elingregory | Six Sunday and a new Comfy Chair post

Today I have Anna Mayle answering question from my Comfy Chair. She writes sexy and slightly disturbing m/m paranormals about the conflict between our world and the land of the Fae. Recommended if you like your romances with a bit of an edge to them and do not demand a HEA!

Also it's Sunday again so there are six more sentences of "A Fierce Reaping, which I will copy here so you don't have to bother to click:

Cynfal and his friends have decided that their troop leader, Cynon, isn't getting the respect he deserves from the other commanders and catch him up just as he reaches the hall.

“And why do you think I need an honour guard?” Cynon demanded.
“Because you’re as good if not better than Ceredig and Tudfwlch and neither of them go to piss without an entourage.” Cynfal nodded toward the doors of the hall, standing open at this hour, and the group of Tudfwlch’s men who were standing around them, all wearing cloaks dyed with the same warm golden hue. “Just because we’re not so pretty doesn’t mean we honour you the less and for you to walk around alone suggests that we do.”
Cynon nodded. “Then come by all means but know this – I piss alone – I don’t want anyone to be disappointed.”
Inside Cynon picked his way up the left hand wall and found them place where they could sit. The hall was not as crowded as the last time Cynfal had been there, but it was still hot and noisy and filled with the scent of hot meat. Cynfal swallowed, feeling a sharp pang of hunger.
“Since you want me to be honoured I’ll need a cupbearer,” Cynon said. “March took a turn last time. Pup – no – you can do it when you learn not to giggle. Sorry. Aeddan – no!”
“Why not?”
“Because I know you wouldn’t be able to resist dropping a good loud fart into a lull in conversation. Cynfal – what about you?”
“Me?” Cynfal grinned. “Why me?”
“Why not?” Cynon grinned too. “Apart from anything else, you’re about the cleanest. You won’t need your sword, but bring your knife.”
Cynfal followed Cynon up the hall, abandoning his friends, as Aeddan complained, with barely a glance.
“I’m here on family business,” Cynon said once he had greeted the king. “I’d hoped for a quiet word with Gwion outside but the little rat is avoiding me. Cynfal, I need something to sit on?”
Cynfal found him a stool and accepted his cloak and sword belt, putting the safely to once side until needed. He was expected to either stand or squat nearby, also until needed, but first he obtained food and drink for them both.
While he ate he looked around the hall, noting how the knots of men betrayed their true allegiances. Tudfwlch’s men for instance were here in force but not as one group. There were three distinct cliques. One was of older men. He watched them for a while, refighting old wars with straws and crusts and bits of gristle on a patch of earth swept clean for the purpose. He could imagine them saying that the youngsters today weren’t a patch on what they had been in their youth. Some of the youngsters had been the ones outside taking the air or, more likely, hoping to catch a glimpse of the queen’s ladies so they could claim knowledge they just didn’t have. But even they were divided. Some plainly worshipped Tudfwlch and hung on his words. But there was another group, more mixed in age, that seemed to Cynfal to look to a tough looking man with a blond moustache. Gwenabwy was his name and Cynfal suspected that he resented being under Tudfwlch’s authority.
This was the problem with armies of heroes. They all thought they ought to be in charge. At least Cynon had no such problems. His men were all wide eyed youngsters or veterans who knew they were scum.