With apologies to Pablo Neruda; Silverlock and Aya, after a funeral.
(Playing FFXII has made me write ridiculously, and I apologize for that, as well.)
(I blame this on Nick and Liall, and listening to "Trapeze Swinger" and "Like a Waltz" far too much. Aya is in her 80s here, though she more or less stopped aging at 50, and she lives another 40 years after this. Occasionally the women of the DeLavrey family are...more than human in their characteristics.)
-------------------------
"I thought I might find you here." The burial grounds of the Ishkhahareni were empty save for the two of them, but the incense on many of the graves was fresh. The Ishkhahareni always left behind more mourners than they had any right to.
Ayanna knelt before the Zanadreths' offering plate and placed a small carved ivory horse there. "I saw your priest's funeral procession, and thought it time to visit this place again; loss calls to loss, and new pain reminds one of old wounds."
"So it does; so it ever has." He knelt beside her and dropped a silver earring on the plate. It was something Liall would have appreciated; he doubted Vanick's soul would accept any of his offerings even if he were to tender them. "How do you fare, General? I've not seen much of you these last few years."
She sat back on her heels and stared at him, her eye moving to record every single detail of his face. "I grow old, and I survive. But you- I do not think I've ever seen you so naked, my friend." She touched his bare scalp, the lines of his cheekbones, and curled her hand around the back of his neck. He closed his eyes against her touch, and smiled. "This is not a face I know," she whispered.
"I feel that way whenever I walk past a mirror." His smile fell crookedly. He thought of Blaine's body, weighted and sinking to the bottom of Venani's well, and felt sickened and lost. "It is an old tradition: a symbolic death, followed by a rebirth. I ought be someone else, now, free from my old life. Yet I feel no different. Colder, perhaps, but it is the sort of cold that aches."
"The pain grows softer with time."
"I know." He took her hand in both his own and twined their fingers together. "I have lost other loved ones, though none that I have loved so well."
"I did warn you once, that you were too easy with your heart." Aya leaned forward until their foreheads touched. He could feel the bright, alien warmth of her soul, and taste every nuance of her sorrow, and feel it feed and redouble his own.
"So you did, my lady. But I'll tell you a secret." He kissed her hand, then her cheeks, then her lips. "'Tis you I loved best of all."
She laughed softly, and closed her eyes, their mouths still close enough to kiss. "You say such pretty things to an old woman on the day of your lover's funeral."
He laughed as well, though his voice caught on the edge of a sob. "'I do not love you as if you were salt rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off: I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.'" He recited the words, secret-soft, against her lips.
"'So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep,'" she finished, just as quietly, just as near. "But these words are not meant for me, old friend."
"If it comforts you to think so, I'll not stop you, dear General." His smile was nothing more than a mask of wearied grief. "And, for all that I am too generous with my heart, and you too miserly with yours, I've no one else to tell them to."
"Then I will hear your pretty words for the one they were meant, and remain a miser. My pain is no longer all-consuming, but the wound that caused it was still a crippling one." She pulled away, and touched her eyepatch. "It is remarkable, what the body and soul can learn to live without."
He stared at the Zanadreth's grave, with its with its collection of jewelry and its menagerie of tiny horses, and the space for a third name beneath the two carved there. Vanick and Liall had died as they'd lived: together. He'd never thought to consider them lucky, before. "Ayanna."
"Yes?"
"Do you stop seeing their deaths every time you close your eyes?" It repeated endlessly in his mind: the white wrapped body, weighted with gold, sinking, sinking, into icy darkness. And all he could feel was the terrible lurch of reaching out for a soul that wasn't there.
"Aye. Eventually."
"Thus we all survive, somehow." He sighed, and closed his eyes against the tears he'd sworn not to shed. "But do you stop wishing that you'd followed after them?"
She covered his hand with her own; a pair of matched silver bracelets slid down her wrist. "Never."
"Ah." He tilted his head back and looked up at the watery gray sky. It wouldn't do to give in to such a temptation; clearly the only proper solution was to live forever. He swallowed back more tears. "I thought as much."
-----------
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
-Pablo Neruda
Friday, January 19, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Climb up, over the top; survey the state of the soul.
(OhgodIcan'tbelieveIpostedthis)
Three brief Wake of Wings (that is to say, Drake-and-Finbar) moments: Scrabble and the Undead (with Theron & Co), Sex and Libraries (Dead Inside universe), and Sunday Mornings (post book 2). I make no excuses for any of them, though I may be forced to commit ritual suicide from embarrassment.
For the record, I still can't get over the Scrabble. And Theron doesn't know when to let an argument drop. Brenon, as usual, just wants to pretend he's never met any of these people before in his life.
-------------------------------
(there is no i in team; we were never all that good at spelling)
-------------------------------
"Brat! Come on, I've figured out where we need to go from here- what are you doing?" Drake burst into the kitchen of Theron's house-slash-office-building, wielding a sheaf of papers.
Finbar sat with Theron, Brenon and Stella at the kitchen table, playing Scrabble. "You mean the gate crystal? One of Theron's old contacts found the last working plane gate for us yesterday. M-O-R-O-N, on a double word score, with the M on a triple letter, plus A-M for am: 30 points."
Drake gaped, realized he looked ridiculous, and switched to a glare instead. "Then we can leave whenever you're ready to stop playing Scrabble with the undead. Jareth would be proud to see you following in his footsteps."
Theron glared back while Finbar ignored him. "Whatever you have against Scrabble, you can just leave it at the door, McFarrow. As long as you're in my house, you'll respect my board games. Now sit down and be quiet, and for the last time stop trying to work your necromancy on me, it won't work. The game's almost over, anyway; there aren't anymore tiles in the bag."
Bren hid his face in his hands. "I have nothing to do with any of this. Stell, it's your turn."
Drake crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, irritation written clear across his face. Stella hummed tunelessly and ran her fingers over her tiles. "Let's see...ooh, this one's appropriate. Z-E-A-L-O-T-R-Y. Z on the triple letter, O on the triple word, fifty points for using all my tiles, and another 17 points for turning "quips" into "equips"...that's 187 points, and I'm out of tiles. Game over!"
Everyone, including Drake, stared at the board. Stella rocked back and forth in her seat, still humming.
Bren tossed the remains of his tiles on the board with a dejected sigh. "Hells. I still had a J."
Theron just looked smug, and glanced sidelong at Drake. "And how many of your zombies can do that, McFarrow?"
Drake made a strangled noise of frustration. "That's it! We're leaving," he shouted, and slammed the door behind him as he stormed out.
------------------------------------
For the record, Stella cheats. She cheats like nobody's business, and no one suspects her 'cuz she's blind and crazy.
And now, Dead Inside, redux!
--------------------------------------
(books are good for reading, among other things)
--------------------------------------
"Seriously though, where in the city haven't the two of you had sex? I need to know where it's safe to stand."
Silverlock looked thoughtful. "That's...difficult to say."
Drake's brow furrowed in thought. "Zombietown?"
"Right, right. Too distracting. And the thirteenth floor."
"Ah, yes. Of course. But only because someone forgot to see that it was furnished, and I'm not a fan of concrete floors." Drake glanced significantly at Finbar, who gave him a look of such disgust, every soul within a two hundred foot radius felt slightly uncomfortable and shameful on Drake's behalf.
"Nor am I," Silverlock said. "I do think that's it, though."
"Yes, that does seem to be it."
Finbar's expression smoothed out. "You mean to say you had sex in the library?"
Silverlock shrugged. "Well, it's not like anyone else was using those bookshelves at the time."
"Come on, Old Son. Sex in the stacks is traditional. You've been to college, you should know these things."
Finbar smiled a wicked smile of unholy glee. "I'm telling Aislin." He snapped his fingers and opened a gate, and was gone before either mage could react.
Silverlock looked at Drake. Drake looked at Silverlock.
"Well, shit," they said in unison.
They opened gates of their own; it was only a matter of time before Aislin found them, but they could still do their best to stave off the inevitable.
"It's been a pleasure working with you," Silverlock said gravely, a half-smile turning up the corners of his eyes.
"Yeah. Nice knowing you, too." Drake grinned and waved, and stepped through his gate.
In another part of the city, a cry of terrifying rage rose up from the library, flattening buildings and knocking over innocent passers-by in a three block radius.
---------------------------
I think Aislin makes them do community service for a few months as punishment, after she finishes beating the crap out of them. Possibly a daycare is involved? Blaine is amazingly unsympathetic, as is Finbar.
And I make no excuses, but I may possibly deny this ever happened.Porn! Unadulterated sap! Drake being utterly whipped!
----------------------------
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens)
----------------------------
Early morning sunlight filtered into the kitchen, warming the tiles beneath Drake's feet. He stood at the stove, contemplating the pan warming on the burner; a carton of eggs and various other culinary sundries sat out on the counter beside him. His thoughts turned to the boy (not hardly a boy, anymore, but youth was relative) still sleeping in their bed, and he smiled, the brief expression uncharacteristically gentle.
It was one of those bright Sunday mornings when he found himself with nothing better to do than cook breakfast for the two of them. He was rather fond of days like these, though he was loathe to admit that to anyone but himself.
Finbar wandered into the kitchen, barefoot, hair askew, and clad only in boxers. He yawned hard enough to crack his jaw, then latched onto Drake from behind with a grunt.
"Good morning to you, too."
"Mm-hm." Finbar leaned against Drake, his voice a low, sleepy rumble in his chest. He nuzzled at the juncture of Drake's neck and shoulder, and bit down on the tendon there, gnawing gently.
Drake shivered slightly. Finbar's hands slid under his shirt, warm against his bare skin. "In case you hadn't noticed, Old Son, I'm cooking."
"Yeah." Finbar moved his attention upwards, leaving a trail of bites along Drake's neck. He paused at the other man's ear to gnaw for a bit, while his thumbs traced lazy circles upon the muscles of Drake's abdomen. "But I'm hungry now."
His hands stilled on the edge of the stove. Any coherent thoughts that might have been floating through Drake's mind fizzled into nothingness at the sound of those words in his ear. His eyes slid closed and his head tilted back, giving Finbar better access to his neck and jawline. "Breakfast?" His voice came out more strained than he'd have liked.
Finbar reached around him to turn off the burner. "Order take out later." His teeth scraped against the corner of Drake's jaw, the rough hint of stubble burning his skin.
Drake shivered again. "Oh. Right." In addition to his many other talents, the boy was clearly brilliant. "Good plan."
"Mm-hm." He tugged Drake back towards the bedroom, his teeth working steadily at the fragile skin behind Drake's ear.
Drake, eyes still closed, allowed himself to be led.
--------------------------
FATALITY. *hides under a rock, never to emerge again*
Three brief Wake of Wings (that is to say, Drake-and-Finbar) moments: Scrabble and the Undead (with Theron & Co), Sex and Libraries (Dead Inside universe), and Sunday Mornings (post book 2). I make no excuses for any of them, though I may be forced to commit ritual suicide from embarrassment.
For the record, I still can't get over the Scrabble. And Theron doesn't know when to let an argument drop. Brenon, as usual, just wants to pretend he's never met any of these people before in his life.
-------------------------------
(there is no i in team; we were never all that good at spelling)
-------------------------------
"Brat! Come on, I've figured out where we need to go from here- what are you doing?" Drake burst into the kitchen of Theron's house-slash-office-building, wielding a sheaf of papers.
Finbar sat with Theron, Brenon and Stella at the kitchen table, playing Scrabble. "You mean the gate crystal? One of Theron's old contacts found the last working plane gate for us yesterday. M-O-R-O-N, on a double word score, with the M on a triple letter, plus A-M for am: 30 points."
Drake gaped, realized he looked ridiculous, and switched to a glare instead. "Then we can leave whenever you're ready to stop playing Scrabble with the undead. Jareth would be proud to see you following in his footsteps."
Theron glared back while Finbar ignored him. "Whatever you have against Scrabble, you can just leave it at the door, McFarrow. As long as you're in my house, you'll respect my board games. Now sit down and be quiet, and for the last time stop trying to work your necromancy on me, it won't work. The game's almost over, anyway; there aren't anymore tiles in the bag."
Bren hid his face in his hands. "I have nothing to do with any of this. Stell, it's your turn."
Drake crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, irritation written clear across his face. Stella hummed tunelessly and ran her fingers over her tiles. "Let's see...ooh, this one's appropriate. Z-E-A-L-O-T-R-Y. Z on the triple letter, O on the triple word, fifty points for using all my tiles, and another 17 points for turning "quips" into "equips"...that's 187 points, and I'm out of tiles. Game over!"
Everyone, including Drake, stared at the board. Stella rocked back and forth in her seat, still humming.
Bren tossed the remains of his tiles on the board with a dejected sigh. "Hells. I still had a J."
Theron just looked smug, and glanced sidelong at Drake. "And how many of your zombies can do that, McFarrow?"
Drake made a strangled noise of frustration. "That's it! We're leaving," he shouted, and slammed the door behind him as he stormed out.
------------------------------------
For the record, Stella cheats. She cheats like nobody's business, and no one suspects her 'cuz she's blind and crazy.
And now, Dead Inside, redux!
--------------------------------------
(books are good for reading, among other things)
--------------------------------------
"Seriously though, where in the city haven't the two of you had sex? I need to know where it's safe to stand."
Silverlock looked thoughtful. "That's...difficult to say."
Drake's brow furrowed in thought. "Zombietown?"
"Right, right. Too distracting. And the thirteenth floor."
"Ah, yes. Of course. But only because someone forgot to see that it was furnished, and I'm not a fan of concrete floors." Drake glanced significantly at Finbar, who gave him a look of such disgust, every soul within a two hundred foot radius felt slightly uncomfortable and shameful on Drake's behalf.
"Nor am I," Silverlock said. "I do think that's it, though."
"Yes, that does seem to be it."
Finbar's expression smoothed out. "You mean to say you had sex in the library?"
Silverlock shrugged. "Well, it's not like anyone else was using those bookshelves at the time."
"Come on, Old Son. Sex in the stacks is traditional. You've been to college, you should know these things."
Finbar smiled a wicked smile of unholy glee. "I'm telling Aislin." He snapped his fingers and opened a gate, and was gone before either mage could react.
Silverlock looked at Drake. Drake looked at Silverlock.
"Well, shit," they said in unison.
They opened gates of their own; it was only a matter of time before Aislin found them, but they could still do their best to stave off the inevitable.
"It's been a pleasure working with you," Silverlock said gravely, a half-smile turning up the corners of his eyes.
"Yeah. Nice knowing you, too." Drake grinned and waved, and stepped through his gate.
In another part of the city, a cry of terrifying rage rose up from the library, flattening buildings and knocking over innocent passers-by in a three block radius.
---------------------------
I think Aislin makes them do community service for a few months as punishment, after she finishes beating the crap out of them. Possibly a daycare is involved? Blaine is amazingly unsympathetic, as is Finbar.
And I make no excuses, but I may possibly deny this ever happened.
----------------------------
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens)
----------------------------
Early morning sunlight filtered into the kitchen, warming the tiles beneath Drake's feet. He stood at the stove, contemplating the pan warming on the burner; a carton of eggs and various other culinary sundries sat out on the counter beside him. His thoughts turned to the boy (not hardly a boy, anymore, but youth was relative) still sleeping in their bed, and he smiled, the brief expression uncharacteristically gentle.
It was one of those bright Sunday mornings when he found himself with nothing better to do than cook breakfast for the two of them. He was rather fond of days like these, though he was loathe to admit that to anyone but himself.
Finbar wandered into the kitchen, barefoot, hair askew, and clad only in boxers. He yawned hard enough to crack his jaw, then latched onto Drake from behind with a grunt.
"Good morning to you, too."
"Mm-hm." Finbar leaned against Drake, his voice a low, sleepy rumble in his chest. He nuzzled at the juncture of Drake's neck and shoulder, and bit down on the tendon there, gnawing gently.
Drake shivered slightly. Finbar's hands slid under his shirt, warm against his bare skin. "In case you hadn't noticed, Old Son, I'm cooking."
"Yeah." Finbar moved his attention upwards, leaving a trail of bites along Drake's neck. He paused at the other man's ear to gnaw for a bit, while his thumbs traced lazy circles upon the muscles of Drake's abdomen. "But I'm hungry now."
His hands stilled on the edge of the stove. Any coherent thoughts that might have been floating through Drake's mind fizzled into nothingness at the sound of those words in his ear. His eyes slid closed and his head tilted back, giving Finbar better access to his neck and jawline. "Breakfast?" His voice came out more strained than he'd have liked.
Finbar reached around him to turn off the burner. "Order take out later." His teeth scraped against the corner of Drake's jaw, the rough hint of stubble burning his skin.
Drake shivered again. "Oh. Right." In addition to his many other talents, the boy was clearly brilliant. "Good plan."
"Mm-hm." He tugged Drake back towards the bedroom, his teeth working steadily at the fragile skin behind Drake's ear.
Drake, eyes still closed, allowed himself to be led.
--------------------------
FATALITY. *hides under a rock, never to emerge again*
Thursday, January 11, 2007
nip/tuck whining
I am nervous about this new blogger's interaction with the site feed and the syndication; if things get screwy, I apologize.
Dear Nip/Tuck:
Okay. I know we haven't been friends for long, but I thought last January was the start of a beautiful relationship, and despite some rocky moments in season two, I was pretty sure we were going to be okay. But baby, why you gotta hurt me like this? I can deal with the gore. I'm okay with the gore, most of the time, and when I'm not, I just stick the screen over in the corner and look at pretty pictures of butterflies, or naked video game characters, and I try to ignore the sounds of people being carved open and squeezed dry. Fine. But when I can't even deal with the sounds? Is that really necessary?
Also? Sean and Julia? Do we remember when he kicked her out of his house, called her a whore on several occasions, and basically blamed her for everything bad that ever happened in his life, including his daughter's head lice? And now he's the one being all uppity about divorce? Sometimes, with the hypocrisy, I just do not approve.
And why why why is there no fanfic for this series anywhere? Because once you ignore the melodrama, it's pretty amazing.
I'm also struck by how much Julian McMahon looks like Vossler; FFXII is slowly developing a live cast in my head, and it is entertaining to the max.
Dear Nip/Tuck:
Okay. I know we haven't been friends for long, but I thought last January was the start of a beautiful relationship, and despite some rocky moments in season two, I was pretty sure we were going to be okay. But baby, why you gotta hurt me like this? I can deal with the gore. I'm okay with the gore, most of the time, and when I'm not, I just stick the screen over in the corner and look at pretty pictures of butterflies, or naked video game characters, and I try to ignore the sounds of people being carved open and squeezed dry. Fine. But when I can't even deal with the sounds? Is that really necessary?
Also? Sean and Julia? Do we remember when he kicked her out of his house, called her a whore on several occasions, and basically blamed her for everything bad that ever happened in his life, including his daughter's head lice? And now he's the one being all uppity about divorce? Sometimes, with the hypocrisy, I just do not approve.
And why why why is there no fanfic for this series anywhere? Because once you ignore the melodrama, it's pretty amazing.
I'm also struck by how much Julian McMahon looks like Vossler; FFXII is slowly developing a live cast in my head, and it is entertaining to the max.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
They kick your face in oh so nicely (I want more)
If this screws with the feed, I apologize a million times over. *nervous*
Um. Having negative knowledge of both horses and military hierarchy makes writing Nick and Liall kind of difficult since they're kind of nothing but horses and military hierarchy and polygamy. >.> Ah, well. I'll just make shit up as I go! I imagine their ranks and titles will change once I figure out Rothcaran military structure.
Aya's in her early twenties here (setting this nearly forty years before the start of the actual story), and is the youngest officer of her rank in the army, due in large part to her parentage, and a number of lucky coincidences (by which I mean the convenient deaths of a number of her superiors).
---------------------------
Aya flipped through her personnel reports. "I'm sorry for leaving the two of you for last, Captain Zanadreth and," she pulled out the two files she was looking for and blinked at them. "Captain Zanadreth. Please, have a seat." She silently cursed the fact that she'd been thrown into this situation with no time to prepare and no time to properly familiarize herself with her staff.
"It's not a problem, Lieutenant Colonel. You'll probably be wanting to pick our brains about the rest of the staff, now that you've met them." Captain Vanick Zanadreth was a cavalry officer with an almost impossibly spotless record. Aya skimmed to the bottom of his file to find the reason why: he'd been arrested for horse thievery twelve years ago, then pardoned on a technicality. His record was that of a man who didn't dare set one foot out of line.
He had a disconcertingly insincere smile.
"Exactly. You've been with this outfit for quite some time, and I expect we'll be working together closely in the future."
"Our knowledge is at your disposal, Lieutenant Colonel." Captain Liall Zanadreth had an equally spotless record, without even the tell of pre-enlistment crime to explain her behavior. Her specialty was tactics and scouting, which was a kind way of saying she'd trained with the Justiciar's spymaster. Her file indicated that she also had magical talent, but no war-training, which was curious in and of itself.
It was decidedly odd; Aya herself had no shortage of black marks on her record, but these two were model officers who had risen to their current rank and gone no further. She folded her hands on her desk and gave them her sternest, most authoritative look. She found it often helped to distract her subordinates from the fact that they were nearly all at least ten years her senior. "I'm glad to know you'll be cooperative; you must know that the first questions I have are regarding the circumstances of the late Colonel Askel's death."
They stared at her for half a moment, completely expressionless. "His horse spooked," Vanick said evenly. "He was thrown, and hit his head on a rock."
"A tragic accident, but it could have happened to anyone." Liall clasped her hands together, expression unwavering.
"Why, exactly, did his horse spook?" Aya resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose in irritation; all of the officers she'd spoken to had given the same vague answer with the same blank look. A man who fell off his horse and hit his head didn't end up with the imprint of a warhammer in his skull.
They looked at each other, then looked back to Aya. "A rabbit. Came up out of its warren between his horse's feet." Vanick shook his head. "Colonel Askel always insisted on riding nervous beasts; the one he rode that day was notorious for being high strung."
"Was?"
A muscle in Vanick's jaw twitched, and he looked away. Liall answered, "After the incident, the horse was put down. Orders from the judicial council. Lieutenant Colonel DeLavrey, we understand that Colonel Askel's death does put you in something of an awkward position."
"But the judicial council has already investigated this matter to their own satisfaction," Vanick finished, a warning edge to his voice.
"Not to my satisfaction, Captains." She glanced down at the personnel reports to confirm her suspicions; Askel's was not the first accidental death this battalion had seen. She leaned forward and spread her hands across her desk. "I know the two of you were probably pleased to learn that I was sent to replace Askel. But I will not be intimidated. And I will learn what has happened here." She sat back in her chair. "The third and fourth companies leave at dawn on extended endurance training maneuvers; you'll meet me here an hour before to receive more specific instructions."
Vanick's eyes widened in dismay, but then the corner of his mouth curled upwards. "Yes, sir." He and Liall stood and saluted. They left the tent together, walking perfectly in step.
Aya gritted her teeth and snapped her personnel files shut with more vehemence than necessary. The two captains wore matching silver bracelets on their left wrists; it was an outdated marriage custom, one kept by very few tribes of the Ikatai, and followers of Ishkhahar.
The problem with this situation, she decided, was that she just didn't have enough information. "Xene!"
Her aide materialized beside her desk. "Sir?"
"Bring me all of Askel's records- I want the things they didn't put in these personnel files, tax records, everything. Can you do that for me?"
"Of course, sir. Anything else?"
She smiled grimly. "Anything you can find on the goddess Ishkhahar and her followers." If the Zanadreths wanted to play games, let them. She doubted they'd be quite so willing after three weeks of endurance training.
Xene grinned. "I'll have it all on your desk by morning, sir."
"Thank you." She selected another personnel file at random and opened it. Dawn wasn't very far off, and she had quite a bit of reading to catch up on.
------------------
Spot that video game reference! God, I'm such an obscure dork.
I'm a little bit in love with the Zanadreths, actually (they're so bloody cute when they're not being accused of murder), and I seem to be on a backstory kick (when am I not?) so there will probably be more of them in the future. But damn, Aya and Nick would've had the prettiest, most violent and angrily righteous children ever. *sigh*
Blue Rose is responsible for Nick's love of horses- he rides an enormous Friesian (thanks, Wikipedia!) who looks kind of evil but is actually quite sweet and mild mannered, if completely prepared to rip out your throat with his teeth should Nick ask him to. Not sure about the horse's name yet (Nick keeps insisting it's "Horse," and Liall keeps kicking him).
Liall would be comfortable riding a Shrivehorse, but in lieu of a magical planewalking hellbeast, she rides a slightly crazed Arabian named Pazzo. Her family is famous for the horses they raise, and they supply most of the officers of the army with their mounts; this is only partly the reason Nick married her.
Um. Having negative knowledge of both horses and military hierarchy makes writing Nick and Liall kind of difficult since they're kind of nothing but horses and military hierarchy and polygamy. >.> Ah, well. I'll just make shit up as I go! I imagine their ranks and titles will change once I figure out Rothcaran military structure.
Aya's in her early twenties here (setting this nearly forty years before the start of the actual story), and is the youngest officer of her rank in the army, due in large part to her parentage, and a number of lucky coincidences (by which I mean the convenient deaths of a number of her superiors).
---------------------------
Aya flipped through her personnel reports. "I'm sorry for leaving the two of you for last, Captain Zanadreth and," she pulled out the two files she was looking for and blinked at them. "Captain Zanadreth. Please, have a seat." She silently cursed the fact that she'd been thrown into this situation with no time to prepare and no time to properly familiarize herself with her staff.
"It's not a problem, Lieutenant Colonel. You'll probably be wanting to pick our brains about the rest of the staff, now that you've met them." Captain Vanick Zanadreth was a cavalry officer with an almost impossibly spotless record. Aya skimmed to the bottom of his file to find the reason why: he'd been arrested for horse thievery twelve years ago, then pardoned on a technicality. His record was that of a man who didn't dare set one foot out of line.
He had a disconcertingly insincere smile.
"Exactly. You've been with this outfit for quite some time, and I expect we'll be working together closely in the future."
"Our knowledge is at your disposal, Lieutenant Colonel." Captain Liall Zanadreth had an equally spotless record, without even the tell of pre-enlistment crime to explain her behavior. Her specialty was tactics and scouting, which was a kind way of saying she'd trained with the Justiciar's spymaster. Her file indicated that she also had magical talent, but no war-training, which was curious in and of itself.
It was decidedly odd; Aya herself had no shortage of black marks on her record, but these two were model officers who had risen to their current rank and gone no further. She folded her hands on her desk and gave them her sternest, most authoritative look. She found it often helped to distract her subordinates from the fact that they were nearly all at least ten years her senior. "I'm glad to know you'll be cooperative; you must know that the first questions I have are regarding the circumstances of the late Colonel Askel's death."
They stared at her for half a moment, completely expressionless. "His horse spooked," Vanick said evenly. "He was thrown, and hit his head on a rock."
"A tragic accident, but it could have happened to anyone." Liall clasped her hands together, expression unwavering.
"Why, exactly, did his horse spook?" Aya resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose in irritation; all of the officers she'd spoken to had given the same vague answer with the same blank look. A man who fell off his horse and hit his head didn't end up with the imprint of a warhammer in his skull.
They looked at each other, then looked back to Aya. "A rabbit. Came up out of its warren between his horse's feet." Vanick shook his head. "Colonel Askel always insisted on riding nervous beasts; the one he rode that day was notorious for being high strung."
"Was?"
A muscle in Vanick's jaw twitched, and he looked away. Liall answered, "After the incident, the horse was put down. Orders from the judicial council. Lieutenant Colonel DeLavrey, we understand that Colonel Askel's death does put you in something of an awkward position."
"But the judicial council has already investigated this matter to their own satisfaction," Vanick finished, a warning edge to his voice.
"Not to my satisfaction, Captains." She glanced down at the personnel reports to confirm her suspicions; Askel's was not the first accidental death this battalion had seen. She leaned forward and spread her hands across her desk. "I know the two of you were probably pleased to learn that I was sent to replace Askel. But I will not be intimidated. And I will learn what has happened here." She sat back in her chair. "The third and fourth companies leave at dawn on extended endurance training maneuvers; you'll meet me here an hour before to receive more specific instructions."
Vanick's eyes widened in dismay, but then the corner of his mouth curled upwards. "Yes, sir." He and Liall stood and saluted. They left the tent together, walking perfectly in step.
Aya gritted her teeth and snapped her personnel files shut with more vehemence than necessary. The two captains wore matching silver bracelets on their left wrists; it was an outdated marriage custom, one kept by very few tribes of the Ikatai, and followers of Ishkhahar.
The problem with this situation, she decided, was that she just didn't have enough information. "Xene!"
Her aide materialized beside her desk. "Sir?"
"Bring me all of Askel's records- I want the things they didn't put in these personnel files, tax records, everything. Can you do that for me?"
"Of course, sir. Anything else?"
She smiled grimly. "Anything you can find on the goddess Ishkhahar and her followers." If the Zanadreths wanted to play games, let them. She doubted they'd be quite so willing after three weeks of endurance training.
Xene grinned. "I'll have it all on your desk by morning, sir."
"Thank you." She selected another personnel file at random and opened it. Dawn wasn't very far off, and she had quite a bit of reading to catch up on.
------------------
Spot that video game reference! God, I'm such an obscure dork.
I'm a little bit in love with the Zanadreths, actually (they're so bloody cute when they're not being accused of murder), and I seem to be on a backstory kick (when am I not?) so there will probably be more of them in the future. But damn, Aya and Nick would've had the prettiest, most violent and angrily righteous children ever. *sigh*
Blue Rose is responsible for Nick's love of horses- he rides an enormous Friesian (thanks, Wikipedia!) who looks kind of evil but is actually quite sweet and mild mannered, if completely prepared to rip out your throat with his teeth should Nick ask him to. Not sure about the horse's name yet (Nick keeps insisting it's "Horse," and Liall keeps kicking him).
Liall would be comfortable riding a Shrivehorse, but in lieu of a magical planewalking hellbeast, she rides a slightly crazed Arabian named Pazzo. Her family is famous for the horses they raise, and they supply most of the officers of the army with their mounts; this is only partly the reason Nick married her.
Friday, January 05, 2007
FFXII: Like a waltz (recs)
FFXII is, in nearly every way, exactly the game I've always wanted. The battle system is as complicated as I want to make it, and ridiculously fun; the characters are complex and layered and most importantly, likeable; the villains are villainous and well motivated. The scenery and the character designs are gorgeous. The score is epic. And the game is filled with references to Tactics and Vagrant Story, because Matsuno has taken all that Square Enix will give him for his little universe and run with it.
The only place where XII falls short of its predecessors is in its ending; yes, there is the triumphant victory, followed by selfless sacrifice left purposely ambiguous, because that's what Matsuno does- but then all of that delicious, dark ambiguity was cleared away by a neat and tidy finish that gave happy, shallow endings to all the characters.
...well, as happy as anyone ever is in a Matsuno game. Of course, it could have been worse- everyone could have died, or everyone could have been cursed with the life of an immortal exile. Instead, everyone is reasonably content, but there is no closure, no proper emotional release. FFX's ending was so effective because of the catharsis- it ended in absolute tragedy, but it was tragedy with a purpose, and the remaining characters moved on in new directions. The world at the end of FFX was a new one; you don't entirely get that sense at the end of XII. The world advances, but the characters don't; they all end up in exactly the same place they began in (if not physically, then mentally and emotionally).
Unsatisfying. Of course, the game was much heavier on plot than character development, but that's no excuse, really. Six people manage to change the world; one ought to think the world would have an equally tremendous impact on them. Instead, the crowning achievment is that everything is back the way it used to be.
(One can argue that Tactics and VS end in similar ways, but in Tactics, Delita and Ovelia end up changing each other, and in VS, Ashley comes to terms with himself and his past, if not his future.)
Anyway. Enough of my griping; on with the recs!
Erlkönig by Mithrigil, and part of her now sprawling fanon universe (Very epic feeling, poetic writing; Ashe/Basch, unrequited Vossler/Ashe, Basch and Noah backstory). Larsa, at the end of his life.
We Cover Distance, but Not Together by Hebiserpens, who has also written a few other Gabranth backstory pieces, which can be found on her website.
Some Watcher of the Skies by Colored Ink, and archived on Livejournal along with several other excellent and largely Balthier-centric pieces at Wreaths and Bells. The origin of Balthier's name, and his choice of weapon. If you read nothing else, however, read Four and Twenty Blackbirds, for its take on Balthier and Fran's fate at the end.
Five Things That Never Happened to Larsa Ferrinas Solidor (and one that did) by Geekerypokery, who has one or two other ficthings on her LJ; a fix-it for all the tragic deaths in the game.
Al-Cid Is Here To Have Sex With Your Family by Moonsheen, which is Al-Cid meeting Larsa for the first time. There are a number of other awesome fics on Moonsheen's LJ.
Ficbits: Balthier and Fran, Al-Cid and Ashe by Mullenkamp, who is also the person with the most amazing FFXII and Vagrant Story icons evar. The ficbits are good, too- on the funny side, which is something this fandom needs more of. Also, the Yasumi Matsuno Drinking Game, which is so appropriate it hurts.
My Choice by Silverlocke980; it's a series of one shots about the characters and their weapons or espers. The quality varies, but some of them are quite insightful.
Of Bars and Bets by The Shoeless One; pure silliness, involving Basch, Balthier, Fran, too much alcohol, and cheating at cards.
Morpho Aurora Aureola by Beeblebabe. Cid, his wife and son. (This is the sort of fic that makes you want to cut yourself, just a little.)
Larsa and Penelo and Vaan silliness and The One Where Larsa Says They Can Keep Vaan as a Pet by Lazulisong. ...okay, so I'm not actually interested in reading Larsa/Penelo, but...SO. FRICKIN. CUTE.
The Marriage Blade by Luc Court, who has written other Drace and Gabranth pieces, and a Fran and Balthier piece (as well as a number of incredible Naruto fics).
Circular Thinking by Imadra Blue. Nice Fran introspective-y piece.
The only place where XII falls short of its predecessors is in its ending; yes, there is the triumphant victory, followed by selfless sacrifice left purposely ambiguous, because that's what Matsuno does- but then all of that delicious, dark ambiguity was cleared away by a neat and tidy finish that gave happy, shallow endings to all the characters.
...well, as happy as anyone ever is in a Matsuno game. Of course, it could have been worse- everyone could have died, or everyone could have been cursed with the life of an immortal exile. Instead, everyone is reasonably content, but there is no closure, no proper emotional release. FFX's ending was so effective because of the catharsis- it ended in absolute tragedy, but it was tragedy with a purpose, and the remaining characters moved on in new directions. The world at the end of FFX was a new one; you don't entirely get that sense at the end of XII. The world advances, but the characters don't; they all end up in exactly the same place they began in (if not physically, then mentally and emotionally).
Unsatisfying. Of course, the game was much heavier on plot than character development, but that's no excuse, really. Six people manage to change the world; one ought to think the world would have an equally tremendous impact on them. Instead, the crowning achievment is that everything is back the way it used to be.
(One can argue that Tactics and VS end in similar ways, but in Tactics, Delita and Ovelia end up changing each other, and in VS, Ashley comes to terms with himself and his past, if not his future.)
Anyway. Enough of my griping; on with the recs!
Erlkönig by Mithrigil, and part of her now sprawling fanon universe (Very epic feeling, poetic writing; Ashe/Basch, unrequited Vossler/Ashe, Basch and Noah backstory). Larsa, at the end of his life.
We Cover Distance, but Not Together by Hebiserpens, who has also written a few other Gabranth backstory pieces, which can be found on her website.
Some Watcher of the Skies by Colored Ink, and archived on Livejournal along with several other excellent and largely Balthier-centric pieces at Wreaths and Bells. The origin of Balthier's name, and his choice of weapon. If you read nothing else, however, read Four and Twenty Blackbirds, for its take on Balthier and Fran's fate at the end.
Five Things That Never Happened to Larsa Ferrinas Solidor (and one that did) by Geekerypokery, who has one or two other ficthings on her LJ; a fix-it for all the tragic deaths in the game.
Al-Cid Is Here To Have Sex With Your Family by Moonsheen, which is Al-Cid meeting Larsa for the first time. There are a number of other awesome fics on Moonsheen's LJ.
Ficbits: Balthier and Fran, Al-Cid and Ashe by Mullenkamp, who is also the person with the most amazing FFXII and Vagrant Story icons evar. The ficbits are good, too- on the funny side, which is something this fandom needs more of. Also, the Yasumi Matsuno Drinking Game, which is so appropriate it hurts.
My Choice by Silverlocke980; it's a series of one shots about the characters and their weapons or espers. The quality varies, but some of them are quite insightful.
Of Bars and Bets by The Shoeless One; pure silliness, involving Basch, Balthier, Fran, too much alcohol, and cheating at cards.
Morpho Aurora Aureola by Beeblebabe. Cid, his wife and son. (This is the sort of fic that makes you want to cut yourself, just a little.)
Larsa and Penelo and Vaan silliness and The One Where Larsa Says They Can Keep Vaan as a Pet by Lazulisong. ...okay, so I'm not actually interested in reading Larsa/Penelo, but...SO. FRICKIN. CUTE.
The Marriage Blade by Luc Court, who has written other Drace and Gabranth pieces, and a Fran and Balthier piece (as well as a number of incredible Naruto fics).
Circular Thinking by Imadra Blue. Nice Fran introspective-y piece.