"Limberry? Do you think you could make a pie out of those berries?"
"Oh, sure. Zombie pie."
Thursday, September 30, 2004
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
So, Shinichiro Miki is doing Sephiroth's voice in Advent Children.
...
...
Kind of like when I first heard about the impending disaster, this also made me cry. He's actually a very talented voice actor, but anything having to do with Weiss Kreuz will be forever tainted in my eyes...except for the guy who voiced Crawford, because he's hardcore- and also did K's voice in Gravitation. But...Yohji. As Sephiroth.
Ng. Bad touch. Very bad touch.
...
...
Kind of like when I first heard about the impending disaster, this also made me cry. He's actually a very talented voice actor, but anything having to do with Weiss Kreuz will be forever tainted in my eyes...except for the guy who voiced Crawford, because he's hardcore- and also did K's voice in Gravitation. But...Yohji. As Sephiroth.
Ng. Bad touch. Very bad touch.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
layout
New layout; needed excessive tweaking, and I know it's going to look strange in other browsers. I apologize; getting the margins to fall in the correct places is irritating at best.
I'm probably going to play with the colors, too, because it hurts my eyes to go from the nice, warm colors of the lj to the cold, stark colors of this place.
Title is from Shakespeare's As You Like It, because Jaques is awesome.
I'm probably going to play with the colors, too, because it hurts my eyes to go from the nice, warm colors of the lj to the cold, stark colors of this place.
Title is from Shakespeare's As You Like It, because Jaques is awesome.
Attempted Ekphrastic Eulogy for Childhood
I found our Thursday afternoon;
They put it in a frame
Between these bars of slanting light
And someone else's fame.
Our waning sunlight was this pale;
Our skies, this aching teal.
In shadows from the swaying trees
Our view was this unreal.
See, here- the colors imitate
The blush of desperation.
How could an artist know the shade
Of our anticipation?
Were we waiting for the sun to set
Or for our lives to start?
We were growing up beneath those trees
And living through our hearts.
A picture does no justice to
The things we've left behind.
But Thursday, in its loveliness
Is here for us, enshrined.
-----------
Ekphrasis:
Technical term of ancient rhetoric: teachers of rhetoric defined it as a vivid description intended to bring the subject before the mind’s eye of the listener.
-Artnet.com
They put it in a frame
Between these bars of slanting light
And someone else's fame.
Our waning sunlight was this pale;
Our skies, this aching teal.
In shadows from the swaying trees
Our view was this unreal.
See, here- the colors imitate
The blush of desperation.
How could an artist know the shade
Of our anticipation?
Were we waiting for the sun to set
Or for our lives to start?
We were growing up beneath those trees
And living through our hearts.
A picture does no justice to
The things we've left behind.
But Thursday, in its loveliness
Is here for us, enshrined.
-----------
Ekphrasis:
Technical term of ancient rhetoric: teachers of rhetoric defined it as a vivid description intended to bring the subject before the mind’s eye of the listener.
-Artnet.com
Monday, September 27, 2004
On the importance of names
There are three names that I go by on the net, for the most part. Four, if you count my deviantart handle, but I don't actually use that for anything. I've used scads of other names over the years, though.
I discovered the internet back in eighth grade when a friend explained the concept of fanfic to me (you know who you are, darling). Another friend proposed the idea of a joint webpage; she went by The Great and Powerful Oz (GaPO for short), and I was the V-rah. (Yet another friend in highschool hijacked the idea of calling me V-rah and turned it into The Adventures of Vee-Rah the Schizoteer! I've still got a few pages of the comic lying around- they're hilarious.)
After being V-rah, I became Elfgirl, which originated in Girlscouts as so many things did back then. I also briefly called myself Tonberry Queen, after the adorable FF monster with a little knife and a lantern. When I got a Scribble (all the cool kids were doing it- online journals had become the fad that webcliques and webrings were) in tenth grade, I used Shateiel.
Shateiel is the name of the angel of silence- I was going through one of my Biblical phases. Shateiel is my username for this blog, and I still use it occasionally. I don't identify with it quite as much anymore, seeing as I'm no longer quite as much of an angsty teenager. (I like to think I'm not, at least.) But Shateiel is sort of a default identity for me, something to fall back on when I need it.
Falxumbra has stuck as well, though it didn't really mean anything when I came up with it. It was January, 2003, and I'd finally gotten my hands on a livejournal friend code. I needed a name, but I didn't want to be Shateiel anymore- this was during the beginning of the worst part of my parents' bad time, and I was working on a Latin project. Since the grim reaper has always been my mascot, I figured a name with "scythe" in it would be fun- and since I was being dramatic and because it sounds reasonably cool in Latin, I would add "shadow" to that. So, falx umbra. Scythe shadow. If I wanted to be absolutely correct, I'd have said falcis umbra- shadow of the scythe. But Falxumbra looked cooler, and it means that people occasionally just call me Falx, and that pleases me.
Shateiel may be a fall back identity, but Falxumbra has nearly become my actual identity online; it's my name, and no one else's. Go on, Google it. The only things that come up are references to me. My ego swells at the thought of it.
The other name I use is one for fandom things only- it's got a separate livejournal and I've got an ff.net account in that name. Falxumbra is who I am to my friends; Nes is my anonymous name, the one I hope to use to become an actual entity online with. I haven't yet, not really; I'm never comfortable with creating new identities for myself, and I start to feel too divided if I think about it too much. It's another Latin based name- I shan't spell it out, since the whole point of it is to remain anonymous. But if you translate it badly, you end up with "Do I not know?"
Yes, my alternate identity has an identity crisis. It felt appropriate at the time.
So, three names that ring true to me- the angel of silence, scythe shadow, and do I not know. Shateiel, Falxumbra, and Nes. They fit better in my head than my actual name does- just as I have little concept of my face and voice, my name escapes me sometimes as well. Names are important- without them, it's difficult to keep a grasp of your own identity. You don't really know who you are until you've found your name.
I'm still looking, I guess; changing the pronunciation of my given name has helped immensely- it's amazing how much more clearly I can see myself in my head when people say it right. When they say it wrong, I can feel myself go out of focus sometimes.
But, when all is said and done, you can always just say "Hey, you." Whatever works, right?
I discovered the internet back in eighth grade when a friend explained the concept of fanfic to me (you know who you are, darling). Another friend proposed the idea of a joint webpage; she went by The Great and Powerful Oz (GaPO for short), and I was the V-rah. (Yet another friend in highschool hijacked the idea of calling me V-rah and turned it into The Adventures of Vee-Rah the Schizoteer! I've still got a few pages of the comic lying around- they're hilarious.)
After being V-rah, I became Elfgirl, which originated in Girlscouts as so many things did back then. I also briefly called myself Tonberry Queen, after the adorable FF monster with a little knife and a lantern. When I got a Scribble (all the cool kids were doing it- online journals had become the fad that webcliques and webrings were) in tenth grade, I used Shateiel.
Shateiel is the name of the angel of silence- I was going through one of my Biblical phases. Shateiel is my username for this blog, and I still use it occasionally. I don't identify with it quite as much anymore, seeing as I'm no longer quite as much of an angsty teenager. (I like to think I'm not, at least.) But Shateiel is sort of a default identity for me, something to fall back on when I need it.
Falxumbra has stuck as well, though it didn't really mean anything when I came up with it. It was January, 2003, and I'd finally gotten my hands on a livejournal friend code. I needed a name, but I didn't want to be Shateiel anymore- this was during the beginning of the worst part of my parents' bad time, and I was working on a Latin project. Since the grim reaper has always been my mascot, I figured a name with "scythe" in it would be fun- and since I was being dramatic and because it sounds reasonably cool in Latin, I would add "shadow" to that. So, falx umbra. Scythe shadow. If I wanted to be absolutely correct, I'd have said falcis umbra- shadow of the scythe. But Falxumbra looked cooler, and it means that people occasionally just call me Falx, and that pleases me.
Shateiel may be a fall back identity, but Falxumbra has nearly become my actual identity online; it's my name, and no one else's. Go on, Google it. The only things that come up are references to me. My ego swells at the thought of it.
The other name I use is one for fandom things only- it's got a separate livejournal and I've got an ff.net account in that name. Falxumbra is who I am to my friends; Nes is my anonymous name, the one I hope to use to become an actual entity online with. I haven't yet, not really; I'm never comfortable with creating new identities for myself, and I start to feel too divided if I think about it too much. It's another Latin based name- I shan't spell it out, since the whole point of it is to remain anonymous. But if you translate it badly, you end up with "Do I not know?"
Yes, my alternate identity has an identity crisis. It felt appropriate at the time.
So, three names that ring true to me- the angel of silence, scythe shadow, and do I not know. Shateiel, Falxumbra, and Nes. They fit better in my head than my actual name does- just as I have little concept of my face and voice, my name escapes me sometimes as well. Names are important- without them, it's difficult to keep a grasp of your own identity. You don't really know who you are until you've found your name.
I'm still looking, I guess; changing the pronunciation of my given name has helped immensely- it's amazing how much more clearly I can see myself in my head when people say it right. When they say it wrong, I can feel myself go out of focus sometimes.
But, when all is said and done, you can always just say "Hey, you." Whatever works, right?
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Llamas!
In other news, I would rather be able to write good fanfiction than bad original fiction. Unfortunately, I can't manage the former, and am beyond expert at the latter.
If I moved this blog to livejournal, loyal readers (both of you), would you complain or rejoice? I'm curious. Speak to me. Validate my existence.
And now for something completely different.
-----------------------------------
Dee was "working," which meant that he hung about in the living room with a bathrobe over his t-shirt and jeans, playing video games on his laptop. Carly was "on vacation," which meant that she hung about in the adjoining kitchen, making beef curry for dinner. They didn't always have curry; sometimes it would be stew, or takeout, or crepes and ice cream. After a year of being forced to eat bad Chinese food, pizza, and cafeteria slop, it was a relief to be able to cook food with flavor. Since Dee encouraged her culinary endeavors, it was her job to make sure he actually ate when she came home for breaks. Being able to call the place home was worth all the enforced domesticity.
"Oi, Carlsburger!" Dee's voice summoned her to the door between the two rooms.
"Yes, Mister Tallyman?" They traded stupid nicknames like baseball cards. He got bonus points every time he managed to include something food related while she was cooking, and she got gold stars for making obscure references to his first name.
"I'm in an a capella mood. Are you in an a capella mood?" He was typing busily away at his laptop, engrossed in the scans from some new holy text of Jubal's.
"Sure, Didi, I'm in an a capella mood." That earned her a Look, which made her grin.
"Load up the Beast, then. When's dinner going to be ready?"
"Half an hour or so." The Beast was Dee's stereo system, so named because it had acquired a sort of sentience over the years, and because it was frickin' huge and took up the better part of a wall. Carly rifled through Dee's considerable CD collection, picking out her favorites and a few of his. The Beast vibrated appreciatively as she fed the CDs into the appropriate slot; it had developed a liking for purely vocal music over the years. Tuvan throat singers were its favorite. She set the the feed to random and went back to the kitchen to poke at the stove.
Being home for break was nice, Carly decided as she stirred. School was fun, but it wasn't home, and there weren't nearly as many creepy rodent skeletons in the closets. It would've been nicer with her brothers around of course, but Tristan was busy tracking down a rogue Shade in Canada, and Jim still hadn't forgiven her for the whole pregnancy thing.
She didn't really blame him; she hadn't forgiven herself yet, either.
The doorbell rang, startling her out of her sudden introspection. Who the hell uses the doorbell? Everyone who'd visit already has a key or doesn't need one...
"Get that, Carls? I'm kind of busy here."
She turned the burner down and licked the spoon; it needed a little more salt. "Sure thing, Daddio," she called as she headed towards the door, followed by the sounds of a capella from the Beast. If there was anything Dee hated more than having his name made fun of, it was being called "Dad" in any way, shape, or form. She could practically hear him fuming from the other side of the house.
Being the adopted daughter of the brother-in-law of the CEO of one of the biggest record labels in the business was not only fun to try to explain to first dates, but it also came with some very sweet perks. Carly and her brothers had gotten backstage passes to Aerosmith's final concert, and all sorts of free music promotions. But it mostly meant that meeting musicians- even very famous ones- wasn't especially out of the ordinary. So it only came as a slight shock when Carly opened the door to find Lyra Ekphrasis standing on the doorstep.
She was much shorter in real life than she was on TV. But then, most people were. And she didn't normally look so much like a deer caught in someone's headlights on TV. Curiouser and curiouser.
"Hi." Her voice was soft, almost shy. "Ah...I don't suppose Dee is here? This probably isn't even his address anymore, but maybe you'd know where I could find him..."
Carly blinked. This didn't feel like a good situation to embarass the hell out of Dee, but she rarely listened to that little voice in the back of her head that gave her those feelings. "No, he's here. Hang on." She leaned back against the doorframe and shouted down the hall. "Hoy! Dad! Company! Respectable company, so put some pants on!" She turned back to the pop idol and grinned a lazy grin. The look on her face was priceless.
The look on Dee's face as he came down the hall was closer to homicidal, until he saw Lyra. Carly suddenly wished she'd listened to that little voice.
"And exit stage left," she muttered, skipping up the stairs and out of the way.
"Hey." Lyra was tiny compared to him; she barely came halfway up his chest.
"Hey. It's...been a while."
"Yeah. You look good."
"So do you." His hand reached out to brush the trailing ends of her hair, awkwardly. "Red looks good on you."
"Thanks. I...how are you doing? I didn't expect to find you here- it's been what, ten, fifteen years?"
"Seventeen years, four months, seven days, seventeen hours, and," he checked his watch. "Twenty-two minutes. But I haven't really been keeping track. I'm fine. Better, really."
She nodded. "That's good. Really good. You've got kids now, then? Are you married?"
The conversation was so stilted it hurt. "Three kids, mostly grown up. Not married. Not seeing anyone. And they're not mine- it's a long story, but they followed me home and I decided to keep them. I should've strangled them in their sleep when I had the chance-they're getting too old for slave labor."
"You could still sell them. How well are they trained? I could use a new sound tech- and maybe a piano player." Lyra kept her eyes firmly locked on her shoes as she said this. "My last one just quit, and none of the replacements have really clicked with the band, or with me..."
Dee ran a hand through his hair and rubbed at his eyes. "Lyra." His voice was broken.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here and I know this isn't fair to you- it was never fair to you, and I know I can't just show up on your doorstep because life isn't some kind of fucked up soap opera and it just doesn't work like that! I know that, I do, I just- I had to see you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I have no right." Her words came out in a rush and she stopped for breath before continuing, perfectly composed. "I'm sorry. You should hate me, and I should go."
Dee closed his eyes and swallowed against a lump in his throat. "I don't hate you."
"You should. God- you should be screaming at me, you have every right-"
"I don't hate you." He opened his eyes and sighed softly. This was a ridiculous conversation to be having when he loomed a foot an a half above her, so he dropped to his knees. They were nearly level, then. "I never did. Don't intend to start now."
"Dee-" She was crying now, just a little.
"Quiet. Just be quiet. It's been too goddamn long for either of us to make excuses. Too fucking long. I love you." His hands trembled slightly as he brushed away her tears and pulled her closer for a kiss.
She leaned against him, holding him close. "Yes." She didn't clarify any further; it was either an acknowledgement, an agreement, a prayer, and a commiseration, and it needed no other explanation.
In the other room, the CD changer clicked softly and a new song began.
Everything I need/ is right here in my hands/ right here in my hands/ right here in my hands/ Everything I need...
-----------------
GRATUITOUS SAP AND BEEF CURRY, YUM. And yes, Dee has a copy of the V8s. He used to date someone from MHC, and he stole all her CDs before they broke up. No, there is NO TIMELINE. NONE.
Augh. I like Carly's POV, but it fucks with the end. I could have her eavesdrop, but that's out of character. Don't ask about the pregnancy thing, don't ask what college she's going to, don't ask what year it is. Don't ask about that scene in the bar where Dei meets Lyra or about the scene where she leaves him.
Don't ask about the bathrobe.
The Tallyman thing comes from that song, you know, the Day-o one. "Come mister tally man, tally me banana." Normally members of the family call him Dei, which they pronounce "Dey," not to be confused with "Day," though they sound similar. The first pronunciation has the vowel formed more in the back of the mouth, with the tongue higher up. Sometimes they'll slip and pronounce it "Day," which isn't actually incorrect- since his first name is Deodat (blame the Salem Witch Trials), the first two syllables sound just like "Day-o." Tyler sometimes calls him that if he's being pissy (well, if either of them are being pissy). I'd write it "Deo" but it'd be pronounced "Day-o." Carly doesn't actually know Dei's first name, she just knows that Tyler apparently calls him Deo occasionally, and it pisses him off.
(Dei, for those who don't remember, is from his initials- D.E.I. Karolus. Don't ask about the E.)
The kids and Lyra call him Dee, because he sort of changed his name (but not really) to Dee Wexford after Boffo. (Wexford was his mother's maiden name; I have yet to decide if she's still alive. On the one hand, it's really convenient if she died when everyone else did, but on the other, her being alive provides an opportunity for even more Dei angst. She was a bitch and a half.)
I told you it was something completely different, didn't I?
If I moved this blog to livejournal, loyal readers (both of you), would you complain or rejoice? I'm curious. Speak to me. Validate my existence.
And now for something completely different.
-----------------------------------
Dee was "working," which meant that he hung about in the living room with a bathrobe over his t-shirt and jeans, playing video games on his laptop. Carly was "on vacation," which meant that she hung about in the adjoining kitchen, making beef curry for dinner. They didn't always have curry; sometimes it would be stew, or takeout, or crepes and ice cream. After a year of being forced to eat bad Chinese food, pizza, and cafeteria slop, it was a relief to be able to cook food with flavor. Since Dee encouraged her culinary endeavors, it was her job to make sure he actually ate when she came home for breaks. Being able to call the place home was worth all the enforced domesticity.
"Oi, Carlsburger!" Dee's voice summoned her to the door between the two rooms.
"Yes, Mister Tallyman?" They traded stupid nicknames like baseball cards. He got bonus points every time he managed to include something food related while she was cooking, and she got gold stars for making obscure references to his first name.
"I'm in an a capella mood. Are you in an a capella mood?" He was typing busily away at his laptop, engrossed in the scans from some new holy text of Jubal's.
"Sure, Didi, I'm in an a capella mood." That earned her a Look, which made her grin.
"Load up the Beast, then. When's dinner going to be ready?"
"Half an hour or so." The Beast was Dee's stereo system, so named because it had acquired a sort of sentience over the years, and because it was frickin' huge and took up the better part of a wall. Carly rifled through Dee's considerable CD collection, picking out her favorites and a few of his. The Beast vibrated appreciatively as she fed the CDs into the appropriate slot; it had developed a liking for purely vocal music over the years. Tuvan throat singers were its favorite. She set the the feed to random and went back to the kitchen to poke at the stove.
Being home for break was nice, Carly decided as she stirred. School was fun, but it wasn't home, and there weren't nearly as many creepy rodent skeletons in the closets. It would've been nicer with her brothers around of course, but Tristan was busy tracking down a rogue Shade in Canada, and Jim still hadn't forgiven her for the whole pregnancy thing.
She didn't really blame him; she hadn't forgiven herself yet, either.
The doorbell rang, startling her out of her sudden introspection. Who the hell uses the doorbell? Everyone who'd visit already has a key or doesn't need one...
"Get that, Carls? I'm kind of busy here."
She turned the burner down and licked the spoon; it needed a little more salt. "Sure thing, Daddio," she called as she headed towards the door, followed by the sounds of a capella from the Beast. If there was anything Dee hated more than having his name made fun of, it was being called "Dad" in any way, shape, or form. She could practically hear him fuming from the other side of the house.
Being the adopted daughter of the brother-in-law of the CEO of one of the biggest record labels in the business was not only fun to try to explain to first dates, but it also came with some very sweet perks. Carly and her brothers had gotten backstage passes to Aerosmith's final concert, and all sorts of free music promotions. But it mostly meant that meeting musicians- even very famous ones- wasn't especially out of the ordinary. So it only came as a slight shock when Carly opened the door to find Lyra Ekphrasis standing on the doorstep.
She was much shorter in real life than she was on TV. But then, most people were. And she didn't normally look so much like a deer caught in someone's headlights on TV. Curiouser and curiouser.
"Hi." Her voice was soft, almost shy. "Ah...I don't suppose Dee is here? This probably isn't even his address anymore, but maybe you'd know where I could find him..."
Carly blinked. This didn't feel like a good situation to embarass the hell out of Dee, but she rarely listened to that little voice in the back of her head that gave her those feelings. "No, he's here. Hang on." She leaned back against the doorframe and shouted down the hall. "Hoy! Dad! Company! Respectable company, so put some pants on!" She turned back to the pop idol and grinned a lazy grin. The look on her face was priceless.
The look on Dee's face as he came down the hall was closer to homicidal, until he saw Lyra. Carly suddenly wished she'd listened to that little voice.
"And exit stage left," she muttered, skipping up the stairs and out of the way.
"Hey." Lyra was tiny compared to him; she barely came halfway up his chest.
"Hey. It's...been a while."
"Yeah. You look good."
"So do you." His hand reached out to brush the trailing ends of her hair, awkwardly. "Red looks good on you."
"Thanks. I...how are you doing? I didn't expect to find you here- it's been what, ten, fifteen years?"
"Seventeen years, four months, seven days, seventeen hours, and," he checked his watch. "Twenty-two minutes. But I haven't really been keeping track. I'm fine. Better, really."
She nodded. "That's good. Really good. You've got kids now, then? Are you married?"
The conversation was so stilted it hurt. "Three kids, mostly grown up. Not married. Not seeing anyone. And they're not mine- it's a long story, but they followed me home and I decided to keep them. I should've strangled them in their sleep when I had the chance-they're getting too old for slave labor."
"You could still sell them. How well are they trained? I could use a new sound tech- and maybe a piano player." Lyra kept her eyes firmly locked on her shoes as she said this. "My last one just quit, and none of the replacements have really clicked with the band, or with me..."
Dee ran a hand through his hair and rubbed at his eyes. "Lyra." His voice was broken.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here and I know this isn't fair to you- it was never fair to you, and I know I can't just show up on your doorstep because life isn't some kind of fucked up soap opera and it just doesn't work like that! I know that, I do, I just- I had to see you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I have no right." Her words came out in a rush and she stopped for breath before continuing, perfectly composed. "I'm sorry. You should hate me, and I should go."
Dee closed his eyes and swallowed against a lump in his throat. "I don't hate you."
"You should. God- you should be screaming at me, you have every right-"
"I don't hate you." He opened his eyes and sighed softly. This was a ridiculous conversation to be having when he loomed a foot an a half above her, so he dropped to his knees. They were nearly level, then. "I never did. Don't intend to start now."
"Dee-" She was crying now, just a little.
"Quiet. Just be quiet. It's been too goddamn long for either of us to make excuses. Too fucking long. I love you." His hands trembled slightly as he brushed away her tears and pulled her closer for a kiss.
She leaned against him, holding him close. "Yes." She didn't clarify any further; it was either an acknowledgement, an agreement, a prayer, and a commiseration, and it needed no other explanation.
In the other room, the CD changer clicked softly and a new song began.
Everything I need/ is right here in my hands/ right here in my hands/ right here in my hands/ Everything I need...
-----------------
GRATUITOUS SAP AND BEEF CURRY, YUM. And yes, Dee has a copy of the V8s. He used to date someone from MHC, and he stole all her CDs before they broke up. No, there is NO TIMELINE. NONE.
Augh. I like Carly's POV, but it fucks with the end. I could have her eavesdrop, but that's out of character. Don't ask about the pregnancy thing, don't ask what college she's going to, don't ask what year it is. Don't ask about that scene in the bar where Dei meets Lyra or about the scene where she leaves him.
Don't ask about the bathrobe.
The Tallyman thing comes from that song, you know, the Day-o one. "Come mister tally man, tally me banana." Normally members of the family call him Dei, which they pronounce "Dey," not to be confused with "Day," though they sound similar. The first pronunciation has the vowel formed more in the back of the mouth, with the tongue higher up. Sometimes they'll slip and pronounce it "Day," which isn't actually incorrect- since his first name is Deodat (blame the Salem Witch Trials), the first two syllables sound just like "Day-o." Tyler sometimes calls him that if he's being pissy (well, if either of them are being pissy). I'd write it "Deo" but it'd be pronounced "Day-o." Carly doesn't actually know Dei's first name, she just knows that Tyler apparently calls him Deo occasionally, and it pisses him off.
(Dei, for those who don't remember, is from his initials- D.E.I. Karolus. Don't ask about the E.)
The kids and Lyra call him Dee, because he sort of changed his name (but not really) to Dee Wexford after Boffo. (Wexford was his mother's maiden name; I have yet to decide if she's still alive. On the one hand, it's really convenient if she died when everyone else did, but on the other, her being alive provides an opportunity for even more Dei angst. She was a bitch and a half.)
I told you it was something completely different, didn't I?
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Unravel Me
Dear god, don't ask. Big-ish spoilery things from Brenon and Theron's story, sort of. It's an important scene, but it'll get redone if I continue this. I read a line in a bad smut fic and it made me write this, and now my characters are never going to forgive me.
Theron is a bastard and a half.
-------------------------------
The situation wasn't ideal- far from it, in fact- but Brenon was sure he'd been in worse scrapes in the past. He just couldn't think of anything worse than being Blacklisted, tortured, and thrown naked into a small room with no windows and a door made of something slippery and unweavable at the moment.
Mih was unconscious in the corner, and Theron was sketching patterns on the wall with a piece of chalk he'd made out of his little finger. He'd bound off the bleeding stump with some of Mih's hair; she hadn't noticed him tearing it out of her scalp. He hadn't said a word since they'd been put in containment, leading Bren to assume that his friend had simply gone mad. He'd bitten off his finger to make the chalk.
At least they weren't dead yet.
He managed to drag himself across the cell to check on Mih again; the left side of her face was starting to swell and turn the color of rotten apples. Bren could feel the tiny hairline fractures in her skull, but didn't have the energy to do anything about them- with his hands broken, all he could really do was hold them still and try not to scream. It had taken most of his strength to weave the bones mostly straight. Mih was still breathing, but she didn't look like she was going to wake up soon- if ever.
Mih would be the lucky one, of course. She'd been unconscious for most of the day. Bren's mind shyed away from thinking about the last ten hours- his hands were the least of his pains.
"I need your help." Theron's voice was a startlingly harsh rasp, not at all unlike the sound of his chalk on the wall. "Come over here."
Brenon recognized a few of the patterns Theron had drawn; a few of them were his own creations, things for working with stone and aether. He'd planned on polishing them and sending them to the Registrar to get his magicrafter's license. A stab of pain in his chest made him close his eyes; none of that was ever going to happen, now.
"What are you trying to do?" His tongue was thick in his mouth, and his words felt garbled and slow. He kept his eyes closed, partly to keep from being overwhelmed by vertigo and partly to shut out the sight of what might have been.
"You don't want to know. Give me your hands."
Bren opened his eyes and wished he hadn't; Theron had gone mad, it was completely obvious now that he could see the blank desperation in the other man's eyes. His hands throbbed in time with his suddenly racing heartbeat.
Theron made an impatient noise and grabbed Brenon's wrists, nearly knocking them both off balance. Brenon didn't bother with not screaming as Theron undid all of his careful weaving. His scream cut off sharply as Theron backhanded him in the face.
"Quiet. This'll hurt a lot worse if you struggle." Theron hit him again. "And keep your eyes open. You need to concentrate on the patterns- I remember fuck all about weaving aether."
Brenon stared duly at Theron's face and finally offered up his hands. Theron took hold of his wrists again, gently this time, and began pulling. Bren nearly screamed again; it felt as though Theron were drawing his soul out through his hands.
"Shut up and weave me earth and aether; the patterns are right there so you don't have to hurt yourself trying to think about them." Theron's voice was distant but scornful.
And to think, I used to enjoy being your friend... He stared at the patterns on the wall in blank incomprehension. Everything hurt, and whatever Theron was doing with his hands wasn't helping. It would take a proper magicrafter to do what he was asking, and Brenon just wasn't that good- he wasn't some sort of an Omniweaver, the way Theron was apparently an Omnismith. (And that was a joke, wasn't it? No one with any talent stayed a weaver.) He couldn't weave those patterns without the help of half a dozen whistlers, if then- and that would only be if he were whole, and not broken in more ways than he cared to think about.
Everything hurt, and the disgusted look Theron was giving him only made it worse.
"What are you waiting for?" Theron hissed. He was starting to glow faintly around the edges, and no crafter Bren had heard of had ever been able to do that. "I told you-"
"I can't." The words were a barely audible sob. The pulling sensation increased, and his vision fuzzed out around the edges.
"You will. I need you for this, Bren. I can't do this without you and I won't let you stop me."
"Let me go..." He couldn't pull out of Theron's grasp, not while Theron was siphoning away his soul. "Please, Ther. You're unravelling me." There was blood in his mouth, in his eyes.
There was blood all over Theron's hands, almost the same color as that damned bird's eyes. Of course- it was so simple. Funny that he wouldn't notice, wouldn't understand, until he was dying at the hands of his best friend. The Voyance never Blacklisted someone without a reason, right? And now Theron was going to kill them all.
"I'm sorry Brenon." His friend's breath was warm in his ear. "I'm sorry, but I need you. It's for the best- just think of how much better off you'll be. You can put all of this behind you, and move on to a better place. Think of the aether, and how beautiful it is, how free you'll be. And you'll see Mih there, and she'll be whole, just think of it, how wonderful it is. Concentrate..."
His mind unravelled beneath the lulling sound of Theron's voice, and everything went white.
Theron is a bastard and a half.
-------------------------------
The situation wasn't ideal- far from it, in fact- but Brenon was sure he'd been in worse scrapes in the past. He just couldn't think of anything worse than being Blacklisted, tortured, and thrown naked into a small room with no windows and a door made of something slippery and unweavable at the moment.
Mih was unconscious in the corner, and Theron was sketching patterns on the wall with a piece of chalk he'd made out of his little finger. He'd bound off the bleeding stump with some of Mih's hair; she hadn't noticed him tearing it out of her scalp. He hadn't said a word since they'd been put in containment, leading Bren to assume that his friend had simply gone mad. He'd bitten off his finger to make the chalk.
At least they weren't dead yet.
He managed to drag himself across the cell to check on Mih again; the left side of her face was starting to swell and turn the color of rotten apples. Bren could feel the tiny hairline fractures in her skull, but didn't have the energy to do anything about them- with his hands broken, all he could really do was hold them still and try not to scream. It had taken most of his strength to weave the bones mostly straight. Mih was still breathing, but she didn't look like she was going to wake up soon- if ever.
Mih would be the lucky one, of course. She'd been unconscious for most of the day. Bren's mind shyed away from thinking about the last ten hours- his hands were the least of his pains.
"I need your help." Theron's voice was a startlingly harsh rasp, not at all unlike the sound of his chalk on the wall. "Come over here."
Brenon recognized a few of the patterns Theron had drawn; a few of them were his own creations, things for working with stone and aether. He'd planned on polishing them and sending them to the Registrar to get his magicrafter's license. A stab of pain in his chest made him close his eyes; none of that was ever going to happen, now.
"What are you trying to do?" His tongue was thick in his mouth, and his words felt garbled and slow. He kept his eyes closed, partly to keep from being overwhelmed by vertigo and partly to shut out the sight of what might have been.
"You don't want to know. Give me your hands."
Bren opened his eyes and wished he hadn't; Theron had gone mad, it was completely obvious now that he could see the blank desperation in the other man's eyes. His hands throbbed in time with his suddenly racing heartbeat.
Theron made an impatient noise and grabbed Brenon's wrists, nearly knocking them both off balance. Brenon didn't bother with not screaming as Theron undid all of his careful weaving. His scream cut off sharply as Theron backhanded him in the face.
"Quiet. This'll hurt a lot worse if you struggle." Theron hit him again. "And keep your eyes open. You need to concentrate on the patterns- I remember fuck all about weaving aether."
Brenon stared duly at Theron's face and finally offered up his hands. Theron took hold of his wrists again, gently this time, and began pulling. Bren nearly screamed again; it felt as though Theron were drawing his soul out through his hands.
"Shut up and weave me earth and aether; the patterns are right there so you don't have to hurt yourself trying to think about them." Theron's voice was distant but scornful.
And to think, I used to enjoy being your friend... He stared at the patterns on the wall in blank incomprehension. Everything hurt, and whatever Theron was doing with his hands wasn't helping. It would take a proper magicrafter to do what he was asking, and Brenon just wasn't that good- he wasn't some sort of an Omniweaver, the way Theron was apparently an Omnismith. (And that was a joke, wasn't it? No one with any talent stayed a weaver.) He couldn't weave those patterns without the help of half a dozen whistlers, if then- and that would only be if he were whole, and not broken in more ways than he cared to think about.
Everything hurt, and the disgusted look Theron was giving him only made it worse.
"What are you waiting for?" Theron hissed. He was starting to glow faintly around the edges, and no crafter Bren had heard of had ever been able to do that. "I told you-"
"I can't." The words were a barely audible sob. The pulling sensation increased, and his vision fuzzed out around the edges.
"You will. I need you for this, Bren. I can't do this without you and I won't let you stop me."
"Let me go..." He couldn't pull out of Theron's grasp, not while Theron was siphoning away his soul. "Please, Ther. You're unravelling me." There was blood in his mouth, in his eyes.
There was blood all over Theron's hands, almost the same color as that damned bird's eyes. Of course- it was so simple. Funny that he wouldn't notice, wouldn't understand, until he was dying at the hands of his best friend. The Voyance never Blacklisted someone without a reason, right? And now Theron was going to kill them all.
"I'm sorry Brenon." His friend's breath was warm in his ear. "I'm sorry, but I need you. It's for the best- just think of how much better off you'll be. You can put all of this behind you, and move on to a better place. Think of the aether, and how beautiful it is, how free you'll be. And you'll see Mih there, and she'll be whole, just think of it, how wonderful it is. Concentrate..."
His mind unravelled beneath the lulling sound of Theron's voice, and everything went white.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Necrotizing Fasciitis is Adorable!
Flesh eating bacteria!
When I was in seventh grade, I did a report on deadly bacterial diseases- e. coli, meningitis, and the flesh eating bacteria, to be precise. While I was writing the paper, there was a breakout of flesh eating bacteria in Texas, which I thought was a neat (if slightly traumatic) coincidence. (Texas is apparently a breeding ground for it, as the bacteria responsible is released in the waste products of the oysters on the Gulf coast.)
It's caused by the same bacteria that cause strep throat, scarlet fever, and a form of toxic shock syndrome, and is related (if not the same) as the ones that cause meningitis. So how does a sore throat become a gaping hole in your flesh? The flesh eating bacterium (the condition is actually called necrotizing fasciitis) is a run of the mill strep bacterium with a virus that causes it to mutate into something really nasty- and that's why it makes your body decompose. Since it's bacteria, it can be treated quickly and effectively with antibiotics, just like strep throat- but death rates are still quite high. (Yes, I spent a fair amount of time being a germophobe after writing that paper.)
It's what killed Jim Henson, actually, and that's kind of ironic, because the whole point of this post was to point out that link up there. When I was researching necrotizing fasciitis in seventh grade, I came across a parody list of "failed Beanie Babies"- and the flesh eating bacterium was on the list. Well, boo-ya, my friend, because now there are microbe plushies, and the necrotizing fasciitis one is just the cutest thing ever.
When I was in seventh grade, I did a report on deadly bacterial diseases- e. coli, meningitis, and the flesh eating bacteria, to be precise. While I was writing the paper, there was a breakout of flesh eating bacteria in Texas, which I thought was a neat (if slightly traumatic) coincidence. (Texas is apparently a breeding ground for it, as the bacteria responsible is released in the waste products of the oysters on the Gulf coast.)
It's caused by the same bacteria that cause strep throat, scarlet fever, and a form of toxic shock syndrome, and is related (if not the same) as the ones that cause meningitis. So how does a sore throat become a gaping hole in your flesh? The flesh eating bacterium (the condition is actually called necrotizing fasciitis) is a run of the mill strep bacterium with a virus that causes it to mutate into something really nasty- and that's why it makes your body decompose. Since it's bacteria, it can be treated quickly and effectively with antibiotics, just like strep throat- but death rates are still quite high. (Yes, I spent a fair amount of time being a germophobe after writing that paper.)
It's what killed Jim Henson, actually, and that's kind of ironic, because the whole point of this post was to point out that link up there. When I was researching necrotizing fasciitis in seventh grade, I came across a parody list of "failed Beanie Babies"- and the flesh eating bacterium was on the list. Well, boo-ya, my friend, because now there are microbe plushies, and the necrotizing fasciitis one is just the cutest thing ever.
Monday, September 20, 2004
Imitative
I came upon a nightengale
by chance- the other eve-
When walking in the twilight
and soft Tranquility-
I stopped to keep her company
For we both were -quite alone.
Her song- though sweet- was tenuous,
Her melody- forlorn
At length she sought for other climes
And left me - to reflect on
The noises of the body
Made when the heart- is breaking
by chance- the other eve-
When walking in the twilight
and soft Tranquility-
I stopped to keep her company
For we both were -quite alone.
Her song- though sweet- was tenuous,
Her melody- forlorn
At length she sought for other climes
And left me - to reflect on
The noises of the body
Made when the heart- is breaking
Other fandom things that I just. Don't. Get.
Okay, so I've talked about how much I hate Harry Potter pairings, even if it was two and a half years ago. Now I'm going to be even more disturbing and bring up another thing in fandom that I really just don't understand- this is even worse than Draco/Hermione.
Hellsing yaoi. Particularly Alucard/Anderson. Okay, let's think about this for just a moment: On the one hand we have Father Anderson, an Irish Catholic super-priest who can't be killed, dedicated to his church and determined to bring down not only all of the blaspheming undead, but also the blaspheming Protestants. On the other hand we have Alucard, who is not only a crazy bad-ass super-vampire, but is in the service of the Church of England.
Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. Fangirls make me sad.
Hellsing yaoi. Particularly Alucard/Anderson. Okay, let's think about this for just a moment: On the one hand we have Father Anderson, an Irish Catholic super-priest who can't be killed, dedicated to his church and determined to bring down not only all of the blaspheming undead, but also the blaspheming Protestants. On the other hand we have Alucard, who is not only a crazy bad-ass super-vampire, but is in the service of the Church of England.
Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. Fangirls make me sad.
Morning Star, take 1
It wasn't so much that the new kid was good, Bren reflected, it was more that he was really good, and that he just didn't seem to care.
Living in the ass-crack of nowhere made strangers interesting, and the rumors about the diminutive dark-haired boy and his family were already flying, for all that they'd only just moved in. said his father had been a Blacklisted for crafting Mistletoe, and that his mother was a whore for the dead; Bren personally thought it couldn't be anything nearly as exciting as that. The only certain thing was that they were city-bred, and with their dark looks in a town of fair-featured simple crafters, they stuck out like the dead at a wedding.
The new boy- Ther, an odd name even for a city brat- had been enrolled in Bren's crafter class even though he was a year younger than the youngest of them. He was already leaps and bounds ahead of the best of them though, breezing through weaving techniques and ceramics as though he were spinning lanyards. He just sat through lessons with a blank look on his face, seemingly attentive- but Bren could see his mind drifting as clearly as the patterns on a loom.
His attitude was already grating on the older students; by the end of the week, he'd be sporting a black eye in addition to his blank expression. Bren almost felt sorry for him- but if the kid couldn't see the trouble he was causing, it was his own fault. Watching him sketch a flawless flame pattern on his sandtable made Bren almost rethink his personal aversion to violence; it wasn't right for someone so young to be so talented.
He was a curiosity, like the trinkets Whimsy brought back from the north that whistled when you left them in the sun. The idea of the quiet, somber boy decked out like Whimsy's trinkets brought a brief, manic grin to Bren's face. He began to sketch a few patterns of his own, liking the way they clicked in his head.
New people were always interesting- or, at the very least, entertaining.
------------------------
-on: crafter
-il: magi
-vai: teacher
-wai: master (highly respected, very rare- usually only used for the Voyance)
-keth/reth: dead (All other suffixes are dropped when one becomes dead)
-trae: trader/merchant, usually attached to last name (Whimsy Rochestrae)
The "th" sound in Theron's name is hard, like in smith, which is probably intentional on his part. His original name is Ther, which is uncommon because it ends in an 'r', which, like ending a name in 'k', is considered bad luck in backwater communities like Bren's.
Bren was an evil child- he's about thirteen here, and Theron's twelve. And alternate occupations for Weavers include fashion designers, so yes, you could say he's a little bit flaming. Only a little, though. :)
Living in the ass-crack of nowhere made strangers interesting, and the rumors about the diminutive dark-haired boy and his family were already flying, for all that they'd only just moved in. said his father had been a Blacklisted for crafting Mistletoe, and that his mother was a whore for the dead; Bren personally thought it couldn't be anything nearly as exciting as that. The only certain thing was that they were city-bred, and with their dark looks in a town of fair-featured simple crafters, they stuck out like the dead at a wedding.
The new boy- Ther, an odd name even for a city brat- had been enrolled in Bren's crafter class even though he was a year younger than the youngest of them. He was already leaps and bounds ahead of the best of them though, breezing through weaving techniques and ceramics as though he were spinning lanyards. He just sat through lessons with a blank look on his face, seemingly attentive- but Bren could see his mind drifting as clearly as the patterns on a loom.
His attitude was already grating on the older students; by the end of the week, he'd be sporting a black eye in addition to his blank expression. Bren almost felt sorry for him- but if the kid couldn't see the trouble he was causing, it was his own fault. Watching him sketch a flawless flame pattern on his sandtable made Bren almost rethink his personal aversion to violence; it wasn't right for someone so young to be so talented.
He was a curiosity, like the trinkets Whimsy brought back from the north that whistled when you left them in the sun. The idea of the quiet, somber boy decked out like Whimsy's trinkets brought a brief, manic grin to Bren's face. He began to sketch a few patterns of his own, liking the way they clicked in his head.
New people were always interesting- or, at the very least, entertaining.
------------------------
-on: crafter
-il: magi
-vai: teacher
-wai: master (highly respected, very rare- usually only used for the Voyance)
-keth/reth: dead (All other suffixes are dropped when one becomes dead)
-trae: trader/merchant, usually attached to last name (Whimsy Rochestrae)
The "th" sound in Theron's name is hard, like in smith, which is probably intentional on his part. His original name is Ther, which is uncommon because it ends in an 'r', which, like ending a name in 'k', is considered bad luck in backwater communities like Bren's.
Bren was an evil child- he's about thirteen here, and Theron's twelve. And alternate occupations for Weavers include fashion designers, so yes, you could say he's a little bit flaming. Only a little, though. :)
Saturday, September 18, 2004
Thursday, September 16, 2004
*cry*
Why, Squenix, why?
Bad enough that they've made Advent Children (which I have yet to hear a NA release date for, the bastards), but now they're making a Vincent game. A Vincent game! And it's going to be another sequel. God only knows how badly it's going to screw with the game's plot and timeline (the Turk-based cellphone prequel makes me cry with all its inaccuracies). And Vincent! How dare they! They spent the last seven years ignoring him and now suddenly they're giving him his own fucking game! Gah!
...ten bucks says he's actually a vampire.
Bad enough that they've made Advent Children (which I have yet to hear a NA release date for, the bastards), but now they're making a Vincent game. A Vincent game! And it's going to be another sequel. God only knows how badly it's going to screw with the game's plot and timeline (the Turk-based cellphone prequel makes me cry with all its inaccuracies). And Vincent! How dare they! They spent the last seven years ignoring him and now suddenly they're giving him his own fucking game! Gah!
...ten bucks says he's actually a vampire.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Stella Matin and Other Things
And now I shall attempt to explain things, in my own particular, convoluted...idiom.
The Voyance in Theron and Brenon's time may or may not be a hereditary title; no one really knows. But the Voyance is in charge of regulating crafters and magicrafters, 'mancers, renegades, and the dead. I haven't figured out geography yet, but the Voyance's city is basically the center of everything magickal, cultural, otherworldly, and artistic. Magic and art are very similar skills, and most people have some amount of magickal or artistic talent, so the Voyance is also in charge of censorship and common decency laws. He weilds incredible influence over the artists but can influence the general, untalented population only indirectly through the magick and art laws he passes.
The Voyance can blacklist any artist or crafter for violation of these laws; a Black Mark doesn't just make it hard to get a job, however. Depending on the degree of the crime you commit, the Mark will do anything from crippling your hands to atrophying your vocal chords- anything short of death, really. Theron's Black Mark acts like a wasting sickness; it won't kill him directly, but he'll eventually be too weak to eat or otherwise support himself, and he'll probably die of exposure.
Being caught helping someone who has been blacklisted is nearly grounds for being blacklisted yourself; the Voyance rules with an iron fist, and doesn't like having is rulings subverted. Beyond being a tyrannical bastard, he doesn't have much of a personality at this point. Or a name. Or really, any discernable characteristics at all, beyond SUPREME POWAH.
*cough* Anyway. In Stella Matin's time, the dead have taken over the city and possibly the world; the living are second class citizens, and they're very much so in the minority. Something in the water is keeping them from reproducing, I think. Don't really know. Most people are revenants, which means that they have corporeal forms and can be injured. Ghosts like Walker are rarer, which is why he's so fucking badass.
The dead aren't crafters of any sort- they lose that ability when they wake, but by Stella Matin's time, crafting is a lost art anyway. The dead are mostly just like the living- they can die again and they need to eat and sleep. There are dead prostitutes and dead drug dealers- but there is no art or culture, so they are forced to turn to less artistic vices for entertainment. The whole world has become an underworld, of sorts, and the Voyance rules over it. He's the only one who can put a soul to complete rest; when one of the dead is killed in a conventional way, it sort of reincarnates itself if it can find a warm one nearby before it dissipates. There are always plenty of living slaves in the residential areas of the city, so that's never a problem. But the Voyance can destroy a soul before it can find a new body.
Walker can do this, too, but he's a special case.
The dead aren't nearly as prevalent in Brenon and Theron's time, and the Voyance himself is actually alive then. The events that lead to the dead taking over are probably Theron's fault, but there's a huge amount of time between the two stories. It's an expanded universe, much like the Rothcar timeline is...but it's nowhere near as extensive, thankfully. (Other things to index. Meh.) Generally the only people who become one of the dead, rather than just being unliving (I'll need to find better terminology, clearly.) are blacklisted crafters. Once they're dead, they can't practice their craft anymore, and they're forced to act as slaves until the Voyance decides they've been punished enough.
Once you're dead, you retain most of your personality, but not many of your memories, so it's a little pointless trying to punish someone who isn't aware of the crime he committed. The Voyance isn't especially nice, though, and the dead are useful servants.
This is going to slowly be reworked, I think. The city needs a personality, but it feels like it's going to be a schizophrenic personality...
More later.
The Voyance in Theron and Brenon's time may or may not be a hereditary title; no one really knows. But the Voyance is in charge of regulating crafters and magicrafters, 'mancers, renegades, and the dead. I haven't figured out geography yet, but the Voyance's city is basically the center of everything magickal, cultural, otherworldly, and artistic. Magic and art are very similar skills, and most people have some amount of magickal or artistic talent, so the Voyance is also in charge of censorship and common decency laws. He weilds incredible influence over the artists but can influence the general, untalented population only indirectly through the magick and art laws he passes.
The Voyance can blacklist any artist or crafter for violation of these laws; a Black Mark doesn't just make it hard to get a job, however. Depending on the degree of the crime you commit, the Mark will do anything from crippling your hands to atrophying your vocal chords- anything short of death, really. Theron's Black Mark acts like a wasting sickness; it won't kill him directly, but he'll eventually be too weak to eat or otherwise support himself, and he'll probably die of exposure.
Being caught helping someone who has been blacklisted is nearly grounds for being blacklisted yourself; the Voyance rules with an iron fist, and doesn't like having is rulings subverted. Beyond being a tyrannical bastard, he doesn't have much of a personality at this point. Or a name. Or really, any discernable characteristics at all, beyond SUPREME POWAH.
*cough* Anyway. In Stella Matin's time, the dead have taken over the city and possibly the world; the living are second class citizens, and they're very much so in the minority. Something in the water is keeping them from reproducing, I think. Don't really know. Most people are revenants, which means that they have corporeal forms and can be injured. Ghosts like Walker are rarer, which is why he's so fucking badass.
The dead aren't crafters of any sort- they lose that ability when they wake, but by Stella Matin's time, crafting is a lost art anyway. The dead are mostly just like the living- they can die again and they need to eat and sleep. There are dead prostitutes and dead drug dealers- but there is no art or culture, so they are forced to turn to less artistic vices for entertainment. The whole world has become an underworld, of sorts, and the Voyance rules over it. He's the only one who can put a soul to complete rest; when one of the dead is killed in a conventional way, it sort of reincarnates itself if it can find a warm one nearby before it dissipates. There are always plenty of living slaves in the residential areas of the city, so that's never a problem. But the Voyance can destroy a soul before it can find a new body.
Walker can do this, too, but he's a special case.
The dead aren't nearly as prevalent in Brenon and Theron's time, and the Voyance himself is actually alive then. The events that lead to the dead taking over are probably Theron's fault, but there's a huge amount of time between the two stories. It's an expanded universe, much like the Rothcar timeline is...but it's nowhere near as extensive, thankfully. (Other things to index. Meh.) Generally the only people who become one of the dead, rather than just being unliving (I'll need to find better terminology, clearly.) are blacklisted crafters. Once they're dead, they can't practice their craft anymore, and they're forced to act as slaves until the Voyance decides they've been punished enough.
Once you're dead, you retain most of your personality, but not many of your memories, so it's a little pointless trying to punish someone who isn't aware of the crime he committed. The Voyance isn't especially nice, though, and the dead are useful servants.
This is going to slowly be reworked, I think. The city needs a personality, but it feels like it's going to be a schizophrenic personality...
More later.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
"Theron...fuck, Theron, don't you dare die on me, not now, and not in my fucking bed, you inconsiderate bastard." Brenon tried splashing the other man with cold water, but only received a faint grunt for his efforts. His friend was still alarmingly pale and distressingly still on the tiny cot he'd set up.
There was an impression of dampness along Theron's side, and Brenon cursed again when blood began to seep onto the cot. He wasn't a doctor of any sort, but he was a weaver; the lightest touch to the seams, and Theron's coat and shirt fell away, revealing a gash that opened his ribs to the air, and enough blood to float a raft.
Brenon gagged at the sight of it and whistled unsteadily for his parakeet. The round little yellow bird flitted through the partly closed tent panels, and then away as Brenon whistled his instructions.
"Theron, you bastard, you trouble-making bastard- I'll kill you if you die, I swear it. Feather and Flame! I let you out of my sight for five years and you come back half dead and an Omnismith!" He was talking to keep himself from thinking about the wound, and what he would have to do to treat it. He was a weaver, and he was proud of his skills, proud enough to boast that he could do anything a smith could do, and a few things they couldn't. It was all in the technique, after all. Weaving together flesh and muscle and artery wouldn't be much different than weaving cloth and earth and fire.
But he wasn't a doctor, and Theron was bleeding to death very quickly. He wasn't a smith; he couldn't create blood from air or water the way Theron could if he were awake. Now wasn't the time to worry about it.
His parakeet returned with Mihonil in tow, ready with her bag of supplies. She stopped short when she saw Theron and the blood. "Brenon! The Voyance will have our heads- you know he's been blacklisted."
Brenon ignored her, running through patterns in his head. "Needle. Thread. Silk thread, nothing coarse. Silk gauze, too, the stuff Whimsy gave us. Now, Mih."
She stood in the entranceway, torn between the sight of the blood and the sight of Theron's Black Mark on his too-thin chest, and finally settled on the sight of her brother, sharp and impatient and willing to die for his friend. "I've a steadier hand than you, Bren, and I know earth and water better. Bring me a flame and boil the gauze."
They traded places with the ease of a lifetime of practice. Brenon settled back to assist her with a feeling of sharp relief; Mih would know what to do. She'd always taken care of him, and he'd always taken care ofTheron, so everything would be all right.
Mihonil always hummed when she wove, and Brenon joined her, following her stitches with his hands and humming a countermelody to weave the torn flesh even tighter. When it was done, they were both covered in blood, but Theron's skin no longer wept red. The stitches were angry and harsh, but they would hold.
A soft trilling came from his pocket and Brenon retrieved Theron's bird-thing with a grimace. It shrieked its displeasure at being manhandled and fluttered to perch on Theron's chest where it began to preen its beautiful, shimmering wings with an injured air.
"Bren, where did that come from?" Mih offered a hand to the creature, sighing softly as it rubbed her thumb with its beak before returning to preening.
"Theron made it. Out of a cabbage. In front of the whole damn street, the idiot. Then he collapsed and I brought him back here. There'll be people tearing down the tent looking for the Omnimancer by sunset."
Mih shook her head and chuckled. "The two of you...still thick as thieves, even when you've been apart for five years. We're going to die for this, you know."
Brenon squeezed her and in his and watched the bird begin preening Theron's hair. "Yeah. I know."
--------------------
The suffix -on to a name denotes a craftsperson rank; -onil is a registered magicrafter. Theron got blacklisted before being reclassified after getting his crafter's license, but by this point his name should be Theronilwai, which technically puts him at an equal rank with the Voyance.
This universe is ruled by the dead, although the living are currently the majority; by the time it reaches Stella Matin's time (maybe a thousand years in the future), the living are simply slaves.
Next post will explain a bit more, since I'm tired of using this keyboard.
There was an impression of dampness along Theron's side, and Brenon cursed again when blood began to seep onto the cot. He wasn't a doctor of any sort, but he was a weaver; the lightest touch to the seams, and Theron's coat and shirt fell away, revealing a gash that opened his ribs to the air, and enough blood to float a raft.
Brenon gagged at the sight of it and whistled unsteadily for his parakeet. The round little yellow bird flitted through the partly closed tent panels, and then away as Brenon whistled his instructions.
"Theron, you bastard, you trouble-making bastard- I'll kill you if you die, I swear it. Feather and Flame! I let you out of my sight for five years and you come back half dead and an Omnismith!" He was talking to keep himself from thinking about the wound, and what he would have to do to treat it. He was a weaver, and he was proud of his skills, proud enough to boast that he could do anything a smith could do, and a few things they couldn't. It was all in the technique, after all. Weaving together flesh and muscle and artery wouldn't be much different than weaving cloth and earth and fire.
But he wasn't a doctor, and Theron was bleeding to death very quickly. He wasn't a smith; he couldn't create blood from air or water the way Theron could if he were awake. Now wasn't the time to worry about it.
His parakeet returned with Mihonil in tow, ready with her bag of supplies. She stopped short when she saw Theron and the blood. "Brenon! The Voyance will have our heads- you know he's been blacklisted."
Brenon ignored her, running through patterns in his head. "Needle. Thread. Silk thread, nothing coarse. Silk gauze, too, the stuff Whimsy gave us. Now, Mih."
She stood in the entranceway, torn between the sight of the blood and the sight of Theron's Black Mark on his too-thin chest, and finally settled on the sight of her brother, sharp and impatient and willing to die for his friend. "I've a steadier hand than you, Bren, and I know earth and water better. Bring me a flame and boil the gauze."
They traded places with the ease of a lifetime of practice. Brenon settled back to assist her with a feeling of sharp relief; Mih would know what to do. She'd always taken care of him, and he'd always taken care ofTheron, so everything would be all right.
Mihonil always hummed when she wove, and Brenon joined her, following her stitches with his hands and humming a countermelody to weave the torn flesh even tighter. When it was done, they were both covered in blood, but Theron's skin no longer wept red. The stitches were angry and harsh, but they would hold.
A soft trilling came from his pocket and Brenon retrieved Theron's bird-thing with a grimace. It shrieked its displeasure at being manhandled and fluttered to perch on Theron's chest where it began to preen its beautiful, shimmering wings with an injured air.
"Bren, where did that come from?" Mih offered a hand to the creature, sighing softly as it rubbed her thumb with its beak before returning to preening.
"Theron made it. Out of a cabbage. In front of the whole damn street, the idiot. Then he collapsed and I brought him back here. There'll be people tearing down the tent looking for the Omnimancer by sunset."
Mih shook her head and chuckled. "The two of you...still thick as thieves, even when you've been apart for five years. We're going to die for this, you know."
Brenon squeezed her and in his and watched the bird begin preening Theron's hair. "Yeah. I know."
--------------------
The suffix -on to a name denotes a craftsperson rank; -onil is a registered magicrafter. Theron got blacklisted before being reclassified after getting his crafter's license, but by this point his name should be Theronilwai, which technically puts him at an equal rank with the Voyance.
This universe is ruled by the dead, although the living are currently the majority; by the time it reaches Stella Matin's time (maybe a thousand years in the future), the living are simply slaves.
Next post will explain a bit more, since I'm tired of using this keyboard.
"Theron, I don't care how good you think you are, you can't make a parakeet out of a cabbage."
"It's not a cabbage, it's a relative of chicory. Sort of in between cabbage and lettuce. And I'm not trying to make a parakeet- I've already got half a dozen parakeets, and they're worthless." Theron looked tired, more tired than he should have been, even after the last competition at the Square. He was carefully peeling away the leaves of the thing in his hand, paring it down into something sleek and endive-like. It was a pretty vegetable, at least, with lovely shades of green and purple marbling the leaves.
Brenon shrugged and leaned against the side of the table to watch. Theron had attracted a crowd, of course- he always did. Little jewel colored parakeets flitted back and forth over the heads of the watchers, taking messages and stealing food. Theron ignored the noise and continued peeling the vegetable. It had started out as a leafy, multicolored mostrosity the size of Theron's head; now it was barely the size of a fist, and glimmered as the morning sunlight caught the dewdrops encrusting its surface. Leaves coated the table and clung to Theron's clothing like burrs.
"Behold, fair citizens! From this simple vegetable, I shall create a wonder that has not been seen since the days of the Omnismiths! I shall bring life from what is now dead, and give wings to that which once bore roots!" His voice cracked on the last syllable and Brenon wondered what his old friend had been up to to be this off kilter. When they were younger, Theron wouldn't have been caught dead with bags under his eyes.
Some of that vanity still shone through as Theron enclosed the vegetable between his long fingers and shut his eyes tightly. The sour lemony smell of magic filled the area as Theron swayed back and forth, his face going several shades closer to green.
Brenon found himself gripping the edge of the table, concentrating along with his friend, willing the spell to work. Whatever Theron did to get himself blacklisted the first time, a spell this amazing would be just the thing to gain him favor in the eyes of the Voyance again.
Unless, of course, it killed him.
Theron opened his eyes and grinned, the expression slightly less than sane on his haggard features. He spread apart his hands to reveal what appeared to be a bristly, multicolored apple. The thing gradually unfolded itself, stretching out a long, delicate neck and shimmering, opalescent wings. The tiny bird trilled softly, musically, and peered at the crowd with swirling jewel-toned eyes.
It was beautiful, and Brenon found himself gasping along with the rest of the crowd. There were murmurs, then, awed whispers of "Omnismith" and "Vimancer." Theron had done the impossible for a crowd of city ruffians at the Voyance's Fair. The irony almost made him choke.
He would've been tempted to break Theron's neck for being such an idiot, but the other mage's swaying had grown more pronounced, and his face had gone positively colorless. So Brenon caught him as he fainted, and stuffed the pretty little creature in his pocket.
"Move on, y'bastards, there's nothing more to see! Go on, away with you! Whimsy Rochestrae is having a sale on whistles down Bronk Street, go pester her." Theron was practically a Ghost in his arms, and Brenon wondered what the price he'd paid for a miracle.
As always, Theron made things more interesting, the bastard.
-------------
Had a dream. It was good. The characters decided to stick around and make birds out of endives. (Another universe just expanded in my head, and I'm not especially pleased about that.)
Either Stella or Walker is one of Theron's descendents, apparently...or maybe Solneki is. That could explain quite a bit...
Clearly I need to work out the Voyance's universe. *sigh*
"It's not a cabbage, it's a relative of chicory. Sort of in between cabbage and lettuce. And I'm not trying to make a parakeet- I've already got half a dozen parakeets, and they're worthless." Theron looked tired, more tired than he should have been, even after the last competition at the Square. He was carefully peeling away the leaves of the thing in his hand, paring it down into something sleek and endive-like. It was a pretty vegetable, at least, with lovely shades of green and purple marbling the leaves.
Brenon shrugged and leaned against the side of the table to watch. Theron had attracted a crowd, of course- he always did. Little jewel colored parakeets flitted back and forth over the heads of the watchers, taking messages and stealing food. Theron ignored the noise and continued peeling the vegetable. It had started out as a leafy, multicolored mostrosity the size of Theron's head; now it was barely the size of a fist, and glimmered as the morning sunlight caught the dewdrops encrusting its surface. Leaves coated the table and clung to Theron's clothing like burrs.
"Behold, fair citizens! From this simple vegetable, I shall create a wonder that has not been seen since the days of the Omnismiths! I shall bring life from what is now dead, and give wings to that which once bore roots!" His voice cracked on the last syllable and Brenon wondered what his old friend had been up to to be this off kilter. When they were younger, Theron wouldn't have been caught dead with bags under his eyes.
Some of that vanity still shone through as Theron enclosed the vegetable between his long fingers and shut his eyes tightly. The sour lemony smell of magic filled the area as Theron swayed back and forth, his face going several shades closer to green.
Brenon found himself gripping the edge of the table, concentrating along with his friend, willing the spell to work. Whatever Theron did to get himself blacklisted the first time, a spell this amazing would be just the thing to gain him favor in the eyes of the Voyance again.
Unless, of course, it killed him.
Theron opened his eyes and grinned, the expression slightly less than sane on his haggard features. He spread apart his hands to reveal what appeared to be a bristly, multicolored apple. The thing gradually unfolded itself, stretching out a long, delicate neck and shimmering, opalescent wings. The tiny bird trilled softly, musically, and peered at the crowd with swirling jewel-toned eyes.
It was beautiful, and Brenon found himself gasping along with the rest of the crowd. There were murmurs, then, awed whispers of "Omnismith" and "Vimancer." Theron had done the impossible for a crowd of city ruffians at the Voyance's Fair. The irony almost made him choke.
He would've been tempted to break Theron's neck for being such an idiot, but the other mage's swaying had grown more pronounced, and his face had gone positively colorless. So Brenon caught him as he fainted, and stuffed the pretty little creature in his pocket.
"Move on, y'bastards, there's nothing more to see! Go on, away with you! Whimsy Rochestrae is having a sale on whistles down Bronk Street, go pester her." Theron was practically a Ghost in his arms, and Brenon wondered what the price he'd paid for a miracle.
As always, Theron made things more interesting, the bastard.
-------------
Had a dream. It was good. The characters decided to stick around and make birds out of endives. (Another universe just expanded in my head, and I'm not especially pleased about that.)
Either Stella or Walker is one of Theron's descendents, apparently...or maybe Solneki is. That could explain quite a bit...
Clearly I need to work out the Voyance's universe. *sigh*
Friday, September 10, 2004
When Fangirls Attack!
"So, which Ray do you like?"
"Well, I swing both Rays, actually..."
- on Due South
"How does he do it? He manages to be personally evil to everyone."
"Time management."
"The real evil superpower!"
"But he's god-like!"
"He's Zeus!"
-On John Glover, in Smallville
"We have a flaming...Buick Riviera. We have a putty sandwich."
"Nose calipers!"
"And we have a very attractive blond man with experimental hair saying "Do not touch my calf or inner thigh.""
- also on Due South
"Well, I swing both Rays, actually..."
- on Due South
"How does he do it? He manages to be personally evil to everyone."
"Time management."
"The real evil superpower!"
"But he's god-like!"
"He's Zeus!"
-On John Glover, in Smallville
"We have a flaming...Buick Riviera. We have a putty sandwich."
"Nose calipers!"
"And we have a very attractive blond man with experimental hair saying "Do not touch my calf or inner thigh.""
- also on Due South
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
eBay item 5918382862 (Ends Sep-05-04 06:47:20 PDT) - MY LITTLE PONY ~^~ OOAK Final Fantasy Custom Squall
Aaaahhhhcutestthingeverohmygodithurtssowrongsocute*explode*
My Little Pony meets Final Fantasy. So. Very. Wrong.
eBay item 5918382862 (Ends Sep-05-04 06:47:20 PDT) - MY LITTLE PONY ~^~ OOAK Final Fantasy Custom Squall
My Little Pony meets Final Fantasy. So. Very. Wrong.
eBay item 5918382862 (Ends Sep-05-04 06:47:20 PDT) - MY LITTLE PONY ~^~ OOAK Final Fantasy Custom Squall
Fametracker :: Blue Moons :: Setting "The Table"
Fametracker :: Blue Moons :: Setting "The Table"
Figured I'd try out this thing, and make this a proper blog on occasion. Spoilers for The Village, but only I really cared about that movie, and I've already seen it. :)
Because we all need to make fun of M Night Shyamalan sometimes.
Figured I'd try out this thing, and make this a proper blog on occasion. Spoilers for The Village, but only I really cared about that movie, and I've already seen it. :)
Because we all need to make fun of M Night Shyamalan sometimes.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
Leto is actually Russian for 'summer,' which is why I have a character named that- I didn't find out there was a character in Dune named Leto until long after the original character concept congealed in my head.
I've still got a scan of that first sketch, I suppose. No idea where the actual sketch is, mind, but the scan is probably here somewhere. The idea formed after watching Snatch for the first time, with the brother and Steve and several of their friends wandering around and being drunk. (They had to pause and rewind to watch the scene with Boris and the machete again, though, which probably has something to do with my own love of that scene.) Leto Udacha, Russian mafia extraordinaire. Or something like that.
That was a while ago, and he eventually became a bored thrill seeker with a taste for illegal drugs in the Nano2001. (Such. Awful. Writing. *cries*)
Maybe I'll write up an entry for the Nano2003, since I did '02. Still think '02 is my favorite, but '03 has its charm. (Actually, it has ninja and pirates, so it doesn't need much charm.) Later, I think.
I've still got a scan of that first sketch, I suppose. No idea where the actual sketch is, mind, but the scan is probably here somewhere. The idea formed after watching Snatch for the first time, with the brother and Steve and several of their friends wandering around and being drunk. (They had to pause and rewind to watch the scene with Boris and the machete again, though, which probably has something to do with my own love of that scene.) Leto Udacha, Russian mafia extraordinaire. Or something like that.
That was a while ago, and he eventually became a bored thrill seeker with a taste for illegal drugs in the Nano2001. (Such. Awful. Writing. *cries*)
Maybe I'll write up an entry for the Nano2003, since I did '02. Still think '02 is my favorite, but '03 has its charm. (Actually, it has ninja and pirates, so it doesn't need much charm.) Later, I think.