Character Confessions – Desideria, featured in the story ‘If I Were You’
from Tales of the Wythenwood
Welcome and Introduction
Desideria is a mistrustful lynx. She’s lived a hard life; abandoned by her
parents, she lives by her wits and trusts no one but herself. This has made her
question the motives of others—even when they appear kind. Her only companion
in her lonely existence is a voice inside her head that challenges her view of
the world. Needless to say, they don’t really get along! I’m interviewing
Desideria and The Voice to find out a bit more about how they feel about me as
a writer and creator.
So, Desideria, how does it feel meeting your creator?
If I were you, my dear, I wouldn’t sit so close. For if I were you, I would be
my creator, and I would know exactly what I’m thinking—and what I’m thinking is
how quickly I could tear out your throat.
Okay, I’m sensing a bit of animosity here. What’s behind that?
You are my creator. You wrote my loneliness, condemned me to solitude, molded
me into a bitter and mistrustful beast—you took my parents from me.
But he gave you redemption, didn’t he? He
allowed you to grow and change?
Shhh, fool. All he did was provide relief to the years of pain that he gave me.
But he gave you joy too. And doesn’t knowing
pain and sadness only make it easier to appreciate the good in life when it
comes?
Perhaps then, I should just maim him. He can thank me for it later.
But didn’t the events in If I Were You make you grow, evolve,
become stronger?
That, my friend, is a curious question. Why would you want me to grow, become
stronger? Surely, you have an ulterior use for me. You think I’m a puppet whose
strings you can pull to appease any whim or fancy. What is it, I wonder? Is it
a task? An errand? Or do you simply wish for me to be your weapon? Yes, of
course, that’s what it is.
In our world, he is a god. Any flight of fancy
that comes to his mind could be fulfilled merely with the stroke of a pen. Why
would he need us to be his weapon?
Perhaps, fool, some acts are too dirty for the hands of a god.
I’m honestly not looking for anyone to be a weapon. Why would you think
that?
Because, my friend, if I had helped a wretched creature such as I grow
stronger, then the only reason why I would do this—is because the creature had
a use.
So, you think everyone thinks like you?
No, my friend, not everyone, only the ones that wish to stay alive.
Perhaps there’s more to life than simply
surviving.
Said the fool, shortly before he found his way into the belly of a grateful
beast.
Moving on, can you not see that you needed to suffer to make the story
work? Who wants a story where all is happiness and joy—and nothing happens?
So, that’s it, my friend, entertainment is what I am to you. You left me to
die, broken and cold, simply to entertain your readers. Now, I see the darkness
that colors your soul. And maybe, I was just starting to wonder if you had
meant, in your own cruel way—to help me. More fool I, more fool I.
But he gave us a savior to drag us from the
cold.
A pang of conscience after the fact makes the original deed no less cold.
Would you recommend Tales of the Wythenwood to readers?
Only if they enjoy reading about the pain, suffering, and despair that this
sadist puts his characters through.
Or the redemption, joy, and fantastical
adventure that follows.
Shh, fool, enjoy the torture he gives us for all I care.
Thank
you Desideria!
Book One
J.W. Hawkins
Genre: Dark Fantasy
Publisher: Wilderwood Press
Date of Publication: 31 August
ISBN: 9798334501188
ASIN: B0D752QM73
Number of pages: 296
Word Count: 74,000
Book Description:
J.W. Hawkins' "Tales of the Wythenwood" masterfully blends whimsy with darkness, capturing the essence of dark fantasy and classic fairy tales while infusing them with modern sensibilities. The collection is rich in themes of nature, survival, morality, and the complex interplay between good and evil. The author’s love for rhythmic and descriptive language breathes life into the Wythenwood, making it a character in its own right. Each story, while unique, contributes to a cohesive world where the fantastical and the real intertwine seamlessly.
Great Oak, an omnipotent power, hatches plans to crush dissent. Injured Desideria is helped by a mysterious creature—but what is its real intent? The Taker of Faces stalks the night for her next victim. Will this be the one that sates her need and provides all that she craves? Indoli, a benevolent master of manipulation learns the consequences of teaching his ways too well—and soon the fate of the entire wood is at stake.
Excerpt 2: From Tales of the
Wythenwood: The Taker of Faces.
Tonight
is the night, thought the Taker of Faces. She stood within the moonlit forest
looking out to a pool, eerie in its stillness. The Taker inhaled deeply, as
grace itself walked into the scene, tall and elegant, powerful and strong yet
with a step so light that she could imagine that its hooves would not bend a
blade of grass as it trod. As moonbeams stained all they touched an
otherworldly blue, she imagined them as fairies, half-remembered from childhood
tales, come to light the darkness.
Slowly,
the stag dipped its noble head to lap water from the pond, tiny ripples
breaking its pristine surface. The Taker dug her fingernails into the palms of
her hands as the anticipation welled, so giddy did she feel that the trickle of
ochre that dripped from her hands to the floor went unnoticed. Then, the stag,
ever so slightly, moved its head. Elation filled her, dizzying euphoria that
tingled in her toes and heightened every sense, for now, she truly saw
it—beauty.
For
barely a moment, a single, glorious moment the stag’s features were fully
revealed beneath the shimmering cobalt rays. Glistening magnificently, its
antlers cast a long and mesmerizing shadow. If there was such a thing as beauty
in the world, this was it. She ran her fingers slowly down the length of her
face, drinking in the sensation of the gnarled and mottled surface. And
silently, she vowed that that beauty would be hers.
But,
like a burrowing insect, a grain of doubt crawled inside, niggling at the dark
recesses of her mind. Intrusive images flittered past distractingly, a gray
pelt illuminated in the darkness, yellow eyes shining like flames untamed, a
distorted reflection in the water’s mirrored surface. There were sounds too,
her rasping tongueless scream played over and over as she relived pummeled the wolf’s
tattered corpse with her fists until the skin of her knuckles was bare and
ragged. It had deceived her—it was not the one, this time would be different.
Steeling
herself, she took the rope from her shoulder, one end had already been secured
around the trunk of a tree and hung across its sturdiest bough, before
proceeding to lasso its looped end over the stag’s antlers. Immediately it
tried to bolt, rearing onto its hindlegs as the rope pulled taut. The Taker
found one corner of her crooked mouth, turning wryly upward as she watched the
creature thrash in wild desperation. The moment when she could leave her body
behind and be reborn in the form of something new felt near, felt tangible—she
could almost taste it with what remained of her tongue. Dropping her guard, a
short, sharp, mirthful bark escaped her throat. Swinging around, the deer
turned to face her, eyes wide, startled and blazing with fury.
Lowering
its head, it charged full pelt towards the Taker, rearing up once more as again
it reached the end of its tether. With faces inches apart the two stood with
eyes interlocked, the stag roared gutturally at its tormentor while the Taker
bared her teeth in a dog-like snarl, vehemently hissing all the while.
Slowly,
without breaking her gaze she slipped one hand into the pocket of her tunic.
For a moment she could not locate the item she sought amidst the folds of
weather-beaten leather. Staying calm, she felt a butterfly of elation flutter
within her stomach as she grasped a small wooden cylinder, barely thicker than
her smallest finger. Deftly, she slipped a second item into the tube and
brought it up to her lips and blew. The stag reeled from the sudden sting, back
and forth it swung its great head as it tried with all it could muster to
dislodge the dart that protruded from its neck.
Now
the butterfly truly unfurled its wings within in her and she danced upon the
spot, snorting and giggling with childish jubilance as she did. The peak of the
mountain she had tried to scale so many times was so near. Over and over the
words jigged through her thoughts melodiously—this one is the one, this one is
the one.
The
glee in her eyes seemed all the merrier as the moon’s rays of incandescent
silver glinted mischievously upon them. She knew this part well, watching as
the stag’s movements slowed to a mournful trudge. The Taker sat down on the
moist ground, licking the blood from her palms like a wounded animal and
waited.
She
did not have to wait long before all the will in the world was no longer enough
to keep the stag’s eyes from closing. Grunting, she flipped the beast to its
back and with practiced efficiency trussed its legs with the rope and tipped it
sideways onto a crude sled, crafted from branches and twigs knotted together
with vine.
Her muscles protested as she heaved her laden
sled—but her heart sang. Like a caterpillar, she would soon be transformed,
reborn into something pure and beautiful. Glancing down at the mess of twisted
labyrinthine scarring that was her hand, she smiled, imagining it peel away
like the used husk of a chrysalis. Soon she would be what she was always
supposed to be, soon she would be elevated.
J.W. Hawkins is a writer of Dark and Epic Fantasy, best known as the author of Tales of the Wythenwood. He is noted for his florid and descriptive use language and use of fantastical allegory that mirrors the empirical world. He lives in the UK with his wife Michelle and two boys Graham and Mark.
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