SELF-INDULGENT DRIVEL/INFODUMP
Silverlock prepares for a funeral, and I am an opportunistic backstory/worldbuilding whore. -Or- I have no idea where this came from (that's a lie, that's a lie!) and all I really have to say is, WTF, Silverlock. WTF. Being solemn and cryptic doesn't count as angst.
Warnings for Silverlock wandering around bleeding and Blaine being both a transcendentalist and dead, but not at the same time. And warnings for nowhere near enough editing, dear god.
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A bell chimed as the door of the tattoo parlor opened; the girl behind the counter looked up from her sketchpad and grinned. "Well, if it isn't our favorite customer! It's been a while since you rang our bell, Silverlock." She was human, but she wore her skin like a half-elf, and left her apprentice smock unbuttoned to show off the geometric patterns that covered her shoulders and torso.
"It's good to see you, too, Annali. Is Zi in?" Silverlock untangled his hair from the hood of his cloak, still unaccustomed to the weight of the tiny braids.
"You even got skin left under that getup? Thought you'd covered it all over by now- unless you came for new shinies. We got those. What do you need?"
"A blank canvas."
The grin fell off her face in an instant. "Oh, no." She pressed a hand to her mouth. "Zi's gone to visit some of his Kin in Tarmish. Won't be back for another month. Silverlock..."
He shook his head, braids swaying violently with the motion. "It's two days to the funeral. I've already asked Sherrick and Orianne, but they're booked through to next week. Zi's the only other Kin in the city I'd trust for the job."
Annali tore a corner from her sketchpad and scribbled out an address. "Sherrick's a drunk and Ori don't know up from down, anyway. Here, you go to Kupric. Tell him I sent you."
He took the paper and raised an eyebrow at her. "Candlemark?"
"Lot of talent in Candlemark. Just gotta know where to look, s'all. He's the only man Zi'll let near him with a needle." She shrugged uneasily. "Get there early enough, and he'll take you, even for a clean slate."
"Thank you." He paused in the doorway. "You can tell Zi I'll have some work for him in a few months."
The bell chimed as the door shut behind him.
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The judicial council gave convicts two choices: they could work and live on the chain gangs in the rock quarries, or they could live as free citizens in Candlemark. Most of them chose the chain gangs. Silverlock had never had to deal much with the district's inhabitants; his clients had always made some effort to walk on the sunnier side of legality. The city watch had abandoned the place to the dogs, and the Guilds avoided it at all costs. Any gods that might have watched over it long ago were dead.
Candlemark was a breath of fresh anarchy; Silverlock had to remind himself that he wasn't here for a fight, no matter how much he itched to break some bones. He cloaked himself in power, sending a not-so-subtle message of "Fuck off" to the groups of hollow-eyed, wolf-like youths haunting the narrow streets. He'd promised to abstain from bloodshed, if only out of respect for the deceased.
Annali's scrap of paper led him to a battered door in a dark, narrow alley. The interlocking rings of Joshel's Shackles had been drawn on the weathered wood in chalk. The door swung open before he could knock.
"What do you want?" The man was practically a half-giant; he had to stoop to fit in the door. Lines of green and bronze bisected his face, and a row of interlocking bronze plates hooked into the skin of his neck as a collar. He radiated distrust and the threat of violence.
"Annali from Zizi's shop in Southmark sent me, said you did good work." Silverlock pulled back his cloak hood and tucked a few loose braids behind his ear.
Kupric grunted, and some of his hostility was replaced with grudging curiosity. "What'd she send you for?"
"A blank canvas."
"Funeral?"
"It's in two days."
The curiosity turned into pity tinged with respect. He held out his hand. "Kupric Sanavess."
"Silverlock D'Alestri." Silverlock took his hand, and felt the respect turn into something more like admiration; he wasn't surprised to find that his name was known even in Candlemark. Fortunately, the man was nearly unreadable beyond his surface emotions. There was something comforting in his utter blankness.
"Room's in the back." He stepped out of the doorway. "Let's take a look at you."
A dim hallway led to the studio, bypassing a number of curtained doorways that probably led to living quarters of some sort. There were other people in the building, all wrapped up in their own sleepy thoughts and emotions.
The room was small, but surprisingly clean and well lit. A padded chair and table took up most of the space and a curtain partitioned off one corner. The walls were covered in charcoal sketches of religious figures and wrapped in aether. It was a solid warding spell, with no obvious weaknesses. There were wards on the case of needles beside the chair, as well.
Kupric leaned against the door with his arms crossed and gave a perfunctory nod of his head towards the table.
Silverlock almost smiled as he removed his clothing. He left his cloak and robes folded neatly on the table, and placed his Guild tags on top of them. He faced the other man, naked save for the black collar around his throat. If he was anything, he was comfortable in his own skin. "Well?"
"Collar's gotta go too." Kupric cocked his head to the side. "Full body blanking usually takes a week. Could be dangerous to do it in a day. It'll hurt."
"Pain is hardly a deterrent." He hooked his fingers underneath the back of the collar an unlatched it with only the slightest hesitation. "I'd appreciate it if we got this done with as quickly as possible."
The artist nodded. "On the table, then. I'll start with your back."
Kupric's touch stung a bit, like the pins and needles tickle of dead nerves being slowly woken up. It wasn't nearly as bad as having a hand reattached, but few things in Silverlock's experience had been. The sensation intensified gradually, but not to the point of being unbearable.
Magic rang clear and bell-like in his head- a familiar tune. "It's none of my business, of course, but I do find it curious that a Leech would live as a tattoo artist in Candlemark, of all places." He pillowed his head on his arms and chuckled softly. "I told you, I don't care if it hurts. Concentrate on your work, Artist, and I'll deal with my own pain."
Kupric grunted, and the magic took on a different tone. The pain spiked; he channeled it away into a separate, isolated corner of his mind. He could deal with it later- a week or a year, or a hundred years from now, when he wasn't preoccupied with other forms of pain.
Something warm and wet trickled down his shoulderblade; he could smell blood mixed in with the ink. It was a good smell.
Silverlock closed his eyes and let himself drift.
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Blaine's health had never recovered after all that had happened; humans weren't meant to seize godhood and let it go. It sometimes seemed like he'd left most of himself in the aether, afterwards, as though everything in him that had been truly alive had been eaten away by raw magic.
Silverlock was still angry with Varun for letting it happen, and not only because he'd lost friends to Mandhatri's culling. Even after the heresy and the betrayal, Blaine still held to his faith.
"It's not like I have a choice in the matter," he'd said once, not long before his death. "And that angers me as much as it does you. But even if I did have that choice, nothing would change. It has nothing to do with the gods- I know how little in this world is truly of the divine.
"It's the ideas behind them that matter. I can live as I do and believe as I do, and in doing so I can touch something greater than myself or Varun or the memories of the Six and the Twain. Scoff all you like, but I know you understand it, too.
"I have no regrets now. I am exactly who I choose to be, and nothing else. How could I ever need anything more?"
Blaine always had been very good at throwing Silverlock's words back in his face.
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The absence of pain jolted him back to his senses.
"Enough for now," Kupric muttered. "You're still bleeding, so step carefully. There's a bath behind the curtain. Clean up, and then we'll continue."
Blood and ink pooled along the curvature of his spine and dripped down the backs of his thighs as he slid off the table. "I've had worse paper cuts." His back ached in a way that indicated massive bruising.
Kupric said nothing, and began wiping down the table.
Silverlock examined his back in the tarnished mirror behind the curtain once he'd cleaned off the blood. There were still faint shadows of the tattoos in places, but otherwise, his skin was completely blank from the top ridge of his spine to the backs of his knees.
Kupric nodded to the chair when he finally left his contemplations in the mirror. Silverlock sat down and made himself as comfortable as possible while the taciturn artist examined his left arm.
"Spellsigns?" Kupric prodded at a few of the sigils.
"Most of them, but they've been disabled." That was one of the first things he'd done, after the Avatar had taken Blaine. Accidental mayhem was never as fun as the premeditated sort, and some of the spellsigns operated on a hairtrigger. Keeping them active just wasn't worth the risk when he was feeling unbalanced.
"Good." Kupric's hands engulfed his own, and the pins and needles tingle began again.
There was a little magic in all of his tattoos; it was the only way to keep the ink from fading or rejecting. The blanking spell was deceptively simple- Kupric was pulling the ink out of his skin, dragging it to the surface and sloughing it off.
A little blood was inevitable, but the trick lay in not calling out too much of it, or pulling veins and bone out with the ink. There were always stories- rumors of sloppy artists who left their clients mutilated or dead, torn to pieces by uncontrolled magic.
Blood and ink trickled down his fingers and dripped on the floor. For a single disconcerting moment, it felt like he was watching his past drain away to spatter across the floorboards.
"I did most of those myself, in the last few years of my indenture," he said absently, watching the ink seep out of his skin. "As insurance, mostly, in case my master tried to cheat me out of my allotment. As you can see, I'm no artist. It took me years to find someone willing to ink a sleeve around the spells to make them look less like a child's scrawling."
"Zizi?"
"You can tell?"
"Geometric work is his specialty. And he's not afraid of magic." Kupric tapped the center of the sigil on his palm, already half melted away. "Your teacher was an occultist?"
"An eclectic. He knew a few Greater Shrive by name, and he taught me the basics of summoning. It was never one of my interests, though."
"You started out as an elementalist." Kupric touched the rune on the inside of his wrist, then followed a succession of sigils up to his elbow. "Air. But then you found you had a knack for healing and creation, and that led you to necromancy."
"You're good," Silverlock observed. "But I never had much of a knack for healing." He turned his arm over, where another series of runes crawled from wrist to elbow. "I learned fire after I grew bored with air, and then the basics of healing when my master grew tired of cleaning up after me. I spent several years learning creation, and then my indenture ended. I didn't learn necromancy until after I joined the Guild."
"You must have been Gannet Sorlin's last apprentice, then, and Banshee taught you necromancy." The rest of the summoning rune on his hand melted away.
Silverlock laughed; it was a tired sound. "Master Sorlin has been dead a good thirty years now, and Lady Banshee left the Guild not long after I earned my tags. I'd wonder how you know of them, but it's clear you've been in this business a long time. Go ahead, Artist, and tell me the rest of my story, if it pleases you."
Kupric shrugged. "I only know what you tell me." He obliterated another rune with a flash of magic between his fingers. "Your skin is very loud."
"I suppose." He watched the swirls of excess aether drift away from his skin like so much smoke, and thought of silence.
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The tattoos on his torso came away layer by layer, arrays of runes giving way to fantastical creatures, which sloughed off to reveal stark abstract lines. Underneath all of them, against bare, blank skin, a line of black cherry blossoms stretched across his collarbones.
"Those were my first- one outline for every year of my indenture." His voice was hoarse from too much speaking; Kupric didn't say much, but he listened, and Silverlock had plenty of stories to tell. "I had to pay back fifteen years when Master Sorlin bought me." He tilted his head back, feeling dizzy with exhaustion and blood loss, and grimaced. "Do you have any idea how much a trained, licensed Southmark whore is worth? It took me decades clear that debt, even after I joined the Guild- I earned more in a month then than I do in a year, now."
That still annoyed him. If it weren't for the Guild's exorbitant fees, his current income would be comparable to the profits he'd pulled in for the brothel.
Kupric didn't utilize much range of facial expression, but he radiated amusement all the same. "Gannet should have paid that debt for you."
"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But Master Sorlin was a drunkard with a gambling problem; he couldn't afford to buy me, much less pay off my indenture. They only let me go because he marked my face, and there are laws about that sort of thing."
His voice was steady, but he was drunk on pain; they'd been at this for hours, pausing only occasionally for Silverlock to sluice away the blood. "I'm bleeding to death, aren't I?" The only tattoos that remained where the chest piece and his face and neck work.
"A little. I did say this was dangerous."
"So you did. I think I'll survive a bit longer, all the same. Ironically enough, I've nothing left to die for."
"Is what you've lost worth this?" It was the first real question Kupric had asked; possibly it was the only one he didn't already know the answer to.
"Shouldn't you have asked that fifteen hours ago?"
"You wouldn't have known the answer then." The cherry blossoms dissolved quickly; the magic holding them together was old and easily broken. Kupric cupped his chin in one hand and examined the intersecting lines of scar tissue and ink on Silverlock's face. His fingers were warm and slick with blood.
Silverlock obligingly closed his eyes, and felt the tickle of magic on his eyelids a moment later. "The woman who did those told me I was crazy to let her put a needle that close to my eyes. Said it would be my own fault if she blinded me. The writing is Shrivish, one of the Ikatian variations; the words mean different things depending on which direction you read them in."
The Shrive had a love of puns that was, at times, unbearable. The words on his eyelids could be translated as "death" or "the stillness of moonlight reflecting on a pond at midnight," with another half a dozen meanings in between. When combined, they spelled out his own pseudonym: "Silverlock."
Kupric grunted in response, and continued with his work. The words slid away like dark tears, and pooled in the hollows beneath his eyes. The rest of the facial tattoos went just as quickly.
His hair went next; the slide of the razor against his scalp was practically painless, but watching the pile of braids gather on the table hurt more than he'd expected. Three lengths of bleached silver landed on top of the black, and then Kupric was washing away the blood, ink, and stray hair with a soft wet cloth, and the only things left were the letters around his throat.
Kupric's large hands settled around his neck. "Is what you have lost worth doing this?" he asked again.
There was a glib reply on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it; there was no point in avoiding the question any longer. "Of course not. Objectively, I haven't lost much. One lover among many, a few dozen years of my life. I intend to live well beyond the limits nature intended; I can hardly balance everything that I am against the memory of what he meant to me."
Kupric looked at him steadily and said nothing.
"It's time for me to shed my skin," he said quietly. "I owe him a great deal, but ultimately I do this for myself."
The name tattooed around his throat came away with a single swipe of Kupric's hand.
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I AM SO UNSUBTLE, I THINK I JUST GAVE MYSELF A CONCUSSION. JESUS.
Bleh. There was a sex scene in there that I didn't write, because I feel dirty enough as it is (and I'm incapable of posting any sex scenes that are longer than two lines, anyway), and it ends abruptly because there should be at least another three scenes, not including the sex.
I should, I don't know, maybe write the fucking story. Maybe. (Brief rundown: Nagendra's successor as Avatar of Varun is even crazier than she was; he does a lot of evil shit and kills a lot of people, and eventually Blaine takes him down by becoming an Avatar himself. Afterwards, he goes back to being a normal human, and they all live happily ever after until Blaine stops living. Also, there are riots. I'll do a proper outline at some point, I'm sure.)
City babble!
Shaivhen is divided into six districts: Southmark, Eastmark, Redmark, Candlemark, the Harbor District, and the Temple District. Southmark is the ritzy district- all the fanciest restaurants, all the famous theaters and opera houses, all the most expensive brothels. Eastmark is more middle class- it's also the sales district, where out-of-city merchants sell things in the giant open air market in the center of the district. Eastmark is home to a number of universities, arcane and otherwise. The Harbor District is mostly industrial- shipyards and the like, but there's also a fair bit of organized crime. The slave markets are in the Harbor, too. Redmark is the political and historical district; Rianna's Tower, the Great Library, the palace, and a number of museums are located there. The Guild Council and the City Watch operate out of Redmark. Candlemark is the slum district- all of the districts have a lower class, but Candlemark is the end of the line, more or less. There isn't even any organized crime, because there's no money in Candlemark. It's just a lot of very poor, very hungry people trying to scrape by- and the occasional misfit and ex-convict, like Kupric. The Temple District was once dedicated entirely to the worship of Celesiana, the Elemental of Life- but after the Sundering of the Six, it became home to the Thousand Little Gods. A memorial dedicated to the Six and their Avatars is located in the very center of the district.
The entire city is built on top of an enormous system of tunnels and catacombs. There are entrances to the underground in every district- but some are more easily accessible than others. The Thieves' and Assassins' Guilds guard their entrances vigilantly; the Gypsy Court doesn't care who comes and goes from their camps. There are tunnels beneath Candlemark and Harbor that are rumored to be filled with dark creatures with flailing tentacles and gnashing teeth, but very few people are interested in exploring them to verify those rumors. The Emancipation Movement uses the catacombs to transport slaves out of the city, but with minimal success- the City Watch uses the tunnels as well, and they get a kickback from the slave traders for every escaped slave they recapture.
Very few individuals actually own slaves; most of the slave population in the city is owned by the city, or by businesses. They're expensive; beyond purchasing and upkeep, slave owners have to supply freed slaves with enough capital to become functional, contributing members of society. The laws concerning slave ownership are very detailed, and the fines for breaking them can be astronomical. Most people, aside from the very wealthy, find it more trouble than it's worth.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
Index Entry: Naruto
I spent a year obsessing over this series with a frightening intensity. Here are the fruits of that obsession; the asterisked ones are either on FF.net or will eventually be edited to the point where I will post them there. Links to the finished versions on ff.net or ficwad are provided.
Blindsided Index (multichapter fic)
12/04 (hinata)
12/04 (neji/lee)
12/04 (shino)
12/04 (sasuke/naruto)
*12/04 (naruto, psychic cancer- sorrows and rejoicings) ficwad
*12/04 (various- Spirals) ff.net
*12/04 (team 8) ff.net
*12/04 (team 10) ff.net
12/04 (kakashi, iruka)
12/04 (kakashi, iruka, epic length)
12/04 (sasuke)
*12/04 (kakashi, burnout)
*12/04 (kakashi, aftermath) ff.net
12/04 (team 8)
1/05 (sand nin)
2/05 (kakashi, iruka, rooftop)
*2/05 (kakashi/sasuke- apron no jutsu) ff.net
3/05 (kakashi, sasuke, obito AU)
*3/05 (kakashi, yondaime) ff.net
06/05 (dreamscape crossover AU)
06/05 (dreamscape crossover AU)
07/05 (dreamscape crossover AU)
*08/05 (temari/kankurou, paint)
08/05 (kakashi, dreaming)
*09/05 (onesided gaara/temari, soft)
11/05 (Naruto, Gaara, pictures)
10/05 (sasuke, naruto, insanity)
*11/05 (kankurou/gaara, control)
*12/05 (tsunade, orochimaru, cancer)
12/05 scars (ino, sakura, part 1)
12/05 (house hyuuga, hope)
12/05 scars (ino, part 2)
12/05 (kankurou, 20 truths style)
12/05 scars (ino, part 3)
12/05 scars (ino, part 4)
12/05 scars (ino, part 5)
05/06 (temari)
Blindsided Index (multichapter fic)
12/04 (hinata)
12/04 (neji/lee)
12/04 (shino)
12/04 (sasuke/naruto)
*12/04 (naruto, psychic cancer- sorrows and rejoicings) ficwad
*12/04 (various- Spirals) ff.net
*12/04 (team 8) ff.net
*12/04 (team 10) ff.net
12/04 (kakashi, iruka)
12/04 (kakashi, iruka, epic length)
12/04 (sasuke)
*12/04 (kakashi, burnout)
*12/04 (kakashi, aftermath) ff.net
12/04 (team 8)
1/05 (sand nin)
2/05 (kakashi, iruka, rooftop)
*2/05 (kakashi/sasuke- apron no jutsu) ff.net
3/05 (kakashi, sasuke, obito AU)
*3/05 (kakashi, yondaime) ff.net
06/05 (dreamscape crossover AU)
06/05 (dreamscape crossover AU)
07/05 (dreamscape crossover AU)
*08/05 (temari/kankurou, paint)
08/05 (kakashi, dreaming)
*09/05 (onesided gaara/temari, soft)
11/05 (Naruto, Gaara, pictures)
10/05 (sasuke, naruto, insanity)
*11/05 (kankurou/gaara, control)
*12/05 (tsunade, orochimaru, cancer)
12/05 scars (ino, sakura, part 1)
12/05 (house hyuuga, hope)
12/05 scars (ino, part 2)
12/05 (kankurou, 20 truths style)
12/05 scars (ino, part 3)
12/05 scars (ino, part 4)
12/05 scars (ino, part 5)
05/06 (temari)
Index Entry: Birds of a Feather (Boffo)
I began this story in October of 1999 and finished it in 2003; however, the final chapter and epilogue were never posted, and my old website, along with the other chapters, has since been taken down. I'll rewrite it someday.
The story goes a little like this: an angel falls in love with a human and is imprisoned for it, while a different human sells his soul for wealth and love and power, and eventually ends up dying for it. Their children, half human and half celestial, meet and fall in love (naturally). Shennanigans ensue, particularly when someone wants to use one of them to destroy humanity.
The characters don't get interesting until after the end of the story, of course; I'll continue to revamp this page until it's a little closer to coherent, and I'll probably pull up links to all the world building entries, just to put them all in one place.
The important people, are as follows-
Opal, the half angel.
Tyler, the half demon.
Dei/Dee/Deodat/D.E.I., Tyler's half brother, and the token human. MADE OF ANGST.
Radueriel/Lenore Von Engle, the angel of music and Opal's mom. Kind of crazy after six thousand years of imprisonment.
Jubal al Lamech, the patron saint of musicians and Opal's dad.
RK Karolus, the guy who sold his soul for nookie, and Tyler and Dei's dad.
Leala, a now-deceased demoness, and Tyler's mom.
Aislin, a raving bitch, Dei's mom, and RK's ex-wife.
Catenus, a demon with a chip on his shoulder and a burning desire to kill all humans.
Jance, a second generation demon who becomes a fashion designer and was in love with his sister.
And now a listing of all Boffo related writings on the blog (keeping in mind that most of the early ones don't make sense unless you're me, and a lot of them are only just barely related to the story or the characters):
2/02 (Dei/Shade)
2/02 (AU Opal/Tyler)
2/02 (AU edward albee)
3/02 (Hellbent)
6/02 (Cara/Jance)
7/02 (AU Opal)
08/02 (if wishes were fishes)
9/02 (Jubal drinking)
12/02 (Abercrombie Jance)
1/03 (Dei, New Year's Eve)
1/03 (Lilith, Lucifer, chessboard)
1/03 (Tyler, Opal, psych ward)
5/03 (Sheep, God, cake)
7/03 (AU Halleluia songfic)
10/03 (Opal, Dei, tea)
11/03 (Tyler, Dei, teapot)
12/03 (Len, Jubal, Jude)
1/04 (Dei, Jance, New Year)
3/04 (Dei, Lyra dialogue)
4/04 (Tristan, Jim, betrayed)
6/04 (Tristan, 7-11)
6/04 (Dei 7-11)
6/04 (Dei morphein)
6/04 (Tristan, Carly)
7/04 (Tristan adopted)
8/04 (Tyler, Opal, icecream)
9/04 (Dei, Lyra, V8s)
12/04 (Tristan, Dei, scars)
12/04 (Christmas, with family)
12/04 (Jance, wedding plans)
12/04 (Dei, Carly, sword)
4/05 (Dei, Lyra, bar)
5/05 (Carly)
5/05 (Dei, Tyler, Opal, theme song)
11/05 (Dei, Tyler, dialogue)
12/05 (deja vu)
The story goes a little like this: an angel falls in love with a human and is imprisoned for it, while a different human sells his soul for wealth and love and power, and eventually ends up dying for it. Their children, half human and half celestial, meet and fall in love (naturally). Shennanigans ensue, particularly when someone wants to use one of them to destroy humanity.
The characters don't get interesting until after the end of the story, of course; I'll continue to revamp this page until it's a little closer to coherent, and I'll probably pull up links to all the world building entries, just to put them all in one place.
The important people, are as follows-
Opal, the half angel.
Tyler, the half demon.
Dei/Dee/Deodat/D.E.I., Tyler's half brother, and the token human. MADE OF ANGST.
Radueriel/Lenore Von Engle, the angel of music and Opal's mom. Kind of crazy after six thousand years of imprisonment.
Jubal al Lamech, the patron saint of musicians and Opal's dad.
RK Karolus, the guy who sold his soul for nookie, and Tyler and Dei's dad.
Leala, a now-deceased demoness, and Tyler's mom.
Aislin, a raving bitch, Dei's mom, and RK's ex-wife.
Catenus, a demon with a chip on his shoulder and a burning desire to kill all humans.
Jance, a second generation demon who becomes a fashion designer and was in love with his sister.
And now a listing of all Boffo related writings on the blog (keeping in mind that most of the early ones don't make sense unless you're me, and a lot of them are only just barely related to the story or the characters):
2/02 (Dei/Shade)
2/02 (AU Opal/Tyler)
2/02 (AU edward albee)
3/02 (Hellbent)
6/02 (Cara/Jance)
7/02 (AU Opal)
08/02 (if wishes were fishes)
9/02 (Jubal drinking)
12/02 (Abercrombie Jance)
1/03 (Dei, New Year's Eve)
1/03 (Lilith, Lucifer, chessboard)
1/03 (Tyler, Opal, psych ward)
5/03 (Sheep, God, cake)
7/03 (AU Halleluia songfic)
10/03 (Opal, Dei, tea)
11/03 (Tyler, Dei, teapot)
12/03 (Len, Jubal, Jude)
1/04 (Dei, Jance, New Year)
3/04 (Dei, Lyra dialogue)
4/04 (Tristan, Jim, betrayed)
6/04 (Tristan, 7-11)
6/04 (Dei 7-11)
6/04 (Dei morphein)
6/04 (Tristan, Carly)
7/04 (Tristan adopted)
8/04 (Tyler, Opal, icecream)
9/04 (Dei, Lyra, V8s)
12/04 (Tristan, Dei, scars)
12/04 (Christmas, with family)
12/04 (Jance, wedding plans)
12/04 (Dei, Carly, sword)
4/05 (Dei, Lyra, bar)
5/05 (Carly)
5/05 (Dei, Tyler, Opal, theme song)
11/05 (Dei, Tyler, dialogue)
12/05 (deja vu)
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Bleach babble!
So, I watched a lot of Bleach this week. As in, 69 episodes of Bleach. A sane person would have spread this out over the entire week, but my brother and I are not so much among the sane- we watched up to episode 34 between Monday and Thursday...and then spent all of Friday watching the remaining 35 episodes. We stopped for food a few times, and Kev took a nap and I baked some banana bread, but otherwise? Nothing but Bleach.
...guh. Too much anime. But! I must share this with you: Jump Festa 2005. Zaraki in a biker jacket! Byakuya dressed like a pimp! Soi Fong in a frilly, frilly dress! And Aizen. Guhbzuh.
Also, 50 Sentences Chad/Ichigo. Very much in tune with the "OMG stupid boys" factor. XD I love Chad so, so much. So much.
Thoughts on Bleach the anime vs Bleach the manga- I liked it. There were all of three episodes of filler in the first sixty episodes. That alone makes this an awesome anime- it moves fast. I thought it was interesting that they included the Renji-Kira-Hinamori Academy filler episode but cut out the Rukia-Kaien backstory. That particular flashback was one of the more important ones (unlike Renji's- don't get me wrong, I love the guy, but he's just not that interesting), since it goes a long way towards explaining why Rukia is such a fucking useless doormat for the entire plot arc. >_< I also thought it was interesting that they gave Kuukaku an arm- I suppose it's less traumatizing to see her with a prosthetic than a stump, but it just seems odd regardless.
I take back much of what I've said in the past about Kubo Tite's plotting ability- the end of Soul Society does read a little like a Scooby Doo episode, but the hints are there if you know what to look for. That whole "release the limit" thing that happened in the recent chapters is mentioned earlier on- it doesn't come out of nowhere, though it feels a little like it does. Ikkaku's ban kai, on the other hand, does come out of nowhere, though I suppose it isn't unprecedented for officers of the Eleventh to hide things from their superiors.
(I do prefer Ikkaku/Yumichika, but I now understand where the Hisagi/Yumichika is coming from. What I don't understand is why Hisagi always tops in that pairing- it's pretty clear he's the one who gets bent over in that fight. Hells, even my brother saw it. (His actual response- "Dude, that guy looks like he needs a cigarette." XD) Yumichika's zanpakutou ability is surprise buttsex!)
The anime only affirms my love for Chad, the Eleventh Division, Ukitake and Kyouraku, Urahara's hat, Tousen's hair, Hanatarou (so cute! so useless!), Unohana and Isane, and Zangetsu. It has also created in me an intense and sudden love for Soi Fong and Yoruichi (anyone have any lesbian ninja recs for me?), Keigo (aka Spazzy Spazzspazz McSpasticpants III), and Kuukaku, who totally needs to smack some people around with her prosthetic arm. However, I still hate Byakuya, because he's a prissy bitch with a pink ban kai and very few redeeming qualities whatsoever.
(And next up on Death God Death Match! On the right, our returning champion, Kuchiki "Pretty in Pink" Byakuya with Senbonzakura! And in the challenger's corner, Kurosaki "Size Doesn't Matter" Ichigo with Zangetsu! This is the fight of a lifetime, folks- we're finally going to find the answer to those unanswerable questions! Is Ichigo really compensating for something? Can Byakuya really make pink cherry petals look badass? Tune in to find out!)
The most recent episodes are all adorable, adorable filler- there are dancing plushes, and I'll probably make seven million icons of Nova and Chad being stoic, silent, and adorable, while Lilin and Claude are spastic. It'll be interesting to see how they pick up the manga plot again now that Renji and Rukia are back in the living world. I suppose I'll keep downloading it to satisfy my urge to collect whole sets of things, but I'm not sure I'll watch it with any fervor.
Bleach the anime gets a gold star from me, at any rate. It's shiny, occasionally adorable, occasionally creepy, and remarkably true to the manga.
I have aincredibly porny cliche Chad/Ichigo fic bouncing around in my head that wants to be written; I don't know if it'll happen because it's actually just porn, but there will probably be more Bleach related things kicking around here in the future. At the very least, there'll be cosplay musings- though the Shinigami uniform would be a pain in the ass to sew. I'm thinking I could pull off either Yachiru or Ulquiorra. (Urquiolla? Mistah Emobags?) It would be very, very easy to make my hair do the Rukia flippy thing, but I refuse to cosplay her.
...guh. Too much anime. But! I must share this with you: Jump Festa 2005. Zaraki in a biker jacket! Byakuya dressed like a pimp! Soi Fong in a frilly, frilly dress! And Aizen. Guhbzuh.
Also, 50 Sentences Chad/Ichigo. Very much in tune with the "OMG stupid boys" factor. XD I love Chad so, so much. So much.
Thoughts on Bleach the anime vs Bleach the manga- I liked it. There were all of three episodes of filler in the first sixty episodes. That alone makes this an awesome anime- it moves fast. I thought it was interesting that they included the Renji-Kira-Hinamori Academy filler episode but cut out the Rukia-Kaien backstory. That particular flashback was one of the more important ones (unlike Renji's- don't get me wrong, I love the guy, but he's just not that interesting), since it goes a long way towards explaining why Rukia is such a fucking useless doormat for the entire plot arc. >_< I also thought it was interesting that they gave Kuukaku an arm- I suppose it's less traumatizing to see her with a prosthetic than a stump, but it just seems odd regardless.
I take back much of what I've said in the past about Kubo Tite's plotting ability- the end of Soul Society does read a little like a Scooby Doo episode, but the hints are there if you know what to look for. That whole "release the limit" thing that happened in the recent chapters is mentioned earlier on- it doesn't come out of nowhere, though it feels a little like it does. Ikkaku's ban kai, on the other hand, does come out of nowhere, though I suppose it isn't unprecedented for officers of the Eleventh to hide things from their superiors.
(I do prefer Ikkaku/Yumichika, but I now understand where the Hisagi/Yumichika is coming from. What I don't understand is why Hisagi always tops in that pairing- it's pretty clear he's the one who gets bent over in that fight. Hells, even my brother saw it. (His actual response- "Dude, that guy looks like he needs a cigarette." XD) Yumichika's zanpakutou ability is surprise buttsex!)
The anime only affirms my love for Chad, the Eleventh Division, Ukitake and Kyouraku, Urahara's hat, Tousen's hair, Hanatarou (so cute! so useless!), Unohana and Isane, and Zangetsu. It has also created in me an intense and sudden love for Soi Fong and Yoruichi (anyone have any lesbian ninja recs for me?), Keigo (aka Spazzy Spazzspazz McSpasticpants III), and Kuukaku, who totally needs to smack some people around with her prosthetic arm. However, I still hate Byakuya, because he's a prissy bitch with a pink ban kai and very few redeeming qualities whatsoever.
(And next up on Death God Death Match! On the right, our returning champion, Kuchiki "Pretty in Pink" Byakuya with Senbonzakura! And in the challenger's corner, Kurosaki "Size Doesn't Matter" Ichigo with Zangetsu! This is the fight of a lifetime, folks- we're finally going to find the answer to those unanswerable questions! Is Ichigo really compensating for something? Can Byakuya really make pink cherry petals look badass? Tune in to find out!)
The most recent episodes are all adorable, adorable filler- there are dancing plushes, and I'll probably make seven million icons of Nova and Chad being stoic, silent, and adorable, while Lilin and Claude are spastic. It'll be interesting to see how they pick up the manga plot again now that Renji and Rukia are back in the living world. I suppose I'll keep downloading it to satisfy my urge to collect whole sets of things, but I'm not sure I'll watch it with any fervor.
Bleach the anime gets a gold star from me, at any rate. It's shiny, occasionally adorable, occasionally creepy, and remarkably true to the manga.
I have a
Song Call- KT Tunstall, "Another Place to Fall"
Are you blind
Blind to me trying to be kind
Volunteering for your firing line
Waiting for one precious sign
The flicker of a smile
You should try it just once in a while
It's simply too easy to do
And you might not see it through
Find yourself another place to fall
Find yourself up against another brick wall
See yourself as a fallen angel
Well I don't see no holes in the road but you
Find another place to fall
Are you proud
To have founded a brand new behaviour
With haired and hurt as your saviour
But nobody's choosing to follow
So you choke back the tears and you swallow
Men who have ruined your life
You consume them with minimum strife
But now you have got indigestion
The antacid comes as a question
Find yourself another place to fall
Find yourself up against another brick wall
See yourself as a fallen angel
Well I don't see no holes in the road but you
Find another place to fall
Are you alive
Is there a young woman hiding inside
Does she know that we're trying to help her
Is she totally frozen with fear
If you let her come out for a day
She might even like it and stay
But it's gonna take you to invite her
Cuz you seem so determined to spite her
Find yourself another place to fall
Find yourself up against another brick wall
See yourself as a fallen angel
Well I don't see no holes in the road but you
Find another place to fall
There isn't much more I can say
For I don't understand the delay
You're asking for friendly advice
And remaining in permanent crisis
Affection is yours if you ask
But first you must take off your mask
When you're back's turned it's decided you'll throw it away just like I did
Find yourself another place to fall
Find yourself up against another brick wall
See yourself as a fallen angel
Well I don't see no holes in the road but you
Find another place to fall
-KT Tunstall, "Another Place to Fall"
KT Tunstall is pretty awesome- she's got a great voice, all low and scratchy and delicious. Good stuff. The refrain makes this a Cain song for me, in a post-game, looking-out-at-the-horizon-from-Mount-Ordeals sort of way.
Blind to me trying to be kind
Volunteering for your firing line
Waiting for one precious sign
The flicker of a smile
You should try it just once in a while
It's simply too easy to do
And you might not see it through
Find yourself another place to fall
Find yourself up against another brick wall
See yourself as a fallen angel
Well I don't see no holes in the road but you
Find another place to fall
Are you proud
To have founded a brand new behaviour
With haired and hurt as your saviour
But nobody's choosing to follow
So you choke back the tears and you swallow
Men who have ruined your life
You consume them with minimum strife
But now you have got indigestion
The antacid comes as a question
Find yourself another place to fall
Find yourself up against another brick wall
See yourself as a fallen angel
Well I don't see no holes in the road but you
Find another place to fall
Are you alive
Is there a young woman hiding inside
Does she know that we're trying to help her
Is she totally frozen with fear
If you let her come out for a day
She might even like it and stay
But it's gonna take you to invite her
Cuz you seem so determined to spite her
Find yourself another place to fall
Find yourself up against another brick wall
See yourself as a fallen angel
Well I don't see no holes in the road but you
Find another place to fall
There isn't much more I can say
For I don't understand the delay
You're asking for friendly advice
And remaining in permanent crisis
Affection is yours if you ask
But first you must take off your mask
When you're back's turned it's decided you'll throw it away just like I did
Find yourself another place to fall
Find yourself up against another brick wall
See yourself as a fallen angel
Well I don't see no holes in the road but you
Find another place to fall
-KT Tunstall, "Another Place to Fall"
KT Tunstall is pretty awesome- she's got a great voice, all low and scratchy and delicious. Good stuff. The refrain makes this a Cain song for me, in a post-game, looking-out-at-the-horizon-from-Mount-Ordeals sort of way.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Worldbuilding wank Part 2: General Magic Use
Follow up to the planes/non-human races post back here. Gonna need to completely revamp the index at this rate; things are getting messy, and as entertaining as I find it to go wandering through my archives, it's time consuming at the best of times.
This is going to cover arcane or aetherial magic only; magicrafting keeps rewriting its own rules in my head, so I'll deal with it later.
Your standard mage operates by gathering up some aether and telling it to do something. Aether is agreeable stuff, and will respond to just about anything- chanting, singing, gesturing, dancing, written words, bright lights- you name it, there's probably a spellcasting technique surrounding it. Mages like adopting a "whatever works" attitude towards magic.
The ability to sense and manipulate aether in some way or another exists in 20% of Shaivhen's population. Of that 20%, only half become trained, licensed magic users. Some of these mages are born with the ability (standard magic users), some gain it through intense mental and spiritual training (Mystics), and some have it forced upon them by gods or other mages (priests). Spellcasting without proper training, no matter how strong your aether-sense is, is incredibly difficult- so the untrained ten percent of the population don't pose much of a threat to the general populace. It's quite possible that people can be born with aether-sense, never realize it, and live out their lives completely content, and untrained.
The upper plane is a sea of aether; the plane-border allows for a constant, low level sort of magical osmosis. There's always some free floating aether in the middle plane, just drifing around doing nothing. There are also tears in the plane-border that allow greater amounts of aether through. These tears are called wellsprings. People have historically regarded them as sacred spaces. Temples get built on top of them, or magical schools. Aether is also manufactured by living things; aether forms a person's spirit or soul, and the soul is constantly growing, changing, and renewing itself.
Some mages can only use free-floating and wellspring aether. Others are strong enough to pull directly from the sea of energy on the aetherial plane. And others still can harvest it from people and other living things. Most mages fall in the first category; a few fall into the second, and a very small number into the third.
People in that third category are called Leeches. The ability to sense aether also comes with an increased sensitivity to the physical and emotional states of the people around you. This enhanced sensitivity is weak in standard mages, but Leeches feel the emotions of those around them in almost pornographic detail. (If you're Silverlock, there's no "almost" about it.)
People manufacture aether when in the throes of particularly intense emotions- intense happiness, misery, terror, what-have-you. Pain counts as an emotion, as far as Leeches are concerned. They feed off of this excess energy; there's virtually no limit to the amount of power they can absorb from a person.
A number of deities consider Leeches to be unholy blights upon the land- magical parasites. Most Leeches will cheerfully agree with this assessment, and continue poking people with pointy objects to get an aether-high. They're manipulative, hedonistic, and often cruel; aether production is greatest under the influence of negative emotions, after all. Leeches are capable of using free-floating aether, and most can pull directly from the upper plane, but it's easier for them to siphon it away from the people around them.
Depending on their level of control, some Leeches can harvest aether without their victims ever realizing it. Those with poor control, or those who just don't care, leave an emotional and spiritual void behind. This is nice if you're in the middle of a panic attack and a Leech decides to feed on you- suddenly, your terror is gone, replaced by detatched apathy. On the other hand, if you're feeling ecstatically happy, you'll suddenly feel as though you can never be happy again- which, in turn, provides the Leech with even more aether to steal as the despair sets in.
Very few Leeches pursue productive, legal careers. Many of them work as thugs for the various branches of organized crime in the city. Silverlock is currently the only Leech in the Guild; assassin mages are rare in general, because so few of them have the time or inclination to follow a career path that requires so much study outside their area of specialization.
Spellcasting, like anything else, is more profitable for specialists. The dozen or so schools of magic in Shaivhen offer a variety of specialties, covering most of your basic D&D style schools of magic- elemental magic, conjuration, healing, evocation, illusion, necromancy, and so forth. (Healers are just mages who specialize in aetherial techniques that put bodies back together. It's acceptable to refer to them as either Healers or Mages- but people with knowledge of medicine and no magical talent are also called Healers.) Not all mages are connected to the schools, however. There are plenty of freelance, unaffiliated mages in the city. Some of them take on apprentices, and various techniques and specialties get passed on that way.
Priests are essentially conduits for the will of their god. Their ability to use aether comes directly from their deity. They can't draw aether from any other source- if a mage becomes a priest, he'll often have his inborn sensitivities sealed off. Preists generally don't have to train as long as mages to gain mastery over their magic, because the will of their god guides their hands and the aether.
Deities of Rothcar's pantheon can't leave the aetherial plane, but they need to communicate with their churches and select priests. To circumvent that problem, they create Avatars. An Avatar becomes an extension of her god, and is able to create conduits between priests and her deity and perform miracles. Miracles are, of course, just extremely powerful acts of magic.
As I said in the last wanky worldbuilding post, most Avatars aren't crazy. But sometimes they are- becoming an Avatar is a decently traumatic experience, and isn't for everyone. If an Avatar goes crazy and becomes a tyrannical dictator, there isn't a whole lot the members of the church can do on their own. Most deities check in on their churches often enough to notice when things go wrong, but some of them don't bother to involve themselves. Varun is easily distracted, as far as deities go, and he has never been particularly active in the running of his church. So, when Nagendra rewrites church doctrine to suit her own sociopathic tendencies, no one can do anything. (Silverlock offers to assassinate the bitch for a discount, but no one in the church has the balls or the cash to take him up on the offer.)
The link between a priest and a deity cannot be broken without killing the priest. Once a priest is ordained, her life is no longer hers- it belongs to her god and her church. This is her greatest strength and greatest weakness: the greater her faith, the stronger her connection and the greater her power. But, the link between a priest and a deity is fragile at best, and even the slightest interference can cause incredible agony to the priest.
Blaine has one of the strongest connections to Varun ever seen in the church- but because Nagendra is a perfect example of an Avatar gone wrong, he risks his sanity and his life every time he approaches one of the many, arbitrary things she has declared to be anathema. Angst and vomit everywhere.
It's all just magic in the end, though- so there are ways to get around the limitations placed on priests by the Avatars. Gods aren't all that special, after all- with enough drive and motivation, anyone can become one.
And that brings us to the last class of magic users, Mystics. Mystics are people who spend their entire lives training and studying to be incorporeal. For some reason or another, they decide that life would be much better if they lived on the astral plane, so they meditate and stand on their heads under waterfalls and practice martial arts until they ascend to a state of pure energy.
This has the unfortunate side effect of dissolving their bodies into so much sparkly dust, but most Mystics think that's pretty hardcore. Mystics aren't magic users the way mages and priests are- they can't manipulate aether. They are, however, masters of astral projection, and they are infinitely more sensitive to fluctuations in aether than either mages or priests.
If you lose something- your lucky turtle, your best friend, your lunch- you go to a Mystic, and he'll follow the aether trail to find it. If you want to speak to your dead grandmother about that meatloaf recipe of hers, you go to a Mystic and he'll set up a seance. The gamble lies in finding a Mystic who is both willing and properly trained to perform these services. Many of them see themselves as being above such petty things as money and employment (and food and corporeal form), and those that don't like to charge extortionate prices for their services. The Guild has a couple of Mystics floating around, because they've got more than enough money to pay for that sort of thing.
Mystics tend to creep out normal mortals; as they advance in their training, they dissolve, and they give a whole new meaning to the phrase "not quite all there". Very old and wise Mystics have no bodies- some of them inhabit jars, so they don't lose track of themselves. Even after a Mystic has reached a totally incorporeal state, there's no guarantee that he'll be able to ascend to the aetherial plane- it's a very hit-or-miss sort of discipline. Once you're incorporeal, your time on the middle plane is limited.
Once a Mystic ascends to the aetherial plane, he can chill with the gods or hang out with ghosts, or just float aimlessly on the unending sea of aether. He'll survive indefinitely in that form until he decides to move on, and the aetherial plane reabsorbs his spirit matter.
That's arcane magic in a larger-than-average nutshell, I guess; the mechanics are basically the same for everyone, even if the methods are occasionally different.
This is going to cover arcane or aetherial magic only; magicrafting keeps rewriting its own rules in my head, so I'll deal with it later.
Your standard mage operates by gathering up some aether and telling it to do something. Aether is agreeable stuff, and will respond to just about anything- chanting, singing, gesturing, dancing, written words, bright lights- you name it, there's probably a spellcasting technique surrounding it. Mages like adopting a "whatever works" attitude towards magic.
The ability to sense and manipulate aether in some way or another exists in 20% of Shaivhen's population. Of that 20%, only half become trained, licensed magic users. Some of these mages are born with the ability (standard magic users), some gain it through intense mental and spiritual training (Mystics), and some have it forced upon them by gods or other mages (priests). Spellcasting without proper training, no matter how strong your aether-sense is, is incredibly difficult- so the untrained ten percent of the population don't pose much of a threat to the general populace. It's quite possible that people can be born with aether-sense, never realize it, and live out their lives completely content, and untrained.
The upper plane is a sea of aether; the plane-border allows for a constant, low level sort of magical osmosis. There's always some free floating aether in the middle plane, just drifing around doing nothing. There are also tears in the plane-border that allow greater amounts of aether through. These tears are called wellsprings. People have historically regarded them as sacred spaces. Temples get built on top of them, or magical schools. Aether is also manufactured by living things; aether forms a person's spirit or soul, and the soul is constantly growing, changing, and renewing itself.
Some mages can only use free-floating and wellspring aether. Others are strong enough to pull directly from the sea of energy on the aetherial plane. And others still can harvest it from people and other living things. Most mages fall in the first category; a few fall into the second, and a very small number into the third.
People in that third category are called Leeches. The ability to sense aether also comes with an increased sensitivity to the physical and emotional states of the people around you. This enhanced sensitivity is weak in standard mages, but Leeches feel the emotions of those around them in almost pornographic detail. (If you're Silverlock, there's no "almost" about it.)
People manufacture aether when in the throes of particularly intense emotions- intense happiness, misery, terror, what-have-you. Pain counts as an emotion, as far as Leeches are concerned. They feed off of this excess energy; there's virtually no limit to the amount of power they can absorb from a person.
A number of deities consider Leeches to be unholy blights upon the land- magical parasites. Most Leeches will cheerfully agree with this assessment, and continue poking people with pointy objects to get an aether-high. They're manipulative, hedonistic, and often cruel; aether production is greatest under the influence of negative emotions, after all. Leeches are capable of using free-floating aether, and most can pull directly from the upper plane, but it's easier for them to siphon it away from the people around them.
Depending on their level of control, some Leeches can harvest aether without their victims ever realizing it. Those with poor control, or those who just don't care, leave an emotional and spiritual void behind. This is nice if you're in the middle of a panic attack and a Leech decides to feed on you- suddenly, your terror is gone, replaced by detatched apathy. On the other hand, if you're feeling ecstatically happy, you'll suddenly feel as though you can never be happy again- which, in turn, provides the Leech with even more aether to steal as the despair sets in.
Very few Leeches pursue productive, legal careers. Many of them work as thugs for the various branches of organized crime in the city. Silverlock is currently the only Leech in the Guild; assassin mages are rare in general, because so few of them have the time or inclination to follow a career path that requires so much study outside their area of specialization.
Spellcasting, like anything else, is more profitable for specialists. The dozen or so schools of magic in Shaivhen offer a variety of specialties, covering most of your basic D&D style schools of magic- elemental magic, conjuration, healing, evocation, illusion, necromancy, and so forth. (Healers are just mages who specialize in aetherial techniques that put bodies back together. It's acceptable to refer to them as either Healers or Mages- but people with knowledge of medicine and no magical talent are also called Healers.) Not all mages are connected to the schools, however. There are plenty of freelance, unaffiliated mages in the city. Some of them take on apprentices, and various techniques and specialties get passed on that way.
Priests are essentially conduits for the will of their god. Their ability to use aether comes directly from their deity. They can't draw aether from any other source- if a mage becomes a priest, he'll often have his inborn sensitivities sealed off. Preists generally don't have to train as long as mages to gain mastery over their magic, because the will of their god guides their hands and the aether.
Deities of Rothcar's pantheon can't leave the aetherial plane, but they need to communicate with their churches and select priests. To circumvent that problem, they create Avatars. An Avatar becomes an extension of her god, and is able to create conduits between priests and her deity and perform miracles. Miracles are, of course, just extremely powerful acts of magic.
As I said in the last wanky worldbuilding post, most Avatars aren't crazy. But sometimes they are- becoming an Avatar is a decently traumatic experience, and isn't for everyone. If an Avatar goes crazy and becomes a tyrannical dictator, there isn't a whole lot the members of the church can do on their own. Most deities check in on their churches often enough to notice when things go wrong, but some of them don't bother to involve themselves. Varun is easily distracted, as far as deities go, and he has never been particularly active in the running of his church. So, when Nagendra rewrites church doctrine to suit her own sociopathic tendencies, no one can do anything. (Silverlock offers to assassinate the bitch for a discount, but no one in the church has the balls or the cash to take him up on the offer.)
The link between a priest and a deity cannot be broken without killing the priest. Once a priest is ordained, her life is no longer hers- it belongs to her god and her church. This is her greatest strength and greatest weakness: the greater her faith, the stronger her connection and the greater her power. But, the link between a priest and a deity is fragile at best, and even the slightest interference can cause incredible agony to the priest.
Blaine has one of the strongest connections to Varun ever seen in the church- but because Nagendra is a perfect example of an Avatar gone wrong, he risks his sanity and his life every time he approaches one of the many, arbitrary things she has declared to be anathema. Angst and vomit everywhere.
It's all just magic in the end, though- so there are ways to get around the limitations placed on priests by the Avatars. Gods aren't all that special, after all- with enough drive and motivation, anyone can become one.
And that brings us to the last class of magic users, Mystics. Mystics are people who spend their entire lives training and studying to be incorporeal. For some reason or another, they decide that life would be much better if they lived on the astral plane, so they meditate and stand on their heads under waterfalls and practice martial arts until they ascend to a state of pure energy.
This has the unfortunate side effect of dissolving their bodies into so much sparkly dust, but most Mystics think that's pretty hardcore. Mystics aren't magic users the way mages and priests are- they can't manipulate aether. They are, however, masters of astral projection, and they are infinitely more sensitive to fluctuations in aether than either mages or priests.
If you lose something- your lucky turtle, your best friend, your lunch- you go to a Mystic, and he'll follow the aether trail to find it. If you want to speak to your dead grandmother about that meatloaf recipe of hers, you go to a Mystic and he'll set up a seance. The gamble lies in finding a Mystic who is both willing and properly trained to perform these services. Many of them see themselves as being above such petty things as money and employment (and food and corporeal form), and those that don't like to charge extortionate prices for their services. The Guild has a couple of Mystics floating around, because they've got more than enough money to pay for that sort of thing.
Mystics tend to creep out normal mortals; as they advance in their training, they dissolve, and they give a whole new meaning to the phrase "not quite all there". Very old and wise Mystics have no bodies- some of them inhabit jars, so they don't lose track of themselves. Even after a Mystic has reached a totally incorporeal state, there's no guarantee that he'll be able to ascend to the aetherial plane- it's a very hit-or-miss sort of discipline. Once you're incorporeal, your time on the middle plane is limited.
Once a Mystic ascends to the aetherial plane, he can chill with the gods or hang out with ghosts, or just float aimlessly on the unending sea of aether. He'll survive indefinitely in that form until he decides to move on, and the aetherial plane reabsorbs his spirit matter.
That's arcane magic in a larger-than-average nutshell, I guess; the mechanics are basically the same for everyone, even if the methods are occasionally different.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
AUGH
I need to be in Japan, with a PS2 and copious amounts of free time right now. (Damn you, Gina!) AUGH. Akihiko Yoshida, I want to have your sassy-hipped babies all over my body. Also, Cid and another Cid- this game has an overabundance of Cid. How can it not be great? Especially when they look like that? Everyone knows that a game's quality is directly proportional to the amount of Cid in it. The Cid, it overflows, and has 80s hair.
And- and- and- Ivalice. Ivalice, and sky pirates (ain't nothin' sexier) and revolution and a complete lack of a love story and Hitoshi Sakimoto working with Uematsu for the music and goddamnit I haven't wanted to play a game this badly since they were playing ads for VII on TV, and that was some intense longing right there and- fuck, I need to go to class.
Shit want want want want want- and Hiroaki Hirata is Balfrea's seiyuu and goddamnit need to go to class now, for serious. >_<
(Waaaaaaant.)
And- and- and- Ivalice. Ivalice, and sky pirates (ain't nothin' sexier) and revolution and a complete lack of a love story and Hitoshi Sakimoto working with Uematsu for the music and goddamnit I haven't wanted to play a game this badly since they were playing ads for VII on TV, and that was some intense longing right there and- fuck, I need to go to class.
Shit want want want want want- and Hiroaki Hirata is Balfrea's seiyuu and goddamnit need to go to class now, for serious. >_<
(Waaaaaaant.)
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Drive by Bleach rec
20 facts about Kurosaki Ichigo and Sado (Chad) Yasutora
...Okay, fine, maybe I do like Chad/Ichigo better than Chad/Ishida. Or maybe I just like Chad, period. It's the shirts, you know. No one can resist a tacky shirt.
I'm going to spend all of next week forcing my brother to watch Bleach. He will protest, but eventually he will be won over by the allure of the tacky shirts and Rukia's arteestic skills. Yes. It will be good. And then I will convince him to go to Otakon and cosplay as Kenpachi, because he would have far, far too much fun doing that. (The other option is to convince him to be Shunsui, but I'd have to blackmail and bribe him something awful to get him to wear pink. Hm...)
...Okay, fine, maybe I do like Chad/Ichigo better than Chad/Ishida. Or maybe I just like Chad, period. It's the shirts, you know. No one can resist a tacky shirt.
I'm going to spend all of next week forcing my brother to watch Bleach. He will protest, but eventually he will be won over by the allure of the tacky shirts and Rukia's arteestic skills. Yes. It will be good. And then I will convince him to go to Otakon and cosplay as Kenpachi, because he would have far, far too much fun doing that. (The other option is to convince him to be Shunsui, but I'd have to blackmail and bribe him something awful to get him to wear pink. Hm...)
Saturday, March 11, 2006
OoT: The Boy's Gone (and so is the Girl)
She is as wise as she is beautiful, her people say, and her beauty is surpassed only by her love of her country, her dedication to her land.
She wants to tell them that she is not wise, nor is she dedicated. She wants to tell them that she nearly destroyed the country she loves so well; that for seven years, she hid in shame and fear while the monster her deeds unleashed wreaked havoc on her kingdom.
None of them remember. There are days when she doesn't, either, when those seven years really are just a dream. The Hero of Time is just a fantasy, and Ganon a nightmare, and she is just a Princess, and not a Sage.
She knows it was no dream, because the Triforce of Wisdom burns in her: a reminder of that horror, and a portent of what is to come.
On nights when there is no moon, she can feel the oncoming storm- on dark nights, she can feel the wrath of the goddesses trembling in the air. She removes a set of clothing from its secret, hidden place and strips away the crown and the robes of her station. Naked, she is no longer a Princess or a Sage or a Leader- she is herself only, simply Zelda.
When stars provide the only light in her room, she wraps her legs in bandages and ties back her hair. She binds her breasts beneath the sign of the all-seeing eye and veils her face until there is nothing left of Zelda- not the Princess, not the Sage, not the woman.
There are nights when she can feel the fate of Hyrule in the air like a funeral dirge, awesome and inevitable. There is nothing she can do to prevent it.
On these nights, she becomes her own shadow, and stands vigil for a Hero who will never return.
---
Ocarina of Time and Majora's Mask really drive home the fact that Link's life sucks immensely- but things can't be a whole lot better for Zelda.
Anyway, crossdressing makes everything better, even when you're facing the apocalypse and your boyfriend is missing and presumed dead. (Genderfucked!Zelda is, quite possibly, one of the sexiest things ever.)
She wants to tell them that she is not wise, nor is she dedicated. She wants to tell them that she nearly destroyed the country she loves so well; that for seven years, she hid in shame and fear while the monster her deeds unleashed wreaked havoc on her kingdom.
None of them remember. There are days when she doesn't, either, when those seven years really are just a dream. The Hero of Time is just a fantasy, and Ganon a nightmare, and she is just a Princess, and not a Sage.
She knows it was no dream, because the Triforce of Wisdom burns in her: a reminder of that horror, and a portent of what is to come.
On nights when there is no moon, she can feel the oncoming storm- on dark nights, she can feel the wrath of the goddesses trembling in the air. She removes a set of clothing from its secret, hidden place and strips away the crown and the robes of her station. Naked, she is no longer a Princess or a Sage or a Leader- she is herself only, simply Zelda.
When stars provide the only light in her room, she wraps her legs in bandages and ties back her hair. She binds her breasts beneath the sign of the all-seeing eye and veils her face until there is nothing left of Zelda- not the Princess, not the Sage, not the woman.
There are nights when she can feel the fate of Hyrule in the air like a funeral dirge, awesome and inevitable. There is nothing she can do to prevent it.
On these nights, she becomes her own shadow, and stands vigil for a Hero who will never return.
---
Ocarina of Time and Majora's Mask really drive home the fact that Link's life sucks immensely- but things can't be a whole lot better for Zelda.
Anyway, crossdressing makes everything better, even when you're facing the apocalypse and your boyfriend is missing and presumed dead. (Genderfucked!Zelda is, quite possibly, one of the sexiest things ever.)
Song call- Fall Out Boy, "Sugar We're Going Down"
Am I more than you bargained for yet
I've been dying to tell you anything you want to hear
Cause that's just who I am this week
Lie in the grass, next to the mausoleum
I'm just a notch in your bedpost
But you're just a line in a song
(A notch in your bedpost, but you're just a line in a song)
Drop a heart, break a name
We're always sleeping in, and sleeping for the wrong team
We're going down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
[x2]
Is this more than you bargained for yet
Oh don't mind me I'm watching you two from the closet
Wishing to be the friction in your jeans
Isn't it messed up how I'm just dying to be him
I'm just a notch in your bedpost
But you're just a line in a song
(Notch in your bedpost, but you're just a line in a song)
Drop a heart, break a name
We're always sleeping in, and sleeping for the wrong team
We're going down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
[x2]
Down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
We're going down, down in an earlier round (Take aim at myself)
And Sugar, we're going down swinging (Take back what you said)
I'll be your number one with a bullet (Take aim at myself)
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
We're going down, down (down, down)
Down, down (down, down)
We're going down, down (down, down)
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
We're going down, down in an earlier round (Take aim at myself)
And Sugar, we're going down swinging (Take back what you said)
I'll be your number one with a bullet (Take aim at myself)
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
-Fall Out Boy, "Sugar We're Going Down"
Holy shit, this song just got three thousand times more awesome now that I know what the lyrics are. Not changing the title of the blog, though; I prefer loaded guns to loaded gods, really. (OMG, is it next week yet? I want to go to Virginia and shoot things full of holes so badly. Shit, I'm such a bad liberal.)
I've been dying to tell you anything you want to hear
Cause that's just who I am this week
Lie in the grass, next to the mausoleum
I'm just a notch in your bedpost
But you're just a line in a song
(A notch in your bedpost, but you're just a line in a song)
Drop a heart, break a name
We're always sleeping in, and sleeping for the wrong team
We're going down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
[x2]
Is this more than you bargained for yet
Oh don't mind me I'm watching you two from the closet
Wishing to be the friction in your jeans
Isn't it messed up how I'm just dying to be him
I'm just a notch in your bedpost
But you're just a line in a song
(Notch in your bedpost, but you're just a line in a song)
Drop a heart, break a name
We're always sleeping in, and sleeping for the wrong team
We're going down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
[x2]
Down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
We're going down, down in an earlier round (Take aim at myself)
And Sugar, we're going down swinging (Take back what you said)
I'll be your number one with a bullet (Take aim at myself)
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
We're going down, down (down, down)
Down, down (down, down)
We're going down, down (down, down)
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
We're going down, down in an earlier round (Take aim at myself)
And Sugar, we're going down swinging (Take back what you said)
I'll be your number one with a bullet (Take aim at myself)
A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it
-Fall Out Boy, "Sugar We're Going Down"
Holy shit, this song just got three thousand times more awesome now that I know what the lyrics are. Not changing the title of the blog, though; I prefer loaded guns to loaded gods, really. (OMG, is it next week yet? I want to go to Virginia and shoot things full of holes so badly. Shit, I'm such a bad liberal.)
Friday, March 10, 2006
50 sentences
More Ramza/Mustadio.
43: God
"There is no god in this," he chokes out; Mustadio takes him by the elbow and leads him away from his brother's grave.
30: Ghost
He wasn't afraid, and he said as much; Ramza looked up at the trees then down at the fog curling around the roots, and muttered, "I am."
16: Need
He doesn't fool himself into thinking Ramza wants this (hands and mouths tangling in the darkness, bodies twined together), but want and need are two separate things; he will cater to either as long as Ramza will allow it.
40: History
He's always been fascinated by it: in the ruins beneath Goug, in the Stones, in the air between Ramza and Delita as they stand on the Warjilis docks.
--
I adore Akihiko Yoshida's art, but did he have to make Zalbag and Grissom look so much alike? They've got the same stupid hair and they both get turned into zombies! Balfrea has similar hair; does this mean he's getting turned into a zombie, too? That would be either too amazing to contemplate or too awful to stand. *le sigh*
43: God
"There is no god in this," he chokes out; Mustadio takes him by the elbow and leads him away from his brother's grave.
30: Ghost
He wasn't afraid, and he said as much; Ramza looked up at the trees then down at the fog curling around the roots, and muttered, "I am."
16: Need
He doesn't fool himself into thinking Ramza wants this (hands and mouths tangling in the darkness, bodies twined together), but want and need are two separate things; he will cater to either as long as Ramza will allow it.
40: History
He's always been fascinated by it: in the ruins beneath Goug, in the Stones, in the air between Ramza and Delita as they stand on the Warjilis docks.
--
I adore Akihiko Yoshida's art, but did he have to make Zalbag and Grissom look so much alike? They've got the same stupid hair and they both get turned into zombies! Balfrea has similar hair; does this mean he's getting turned into a zombie, too? That would be either too amazing to contemplate or too awful to stand. *le sigh*
Monday, March 06, 2006
One Piece fangirling
Guh. One thing I will say in favor of the Naruto anime- when the animators are getting paid properly, they do some amazing fight scenes. And Kishimoto's grasp of anatomy and ability to choreograph fights is impressive.
One Piece, on the other hand, gives anatomy a cursory glance and then dashes off to create more crack. The good crack, mind, but it's still crack and the animation isn't all that technically impressive, even at its best. But it does occasionally get things right- like episodes 94 and 95, when we see Ace fight. Guh.
ZOMG, Ace. And, good god, if I thought Smoker (with his hungry pants) was awesome in the anime? Ace is five hundred million times cooler. Just- guh. Freckles. And the smirk. And the hat. And- and- guh. Just- guh. So much love. I don't normally approve of anime filler, but when I think of all the Ace the manga doesn't have, it makes me sad. (My newest OP OTP is Ace/Purple Lizard, because- what the hell, it's good crack. Damn you, filler!)
Seriously, it doesn't get any better than a narcoleptic pyromaniac pirate with freckles, a cowboy hat, and better manners than anyone else in the entire series. And god, his smirk, it's made of sex. The manga needs more Ace, damnit. And the fandom needs more Ace/Sanji, because that's totally the hottest pairing since the invention of hot, and they're both my favorite characters, next to Shanks and the Red Hair Pirates.
Ohman, Vivi's dad is awesome. So are Chaka and Pell. God, I love Alabasta. So full of awesome! Even the filler! Baroque Works is an excellent evil organization; I'm half-heartedly considering doing a Miss Goldenweek cosplay, because she's the only member I could feasibly pull off, what with being short and fully clothed. I kind of want her shirt, anyway.
Also, this pleases me immenselyshut up no I don't watch the dub when I'm home stop looking at me like that. As does this. Oh webcomics. I've missed you so.
One Piece, on the other hand, gives anatomy a cursory glance and then dashes off to create more crack. The good crack, mind, but it's still crack and the animation isn't all that technically impressive, even at its best. But it does occasionally get things right- like episodes 94 and 95, when we see Ace fight. Guh.
ZOMG, Ace. And, good god, if I thought Smoker (with his hungry pants) was awesome in the anime? Ace is five hundred million times cooler. Just- guh. Freckles. And the smirk. And the hat. And- and- guh. Just- guh. So much love. I don't normally approve of anime filler, but when I think of all the Ace the manga doesn't have, it makes me sad. (My newest OP OTP is Ace/Purple Lizard, because- what the hell, it's good crack. Damn you, filler!)
Seriously, it doesn't get any better than a narcoleptic pyromaniac pirate with freckles, a cowboy hat, and better manners than anyone else in the entire series. And god, his smirk, it's made of sex. The manga needs more Ace, damnit. And the fandom needs more Ace/Sanji, because that's totally the hottest pairing since the invention of hot, and they're both my favorite characters, next to Shanks and the Red Hair Pirates.
Ohman, Vivi's dad is awesome. So are Chaka and Pell. God, I love Alabasta. So full of awesome! Even the filler! Baroque Works is an excellent evil organization; I'm half-heartedly considering doing a Miss Goldenweek cosplay, because she's the only member I could feasibly pull off, what with being short and fully clothed. I kind of want her shirt, anyway.
Also, this pleases me immensely
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Character spotlight: Blaine
I did a character spotlight on Blaine many, many moons ago, but much of his history has been altered since then. So here's an updated one, along with a little intro to the actual story. I'll probably do a Guild and Temple District post eventually, since those have changed, too.
name: Tyrin Samarkand/Blaine Torkehaav
status: Apostle of Varun; ex-thief
age: 17 at the beginning of the story, mid-late 20s by the end
appearance: Blaine is the epitome of ordinary; he's exceedingly skilled at fading into backgrounds and getting lost in crowds. His height, build, hair, eyes, and skin-tone can all be described as "medium," leaning slightly towards "sparse" and "skinny" depending on which stage of his life we're dealing with. He has some nasty scarring across the bridge of his nose and his mouth, over his shoulders and down the left side of his body, and on his hands.
family: Civet Seldriss (mother); Hawk Samarkand (father); Foxbird (daughter); Silverlock D'Alestri (partner)
Tyrin's parents were both well respected members of the Guild; it was a great disappointment to them when it became clear early on that their son would not be following in their footsteps. While not accident prone in normal ways, Tyrin was incapable of touching anything that might be construed as a weapon without hurting himself. He learned to use chopsticks at a very young age after a few too many accidents at the dinner table.
Civet and Hawk knew a losing battle when they saw one, and they gave up on training their son as an assassin. When he was eight, they sent him to the Thieves' Guild.
It turned out that, while he failed utterly at assassin skills, he excelled in areas of sneakthievery. He earned his tags at the age of fourteen and became a happy, healthy, productive member of the Guild, specializing in pickpocketing and burglary. His parents were immensely proud of him; they still kept in touch, since the two Guilds were practically down the hall from each other. (Shaivhen has an extensive system of sewers and catacombs dating back to the early Second Era; they were used primarily by the royal family until the end of the Third Era, when gypsies, the Rogue Guilds, various religious cults, and a few races of monsters that dislike sunlight moved in.)
Life continued on in this vein for awhile until someone sold out his team on a heist. None of them escaped; a few were lucky enough to be killed outright by the mark, who didn't take kindly to being burgled. The mark had the survivors flogged and then cut the tendons in their hands. Then they were left unconscious in different alleys in the harbor district- the harbor district being, of course, home to the slave markets and various other unsavory businesses.
Tyrin woke up a few days later in the Temple of Varun, where he should have been for the last ten years or so. Varun himself was starting to get a bit irritated by the delay; normally the people he chooses as Apostles realize they've been God-Touched before they join the Thieves' Guild and nearly get themselves killed.
Unfortunately for Tyrin, no one in either of the Guilds realized that his inability to use weapons was a sign of holy favor. They saw it more as being shitty luck that would probably get him killed, and he tended to agree with them.
He wasn't entirely pleased to hear that his life had been planned out beforehand by a god he didn't even worship; he was even less pleased when the Avatar of Varun told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn't become ordained as an Apostle, he would live out the rest of his life as a disfigured cripple.
He didn't really have any choice in the matter. He was the only survivor of his team, and his hands were useless; he couldn't go back to the Guild. He agreed to Varun's terms, but he made it clear that he wasn't happy with the situation.
And so, Blaine Torkehaav was born as the Most Revered Eighty Sixth Apostle of Varun.
He spent the next few years growing into his position and picking fights with then-Avatar, Lady Nagendra. Nagendra didn't approve of Blaine beling alive, never mind Blaine being an Apostle.
Blaine and Nagendra did their best to make each other completely miserable; Blaine found himself feeling devout reverence for his god and utter scorn for the voice of his god on the middle plane. Unfortunately, the Avatar sets earthly doctrine, and Blaine, as the most junior of the Apostles, had no real influence in the church.
Foxbird's arrival was the final straw; as a creature of demonic descent, she was anathema according to Nagendra's laws. When a couple of Acolytes found her floating off shore, the general consensus around the temple was to ship her back out in a box. Blaine decided to adopt her; Nagendra banished and damned them both. Blaine's response was, "Screw you guys, I'm going home!" He went back to the Assassins' Guild and got a job as a healer; unlike the Theives' Guild, they don't outsource their doctors.
As an Apostle, Blaine ranks in the upper echelons of the church hierarchy; the only person closer to Varun is the Avatar. He hears the voice of Varun whispering in the back of his head at all times. Being human, he can't understand the words- but he doesn't need to. Like it or not, the desire to worship Varun is built into him. It's not his god he has issues with, just his church.
All of Blaine's abilities- his healing talents and sensitivity to emotional and physical states- come from his connection to Varun. He doesn't have any magical talent on is own, but the strength of his faith is remarkable even for an Apostle. When Nagendra damned and banished him, she broke his connection to Varun. She couldn't sever it completely; instead, whenever Blaine is in the presence of someone or something Nagendra has decreed to be evil or unclean, he stops hearing the voice of Varun. To Blaine, this feels a little like someone hacking off the back of his head with a cleaver, scouring out his brain with acid and steel wool, and shoving hot coals into his skull.
He's fine around most members of the Assassins Guild, because they're no more or less evil than anyone else in the world. But sometimes he runs into someone who matches certain criteria on Nagendra's shit list, and he has to spend a day or so in utter agony, praying for forgiveness. The Guild is large, though, and the people who reek of evil and wrongness tend to not end up in the Healer's Ward, anyway.
He refuses to return to the temple and apologize to Nagendra, however; he is convinced that what he's doing for the Guild and Foxbird is right, no matter what the Avatar decrees. The fact that he doesn't lose his connection to Varun around Foxbird, even though she is a Malestri, is proof enough for him.
A number of traumatic events occur to him in the Guild; as a result, he picks up the bad habit of moping and being emo. Eventually he meets Silverlock, and more angst ensues. If Silverlock hadn't already been acquainted with Foxbird, he probably wouldn't have given Blaine a second thought after their first meeting- but his curiosity was piqued, and he's a tenacious bastard when he wants to be. It takes a few years for them to get past the screaming and vomit stage of their relationship, but they do manage it eventually, and Silver successfully cures Blaine of his emo.
Just before the actual story begins, Nagendra dies and a new Avatar takes over the running of the church. The new Avatar, Mandhatri, ushers in a new era of tolerance and universal acceptance for the church; with Nagendra dead, Blaine's banishment and damnation are lifted.
Blaine's life after this is pretty rockin', all things considered- until a number of high ranking and talented assassins go missing for a few weeks. They return, over the course of a few days, in bite-sized chunks. The story (which has no title) begins with Blaine cataloguing body parts from the last delivery of assassin-bits, and finding some too-familiar, tattooed pieces of skin mixed in among the rest.
DUN DUN DUNNNN.
--
Technically Foxbird is the main character, but I think Blaine may have displaced her; he certainly gets the most awesome fight scenes later on in the story. *grin* And I like him almost as much as I like Silverlock; the two of them tie with Jubal and Len of Boffo as my favorite original-character couple. I have a weakness for excessive cuteness in the face of adversity.
This story originally had a lot less religious and social commentary in it; Blaine only recently decided he was actually a fanatical priest of an incredibly screwed up religion. *sigh* And it's possible that my scar fetish is getting out of hand, but these guys are really old characters for me, and I don't think I'm quite as bad anymore. Just- mm, facial disfiguration.
name: Tyrin Samarkand/Blaine Torkehaav
status: Apostle of Varun; ex-thief
age: 17 at the beginning of the story, mid-late 20s by the end
appearance: Blaine is the epitome of ordinary; he's exceedingly skilled at fading into backgrounds and getting lost in crowds. His height, build, hair, eyes, and skin-tone can all be described as "medium," leaning slightly towards "sparse" and "skinny" depending on which stage of his life we're dealing with. He has some nasty scarring across the bridge of his nose and his mouth, over his shoulders and down the left side of his body, and on his hands.
family: Civet Seldriss (mother); Hawk Samarkand (father); Foxbird (daughter); Silverlock D'Alestri (partner)
Tyrin's parents were both well respected members of the Guild; it was a great disappointment to them when it became clear early on that their son would not be following in their footsteps. While not accident prone in normal ways, Tyrin was incapable of touching anything that might be construed as a weapon without hurting himself. He learned to use chopsticks at a very young age after a few too many accidents at the dinner table.
Civet and Hawk knew a losing battle when they saw one, and they gave up on training their son as an assassin. When he was eight, they sent him to the Thieves' Guild.
It turned out that, while he failed utterly at assassin skills, he excelled in areas of sneakthievery. He earned his tags at the age of fourteen and became a happy, healthy, productive member of the Guild, specializing in pickpocketing and burglary. His parents were immensely proud of him; they still kept in touch, since the two Guilds were practically down the hall from each other. (Shaivhen has an extensive system of sewers and catacombs dating back to the early Second Era; they were used primarily by the royal family until the end of the Third Era, when gypsies, the Rogue Guilds, various religious cults, and a few races of monsters that dislike sunlight moved in.)
Life continued on in this vein for awhile until someone sold out his team on a heist. None of them escaped; a few were lucky enough to be killed outright by the mark, who didn't take kindly to being burgled. The mark had the survivors flogged and then cut the tendons in their hands. Then they were left unconscious in different alleys in the harbor district- the harbor district being, of course, home to the slave markets and various other unsavory businesses.
Tyrin woke up a few days later in the Temple of Varun, where he should have been for the last ten years or so. Varun himself was starting to get a bit irritated by the delay; normally the people he chooses as Apostles realize they've been God-Touched before they join the Thieves' Guild and nearly get themselves killed.
Unfortunately for Tyrin, no one in either of the Guilds realized that his inability to use weapons was a sign of holy favor. They saw it more as being shitty luck that would probably get him killed, and he tended to agree with them.
He wasn't entirely pleased to hear that his life had been planned out beforehand by a god he didn't even worship; he was even less pleased when the Avatar of Varun told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn't become ordained as an Apostle, he would live out the rest of his life as a disfigured cripple.
He didn't really have any choice in the matter. He was the only survivor of his team, and his hands were useless; he couldn't go back to the Guild. He agreed to Varun's terms, but he made it clear that he wasn't happy with the situation.
And so, Blaine Torkehaav was born as the Most Revered Eighty Sixth Apostle of Varun.
He spent the next few years growing into his position and picking fights with then-Avatar, Lady Nagendra. Nagendra didn't approve of Blaine beling alive, never mind Blaine being an Apostle.
Blaine and Nagendra did their best to make each other completely miserable; Blaine found himself feeling devout reverence for his god and utter scorn for the voice of his god on the middle plane. Unfortunately, the Avatar sets earthly doctrine, and Blaine, as the most junior of the Apostles, had no real influence in the church.
Foxbird's arrival was the final straw; as a creature of demonic descent, she was anathema according to Nagendra's laws. When a couple of Acolytes found her floating off shore, the general consensus around the temple was to ship her back out in a box. Blaine decided to adopt her; Nagendra banished and damned them both. Blaine's response was, "Screw you guys, I'm going home!" He went back to the Assassins' Guild and got a job as a healer; unlike the Theives' Guild, they don't outsource their doctors.
As an Apostle, Blaine ranks in the upper echelons of the church hierarchy; the only person closer to Varun is the Avatar. He hears the voice of Varun whispering in the back of his head at all times. Being human, he can't understand the words- but he doesn't need to. Like it or not, the desire to worship Varun is built into him. It's not his god he has issues with, just his church.
All of Blaine's abilities- his healing talents and sensitivity to emotional and physical states- come from his connection to Varun. He doesn't have any magical talent on is own, but the strength of his faith is remarkable even for an Apostle. When Nagendra damned and banished him, she broke his connection to Varun. She couldn't sever it completely; instead, whenever Blaine is in the presence of someone or something Nagendra has decreed to be evil or unclean, he stops hearing the voice of Varun. To Blaine, this feels a little like someone hacking off the back of his head with a cleaver, scouring out his brain with acid and steel wool, and shoving hot coals into his skull.
He's fine around most members of the Assassins Guild, because they're no more or less evil than anyone else in the world. But sometimes he runs into someone who matches certain criteria on Nagendra's shit list, and he has to spend a day or so in utter agony, praying for forgiveness. The Guild is large, though, and the people who reek of evil and wrongness tend to not end up in the Healer's Ward, anyway.
He refuses to return to the temple and apologize to Nagendra, however; he is convinced that what he's doing for the Guild and Foxbird is right, no matter what the Avatar decrees. The fact that he doesn't lose his connection to Varun around Foxbird, even though she is a Malestri, is proof enough for him.
A number of traumatic events occur to him in the Guild; as a result, he picks up the bad habit of moping and being emo. Eventually he meets Silverlock, and more angst ensues. If Silverlock hadn't already been acquainted with Foxbird, he probably wouldn't have given Blaine a second thought after their first meeting- but his curiosity was piqued, and he's a tenacious bastard when he wants to be. It takes a few years for them to get past the screaming and vomit stage of their relationship, but they do manage it eventually, and Silver successfully cures Blaine of his emo.
Just before the actual story begins, Nagendra dies and a new Avatar takes over the running of the church. The new Avatar, Mandhatri, ushers in a new era of tolerance and universal acceptance for the church; with Nagendra dead, Blaine's banishment and damnation are lifted.
Blaine's life after this is pretty rockin', all things considered- until a number of high ranking and talented assassins go missing for a few weeks. They return, over the course of a few days, in bite-sized chunks. The story (which has no title) begins with Blaine cataloguing body parts from the last delivery of assassin-bits, and finding some too-familiar, tattooed pieces of skin mixed in among the rest.
DUN DUN DUNNNN.
--
Technically Foxbird is the main character, but I think Blaine may have displaced her; he certainly gets the most awesome fight scenes later on in the story. *grin* And I like him almost as much as I like Silverlock; the two of them tie with Jubal and Len of Boffo as my favorite original-character couple. I have a weakness for excessive cuteness in the face of adversity.
This story originally had a lot less religious and social commentary in it; Blaine only recently decided he was actually a fanatical priest of an incredibly screwed up religion. *sigh* And it's possible that my scar fetish is getting out of hand, but these guys are really old characters for me, and I don't think I'm quite as bad anymore. Just- mm, facial disfiguration.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Song Call- Jason Mraz, "Childlike Wildlife"
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Rothcar blather
I'm such a derivative fantasy whore. *sigh* Here's a really, really sketchy timeline of all the various plotlines that take place in this universe. They are legion, and I came up with most of them when I was in eighth grade, which is why they suck, and why I'm only giving sketchy details, so as to embarass myself as little as possible.
The history of Rothcar and the surrounding areas can be divided into four main sections- five, if you count post-Stella Matin, but that's still technically part of the Fourth Era. Given the way certain characters keep making ominous noises, I'm sure I'll have to come up with a Fifth Era soon.
The First Era is characterized by nature worship and cohabitation between human, non-human, and demi-human species. There were no gods and no form of organized religion. It ended when a war between the humans and demi-humans escalated to engulf the non-humans as well.
During the First Interlude (began in 1E 3087), most of the demi-humans and non-humans were killed; those that survived were banished underground. Most of the dragons died then, as well, and those few that survived became royalty among the non-humans.
The Second Era saw the beginning of actual deity worship; two goddesses were born out of the wreckage of the First Era, and they were recognized by all species as the final authority on everything. The humans lived in dozens of small fiefdoms and city states; the two largest of these were called Rothcar and Izalia.
The Second Interlude (whose plot is so pastede on, I don't even have words to describe it) began in 2E 963 when a plague drove the non-humans out of the Rift and back to the surface. The two Goddesses were kidnapped by someone who had figured out how to attain godhood on his own. Both Rothcar and Izalia were destroyed; the high princes of both countries banded together, along with a ridiculously large cast of side characters, to end the war and recover the Goddesses before the idiot who'd kidnapped them blew up the continent.
In the end, an elf priestess named Tybarra, and an outlaw magicrafter named Radrezyne were the ones who actually saved everyone. The two of them killed the Goddesses and the wannabe god, and ascended to godhood on their own. They separated the excess godhead into six pieces; Tybarra moved on to another plane of existence, and Radrezyne went back to take care of her husband, the ex-prince of Izalia.
Radrezyne and her then-husband united several of the fiefdoms around Izalia and became wise and benevolent rulers. Eventually they had children and everything went to hell, but that's another story altogether. The high prince of Rothcar went back and united a few feudal states of his own, and began rebuilding Rothcar. The Six pieces of leftover godhead became six new gods, and the Third Era began.
The Six were elemental deities- the four principal elements, plus life and death. Each one chose an area of the continent to patronize and agreed to maintain a balance in the forces of nature. They also agreed to leave Radrezyne and her people alone.
This worked for a few hundred years (even though they'd all wanted to do something when Radrezyne lost her mind and her son sealed off the country), until the elemental of death tried to take over the continent (3E 542). The rest of the Six picked six mortals to represent themselves on the physical plane, gave them powers by proxy, and waited for things to fix themselves.
The Six Avatars sealed the elemental into a rock and went into hibernation. The Third Interlude began in 3E 1150 when a bunch of idiots revived the elemental and all of her nasty creations. The Avatars were awakened and told to go forth and be useful- but they'd been asleep for six hundred years, and they had to get over their culture shock first.
The Fourth Era began with the mutual suicide of the Six and their Avatars; they shattered themselves into a thousand pieces, and each piece became one of the Thousand Little Gods. By this point, most of the non-humans and demi-humans left the continent or the plane; the incredible variety of creatures that once called the continent home had dwindled to a few dozen races.
Rothcar became the center of commerce and culture; Radrezaria, to the east, had opened its borders to annex the lands to the south and north, but remained otherwise completely isolated.
The Fourth Era is my favorite because the focus shifts away from the country as a whole and focuses more on the capital city of Shaivhen, where the Guilds and Temples vie for power. I love my Thousand Little Gods and my Assassins' Guild, even if I did completely steal them from Tamora Pierce and Eve Forward. The Fourth Era has the highest ratio of cool characters to useless pieces of crap than any other Era, too.
Derivative fantasy whore, like I said. Foxbird's story takes place in the middle of the Fourth Era, while Stella Matin happens towards the end. (Silverlock was born in 4E 398; he meets Foxbird and Blaine in the 480s; Theron kills his father in 4E 776; he leaves Radrezhaea (or Radrezaria, or whatever else the fuck I call it at any given point in time) with Bren and Co and arrives in Shaivhen in 4E 1000.)
The history of Rothcar and the surrounding areas can be divided into four main sections- five, if you count post-Stella Matin, but that's still technically part of the Fourth Era. Given the way certain characters keep making ominous noises, I'm sure I'll have to come up with a Fifth Era soon.
The First Era is characterized by nature worship and cohabitation between human, non-human, and demi-human species. There were no gods and no form of organized religion. It ended when a war between the humans and demi-humans escalated to engulf the non-humans as well.
During the First Interlude (began in 1E 3087), most of the demi-humans and non-humans were killed; those that survived were banished underground. Most of the dragons died then, as well, and those few that survived became royalty among the non-humans.
The Second Era saw the beginning of actual deity worship; two goddesses were born out of the wreckage of the First Era, and they were recognized by all species as the final authority on everything. The humans lived in dozens of small fiefdoms and city states; the two largest of these were called Rothcar and Izalia.
The Second Interlude (whose plot is so pastede on, I don't even have words to describe it) began in 2E 963 when a plague drove the non-humans out of the Rift and back to the surface. The two Goddesses were kidnapped by someone who had figured out how to attain godhood on his own. Both Rothcar and Izalia were destroyed; the high princes of both countries banded together, along with a ridiculously large cast of side characters, to end the war and recover the Goddesses before the idiot who'd kidnapped them blew up the continent.
In the end, an elf priestess named Tybarra, and an outlaw magicrafter named Radrezyne were the ones who actually saved everyone. The two of them killed the Goddesses and the wannabe god, and ascended to godhood on their own. They separated the excess godhead into six pieces; Tybarra moved on to another plane of existence, and Radrezyne went back to take care of her husband, the ex-prince of Izalia.
Radrezyne and her then-husband united several of the fiefdoms around Izalia and became wise and benevolent rulers. Eventually they had children and everything went to hell, but that's another story altogether. The high prince of Rothcar went back and united a few feudal states of his own, and began rebuilding Rothcar. The Six pieces of leftover godhead became six new gods, and the Third Era began.
The Six were elemental deities- the four principal elements, plus life and death. Each one chose an area of the continent to patronize and agreed to maintain a balance in the forces of nature. They also agreed to leave Radrezyne and her people alone.
This worked for a few hundred years (even though they'd all wanted to do something when Radrezyne lost her mind and her son sealed off the country), until the elemental of death tried to take over the continent (3E 542). The rest of the Six picked six mortals to represent themselves on the physical plane, gave them powers by proxy, and waited for things to fix themselves.
The Six Avatars sealed the elemental into a rock and went into hibernation. The Third Interlude began in 3E 1150 when a bunch of idiots revived the elemental and all of her nasty creations. The Avatars were awakened and told to go forth and be useful- but they'd been asleep for six hundred years, and they had to get over their culture shock first.
The Fourth Era began with the mutual suicide of the Six and their Avatars; they shattered themselves into a thousand pieces, and each piece became one of the Thousand Little Gods. By this point, most of the non-humans and demi-humans left the continent or the plane; the incredible variety of creatures that once called the continent home had dwindled to a few dozen races.
Rothcar became the center of commerce and culture; Radrezaria, to the east, had opened its borders to annex the lands to the south and north, but remained otherwise completely isolated.
The Fourth Era is my favorite because the focus shifts away from the country as a whole and focuses more on the capital city of Shaivhen, where the Guilds and Temples vie for power. I love my Thousand Little Gods and my Assassins' Guild, even if I did completely steal them from Tamora Pierce and Eve Forward. The Fourth Era has the highest ratio of cool characters to useless pieces of crap than any other Era, too.
Derivative fantasy whore, like I said. Foxbird's story takes place in the middle of the Fourth Era, while Stella Matin happens towards the end. (Silverlock was born in 4E 398; he meets Foxbird and Blaine in the 480s; Theron kills his father in 4E 776; he leaves Radrezhaea (or Radrezaria, or whatever else the fuck I call it at any given point in time) with Bren and Co and arrives in Shaivhen in 4E 1000.)