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About Digital Art / Hobbyist CashlinSnowFemale/United States Recent Activity
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This is a beautiful, stunning, vibrant, and very energetic piece. The entirety rushes through at high-speed, with the well-applied 'blu...

Absolutely beautiful, colorful, vibrant, fun piece! There's a lot going on, even though you said you're not that good with backgrounds ...

I was immediately taken with the detail of this piece: such points of focus as the hair on the baby's head, the contours shaded on the ...

I left this piece in my activity for a few days because I wanted to write a useful review and didn't have the time to do so until now. ...

Newest Deviations

#1 The White Musketeer: Prologue
"I am discovered. In the bleakest crevasses of humanity's hopelessness, of the divisions of strife built from foundations of malice and misunderstanding, I am discovered. In this corner do I write; in this darkness, lit by a single thread of Light, do I pen my sorrows and hopes. That light, Dear Reader, is not the light that you are most likely thinking I refer to. It is the inner light of Knowledge. Humanity knows nothing of it. Beyond the scale of twenty thousand years, even when the ancients of Vitalonia and Vlamira built structures still admired in a world we flatter ourselves to define as modern, we are yet living in darkness. What is this current reality of Time, but of a saddened people yearning to return to those times? We dream of rebuilding the Classic Time, by constant surveying and reproducing those grand Ideals, those glorious civilizations built on towering Morals. But humanity was, even then, in darkness. We have done nothing to enlighten ourselves. Actua
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Cashlin Snow Attire Profiles by CashlinSnow Cashlin Snow Attire Profiles :iconcashlinsnow:CashlinSnow 3 0 Michael Swam Ink by CashlinSnow Michael Swam Ink :iconcashlinsnow:CashlinSnow 2 0
Revolutionary Rosanna: Resolution Chapter 04
"The calamities were at our door. The rod of oppression was raised over us. We were roused from our slumbers, and may we never sink into repose until we can convey a clear and undisputed inheritance to our posterity. Immortal spirits of Hampden, Locke, and Sidney!"
- Samuel Adams, American Independence Speech, August 1, 1776

Chapter 04
Rosanna paced in her room and couldn't refrain from often darting her eyes to the clock. It was the twenty fifth of October. Reports had been near flooding in from jubilant Tories since the day before that Washington was preparing to retreat further away from the city. Her heart had lurched and her ears had burned when she had first heard the gossip. The tingling sensation of dread had subsided some hours prior, but Rosanna's throat was so tight she had to stop every once in a while to even her breathing and placate her nerves.
So when, at last, Peebel informed her that he was leaving for his regular afternoon appointm
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Revolutionary Rosanna: Resolution Chapter 03
"They nourished by your indulgence? They grew by your neglect of 'em. As soon as you began to care about 'em, that care was exersized in sending persons to rule over 'em, in one department and another, who were perhaps the deputies of deputies to some member of this house, sent to spy out their liberty, to misrepresent their actions and to prey upon 'em; men whose behaviour on many occasions has caused the blood of those sons of liberty to recoil within them."
- Colonel Isaac Barré, British House of Commons, 1765
Chapter 03
The rains had come early for autumn, a pounding, windless torrent of anger persevering to force Rosanna awake. Running her arms up over her blanket, she pushed herself into a sitting position and stretched. Narrowing her eyes, Rosanna glared at the slit between the bedroom door and the floor and was not surprised to see the light filtering in from the bottom blocked near the middle.
   It had become a custom for P
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Dewdrops During Dog Days of Summer by CashlinSnow Dewdrops During Dog Days of Summer :iconcashlinsnow:CashlinSnow 8 0 Nappy-poo on the Couchy-poo my Baby-kitty-boo by CashlinSnow Nappy-poo on the Couchy-poo my Baby-kitty-boo :iconcashlinsnow:CashlinSnow 4 1
Revolutionary Rosanna: Resolution Chapter 02
"The cause I was engaged in, I ever viewed worthy of hazarding my life for, nor was I, in the most critical moments of trouble, sorry that I engaged in it."
- Colonel Ethan Allen, Continental army officer, prisoner to the British, late 1775

Chapter 02
Rosanna gasped. She failed to dodge in time. With a permeating swipe, the mistress slapped her so hard that a mark clearly outlining the woman's fingers lingered on her cheek for a few minutes.
"You little cunt!" She screeched, clenching the fabric of her dress at the hips to prevent herself from striking Rosanna again. "How long have you deluded yourself into thinking you could keep money—my money—hidden from me? Stealing from the only person that took pity on the mongrel you were, begging on the streets, sitting in filth, to provide you an occupation. I've clothed you and fed you and given you a bed to sleep in! This is how you repay me?"
Rosanna swallowed and snapped her mouth
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Valentine Fosters by CashlinSnow Valentine Fosters :iconcashlinsnow:CashlinSnow 3 0 Mechapuff for ppgrainbow by CashlinSnow Mechapuff for ppgrainbow :iconcashlinsnow:CashlinSnow 3 3 My Furball Panda by CashlinSnow My Furball Panda :iconcashlinsnow:CashlinSnow 18 5 #2: A White Powder Kingdom Book Design and Ch. 1 by CashlinSnow #2: A White Powder Kingdom Book Design and Ch. 1 :iconcashlinsnow:CashlinSnow 8 0
Mature content
Revolutionary Rosanna: Resolution Chapter 01 :iconcashlinsnow:CashlinSnow 1 0
The White Musketeer Snow Bust by CashlinSnow The White Musketeer Snow Bust :iconcashlinsnow:CashlinSnow 7 3 Prince Vartan at the Rose Garden - Inks by CashlinSnow Prince Vartan at the Rose Garden - Inks :iconcashlinsnow:CashlinSnow 2 0 Miss Sapphire Sharpshooter Profile Focus by CashlinSnow Miss Sapphire Sharpshooter Profile Focus :iconcashlinsnow:CashlinSnow 3 0


Pitu by chusiir Pitu :iconchusiir:chusiir 17 2 Frozen beauty. by MateuszPisarski Frozen beauty. :iconmateuszpisarski:MateuszPisarski 180 13 Crystal Galaxy Potion by Luna4s Crystal Galaxy Potion :iconluna4s:Luna4s 154 82 Cat Tom by theGPU Cat Tom :iconthegpu:theGPU 38 2 . . . by Alexey-Argentum . . . :iconalexey-argentum:Alexey-Argentum 204 15 Foiled Again (Birthday Art Trade) by DoubleDandE Foiled Again (Birthday Art Trade) :icondoubledande:DoubleDandE 41 34 Lady Maria by wlop Lady Maria :iconwlop:wlop 7,591 108 Prismatic Water Works by ryangallagherart Prismatic Water Works :iconryangallagherart:ryangallagherart 82 8 La Saline les Bains (Reunion island) by OlivierAccart La Saline les Bains (Reunion island) :iconolivieraccart:OlivierAccart 566 109 Inside every dreamer's soul there's a child by RGBfumes Inside every dreamer's soul there's a child :iconrgbfumes:RGBfumes 123 26 Winterwonderland - Snowier Version by Scharle Winterwonderland - Snowier Version :iconscharle:Scharle 28 8 Cat Love by Bagam-The-Animator Cat Love :iconbagam-the-animator:Bagam-The-Animator 49 9 The song of the wind by Shesvii The song of the wind :iconshesvii:Shesvii 58 45 Patience by KarinMao Patience :iconkarinmao:KarinMao 542 217 Feel the warmth by Mothka Feel the warmth :iconmothka:Mothka 28 12 Keep Me Warm by Miitaa Keep Me Warm :iconmiitaa:Miitaa 361 25



CashlinSnow's Profile Picture

Artist | Hobbyist | Digital Art
United States
Hey, I'm Christina. I'm interested in productive collabs about original content. Fan stuff is swell, but not my thing anymore. I write magic/fantasy crime-fighting books about teenagers, magic, castles, princes, police detectives, etc. I eat chocolate, use teeth whiteners, spoil my cat, use Korean face masks ,and avoid posting anything personal on Facebook. I also use serial commas. Hello.

I do the following:
- voice acting / audio books
- copyediting
- self-publishing of novels, other books
- digital painting

Hit me up if you're interested.

Here are my websites: - personal site for blogging - My self-published The Libertas league ongoing fiction series website - Official site for my self-published fiction novel Revolutionary Rosanna: Resolution… - you can check my audiobooks/voice acting here… - The Libertas League FB page. I post a bunch of things here.



"I am discovered. In the bleakest crevasses of humanity's hopelessness, of the divisions of strife built from foundations of malice and misunderstanding, I am discovered. In this corner do I write; in this darkness, lit by a single thread of Light, do I pen my sorrows and hopes. That light, Dear Reader, is not the light that you are most likely thinking I refer to. It is the inner light of Knowledge. Humanity knows nothing of it. Beyond the scale of twenty thousand years, even when the ancients of Vitalonia and Vlamira built structures still admired in a world we flatter ourselves to define as modern, we are yet living in darkness. What is this current reality of Time, but of a saddened people yearning to return to those times? We dream of rebuilding the Classic Time, by constant surveying and reproducing those grand Ideals, those glorious civilizations built on towering Morals. But humanity was, even then, in darkness. We have done nothing to enlighten ourselves. Actually, in this present atmosphere, we are ever more drowning in Ignorance and Vanity. And when a flicker of that glorious light dares show itself, we blow it out.

For humanity still prefers to suffocate with ignorance, to destroy and to maim those who possess this light of not simply knowledge, but Wisdom and Strength. Because I failed to understand the magnificent responsibility this light requires, it dissolved within the cords of my flesh. I was—I am—undeserving to inherit this Nobility. Therefore, I give it away now, to you, Dear Reader. I know not how, when, or where exactly you shall seek out my light, but you shall; and when you, the Cursed and Blessed, reveal me from the seal in which I hide from those who have sought me out, I shall aid you in what capacity I can.

Read my words. Contemplate them. Such a road as you have never imagined has been pressed onto you. Now that you have touched this light, you can never return to the darkness of ignorance. You are forever forced to break through the chains of every mistake society—and I—have ever created; for if you do not, the Safety of the world shall shatter, intellect shall yield itself to madness, and, thus, shall humanity suffer to repeat the destruction of its strongholds of civilization thousands of years ago.

As cryptic as this first note is, be courageous and patient. I have written for you a Guide, the explanations being the papers you hold in your fingers, to a past that is now yours and to a future you must unlock in order to bring Light once more to the world.

Be strong. Be steady. For there will always be an adversary seeking to steal from you the secrets of the light. You must, at all costs, defend this Inheritance; not only for yourself, but for all others who possess this light. You are now their only Defender and Beacon. It is your requisite; it is your Royal Duty.


Her eyes traveled down the chubby arms and legs of the child cradled in her arms. The newborn was everything lovely to her, and yet completely different in bodily attribute than herself: cheeks pale and rosy, fingers so small and soft that she could hold them inside her large hands.

To touch her baby's little feet and tiny belly brought delight to her aching muscles and fatigued breathing.

"My little Shirina," she ran a single finger down her daughter's tiny head. The newborn kicked feebly, expressing her discomfort with strangled cries, eyes shut tight.

Victoria recalled the difficulties of the pregnancy with a sigh as she lay against the soft pillows. The doctors had said she wouldn't be able to carry to term. The first time she and her husband had tried for a child, the pregnancy had ended with grief. She could still see the swirling, bloody liquid of the fetus. The emotional grief had been far worse than the physical pain she'd experienced when she'd lost her first pregnancy.

She opened her eyes, staring up at the white tiles of the hospital room and was grateful that she had two healthy children.

"That's all I ever needed," she exhaled.

Victoria kept telling herself that she was completely satisfied and content with her life. But she felt deep down in her bones, that she was being dishonest with herself. The disquieted churning of fear in her chest was starting to seep up from the deep hole in her heart. She'd been filling her mind with reasons justifying that she'd not truly betrayed her husband, and that she was continuing to do nothing wrong by keeping her secret.

There was a possibility that the little curly-haired girl Victoria had just brought into the world was not her husband's daughter. Becoming pregnant had been a mistake, but now that her child was here, Victoria promised to defend the innocent life to the best of her ability. After all, she'd made the choice to cheat on her husband of her own free, conscious will. If anyone had to pay in the future for her unfaithfulness, it should only be her. However, if Gerome ever found out—

Victoria swallowed. Her husband was as tender as he was savage and unforgiving. No—she would never tell him. And she'd make sure he'd never discover her sin and punish her baby for it.

Even with her self-vow, the pulling of guilt yanked ever harder as slumber pressed down upon her. Victoria knew, just as the last white spot of consciousness popped and faded before her closed eyes, that something harsh, stretching far beyond the end of her life, would determine the future for her children.


Sixteen twenty-seven. The height of a kingdom crafted by power-hungry monarchs had yielded a grand fruit of lavished individuals dispassionately floating above the poverty of millions. Such a class of nobility enjoyed escalating their self-importance to a level of pomp that had long past become ludicrous.

The hills of devastation rolled with hungry citizens. The cities clattered with the hooves of greedy noblemen and perfumed ladies who bought, sold, and bartered those starving souls amongst each other.

A life was to them cheap, nothing but a trophy. The prettiest people they could buy aided in elevating their status among their fellow courtiers.

Each lady's dress consumed enough fabric for three, sewn with silver threads, clipped into fashionable bunches by golden berets. Their hair rose sometimes as tall as their arm, powdered and puffed and pricked with color and foliage until they nearly swooned with aching neck.

For the men, their conceited desire for fashion above sense was not much improved. They sought out the ladies to help them emphasize their powdered white cheeks with bold, red blush, to redden their lips with scarlet hypocrisy as they feasted past the circumference of their garments.

The grounds about their palaces and townhouses were carefully tended to by the common citizen. Though the institution of serfdom had been waning for a good two centuries, the rich still clung to their self-imposed right of ownership over the people; and the people, with only a handful of sympathetic nobles, knights, and rich merchants to defend their harsh treatment, were left to fend for themselves.

Amidst the rise of King Louis XIII and his scrumptious, but often unloved, barren wife (the people were quite fickle, and their feelings for Her Majesty shifted like the tides) Anne of Austria, pockets of a different breed of people that had long been abandoned by society continued to live and hope for days when they would not be persecuted.

These few families were of a noble, but very mysterious bloodline that had no borders within courtly walls or peasant halls. For this reason, virtually every sect of civilized society, not just in France, disdained these families, even feared them. These despised people experienced a few short periods of popularity brought on by war or famine. Such horrible events forced their native societies to depend upon them. But, riches and peace reviving, they were not needed, and their neighbors were quick to spurn them again.

By the early seventeenth century, most of Europe considered themselves quite worldly and scientific. The rise of ancient technologies and educational principles from the Classic Time had brought a vanity that further elevated the rich above the poor.

This self-glorification, however, was of a different type than the pride of old when the Vlamirians considered themselves as equals to The Deities. Only select wisdom of the ancients was respected by modern cultures. As with any other time, humanity cleaved to what it wished and forgot what was inconvenient. The secular philosophy and science that fit into a Christian mold was widely studied and debated, while the warnings and teachings of the Mystic Artists were snubbed by royalty, mocked by nobility, and forbidden to be discussed by the peasantry. Mystic Art was added under the categories of witchcraft and sorcery, spit at as a dirty, evil practice.

"Mystic" was a title that referred to a class of people, gifted through mysterious means, with special abilities that differed from person to person, even within families. Since even before the oldest retrieved record that the Church had kept filed away safely for thousands of years, Mystic Artists had been written of, with an aura of fear. The Church, too superstitious to burn such records, shoved them far back beyond, hopefully, the reach of posterity. But the future found them, yet failed to realize what the words meant.

King Louis XIII whiled away his time with his mistress, as Anne of Austria mourned the loss of her Spanish maids. The court gossiped about the Queen's barren chambers as the peasantry toiled and slowly became rich, agitating the nobility. As cities filled with gossip and hatred, the unwanted, cast aside Mystic Artists walked secretly in the midst of them all.

Amid the everyday social tension, there rose a special class of guards for the suspicious French king. They were called The King's Guards or The Musketeers. Their uniforms shone richly blue with broad, silver fleur-di-lis—French lilies—stitched across their chests. They were buoyant, loved a good duel and a hearty laugh, and their popularity among the court only rivaled their idleness. Life for them was a succession of love and campaigns, but otherwise hollow.

By sixteen thirty, dissidence between the king and his friend and adviser Cardinal Richelieu had risen to new absurdities. The cardinal, thinly hiding jealousy, produced numerous excuses to have crimson musketeers designed for himself. This incited new gossip in the French state.

The king and the cardinal battled their growing dislike of each other through chess, debate, dance, and, indirectly, by allowing their guards to duel. Dueling was prohibited, but being bored and discontent, the king sometimes overlooked the event. Such apathy infuriated the cardinal so deeply, that at times he could do nothing but indulge on wine and read Revelations to comfort himself.

It was hard to find a musketeer who was not masterful with his sword, light on his feet in dance, or beautiful in the face. They all primped excessively before oval mirrors, to gain a glance from a lovely, rich lady who could very well be their next mistress.

However, there was one man who didn't inspect himself for only vanity's sake. He kept his talents and his looks about him for one lady whom he'd recently taken to the altar. Lady Aimé was an enchanting young baroness with a simple taste in fashion. She piled her hair slightly and powdered her cheeks but lightly, and yet, François Beauchamp loved her the day he saw her.

He lived for her and for the child she birthed, his daughter Zoëë. The three lived in Paris where he and the other musketeers maintained easy access to many avenues in and around the palace. François was so fervently beloved at court, that he was often invited to dinners and dances alike, accepting graciously with his wife draped across his arm at every appearance.

He was slender, with a chiming tenor voice and thick, chocolate curls tumbling out from beneath a broad, black leather cavalier hat which complimented his pale cheeks and curled mustache. He was the perfect courtly image, for, indeed, François was a knight in every proper respect of birth, education, and ceremony.

Having perfected the art of complimenting others, he gained favor so quickly and ascended the courtly hierarchy with such speed that some noblemen could only catch a glance of him. Within one year of befriending nearly everyone at court, the king personally requested an afternoon of chess with him.

Yet beneath these favors, François carefully buried the secret of his family with shame and fear.

Whatever society claimed, no matter the point in time or the vain supposition of social enlightenment, the citizens remained the same in their hearts. Out of their hearts he knew could come no good thing. He'd read of the torture his people had suffered through the ages. But only when he'd personally witnessed some of the most horrific, barbaric punishments by cultured, civilized European states against Mystic Artists, he had decided then to cease from the practice his family had taught him to revere.

When he felt guilty, François told himself that, in his modern world, Mystic Artists were an antique neither needed nor desired. Allowing his gift to freeze dry was no sin at all. Yet he knew, when he happened past a scene of flogging, the tearing apart of someone's flesh, or of a woman being abused, that though it was not his business, it was his duty as a Cherub of Mystic Art to stop such acts.

But he strolled by, swallowing another piece of his soul to choke down the guilt. If only the courage he displayed to the gluttonous court was not simply a façade!

The seasons passed with his favor among the court continuing to increase until François was invited to a grand winter ball by Their Majesties. The date of their social affair also happened to be the date in which the Captain of the Guard announced his retirement. He nominated François as his successor. None clapped so loudly for the young musketeer than the captain, and no one was as proud of him as his wife, Aimé.

François raised his glass with a hearty blessing to the health of the captain and Their Majesties. Not a single saddened heart filled the ballroom that enchanting evening of fireworks and lavish displays of wealth. Spiced pork and glazed sweets energized the dancing guests who continued to make merry and leech off the fruits of other peoples' labor.


In my initial note, I informed you, Dear Reader, of letters in which I have penned the more significant tribulations my family and ancestors have endured. Perhaps, I hope, by reading these troubling accounts, you may come to a bit of sympathy and understanding that will create within your bosom a tiny crack of pity for me.

I leave these letters more so for you as warnings and instructions, because, as this was not your natural lineage, your road of learning to understand it will be more difficult and taxing. You cannot disengage from it. You cannot run, hide, or forget. You cannot do these things, because if you pretend nothing has happened, you will be pierced through with such guilt and self-loathing that you will wish you were gone from this earth.

Read my words. Heed them, I beg, for they will not only save your life, but those whom you love. Is not every person responsible for their deeds and decisions? Is not society the whole of its parts? Indeed, both are. And therefore, the talent you have been given, though a grand responsibility it is, is one you must now accept. For, as we must breathe, we must perform our duty. Duty makes us what we are, both of value to others and substance to ourselves. If we have no duty, we have no purpose. If we have no purpose, we are less than dust.

Do not fret if this note perplexes you. It is a mere introduction to the material in my following letters. I will begin, and leave you, in this letter, with the first few lines of my family's history.

My family's lineage began five hundred years after the fall of the Classic Time. I do not know how your society may refer to this, but it was a brutal time of rebuilding when most of Europe had fallen from the greed of war. Only a few cities such as Istanbul remained strongholds of knowledge.

My family's significant history begins four hundred years after the aforementioned date, summing to around nine hundred total years from the fall of the Classic Time. A horrible plague had fallen upon France, killing low and high without discrimination. My ancestor Larue Beauchamp begged a holy entity for the power to save his family. The entity presented him a deal: his soul in exchange for theirs. My ancestor agreed so selflessly to this ultimate sacrifice, that he impressed the holy entity. The being bestowed Mystic Art upon my family line as a reward.

Thus began the legacy of my family's acts. Most of my ancestor's kindnesses were rejected. The few times their Mystic Art was appreciated gave them comfort and strength to endure the abuse they absorbed throughout the ages.

In my next letter, I will relate some details concerning Larue Beauchamp, for he is the designer of everything I am and have become. Through him, and therefore through me, the foundations of your being have been crafted, for you are grafted into my family; though as unnaturally as a lily to a vine, I hope you are the purest of us all.


The dark room popped suddenly with the sterile whiteness of the overhead fluorescent glow. Her slumber was cut short by this interruption. She writhed a little, groaning, trying to open her eyes, having to blink several times just to be able to squint.

At the side of the bed, a little soggy, brown head peered up at her.

Victoria noticed the figure and relaxed, "Erik. I should've known. I've told you not to turn the light on like that—how many times?"

His face was lit with slightly widened blue eyes, lips set nearly horizontal across cheeks splattered with freckles.

She couldn't stay angry, "It doesn't matter. You want to come up on the bed with me?"

"Do you hurt?" He rose up on his tiptoes and she noticed a trail of water leading from the doorway to where he stood. Victoria looked out the window and saw that spring had started raging with windless, heavy rains.

She looked down at her son, "No, but you shouldn't have come in here like that. Take off your shirt and shoes and get in here with me. You must be freezing!"

Her son obeyed without remark, kicking off his jeans and socks before hopping up to join his mother under the thin hospital sheets. His toes were as cold as ice and his skin was nearly as white as marble, but she was used to this and wasn't the least bit shocked by the unpleasant sensation as she brought his skinny frame to rest against hers.

She shut her eyes, "So, how'd you sneak back here?"

"Didn't sneak," he responded simply. "Just walked. They said I could see you. How is she?"

"Shirina's fine."

"Did Dad come yet?"

"Uh—" Victoria paused. Her husband hadn't yet returned from his business meeting. Explaining Gerome's even-lengthening absences to Erik in a positive way was always becoming more difficult. "No, he hasn't, honey. But he told me he'd come as soon as he's done with work."

Her son's expression retained the same passive thoughtfulness as it had when he'd peeked up at her a minute ago.

Erik rolled over so that his back pressed against his mother's stomach, still swollen from her pregnancy, "What does she look like?"

"A lot like you, Erik: brown hair that's got a curl like yours; blue eyes and freckles all over her face." Victoria slid her arms around her son's stomach to hold him closer, "She's simply beautiful."

"I knew she'd be pretty, since she's not from him," he mumbled loud enough for her to hear.

"What do you mean, Erik?"

Cold to her core, not wanting to move or breathe, Victoria knew. She tried to hold the second a little longer, so she wouldn't have to hear the soft, half-whisper of his innocent, yet brutally truthful response. She was afraid of her son, that he knew.

"She doesn't have any of Dad in her," he whispered.

Her fingers, softly grazing his thin belly, froze like ice. "You can't tell him, Erik," she felt ashamed to admit he was right and to force him to keep her secret, but it was for Shirina's sake. "If you tell him, he'll be angry and may want to hurt your sister."

"I promise I won't tell," he simply responded.

Victoria didn't ask why Erik was so ready to participate in her deception. It was too good to be true to have such an obedient, loving son, so she kept her peace and decided to be thankful and not suspicious of anything. Yet, stroking her son's hair, she felt overwhelming guilt and could only whisper, "Thank you, Erik."


Eight months after Andrew and Rebecca McBeth consummated, she was born; their only child, because they only desired one child. With one child, they still had time in the evenings to clatter along the urban thoroughfares of Downtown, attending plays, movies, and dances. Gambling and tinkling glasses of false merriment beckoned them into the clubs. With friends and enemies, they passed the hours of the night, kissing their chips for luck.

They were quite well off and lived in the suburban upper hills of Zoë Dominique's Soirée Street. Whenever they drove out for some late-night fun, they left their baby girl with a house maid, a typical young woman of trimmed qualifications.

Yet one night, in particular, was not as kind to the couple as the others had been. In Downtown, they progressed up the block, stumbling, the smell of wine on their breath. Winter had come. Feathered rime crusted over the silhouetted, old-fashioned lanterns of the early times, reminiscent of men fluttering down alleys in long trench coats and tall hats. It was just another night, which was not just another night, when, from the shadows, two policemen raced forth after a man.

The couple pressed themselves against a wall, their fright leaving as the steps of the officers faded. Rebecca laughed; he laughed, but then she gasped, slipped from his fingers like satin, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Laying atop a sidewalk completely blanketed with crunchy, fat snowflakes, her white coat hid most of her slender body. An unearthly aura emitted from her tumbling black hair and crimson red lips. Blood pooled beneath her in the snow. The moment was surreal. With no one about and a husband with a faculty too eroded by alcohol to aid her, he could only scream incoherently up at the soft falling flakes over the accidental murder of his wife.

The police report stated that the man they'd been pursuing had been aiming at one of the officers, but accidentally shot his wife, instead. The man was caught, charged, and sent to many years in prison. Though Andrew received justice, his heart remained heavy and broken.

After that night, Andrew stopped drinking. He no longer visited clubs or casinos, either. His joy of living for the moment had died with his wife, leaving him a man that worked too many hours and hardly ever laughed.

For two years, he lived in an emotionless fog. Only his daughter redeemed his soul. The innocence of her tumbling gold curls, tiny toddler fingers pressed against his knee one winter afternoon, opened his eyes.

Andrew wept at last. His tears loosened his heart and enabled him to begin the slow, hard process of mending. He tried his hardest to love his daughter in all the ways he had neglected her until then.

However, Andrew found it impossible to close the distance that had risen between them. It was his fault. When Rebecca died, he'd treated Elaine like a thing to brush and polish, instead of a child he cherished. He was sadly inept. Try as he might, he found that he did not understand what it meant to be a father.

And no matter how he strained to bring himself closer to her, Elaine scorned him and his advice. He watched his daughter grow up and take on a personality much like people of old; she was like those who trod upon the poor, who snubbed the weak and the paralyzed. Andrew mourned as she grew to love the lifestyle that had killed his wife.


Zoë Dominique, a grand, old metropolis which was dubbed "The Winter City," had been founded several hundred years ago from the myth of the Mystic Musketeer who had chased his brother across the ocean to kill him. As the story related, the Mystic Musketeer had repented of his evil, but too late: he had already cast a curse on himself and his brother, which had killed them both. Settled within a valley against Musketeer Mountain, the forests seemed to rise about Zoë Dominique, holding her safely within them.

Snow bedded the city several months out of the year. Summer was sadly short and overly mild. It was a city of old grandeur on the east side, full of Victorian museums, with Italian architecture of the High Renaissance that attracted tourists; but also of modern taste, with twisted skyscrapers in the northeast Uptown business section, where men in ironed black suits drifted in, out, and about the corporations like shadows.

Within the walls of the skyscrapers, rich men conducted international business, enriched by the toils of the needy. Honest businesses were often consumed by enterprises that were willing to compromise their corporate morals down to a level that gave them a competitive, profitable edge.

The rich became vainer as their wealth increased; their self-importance pushed them to manicure their appearance, which further fueled their self-righteousness. It wasn't long before large boardrooms filled with hateful comments of their disdain for everyone except themselves.

However, the greed and corruption of the business nobility was not the city's legacy. Zoë Dominique harbored an old story under the layers of ice that never melted. She tightly protected the rich heritage that she hoped would never be found. It was a secret which could be capitalized by the ruthless who were busy primping their bodies while their souls were full of death and cobwebs.
#1 The White Musketeer: Prologue

About The Libertas League

#1: The White Musketeer is the first book in the The Libertas League series, a loosely-connected series of teenager-based, noir, crime-fighting novels. These exciting stories chronicle the struggles and stories of the characters as they strive to understand themselves in a complicated world full of Mystic Art and evil that must be destroyed.

#1: The White Musketeer is available in paperback and e-book format.

Please visit for further information about this on-going series and about book formats.


#1: The White Musketeer

Copyright © 2012 onward by Christina Roberts.

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-387-75145-7

Cover art by Nicole Potter:

Interior design & artwork, compositions, text, and all other interior elements comprising the entirety of this work by Christina Roberts.

This work is the intellectual property of Christina Roberts. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or copied in any form or by any means, in any medium or by any method, without proper written permission from the publisher. You may not circulate this book in any format or for any purpose. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, unless otherwise stated, are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. The author is not liable for any potential historical inaccuracies or misrepresentations of historical persons.

ID: 22795193

For more information concerning this on-going series, please visit

Cashlin Snow Attire Profiles
Cashlin Snow (Elaine McBeth, 16 years old) is Erik Seeton's girlfriend. "Cashlin Snow" is her musical stage name and she adapts it also for crime fighting. It means "vain snow". She's featured in The White Musketeer… and A White Powder Kingdom… (more forthcoming). She is headstrong, self-involved, selfish, and often places her own wants above helping others. She can sing, dance, and write well, and strives to maintain her "popular girl" image. Growing up, she liked the nerdy, skinny Erik Seeton, but told herself openly liking him would damage her popularity. To protect her emotions, she was instead mean to him, to the point of cruelty in one scene in The White Musketeer.

But when Erik was truly in need, Elaine managed to realize how selfish and immature she'd been and she has since then tried hard to change for the better. She is still often self-centered and vain, though she realizes it more and then apologize and tries to improve. At the end of The White Musketeer, Elaine apologized for her meanness to Erik and they officially started going out.

As Elaine often acts before she thinks, she decides she wants to dress up and go off crime-fighting, for she wants to help Erik and also prove she can do good things, too. She hasn't really thought this through and Erik isn't pleased about it. Not to mention, her flamboyant taste in fashion doesn't go well with crime-fighting. How is she supposed to blend in with her outfits? Elaine loves to accessorize and doesn't want to be kept to a standard outfit; therefore, she has several variations of colors on a theme, most of which are, honestly, impractical for crime-fighting.

It looks like she still has a ways to go to figure all this out.

This little piece shows three such possible combinations of outfits on a theme. Obviously she's wearing some of her wigs. The far-left is the closest to Elaine's color palette when she performs on stage with Nate Dimitrious, her bff. The center one is the most practical for real crime-fighting, though it suffers some problems; the far-right one is more so what she'd prefer to wear when out at night, but Erik will keep trying to tone her down.

Lost the original AI artwork piece and original paper sketch. Lines aren't so great.
GIMP / Slight Photoshop
Elaine McBeth / Cashlin Snow is copyrighted (c) to Christina Roberts. ALl rights reserved. Redistribution an usage is not allowed.

GIMP snowflake brushes:… - personal site for blogging - My self-published The Libertas league ongoing fiction series website - Official site for my self-published fiction novel Revolutionary Rosanna: Resolution… - you can check my audiobooks/voice acting here… - The Libertas League FB page. I post a bunch of things here.
Michael Swam Ink
One of my older main characters for a book I'll write in the future. Also one of my youngest characters with a simpler physical design. Featured on

Copyrighted (c) to me. All rights reserved. Reproduction and usage not allowed.

Traditional sketch.
Inked in Illustrator.
Color later.
"The calamities were at our door. The rod of oppression was raised over us. We were roused from our slumbers, and may we never sink into repose until we can convey a clear and undisputed inheritance to our posterity. Immortal spirits of Hampden, Locke, and Sidney!"

- Samuel Adams, American Independence Speech, August 1, 1776


Chapter 04

Rosanna paced in her room and couldn't refrain from often darting her eyes to the clock. It was the twenty fifth of October. Reports had been near flooding in from jubilant Tories since the day before that Washington was preparing to retreat further away from the city. Her heart had lurched and her ears had burned when she had first heard the gossip. The tingling sensation of dread had subsided some hours prior, but Rosanna's throat was so tight she had to stop every once in a while to even her breathing and placate her nerves.

So when, at last, Peebel informed her that he was leaving for his regular afternoon appointment, Rosanna kept her bursting glee down as much as possible. She only acknowledged his departure with her accustomed peck to his lips.

When he had chuckled, gazed upon her fine figure, and thus bowed and shoved himself noisily into his carriage, and only when she could no longer hear the clopping of the horses' hooves, did Rosanna descend the stairs and enter his study. She promptly commenced checking his desk, until she found a flintlock pistol laying in one of the drawers. It was fully loaded, pristine, suitable for any officer of medium-rank.

No one had missed her yet, but she nevertheless hurried. Rosanna placed her foot upon Peebel's desk and lifted her dress. There was a leather belt tightly strapped around her thigh. She shoved the pistol, barrel-down, against her skin, ensuring that it was wedged too tightly to wiggle free.

Dropping her gown rather unladylike, she checked Peebel's books next and found some paper bills in-between the pages, issued by the Continental Congress.

"Why would he keep this rubbish?" Rosanna was perplexed. A Tory would naturally have no use of such already-reduced, tax-backed currency. Perhaps he kept some for sentiment, for posterity. Shrugging, she counted the dollars with a huff, adding up to sixty, "Not worth a Continental, when all is said and done."

Yet, she took the currency anyway—who knew? The bills might become useful at some point, for a fire perhaps.

This was all Rosanna found to be of use. She promptly removed herself from that odious man's most private dwelling, with head held high. Her next errand involved the kitchen.

"Molly," she addressed the black cook, who was stirring some sort of very inviting soup in a large pot. "I am most desiring to show Mr. Peebel's generosity to Colonel Chillon this evening when he and I take a stroll. Would it be possible for you to prepare a basket of delights for me to take to him?"

The maid was a Tory, like most in the direct neighborhood. She delighted at such a plan and proceeded to gather a selection of cheese, bread, meat, fruits, and a large bottle of wine, with a pair of fine twist glasses. Folding all the contents and placing them in the basket, she handed the heavy gift to Rosanna.

"Thank you so much!" Rosanna took the consumables upstairs with her. Placing the basket on her dresser, she pulled out a large leather sack with a hooked cross belt from one of her lower drawers. She had already organized sewing materials within this bag, but there was a large amount of space yet available.

She carefully placed the food items, atop the sewing materials, into the bag, minus the glasses and the wine. Those two items were of no necessity to her goal. They would remain in the room. Grunting slightly, she removed the pistol from the strap on her thigh and placed it beside the bag. Finally, she wrapped the bag and pistol within the picnic cloth Molly had used for the food, so that the basket gave off an innocent enough appearance to fool anyone of its actual intention.

She placed the cloth with everything else in the basket. With these things accomplished, Rosanna again resumed her impatient waiting.

Peebel returned within the hour and more or less demanded her presence until Rosanna's outing time. It was terrible for her to sit and waste such slow minutes with the man, entertaining him with feigned interest and round after round of, oh, so many card games. However, the forced frivolity kept him from his study, from therefore discovering his missing pistol, and perhaps noticing things had suffered mysterious shifts during his absence.

Almost jumping with anticipation was she when the clock struck the hour of her appointment! A minute after, there was a knock at the door. A manservant escorted Colonel Chillon to the dining room, whence Rosanna and Peebel had not bothered to abandon.

When the colonel entered, Rosanna was extremely inwardly delighted to note his shadow companion was not present.

"Do not steal my Rosanna for too long a time, dear colonel!" Peebel chuckled, his hand once again slipped inside his coat.

"Never worry, my dear sir! I will treat her as if she were my queen."

Rosanna swept her eyes up and down the man. As usual, he was wearing his excessively pressed British uniform. The red of the coat was magnanimously popping from his person. There was no desire of conservatism to the ruffles of lace fluttering over his knuckles or to the cravat near spilling down the front of his chest. Every button was shimmering, every movement of his seemingly timed and of a grace to emphasize to the residents his position—and how it ought to be admired. He'd even taken special pains to wash and brush his wig anew, tying the pigtail with a lovely ribbon of black silk, edged with silver.

Having never lost a serene expression, though inwardly ridiculing the colonel's pompous toiletry, Rosanna waved both men off as silly children, "Really, gentlemen!"

The three laughed merrily.

"Shall we go, Ms. Rosanna?" Colonel Chillon bowed to her and extended his arm.

Smiling, Rosanna slid around the table and approached him, holding a little of her dress up so it wouldn't drag across the floor. She and the colonel exited the sitting room and were approaching the door, her fingers resting atop his bare hand, when Molly came rustling through the foyer with Rosanna's carefully prepared basket.

"Thank you, Molly. I must have forgotten and accidentally left the basket upstairs!" Exclaimed she with an airy admiration in her tone, taking the burden from the maid. She smiled again at Colonel Chillon, "I am hoping, perhaps a bit childishly, to present you with some edible delights after we have retrieved that poor rebel's uniform."

His lips spread with anticipation, "Oh, allow me, pray, to carry this burden for you then. I cannot allow a lady to bear such weight!"

Rosanna's heart pressed hotly against her chest. She could not speak for a second or two. Her instinct was not just to withhold the basket from him, but to distance the colonel from such a precious cargo. If the contents were betrayed! Yet, with great forbearance, Rosanna passed the basket to him, even managing to keep her tone steady, "I thank you, colonel."

Arm-in-arm, they almost skipped down the steps and boarded his carriage. On the road, they made small talk, and like a cheap woman, Rosanna not only allowed the man to flirt with her, but she reciprocated his affections. After all, neither he nor Peebel would matter after this night!

The more she touched him, as if by accident, and leaned against him and ran her hands down his arms, the further was Colonel Chillon undone. Their ride was not scheduled to stop until it came to Mr. Reginald's mansion, in which the late ball had taken place, allowing Rosanna ample time for her to work on the colonel's weakened emotional state.

Colonel Chillon wasn't aware they had arrived, until the carriage halted, so wrapped up was he within Rosanna's soft voice and her hands finding their way just slightly up his sleeves, where she stroked his flesh.

"Shall we disembark?" She nudged his leg playfully with her delicate slipper.

Annoyed at the interruption, he nevertheless followed Rosanna, at a leisurely pace, directly for the broad field at the back of the imitation Greco structure. She grasped his arm and giggled in anticipation, and he in turn smiled stupidly at how adorable she looked and sounded.

"I must confess something," Rosanna faced the colonel, backing up slowly for some steps, countenance playful. "The night of the ball, I did come out here. I took the rebel's clothing off and I hid it yonder in those bushes!" She turned around and pointed out across the darkened landscape to the brush running along the far end.

"My, you are quite an industrious woman! To have done that in such an efficient amount of time."

"Oh, not so!" She touched his arm slightly.

Aroused, Colonel Chillon marched straight for the end of the field, and with little trouble of rummaging down in the brush, found and retrieved the very damp and foul-smelling ripped uniform for her.

"You are too good to me, colonel!" Rosanna kissed him on the cheek. "Would it be selfish of me to ask you to carry the uniform back to the carriage for me?"

"Not at all!"

Surely, the colonel was getting the idea that his rosy outing with Rosanna would end with a grand present on his behalf. From all the attention she kept showering on him, he felt justified in his hopes.

Rosanna let herself up into the carriage without his assistance. She did not offer to aid Colonel Chillon by taking the uniform so that he could more easily pull himself over the threshold to join her. His balancing the clothing in one arm so he could hoist himself aboard gave Rosanna a couple seconds to launch her plan. She pulled the pistol from the basket and abruptly turned on him.

"Put the uniform on the bench," she stated evenly.

The colonel was taken aback with shock, but being halfway into the carriage, he could not stop himself properly and entered fully. He immediately dropped the dirty garments on the seat before her.

"Sit there," she motioned to the seat across from the basket.

Without a word, he obeyed, still too shocked for some seconds to capture his senses aright.

"Dismiss the driver," she slightly nodded to the door.

For a few more seconds, Colonel Chillon did not react. Upon Rosanna thrusting the pistol forward towards him, he jerked to the side. Peering out from the window, he called, "Mr. Clutch, I need a few minutes to have a private word with Ms. Rosanna. Do not wait so inconveniently for us. Please, go enjoy yourself at the tavern down the block. I have established credit there. You may apply my name for your drink."

"Truly?" The driver was already hopping to the ground. "That is quite decent of you, colonel!"

Amicably, the driver pocketed his hands in his coat and strolled on down the sidewalk, whistling a happy tune.

Rosanna waited until the whistling faded. She and Colonel Chillon sat staring at the other in a tense silence. Then, feeling that no one suspected them, she pulled the leather bag out from within the blanket wrapped in the basket. She keenly watched the colonel, keeping the pistol steady with a trained hand.

She opened the mouth of the bag and turned to him, "Put the uniform inside."

He scoffed, "What are you intending to do, madam: join Washington's band of terrorists?"

She made no response. He sputtered with shock and bemusement, "Why—why that is insane, my dear girl! You, who have been born and bred in sense and comfort, to join such a gaggle of men—and in such horrible, inhumane circumstances? It is no secret that most of Washington's men are little more than underage vagabonds, without even the hopes of basic necessities to survive! Their muskets are ruined, their clothing is rotting from their flesh, which is in no better condition, I dare say, and they are altogether incompetent! To be frank, madam, to desire the company of that party is to desire death." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Besides, what do you think those men would do to you if they discovered your sex?"

"Put the uniform in the bag now, and also your canteen and your two pistols."

Colonel Chillon was obstinate to lose his precious pistols and sat very straight.

"You have five seconds, and believe me, sir, I will shoot you dead on even terms if you have not obliged me in that time. That is more than can be said for your conduct of that boy whom you killed so cowardly."

The colonel's face flushed impressively. Muttering, he removed his flintlock pistols and his canteen and dropped them in her bag. He then picked up the uniform and stuffed it into the bag, per Rosanna's motioning of him to do so.

"I thank you," Rosanna smiled slightly. "Now, please unhitch one of the horses."

"There is no saddle available," he attempted to reason again. Rosanna pressed the pistol to his back, encouraging the colonel to disembark the carriage and attend to the closest horse. She watched him without a blink, to ensure he would not try to sabotage the animal.

Turning to her, he attempted to reason one last time, "Please, madam! If you stop this madness now, I promise never to mention it to a soul. The death of that rebel must have impressed upon you deeply and I do not hold that against you, and—"

"Please! I beg, do not open your mouth again in my presence," Rosanna grimaced. Without his assistance, she stepped up on the side of the carriage and then onto the back of the horse, not even bothering to ride side-saddle in her fine dress.

"Hand me the bag," Rosanna ordered, the pistol still pointed at his chest.

Mechanically, Colonel Chillon raised the heavy luggage to her. Rosanna slung the cross belt around her shoulder in an undignified manner, and then kicking the horse in the ribs, embarked away at a gallop. She ducked low for a few seconds, lest the colonel had some hidden weapon, but no shots reported the possibility.

She rode the horse hard for some minutes without slowing, near panting herself when she at last did so. With no seconds to lose, Rosanna disembarked before a solitary pond, tied the horse to a low branch of the nearest tree, and then proceeded to shuffle through the items in her bag. Pressing sensible thought away, she set about her actions with the singular haste of one goal, one idea, one determination. She stripped free from her fine dress, corset, and feminine accessories. Inhaling sharp, now naked, she plunged her head into the lake to flatten her hair. The locks she brushed with a comb until the long tresses were completely straight. Without curls, her hair hung nearly down to her buttocks.

Biting her lower lip, Rosanna produced sewing scissors from the bag and cut her hair straight across so that it fell just past her shoulders. She clubbed her now much lighter-weight hair back into a low ponytail, with a black ribbon, in the fashion of the young men.

Shivering and swallowing, not at all certain of the sanity or wisdom of her plan, Rosanna shuffled through the bag and pulled out a long, thin strip of cloth. She inhaled and stood tall, wrapping the cloth around and around her breasts, a bit over her upper stomach as well. It felt rather tight, but not as uncomfortable as she thought binding would feel. Corsets pushed her breasts up, causing them to appear larger than they actually were; in this manner, pressed down and a bit to the sides, Rosanna checked her reflection and noted with satisfaction that her chest appeared convincingly flat. An added bonus was that the binding didn't run down the full length of her stomach, therefore actually invigorating Rosanna with a refreshing release in which she could more freely breathe.

In further haste, she donned the full uniform that the young boy had been killed in. It smelled very bad and his blood was splattered across the front. She wore a clean undershirt for some layer of protection against the lingering smell of the rot. She'd acquired it from Peebel's wardrobe and had modified it extensively to cut it down to a reasonable size. The rest of the uniform, being quite loose and fitted for a male's body, understated most of her curves, which would further aid her deception.

The soldier's boots fit Rosanna surprisingly well, as did the breeches.

She ensured there was no makeup left on her face. Standing, Rosanna threw the dress, and all the other things that identified her as female, into the pond. The dress floated for near a minute and then it sank into obscurity. She wandered if she would die and sink in like manner.

Shaking her head from such thoughts, Rosanna pressed the colonel's canteen and two of the three pistols in the bag anew. The third one, the one she'd taken from Peebel's study and had previously fastened to her thigh, she stuffed down the left front of her breeches, the grip sticking upward.

How odd she felt! She couldn't understand the feeling, if it was simply unease to be so physically altered, or if it was a deeper premonition pressing upon her soul. Be either, or something else, Rosanna sighed, resting her cheek against the side of the horse. She could not give into such tumults at this time!

Gritting her teeth, Rosanna slung the bag over her shoulder, ensuring the cross belt was securely buckled. In this manner, smelling of nature's mold, hair wet and flat, tied behind her, chest bound and masquerading as a young man, did Rosanna spring upon the bare back of the horse and again burst in a gallop, away from New York and the luxuries of a life she was used to.


The morning of October twenty seven rose with sprinkles and more dismay of morale in Washington's camp. The general had ordered a retreat towards the village at White Plains, as word from messengers had reached the entrenchment that General Howe had left Pell's Point, had resumed marching hotly their way. Already, the men were forming their lines, their scant provisions tucked on their persons and muskets saluting the skies.

Seth was within the ranks of disheveled, weary men of the First New York regiment. He felt little better than they, but was hoping to soon reunite with his brother—though, honestly, he did not know where or when he would.

The men started to march. He swallowed, watching one officer after another trot before the sides of the column to encourage them. Washington was among them, though he often refrained himself near the back of the whole column, much to his staff's dismay.

They had marched for a couple of hours, when Seth observed, with curiosity, the arrival of a young man of unusual slender frame, trotting up on a beautiful brown horse. It was the boy's slashed, bloody, and dirty uniform that startled him. To see such a thing was common among the men, but from a boy so young, as lovely in face, and of such a figure as his?

"Hello there!" One of the officers rang out in greeting to the boy. "Who are you? Where do you come from?"

"From Valcour—General Arnold!" The young soldier, sounding quite effeminate, but unpretentious in voice, responded without hesitation.

"But, I had thought no New York boys had partook of that affair? And—and how then do you take so long to find your way here? What are the particulars?"

"To summarize, by a mishap of circumstances, I joined the wrong band, fell in with them, and when we exchanged powder with the enemy, I escaped, but not without difficulty, as the state you see me in testifies. But with provisions to spare, I have survived and at last made it here. I request to join your men!"

The first lieutenant, for that was his rank, considered the youth for some seconds. Seth, having marched out of hearing range of the encounter at this point, was disappointed, for he was curious to know if the man would be allowed to join their regiment. Most likely he would, regardless if he was under-aged, as his uniform proclaimed that he had not only been in his fair share of battle, but had come out worthy and was eagerly wroth to see a campaign again.

He marched on, in hopes of meeting the youth later for a proper introduction.


Rosanna turned her horse and ran her eye over the long snake of marching men. The officer questioning her did little to still her effervescing nerves. What was she doing here? She kept asking herself that over and over. She felt out of place, a supposed regular, astride a grand beast like an officer. It felt, to her, nearly like a sin.

The lieutenant was cordial enough to her. There was no supposition in his tone or gaze to hint that he suspected her true sex; nor did he ask why she had no saddle for her horse. She was keeping as cool a demeanor as possible, having nearly messed up as to her history already in the false explanation of her circumstances at Valcour.

The officer politely questioned, "May I inquire as to your provisions and weapons?"

"Yes, sir," Rosanna turned smartly to him. "I am well with food for a few days, and I have pistol enough for three men, but no musket to speak of."

"That is well. I will see if I can find a musket for you, but if not, God will guide your pistols well enough. How of your clothing there?"

"It is nothing to worry about, sir. I am excellent with the needle and have managed to locate sewing materials to mend my uniform with. At the first stretch of time allotted, I will set about the task, you may be assured."

The officer raised a brow, "That is quite interesting. Such sewing business is usually left to the women and wives of the soldiers. But, if you know the craft, and wish to string a thread yourself, I cannot see any objection to it.

"Thank you," Rosanna automatically responded.

"Alright then. After the march, I shall find you a proper placement. For now, go to the back of the column. Ride on that horse, if you please, for the time being."

"Sorry sir. Should I sell the animal?"

The officer smiled a wit from that remark, "I would say no! We may need a new messenger. Since you have a horse already, you might just find yourself in that post."

Rosanna felt her heart pounding. A messenger! The thought terrified her, but then again, what was she expecting? To march in Washington's army meant death by starvation or in battle. A messenger carried the possibility of being shot from the saddle; yet, either duty meant the end just the same and therefore should not concern her at all. She had run away from her life, for better or for worse, and so had to "own it", as she'd heard men proclaim before.

At the back of the column, and enduring several inquisitive glances from officers they passed, Rosanna turned her horse and slid from his back. There was no need to tire the beast with unnecessary riding. If she were to grow fatigued, she could jump up for a short rest.

The officer peered down at her, "I forgot to ask, boy; what is your name?"

His face seemed to zoom in and out before her. Rosanna had planned everything so carefully, except her name. She felt so stupid! He was waiting and so, without thought at all, she blurted, "Robin Hall."

"Very good. Greetings, Robin Hall. I am Lieutenant James Anderson." He nodded curtly, "We shall talk this evening."

With that, he trotted up the column. Rosanna could see him for a minute or so. A stately man with light brown hair, wearing a long, medium-blue cloak, joined the officer. They passed some words and then split.

She exhaled. The ground was muddy, nearly up over her ankles, from the wet weather and marching. Being left alone, grimacing at the horrid condition of the road, Rosanna could at least focus on clearing her mind and thinking through just what she'd done and how she'd be able to cope with it.
Revolutionary Rosanna: Resolution Chapter 04
Revolutionary Rosanna: Resolution is a novel about a young New York woman in 1776 who leaves her comfortable life and joins the American rebels, masquerading as a male soldier. Rosanna's fiery, fatalist attitude enables her to endure the filth, starvation, and death of being a foot soldier. She rallies herself more courageously than many soldiers and, unintentionally, earns the love of an officer. On the other spectrum, A British colonel, who knew her in New York, hunts her down to reclaim what he views as an insult and embarrassment to his honor for an offense she caused against him. Rosanna plunges into the horrors of warfare for selfish reasons, though she grows, loves, and seeks to protect those she cares for at any cost.

This novel is available on Amazon in ebook and paperback format, and on my YouTube account as an audio book. Read the details at

Amazon ebook and Paperback:…


Copyright © 2016 - present by Christina Roberts. All rights reserved.
Publisher: Christina Roberts

ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-387-29629-3
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-387-29568-5
Paperback Library of Congress Registration Number: TX 8-540-359
Effective Date of Registration: November 21, 2017

Design and Compositions: Cover design, interior artwork, text composition, related elements, etc by Christina Roberts.
Paperback opening chapter quotes typeface: Wyld

This work is the intellectual property of Christina Roberts. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or copied in any form or by any means, in any medium or by any method, without proper written permission from the publisher. You may not circulate this book in any format or for any purpose. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, unless otherwise stated, are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. The author is not liable for any potential historical inaccuracies or misrepresentations of historical persons.

Opening chapter quotes are from period life sources, and unless otherwise noted, are in the Public Domain.
I know everyone has one: a quirk, a hobby, a 'strange thing' they like that may make others they know laugh or give them odd looks. Well, I have one. It's harmless enough. I work from home full-time and so I can listen to whatever I like while I work. Some months ago, I found this home rental real estate channel on YouTube where the employees go to the homes and perform "move out walk-throughs". It seemed mundane enough, though I was immediately interested in the lady's voice. I found her voice to be soothing and enjoyable to listen to. Sometimes I listen to her when I lay in bed to sleep. I have to say, I have listened to every single video featuring her in their channel (and many more than once).

As I listened, I began to be interested in the actual content of the videos themselves. As a person to be married in a few months, I'll most likely be renting a little while with my to-be husband. Listening and watching the lady perform these walk-throughs has really helped me learn what a landlord looks for and what they expect of the tenant. It's also helped me with my own planning. I'll make sure to film the condition of every potential place I rent, before I move in, and just after I move everything out.

As I watch these walk-throughs, I find myself asking, "How do people trash a house so severely and have the guts to move out of it, knowing their landlord will probably pursue monetary compensation per their rental contract about these things?" A perfect example of a trashed house that always gets me is this one:

The tenants allegedly lived there for 4 years. It seems that they did not do any routine cleaning of the house even once. If you watch the video, the house just gets worse and worse as the lady goes along.

What do you think about this and what's a potentially odd or different type of hobby or interest you have?


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drawingequalslife Featured By Owner Sep 13, 2018  Student Digital Artist
Thanks for the llama!
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Thanks so much for the fave and the wonderful comment on my drawing, really appreciated!
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Thank you for the llama!
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Thank you for the llama. Llama is incoming for you
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Thanks for the llama!
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