Tati
So, I'm in the process of writing a story and when I asked some classmates to read it they told me that one of my characters (Leta) gave off a wholesome, supportive vibe. However, when I wrote another scene, it felt, to me at least, that she gave off a completely different vibe. Can I get some help here?
P.S. feedback is welcome.
Below are the two scenes:
Scene 1:
Morgon didn’t like war. Who liked war? His father, that’s who. His father liked the war even as it had dissipated over Morgon’s lifetime. And now, sitting in his father’s war room, Morgon wondered, not for the first time, if his father would come home.
There was a hand on his, warm and thin, rubbing it gently as it had many times in his twenty-two years.
“Father will be okay. I’m sure of it,” Leta told him, rubbing his hand once more.
Morgon turned to look at his younger sister. Her eyes, like his, were dark brown and her hair was thick, short, and dirt brown. She smiled back at him, warm and calming as she always was.
“You cannot be sure of it, Leta. We cannot be sure of anything,” he told her.
He had sat there in that tent of a war room two years ago, waiting for his mother to return from battle with the Southern Clan. That was the last time he had seen her - the last time he had looked into her warm amber eyes, and he hadn’t even said goodbye. What would happen now, if their father never returned? Would he, Morgon, become the Chief and General of the West Clan? Would the people of air wander aimlessly forever?
“Everything is going to be okay. He will come back,” his sister told him.
A shuffling of boots from outside the tent rose the pair to their feet until finally, a man entered: their father.
Morgon’s father wore a suit of tan wool that strapped to him with firm brown straps. There were tears in his suit, on his arm and legs, and blood dripped from a cut on his left arm. He was only a couple of inches taller than his son and resembled him only in the eyes and warm complexion. His hair was silvery white and short. His hair was like that for as long as Morgon could remember, and when he had asked his father why his hair was like that, his father had simply said that his hair had always been that way.
“Father!” Leta exclaimed. “Are you okay?”
Their father grimaced. “Yes. Yes. I will be fine.” He sat on a cot that sat on one side of the room. Morgon and Leta sat back down.
“What happened? Any news from the north?” Morgon asked.
“That is why I came here and not to the medical tent. There is something urgent I must discuss with both of you,” his father said.
Morgon and Leta exchanged worried glances before Leta asked, “What is it?”
Their father pulled a yellowing scroll out from his pocket, leaned over, and handed it to Morgon. Before he opened it, his father added, “I received this from a messenger for the Northern Clan on my way west. It’s addressed to the pair of you.”
Morgon unrolled the scroll, on it, written in small, elegant, black writing was a summoning from the Northern leader’s youngest daughter, Alana Duval. He read it aloud.
I, Alana Duval, beckon you, Morgon and Leta LaQueen, children of Chief Geldon of the West, to Aarabok, the day after next. There, we shall discuss the future of our people and all of Nemar. Do not send a reply. I await your arrival.
When Morgon finished, he read it twice over in his head. What could she possibly want with them? With him?
“A trick?” Leta asked.
“I do not think so,” his father replied. “I have met Alana Duval. She always held the presence of a girl ready to lead a revolution. Perhaps, this meeting will do us some good.”
“Maybe,” Leta said, drawing out the word. Then, looking toward her brother, she added. “If we are intending to accept this summoning, we should prepare for the ride. If we leave by dawn we should arrive in time.”
“You know that we have means to arrive in seconds rather than hours,” Morgon told his sister.
“I know that! But if this is indeed a discussion of peace, demonstrating our power would not be a wise way to start,” Leta said. Morgon knew his sister was right as she always was, but even so, he loathed traveling on land. It was long and time-consuming. An entire day would be lost to the journey.
“Fine,” he relented.
Scene 2:
“Morgon! Wake up!” someone shouted. The voice, it was familiar, like that of one he had heard all his life. It sounded like… like…
Then out of nowhere, as fast as the wind on summer’s day.
Slap! Heat, like a raging fire, rushed to his right cheek and gave way to a dull stinging.
Morgon’s eyes flew open and he bolted upright. Two women stood in front of him. On his left were the warm brown eyes and short hair of his sister, her arms crossed and the remnants of a repressed smile rested on her lips.
On Morgon’s right was an unfamiliar face. The woman was thin-faced with skin like powdered milk, her eyes were hazel and sparked with something like incredulity. Her hair was inky black, long, and braided to the back of her head. Her lips, well, they told Morgon all he needed to know about her for they were twisted in an all too sinister smirk that made Morgon wish he could go back to sleep only to avoid looking at it.
He glared at her with all the fury he could muster. “Who the Souls are you?!”
“Me?” the woman asked.
“Yes, you.”
She beamed. “I’m the scout.”
“The what?” Morgon asked. As he said it, the conversation from the prior night came flashing back. Hadn’t his father said something about a scout? And now that he looked at her, didn’t the woman look like a northerner?
“Well, scout. What would be your name?” Morgon asked.
“So, your father did not tell you then?” she asked. He shook his head. “My name is Alex.” At that, Leta snorted.
“What?” Alex asked defensively.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Leta started, but only before exploding into a fit of giggles.
“Spit it out, Leta. What is so funny?” Morgon asked his sister.
“It’s just… you… and… and her.” Leta started, first pointing at Morgon and then at Alex before exploding into giggles again. Alex stood there, looking at Leta, suddenly seeming uncomfortable with the whole situation. After a moment, Leta collected herself.
“Alana Duval summoned us to her base of operations and in the process sent us a scout. But she did not send us any ordinary scout.” Leta said, pointing to Alex. “This is Alex Duval, Alana’s sister and the strategic figurehead of the initiative.”
“You are a Chief's daughter and you slapped me?!” was all Morgon could muster. This was the woman strategizing the biggest peace initiative in a generation?
“Yes. Yes, I did. You have a problem with that?” she asked, grinning.
“Enough,” Leta said. “We have to get on the road! You,” she pointed at Morgon as though he were a child and not a full-grown man older than she was. “-have already cost us two hours.”
“Indeed. You do not want to see what my sister will do if we do not make it by nightfall tomorrow,” Alex said, and if not for the playfulness in her eyes, Morgon could have sworn she was being serious.
“Okay! Okay.” Morgon said. “Out. Both of you!”
“If you are not out in five minutes…” Alex started, but Morgon did not let her finish, for he summoned a gust of wind that blew them out of his quarters.
