I can't tell if it's still snowing or not- but between the snow on the trees and the lake, and the quality of the pre-dawn light, this is probably the most absolutely beautiful morning I've ever had the priviledge to witness. Everything outside is reduced to a limited greyscale- black, white, and something in between.
I love this time of day. The way the sky goes from completely dark to this strange and beautiful halflight is always startling and wonderful for me. It takes so much longer to get from this point to actual sunrise, but the light just keeps changing, moment by moment...
I'm going to be completely dead today, and that's unfortunate. Still, seeing the light like this makes it largely worthwhile.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
body mods
Since I've killed the feed, this blog has gone back to screaming in the dark- a rather comfortable state of being for me, actually, particularly since I seem to be incapable of making public livejournal entries these days.
I still want to be covered in tattoos- but I find myself with a growing fondness for scars, and artistic scarification. I don't have many scars, which could lead me to the conclusion that I do not have the keloiding problems that run in my family. On the other hand, I also haven't been seriously injured, so I suppose there's no real way of knowing.
Scarification is a bit subtler than a tattoo, and a whole lot more tactile. I kind of like that.
I've been afraid of pain my whole life- seriously, tremblingly afraid of it. It's been the primary motivation of most of the stupid, hurtful shit I do to other people, and that's not exactly something I'm proud of. But pain is temporary, and knowing this intellectually doesn't necessarily equate to being able to put that knowledge to use in my life.
I want these things- these marks on my body- primarily because I think they're beautiful, in a visceral way that few other arts can approach. (If I were a pretentious philosopher, I would say body modification is the most Dionysiac of arts, but that's a tangent for another post.) I also want them because getting them would be a way of telling pain to go fuck itself, and of proving to myself that I can handle it.
Anyway. I'm still leaning towards something on my ribcage, because it's a large expanse of skin and it will never be visible unless I choose to show it to someone. It's also apparently one of the most painfull places to be tattooed, because the skin is so thin. *shrug* I think I'd go for something abstract, since that's not likely to become suddenly inapplicable to the rest of my life, and if it scars unevenly, it won't be rendered illegible.
I still want to be covered in tattoos- but I find myself with a growing fondness for scars, and artistic scarification. I don't have many scars, which could lead me to the conclusion that I do not have the keloiding problems that run in my family. On the other hand, I also haven't been seriously injured, so I suppose there's no real way of knowing.
Scarification is a bit subtler than a tattoo, and a whole lot more tactile. I kind of like that.
I've been afraid of pain my whole life- seriously, tremblingly afraid of it. It's been the primary motivation of most of the stupid, hurtful shit I do to other people, and that's not exactly something I'm proud of. But pain is temporary, and knowing this intellectually doesn't necessarily equate to being able to put that knowledge to use in my life.
I want these things- these marks on my body- primarily because I think they're beautiful, in a visceral way that few other arts can approach. (If I were a pretentious philosopher, I would say body modification is the most Dionysiac of arts, but that's a tangent for another post.) I also want them because getting them would be a way of telling pain to go fuck itself, and of proving to myself that I can handle it.
Anyway. I'm still leaning towards something on my ribcage, because it's a large expanse of skin and it will never be visible unless I choose to show it to someone. It's also apparently one of the most painfull places to be tattooed, because the skin is so thin. *shrug* I think I'd go for something abstract, since that's not likely to become suddenly inapplicable to the rest of my life, and if it scars unevenly, it won't be rendered illegible.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Windmill, windmill, for the land, turning, turning, hand in hand
This is horrifically sloppy and needs so much editing. >_< It can actually be boiled down to the following two dramatized chat logs:
Blaine: apocalypse now y/n?
Silverlock: WAAAANGST y pls.
Blaine: k <3 ttyl
user logged off
Silverlock: WTF?
user logged off
18 years later!
Orrin: oshit oshit oshit
Silverlock: ...ROFLCOPTER a/s/l?
---------------------------------
"This is the way the world ends, eh?" Silverlock stood on the roof of his apartment building and loked out at the city. It was nearly sunset, and the sky over the harbor was streaked with pink and orange.
By the time the sun finished sinking below the horizon, Anna DeLavrey would finish ascending the broken tower.
"Please. You probably won't even notice anything is different; at worst, you'll have a hangover for a few days until the sky clears." Blaine perched on the roof ledge; he was visible as a faint shimmer of energy, but when Silverlock used his aethersight, the other man's features became clear. It was just a trick of his mind, he knew- a mental coping mechanism to put the sight of the ghost in some semblance of order.
"It isn't my own well being I'm concerned for, surprising as that may seem. I'm going to live forever, after all." Silverlock leaned against the edge of the roof and looked down at the street below. "It's the rest of the world I fear for."
"Don't. The worst has already come to pass. This, now...this is just housekeeping."
"How bad is it, really? Anna is sure she's doing the right thing, but it seems she's the only one."
"The destruction of the Voyancy created a hole in the aether; it's been devouring the upper plane ever since, and cannot be halted or filled. Its only a matter of time before it starts on this plane, and then all of this," he gestured to the city, "will be gone."
"All but the tower."
"All but the tower," Blaine agreed. "But it does no good to have the tower floating in a sea of nothingness, waiting for the creator to return and start anew."
That was true enough, he supposed. "You're smiling," Silverlock observed.
"So I am. I'm surprised you can tell."
"Death may have improved your sense of humor, but it did nothing for your sensitivity." He remained still, but reached out with his soul to trace the contours of Blaine's face. He'd memorized these lines centuries ago. "I know you well enough by now to notice when you're smirking. I only comment because you seem to be taking your imminent oblivion in remarkably good spirits, if you'll pardon the pun- and because that's your "I know something you don't know" smile, and I hate that smile."
If anything, Blaine's smile widened, and he leaned into Silverlock's touch. "I only use it when I have good cause."
"I know." He tugged Blaine closer, until they overlapped, soul to soul. "I don't suppose you're going to share the secret?"
"And ruin the fun? Never." His laughter made Silverlock shiver with the intimacy of their position. "Look, it's starting."
Aether was rarely visible to the naked eye; high concentrations of it appeared as little more than a heat haze, and were almost unheard of. Ghosts like Blaine were a rarity. The air around the tower was thick with ghosts and aether, so much that the sky was lit with whorls of white and gold. Streams of glittering soul energy swirled around them, around the city, flowing towards the tower. "Impressive, isn't it?"
"It's beautiful." The sight of so much power made the empty places in his soul ache. Briefly, he wondered if this was what Theron had felt, or Dekar; their sins seemed forgiveable in the face of such overwhelming hunger. He could feel the pull of the tower in his own soul as it drew everything inexorably back together.
"Promise me something?" Blaine's voice was soft, almost drowned out by the roar of the aether.
"Anything."
He pulled away, attention fixed on the gathering apocalypse. "Forgive me the cliche- but promise you'll stay true to yourself."
Silverlock spread his hands. "When have I ever done elsewise?"
"I seem to recall a few decades in the nine hundreds..." Blaine was smirking again, and Silverlock was amused in spite of himself.
"I was stoned for most of those and refuse to be held accountable for my actions."
"Fair enough." He was growing indistinct around the edges. "I have to go now." He sounded apologetic.
Objectively, he had no reason to be bitter; he'd been gifted with an extra four hundred years of Blaine's company, and it was more than time for him- and the world- to move on. "I understand."
"No, you don't." I know something you don't know. "But that's not your fault." He grinned. "I'll see you later."
"Wait, what-" But the ghost was already gone, dissolved into the aether.
-----------
He found one of the squishy chairs in the student center and let it envelop him while he slipped into a meditative trance. If he was going to be working here, he wanted to get a better idea of the student body.
Technically, using his aethersight on such an expansive and intrusive scale was illegal, in addition to being incredibly rude. But there wasn't a single person on the entire campus with the sensitivity to notice him watching, and there wasn't anyone with the strength or skill to do anything about it if they could. There were, however, quite a few students and teachers with a great deal of potential. He made note of the auras of those with some hope of being proficient spellcasters.
He quickly came to the conclusion that the average SCoAA student desperately needed to relax. Tempting as it was to leech a little of the stress from the students swarming the campus center, Silverlock kept his soul to himself. He hadn't accepted the Dean's offer of a job yet; he could put off fucking with the student body in morally and legally questionable ways until after he had a contract.
He carefully pulled his senses back into his body and stood, leaving the embrace of the squishy chair. He made another mental note to steal or otherwise procure a few squishy chairs of his own; perhaps he'd send one to Theron, to replace the atrociously uncomfortable things in the boy's office.
A too-familiar soul brushed against his, and it was shock that rooted him to the floor, motionless; under any other circumstances, he'd have moved out of the way before a frantic graduate student crashed into him. Notes and latte flew everywhere; most of the latter ended up on Silverlock's jacket.
"Oh fucking shit I am so sorry that looks expensive-"
"It was," he said icily, reverting to cold aloofness out of reflex. He removed the now-ruined article of clothing and watched it drip disconsolately on the linoleum.
"I am so, so sorry, and I am so, so late for class." He grabbed for his notes with one hand and scribbled something on a sheet of paper with the other. He had to be a grad student; he was too old to be undergraduate, and his aura was too well controlled. "I really have to go, but seriously, I'll reimburse you for that- fuck my students are going to kill me- just send me the bill and I am so, so sorry."
He shoved the piece of paper into Silverlock's hands, and was off running before Silverlock could get a word in edgewise.
He stared off into space in the direction the man had gone for a moment. "Son of a bitch!" And then he was laughing too hard to stand up straight, heedless of the stares of the students and campus workers around him.
It didn't matter that the soul was now shaded with fire and light instead of water and darkness, or that it was housed in the body of a redhead with fire affinity instead of a too-thin, half-Dzyrachan priest. He still reacted with the same need to reach out, to touch, to hold; he would recognize the shape of Blaine's soul until the creature living in Rianna's Tower burned the world to nothingness.
I know something you don't know.
When his laughter finally subsided into the occasional vaguely hysterical giggle, Silverlock looked at the paper in his hand. "A pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Brannskada," he murmured.
He left the campus center whistling; he had to go see the dean about a job.
----------------
AHAHAHAHA Orrin has the most ridiculous last name ever. I can't tell which is worse: Torkehaav or Brannskada. They're Swedishly delicious!
Man. I feel like such a bad person for even considering this plotline (such as it is; this is even more soap-opera-y than my usual fare), but I can't help it. I'm already too fond of Orrin and Faraz. My headspace needed more redheads. (I think I'd keep this idea just for Faraz, because I am dearly fond of Foxbird- but she's so much more compelling when she's six feet tall.)
Blaine: apocalypse now y/n?
Silverlock: WAAAANGST y pls.
Blaine: k <3 ttyl
user logged off
Silverlock: WTF?
user logged off
18 years later!
Orrin: oshit oshit oshit
Silverlock: ...ROFLCOPTER a/s/l?
---------------------------------
"This is the way the world ends, eh?" Silverlock stood on the roof of his apartment building and loked out at the city. It was nearly sunset, and the sky over the harbor was streaked with pink and orange.
By the time the sun finished sinking below the horizon, Anna DeLavrey would finish ascending the broken tower.
"Please. You probably won't even notice anything is different; at worst, you'll have a hangover for a few days until the sky clears." Blaine perched on the roof ledge; he was visible as a faint shimmer of energy, but when Silverlock used his aethersight, the other man's features became clear. It was just a trick of his mind, he knew- a mental coping mechanism to put the sight of the ghost in some semblance of order.
"It isn't my own well being I'm concerned for, surprising as that may seem. I'm going to live forever, after all." Silverlock leaned against the edge of the roof and looked down at the street below. "It's the rest of the world I fear for."
"Don't. The worst has already come to pass. This, now...this is just housekeeping."
"How bad is it, really? Anna is sure she's doing the right thing, but it seems she's the only one."
"The destruction of the Voyancy created a hole in the aether; it's been devouring the upper plane ever since, and cannot be halted or filled. Its only a matter of time before it starts on this plane, and then all of this," he gestured to the city, "will be gone."
"All but the tower."
"All but the tower," Blaine agreed. "But it does no good to have the tower floating in a sea of nothingness, waiting for the creator to return and start anew."
That was true enough, he supposed. "You're smiling," Silverlock observed.
"So I am. I'm surprised you can tell."
"Death may have improved your sense of humor, but it did nothing for your sensitivity." He remained still, but reached out with his soul to trace the contours of Blaine's face. He'd memorized these lines centuries ago. "I know you well enough by now to notice when you're smirking. I only comment because you seem to be taking your imminent oblivion in remarkably good spirits, if you'll pardon the pun- and because that's your "I know something you don't know" smile, and I hate that smile."
If anything, Blaine's smile widened, and he leaned into Silverlock's touch. "I only use it when I have good cause."
"I know." He tugged Blaine closer, until they overlapped, soul to soul. "I don't suppose you're going to share the secret?"
"And ruin the fun? Never." His laughter made Silverlock shiver with the intimacy of their position. "Look, it's starting."
Aether was rarely visible to the naked eye; high concentrations of it appeared as little more than a heat haze, and were almost unheard of. Ghosts like Blaine were a rarity. The air around the tower was thick with ghosts and aether, so much that the sky was lit with whorls of white and gold. Streams of glittering soul energy swirled around them, around the city, flowing towards the tower. "Impressive, isn't it?"
"It's beautiful." The sight of so much power made the empty places in his soul ache. Briefly, he wondered if this was what Theron had felt, or Dekar; their sins seemed forgiveable in the face of such overwhelming hunger. He could feel the pull of the tower in his own soul as it drew everything inexorably back together.
"Promise me something?" Blaine's voice was soft, almost drowned out by the roar of the aether.
"Anything."
He pulled away, attention fixed on the gathering apocalypse. "Forgive me the cliche- but promise you'll stay true to yourself."
Silverlock spread his hands. "When have I ever done elsewise?"
"I seem to recall a few decades in the nine hundreds..." Blaine was smirking again, and Silverlock was amused in spite of himself.
"I was stoned for most of those and refuse to be held accountable for my actions."
"Fair enough." He was growing indistinct around the edges. "I have to go now." He sounded apologetic.
Objectively, he had no reason to be bitter; he'd been gifted with an extra four hundred years of Blaine's company, and it was more than time for him- and the world- to move on. "I understand."
"No, you don't." I know something you don't know. "But that's not your fault." He grinned. "I'll see you later."
"Wait, what-" But the ghost was already gone, dissolved into the aether.
-----------
He found one of the squishy chairs in the student center and let it envelop him while he slipped into a meditative trance. If he was going to be working here, he wanted to get a better idea of the student body.
Technically, using his aethersight on such an expansive and intrusive scale was illegal, in addition to being incredibly rude. But there wasn't a single person on the entire campus with the sensitivity to notice him watching, and there wasn't anyone with the strength or skill to do anything about it if they could. There were, however, quite a few students and teachers with a great deal of potential. He made note of the auras of those with some hope of being proficient spellcasters.
He quickly came to the conclusion that the average SCoAA student desperately needed to relax. Tempting as it was to leech a little of the stress from the students swarming the campus center, Silverlock kept his soul to himself. He hadn't accepted the Dean's offer of a job yet; he could put off fucking with the student body in morally and legally questionable ways until after he had a contract.
He carefully pulled his senses back into his body and stood, leaving the embrace of the squishy chair. He made another mental note to steal or otherwise procure a few squishy chairs of his own; perhaps he'd send one to Theron, to replace the atrociously uncomfortable things in the boy's office.
A too-familiar soul brushed against his, and it was shock that rooted him to the floor, motionless; under any other circumstances, he'd have moved out of the way before a frantic graduate student crashed into him. Notes and latte flew everywhere; most of the latter ended up on Silverlock's jacket.
"Oh fucking shit I am so sorry that looks expensive-"
"It was," he said icily, reverting to cold aloofness out of reflex. He removed the now-ruined article of clothing and watched it drip disconsolately on the linoleum.
"I am so, so sorry, and I am so, so late for class." He grabbed for his notes with one hand and scribbled something on a sheet of paper with the other. He had to be a grad student; he was too old to be undergraduate, and his aura was too well controlled. "I really have to go, but seriously, I'll reimburse you for that- fuck my students are going to kill me- just send me the bill and I am so, so sorry."
He shoved the piece of paper into Silverlock's hands, and was off running before Silverlock could get a word in edgewise.
He stared off into space in the direction the man had gone for a moment. "Son of a bitch!" And then he was laughing too hard to stand up straight, heedless of the stares of the students and campus workers around him.
It didn't matter that the soul was now shaded with fire and light instead of water and darkness, or that it was housed in the body of a redhead with fire affinity instead of a too-thin, half-Dzyrachan priest. He still reacted with the same need to reach out, to touch, to hold; he would recognize the shape of Blaine's soul until the creature living in Rianna's Tower burned the world to nothingness.
I know something you don't know.
When his laughter finally subsided into the occasional vaguely hysterical giggle, Silverlock looked at the paper in his hand. "A pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Brannskada," he murmured.
He left the campus center whistling; he had to go see the dean about a job.
----------------
AHAHAHAHA Orrin has the most ridiculous last name ever. I can't tell which is worse: Torkehaav or Brannskada. They're Swedishly delicious!
Man. I feel like such a bad person for even considering this plotline (such as it is; this is even more soap-opera-y than my usual fare), but I can't help it. I'm already too fond of Orrin and Faraz. My headspace needed more redheads. (I think I'd keep this idea just for Faraz, because I am dearly fond of Foxbird- but she's so much more compelling when she's six feet tall.)
Friday, February 09, 2007
Sunshine in a bag: Mordant and Solneki, 50 sentences
I know very little about these two; they're fairly taciturn when it comes to their backstories, and they refuse to settle down in a single universe. They tend to show up wherever some generalized thuggery is needed, and they're very good at what they do, for all that they can be kind of moronic sometimes.
They're actually a whole lot gayer and a whole lot sillier now than they were when they first walked into my head- they were originally fairly grim characters, and they barely tolerated each other as occasional business partners, let alone friends. Being that I am, at heart, a sappy thirteen year old girl, I rather like them better this way.
Anyway, fifty run-on sentences, largely for my own entertainment.
---------------
Comfort (Mordant)
“Yeah, I know he’s got my back, no matter what- but it’s not like I like the bastard or anything.”
Kiss
Solneki’s sunglasses tangled with their noses: “You suck at this!” and they never tried it again.
Soft (Sol)
“Tell him this and you die, but sometimes- when I’m very, very inebriated, you understand, and only then- I just want to pet his stupid shirts.”
Pain (Sol)
“The idiot kept babbling, ‘It’s just a flesh wound you yellow bastards!’ over and over and over again, until I punched him in the face, just a little; why that took him down when four bullets didn’t, I’ll never know.”
Potatoes (Mordant)
“Gimme the rum, and fuck you and your vodka, you potato drinking pinko commie bastard!”
Rain (Mordant)
“This one time, the weather was like fucking shit, and I know he can’t see worth a damn, between the rain and his glasses fogging up, and the fact that it was half past midnight and we’d hit the fuse box not five minutes before, but the bastard still put a bullet through Miguel’s face at sixty paces, like it was cake, or pie, or- or- just, like breathing.”
Chocolate (Sol)
“Get one single sticky fingerprint on my tie, my glasses, or my gun and I will not only beat you within an inch of your life, but I’ll take away all your candy, too.”
Happiness (Mordant)
“Hot woman, warm gun, cold beer- and yeah, okay, most of those are better with that bastard around to share them with.”
Telephone (Sol)
“I have a ball peen hammer readied to break this snitch’s hand, when my phone goes off- and not only has it been taken off silent, but my ring tone has been changed from Bach’s concerto in D minor for two violins to “My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard”- and then I had to kill the poor plebe, because how else was I supposed to save face after that?”
Ears (Mordant)
“Tell him I told you this and we’ll both die, but sometimes, when I’m really drunk, I just want to chew on his ears- don’t look at me like that, he’s got really pretty ears and hey, fuck you, so what if I’ve got a thing for ears, he keeps wearing shiny things in them and- oh, shut the fuck up and buy me another drink.”
Name (Sol)
“I think it’s something hideously embarrassing like Clarence or Percival or Edmund- his parents didn’t just flip through a dictionary to pick out his name; he’s the only person stupid enough to do that.”
Sensual (Mordant)
“Shit, I can’t even remember that night, we were so trashed- I mean, I can remember the little details- the way his fingers were digging into my arm, the little shadows his eyelashes made on his cheeks- just, little things, important things.”
Death
“Boring,” they announce in unison, “but profitable,” and they clink their glasses together with matching grins.
Sex (Sol)
It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy pushing Mordant up against whatever flat surfaces happen to be available (walls, tables, the floor, the side of a Brinks truck that once); it’s more that he still isn’t sure, even after all this time, why the other man lets him.
Touch (Sol)
“You can look, if you want, but keep your hands to yourself,” and he assembled the sniper rifle with loving hands before Mordant’s admiring gaze.
Weakness (Mordant)
“He’s blind as a bat- astigmatic and nearsighted like nobody’s business- and contacts give him hives, so he wears the glasses, but he’d look like a fucking nerd with normal glasses, so the shades are prescription.”
Tears (Mordant)
“Shit, he’s terrifying when he does an interrogation- he makes ‘em cry nine times out of ten, and the only reason the tenth guy isn’t crying is ‘cuz Sol’s pistol whipped him into bloody unconsciousness.”
Speed (Mordant)
“He’s the fastest guy I know, but half the time, he hits like a girl.”
Wind (Mordant)
“See, he always drives his stupid penis car with the windows down, and he wears the glasses so he doesn’t have to squint all the time like some sort of fucking asshat- what do you mean, I drive a penis car too?”
Freedom (Sol)
“It’s not as important as you’d think; you can adapt to any situation, no matter how terrible, and still be reasonably happy as long as you’re in good company.”
Life (Sol)
“I’m still not sure how he’s not dead yet; there are times when I think he’s too stupid to live; as for me, I’m just too good to die.”
Jealousy (Mordant)
“Shit, yes he’s a jealous bastard- I’ve got the bruises on my ass to prove it.”
Hands (Sol)
“He gets a manicure every week- we’re hit men, hired thugs, and he gets a fucking manicure every week, and then has the gall to leave me picking up the tab when we go out- he’s independently wealthy, you know, he doesn’t have to work- some of us have dependents to support, but he’s too busy getting his nails done to pick up the fucking check.”
Taste
“You’d think, given that he spends the equivalent of the GDP of a small third world country on his wardrobe, that he’d manage to look like something other than a flaming fashionista lumberjack- but then, you’d also think someone with that much money would be able to afford something like half a brain, too.”
Taste
“His tie matches his boxers- now, I ask you, what sort of sane individual does that?”
Devotion (Mordant)
“Don’t take this the wrong way- I mean, it’s not like I like the bastard or anything- but who else am I going to get drunk with?”
Forever
They share equal looks of horrified revulsion at the thought of it.
Blood (Sol)
“I’ve seen more than enough of his, thanks- and he’s seen more than enough of mine, but only because he keeps biting me.”
Sickness (Mordant)
“Actually, he caught this weird virus when he was a kid, and it turned the whites of his eyes puke green; last time he went out in public without the glasses on, little kids ran away screaming.”
Melody (Sol)
“The idiot sings in the shower- he’s almost as loud as he is off key.”
Star
The paper target had a neat star pattern bored into its chest; Mordant glared at his own target with its random scattering of bullet holes, and punched the wall hard enough to crack the plaster; Solneki kindly refrained from smirking when he splinted Mordant’s broken hand.
Home
“Is where the booze is.”
Confusion (Sol)
“I have to stick to small sentences around him, or he just starts drooling.”
Fear (Mordant)
“It’s because he doesn’t have eyes; the sockets are actually windows to an alternate hell dimension so terrifying that mere mortals dare not look into it- now me, I can handle that sort of thing, but only because I’m fucking hardcore.”
Lightning/Thunder (Sol)
“You couldn’t direct a better entrance: the wind blowing our trenches all to hell, just enough rain to be dramatic, and we pull out our grenades at the same time, all in slow motion, and toss them off just as the lightning hits, and then the thunder- it was artistic, is what it was, because we’re artists, and we’re the best at what we do.”
Bonds (Mordant)
“Sometimes I just want to strangle him with his stupid fucking tie, but I will admit it comes in handy when I need to tie him to a bedpost or something.”
Market (Sol)
“Sometimes I run into him at the 7-11 at three in the morning, and he’ll have a basket full of limes, rum, cheap beer, and candy; at least he’ll know beyond a shadow of a doubt that when he loses all of his teeth, it wasn’t because of scurvy.”
Market (Mordant)
“Of course, whenever I see him at the store, all he’s ever got in his basket is a thing of ketchup and six things of horse radish and, a couple of times, a bottle of pickle relish and a bag of dried bird’s eye chilis; the man’s a freak, and I’m pretty sure he has no nerve endings left on his tongue, and the reason he’s such an irritable bastard is because of his fucking bleeding ulcer.”
Technology (Mordant)
“He’s a cyborg- no, seriously, they took out his eyes and replaced them with robotronic sensors and he can shoot laser beams from them- I’ve seen it, man, he’s a fucking robot!”
Gift
“Here,” he tossed the plastic bag at Mordant’s head- there were six cabochon emeralds the size of his thumbnail in it- “I know how much you like shiny things.”
Smile (Mordant)
“Yeah, he’s a stoic bastard, but he does it sometimes- usually when he’s killing something, or really drunk, or once, when he was sleeping.”
Innocence (Sol)
“Unlike some people, I am not afraid of scurvy, so no, I did not eat the last of your limes- now get your finger out of my face before I remove it.”
Completion (Sol)
“It’s like they’re two halves of the most wondrous whole- the sweetness of the ketchup, the tang and bite of the horseradish- and you are well aware that if I catch you laughing at me, I’ll break your arms, yes?”
Clouds (Mordant)
“I hate it when it rains; the bastard always remembers an umbrella, and he’s only got the one- and it matches his fucking tie- do you know how embarrassing it is to be seen in public with him when it rains?”
Sky (Mordant)
“They’re blue, like, fuck, I don’t know, just blue, like the sky or something, because when you look at them, you don’t feel like drowning, you feel like flying.”
Heaven (Sol)
“I think that’s a bar over on the corner of Seventh and Pearl, the one with the waitresses all done up with halos?”
Hell (Mordant)
“No, I mean, yeah, halos, but I’m pretty sure Hell’s on Seventh and Pearl, Heaven’s over on Ninth and June.”
Sun (Mordant)
“He’s a vampire- but not like some pansy ass Anne Rice vampire, I mean he can go out in the sun and stuff without completely combusting, but the direct rays of the sun make his eyeballs melt, and also, he has slit pupils like some sort of crazy snake.”
Moon (Sol)
“Good job, you’ve managed to piss off our ex-employers even more than I’d have ever thought possible; now pull your pants up, sit down, and put your seatbelt on.”
Waves (Sol)
“If you’re insinuating that I only go to the gym for the chance to see that idiot in a speedo, I will be honor bound to kick your face in.”
Hair (Sol)
“This is actually my natural hair color; Mordant is the metrosexual one in this relationship.”
Supernova
They turn the corner- “Christ, you drive like my grandmother,” and behind them, the building explodes- “Oh, fuck you, just shut up and give me some cover fire, it’s not my fault your fucking car handles like your mom, and I’ve met your grandmother, and she is one hardcore scary ass old lady,” as debris rains down on the street like a thousand grimy asteroids.
They're actually a whole lot gayer and a whole lot sillier now than they were when they first walked into my head- they were originally fairly grim characters, and they barely tolerated each other as occasional business partners, let alone friends. Being that I am, at heart, a sappy thirteen year old girl, I rather like them better this way.
Anyway, fifty run-on sentences, largely for my own entertainment.
---------------
Comfort (Mordant)
“Yeah, I know he’s got my back, no matter what- but it’s not like I like the bastard or anything.”
Kiss
Solneki’s sunglasses tangled with their noses: “You suck at this!” and they never tried it again.
Soft (Sol)
“Tell him this and you die, but sometimes- when I’m very, very inebriated, you understand, and only then- I just want to pet his stupid shirts.”
Pain (Sol)
“The idiot kept babbling, ‘It’s just a flesh wound you yellow bastards!’ over and over and over again, until I punched him in the face, just a little; why that took him down when four bullets didn’t, I’ll never know.”
Potatoes (Mordant)
“Gimme the rum, and fuck you and your vodka, you potato drinking pinko commie bastard!”
Rain (Mordant)
“This one time, the weather was like fucking shit, and I know he can’t see worth a damn, between the rain and his glasses fogging up, and the fact that it was half past midnight and we’d hit the fuse box not five minutes before, but the bastard still put a bullet through Miguel’s face at sixty paces, like it was cake, or pie, or- or- just, like breathing.”
Chocolate (Sol)
“Get one single sticky fingerprint on my tie, my glasses, or my gun and I will not only beat you within an inch of your life, but I’ll take away all your candy, too.”
Happiness (Mordant)
“Hot woman, warm gun, cold beer- and yeah, okay, most of those are better with that bastard around to share them with.”
Telephone (Sol)
“I have a ball peen hammer readied to break this snitch’s hand, when my phone goes off- and not only has it been taken off silent, but my ring tone has been changed from Bach’s concerto in D minor for two violins to “My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard”- and then I had to kill the poor plebe, because how else was I supposed to save face after that?”
Ears (Mordant)
“Tell him I told you this and we’ll both die, but sometimes, when I’m really drunk, I just want to chew on his ears- don’t look at me like that, he’s got really pretty ears and hey, fuck you, so what if I’ve got a thing for ears, he keeps wearing shiny things in them and- oh, shut the fuck up and buy me another drink.”
Name (Sol)
“I think it’s something hideously embarrassing like Clarence or Percival or Edmund- his parents didn’t just flip through a dictionary to pick out his name; he’s the only person stupid enough to do that.”
Sensual (Mordant)
“Shit, I can’t even remember that night, we were so trashed- I mean, I can remember the little details- the way his fingers were digging into my arm, the little shadows his eyelashes made on his cheeks- just, little things, important things.”
Death
“Boring,” they announce in unison, “but profitable,” and they clink their glasses together with matching grins.
Sex (Sol)
It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy pushing Mordant up against whatever flat surfaces happen to be available (walls, tables, the floor, the side of a Brinks truck that once); it’s more that he still isn’t sure, even after all this time, why the other man lets him.
Touch (Sol)
“You can look, if you want, but keep your hands to yourself,” and he assembled the sniper rifle with loving hands before Mordant’s admiring gaze.
Weakness (Mordant)
“He’s blind as a bat- astigmatic and nearsighted like nobody’s business- and contacts give him hives, so he wears the glasses, but he’d look like a fucking nerd with normal glasses, so the shades are prescription.”
Tears (Mordant)
“Shit, he’s terrifying when he does an interrogation- he makes ‘em cry nine times out of ten, and the only reason the tenth guy isn’t crying is ‘cuz Sol’s pistol whipped him into bloody unconsciousness.”
Speed (Mordant)
“He’s the fastest guy I know, but half the time, he hits like a girl.”
Wind (Mordant)
“See, he always drives his stupid penis car with the windows down, and he wears the glasses so he doesn’t have to squint all the time like some sort of fucking asshat- what do you mean, I drive a penis car too?”
Freedom (Sol)
“It’s not as important as you’d think; you can adapt to any situation, no matter how terrible, and still be reasonably happy as long as you’re in good company.”
Life (Sol)
“I’m still not sure how he’s not dead yet; there are times when I think he’s too stupid to live; as for me, I’m just too good to die.”
Jealousy (Mordant)
“Shit, yes he’s a jealous bastard- I’ve got the bruises on my ass to prove it.”
Hands (Sol)
“He gets a manicure every week- we’re hit men, hired thugs, and he gets a fucking manicure every week, and then has the gall to leave me picking up the tab when we go out- he’s independently wealthy, you know, he doesn’t have to work- some of us have dependents to support, but he’s too busy getting his nails done to pick up the fucking check.”
Taste
“You’d think, given that he spends the equivalent of the GDP of a small third world country on his wardrobe, that he’d manage to look like something other than a flaming fashionista lumberjack- but then, you’d also think someone with that much money would be able to afford something like half a brain, too.”
Taste
“His tie matches his boxers- now, I ask you, what sort of sane individual does that?”
Devotion (Mordant)
“Don’t take this the wrong way- I mean, it’s not like I like the bastard or anything- but who else am I going to get drunk with?”
Forever
They share equal looks of horrified revulsion at the thought of it.
Blood (Sol)
“I’ve seen more than enough of his, thanks- and he’s seen more than enough of mine, but only because he keeps biting me.”
Sickness (Mordant)
“Actually, he caught this weird virus when he was a kid, and it turned the whites of his eyes puke green; last time he went out in public without the glasses on, little kids ran away screaming.”
Melody (Sol)
“The idiot sings in the shower- he’s almost as loud as he is off key.”
Star
The paper target had a neat star pattern bored into its chest; Mordant glared at his own target with its random scattering of bullet holes, and punched the wall hard enough to crack the plaster; Solneki kindly refrained from smirking when he splinted Mordant’s broken hand.
Home
“Is where the booze is.”
Confusion (Sol)
“I have to stick to small sentences around him, or he just starts drooling.”
Fear (Mordant)
“It’s because he doesn’t have eyes; the sockets are actually windows to an alternate hell dimension so terrifying that mere mortals dare not look into it- now me, I can handle that sort of thing, but only because I’m fucking hardcore.”
Lightning/Thunder (Sol)
“You couldn’t direct a better entrance: the wind blowing our trenches all to hell, just enough rain to be dramatic, and we pull out our grenades at the same time, all in slow motion, and toss them off just as the lightning hits, and then the thunder- it was artistic, is what it was, because we’re artists, and we’re the best at what we do.”
Bonds (Mordant)
“Sometimes I just want to strangle him with his stupid fucking tie, but I will admit it comes in handy when I need to tie him to a bedpost or something.”
Market (Sol)
“Sometimes I run into him at the 7-11 at three in the morning, and he’ll have a basket full of limes, rum, cheap beer, and candy; at least he’ll know beyond a shadow of a doubt that when he loses all of his teeth, it wasn’t because of scurvy.”
Market (Mordant)
“Of course, whenever I see him at the store, all he’s ever got in his basket is a thing of ketchup and six things of horse radish and, a couple of times, a bottle of pickle relish and a bag of dried bird’s eye chilis; the man’s a freak, and I’m pretty sure he has no nerve endings left on his tongue, and the reason he’s such an irritable bastard is because of his fucking bleeding ulcer.”
Technology (Mordant)
“He’s a cyborg- no, seriously, they took out his eyes and replaced them with robotronic sensors and he can shoot laser beams from them- I’ve seen it, man, he’s a fucking robot!”
Gift
“Here,” he tossed the plastic bag at Mordant’s head- there were six cabochon emeralds the size of his thumbnail in it- “I know how much you like shiny things.”
Smile (Mordant)
“Yeah, he’s a stoic bastard, but he does it sometimes- usually when he’s killing something, or really drunk, or once, when he was sleeping.”
Innocence (Sol)
“Unlike some people, I am not afraid of scurvy, so no, I did not eat the last of your limes- now get your finger out of my face before I remove it.”
Completion (Sol)
“It’s like they’re two halves of the most wondrous whole- the sweetness of the ketchup, the tang and bite of the horseradish- and you are well aware that if I catch you laughing at me, I’ll break your arms, yes?”
Clouds (Mordant)
“I hate it when it rains; the bastard always remembers an umbrella, and he’s only got the one- and it matches his fucking tie- do you know how embarrassing it is to be seen in public with him when it rains?”
Sky (Mordant)
“They’re blue, like, fuck, I don’t know, just blue, like the sky or something, because when you look at them, you don’t feel like drowning, you feel like flying.”
Heaven (Sol)
“I think that’s a bar over on the corner of Seventh and Pearl, the one with the waitresses all done up with halos?”
Hell (Mordant)
“No, I mean, yeah, halos, but I’m pretty sure Hell’s on Seventh and Pearl, Heaven’s over on Ninth and June.”
Sun (Mordant)
“He’s a vampire- but not like some pansy ass Anne Rice vampire, I mean he can go out in the sun and stuff without completely combusting, but the direct rays of the sun make his eyeballs melt, and also, he has slit pupils like some sort of crazy snake.”
Moon (Sol)
“Good job, you’ve managed to piss off our ex-employers even more than I’d have ever thought possible; now pull your pants up, sit down, and put your seatbelt on.”
Waves (Sol)
“If you’re insinuating that I only go to the gym for the chance to see that idiot in a speedo, I will be honor bound to kick your face in.”
Hair (Sol)
“This is actually my natural hair color; Mordant is the metrosexual one in this relationship.”
Supernova
They turn the corner- “Christ, you drive like my grandmother,” and behind them, the building explodes- “Oh, fuck you, just shut up and give me some cover fire, it’s not my fault your fucking car handles like your mom, and I’ve met your grandmother, and she is one hardcore scary ass old lady,” as debris rains down on the street like a thousand grimy asteroids.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Time to kick ass and chew bubble gum.
Maddel is one of my favorite side characters ever; I think I love him largely because he's secretly a raging pyromaniac. He's also one of the very rare characters in my head whom I can picture clearly, in detail. There are days when I have no idea what Silverlock and Blaine look like, but I always know Maddel's face. (Aya is like this too, but only because she's the perfect image of Rianna, who has been a visual entity in my head for years.)
This occurs in the middle of the main action, after Silverlock is rescued and the group splits up. Blaine becomes the Avatar of Venani (that name is still in the process of changing) after Foxbird kills Mandhatri, and they split up when they realize the Guildmaster and the Shrive have betrayed the city and the Guild.
-----------------
"Fancy meeting you kids here." Maddel stood in the middle of the tunnel, surrounded by tall metal canisters. A pair of goggles were pushed up his forehead, and a pair of heavy leather gloves were tucked into his belt. "Got promoted, Torkehaav?"
"Something like that, sir." Blaine's eyes no longer focused on the material plane, and his voice echoed with the sound of unearthly hissing, but he still inclined his head respectfully to the master healer.
"Any word on the situation topside?" Silverlock could feel their pursuers getting closer; they'd grown in numbers since the chase began, and the majority of them were Riftspawn.
"Messy. Riots and monsters in the streets; the Guildmaster had everyone evacuate- the librarian, Lady Ivy, and I are the only ones left." His ears swiveled, and he narrowed his eyes at Silverlock. "You two brought me some trouble, didn't you?"
"Don't we always?" Water welled up out of the cracks between the paving stones and ran in rivulets around Blaine's bare feet. The air shivered with aether.
Maddel rolled his eyes. "Trouble, I can deal with. What I can't deal with is you flooding my tunnel because you can't keep yourself in check." He hefted one of the metal cannisters onto his back by a carrying strap; there was a canvas wrapped hose attached to it, and a spray nozzle. "You'll be wanting to follow the Guildmaster, if you're looking for more trouble. He took the low road, and if I know him at all- which I do- he'll be heading towards the Tower."
The water slowed to a halt and seeped back into the cracks in the floor. Blaine grinned. "Good. I've got a few things I need to say to him." His feet left wet footprints on the stones as he strode into the darkness behind Maddel.
Maddel took out a long, thin cigarette and put it in his mouth, but did not light it. He frowned, glancing sidelong down the darkened tunnel after Blaine. "Think I liked him better when he was twitchy and insecure."
Silverlock chose to ignore that comment, and fingered the hilts of his knives. "There's a nest of Yrkathi and their thralls coming this way, old man. You should look for higher ground."
The old elf pulled on his gloves. "Look after yourself, boy. I'm not going to die at the hands of some half-assed Rift-scum. Ah, wait." He fumbled in one of the many pockets on his vest and held out a ring. "Here. This is yours, by rights, and you ought to have it before any more of us die. Beziemyanie'i Mech Ordeni- Order of the Nameless Sword. Belonged to your mother, rest her soul."
"What?" It was a heavy signet ring, inscribed with a variation on the too-familiar broken tower of the DeLavrey family, crossed with a broken sword. Shock turned to anger as he clenched the ring in his fist. "Old man, if you're about to tell me you're my sire, I don't want to hear it," he warned, voice tight.
"Hardly." Maddel grinned around his unlit cigarette. "If you were mine, you'd be taller."
That accorded him some small measure of relief, though he resolved to make Maddel pay for the comment on his height. Later, though. "I don't have time for this."
"Indeed you don't. I can explain it all later, but right now you'd best catch up to his Holiness before he drowns in his own power. You're the only thing keeping him grounded at this point."
"I know." Silverlock threaded the ring beside his Guild tags on the chain around his neck. "Try not to die, old man. We have things to discuss."
Maddel nodded, and pulled his goggles down over his eyes. "Stay alive, boy. And if there are any Riftspawn loose on the streets, you're like to find your sire in the thick of them. Send him my regards if you find him."
He was gone before Maddel finished speaking, gliding silently into the darkness of the low tunnels.
-------
Maddel kicked most of the canisters down the tunnel; if this failed on the first shot, they wouldn't do him any good. Then he sprayed the contents of the rest across the walls and floor for a good thirty yard stretch of tunnel. Preparations made, he sat down on the last full canister and waited, ears straining to hear the sounds of the approaching mob.
They came quickly, which was a happy thing; he'd just doused the tunnel in high grade medicinal alcohol, and his tolerance for the fumes was not a thing he cared to test. He stood and swung the last canister with a spray nozzle onto his shoulder.
The Yrkathi came around the corner en masse; the nest was a moving swarm of limbs, teeth, and tentacles. Maddel smiled around his unlit cigarette. Elsewhere in the city, the other members of the Order would be taking down whatever Riftspawn they came across; this was what they lived for.
The nest slowed when it reached the hallway, confused by the vapors in the air. "Come and get me, you fatherless sons of bitches," he called out in a sing song voice. "Come and get me."
The Yrkathi snarled at him, and lumbered closer, kicking cannisters out of the way.
"Too easy," he muttered, and pulled the trigger on the nozzle. A snap of his fingers, and the spray ignited, belching forth an enormous blue-white fireball.
The fumes and the alcohol dripping from the walls caught with a roar, and ghostly fire washed up and down the corridor. The other cannisters were under pressure; they exploded when the flames reached them. Soon the roar of the flames was joined by the screams of the burning Riftspawn. Every few seconds the fire would flow back down the hall as it found more vapors to burn.
Maddel perched on an empty canister, surrounded by this inferno, and calmly lit his cigarette.
-------------
-------------
In soviet Elvish forest, flame throws you! I can't believe my elves actually speak Russian. *facepalm*
The Order of the Nameless Sword is a secret society founded by a few elves at the end of the Second Era; they're dedicated to keeping the Rift shut and protecting the middle plane from Riftspawn and the lower gods. Basically, they're supposed to prevent the very thing that happens in Toggle, with Rekashi and the Guildmaster and Dekar. (I have plot that almost makes sense. This excites me so much.) It isn't unheard of for non-elves to be inducted; there was a time in the Third Era when anti-elvish sentiment was at its highest that the Order was composed almost entirely of humans.
Maddel is one of the oldest members in the Order, and he's the head of the Shaivhen chapter. He's not Silverlock's father (thank goodness, because what, none of that), but he is close friends with Tyrrick Ridelaine, who is. Tyrrick is the elvish representative to Parliament, and a longstanding member of the Order. He's also something of a sap and a very outspoken Emancipationist. (There's angst there- when Silverlock was born, his mother sold him off without consulting Tyrrick first, and Tyrrick never forgave her for that. She eventually died of natural causes, after living to a decent human age.)
I don't think Tyrrick and Silverlock will ever meet; they would have nothing to say to each other. Silverlock would get annoyed, Tyrrick would get depressed, and it would just end badly all around. Tyrrick and Blaine meet, but only when Blaine is half crazy from being turned into an Avatar.
Silverlock gets his magic and much of his looks from his father; they're both short and stocky and vaguely Asian-looking, and they're both leechmages. Tyrrick is an occultist (something like a summoner or elementalist), while Silverlock is an eclectic with specializations in destructive necromancy. (The urge to indulge myself and write the fifth-era "everyone is reincarnated as a grad student" story to explain the magic system grows with every passing moment.)
I'm fond of Tyrrick; he's a terrible politician, but an amazingly competent mage and demonslayer. He really just needs to quit his day job and go into heroing full time.
This occurs in the middle of the main action, after Silverlock is rescued and the group splits up. Blaine becomes the Avatar of Venani (that name is still in the process of changing) after Foxbird kills Mandhatri, and they split up when they realize the Guildmaster and the Shrive have betrayed the city and the Guild.
-----------------
"Fancy meeting you kids here." Maddel stood in the middle of the tunnel, surrounded by tall metal canisters. A pair of goggles were pushed up his forehead, and a pair of heavy leather gloves were tucked into his belt. "Got promoted, Torkehaav?"
"Something like that, sir." Blaine's eyes no longer focused on the material plane, and his voice echoed with the sound of unearthly hissing, but he still inclined his head respectfully to the master healer.
"Any word on the situation topside?" Silverlock could feel their pursuers getting closer; they'd grown in numbers since the chase began, and the majority of them were Riftspawn.
"Messy. Riots and monsters in the streets; the Guildmaster had everyone evacuate- the librarian, Lady Ivy, and I are the only ones left." His ears swiveled, and he narrowed his eyes at Silverlock. "You two brought me some trouble, didn't you?"
"Don't we always?" Water welled up out of the cracks between the paving stones and ran in rivulets around Blaine's bare feet. The air shivered with aether.
Maddel rolled his eyes. "Trouble, I can deal with. What I can't deal with is you flooding my tunnel because you can't keep yourself in check." He hefted one of the metal cannisters onto his back by a carrying strap; there was a canvas wrapped hose attached to it, and a spray nozzle. "You'll be wanting to follow the Guildmaster, if you're looking for more trouble. He took the low road, and if I know him at all- which I do- he'll be heading towards the Tower."
The water slowed to a halt and seeped back into the cracks in the floor. Blaine grinned. "Good. I've got a few things I need to say to him." His feet left wet footprints on the stones as he strode into the darkness behind Maddel.
Maddel took out a long, thin cigarette and put it in his mouth, but did not light it. He frowned, glancing sidelong down the darkened tunnel after Blaine. "Think I liked him better when he was twitchy and insecure."
Silverlock chose to ignore that comment, and fingered the hilts of his knives. "There's a nest of Yrkathi and their thralls coming this way, old man. You should look for higher ground."
The old elf pulled on his gloves. "Look after yourself, boy. I'm not going to die at the hands of some half-assed Rift-scum. Ah, wait." He fumbled in one of the many pockets on his vest and held out a ring. "Here. This is yours, by rights, and you ought to have it before any more of us die. Beziemyanie'i Mech Ordeni- Order of the Nameless Sword. Belonged to your mother, rest her soul."
"What?" It was a heavy signet ring, inscribed with a variation on the too-familiar broken tower of the DeLavrey family, crossed with a broken sword. Shock turned to anger as he clenched the ring in his fist. "Old man, if you're about to tell me you're my sire, I don't want to hear it," he warned, voice tight.
"Hardly." Maddel grinned around his unlit cigarette. "If you were mine, you'd be taller."
That accorded him some small measure of relief, though he resolved to make Maddel pay for the comment on his height. Later, though. "I don't have time for this."
"Indeed you don't. I can explain it all later, but right now you'd best catch up to his Holiness before he drowns in his own power. You're the only thing keeping him grounded at this point."
"I know." Silverlock threaded the ring beside his Guild tags on the chain around his neck. "Try not to die, old man. We have things to discuss."
Maddel nodded, and pulled his goggles down over his eyes. "Stay alive, boy. And if there are any Riftspawn loose on the streets, you're like to find your sire in the thick of them. Send him my regards if you find him."
He was gone before Maddel finished speaking, gliding silently into the darkness of the low tunnels.
-------
Maddel kicked most of the canisters down the tunnel; if this failed on the first shot, they wouldn't do him any good. Then he sprayed the contents of the rest across the walls and floor for a good thirty yard stretch of tunnel. Preparations made, he sat down on the last full canister and waited, ears straining to hear the sounds of the approaching mob.
They came quickly, which was a happy thing; he'd just doused the tunnel in high grade medicinal alcohol, and his tolerance for the fumes was not a thing he cared to test. He stood and swung the last canister with a spray nozzle onto his shoulder.
The Yrkathi came around the corner en masse; the nest was a moving swarm of limbs, teeth, and tentacles. Maddel smiled around his unlit cigarette. Elsewhere in the city, the other members of the Order would be taking down whatever Riftspawn they came across; this was what they lived for.
The nest slowed when it reached the hallway, confused by the vapors in the air. "Come and get me, you fatherless sons of bitches," he called out in a sing song voice. "Come and get me."
The Yrkathi snarled at him, and lumbered closer, kicking cannisters out of the way.
"Too easy," he muttered, and pulled the trigger on the nozzle. A snap of his fingers, and the spray ignited, belching forth an enormous blue-white fireball.
The fumes and the alcohol dripping from the walls caught with a roar, and ghostly fire washed up and down the corridor. The other cannisters were under pressure; they exploded when the flames reached them. Soon the roar of the flames was joined by the screams of the burning Riftspawn. Every few seconds the fire would flow back down the hall as it found more vapors to burn.
Maddel perched on an empty canister, surrounded by this inferno, and calmly lit his cigarette.
-------------
-------------
In soviet Elvish forest, flame throws you! I can't believe my elves actually speak Russian. *facepalm*
The Order of the Nameless Sword is a secret society founded by a few elves at the end of the Second Era; they're dedicated to keeping the Rift shut and protecting the middle plane from Riftspawn and the lower gods. Basically, they're supposed to prevent the very thing that happens in Toggle, with Rekashi and the Guildmaster and Dekar. (I have plot that almost makes sense. This excites me so much.) It isn't unheard of for non-elves to be inducted; there was a time in the Third Era when anti-elvish sentiment was at its highest that the Order was composed almost entirely of humans.
Maddel is one of the oldest members in the Order, and he's the head of the Shaivhen chapter. He's not Silverlock's father (thank goodness, because what, none of that), but he is close friends with Tyrrick Ridelaine, who is. Tyrrick is the elvish representative to Parliament, and a longstanding member of the Order. He's also something of a sap and a very outspoken Emancipationist. (There's angst there- when Silverlock was born, his mother sold him off without consulting Tyrrick first, and Tyrrick never forgave her for that. She eventually died of natural causes, after living to a decent human age.)
I don't think Tyrrick and Silverlock will ever meet; they would have nothing to say to each other. Silverlock would get annoyed, Tyrrick would get depressed, and it would just end badly all around. Tyrrick and Blaine meet, but only when Blaine is half crazy from being turned into an Avatar.
Silverlock gets his magic and much of his looks from his father; they're both short and stocky and vaguely Asian-looking, and they're both leechmages. Tyrrick is an occultist (something like a summoner or elementalist), while Silverlock is an eclectic with specializations in destructive necromancy. (The urge to indulge myself and write the fifth-era "everyone is reincarnated as a grad student" story to explain the magic system grows with every passing moment.)
I'm fond of Tyrrick; he's a terrible politician, but an amazingly competent mage and demonslayer. He really just needs to quit his day job and go into heroing full time.