It's hard Tues/Thurs, because I have two 2 1/2 hour classes on those days, going from 12 - 6:30, and it totally fries my brain. However, tomorrow my 4-6:30 class is cancelled, so I'm going to try and write a ton.
I'm enjoying the scene, though I'm not sure what happens after entirely. The joys of discovery writing. I'll keep on updating.
Haven't done any major Paradise Seeker edits yet. If I want to query to Sanderson's agent, I'm going to need to do it now; submissions close end July. I still don't have a summary, either. Ah well.
Bit from today:
Zahed watched Drake’s face tense, then gave a small laugh. “Aia. Like you said, you are not that man anymore. You are Gengrena, Marked. Also, I would hate to have the only respectable man in this cart as my enemy.”
Drake put aside his original questions for a moment, which he had planned on restating once Zahed was completed. “Respectable? Me? You must not know me very well.”
He gave a small smile to show it was a joke. Zahed laughed out loudly, causing a few of the lethargic other prisoners to give him a small glance. They then returned to their moaning or crying, huddled into fetal balls or grasping out at the hot desert sands.
Zahed licked his drying lips. “Ah, but I know you better than you think, Miasa. Look at these poor fools,” Zahed gestured forward with a blackened arm to the rest of the cart. The desert outside the cages was waving in the intense heat, and Drake suddenly realized how deathly thirsty he was.
“These poor bastards are wrecks,” Zahed continued. “Look at them, the Gengrenas, writing and crawling like pathetic animals. They are weak, useless. They will not last one day in the Makana. The pit will eat them, like the mouth it be named after. But not you.”
Zahed stared deeply into Drake’s eyes, and in the darker man’s expression Drake could see a sense of respect. “You stood, tall. You did not cry like a beaten dog. You did not cry to the Dead Eight, or try and convince yourself this was a yanta, a dream. You stood strong, despite your nakedness and scent. You are a different kind of man, Miasa. And for that, I can respect you.”
-Effulgent Corruption, Zahed
A silence hung between the two men as Drake thought. It was hard for him to keep from shouting. “So, you’ve escaped the Yawning Maw before! Xazion’s dead body, that means it is possible! Which means-”
He stopped. Which means I have a chance. A chance to get out, to escape the prison pit.
To kill Divinious.
He looked back at Zahed, and found the Diasaran was shaking his head. “Do not give yourself false hope, Miasa. It was luck, not skill, that allowed me to escape the Makana. One does not escape for long before the Dessentos find you.”
The pause was long. “Or the Corruptos.”
“Corruptors,” Drake spoke what must have been the Finalan version of the word. “I’ve never heard of those, until just today. The man who I saw, the large one, they said he was a Corruptor. Beast of a man; had marks in his hands, chest, and eyes.”
Drake caught himself rambling, then capped it with a question. “Is that what happened? Did a Corruptor find you?”
Zahed gave a long shudder. “Dead Grax, ta. If a Corruptos had found me,” he gave another swallow. “I would be resting happily a requata instead of this cage.”
Zahed didn’t move. “Funeral cart.”