of his mind and he opened his eyes. The beast had the axe raised high. He chopped it down with another thunderous roar and dark currents of wind swept up about it as it flew down towards Calder's head, who winced and close tight his eyes once more.
Then a shriek burst through his ears and he opened his eyes to see Ainé before him. Time slowed to a crawl. His lover's dead eyes locked on his before turning back into their sockets. The tip of the axe jutted from her temple, the skull split dreadfully wide. Her severed brain fell into view. Blood streamed down in a tumultuous flood over paling features. Her mouth lay agape in terror.
She dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.
'The price is paid.' said the monster as it pulled free the demonic weapon. A faint tinge of sadness, or calm, seemed to colour the statement. 'Your sins are forgiven.'
Calder stood motionless for a long time, nauseated by the visage of Ainé's limp and lifeless body. Appalled that he could not save her. Disgusted that it had been she who had the bravery to give up her life for his. Horrified that he had made it all happen. He looked to the beast, his face still paralyzed in shocked disbelief by the horror he had witnessed.
'Be glad she is gone, boy.' said the beast, his arms upon crossed legs as he sat on the ground. The bloody axe lay at his feet, slowly disintegrating and burning all life from the grass about it. The monster seemed almost human again. Some animalistic qualities remained but a sort of gentleness seemed to wash over and stain the thing.
'She will not see what is to come.' he continued. 'Won't see the justice my kind must take. The terror we must inflict. The lies your gods will spread. They have become weak and indolent. You humans; too arrogant and bold. It is time for Balor to return.'
Calder sought his voice against the pain and terror that assailed him but could only croak: 'Why?'
'Because one must die. And one must live. The tale needs telling. The horror needs spreading.'
'But why us?'
'Convenience, boy. Nothing but banal convenience' Then the monster vanished in thick black smoke. All that remained was a reddening patch of grass, a bloody trail, and the inanimate form of Ainé at Calder's feet.
There was a rustling in the brush and the bark of a dog. Calder leapt to his senses and turned to face the disturbance. A man, armoured and panting, broke through the trees, a snarling hound pulling at the reigns held tight in his hand. One of the Baron's men. One of...her father...but she...He could not even speak her name now, all thoughts of her choked him.
'Ey!' shouted the guard back into the trees. 'I've found the lad! In the clearing, not twenty paces from me.'
He turned back to face Calder. 'Don't move, lad. I don't wanna have to hurt ya. Where's the—' The guard's eyes now dropped to Calder's feet then back up to his face as he drew free his sword.
'What have you done, lad?' he said confused. Anger began to boil to the surface. 'You'll face more than the rope for this!'
The guard ran towards Calder, his grip on the reigns forgotten and the dog following with bloodthirsty conviction. Calder just dropped to his knees, took Ainé in his arms, and closed his eyes.
Many years ago, back when I still had more hair than sense, my father was in the market for a new house. By the time he approached us, his children, he had rattled down the options to one village and two properties.
The village was Paulstown and the first property was a small bungalow with one bedroom and a large garden. The other: a two-story, somewhat ramshackle building on a busy road with a galvanized roof and nary a front lawn. Both properties would require some hard labour and sweat before they became somewhere we could live in comfort, he said, before asking us to choose which one we preferred.
Both had their charms but there was something in that ramshackle old place that awakened in my young mind a vision of what it could become. Today, with more sense than hair, I couldn't tell you what I had imagined but what I can tell you is that my father chose the bungalow and it became a beautiful home filled with happy memories. And the other property?
That became the Carlow-Kilkenny Dog Shelter. Clearly someone had envisioned a better use for it than I had! What a great location it was for it too. Just far enough outside of the city to give its four-legged residents some piece and quiet and large enough to keep them contained in relative safety and comfort.
For many years, the shelter was presided over by the ISPCA but earlier this year, the ISPCA relinquished their duties and the shelter was put up for tender. Many people in the region began to worry about the future of the shelter and the possibility that whoever took over its running would not have the best interests of the dogs housed by the shelter in mind.
The Dog Shelter is always looking to rehome its residents so if you think you have what it takes to give a dog a loving and caring home, check out their website for a list of dogs ready for a new home here.
In the wake of the uncertainty, peaceful protests and an online petition that garnered 13,000 signatures, a committee was set up to oversee the running of the local shelter. The intent of the committee, chaired by Cllr Andrew McGuinness and including local politicians and members of animal welfare groups and the IFA, was to ensure that whoever received the new contract to run the shelter would have the interests of the community and the animals at heart.
However, before long the contract to operate the shelter was awarded to the carcass disposal service ACS. The fears of the community seemed to have become incarnate. Public opposition to the decision increased and the fate of the shelter and its inhabitants was more precarious than ever. A new petition was signed by over 16,000 people and a protest was held last Saturday at the shelter opposing the awarding of the contract.
Thankfully, opponents to the controversial decision to award the contract to ACS can take small solace and brief respite as the company have withdrawn. The Dog Welfare Committee can now focus on finding a new operator that better fits with the desires of the community and do justice to the role in which they'll play in re-homing and caring for the lost and forgotten pets.
For now, the future of the shelter is still uncertain. Yet with all eyes on the story and keen interest from the public in finding a suitable operator, that future is beginning to look a little brighter. I can only hope that what once was a possible home to me and my family can remain a welcoming home to our favourite four-legged friends.

The Dog Shelter is always looking to rehome its residents so if you think you have what it takes to give a dog a loving and caring home, check out their website for a list of dogs ready for a new home here.
Today sees the rollout of seven fixed fines of €40 for cyclists breaking a range of offences in Ireland. These offences include breaking red lights, cycling in pedestrainised areas and having no front or rear lights when cycling in the dark. These fines mark the continuation by the government to force cyclists into better obeying the rules of the road. They come after years of cyclist bashing from members of the Irish media and the public alike at a time when exaggerated claims of the sins of cyclists are often accompanied by "Sure I have a bike in the shed myself".
Some questions spring to my mind as I envisage George Hook laughing gleefully at these new measures. Firstly, how fair are these new fines and offences to cyclists? It's good to want to make cyclists stop at lights and remain visible in the night but what constitutes reasonable consideration? Does reasonable consideration mean risking injury to yourself because of the snooty pedestrian pushing their buggy down the dead-end cycle-lane? Does it mean allowing the road-raging motorist at the roundabout barrel past you with no regard to your safety or right of way? Is it reasonable consideration to assume that motorists not using their indicators are in the right to do so? No, what it means is that any member of An Garda Síochána can pull you up and fine you €40 because they perceive you're not being reasonably considerate. Nothing to worry about there then! It's not as if there was ever any injustice carried out by that cadre.
When can we expect tighter controls to be placed on pedestrians who choose to use cycle lanes as their personal jogging/dog-walking/buggy tracks and motorists who think it's ok to use them as parking spaces?
Secondly, where is the support for the cyclist from the government and RSA? Surely, we want to be promoting this green form of transport more, not denigrating cyclists to second-class road-users and painting them as the scourge of the modern road. Why do we still have countless cycle lanes that either make no sense or end abruptly at the most inopportune of times? When can we expect tighter controls to be placed on pedestrians who choose to use cycle lanes as their personal jogging/dog-walking/buggy tracks and motorists who think it's ok to use them as parking spaces?
It seems to me, being a lowly, degenerate cyclist that the powers that be have focused on a minority of urban cyclists seldom found outside the confines of large cities such as Dublin and Cork and chosen to tar all of us with the same brush, with no proper consideration for the needs of the modern cyclist, the sins of the modern motorist and the roads that we are all supposed to share.
These seven fines are just the first to be rolled-out from a collection of 36 new offences that cyclists will face. Hopefully, and with any luck, the complete roll-out will be accompanied by a balancing of the scales and a more reasonable, level-headed discussion on how road-users, be they cyclist, motorist or pedestrian, can better get along.

This is Part Two of a three-part short story. Be sure to read Part One first! If you want to read more, check out Part Three.

They ran faster than they had before, the threat of the hounds now real at their backs. At times, the cry of the dogs sounded louder, then they would be but a brief utterance in the bellowing thunder, the roaring wind, and the lashing rain. After a time, the baying hounds were out of earshot and the young couple began to slow. They were utterly unrecognizable now as the tailor's boy and baron's daughter that they had begun the night as. Scratches and bruises covered their arms, legs and faces. Their clothes now barely hung on by a thread and their hair was a matted, muddy mess.
As they continued on, the forest began to open out and soon they came to a place where large boulders began to replace the trees. One boulder lay at an angle, large enough that crawling under it would grant them some break from the storm. Calder walked over to it, Ainé's limp wrist in his hand and she in tow with plodding steps.
'Here' he said, beckoning her towards the sparce shelter. 'At least we can dry off a bit. I don't think the dogs are still on our trail, it's been a while since we heard them.'
Ainé crawled silently beneath the rock and lay her head down on her hands. No care remained in her for creepy crawlers, or the cold, damp earth on which she lay. Calder could take little more this night and as he watched her maudlin form curl into a tight fetal ball, he imagined his heart shattering into a thousand tiny pieces and he slumped to his knees.
'I'm sorry. I should have never taken you away. If I were more of a man, I'd have accepted my fate.' Ainé watched him with a lonely dead eye. 'I was selfish. I had no right. Tomorrow, when the sun is high and the sky is clear, I will bring you home and return you to your father.'
Ainé sat slowly up at that, her face to the ground. 'Don't.' she said and Calder felt his heart piecing back together. 'Don't leave me alone. Not now. I love you, Calder.' And his heart filled once more with blood. 'I love you so much that it hurts when you're away. I love you, Calder. And I'll follow you anywhere, wherever it leads us.' And the flames that drove him to this madness reignited, fiercer than ever before.
'Thank you.' he said. 'I don't know that I deserve such words, but thank you.'
They watched each other in silent conversation for a while, the pitter-patter of the rain a lullaby washing their terror away.
'I knew you couldn't stay mad at me for long.' said Clader with a satisfied grin. He sat beside her and out of the rain.
She punched him in the arm once he had made himself comfortable.
'Idiot' she said, 'Just shut up and hold me.' and the irritation was gone as soon as it has appeared, the smile that melted Calder's heart without fail once more upon her lips.
The storm had started to ease; the clouds began to clear, the wind reduced to a whispering gust, the rain to a light drizzle, and the light of the gibbous moon began to shine down through the canopy of leaves. Ainé and Calder sat content beneath their paltry refuge in each other's embrace. Ainé's head rested on Calder's wide shoulders, her golden waves of hair flowing softly over his chest.
Their escape was merciless, as if the gods had put their love to the test, but they were safe now, happy even. Once the first rays of sun began to peek through the leaves, they would find the road and safety more assured.
'What will we do now?' asked Ainé. 'We have no coin, or home to call our own.'
Calder returned his most winning smile. 'Who said we have no coin?'
Ainé lifted her head to face him in shocked disbelief, her mouth open wide, her eyes sharp and questioning.
'You didn't!
'Well I never said you were all that I took from your father!'
'Calder!'
He shrugged his shoulders. 'What? I knew we'd need something to keep us going. It was just lying there. I doubt he'll miss it much considering the taxes he levies.'
Ainé settled her head back onto his shoulder. 'You always were a bit of a rogue.' she said, then she giggled and held him tighter. Soon after, she was sound asleep.
Some years ago, I was introduced to a small group of people engaging in an interesting activity. They were creating art. In and of itself, this wouldn't be something out of the ordinary, yet combined with alcohol and carried out in a pub, it became something special.
The artist is often thought of as a solitary person, and art a lonely pursuit but Drink and Draw turns that concept on its head and encourages its members to exercise their talent in a social setting where they can explore a variety of themes, sharpen their styles and learn from one another in a friendly environment. Oh, and get merry while they're at it!
You don't have to be a Picasso or Pollock to join us. It's free! Just bring your own art supplies and buy your own drinks.
Now, the Kilkenny Drink and Draw group are preparing for their Arts Week exhibition and I joined them last week to check in with them to see how they were getting on. Their answer is all over this page in the form of the pictures they were working on. We have everything from the Master Sword to Ian McKellan, a Disney Princess and beyond.
Drink and Draw meet up every Tuesday night in Billy Byrnes pub in Kilkenny and new faces are always welcome. In their own words - "You don't have to be a Picasso or Pollock to join us. It's free! Just bring your own art supplies and buy your own drinks." This Tuesday, it's business as usual and the regular members will be hard at work finishing up the pieces they hope to display during their Arts Week Exhibition. The Exhibition itself will begin on Friday, August 7th and the work of the members will be on display in Billy Byrnes for the duration of the festival.
You can find information and more over on the Drink and Draw Facebook page and you can show your support for the group by paying a visit during their Arts Week Exhibition.
The Woods at Night

This is Part One of a three-part short story. If you enjoyed this, check out Part Two and Part Three.

The old willows groaned with the weight of the wind at their backs, their branches creaking and cracking beneath the pressure. Rain lashed down as forks of lightning soared across the sky and thunder shook the sodden ground below. A young couple trudged hurriedly through the forest, their clothes covered in mud, tattered and dishevelled.
‘Run, Ainé!’ said the boy, throwing back his arm for the girl lagging behind.
Ainé held her hand out to grasp it, struggled through the soft earth to reach it and stumbled over a hidden root, falling to the ground. She lay disheartened, her arms slack at her sides, and began to weep.
‘We should never have left! My father would have seen sense! He would have known that I'd not wed another!’ she said. ‘Why now, Calder? Why tonight?’
Calder came to a suddent stop. He turned about and saw the woeful form of Ainé in the mud, her once stunning figure now covered from head to toe in blood, sludge and scratches.
‘Because there can be no other!’ he said. ‘My father has sold me to the pig men. He couldn't pay their tithe! If we didn't run tonight...’
He paused to wipe away the soggy hair that clung to his face and looked around. With the heavens hammering down upon them and the forest stealing all but the faintest of light from the world , Calder was, for all intents and purposes, blind. Only the frequent flashes from the storm overhead allowed some glimpse of his surroundings, yet even then, all the young man could glimpse was tree after tree stretching out across the horizon.
Had he made a mistake in fleeing? Had there been a better way? He knew now that there was no going back. They had ran swiftly into the night, knowing Ainé's father would have the hounds at their heels before too long. He had never planned to go so deep into the forest. Swept up in the burning emotions of their flight however, they paid no heed to any path.
‘If we didn’t run tonight,’ he said ‘then we’d be lost to each other forever.’
Ainé continued to cry, unmoved from the spot where she fell. Her hands splashed into the ground and spattered her once brilliant hair with muck.
‘Bring me home, Calder’ she said. ‘I just want to go home.’
‘I can't.’
Calder had never seen Ainé like this. The loving smile she had always given him was nowhere to be seen. He felt his heart wrench as her sobs grew louder.
‘Why? We can find another way! A safer way! You can hide! I can hide you! We’ll die out here! We'll drown or be eaten by wolves!’ said Ainé between tears, her desperation plain to see.
‘The wolves are gone from this land, Ainé. There’s no reason to be afraid. All we need do is escape this storm. If we go a little further—’
Several barks broke out in the distance, silencing Calder and prompting Ainé to gasp and rise to her feet, hugging her breast tight. Was he wrong? Did wolves still prowl these parts? He steeled himself for Ainé’s sake. It would not do either of them any good if they were both cowed by fear.
‘Ainé, if we go a little further, we'll be free of this place and back on the road. Please. Ainé, just a little further.’
‘Just get me home!’ she said. Her desperation turned to anger and she spat the words at Calder. ‘Get me out of this wretched hell!’
‘I can't!’ screamed Calder. ‘I’ve lost the way. We've been running too long!’
Ainé said nothing and Calder too remained silent, afraid that if he said anything else, that the imperceptible attraction that lay between the two would be broken. They stayed like this for a long time, their eyes locked on one another as the rain and wind soaked and chilled them to the bone. Then barks broke through the dead air that hung between them and they were moved to action. Those were no wolves, Calder realised. Those were the hounds of Ainé's father, locked onto the lover's scent trail.
'Run!' cried Calder, grabbing Ainé harshly by the wrist and forcing her to move with him.
They ran faster than they had before, the threat of the hounds now real at their backs. At times, the cry of the dogs sounded louder, then they would be but a brief utterance in the howling wind and lashing rain. After some time, their baying could no longer be heard and the young couple began to slow. They were unrecognisable now as the tailor's boy and baron's daughter that they had begun the night as. Scratches and bruises covered their arms, legs and faces. Their clothes were barely hanging on by a thread and their hair was a matted, muddy mess.
Greetings Reader! Welcome to The Rambler. In this first post, I'd like to convey my vision for this blog and give you an idea of what you can expect over the coming weeks and months. On this humble corner of the internet, I hope to deliver interesting articles, engaging stories, opinionated reviews and even more opinionated editorials from myself and other writers.
Along with some short fiction and various other writerly pursuits, I hope to post articles on a multitude of other topics - from PC maintenance and software development to art, politics entertainment, cooking, and so much more. To that end, I've set about gathering authors to form the backbone of the blog and help to make that vision a reality. My hope too is that you, the reader, can and will contribute to the blog with your own articles.
As we move forward, we'll be setting up a procedure for submitting your articles to us for review and if those articles are something that we feel other readers might find interesting, we'll publish it.
Those of you that fear your writing quality isn't up to snuff for the general public need not be hesitant either as I'm more than happy to pick over your writing with a fine tooth comb and improve its quality while maintaining your personal charm and ultimate point.
All that is yet to come and what we have for now is a child. It looks like a blog, it works like a blog but it still has to grow and it will falter and crawl before it succeeds and runs. To that end, I want to ask for your patience and understanding as links go nowhere, changes are made in quick succession and content remains thin on the ground. But that isn't to say that you shouldn't stick with us! Bookmark the site or follow us on your preferred social media platform (or all of them!) and come back often.
For now, I'll sign off with a thank you. Thank you for taking the time to click whatever link led you here. Thank you for reading this first of many articles and thank you for any comments and feedback you have.
Since you're here, have a read of the first of a three-part short story: - Flight: The Woods at Night. It tells the tale of two lovers in the midst of eloping. Things don't go quite as planned for the young couple however and they slowly start to think that running away may not have been the best decision.

About the Author
Declan is a software engineer and creative writer. In 2015, he established The Daily Rambler to deliver interesting articles to an interested audience. With vim and gusto, he attacks the world with his searing wit and dashing good looks.