Well I guess I'll treat her right
I guess I'll treat her right more this time
I'll try not to rely
Try not to rely on the perfect line
And I see no boundaries
Except for the ones I'm in
And I don't expect you to overcome them
For that's my job description
In a world of players and private eyes
Unless you realize this
There's a whole lot that you could miss
Do you know which one I am
I am the cigarette smoking man
Once an hour I light the flower
And burn baby burn
When is it your turn
Lord tell me when the sun goes down
Cause I feel much better then anyway
Well I see much much better then anyway
Well I feel exposed
Although I feel at home
Dressed as a black plastic rose
All flowing head shoulders knees and toes
We dance, we dance, we play, we rant and rave
Oh this childlike wildlife is flooring me
Oh this childlike wildlife is flooring me
Early in the morning
Late in the evening
Evening, we kinda get delirious
Breaking from the seriousness
I try not to get disoriented
Having chewed too many up on my side
Is it any wonder how I missed your smile
Is it any wonder how I write
Pages layered upon pages
Which to no one else but me can be accounted for
For this moments sake
I do not become me
For path tunnels or straightaways
I do not watch as often as I should
So instead I sketch my life a comfortable creature
Slow and beautifully
Oh the smells and tastes of the past nights
Well they're still locked up in my gentle jaw
Not that I am wanting them to go
Just that they are
And I'm very much aware
The madness of slow motion as you move your legs to walk
I'm very much aware
Of this madness when you talk
This childlike wildlife is flooring me
Oh this childlike wildlife is flooring me
We dance, we play
Oh lord we rant and rave
We dance and we play always
-Jason Mraz, "Childlike Wildlife"
This song wins at getting stuck in my head more than anything, ever. I find myself singing pieces of it all the time, not even half aware that I'm doing so.
I listen to a lot of Jason Mraz when I'm unhappy; it doesn't help much these days, but it used to. Now I only listen to his live music, because it's too mellow for words.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
What the 1/k.
3/50 Sentences- FFT, Ramza/Mustadio, with the occasional angsty Ramza/Delita overtones. (I'm probably not even going to do a claim, since I'm terminally incapable of finishing things- but some of the prompts make me happy.)
9: King
They saw the coronation fliers on every streetcorner; Ramza kept his eyes on the ground as they walked.
14: Command
He wasn't a soldier, but he would follow Ramza to hell if it was asked of him, even knowing there would be no turning back.
34: Sing
He couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but that never stopped him; Ramza was just as bad, providing accompaniment on a grass flute.
More later, maybe. 1sentence is the greatest thing since sliced bread; doing 1 sentence themes is hard, but the people who do it well do it really well.
9: King
They saw the coronation fliers on every streetcorner; Ramza kept his eyes on the ground as they walked.
14: Command
He wasn't a soldier, but he would follow Ramza to hell if it was asked of him, even knowing there would be no turning back.
34: Sing
He couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but that never stopped him; Ramza was just as bad, providing accompaniment on a grass flute.
More later, maybe. 1sentence is the greatest thing since sliced bread; doing 1 sentence themes is hard, but the people who do it well do it really well.
This wasn't quite what I wanted to write.
I often feel helpless and hopeless- lately "often" has come to mean "constantly," for various reasons, both real and imagined. At the moment, the only excuse I have for not finding help or hope is that tears inevitably accompany both. And as long as I hate crying more than I hate myself, I will survive as I have. Even if the scale should tip in favor of self loathing, I expect I would still continue on as I am.
I don't deal with things. I avoid them. This is nothing new, and if people care enough to find themselves losing any respect they might have had for me because of it, they surely did not know me as well as they thought.
I exist. That's all. That's more than enough, for the moment; I'll worry about the rest later.
This too, shall pass. It always does, one way or another.
I don't deal with things. I avoid them. This is nothing new, and if people care enough to find themselves losing any respect they might have had for me because of it, they surely did not know me as well as they thought.
I exist. That's all. That's more than enough, for the moment; I'll worry about the rest later.
This too, shall pass. It always does, one way or another.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
huh.
we are living in the now and then,
in infrequent moments,
collecting seconds as they
sneak past us in the dead space
of everyday ordinary time.
they give impressions
of stillness, of warmth, of silence,
and when they fade they
leave the shadow of
loneliness, inverted,
underneath our eyelids.
in infrequent moments,
collecting seconds as they
sneak past us in the dead space
of everyday ordinary time.
they give impressions
of stillness, of warmth, of silence,
and when they fade they
leave the shadow of
loneliness, inverted,
underneath our eyelids.
Some people call me Maurice...
This new layout is brought to you by Barbara, the best geek on call ever, and my own inability to correct simple mistakes in HTML.
w00t, yo. Possibly I'll fuck with the spacing and the colors at a later date; for the time being, I'm pleased with this as it is.
w00t, yo. Possibly I'll fuck with the spacing and the colors at a later date; for the time being, I'm pleased with this as it is.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
These things don't have happy endings.
Augh this is full of sucking and awkward transitions and it's almost impossible to figure out what's actually going on without lots and lots of exposition! Blaine and Silverlock are officially introduced for the first time. Angst and vomit ensue.
Blaine's technical title is "Apostle," but he only expects it from people who piss him off- and nothing pisses him off more than a mangled body, so healing puts him in a state of almost constant rage.
(Also? I am derivative and unoriginal and a hack, but I love Eve Forward too much to care.)
-------------------------
"Shit, shit, shit! Where the hell is Maddel?" Blaine pointed at one of the apprentices with a gore covered finger. "You. Go get him. Drag him by his hair if you have to, just get him here. And you, bandages, needle, thread. You, second storeroom, third shelf, green box, and one of the small water jars. Why the fuck are you all just standing there? Go!"
The wide eyed apprentices scattered as he pulled out a pair of surgical shears and clipped through layers of blood stained cloth. "Fucking idiots. Acting like they've never seen someone dying before."
"S'not their job, is it, Healer Torkehaav?" The assassin on his table looked like he'd been through a meat grinder- which, given the identity of his target, wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility.
"With all due respect, Lord Coriss, we're all members of the Guild. If you can't handle a little blood, you don't belong here. Try not to scream." The assassin snickered as Blaine pulled away the remainder of his clothing. "If you're feeling well enough to laugh, Midnight, perhaps you'll feel well enough to remember my proper title," Blaine snapped.
"You're bitchy when you're working, Apostle." Midnight grinned, though it was more of a grimace. It was a wonder he was still conscious. "I think I like you better when I'm not bleeding to death."
Damned assassin stoicism. Of course he wasn't going to scream. They never screamed. "You try keeping idiots like you alive every day. Now shut up and let me work." He began removing the larger shards of glass from the wounds, cleaning away blood and grime as he went. He could feel Midnight's life force beneath his hands, growing fainter with every moment.
Blaine closed his eyes and concentrated, but the spark of energy didn't respond. Usually they never screamed because they were trained not to scream- but sometimes there were other reasons. "Midnight. What did you take?" The apprentices he'd sent for supplies appeared at his elbow, looking terrified. Blaine ignored them.
"Quirim." The assassin's eyes went glassy; his breathing took on a definite gurgle. "Three doses."
"Shit." Blaine tore open the lacings on his sleeve, revealing a set of vials strapped to his upper arm. He pulled out the stopper of one with his teeth. "Keep breathing, you idiot. I said breathe!" Noxious looking smoke rolled out of the vial; Midnight inhaled a lungfull of the stuff. His body convulsed once, and then he began screaming, horrible, hoarse, drawn out wails of incoherent pain.
Blaine could feel that spark of energy beneath his hands jumpstart; now all he had to do was put the man back together before the pain and bloodloss killed him. "Where the hell is Maddel? Here, the lot of you- get those wounds cleaned, starting with the one in his gut, then do the lungs."
He took the green box from one of the apprentices and upended its contents into the water jar. The silvery-pale dust gave the water a diffuse glow as it dissolved. Blaine submerged his hands in the water and started chanting. He ignored Midnight's screams and the twittering of the apprentices; the water was cold enough to numb his hands, and growing colder. By the time his fingers were swollen and aching from the chill, the water was glowing brightly, and Midnight hadn't stopped screaming.
"Keep screaming, Mid. That antidote will burn you out soon enough, so enjoy the ability to breathe for as long as you can." He pressed his dripping hands to the gaping hole in the assassin's abdomen; the apprentices had stitched up the smaller cuts and lacerations, but the truly life threatening injuries were things he had to deal with on his own.
The water was a catalyst, a link between his hands and the source of his power. His world narrowed to blood and bone, too-cold water, and the dry whisper of snakes in the back of his head. He stopped the worst of the bleeding and set bones straight. Where infection threatened, he burned it away. Throughout the entire process, he ignored the assassin's hoarse screams; it wasn't within his power to dull pain, and his brand of healing didn't take well to drugs. Once Midnight was no longer in danger of dying, he would be put into a healing coma for a few days until he recovered completely.
Blaine worked as quickly as possible without risking himself and his patient. Healing was dangerous; it was too easy to give too much, and the Guild lost nearly a dozen healers to burnout every year. He couldn't fix everything; all he could really do was keep the man from dying immediately.
The sound of snakes cut off suddenly, jarring him out of his healing trance. Midnight was still screaming, but after a moment, that sound stopped, too, replaced by shocked, labored breathing. Blaine looked up, dazed, then promptly doubled over, and vomited all over the feet of the nearest apprentice. He managed a few garbled curses between bouts of violent retching.
He shook off the worried hands of his apprentices when he finally managed to get his stomach under control. "I'm fine, you idiots. Pay attention to your work!" He pulled himself to his feet, clenching his jaw against the wave of blackness that obscured his vision.
"Blaine. Get out of here."
He opened his eyes and glared at the Master Healer, who stood in the doorway beside another man. "Where the hell were you, Maddel? And what is that doing in here?" He pointed at Maddel's companion with a shaking finger. His ears were ringing, and he couldn't see straight through the swirling blackness, but what little he could see of the other man screamed wrongness.
Maddel glared right back at Blaine. "I was with the Guildmaster and Lord D'Alestri, not that it's any of your business. Now get out. I'm relieving you of this patient."
"I'll be fine once someone gets that fucking Leech out of here!" He had to grab the edge of the operating table to keep from falling; his hands, covered in blood and holy water, nearly slipped.
"I'm here on the Guildmaster's orders, Healer Torkehaav. We need intel on Midnight's target, and we can't get that from him when he's in a coma." D'Alestri shrugged, and wrongness in the air intensified. "I wouldn't disturb your work otherwise."
"It's Apostle, and who the fuck asked you?"
The master healer rolled his eyes and pointed at the apprentices. "You two. Take him out of here. Go on, drag him away. He's too muddled to do anything, and even if he weren't, he'd still be more likely to hurt himself than you."
Blaine snarled curses at his apprentices, but they were all more afraid of Maddel than they were of him. By the time they pulled him into the hallway and shut the door behind them, most of the nausea faded away, replaced by feverish shivering. He could still feel D'Alestri's presence in the other room as a steady pulse against his senses, disgusting and wrong in a thousand different ways.
They deposited him on a bed in one of the empty wards and left him with a glass of water at his elbow. Anxiousness rolled off of them in waves, but they made a hasty exit anyway, not willing to spend another moment in his presence. A dry chuckle forced its way out of his throat; it had taken him months to instill that sort of bedside manner into his apprentices.
His laughter turned into a hiss of pain as his hands cramped and curled into useless hooks. He turned on his side in a half-hearted fetal position and began to pray, forcing the words out past the sickness that consumed him.
He was familiar with this sort of pennance; Varun was neither a patient nor a rational god, after all.
Blaine's technical title is "Apostle," but he only expects it from people who piss him off- and nothing pisses him off more than a mangled body, so healing puts him in a state of almost constant rage.
(Also? I am derivative and unoriginal and a hack, but I love Eve Forward too much to care.)
-------------------------
"Shit, shit, shit! Where the hell is Maddel?" Blaine pointed at one of the apprentices with a gore covered finger. "You. Go get him. Drag him by his hair if you have to, just get him here. And you, bandages, needle, thread. You, second storeroom, third shelf, green box, and one of the small water jars. Why the fuck are you all just standing there? Go!"
The wide eyed apprentices scattered as he pulled out a pair of surgical shears and clipped through layers of blood stained cloth. "Fucking idiots. Acting like they've never seen someone dying before."
"S'not their job, is it, Healer Torkehaav?" The assassin on his table looked like he'd been through a meat grinder- which, given the identity of his target, wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility.
"With all due respect, Lord Coriss, we're all members of the Guild. If you can't handle a little blood, you don't belong here. Try not to scream." The assassin snickered as Blaine pulled away the remainder of his clothing. "If you're feeling well enough to laugh, Midnight, perhaps you'll feel well enough to remember my proper title," Blaine snapped.
"You're bitchy when you're working, Apostle." Midnight grinned, though it was more of a grimace. It was a wonder he was still conscious. "I think I like you better when I'm not bleeding to death."
Damned assassin stoicism. Of course he wasn't going to scream. They never screamed. "You try keeping idiots like you alive every day. Now shut up and let me work." He began removing the larger shards of glass from the wounds, cleaning away blood and grime as he went. He could feel Midnight's life force beneath his hands, growing fainter with every moment.
Blaine closed his eyes and concentrated, but the spark of energy didn't respond. Usually they never screamed because they were trained not to scream- but sometimes there were other reasons. "Midnight. What did you take?" The apprentices he'd sent for supplies appeared at his elbow, looking terrified. Blaine ignored them.
"Quirim." The assassin's eyes went glassy; his breathing took on a definite gurgle. "Three doses."
"Shit." Blaine tore open the lacings on his sleeve, revealing a set of vials strapped to his upper arm. He pulled out the stopper of one with his teeth. "Keep breathing, you idiot. I said breathe!" Noxious looking smoke rolled out of the vial; Midnight inhaled a lungfull of the stuff. His body convulsed once, and then he began screaming, horrible, hoarse, drawn out wails of incoherent pain.
Blaine could feel that spark of energy beneath his hands jumpstart; now all he had to do was put the man back together before the pain and bloodloss killed him. "Where the hell is Maddel? Here, the lot of you- get those wounds cleaned, starting with the one in his gut, then do the lungs."
He took the green box from one of the apprentices and upended its contents into the water jar. The silvery-pale dust gave the water a diffuse glow as it dissolved. Blaine submerged his hands in the water and started chanting. He ignored Midnight's screams and the twittering of the apprentices; the water was cold enough to numb his hands, and growing colder. By the time his fingers were swollen and aching from the chill, the water was glowing brightly, and Midnight hadn't stopped screaming.
"Keep screaming, Mid. That antidote will burn you out soon enough, so enjoy the ability to breathe for as long as you can." He pressed his dripping hands to the gaping hole in the assassin's abdomen; the apprentices had stitched up the smaller cuts and lacerations, but the truly life threatening injuries were things he had to deal with on his own.
The water was a catalyst, a link between his hands and the source of his power. His world narrowed to blood and bone, too-cold water, and the dry whisper of snakes in the back of his head. He stopped the worst of the bleeding and set bones straight. Where infection threatened, he burned it away. Throughout the entire process, he ignored the assassin's hoarse screams; it wasn't within his power to dull pain, and his brand of healing didn't take well to drugs. Once Midnight was no longer in danger of dying, he would be put into a healing coma for a few days until he recovered completely.
Blaine worked as quickly as possible without risking himself and his patient. Healing was dangerous; it was too easy to give too much, and the Guild lost nearly a dozen healers to burnout every year. He couldn't fix everything; all he could really do was keep the man from dying immediately.
The sound of snakes cut off suddenly, jarring him out of his healing trance. Midnight was still screaming, but after a moment, that sound stopped, too, replaced by shocked, labored breathing. Blaine looked up, dazed, then promptly doubled over, and vomited all over the feet of the nearest apprentice. He managed a few garbled curses between bouts of violent retching.
He shook off the worried hands of his apprentices when he finally managed to get his stomach under control. "I'm fine, you idiots. Pay attention to your work!" He pulled himself to his feet, clenching his jaw against the wave of blackness that obscured his vision.
"Blaine. Get out of here."
He opened his eyes and glared at the Master Healer, who stood in the doorway beside another man. "Where the hell were you, Maddel? And what is that doing in here?" He pointed at Maddel's companion with a shaking finger. His ears were ringing, and he couldn't see straight through the swirling blackness, but what little he could see of the other man screamed wrongness.
Maddel glared right back at Blaine. "I was with the Guildmaster and Lord D'Alestri, not that it's any of your business. Now get out. I'm relieving you of this patient."
"I'll be fine once someone gets that fucking Leech out of here!" He had to grab the edge of the operating table to keep from falling; his hands, covered in blood and holy water, nearly slipped.
"I'm here on the Guildmaster's orders, Healer Torkehaav. We need intel on Midnight's target, and we can't get that from him when he's in a coma." D'Alestri shrugged, and wrongness in the air intensified. "I wouldn't disturb your work otherwise."
"It's Apostle, and who the fuck asked you?"
The master healer rolled his eyes and pointed at the apprentices. "You two. Take him out of here. Go on, drag him away. He's too muddled to do anything, and even if he weren't, he'd still be more likely to hurt himself than you."
Blaine snarled curses at his apprentices, but they were all more afraid of Maddel than they were of him. By the time they pulled him into the hallway and shut the door behind them, most of the nausea faded away, replaced by feverish shivering. He could still feel D'Alestri's presence in the other room as a steady pulse against his senses, disgusting and wrong in a thousand different ways.
They deposited him on a bed in one of the empty wards and left him with a glass of water at his elbow. Anxiousness rolled off of them in waves, but they made a hasty exit anyway, not willing to spend another moment in his presence. A dry chuckle forced its way out of his throat; it had taken him months to instill that sort of bedside manner into his apprentices.
His laughter turned into a hiss of pain as his hands cramped and curled into useless hooks. He turned on his side in a half-hearted fetal position and began to pray, forcing the words out past the sickness that consumed him.
He was familiar with this sort of pennance; Varun was neither a patient nor a rational god, after all.
Song Call: Jason Mraz, Dream Life of Rand McNally
Who is he, Mr. Rand Mcnally?
I had I dream that mystery was me. Now who else could I be?
I dreamed I went to England and met the spice girls there for tea
They lost one more they're down from four to my favorite number three
But they're still quite spicy as the orange flavor
And oh so nice to do me the favor and lick my icing under the table now
But I gotta leave town mr. Nally, just as scary spice was about to go down on me
And don't ask how mr. Nally and give up the towel mr. Nally and run
I dreamed I went to Singapore got bored and robbed a liquor store
What for? Nobody knows I only took a couple of Marlboros
Oh but that was all they needed and the criminal was soon defeated
And now in jail I'm waiting for my punishment of caning
So I gotta think fast mr nally watch your ass, wake up and laugh and run
Better Mr run, mr rand, mr animator, mr mac, mr nally
Mr run, mr man, you got the knack for the rally And run
I had a chance to visit the north pole but it was way too cold to smoke
Oh my nose was freezing I should could do some coughing and wheezing
So I tried it anyway and the place went up in flames
How was I suppose to know you could catch fire to the snow?
Oh lord way to go mr nally, way to go, now you're melting the poles mr nally so run.
I jumped ship in NYC and headed south to Washington DC
Didn't think I'd go there but played some shows there fancy lucky me
But it is really slow there with our new president on TV
Too many politicians and liberal Christians they're all set out for me
Singing cast your vote mr nally, castrate your vote, say no you don't, just run
I thumbed a ride across the prairie, I got hitched in Vegas, yep, I got married
To a lady who left me she thought it's be funny to gamble all my money
And I got stranded without my clothes, a little bit of fear and loathing all the time
I got chased by the rat pack once in a flashback. Singing viva Las Vegas
Singing Viva Las Vegas, oh run.
I settled down in san diego and smoked a joint with java joe
And with a grin he took me in, I spilled coffee on my chin
and I played my show there and met my bitches and hoes there
and with my holy ho they kindly let me shake my tail there
but one more thing before we go, there's never been any place quite like this home
for once in a life time maybe, I'd be foolish not to stay
oh I got to get away mr. nally, runnin the play, what can I say mr. nally?
run run run run run away mr. nally.
C'est la vie. C'est c'est c'est c'est la vie
oh c'est la vie
-Jason Mraz, Dream Life of Rand McNally
Jason Mraz sings lyrical porn and I wish more than anything that he would tour somewhere near me again.
My head is full of words and none of them make sense; I can't think straight anymore. Feeling some free thought in my near future; can't think of why I haven't done it already, given how screwed up my head is right now.
I had I dream that mystery was me. Now who else could I be?
I dreamed I went to England and met the spice girls there for tea
They lost one more they're down from four to my favorite number three
But they're still quite spicy as the orange flavor
And oh so nice to do me the favor and lick my icing under the table now
But I gotta leave town mr. Nally, just as scary spice was about to go down on me
And don't ask how mr. Nally and give up the towel mr. Nally and run
I dreamed I went to Singapore got bored and robbed a liquor store
What for? Nobody knows I only took a couple of Marlboros
Oh but that was all they needed and the criminal was soon defeated
And now in jail I'm waiting for my punishment of caning
So I gotta think fast mr nally watch your ass, wake up and laugh and run
Better Mr run, mr rand, mr animator, mr mac, mr nally
Mr run, mr man, you got the knack for the rally And run
I had a chance to visit the north pole but it was way too cold to smoke
Oh my nose was freezing I should could do some coughing and wheezing
So I tried it anyway and the place went up in flames
How was I suppose to know you could catch fire to the snow?
Oh lord way to go mr nally, way to go, now you're melting the poles mr nally so run.
I jumped ship in NYC and headed south to Washington DC
Didn't think I'd go there but played some shows there fancy lucky me
But it is really slow there with our new president on TV
Too many politicians and liberal Christians they're all set out for me
Singing cast your vote mr nally, castrate your vote, say no you don't, just run
I thumbed a ride across the prairie, I got hitched in Vegas, yep, I got married
To a lady who left me she thought it's be funny to gamble all my money
And I got stranded without my clothes, a little bit of fear and loathing all the time
I got chased by the rat pack once in a flashback. Singing viva Las Vegas
Singing Viva Las Vegas, oh run.
I settled down in san diego and smoked a joint with java joe
And with a grin he took me in, I spilled coffee on my chin
and I played my show there and met my bitches and hoes there
and with my holy ho they kindly let me shake my tail there
but one more thing before we go, there's never been any place quite like this home
for once in a life time maybe, I'd be foolish not to stay
oh I got to get away mr. nally, runnin the play, what can I say mr. nally?
run run run run run away mr. nally.
C'est la vie. C'est c'est c'est c'est la vie
oh c'est la vie
-Jason Mraz, Dream Life of Rand McNally
Jason Mraz sings lyrical porn and I wish more than anything that he would tour somewhere near me again.
My head is full of words and none of them make sense; I can't think straight anymore. Feeling some free thought in my near future; can't think of why I haven't done it already, given how screwed up my head is right now.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
ZOOMG
I currently have about half a dozen unfinished entries to clean up and post; most of them are analytical essays on One Piece and Naruto, interspersed with some ecstatic and incoherent fangirlish squeeing. I've got some Silverlock and Theron nonsense, too, but that won't finish itself either.
So, I've finally hit upon a thought that I can complete and post in its entirety.
One Piece 400 and 401:
WHAT THE FRISBEE O EM GEE ODA WHY WHAT HOW AWESOME AWESOME AWESOME OH GOD KAKU I'M SO SORRY, YOU WERE ALWAYS MY FAVORITE MEMBER OF THE ZOO.
OH GOD, THE ZOO. THE FUCKING ZOO. WHAT THE HELL.
Seriously though, Kaku was my favorite, next to Lucci. And now? Now? Now he's even more awesome. The characters, they keep doing that.
The zoo. *dies*
So, I've finally hit upon a thought that I can complete and post in its entirety.
One Piece 400 and 401:
WHAT THE FRISBEE O EM GEE ODA WHY WHAT HOW AWESOME AWESOME AWESOME OH GOD KAKU I'M SO SORRY, YOU WERE ALWAYS MY FAVORITE MEMBER OF THE ZOO.
OH GOD, THE ZOO. THE FUCKING ZOO. WHAT THE HELL.
Seriously though, Kaku was my favorite, next to Lucci. And now? Now? Now he's even more awesome. The characters, they keep doing that.
The zoo. *dies*
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Situation Normal
Silverlock is mildly angsty and Theron is a close minded idiot. SNAFU.
---------
The sound of running water was everywhere, dampening the noise of the city beyond the walls. Something slithered over Theron's bare foot; he very resolutely did not crawl out of his skin when it happened.
"Why are we here, again?" He wanted to go back to the manor. He wanted his shoes back. He wanted to get out of this place, with its vine-covered ceilings and watery whispers and slithering things.
Silverlock ignored him and knelt before one of the stone icons lining the walls of the gallery. The carving had been defaced, literally- someone had chipped away at the image until only the right eye and the impression of a jawline remained. There was a low shelf of candles beneath the icon. Silverlock lit three with his fingertips and bowed his head over them.
The walls crawled with squirming threads of something bright and half-familiar; it left a sour taste in the back of his throat, like unripe fruit. Silverlock, in contrast, had lowered his mental and magical defenses almost completely, and radiated death like a maggoty apple. In the diluted light of this place, the candles played merry hell with the shadows, throwing the painted contours of the mage's face into sharp relief and highlighting the whispered movements of his lips.
Theron stared at him, caught in the contemplation of form and pattern. It took a moment for the image to resovle itself in his mind as prayer; when it did, he barely restrained his bemused laughter. Praying was something old men and pregnant women did (his mother hadn't) alone, in utter privacy.
He cleared his throat, but Silverlock continued to ignore him. He shrugged and made his way towards the far end of the gallery, keeping an eye out for more snakes. Rothcarans were a bizarre people, with their shameless exhibitionism and pagan gods- but that was hardly news.
The gallery was lined with dozens of icons, each set in an alcove with its own shelf of candles. Here and there, men and women knelt before them, praying. Water ran from spigots in the walls, flowing freely along channels in the floor; the constant splashing and the occasional reptilian hiss were the only sounds in the room.
There was an open doorway at the end of the room. A pair of serpents twined around the arch of the lintel and stared at him with blue-gray pearls for eyes. The space beyond was dark, but he could hear more running water and faint voices. Silverlock had said something about not wandering off, but Theron wasn't going to make a habit out of listening to him.
"My influence here only extends so far. Keep walking, and I won't be able to protect you."
Theron stiffened and glanced over his shoulder. He still didn't understand how Silverlock could move so silently, weighted down as he was by a good three stones of gold and silver. None of the chains or bells made so much as a whisper when he moved.
He sneered. "You mean there are places where the universe doesn't arrange itself according to your whim? Shocking."
"Say another word and I'll dismember you and feed you to the snakes." Silverlock's glare was several degrees colder than pure scorn. "Your arrogance is no longer amusing."
His face burned as he followed Silverlock out of the temple, but he kept his mouth shut.
---
1 stone is about 11 pounds; Silver outdoes just about anyone, ever, in terms of sheer bling. His pimp factor is off the charts.
Silverlock probably wasn't really praying; it's far more likely that he was either reciting sappy love poetry or telling dirty jokes. Blaine's afterlife is ever so entertaining.
---------
The sound of running water was everywhere, dampening the noise of the city beyond the walls. Something slithered over Theron's bare foot; he very resolutely did not crawl out of his skin when it happened.
"Why are we here, again?" He wanted to go back to the manor. He wanted his shoes back. He wanted to get out of this place, with its vine-covered ceilings and watery whispers and slithering things.
Silverlock ignored him and knelt before one of the stone icons lining the walls of the gallery. The carving had been defaced, literally- someone had chipped away at the image until only the right eye and the impression of a jawline remained. There was a low shelf of candles beneath the icon. Silverlock lit three with his fingertips and bowed his head over them.
The walls crawled with squirming threads of something bright and half-familiar; it left a sour taste in the back of his throat, like unripe fruit. Silverlock, in contrast, had lowered his mental and magical defenses almost completely, and radiated death like a maggoty apple. In the diluted light of this place, the candles played merry hell with the shadows, throwing the painted contours of the mage's face into sharp relief and highlighting the whispered movements of his lips.
Theron stared at him, caught in the contemplation of form and pattern. It took a moment for the image to resovle itself in his mind as prayer; when it did, he barely restrained his bemused laughter. Praying was something old men and pregnant women did (his mother hadn't) alone, in utter privacy.
He cleared his throat, but Silverlock continued to ignore him. He shrugged and made his way towards the far end of the gallery, keeping an eye out for more snakes. Rothcarans were a bizarre people, with their shameless exhibitionism and pagan gods- but that was hardly news.
The gallery was lined with dozens of icons, each set in an alcove with its own shelf of candles. Here and there, men and women knelt before them, praying. Water ran from spigots in the walls, flowing freely along channels in the floor; the constant splashing and the occasional reptilian hiss were the only sounds in the room.
There was an open doorway at the end of the room. A pair of serpents twined around the arch of the lintel and stared at him with blue-gray pearls for eyes. The space beyond was dark, but he could hear more running water and faint voices. Silverlock had said something about not wandering off, but Theron wasn't going to make a habit out of listening to him.
"My influence here only extends so far. Keep walking, and I won't be able to protect you."
Theron stiffened and glanced over his shoulder. He still didn't understand how Silverlock could move so silently, weighted down as he was by a good three stones of gold and silver. None of the chains or bells made so much as a whisper when he moved.
He sneered. "You mean there are places where the universe doesn't arrange itself according to your whim? Shocking."
"Say another word and I'll dismember you and feed you to the snakes." Silverlock's glare was several degrees colder than pure scorn. "Your arrogance is no longer amusing."
His face burned as he followed Silverlock out of the temple, but he kept his mouth shut.
---
1 stone is about 11 pounds; Silver outdoes just about anyone, ever, in terms of sheer bling. His pimp factor is off the charts.
Silverlock probably wasn't really praying; it's far more likely that he was either reciting sappy love poetry or telling dirty jokes. Blaine's afterlife is ever so entertaining.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
I'm tired of this. Can I trade it for some Australia?
twenty eight days half gone
and marked by dying roses,
discarded candy wrappers, and pink
carnations; cookie crumbs and
promises, swept away with salt and sand
and other agents of anti-freeze.
just so much grit on the floor.
the mud is everywhere, sticking
to careless feet the way humid
air sticks in careless throats
that foolishly seek to breathe.
This is February out of joint,
unfit for human consumption
in ways beyond the usual.
there is no air here, only mud
and the promise of fourteen more days
of broken hearts and broken weather.
who knew sunshine would be so
offensive? how strange indeed, that
we should prefer the could and snow
to endless days of almost rain. misery
of a different color, but misery
all the same. it's February, that
most abused of months: a month of
purgatory and pagan inclinations,
pathetic with its paltry allotment
of days and daylight. Each sunset
comes too slowly, followed by an
even more lethargic dawn. (this month
is far too short to be this long) we could
be trapped forever, staring at the sun.
who knows what days lie hidden, waiting
beyond that incandescent stretch of sky?
----
If I hear another person complain about the weather, I will be forced to choke a bitch. That is all.
and marked by dying roses,
discarded candy wrappers, and pink
carnations; cookie crumbs and
promises, swept away with salt and sand
and other agents of anti-freeze.
just so much grit on the floor.
the mud is everywhere, sticking
to careless feet the way humid
air sticks in careless throats
that foolishly seek to breathe.
This is February out of joint,
unfit for human consumption
in ways beyond the usual.
there is no air here, only mud
and the promise of fourteen more days
of broken hearts and broken weather.
who knew sunshine would be so
offensive? how strange indeed, that
we should prefer the could and snow
to endless days of almost rain. misery
of a different color, but misery
all the same. it's February, that
most abused of months: a month of
purgatory and pagan inclinations,
pathetic with its paltry allotment
of days and daylight. Each sunset
comes too slowly, followed by an
even more lethargic dawn. (this month
is far too short to be this long) we could
be trapped forever, staring at the sun.
who knows what days lie hidden, waiting
beyond that incandescent stretch of sky?
----
If I hear another person complain about the weather, I will be forced to choke a bitch. That is all.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Decemberfic: Naruto, Undiagnosed
Undiagnosed: Tsunade and Orochimaru, and the ideology of the cancer cell.
fanfiction.net
ficwad
The pit of (unfrozen) voles is being wonky for some reason, though hitting refresh incessantly seems to help.
Still not totally happy with the writing (when am I ever? I think my writing skills have deteriorated since entering college, I really do- but then I look back at my older things, and realize that, no, I've just always been full of sucking). But I suppose it isn't completely horrible.
Also finally got around to fixing the formatting on Spirals; for some reason, people are still reading that piece of dreck. (One of my least favorite pieces from last year, and yet it's my most frequently recced piece. Weird.) More people are reading the bloody apronfic, though, and that burns me even worse. I die a little inside every time some squeaky twelve year old fangirl gives me "OMG Kakashi/Sasuke is SO CUUUUUUTE ur fic is liek awesome rite mor oKAY!" for a review.
The whole point of that pairing is that it's fundamentally fucked up. Get with the program, you squeaky fangirls.
I think I need to start writing Bleach or One Piece. It will hurt my soul less. *sigh*
fanfiction.net
ficwad
The pit of (unfrozen) voles is being wonky for some reason, though hitting refresh incessantly seems to help.
Still not totally happy with the writing (when am I ever? I think my writing skills have deteriorated since entering college, I really do- but then I look back at my older things, and realize that, no, I've just always been full of sucking). But I suppose it isn't completely horrible.
Also finally got around to fixing the formatting on Spirals; for some reason, people are still reading that piece of dreck. (One of my least favorite pieces from last year, and yet it's my most frequently recced piece. Weird.) More people are reading the bloody apronfic, though, and that burns me even worse. I die a little inside every time some squeaky twelve year old fangirl gives me "OMG Kakashi/Sasuke is SO CUUUUUUTE ur fic is liek awesome rite mor oKAY!" for a review.
The whole point of that pairing is that it's fundamentally fucked up. Get with the program, you squeaky fangirls.
I think I need to start writing Bleach or One Piece. It will hurt my soul less. *sigh*
Blaine/Silverlock STUPIDITY
Apostles of Varun are forbidden from doing harm to anything. This manifests in unfortunate ways for Blaine, because he works for the Assassin's Guild, and if he so much as looks at a knife too hard, he cuts himself.
Also, Blaine is somewhere around 5'10" with a fairly ordinary build. Completely unremarkable, physically, aside from some bizarre scarring on one side of his body. Silverlock is 5'4", occasionally gets cracks about being half dwarf instead of elf, and has maybe three square inches of untatooed, unscarred, or unpierced skin. Together, they look ridiculous.
And yes, Silverlock wears bitch boots all the time.Also they are such teenage girls it isn't funny ohgod why do I suck.
-----
Silverlock had grown accustomed to his presence inciting a number of strange responses in others; part of the reason he so delighted in Blaine's company was the sheer range of expression the other man was capable of.
He had thought they'd gotten past the violent part of their relationship five months ago, however.
"You punched me. What the hell was that for?" He cradled his aching cheek in one hand and gave the other man a bemused look.
"It's our aniversary." Blaine was cradling the hand he'd punched Silverlock with. "And don't start with me, you won't even bruise. My hand is broken."
"Aniversary of what?" Silverlock scowled. Blaine's knuckles had already begun swelling, and his fingers were bent at odd angles. "If you knew that was going to happen when you hit me, why'd you do it?"
"Aniversary of the first time we met. The only other appropriate course of action would've been to vomit all over your shoes again, and I like you in those boots." His hand made a painful crunching sound as he realigned the bones.
"Huh." He looked down at his boots. They were good boots; when he was wearing them, he was at eye level with Blaine's mouth, instead of his collarbones. "You could vomit all over one of your apprentices. You did that, too, if I recall correctly," he said thoughtfully.
Blaine glared. "I hate you, sometimes."
He liked not having to tilt his head much to kiss the other man; efficiency was a virtue. "I know it. Come on, lets go get some ice for your hand. Maybe Maddel will be willing to heal it for you."
"He won't be. He hasn't done anything but laugh ever since the cutlery incident." Blaine sighed mournfully.
"Your life is full of woe, isn't it?"
"Really hate you. All the time."
"Yes, dear."
Also, Blaine is somewhere around 5'10" with a fairly ordinary build. Completely unremarkable, physically, aside from some bizarre scarring on one side of his body. Silverlock is 5'4", occasionally gets cracks about being half dwarf instead of elf, and has maybe three square inches of untatooed, unscarred, or unpierced skin. Together, they look ridiculous.
And yes, Silverlock wears bitch boots all the time.
-----
Silverlock had grown accustomed to his presence inciting a number of strange responses in others; part of the reason he so delighted in Blaine's company was the sheer range of expression the other man was capable of.
He had thought they'd gotten past the violent part of their relationship five months ago, however.
"You punched me. What the hell was that for?" He cradled his aching cheek in one hand and gave the other man a bemused look.
"It's our aniversary." Blaine was cradling the hand he'd punched Silverlock with. "And don't start with me, you won't even bruise. My hand is broken."
"Aniversary of what?" Silverlock scowled. Blaine's knuckles had already begun swelling, and his fingers were bent at odd angles. "If you knew that was going to happen when you hit me, why'd you do it?"
"Aniversary of the first time we met. The only other appropriate course of action would've been to vomit all over your shoes again, and I like you in those boots." His hand made a painful crunching sound as he realigned the bones.
"Huh." He looked down at his boots. They were good boots; when he was wearing them, he was at eye level with Blaine's mouth, instead of his collarbones. "You could vomit all over one of your apprentices. You did that, too, if I recall correctly," he said thoughtfully.
Blaine glared. "I hate you, sometimes."
He liked not having to tilt his head much to kiss the other man; efficiency was a virtue. "I know it. Come on, lets go get some ice for your hand. Maybe Maddel will be willing to heal it for you."
"He won't be. He hasn't done anything but laugh ever since the cutlery incident." Blaine sighed mournfully.
"Your life is full of woe, isn't it?"
"Really hate you. All the time."
"Yes, dear."
Monday, February 06, 2006
The eroticism of sensory deprivation
AUGH, DRIVEL. The last line hurts me so much, because it's still not right. >_<
Silver and Blaine being unrepentantly fluffy, which doesn't happen as often as it ought to. They're too busy being full of angst and vomit most of the time. Dumbasses. (This was so much harder to write than it should have been. I'm going to have to write angst and vomit next to make up for it. *dies*)
-----
Cool fingers stirred him out of a post-coital doze as they traced over a set blue-black lines on his thigh. Silverlock's breath of soft laughter stirred Blaine's hair; he captured the errant hand in his own. "You like that one, don't you?"
"Mm. It's one of my favorites. Obscene." Blaine tilted his head to meet Silverlock's eyes. He smiled "Much like the rest of you."
"I strive at all times for consistency." He placed a kiss in Blaine's palm and released it. The tattoo in question was obscene, if one knew how to read it. Most of the patterns scrawled across his skin were perverse and obscene in some way; the tattoos were one of his primary power sources, after all.
To Blaine, they were poison, and the irony of that was not lost on either of them.
He touched Blaine's shoulder, sliding his fingers over shiny whorls of scar tissue. The other man's skin was warm beneath his hands. "This one," he said, rubbing his thumb across a dark, crescent shaped stretch of skin. "This one is my favorite."
"It's no different than the rest of them." Blaine muttered, turning his face to hide the blush creeping across his nose.
Skin told stories; his own detailed a narrative nearly a hundred years in the making. He could have read anyone else's skin with a single touch, but Blaine was a closed book to him in many ways. He was cut off from his magic out of necessity, and without it, his hands were blind.
Fortunately, the loss of once sense only served to sharpen those remaining. Silverlock smiled as he traced the edges of the scar first with his fingers, then with his tongue. Blaine's pleased laughter rang in his ears.
Skin told stories; this one was written in a language he couldn't understand, but he found himself learning the words to it anyway, expanding his vocabulary with every trembling touch.
Silver and Blaine being unrepentantly fluffy, which doesn't happen as often as it ought to. They're too busy being full of angst and vomit most of the time. Dumbasses. (This was so much harder to write than it should have been. I'm going to have to write angst and vomit next to make up for it. *dies*)
-----
Cool fingers stirred him out of a post-coital doze as they traced over a set blue-black lines on his thigh. Silverlock's breath of soft laughter stirred Blaine's hair; he captured the errant hand in his own. "You like that one, don't you?"
"Mm. It's one of my favorites. Obscene." Blaine tilted his head to meet Silverlock's eyes. He smiled "Much like the rest of you."
"I strive at all times for consistency." He placed a kiss in Blaine's palm and released it. The tattoo in question was obscene, if one knew how to read it. Most of the patterns scrawled across his skin were perverse and obscene in some way; the tattoos were one of his primary power sources, after all.
To Blaine, they were poison, and the irony of that was not lost on either of them.
He touched Blaine's shoulder, sliding his fingers over shiny whorls of scar tissue. The other man's skin was warm beneath his hands. "This one," he said, rubbing his thumb across a dark, crescent shaped stretch of skin. "This one is my favorite."
"It's no different than the rest of them." Blaine muttered, turning his face to hide the blush creeping across his nose.
Skin told stories; his own detailed a narrative nearly a hundred years in the making. He could have read anyone else's skin with a single touch, but Blaine was a closed book to him in many ways. He was cut off from his magic out of necessity, and without it, his hands were blind.
Fortunately, the loss of once sense only served to sharpen those remaining. Silverlock smiled as he traced the edges of the scar first with his fingers, then with his tongue. Blaine's pleased laughter rang in his ears.
Skin told stories; this one was written in a language he couldn't understand, but he found himself learning the words to it anyway, expanding his vocabulary with every trembling touch.
Friday, February 03, 2006
One Piece recs!
I haven't fangirled at One Piece around here near as much as I should've; I'm going to sort of remedy that by giving y'all a sample of what I've been devouring over the past two weeks. (For those of you who haven't read One Piece, what are you waiting for? You can get scanlations from Stop Tazmo or, if you ask nicely and Seph feels like recognizing blank CDs, I'll burn off everything up to 396 and send it to you. Anything to spread the love.)
All genres, all pairings, all levels of spoiling.
Ordinary Day by Sanoken. Primarily Luffy/Zoro; a combination of sap, smut, and silliness. This is, possibly, my most favorite fic ever. No spoilers- just an ordinary day on the Going Merry, and Zoro sometimes wonders how he ended up surrounded by these crazy people.
Communication by Jaelle. Vaguely Zoro/Luffy, mostly humor. This would be my other most favorite fic ever because the characters are all so absofuckinglutely perfect. The first part of the fic could easily happen in an actual chapter or episode- really, one can never have too much fun with the snail phone.
Cue the Heart Shaped Fade by Huabot. Sanji/Zoro, mild spoiling up to Davy Back; a series of moments with hints of lemon. I like the way this is organized into a handful of very short, evocative scenes. Check out Huabot's memories, as ze's fic is quite tasty and delicious.
Ode to the Gentlemen and the Secret Lovers by Zau. Luffy/Nami, Sanji/Robin, Nakamaship, no spoilers beyond Alabasta. Love the structure and the lyrical prose, and the way the occasional typos just make the whole piece that much more surreal and dreamlike. I've got a weakness for really well done Luffy/Nami (or any well done Luffy pairing), and it definitely helps that the rest of the crew is presented so perfectly.
Finding Rob Lucci by Linc. Lucci/Paulli SPOILERS EVERYWHERE. Ohgod, Water 7, why do you kill me so? Despite all of his various shortcomings, Lucci is probably the sexiest character in the entire series, barring Shanks and possibly Robin and maybe Aokiji, but that last one is debateable. Paulli, on the other hand, is like a ground-bound Cid Highwind with a gambling problem and a bondage fetish, and I should not like this pairing as much as I do, but I'm a shallow, shallow little fangirl.
What Are Friends For? by Bastian. Jango/Fullbody. Drunken marine groping! *snerk* It's physically impossible to not love Jango and Fullbody. If you tried, they would work their superior dancing skills and you would bend to their will. Or something.
Walking Through by Sherry Marie. Happy Birthday, Zoro. Various pairings; the whole thing is engineered to break your heart and leave you feeling empty and aching and wonderful in the way that really good fic tends to.
THE CALL OF PIRACY by Solderini. Spoilers through Alabasta; you really need to read the manga up to that point to truly appreciate this, and you need to have some very basic knowledge of the Cthulhu mythos. If you have those things, this is probably the funniest story in the history of everything.
These Days by Turklight. Brief little "Straw Hat Pirates Meet Red Hair Pirates" fic with a sort of stream of consciousness feel to it; it could have done with some editing, but the Usopp-Yasopp and Luffy-Shanks bits were so perfect I had to bookmark it.
All genres, all pairings, all levels of spoiling.
Ordinary Day by Sanoken. Primarily Luffy/Zoro; a combination of sap, smut, and silliness. This is, possibly, my most favorite fic ever. No spoilers- just an ordinary day on the Going Merry, and Zoro sometimes wonders how he ended up surrounded by these crazy people.
Communication by Jaelle. Vaguely Zoro/Luffy, mostly humor. This would be my other most favorite fic ever because the characters are all so absofuckinglutely perfect. The first part of the fic could easily happen in an actual chapter or episode- really, one can never have too much fun with the snail phone.
Cue the Heart Shaped Fade by Huabot. Sanji/Zoro, mild spoiling up to Davy Back; a series of moments with hints of lemon. I like the way this is organized into a handful of very short, evocative scenes. Check out Huabot's memories, as ze's fic is quite tasty and delicious.
Ode to the Gentlemen and the Secret Lovers by Zau. Luffy/Nami, Sanji/Robin, Nakamaship, no spoilers beyond Alabasta. Love the structure and the lyrical prose, and the way the occasional typos just make the whole piece that much more surreal and dreamlike. I've got a weakness for really well done Luffy/Nami (or any well done Luffy pairing), and it definitely helps that the rest of the crew is presented so perfectly.
Finding Rob Lucci by Linc. Lucci/Paulli SPOILERS EVERYWHERE. Ohgod, Water 7, why do you kill me so? Despite all of his various shortcomings, Lucci is probably the sexiest character in the entire series, barring Shanks and possibly Robin and maybe Aokiji, but that last one is debateable. Paulli, on the other hand, is like a ground-bound Cid Highwind with a gambling problem and a bondage fetish, and I should not like this pairing as much as I do, but I'm a shallow, shallow little fangirl.
What Are Friends For? by Bastian. Jango/Fullbody. Drunken marine groping! *snerk* It's physically impossible to not love Jango and Fullbody. If you tried, they would work their superior dancing skills and you would bend to their will. Or something.
Walking Through by Sherry Marie. Happy Birthday, Zoro. Various pairings; the whole thing is engineered to break your heart and leave you feeling empty and aching and wonderful in the way that really good fic tends to.
THE CALL OF PIRACY by Solderini. Spoilers through Alabasta; you really need to read the manga up to that point to truly appreciate this, and you need to have some very basic knowledge of the Cthulhu mythos. If you have those things, this is probably the funniest story in the history of everything.
These Days by Turklight. Brief little "Straw Hat Pirates Meet Red Hair Pirates" fic with a sort of stream of consciousness feel to it; it could have done with some editing, but the Usopp-Yasopp and Luffy-Shanks bits were so perfect I had to bookmark it.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Worldbuilding wank (how did this take me a month and a half to finish?)
OMG wank- further Rothcar blather. I should come up with a name for the continent, and maybe draw a map or three. Until then, have some discourse on the planes, the Shrive, Malestri, and various other non-human races. (WTF, brain. Seriously. Why the hell are we drawing planar-torque diagrams and why is vector multiplication even vaguely applicable? AUGH.)
This world has a triplane reality system comprised of a binary system and a separate plane: the upper and middle planes overlap each other at every angle, and the lower plane intersects them at a ninety degree angle. Because of this arrangement, travel between the planes is virtually impossible. It is far, far easier to travel to a completely different system than to move vertically along the plane system. (In other words, lateral movement is actually good stuff.) (Also: Brain, what the hell? AUGH.)
Most things live on the middle plane- it's where all your action takes place. The aetherial plane sits on top of the middle plan and extends further in every direction. The barrier between these two planes is semi-permeable, so mages and priests can draw out aetherial energy for use in spells.
The aetherial plane is incredibly inhospitable, being essentially a plane of pure spirit energy. (It's a little like the Lifestream, only without a physical manifestation.) Specialized magic users called Mystics can ascend to the aetherial plane, but once they move off the physical plane, they can't go back. Deities and ghosts also live in the aetherial plane. Eventually, ghosts and mystics get recycled into free floating spirit matter, which either gets used to create new souls or gets pulled through the semi-permeable plane barrier to be used by spell casters. (Magic use needs a separate post all on its own, because I'm too much of a wannabe science major to keep things bloody simple.)
The lower plane is sort of like hell; assorted nasties and evils live there, and any non-humans that accepted banishment in the earlier Eras. It was actually created by the giant bird-thing that hung out in the First Era as a deus ex plot device, but that's beside the point.
The only creatures capable of vertical planewalking are the Shrive and high caliber gods like Drazhene and Razhia. None of the members of the Fourth Era's pantheon are capable of planewalking; they can, however, turn creatures or objects on the middle plane into vessels and use them as Avatars. (Avatarization gets filed under magic use.)
Nobody really knows why the Shrive get to travel freely between the lower and middle planes, but they do it with impunity. The ease with which they travel depends on the type of Shrive; there's a Shrivish counterpart to most domestic animals. Cats are the most common in the Fourth Era, but there are a good number of birds and canines. Not many cattle, but there are Shrive-horses. The Shrive are all carnivorous, regardless of their shape, so cattle and sheep types are rare. It's difficult to blend in with the rest of the herd when you've got pointy teeth and smoldering eyes, after all.
They speak telepathically and have an aura of intense magical power about them. Some races are friendlier than others; Cats and some Birds are fond of humans, but Horses and most Dogs despise them. It's possible to summon a Shrive creature from the lower plane, but most mages underestimate the power of the thing they summon- and the Shrive can walk through magical barriers as easily as they can the border between planes. It's considered a bad career move to summon one against its will.
The Assassins' Guild has a retinue of Shrive Cats. They don't do much- like normal cats, they aren't interested in being constructive. They like the smell of blood and they like being scratched behind the ears, and the Guild has no problems with supplying them with these things. Since Blaine joined the staff, many of them hang around the Healers' Ward, making nuisances of themselves. They occasionally provide backup to the healers when it suits them, and a select few of them can be convinced to mediate between Silverlock and Blaine's holy allergies. Most of Blaine's closest friends are Shrive, because he has issues dealing with people after Nagendra banishes him from the Temple.
They keep an eye on him because he's responsible for Foxbird, who is, unbeknownst to most, one of the last surviving Malestri. Malestri are demons but, unlike the Shrive, they are native to the middle plane. They're nature spirits, but the spread of humanity into the forests and mountains has killed most of them. To survive, they need to adapt. A number of Malestri children were left in Shaivhen, so that future generations might learn to live in cities, beside humans. (When I say "humans," I mean "humanoid races." Shaivhen's population is at least a quarter fae, and most of the city dwellers have no connection to their native forests.)
Foxbird is, creatively enough, a fox-type Malestri. (Shut up, I came up with her when I was twelve.) She's the only survivor of her race that she knows of, though she hasn't spent much time outside of Shaivhen. No reason to- it's a big city, and there are plenty of things to do within its borders. If any of her family members are still alive, they've made no attempt to contact her; she can't remember anything of her life before Blaine adopted her, anyway.
Malestri are lycanthropic shape shifters. They gain some degree of control over their forms, but there are times when they involuntarily take on an animal shape. This isn't an issue for Malestri in their native habitat; many of them live their entire lives without taking a human form. Foxbird was raised human, so she has greater control over her shape- but when she was young, she still spent a great deal of time as a fox. This was a bit disconcerting for Blaine, who had no clue how to raise a human child, never mind a fox. As an adult, she still tends to sleep in her animal form when she's alone or on a job, just because it's easier on her mind and body.
The only other really important non-humans in the Fourth Era are the half-elves, dragons, naga, and to a much, much lesser extent, the elves and Gathare. The Gathare live in the desert in the south of Radrezaria, and look vaguely like giant, humanoid, winged lizard things. They have a nomadic, tribal culture, and they worshiped the Elemental of Fire before the sundering of the Six. In the Fourth Era, they're mostly extinct. Theron lives with them for a few months when he's a kid, and Silverlock works with a few after Blaine's death. Otherwise, they're not overly important to the plots of any of the Fourth Era stories.
Most of the elves planewalked it out of Rothcar after putting up with years and years of racial prejudice. Nobody likes elves. There are still a few wandering around the country, but there are hardly any in Shaivhen- the city has historically been a bastion of anti-elven sentiment. The northern parts of Rothcar, which border elvish territories, tend to be less hostile, and most elves hang out there, if anywhere.
There are, however, enough elves in Shaivhen to maintain a fairly steady half-elf population. There are a number of slave houses in Shaivhen that pay quite well for stud service, and the slave trade is one of the pillars of Shaivhen's economy. All citizens and non-human travelers register with the House of Customs; the city then turns this information over to the slave houses, so the slavers know exactly whom to harass to breed more slaves. It's a dirty, amoral business, but it pays amazingly well- and Shaivhen, for all its beauty and wonder, is a dirty, amoral city at heart.
Half-elven culture is one of my favorite things in Rothcar, because I've got such a ridiculous body mod fetish. Half-elves are slaves for the first third of their lives- generally around fifty years or so. They age very slowly and are bred for looks, so most of them end up in brothels (another booming industry in Shaivhen). Silverlock served the first half of his indenture in a very, very high class brothel before getting bought by a mage- his world view is appropriately skewed because of this.
Half-elves are sterile, so their "culture" is a made up thing- but they have the backing of a decently powerful god, so their traditions endure. The reason body art is so integral to their identities is because they spend so much of their lives as slaves. The only thing they are allowed to own is their skin. Everything else belongs to their owners, but their skin is theirs to do with as they please. Even the brothel slaves get to decorate themselves as they see fit; those that disfigure themselves to the point of no longer being marketable are sold off as laborers or shadow-servants.
Dragons are your standard reclusive, super-powerful giant monster things. They come in all shapes and sizes, but they're still nearly extinct, even after several thousand years of isolation. Both Rothcar and Radrezaria have deep historical connections to them, but the only place they've been seen in the Fourth Era is Luthra (Bren's home town). The rest planewalked to other systems, or hitched a ride with some Shrive to the lower plane.
Naga also have great historical significance in Rothcar, but by the Fourth Era, nobody really remembers or cares. Several very old family lines still live in Shaivhen, under Varun's protection; they are all highly respected scholars. Varun chooses one of them to be His Avatar and the head of His Church in Shaivhen. Normally, he chooses ones that are sane, unlike Nagendra. (Naga are of Hindu origin, which is why Varun's Avatars all get Hindi names. "Varun" is actually Hindi for "Lord of Water.")
AUGH. There are so many details that still don't make sense, and I just make it worse by throwing in pseudoscientific wankery at every turn. Wait until I try to explain magic. That's going to be a headache, believe you me.
This world has a triplane reality system comprised of a binary system and a separate plane: the upper and middle planes overlap each other at every angle, and the lower plane intersects them at a ninety degree angle. Because of this arrangement, travel between the planes is virtually impossible. It is far, far easier to travel to a completely different system than to move vertically along the plane system. (In other words, lateral movement is actually good stuff.) (Also: Brain, what the hell? AUGH.)
Most things live on the middle plane- it's where all your action takes place. The aetherial plane sits on top of the middle plan and extends further in every direction. The barrier between these two planes is semi-permeable, so mages and priests can draw out aetherial energy for use in spells.
The aetherial plane is incredibly inhospitable, being essentially a plane of pure spirit energy. (It's a little like the Lifestream, only without a physical manifestation.) Specialized magic users called Mystics can ascend to the aetherial plane, but once they move off the physical plane, they can't go back. Deities and ghosts also live in the aetherial plane. Eventually, ghosts and mystics get recycled into free floating spirit matter, which either gets used to create new souls or gets pulled through the semi-permeable plane barrier to be used by spell casters. (Magic use needs a separate post all on its own, because I'm too much of a wannabe science major to keep things bloody simple.)
The lower plane is sort of like hell; assorted nasties and evils live there, and any non-humans that accepted banishment in the earlier Eras. It was actually created by the giant bird-thing that hung out in the First Era as a deus ex plot device, but that's beside the point.
The only creatures capable of vertical planewalking are the Shrive and high caliber gods like Drazhene and Razhia. None of the members of the Fourth Era's pantheon are capable of planewalking; they can, however, turn creatures or objects on the middle plane into vessels and use them as Avatars. (Avatarization gets filed under magic use.)
Nobody really knows why the Shrive get to travel freely between the lower and middle planes, but they do it with impunity. The ease with which they travel depends on the type of Shrive; there's a Shrivish counterpart to most domestic animals. Cats are the most common in the Fourth Era, but there are a good number of birds and canines. Not many cattle, but there are Shrive-horses. The Shrive are all carnivorous, regardless of their shape, so cattle and sheep types are rare. It's difficult to blend in with the rest of the herd when you've got pointy teeth and smoldering eyes, after all.
They speak telepathically and have an aura of intense magical power about them. Some races are friendlier than others; Cats and some Birds are fond of humans, but Horses and most Dogs despise them. It's possible to summon a Shrive creature from the lower plane, but most mages underestimate the power of the thing they summon- and the Shrive can walk through magical barriers as easily as they can the border between planes. It's considered a bad career move to summon one against its will.
The Assassins' Guild has a retinue of Shrive Cats. They don't do much- like normal cats, they aren't interested in being constructive. They like the smell of blood and they like being scratched behind the ears, and the Guild has no problems with supplying them with these things. Since Blaine joined the staff, many of them hang around the Healers' Ward, making nuisances of themselves. They occasionally provide backup to the healers when it suits them, and a select few of them can be convinced to mediate between Silverlock and Blaine's holy allergies. Most of Blaine's closest friends are Shrive, because he has issues dealing with people after Nagendra banishes him from the Temple.
They keep an eye on him because he's responsible for Foxbird, who is, unbeknownst to most, one of the last surviving Malestri. Malestri are demons but, unlike the Shrive, they are native to the middle plane. They're nature spirits, but the spread of humanity into the forests and mountains has killed most of them. To survive, they need to adapt. A number of Malestri children were left in Shaivhen, so that future generations might learn to live in cities, beside humans. (When I say "humans," I mean "humanoid races." Shaivhen's population is at least a quarter fae, and most of the city dwellers have no connection to their native forests.)
Foxbird is, creatively enough, a fox-type Malestri. (Shut up, I came up with her when I was twelve.) She's the only survivor of her race that she knows of, though she hasn't spent much time outside of Shaivhen. No reason to- it's a big city, and there are plenty of things to do within its borders. If any of her family members are still alive, they've made no attempt to contact her; she can't remember anything of her life before Blaine adopted her, anyway.
Malestri are lycanthropic shape shifters. They gain some degree of control over their forms, but there are times when they involuntarily take on an animal shape. This isn't an issue for Malestri in their native habitat; many of them live their entire lives without taking a human form. Foxbird was raised human, so she has greater control over her shape- but when she was young, she still spent a great deal of time as a fox. This was a bit disconcerting for Blaine, who had no clue how to raise a human child, never mind a fox. As an adult, she still tends to sleep in her animal form when she's alone or on a job, just because it's easier on her mind and body.
The only other really important non-humans in the Fourth Era are the half-elves, dragons, naga, and to a much, much lesser extent, the elves and Gathare. The Gathare live in the desert in the south of Radrezaria, and look vaguely like giant, humanoid, winged lizard things. They have a nomadic, tribal culture, and they worshiped the Elemental of Fire before the sundering of the Six. In the Fourth Era, they're mostly extinct. Theron lives with them for a few months when he's a kid, and Silverlock works with a few after Blaine's death. Otherwise, they're not overly important to the plots of any of the Fourth Era stories.
Most of the elves planewalked it out of Rothcar after putting up with years and years of racial prejudice. Nobody likes elves. There are still a few wandering around the country, but there are hardly any in Shaivhen- the city has historically been a bastion of anti-elven sentiment. The northern parts of Rothcar, which border elvish territories, tend to be less hostile, and most elves hang out there, if anywhere.
There are, however, enough elves in Shaivhen to maintain a fairly steady half-elf population. There are a number of slave houses in Shaivhen that pay quite well for stud service, and the slave trade is one of the pillars of Shaivhen's economy. All citizens and non-human travelers register with the House of Customs; the city then turns this information over to the slave houses, so the slavers know exactly whom to harass to breed more slaves. It's a dirty, amoral business, but it pays amazingly well- and Shaivhen, for all its beauty and wonder, is a dirty, amoral city at heart.
Half-elven culture is one of my favorite things in Rothcar, because I've got such a ridiculous body mod fetish. Half-elves are slaves for the first third of their lives- generally around fifty years or so. They age very slowly and are bred for looks, so most of them end up in brothels (another booming industry in Shaivhen). Silverlock served the first half of his indenture in a very, very high class brothel before getting bought by a mage- his world view is appropriately skewed because of this.
Half-elves are sterile, so their "culture" is a made up thing- but they have the backing of a decently powerful god, so their traditions endure. The reason body art is so integral to their identities is because they spend so much of their lives as slaves. The only thing they are allowed to own is their skin. Everything else belongs to their owners, but their skin is theirs to do with as they please. Even the brothel slaves get to decorate themselves as they see fit; those that disfigure themselves to the point of no longer being marketable are sold off as laborers or shadow-servants.
Dragons are your standard reclusive, super-powerful giant monster things. They come in all shapes and sizes, but they're still nearly extinct, even after several thousand years of isolation. Both Rothcar and Radrezaria have deep historical connections to them, but the only place they've been seen in the Fourth Era is Luthra (Bren's home town). The rest planewalked to other systems, or hitched a ride with some Shrive to the lower plane.
Naga also have great historical significance in Rothcar, but by the Fourth Era, nobody really remembers or cares. Several very old family lines still live in Shaivhen, under Varun's protection; they are all highly respected scholars. Varun chooses one of them to be His Avatar and the head of His Church in Shaivhen. Normally, he chooses ones that are sane, unlike Nagendra. (Naga are of Hindu origin, which is why Varun's Avatars all get Hindi names. "Varun" is actually Hindi for "Lord of Water.")
AUGH. There are so many details that still don't make sense, and I just make it worse by throwing in pseudoscientific wankery at every turn. Wait until I try to explain magic. That's going to be a headache, believe you me.