Sound of White

Ugh. So, I have all sorts of fragments that I need to write, at some point. But I can't quite seem to manage actually writing them. So instead, I shall write about them!

For Toggle, there's a Silverlock/Blaine scene I've wanted to write since last year. It would be the Festival of Joshel, which is an enormous, week long celebration that takes over the city- it's sort of like Mardi Gras, only it lasts for a week. Even people who don't worship Joshel get to celebrate, because Joshel is such a huge deity. There are parades and dances and masks, and the Church of Joshel sponsors the whole thing- and all the slaves in the city get the week off, or at the very least, the last day off. Silverlock does that thing where he drags Blaine out of the infirmary- and Blaine's reaction is WTF, have you looked outside, they're practically rioting out there, we're gonna get trampled. Silverlock gets a couple of the Shrive to jaunt them outside the city, up the coast a few miles, where a small-ish congregation of Joshelites are having their celebration for the last day of the festival. There's a bonfire on the beach, and everyone is dancing and singing and drumming and drinking and having sex. Blaine gets a little bit wigged out by the crowd and the very palpable presence of a god that isn't his, so he wanders down the beach to stare at the waves and lets Silverlock reconnect his soul for a bit so at least one of them can have a properly good time. (He can feel a few other leechmages in the throng, none of them strong enough or close enough to be more than a faint, uncomfortable buzzing in the corners of his soul. He can feel Silverlock, too, and the temptation to reach out is almost too strong to resist. Almost. He knows better than to try and touch what he can never really have.)

Blaine ends up meditating until the tide comes in, while Silverlock dances and basks in the joy of the people around him. Eventually he wanders off to find Blaine and wake him up before he drowns- and finds a very poisonous sea snake wrapped around him. After that it's mostly just dialogue and the two of them being cute at each other.
("I'm fairly certain that's got rather deadly poison."

"Mm. Watch where you're stepping- her nest is buried in the sand by those rocks." He opened his eyes and looked up at Silverlock. "Did you have a good time?"

"Of course. And you?" His hair, unbound for once, spilled past his shoulders when he leaned forward, brushing Blaine's face.

"Making new friends." He held up his hand, where the snake's head lay. It curled around to the underside of his arm. "She's a bit shy around strangers.")

And of course Silverlock's thoughts inevitably end up thinking about Blaine naked, wearing nothing but a giant snake. I'm thinking this image ends up in the "Potentially very hot or very weird" category. Possibly the "Very Late '80s Music Video" category, even.
--

I need to write more of the Zanadreths- I have a scene in the works where Aya has her first and third companies out on endurance training, and she's taking a bath in a stream, because the mud is pretty fierce on the road north from Shaivhen. And Liall shows up, and it looks vaguely like the set up for some bad lesbian porn. Porn does not happen, of course- Aya is more Ishkhahareni at heart than Liall is in that respect. The whole scene is mostly just an excuse for me to play with Templar's story. So the whole scene is Liall telling Aya the tale of the Templar, and Aya beginning to confront Liall about the murders.

It's possible Aya and Liall have better chemistry than Aya and Nick, so that's something I need to work on.

The other Zanadreths scene I want to write is the one where Aya introduces them both to Silverlock- who, at that point, is nearing the end of his mage apprenticeship. The meet up in a bar somewhere, and as soon as Aya and Liall get up to fetch more drinks, Silverlock gives Nick the "break her heart and I'll crush your soul and violate your body in a thousand heinous ways" speech. Nick's upbringing shows itself in rather nasty ways here- Rothcar is rather blase about same sex couples, but Akvaria tends to view them in a rather negative light. Akvaria has some strong anti-non-human sentiment, and they're not overly fond of same sex couples. Mostly, though, Nick is violently opposed to sex outside of marriage, and that's the source of his dislike of Silverlock.

This burns Aya a bit, since she wants the people she cares about to get along, but there's nothing to be done about it, really.
--

I want to write the scene where Jarrek DeLavrey walks into Theron's office and demands to know what happened to his children. Of course, the only people in at the time are Bren and Stella, and once Bren figures out who he's talking to, he goes into starstruck fanboy mode. It's kind of cute. And Stella gets to be sane, which doesn't happen nearly as often as it ought.

And I want to write the scene where Edrana Coralin drags Theron out of the city and takes him roadtripping around to all of her old stomping grounds. She's his older sister in spirit; her army of zombies actually managed to sack Shaivhen, while his just made it to the borders of Murundcar.

She feels even less guilt than he does for killing thousands of people (Theron's death count is higher, but only because there were more people in his era), even though she's more at fault than he was. Theron went crazy fairly early on; Eddy was sane the whole time. And Theron at least feels bad for screwing over Bren- Edrana killed Siegfried's entire family and ate their brains in front of him, but she never so much as apologizes.

("Woman-"

"If I touch you again you'll rip of my limbs and feed them to stray cats?" Bluish black outlines of butterflies swarmed over her arms; they seemed to shift and crawl when she moved.

He stopped short. "How did you know I was going to say that?"

She walked past him. "I said the exact same thing to Joradi when I was your age. Come on, I want to show you the place where I reanimated a dragon's corpse and made it kill its nest mates." She pointed to a place high up the cliffs.

Theron scrambled to catch up with her.)
--

I really want to write (though I'd never post them here) the first time Blaine and Silverlock have sex, and the first time Orrin and Silverlock have sex. The former has a few really beautiful moments, and the latter a few hilarious moments. And both showcase how very different Silverlock's relationships with the two of them are. Not better, not worse, just different. (Okay, Orrin may be a little better. He's happy as so few of my characters are; he leads a charmed life and knows it, and is profoundly grateful for it. He lacks the ridiculous emotional baggage Blaine had.)

It's also interesting to see how Silverlock relates to the people he cares about on a physical level...and, hey, porn. I think it's hot, but they're my characters, so I suppose I ought to.

(This is not part of either of those scenes; this is just Silverlock and Orrin being dumb.)
("So, now what?" Orrin had him pinned to the bed, with an obscenely smug look on his face.

"Well," he shifted his hips and watched Orrin's eyes briefly roll back in his head, "I was thinking you could fuck me. And then," he glanced at the clock, whose blinking numbers told him he wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight anyway, and he might as well give in to the inevitable. "I'm going to make pancakes."

"Pancakes?" Orrin seemed dubious.

"I'm hungry. And if I'm hungry now, I'll be hungry later, too." He spoke as though to a particularly slow-witted small child. He rolled his hips again, eliciting another blinded-by-lust expression from Orrin. "I'm also horny. And I will still be horny later if you don't get on with it.")

I'm a little bit in love with Orrin. He's very much who Tyrin could have become, had he survived past 16. And I love Faraz, because I needed a six and a half foot tall druid in my head. (She's so hardcore her internal organs are made of titanium.)

I want to write the scene where Orrin introduces Silverlock to the other four. Faraz adores him from the start, of course, as does Lindra. Ravi is a bit protective of Orrin and doesn't entirely approve, and Lorreth spends the evening very quietly hyperventilating, because he majored in arcane history and wrote his senior thesis on leechmagick in the Fourth Era Riftwar.

("I quoted you. In my master's dissertation. Does Orrin know you were an assassin? And that you helped acquit Theron Shanretha in the Radrezarian Genocide trials? Or that you've been sleeping with Anna DeLavrey? He's clueless sometimes, but if you hurt him I'll kill you. I'll mine your brain for research on my AD project and throw your body in the river."

Silverlock smirked and reached out with his senses; Eleth's soul was slippery and elusive, but if he could get a good look at it-

The sudden irony of Eleth defending Orrin was almost enough to make him sick. "I would sooner tear out my own eyes," he said gravely, all good humor gone. "Now if you'll excuse me, Mister Hjordiss, I need to get myself very drunk very quickly."

The others were whole and healthy, if surrounded by a faint aura of permanent bemusement- but Aya, alien and bright and beautiful, hadn't made the transition intact. The wounded shreds of her soul hung about Eleth like a shroud.)

The last scene I want to write is the one where Orrin and Faraz bust some skulls and rescue Tim from a bunch of drunken frat boys. Poor Tim- he was a baby when the tower opened, so no one realized he was one of the Soulless, until Silverlock meets him, and LOLs his head off.

this is serious business!

You know what I want? I want someone to write the fic where Jamie popped out another clone between X-Factor 11 and 12, and had sex with Ric in addition to Theresa and Monet.

...yeah, so I'm shallow, but dude. The thing with Siryn and Victoria in the first issue, Ric coming out as bisexual, all of Jamie's little asides in Mad(d)rox. (Mm, consistency of spelling. How I miss you sometimes.) In just about every issue, PAD makes some comment on Jamie's inability to make decisions because he can see the benefits of every path available. I mean, really. It's only a matter of time before Jamie comes out of the closet too. It's practically text at this point.

Also, it'd be hot. And there'd be no ridiculous drama, because Ric would sort of be all, "So, you're just a dupe, right?" And the dupe would go, "Yup, wanna screw?" And that'd be the end of it, until Jamie reabsorbed all his dupes the next morning and went "W. T. F." And then at some point later Ric would go, "Soooo..." and Jamie would kind of '>.> and then they'd have sex again. And it would be good.

I, um, love X-Factor. Because Peter David remembers that all of the characters have years worth of preexisting canon- canon that happened when he wasn't writing. I don't entirely approve of Monet being suicidal, but it works when looked at over the backdrop of everything else that has happened to her character. Same with Theresa being delusional, and Ric being sulky (oh wait, he was like that before).

I'm also maybe a little bit in love with Layla Miller, and the way she rescues people by crashing pizza delivery vans, and kills them with leaky pipes. I can't wait to see where PAD goes with the whole Singularity/Damien Tryp thing, and whether or not he fixes the decimation.

And, in other news, Peter David writing the Dark Tower comic? Makes me so happy. Peter David writing just about anything makes me so happy. But the fact that Dark Tower doesn't suck fills me with immense joy. And mmm, Steven Deschain, you sexy, angry beardy man. This comic, unlike the Neverwhere comic, is an example of how a book, or parts of a book, are properly adapted to the medium of comics.

snowlight

I can't tell if it's still snowing or not- but between the snow on the trees and the lake, and the quality of the pre-dawn light, this is probably the most absolutely beautiful morning I've ever had the priviledge to witness. Everything outside is reduced to a limited greyscale- black, white, and something in between.

I love this time of day. The way the sky goes from completely dark to this strange and beautiful halflight is always startling and wonderful for me. It takes so much longer to get from this point to actual sunrise, but the light just keeps changing, moment by moment...

I'm going to be completely dead today, and that's unfortunate. Still, seeing the light like this makes it largely worthwhile.

body mods

Since I've killed the feed, this blog has gone back to screaming in the dark- a rather comfortable state of being for me, actually, particularly since I seem to be incapable of making public livejournal entries these days.

I still want to be covered in tattoos- but I find myself with a growing fondness for scars, and artistic scarification. I don't have many scars, which could lead me to the conclusion that I do not have the keloiding problems that run in my family. On the other hand, I also haven't been seriously injured, so I suppose there's no real way of knowing.

Scarification is a bit subtler than a tattoo, and a whole lot more tactile. I kind of like that.

I've been afraid of pain my whole life- seriously, tremblingly afraid of it. It's been the primary motivation of most of the stupid, hurtful shit I do to other people, and that's not exactly something I'm proud of. But pain is temporary, and knowing this intellectually doesn't necessarily equate to being able to put that knowledge to use in my life.

I want these things- these marks on my body- primarily because I think they're beautiful, in a visceral way that few other arts can approach. (If I were a pretentious philosopher, I would say body modification is the most Dionysiac of arts, but that's a tangent for another post.) I also want them because getting them would be a way of telling pain to go fuck itself, and of proving to myself that I can handle it.

Anyway. I'm still leaning towards something on my ribcage, because it's a large expanse of skin and it will never be visible unless I choose to show it to someone. It's also apparently one of the most painfull places to be tattooed, because the skin is so thin. *shrug* I think I'd go for something abstract, since that's not likely to become suddenly inapplicable to the rest of my life, and if it scars unevenly, it won't be rendered illegible.

Windmill, windmill, for the land, turning, turning, hand in hand

This is horrifically sloppy and needs so much editing. >_< It can actually be boiled down to the following two dramatized chat logs:

Blaine: apocalypse now y/n?
Silverlock: WAAAANGST y pls.
Blaine: k <3 ttyl
user logged off
Silverlock: WTF?
user logged off

18 years later!
Orrin: oshit oshit oshit
Silverlock: ...ROFLCOPTER a/s/l?

---------------------------------

"This is the way the world ends, eh?" Silverlock stood on the roof of his apartment building and loked out at the city. It was nearly sunset, and the sky over the harbor was streaked with pink and orange.

By the time the sun finished sinking below the horizon, Anna DeLavrey would finish ascending the broken tower.

"Please. You probably won't even notice anything is different; at worst, you'll have a hangover for a few days until the sky clears." Blaine perched on the roof ledge; he was visible as a faint shimmer of energy, but when Silverlock used his aethersight, the other man's features became clear. It was just a trick of his mind, he knew- a mental coping mechanism to put the sight of the ghost in some semblance of order.

"It isn't my own well being I'm concerned for, surprising as that may seem. I'm going to live forever, after all." Silverlock leaned against the edge of the roof and looked down at the street below. "It's the rest of the world I fear for."

"Don't. The worst has already come to pass. This, now...this is just housekeeping."

"How bad is it, really? Anna is sure she's doing the right thing, but it seems she's the only one."

"The destruction of the Voyancy created a hole in the aether; it's been devouring the upper plane ever since, and cannot be halted or filled. Its only a matter of time before it starts on this plane, and then all of this," he gestured to the city, "will be gone."

"All but the tower."

"All but the tower," Blaine agreed. "But it does no good to have the tower floating in a sea of nothingness, waiting for the creator to return and start anew."

That was true enough, he supposed. "You're smiling," Silverlock observed.

"So I am. I'm surprised you can tell."

"Death may have improved your sense of humor, but it did nothing for your sensitivity." He remained still, but reached out with his soul to trace the contours of Blaine's face. He'd memorized these lines centuries ago. "I know you well enough by now to notice when you're smirking. I only comment because you seem to be taking your imminent oblivion in remarkably good spirits, if you'll pardon the pun- and because that's your "I know something you don't know" smile, and I hate that smile."

If anything, Blaine's smile widened, and he leaned into Silverlock's touch. "I only use it when I have good cause."

"I know." He tugged Blaine closer, until they overlapped, soul to soul. "I don't suppose you're going to share the secret?"

"And ruin the fun? Never." His laughter made Silverlock shiver with the intimacy of their position. "Look, it's starting."

Aether was rarely visible to the naked eye; high concentrations of it appeared as little more than a heat haze, and were almost unheard of. Ghosts like Blaine were a rarity. The air around the tower was thick with ghosts and aether, so much that the sky was lit with whorls of white and gold. Streams of glittering soul energy swirled around them, around the city, flowing towards the tower. "Impressive, isn't it?"

"It's beautiful." The sight of so much power made the empty places in his soul ache. Briefly, he wondered if this was what Theron had felt, or Dekar; their sins seemed forgiveable in the face of such overwhelming hunger. He could feel the pull of the tower in his own soul as it drew everything inexorably back together.

"Promise me something?" Blaine's voice was soft, almost drowned out by the roar of the aether.

"Anything."

He pulled away, attention fixed on the gathering apocalypse. "Forgive me the cliche- but promise you'll stay true to yourself."

Silverlock spread his hands. "When have I ever done elsewise?"

"I seem to recall a few decades in the nine hundreds..." Blaine was smirking again, and Silverlock was amused in spite of himself.

"I was stoned for most of those and refuse to be held accountable for my actions."

"Fair enough." He was growing indistinct around the edges. "I have to go now." He sounded apologetic.

Objectively, he had no reason to be bitter; he'd been gifted with an extra four hundred years of Blaine's company, and it was more than time for him- and the world- to move on. "I understand."

"No, you don't." I know something you don't know. "But that's not your fault." He grinned. "I'll see you later."

"Wait, what-" But the ghost was already gone, dissolved into the aether.

-----------

He found one of the squishy chairs in the student center and let it envelop him while he slipped into a meditative trance. If he was going to be working here, he wanted to get a better idea of the student body.

Technically, using his aethersight on such an expansive and intrusive scale was illegal, in addition to being incredibly rude. But there wasn't a single person on the entire campus with the sensitivity to notice him watching, and there wasn't anyone with the strength or skill to do anything about it if they could. There were, however, quite a few students and teachers with a great deal of potential. He made note of the auras of those with some hope of being proficient spellcasters.

He quickly came to the conclusion that the average SCoAA student desperately needed to relax. Tempting as it was to leech a little of the stress from the students swarming the campus center, Silverlock kept his soul to himself. He hadn't accepted the Dean's offer of a job yet; he could put off fucking with the student body in morally and legally questionable ways until after he had a contract.

He carefully pulled his senses back into his body and stood, leaving the embrace of the squishy chair. He made another mental note to steal or otherwise procure a few squishy chairs of his own; perhaps he'd send one to Theron, to replace the atrociously uncomfortable things in the boy's office.

A too-familiar soul brushed against his, and it was shock that rooted him to the floor, motionless; under any other circumstances, he'd have moved out of the way before a frantic graduate student crashed into him. Notes and latte flew everywhere; most of the latter ended up on Silverlock's jacket.

"Oh fucking shit I am so sorry that looks expensive-"

"It was," he said icily, reverting to cold aloofness out of reflex. He removed the now-ruined article of clothing and watched it drip disconsolately on the linoleum.

"I am so, so sorry, and I am so, so late for class." He grabbed for his notes with one hand and scribbled something on a sheet of paper with the other. He had to be a grad student; he was too old to be undergraduate, and his aura was too well controlled. "I really have to go, but seriously, I'll reimburse you for that- fuck my students are going to kill me- just send me the bill and I am so, so sorry."

He shoved the piece of paper into Silverlock's hands, and was off running before Silverlock could get a word in edgewise.

He stared off into space in the direction the man had gone for a moment. "Son of a bitch!" And then he was laughing too hard to stand up straight, heedless of the stares of the students and campus workers around him.

It didn't matter that the soul was now shaded with fire and light instead of water and darkness, or that it was housed in the body of a redhead with fire affinity instead of a too-thin, half-Dzyrachan priest. He still reacted with the same need to reach out, to touch, to hold; he would recognize the shape of Blaine's soul until the creature living in Rianna's Tower burned the world to nothingness.

I know something you don't know.

When his laughter finally subsided into the occasional vaguely hysterical giggle, Silverlock looked at the paper in his hand. "A pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Brannskada," he murmured.

He left the campus center whistling; he had to go see the dean about a job.

----------------

AHAHAHAHA Orrin has the most ridiculous last name ever. I can't tell which is worse: Torkehaav or Brannskada. They're Swedishly delicious!

Man. I feel like such a bad person for even considering this plotline (such as it is; this is even more soap-opera-y than my usual fare), but I can't help it. I'm already too fond of Orrin and Faraz. My headspace needed more redheads. (I think I'd keep this idea just for Faraz, because I am dearly fond of Foxbird- but she's so much more compelling when she's six feet tall.)

Sunshine in a bag: Mordant and Solneki, 50 sentences

I know very little about these two; they're fairly taciturn when it comes to their backstories, and they refuse to settle down in a single universe. They tend to show up wherever some generalized thuggery is needed, and they're very good at what they do, for all that they can be kind of moronic sometimes.

They're actually a whole lot gayer and a whole lot sillier now than they were when they first walked into my head- they were originally fairly grim characters, and they barely tolerated each other as occasional business partners, let alone friends. Being that I am, at heart, a sappy thirteen year old girl, I rather like them better this way.

Anyway, fifty run-on sentences, largely for my own entertainment.
---------------

Comfort (Mordant)
“Yeah, I know he’s got my back, no matter what- but it’s not like I like the bastard or anything.”

Kiss
Solneki’s sunglasses tangled with their noses: “You suck at this!” and they never tried it again.

Soft (Sol)
“Tell him this and you die, but sometimes- when I’m very, very inebriated, you understand, and only then- I just want to pet his stupid shirts.”

Pain (Sol)
“The idiot kept babbling, ‘It’s just a flesh wound you yellow bastards!’ over and over and over again, until I punched him in the face, just a little; why that took him down when four bullets didn’t, I’ll never know.”

Potatoes (Mordant)
“Gimme the rum, and fuck you and your vodka, you potato drinking pinko commie bastard!”

Rain (Mordant)
“This one time, the weather was like fucking shit, and I know he can’t see worth a damn, between the rain and his glasses fogging up, and the fact that it was half past midnight and we’d hit the fuse box not five minutes before, but the bastard still put a bullet through Miguel’s face at sixty paces, like it was cake, or pie, or- or- just, like breathing.”

Chocolate (Sol)
“Get one single sticky fingerprint on my tie, my glasses, or my gun and I will not only beat you within an inch of your life, but I’ll take away all your candy, too.”

Happiness (Mordant)
“Hot woman, warm gun, cold beer- and yeah, okay, most of those are better with that bastard around to share them with.”

Telephone (Sol)
“I have a ball peen hammer readied to break this snitch’s hand, when my phone goes off- and not only has it been taken off silent, but my ring tone has been changed from Bach’s concerto in D minor for two violins to “My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard”- and then I had to kill the poor plebe, because how else was I supposed to save face after that?”

Ears (Mordant)
“Tell him I told you this and we’ll both die, but sometimes, when I’m really drunk, I just want to chew on his ears- don’t look at me like that, he’s got really pretty ears and hey, fuck you, so what if I’ve got a thing for ears, he keeps wearing shiny things in them and- oh, shut the fuck up and buy me another drink.”

Name (Sol)
“I think it’s something hideously embarrassing like Clarence or Percival or Edmund- his parents didn’t just flip through a dictionary to pick out his name; he’s the only person stupid enough to do that.”

Sensual (Mordant)
“Shit, I can’t even remember that night, we were so trashed- I mean, I can remember the little details- the way his fingers were digging into my arm, the little shadows his eyelashes made on his cheeks- just, little things, important things.”

Death
“Boring,” they announce in unison, “but profitable,” and they clink their glasses together with matching grins.

Sex (Sol)
It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy pushing Mordant up against whatever flat surfaces happen to be available (walls, tables, the floor, the side of a Brinks truck that once); it’s more that he still isn’t sure, even after all this time, why the other man lets him.

Touch (Sol)
“You can look, if you want, but keep your hands to yourself,” and he assembled the sniper rifle with loving hands before Mordant’s admiring gaze.

Weakness (Mordant)
“He’s blind as a bat- astigmatic and nearsighted like nobody’s business- and contacts give him hives, so he wears the glasses, but he’d look like a fucking nerd with normal glasses, so the shades are prescription.”

Tears (Mordant)
“Shit, he’s terrifying when he does an interrogation- he makes ‘em cry nine times out of ten, and the only reason the tenth guy isn’t crying is ‘cuz Sol’s pistol whipped him into bloody unconsciousness.”

Speed (Mordant)
“He’s the fastest guy I know, but half the time, he hits like a girl.”

Wind (Mordant)
“See, he always drives his stupid penis car with the windows down, and he wears the glasses so he doesn’t have to squint all the time like some sort of fucking asshat- what do you mean, I drive a penis car too?”

Freedom (Sol)
“It’s not as important as you’d think; you can adapt to any situation, no matter how terrible, and still be reasonably happy as long as you’re in good company.”

Life (Sol)
“I’m still not sure how he’s not dead yet; there are times when I think he’s too stupid to live; as for me, I’m just too good to die.”

Jealousy (Mordant)
“Shit, yes he’s a jealous bastard- I’ve got the bruises on my ass to prove it.”

Hands (Sol)
“He gets a manicure every week- we’re hit men, hired thugs, and he gets a fucking manicure every week, and then has the gall to leave me picking up the tab when we go out- he’s independently wealthy, you know, he doesn’t have to work- some of us have dependents to support, but he’s too busy getting his nails done to pick up the fucking check.”

Taste
“You’d think, given that he spends the equivalent of the GDP of a small third world country on his wardrobe, that he’d manage to look like something other than a flaming fashionista lumberjack- but then, you’d also think someone with that much money would be able to afford something like half a brain, too.”

Taste
“His tie matches his boxers- now, I ask you, what sort of sane individual does that?”

Devotion (Mordant)
“Don’t take this the wrong way- I mean, it’s not like I like the bastard or anything- but who else am I going to get drunk with?”

Forever
They share equal looks of horrified revulsion at the thought of it.

Blood (Sol)
“I’ve seen more than enough of his, thanks- and he’s seen more than enough of mine, but only because he keeps biting me.”

Sickness (Mordant)
“Actually, he caught this weird virus when he was a kid, and it turned the whites of his eyes puke green; last time he went out in public without the glasses on, little kids ran away screaming.”

Melody (Sol)
“The idiot sings in the shower- he’s almost as loud as he is off key.”

Star
The paper target had a neat star pattern bored into its chest; Mordant glared at his own target with its random scattering of bullet holes, and punched the wall hard enough to crack the plaster; Solneki kindly refrained from smirking when he splinted Mordant’s broken hand.

Home
“Is where the booze is.”

Confusion (Sol)
“I have to stick to small sentences around him, or he just starts drooling.”

Fear (Mordant)
“It’s because he doesn’t have eyes; the sockets are actually windows to an alternate hell dimension so terrifying that mere mortals dare not look into it- now me, I can handle that sort of thing, but only because I’m fucking hardcore.”

Lightning/Thunder (Sol)
“You couldn’t direct a better entrance: the wind blowing our trenches all to hell, just enough rain to be dramatic, and we pull out our grenades at the same time, all in slow motion, and toss them off just as the lightning hits, and then the thunder- it was artistic, is what it was, because we’re artists, and we’re the best at what we do.”

Bonds (Mordant)
“Sometimes I just want to strangle him with his stupid fucking tie, but I will admit it comes in handy when I need to tie him to a bedpost or something.”

Market (Sol)
“Sometimes I run into him at the 7-11 at three in the morning, and he’ll have a basket full of limes, rum, cheap beer, and candy; at least he’ll know beyond a shadow of a doubt that when he loses all of his teeth, it wasn’t because of scurvy.”

Market (Mordant)
“Of course, whenever I see him at the store, all he’s ever got in his basket is a thing of ketchup and six things of horse radish and, a couple of times, a bottle of pickle relish and a bag of dried bird’s eye chilis; the man’s a freak, and I’m pretty sure he has no nerve endings left on his tongue, and the reason he’s such an irritable bastard is because of his fucking bleeding ulcer.”

Technology (Mordant)
“He’s a cyborg- no, seriously, they took out his eyes and replaced them with robotronic sensors and he can shoot laser beams from them- I’ve seen it, man, he’s a fucking robot!”

Gift
“Here,” he tossed the plastic bag at Mordant’s head- there were six cabochon emeralds the size of his thumbnail in it- “I know how much you like shiny things.”

Smile (Mordant)
“Yeah, he’s a stoic bastard, but he does it sometimes- usually when he’s killing something, or really drunk, or once, when he was sleeping.”

Innocence (Sol)
“Unlike some people, I am not afraid of scurvy, so no, I did not eat the last of your limes- now get your finger out of my face before I remove it.”

Completion (Sol)
“It’s like they’re two halves of the most wondrous whole- the sweetness of the ketchup, the tang and bite of the horseradish- and you are well aware that if I catch you laughing at me, I’ll break your arms, yes?”

Clouds (Mordant)
“I hate it when it rains; the bastard always remembers an umbrella, and he’s only got the one- and it matches his fucking tie- do you know how embarrassing it is to be seen in public with him when it rains?”

Sky (Mordant)
“They’re blue, like, fuck, I don’t know, just blue, like the sky or something, because when you look at them, you don’t feel like drowning, you feel like flying.”

Heaven (Sol)
“I think that’s a bar over on the corner of Seventh and Pearl, the one with the waitresses all done up with halos?”

Hell (Mordant)
“No, I mean, yeah, halos, but I’m pretty sure Hell’s on Seventh and Pearl, Heaven’s over on Ninth and June.”

Sun (Mordant)
“He’s a vampire- but not like some pansy ass Anne Rice vampire, I mean he can go out in the sun and stuff without completely combusting, but the direct rays of the sun make his eyeballs melt, and also, he has slit pupils like some sort of crazy snake.”

Moon (Sol)
“Good job, you’ve managed to piss off our ex-employers even more than I’d have ever thought possible; now pull your pants up, sit down, and put your seatbelt on.”

Waves (Sol)
“If you’re insinuating that I only go to the gym for the chance to see that idiot in a speedo, I will be honor bound to kick your face in.”

Hair (Sol)
“This is actually my natural hair color; Mordant is the metrosexual one in this relationship.”

Supernova
They turn the corner- “Christ, you drive like my grandmother,” and behind them, the building explodes- “Oh, fuck you, just shut up and give me some cover fire, it’s not my fault your fucking car handles like your mom, and I’ve met your grandmother, and she is one hardcore scary ass old lady,” as debris rains down on the street like a thousand grimy asteroids.

Time to kick ass and chew bubble gum.

Maddel is one of my favorite side characters ever; I think I love him largely because he's secretly a raging pyromaniac. He's also one of the very rare characters in my head whom I can picture clearly, in detail. There are days when I have no idea what Silverlock and Blaine look like, but I always know Maddel's face. (Aya is like this too, but only because she's the perfect image of Rianna, who has been a visual entity in my head for years.)

This occurs in the middle of the main action, after Silverlock is rescued and the group splits up. Blaine becomes the Avatar of Venani (that name is still in the process of changing) after Foxbird kills Mandhatri, and they split up when they realize the Guildmaster and the Shrive have betrayed the city and the Guild.

-----------------

"Fancy meeting you kids here." Maddel stood in the middle of the tunnel, surrounded by tall metal canisters. A pair of goggles were pushed up his forehead, and a pair of heavy leather gloves were tucked into his belt. "Got promoted, Torkehaav?"

"Something like that, sir." Blaine's eyes no longer focused on the material plane, and his voice echoed with the sound of unearthly hissing, but he still inclined his head respectfully to the master healer.

"Any word on the situation topside?" Silverlock could feel their pursuers getting closer; they'd grown in numbers since the chase began, and the majority of them were Riftspawn.

"Messy. Riots and monsters in the streets; the Guildmaster had everyone evacuate- the librarian, Lady Ivy, and I are the only ones left." His ears swiveled, and he narrowed his eyes at Silverlock. "You two brought me some trouble, didn't you?"

"Don't we always?" Water welled up out of the cracks between the paving stones and ran in rivulets around Blaine's bare feet. The air shivered with aether.

Maddel rolled his eyes. "Trouble, I can deal with. What I can't deal with is you flooding my tunnel because you can't keep yourself in check." He hefted one of the metal cannisters onto his back by a carrying strap; there was a canvas wrapped hose attached to it, and a spray nozzle. "You'll be wanting to follow the Guildmaster, if you're looking for more trouble. He took the low road, and if I know him at all- which I do- he'll be heading towards the Tower."

The water slowed to a halt and seeped back into the cracks in the floor. Blaine grinned. "Good. I've got a few things I need to say to him." His feet left wet footprints on the stones as he strode into the darkness behind Maddel.

Maddel took out a long, thin cigarette and put it in his mouth, but did not light it. He frowned, glancing sidelong down the darkened tunnel after Blaine. "Think I liked him better when he was twitchy and insecure."

Silverlock chose to ignore that comment, and fingered the hilts of his knives. "There's a nest of Yrkathi and their thralls coming this way, old man. You should look for higher ground."

The old elf pulled on his gloves. "Look after yourself, boy. I'm not going to die at the hands of some half-assed Rift-scum. Ah, wait." He fumbled in one of the many pockets on his vest and held out a ring. "Here. This is yours, by rights, and you ought to have it before any more of us die. Beziemyanie'i Mech Ordeni- Order of the Nameless Sword. Belonged to your mother, rest her soul."

"What?" It was a heavy signet ring, inscribed with a variation on the too-familiar broken tower of the DeLavrey family, crossed with a broken sword. Shock turned to anger as he clenched the ring in his fist. "Old man, if you're about to tell me you're my sire, I don't want to hear it," he warned, voice tight.

"Hardly." Maddel grinned around his unlit cigarette. "If you were mine, you'd be taller."

That accorded him some small measure of relief, though he resolved to make Maddel pay for the comment on his height. Later, though. "I don't have time for this."

"Indeed you don't. I can explain it all later, but right now you'd best catch up to his Holiness before he drowns in his own power. You're the only thing keeping him grounded at this point."

"I know." Silverlock threaded the ring beside his Guild tags on the chain around his neck. "Try not to die, old man. We have things to discuss."

Maddel nodded, and pulled his goggles down over his eyes. "Stay alive, boy. And if there are any Riftspawn loose on the streets, you're like to find your sire in the thick of them. Send him my regards if you find him."

He was gone before Maddel finished speaking, gliding silently into the darkness of the low tunnels.

-------

Maddel kicked most of the canisters down the tunnel; if this failed on the first shot, they wouldn't do him any good. Then he sprayed the contents of the rest across the walls and floor for a good thirty yard stretch of tunnel. Preparations made, he sat down on the last full canister and waited, ears straining to hear the sounds of the approaching mob.

They came quickly, which was a happy thing; he'd just doused the tunnel in high grade medicinal alcohol, and his tolerance for the fumes was not a thing he cared to test. He stood and swung the last canister with a spray nozzle onto his shoulder.

The Yrkathi came around the corner en masse; the nest was a moving swarm of limbs, teeth, and tentacles. Maddel smiled around his unlit cigarette. Elsewhere in the city, the other members of the Order would be taking down whatever Riftspawn they came across; this was what they lived for.

The nest slowed when it reached the hallway, confused by the vapors in the air. "Come and get me, you fatherless sons of bitches," he called out in a sing song voice. "Come and get me."

The Yrkathi snarled at him, and lumbered closer, kicking cannisters out of the way.

"Too easy," he muttered, and pulled the trigger on the nozzle. A snap of his fingers, and the spray ignited, belching forth an enormous blue-white fireball.

The fumes and the alcohol dripping from the walls caught with a roar, and ghostly fire washed up and down the corridor. The other cannisters were under pressure; they exploded when the flames reached them. Soon the roar of the flames was joined by the screams of the burning Riftspawn. Every few seconds the fire would flow back down the hall as it found more vapors to burn.

Maddel perched on an empty canister, surrounded by this inferno, and calmly lit his cigarette.

-------------
-------------

In soviet Elvish forest, flame throws you! I can't believe my elves actually speak Russian. *facepalm*

The Order of the Nameless Sword is a secret society founded by a few elves at the end of the Second Era; they're dedicated to keeping the Rift shut and protecting the middle plane from Riftspawn and the lower gods. Basically, they're supposed to prevent the very thing that happens in Toggle, with Rekashi and the Guildmaster and Dekar. (I have plot that almost makes sense. This excites me so much.) It isn't unheard of for non-elves to be inducted; there was a time in the Third Era when anti-elvish sentiment was at its highest that the Order was composed almost entirely of humans.

Maddel is one of the oldest members in the Order, and he's the head of the Shaivhen chapter. He's not Silverlock's father (thank goodness, because what, none of that), but he is close friends with Tyrrick Ridelaine, who is. Tyrrick is the elvish representative to Parliament, and a longstanding member of the Order. He's also something of a sap and a very outspoken Emancipationist. (There's angst there- when Silverlock was born, his mother sold him off without consulting Tyrrick first, and Tyrrick never forgave her for that. She eventually died of natural causes, after living to a decent human age.)

I don't think Tyrrick and Silverlock will ever meet; they would have nothing to say to each other. Silverlock would get annoyed, Tyrrick would get depressed, and it would just end badly all around. Tyrrick and Blaine meet, but only when Blaine is half crazy from being turned into an Avatar.

Silverlock gets his magic and much of his looks from his father; they're both short and stocky and vaguely Asian-looking, and they're both leechmages. Tyrrick is an occultist (something like a summoner or elementalist), while Silverlock is an eclectic with specializations in destructive necromancy. (The urge to indulge myself and write the fifth-era "everyone is reincarnated as a grad student" story to explain the magic system grows with every passing moment.)

I'm fond of Tyrrick; he's a terrible politician, but an amazingly competent mage and demonslayer. He really just needs to quit his day job and go into heroing full time.

Please, remember me, fondly...

With apologies to Pablo Neruda; Silverlock and Aya, after a funeral.

(Playing FFXII has made me write ridiculously, and I apologize for that, as well.)
(I blame this on Nick and Liall, and listening to "Trapeze Swinger" and "Like a Waltz" far too much. Aya is in her 80s here, though she more or less stopped aging at 50, and she lives another 40 years after this. Occasionally the women of the DeLavrey family are...more than human in their characteristics.)

-------------------------

"I thought I might find you here." The burial grounds of the Ishkhahareni were empty save for the two of them, but the incense on many of the graves was fresh. The Ishkhahareni always left behind more mourners than they had any right to.

Ayanna knelt before the Zanadreths' offering plate and placed a small carved ivory horse there. "I saw your priest's funeral procession, and thought it time to visit this place again; loss calls to loss, and new pain reminds one of old wounds."

"So it does; so it ever has." He knelt beside her and dropped a silver earring on the plate. It was something Liall would have appreciated; he doubted Vanick's soul would accept any of his offerings even if he were to tender them. "How do you fare, General? I've not seen much of you these last few years."

She sat back on her heels and stared at him, her eye moving to record every single detail of his face. "I grow old, and I survive. But you- I do not think I've ever seen you so naked, my friend." She touched his bare scalp, the lines of his cheekbones, and curled her hand around the back of his neck. He closed his eyes against her touch, and smiled. "This is not a face I know," she whispered.

"I feel that way whenever I walk past a mirror." His smile fell crookedly. He thought of Blaine's body, weighted and sinking to the bottom of Venani's well, and felt sickened and lost. "It is an old tradition: a symbolic death, followed by a rebirth. I ought be someone else, now, free from my old life. Yet I feel no different. Colder, perhaps, but it is the sort of cold that aches."

"The pain grows softer with time."

"I know." He took her hand in both his own and twined their fingers together. "I have lost other loved ones, though none that I have loved so well."

"I did warn you once, that you were too easy with your heart." Aya leaned forward until their foreheads touched. He could feel the bright, alien warmth of her soul, and taste every nuance of her sorrow, and feel it feed and redouble his own.

"So you did, my lady. But I'll tell you a secret." He kissed her hand, then her cheeks, then her lips. "'Tis you I loved best of all."

She laughed softly, and closed her eyes, their mouths still close enough to kiss. "You say such pretty things to an old woman on the day of your lover's funeral."

He laughed as well, though his voice caught on the edge of a sob. "'I do not love you as if you were salt rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off: I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.'" He recited the words, secret-soft, against her lips.

"'So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep,'" she finished, just as quietly, just as near. "But these words are not meant for me, old friend."

"If it comforts you to think so, I'll not stop you, dear General." His smile was nothing more than a mask of wearied grief. "And, for all that I am too generous with my heart, and you too miserly with yours, I've no one else to tell them to."

"Then I will hear your pretty words for the one they were meant, and remain a miser. My pain is no longer all-consuming, but the wound that caused it was still a crippling one." She pulled away, and touched her eyepatch. "It is remarkable, what the body and soul can learn to live without."

He stared at the Zanadreth's grave, with its with its collection of jewelry and its menagerie of tiny horses, and the space for a third name beneath the two carved there. Vanick and Liall had died as they'd lived: together. He'd never thought to consider them lucky, before. "Ayanna."

"Yes?"

"Do you stop seeing their deaths every time you close your eyes?" It repeated endlessly in his mind: the white wrapped body, weighted with gold, sinking, sinking, into icy darkness. And all he could feel was the terrible lurch of reaching out for a soul that wasn't there.

"Aye. Eventually."

"Thus we all survive, somehow." He sighed, and closed his eyes against the tears he'd sworn not to shed. "But do you stop wishing that you'd followed after them?"

She covered his hand with her own; a pair of matched silver bracelets slid down her wrist. "Never."

"Ah." He tilted his head back and looked up at the watery gray sky. It wouldn't do to give in to such a temptation; clearly the only proper solution was to live forever. He swallowed back more tears. "I thought as much."

-----------

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
-Pablo Neruda

Climb up, over the top; survey the state of the soul.

(OhgodIcan'tbelieveIpostedthis)

Three brief Wake of Wings (that is to say, Drake-and-Finbar) moments: Scrabble and the Undead (with Theron & Co), Sex and Libraries (Dead Inside universe), and Sunday Mornings (post book 2). I make no excuses for any of them, though I may be forced to commit ritual suicide from embarrassment.

For the record, I still can't get over the Scrabble. And Theron doesn't know when to let an argument drop. Brenon, as usual, just wants to pretend he's never met any of these people before in his life.

-------------------------------
(there is no i in team; we were never all that good at spelling)
-------------------------------

"Brat! Come on, I've figured out where we need to go from here- what are you doing?" Drake burst into the kitchen of Theron's house-slash-office-building, wielding a sheaf of papers.

Finbar sat with Theron, Brenon and Stella at the kitchen table, playing Scrabble. "You mean the gate crystal? One of Theron's old contacts found the last working plane gate for us yesterday. M-O-R-O-N, on a double word score, with the M on a triple letter, plus A-M for am: 30 points."

Drake gaped, realized he looked ridiculous, and switched to a glare instead. "Then we can leave whenever you're ready to stop playing Scrabble with the undead. Jareth would be proud to see you following in his footsteps."

Theron glared back while Finbar ignored him. "Whatever you have against Scrabble, you can just leave it at the door, McFarrow. As long as you're in my house, you'll respect my board games. Now sit down and be quiet, and for the last time stop trying to work your necromancy on me, it won't work. The game's almost over, anyway; there aren't anymore tiles in the bag."

Bren hid his face in his hands. "I have nothing to do with any of this. Stell, it's your turn."

Drake crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, irritation written clear across his face. Stella hummed tunelessly and ran her fingers over her tiles. "Let's see...ooh, this one's appropriate. Z-E-A-L-O-T-R-Y. Z on the triple letter, O on the triple word, fifty points for using all my tiles, and another 17 points for turning "quips" into "equips"...that's 187 points, and I'm out of tiles. Game over!"

Everyone, including Drake, stared at the board. Stella rocked back and forth in her seat, still humming.

Bren tossed the remains of his tiles on the board with a dejected sigh. "Hells. I still had a J."

Theron just looked smug, and glanced sidelong at Drake. "And how many of your zombies can do that, McFarrow?"

Drake made a strangled noise of frustration. "That's it! We're leaving," he shouted, and slammed the door behind him as he stormed out.

------------------------------------

For the record, Stella cheats. She cheats like nobody's business, and no one suspects her 'cuz she's blind and crazy.

And now, Dead Inside, redux!

--------------------------------------
(books are good for reading, among other things)
--------------------------------------

"Seriously though, where in the city haven't the two of you had sex? I need to know where it's safe to stand."

Silverlock looked thoughtful. "That's...difficult to say."

Drake's brow furrowed in thought. "Zombietown?"

"Right, right. Too distracting. And the thirteenth floor."

"Ah, yes. Of course. But only because someone forgot to see that it was furnished, and I'm not a fan of concrete floors." Drake glanced significantly at Finbar, who gave him a look of such disgust, every soul within a two hundred foot radius felt slightly uncomfortable and shameful on Drake's behalf.

"Nor am I," Silverlock said. "I do think that's it, though."

"Yes, that does seem to be it."

Finbar's expression smoothed out. "You mean to say you had sex in the library?"

Silverlock shrugged. "Well, it's not like anyone else was using those bookshelves at the time."

"Come on, Old Son. Sex in the stacks is traditional. You've been to college, you should know these things."

Finbar smiled a wicked smile of unholy glee. "I'm telling Aislin." He snapped his fingers and opened a gate, and was gone before either mage could react.

Silverlock looked at Drake. Drake looked at Silverlock.

"Well, shit," they said in unison.

They opened gates of their own; it was only a matter of time before Aislin found them, but they could still do their best to stave off the inevitable.

"It's been a pleasure working with you," Silverlock said gravely, a half-smile turning up the corners of his eyes.

"Yeah. Nice knowing you, too." Drake grinned and waved, and stepped through his gate.

In another part of the city, a cry of terrifying rage rose up from the library, flattening buildings and knocking over innocent passers-by in a three block radius.

---------------------------

I think Aislin makes them do community service for a few months as punishment, after she finishes beating the crap out of them. Possibly a daycare is involved? Blaine is amazingly unsympathetic, as is Finbar.

And I make no excuses, but I may possibly deny this ever happened. Porn! Unadulterated sap! Drake being utterly whipped!

----------------------------
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens)
----------------------------

Early morning sunlight filtered into the kitchen, warming the tiles beneath Drake's feet. He stood at the stove, contemplating the pan warming on the burner; a carton of eggs and various other culinary sundries sat out on the counter beside him. His thoughts turned to the boy (not hardly a boy, anymore, but youth was relative) still sleeping in their bed, and he smiled, the brief expression uncharacteristically gentle.

It was one of those bright Sunday mornings when he found himself with nothing better to do than cook breakfast for the two of them. He was rather fond of days like these, though he was loathe to admit that to anyone but himself.

Finbar wandered into the kitchen, barefoot, hair askew, and clad only in boxers. He yawned hard enough to crack his jaw, then latched onto Drake from behind with a grunt.

"Good morning to you, too."

"Mm-hm." Finbar leaned against Drake, his voice a low, sleepy rumble in his chest. He nuzzled at the juncture of Drake's neck and shoulder, and bit down on the tendon there, gnawing gently.

Drake shivered slightly. Finbar's hands slid under his shirt, warm against his bare skin. "In case you hadn't noticed, Old Son, I'm cooking."

"Yeah." Finbar moved his attention upwards, leaving a trail of bites along Drake's neck. He paused at the other man's ear to gnaw for a bit, while his thumbs traced lazy circles upon the muscles of Drake's abdomen. "But I'm hungry now."

His hands stilled on the edge of the stove. Any coherent thoughts that might have been floating through Drake's mind fizzled into nothingness at the sound of those words in his ear. His eyes slid closed and his head tilted back, giving Finbar better access to his neck and jawline. "Breakfast?" His voice came out more strained than he'd have liked.

Finbar reached around him to turn off the burner. "Order take out later." His teeth scraped against the corner of Drake's jaw, the rough hint of stubble burning his skin.

Drake shivered again. "Oh. Right." In addition to his many other talents, the boy was clearly brilliant. "Good plan."

"Mm-hm." He tugged Drake back towards the bedroom, his teeth working steadily at the fragile skin behind Drake's ear.

Drake, eyes still closed, allowed himself to be led.

--------------------------

FATALITY. *hides under a rock, never to emerge again*

nip/tuck whining

I am nervous about this new blogger's interaction with the site feed and the syndication; if things get screwy, I apologize.

Dear Nip/Tuck:
Okay. I know we haven't been friends for long, but I thought last January was the start of a beautiful relationship, and despite some rocky moments in season two, I was pretty sure we were going to be okay. But baby, why you gotta hurt me like this? I can deal with the gore. I'm okay with the gore, most of the time, and when I'm not, I just stick the screen over in the corner and look at pretty pictures of butterflies, or naked video game characters, and I try to ignore the sounds of people being carved open and squeezed dry. Fine. But when I can't even deal with the sounds? Is that really necessary?

Also? Sean and Julia? Do we remember when he kicked her out of his house, called her a whore on several occasions, and basically blamed her for everything bad that ever happened in his life, including his daughter's head lice? And now he's the one being all uppity about divorce? Sometimes, with the hypocrisy, I just do not approve.

And why why why is there no fanfic for this series anywhere? Because once you ignore the melodrama, it's pretty amazing.

I'm also struck by how much Julian McMahon looks like Vossler; FFXII is slowly developing a live cast in my head, and it is entertaining to the max.

They kick your face in oh so nicely (I want more)

If this screws with the feed, I apologize a million times over. *nervous*

Um. Having negative knowledge of both horses and military hierarchy makes writing Nick and Liall kind of difficult since they're kind of nothing but horses and military hierarchy and polygamy. >.> Ah, well. I'll just make shit up as I go! I imagine their ranks and titles will change once I figure out Rothcaran military structure.

Aya's in her early twenties here (setting this nearly forty years before the start of the actual story), and is the youngest officer of her rank in the army, due in large part to her parentage, and a number of lucky coincidences (by which I mean the convenient deaths of a number of her superiors).

---------------------------

Aya flipped through her personnel reports. "I'm sorry for leaving the two of you for last, Captain Zanadreth and," she pulled out the two files she was looking for and blinked at them. "Captain Zanadreth. Please, have a seat." She silently cursed the fact that she'd been thrown into this situation with no time to prepare and no time to properly familiarize herself with her staff.

"It's not a problem, Lieutenant Colonel. You'll probably be wanting to pick our brains about the rest of the staff, now that you've met them." Captain Vanick Zanadreth was a cavalry officer with an almost impossibly spotless record. Aya skimmed to the bottom of his file to find the reason why: he'd been arrested for horse thievery twelve years ago, then pardoned on a technicality. His record was that of a man who didn't dare set one foot out of line.

He had a disconcertingly insincere smile.

"Exactly. You've been with this outfit for quite some time, and I expect we'll be working together closely in the future."

"Our knowledge is at your disposal, Lieutenant Colonel." Captain Liall Zanadreth had an equally spotless record, without even the tell of pre-enlistment crime to explain her behavior. Her specialty was tactics and scouting, which was a kind way of saying she'd trained with the Justiciar's spymaster. Her file indicated that she also had magical talent, but no war-training, which was curious in and of itself.

It was decidedly odd; Aya herself had no shortage of black marks on her record, but these two were model officers who had risen to their current rank and gone no further. She folded her hands on her desk and gave them her sternest, most authoritative look. She found it often helped to distract her subordinates from the fact that they were nearly all at least ten years her senior. "I'm glad to know you'll be cooperative; you must know that the first questions I have are regarding the circumstances of the late Colonel Askel's death."

They stared at her for half a moment, completely expressionless. "His horse spooked," Vanick said evenly. "He was thrown, and hit his head on a rock."

"A tragic accident, but it could have happened to anyone." Liall clasped her hands together, expression unwavering.

"Why, exactly, did his horse spook?" Aya resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose in irritation; all of the officers she'd spoken to had given the same vague answer with the same blank look. A man who fell off his horse and hit his head didn't end up with the imprint of a warhammer in his skull.

They looked at each other, then looked back to Aya. "A rabbit. Came up out of its warren between his horse's feet." Vanick shook his head. "Colonel Askel always insisted on riding nervous beasts; the one he rode that day was notorious for being high strung."

"Was?"

A muscle in Vanick's jaw twitched, and he looked away. Liall answered, "After the incident, the horse was put down. Orders from the judicial council. Lieutenant Colonel DeLavrey, we understand that Colonel Askel's death does put you in something of an awkward position."

"But the judicial council has already investigated this matter to their own satisfaction," Vanick finished, a warning edge to his voice.

"Not to my satisfaction, Captains." She glanced down at the personnel reports to confirm her suspicions; Askel's was not the first accidental death this battalion had seen. She leaned forward and spread her hands across her desk. "I know the two of you were probably pleased to learn that I was sent to replace Askel. But I will not be intimidated. And I will learn what has happened here." She sat back in her chair. "The third and fourth companies leave at dawn on extended endurance training maneuvers; you'll meet me here an hour before to receive more specific instructions."

Vanick's eyes widened in dismay, but then the corner of his mouth curled upwards. "Yes, sir." He and Liall stood and saluted. They left the tent together, walking perfectly in step.

Aya gritted her teeth and snapped her personnel files shut with more vehemence than necessary. The two captains wore matching silver bracelets on their left wrists; it was an outdated marriage custom, one kept by very few tribes of the Ikatai, and followers of Ishkhahar.

The problem with this situation, she decided, was that she just didn't have enough information. "Xene!"

Her aide materialized beside her desk. "Sir?"

"Bring me all of Askel's records- I want the things they didn't put in these personnel files, tax records, everything. Can you do that for me?"

"Of course, sir. Anything else?"

She smiled grimly. "Anything you can find on the goddess Ishkhahar and her followers." If the Zanadreths wanted to play games, let them. She doubted they'd be quite so willing after three weeks of endurance training.

Xene grinned. "I'll have it all on your desk by morning, sir."

"Thank you." She selected another personnel file at random and opened it. Dawn wasn't very far off, and she had quite a bit of reading to catch up on.

------------------

Spot that video game reference! God, I'm such an obscure dork.

I'm a little bit in love with the Zanadreths, actually (they're so bloody cute when they're not being accused of murder), and I seem to be on a backstory kick (when am I not?) so there will probably be more of them in the future. But damn, Aya and Nick would've had the prettiest, most violent and angrily righteous children ever. *sigh*

Blue Rose is responsible for Nick's love of horses- he rides an enormous Friesian (thanks, Wikipedia!) who looks kind of evil but is actually quite sweet and mild mannered, if completely prepared to rip out your throat with his teeth should Nick ask him to. Not sure about the horse's name yet (Nick keeps insisting it's "Horse," and Liall keeps kicking him).

Liall would be comfortable riding a Shrivehorse, but in lieu of a magical planewalking hellbeast, she rides a slightly crazed Arabian named Pazzo. Her family is famous for the horses they raise, and they supply most of the officers of the army with their mounts; this is only partly the reason Nick married her.

FFXII: Like a waltz (recs)

FFXII is, in nearly every way, exactly the game I've always wanted. The battle system is as complicated as I want to make it, and ridiculously fun; the characters are complex and layered and most importantly, likeable; the villains are villainous and well motivated. The scenery and the character designs are gorgeous. The score is epic. And the game is filled with references to Tactics and Vagrant Story, because Matsuno has taken all that Square Enix will give him for his little universe and run with it.

The only place where XII falls short of its predecessors is in its ending; yes, there is the triumphant victory, followed by selfless sacrifice left purposely ambiguous, because that's what Matsuno does- but then all of that delicious, dark ambiguity was cleared away by a neat and tidy finish that gave happy, shallow endings to all the characters.

...well, as happy as anyone ever is in a Matsuno game. Of course, it could have been worse- everyone could have died, or everyone could have been cursed with the life of an immortal exile. Instead, everyone is reasonably content, but there is no closure, no proper emotional release. FFX's ending was so effective because of the catharsis- it ended in absolute tragedy, but it was tragedy with a purpose, and the remaining characters moved on in new directions. The world at the end of FFX was a new one; you don't entirely get that sense at the end of XII. The world advances, but the characters don't; they all end up in exactly the same place they began in (if not physically, then mentally and emotionally).

Unsatisfying. Of course, the game was much heavier on plot than character development, but that's no excuse, really. Six people manage to change the world; one ought to think the world would have an equally tremendous impact on them. Instead, the crowning achievment is that everything is back the way it used to be.

(One can argue that Tactics and VS end in similar ways, but in Tactics, Delita and Ovelia end up changing each other, and in VS, Ashley comes to terms with himself and his past, if not his future.)

Anyway. Enough of my griping; on with the recs!

Erlkönig by Mithrigil, and part of her now sprawling fanon universe (Very epic feeling, poetic writing; Ashe/Basch, unrequited Vossler/Ashe, Basch and Noah backstory). Larsa, at the end of his life.

We Cover Distance, but Not Together by Hebiserpens, who has also written a few other Gabranth backstory pieces, which can be found on her website.

Some Watcher of the Skies by Colored Ink, and archived on Livejournal along with several other excellent and largely Balthier-centric pieces at Wreaths and Bells. The origin of Balthier's name, and his choice of weapon. If you read nothing else, however, read Four and Twenty Blackbirds, for its take on Balthier and Fran's fate at the end.

Five Things That Never Happened to Larsa Ferrinas Solidor (and one that did) by Geekerypokery, who has one or two other ficthings on her LJ; a fix-it for all the tragic deaths in the game.

Al-Cid Is Here To Have Sex With Your Family by Moonsheen, which is Al-Cid meeting Larsa for the first time. There are a number of other awesome fics on Moonsheen's LJ.

Ficbits: Balthier and Fran, Al-Cid and Ashe by Mullenkamp, who is also the person with the most amazing FFXII and Vagrant Story icons evar. The ficbits are good, too- on the funny side, which is something this fandom needs more of. Also, the Yasumi Matsuno Drinking Game, which is so appropriate it hurts.

My Choice by Silverlocke980; it's a series of one shots about the characters and their weapons or espers. The quality varies, but some of them are quite insightful.

Of Bars and Bets by The Shoeless One; pure silliness, involving Basch, Balthier, Fran, too much alcohol, and cheating at cards.

Morpho Aurora Aureola by Beeblebabe. Cid, his wife and son. (This is the sort of fic that makes you want to cut yourself, just a little.)

Larsa and Penelo and Vaan silliness and The One Where Larsa Says They Can Keep Vaan as a Pet by Lazulisong. ...okay, so I'm not actually interested in reading Larsa/Penelo, but...SO. FRICKIN. CUTE.

The Marriage Blade by Luc Court, who has written other Drace and Gabranth pieces, and a Fran and Balthier piece (as well as a number of incredible Naruto fics).

Circular Thinking by Imadra Blue. Nice Fran introspective-y piece.

There has been no one brighter than you; I have been waiting

When Kim Possible starts doing Queer Eye parodies, I know my life is complete.

There was no impossible project this year, for a variety of reasons (primary of which being that I forgot).

So, I give you an addendum to Dead Inside, in which Blaine is irritable, Aya is violent, and Silverlock is mildly put-upon; it ends with Silverlock getting laid, but then, most things do.

S'too long and too talky, but I don't care; I need to write something self indulgent and fluffy for these two, or I'll start cutting myself.
------------------------

"So, want a bite of my sandwich?" Silverlock raised an eyebrow suggestively, and alighted upon one of the many cushions scattered across the floor.

Blaine gave him a withering glare. "I wish I could remove your jaw so you could never voice any of your bad pickup lines ever again."

"I was actually just asking if you wanted to share my lunch. It's declicious." He frowned. "You're not going through one of those not-eating phases again, are you? Foxbird worries about you, and for that matter, so do I."

"Don't think that being concerned for my wellfare means we're on speaking terms."

"You're speaking to me now, aren't you?"

"No, I'm glaring at you. Subtle difference."

"Fine. Continue to be a pissy bitch."

"Works for me. And you can continue screwing that tacky cross dimensional whore."

"Is that what this is about? You're jealous?" Blaine didn't answer. Silverlock hissed angrily and threw up his arms. "I cannot believe you. You've nothing to be jealous of- he's a decent lay for an amateur, but he's obsessed with the water mage. It's cute, actually. Why is he different from any of the others?"

"For starters? None of the other people you've screwed around with were trying to take over the world."

"Oh, please. You're just mad because I didn't try to take over the world with you."

"And if I am?"

"Then you're more of a fool than I've ever given you credit for." The viciousness in his own voice surprised him.

Blaine glared. Silverlock glared back and chewed sullenly on his sandwich. They sat in stony silence.

A shadow fell over the two of them which, given that they were sitting in a dimly lit ballroom, was mildly alarming. They looked up. Ayanna DeLavrey looked down. Then she grabbed them both by the hair and cracked their skulls together.

"Ow!"

"Fuck!"

"You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that. None."

"Thank you, General, that side of my head hasn't been subjected to a headache in quite a long time."

"You're welcome. I'd be more than happy to do it again- perhaps you'd like to switch places, so I can get the other side?"

"Really not necessary, milady. Perhaps next time, should you attempt to fix problems that are none of your business, you will think about using something other than brute force?"

"Shut up, priest. There is a closet over there." She pointed, and a door appeared in the wall. "If I must, I will lock the two of you in it until one of you dies or the both of you have sex. If that is not sufficient threat, then I will ask the one with the eyebrows to give you relationship advice- or I will tell the tall one you need couples therapy." Behind her, someone had given Ventislava a drink, and she'd begun to sing the songs of her native country. The Patchwork King looked pained.

"You wouldn't." Silverlock glanced over to Lydia, who was talking animatedly to Aislin.

"Try me. If you think I cannot convince those over eager children to be helpful, you are sadly mistaken. I'm sure even the angsty one would be willing to beat the two of you over the head with her stick." She crossed her arms and nodded once, with an air of finality. "You have ten minutes. Then it's either the closet or the therapist- but if you'd prefer to work your problems out with my sword, I'm sure that could be arranged as well."

Blaine hid his face in his hands as she stalked away. "This day keeps getting better."

"Oh, come on, it's not that bad. I'll admit, being threatened by Aya is never exactly a good thing, but Dekar and Sharecht have been stopped, all those shiny holy artifacts have been returned, your little minions have recovered their souls-"

"My little minions have; what about yours?"

"Hm, noticed that, did you? He's around, somewhere; I'm sure he'll turn up eventually. Anyway, as I was saying, you should be rather pleased with today, all things considered. And look!" He tore his sandwich in half and held it out to Blaine, "Free lunch!"

"There's no such thing." Blaine took the sandwich anyway. "And your transparent attempts to put me in a better mood will not succeed."

"Of course they will. They already have. See, you're smiling."

"I'm smiling because this sandwich is fucking delicious," he said, speaking with his mouth full.

"Whatever you say, my dear."

Blaine rolled his eyes. Silverlock nudged him with his shoulder, and the two of them sat and ate in somewhat companionable silence.

"Don't think this means I'm no longer angry," Blaine said, when the sandwich was nothing more than a delicious memory and a few scattered crumbs.

"Oh, don't worry. I've no illusions about that." Silverlock smiled serenly and licked the crumbs from his fingers in a way that probably broke obscenity laws in at least three countries.

Blaine looked at him suspiciously. "Then why are you smiling?"

"Because, as you so eloquently put it, this sandwich is fucking delicious. Definitely worth not taking over the world for, I think. And two other things." He grinned and raised two fingers. "One, our ten minutes are almost up, and I think you're as interested in listening to Lydia's psychobabble as I am, and you probably find Ventislava's eyebrows at least as frightening as I do, if not more. And two," he leaned towards Blaine ever so slightly and lowered his voice. "I like you when you're angry. You're...creative when you're angry."

Blaine's gaze drifted to the closet. The corner of his mouth twitched. "You." He covered his mouth and made a snrrking noise. "You are..."

"Completely incorrigible? Unbearably sexy?"

"Endearingly predictable." Blaine snickered. "Among other things."

Silverlock smirked. "I prefer to think of it as being consistent. Would you care to elaborate on those other things a bit?"

"Not in public." He was laughing outright.

"Then by all means." He stood and tugged Blaine to his feet. "Let's get out of here before we get locked in a closet. We can go somewhere and see about...relieving...your anger."

Blaine, still laughing, allowed himself to be led. "I'm going to regret this, you know."

"Nonsense. If you're going to regret something, don't do it. But if you're going to do something," Silverlock snapped his fingers, opening a gate in the air. "Don't regret it. This world is too brief for such things."

"So it is." Their eyes met, and for the first time in quite a while, neither of them was glaring.

They stepped through the gate, and it snapped shut behind them.

------------------
DRIVEL

Blaine: Shut up and gimme a sammich.
Silverlock: 'K. Does this mean we can have sex again?
Blaine: You're bribing me with food? And it's working? ...damnit.
Silverlock: ^__^

-----------------


...MORE DRIVEL (some time later):

"Da!" Foxbird burst through the door of Templar's Rest, dragging a terrified young man with her. "Oh, good, the two of you are done being idiots. Took you long enough."

Blaine glared at her; Silverlock looked pleased with himself. Foxbird rolled her eyes in response to both of them. "Da, this is Tim. Tim, this is my father, and that's his willfull but incredibly talented concubine."

"What?"

"Hey!"

She continued, ignoring them. "Da, I'm adopting Tim. This way, Silverlock can stop whinging about wanting grandchildren, and you can stop looking paranoid every time I talk to someone with a dick."

They both gaped at her. Blaine recovered first. "Little bird, you are, at best, four years older than him. I really don't think you can adopt him."

She shrugged. "It's not like you're that much older than I am. And someone needs to take care of him. Look." She poked him. He squeaked, and tried to hide behind himself. "I can keep him as a pet, if nothing else. Anyway. We're off on patrol, so don't do anything stupid like stop talking to each other again."

And with that, she dragged Tim away.

"Concubine? I was a professional, not some fucking party favor," Silverlock snarled.

"And your professionalism has served you so very well here, hasn't it? You got yourself an office building. Very professional."

"Oh, fuck you."

"Hm." Blaine nonchalantly poured himself some more water. "I suppose that could be arranged."

Silverlock leaned back in his chair and looked inordinately smug.

------------------------

FATALITY

I suck at writing endings. O WELLZ.

Song Post: Toggle soundtrack, part 1

Some songs, just 'cuz I keep meaning to get around to doing a song post on LJ an haven't gotten around to getting my music together.

First five are all calls because of the lyrics, and because they're songs I kind of adore; the rest are just appropriate in other ways.

Blaine to Silverlock, when they're being functional:
Johnny Clegg- Dela
("Well, if I were the insecure one in this relationship, I'm sure I'd feel much happier about my place in the universe. Too bad I'm not- but I do appreciate the sentiment." "Oh, shut up.")

Blaine and Silverlock, at the end
World/Inferno Friendship Society- The Brother of the Mayor of Bridgewater
("Fuck growing old." "I'll drink to that."

Silverlock to Blaine, when they're being retarded
Panic at the Disco- Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have With Her Clothes On
("I would like to object to the heteronormative tendencies that keep cropping up in your song calls." "And what, exactly, do you mean by that?" "Bend over and I'll show you.")

Silverlock, Blaine, and Foxbird
Voxtrot- Rise Up In the Dirt
("Question! How the hell was I supposed to grow up normal with the two of you for parental figures?")

Silverlock and Foxbird
The Cardigans- I Need Some Fine Wine, And You, You Need to Be Nicer
("You are an asshole." "It's one of my more redeeming qualities, actually.")

The Shrive
+4DB- Rook
("Life is pennance. We live a very long time.")

Aya
Masterplan- Spirit Never Dies
("You wouldn't think it, but greatswords are excellent for practicing air guitar on.")

Blaine, and the Temple
Moby- God Moving Over the Face of the Water
(instrumental)

And, because it entertains me:
Harbard
String Quartet Tribute- Hungry Like the Wolf
("What? I have a fast metabolism.")

Toggle history things: Third Era

Toggle's Second Era is actually my oldest piece of fantasy- Radrezyne and the King's Elite have existed in my head in some incarnation or other since I was about six. Of course, their names and characters were all completely different then, but I have a problem with abandoning stories and characters- no matter how stupid and derivative they are, I just can't do it.

The First Era is pretty old, too; Rianna DeLavrey's first incarnation showed up when I was ten or eleven, and I think the Rift and the Dragonstaff Princes are a little older. I am, sadly, too attached to these bits of derivative fantasy to put them to rest and move on. (I think part of me is afraid I'll never come up with anything original again, so I cling to what little I have, storing them up against that inevitable day when I run out of ideas.)

The Third Era, though- the Third Era was my most directly derivative storyline, and also the one that started to show the most influence from all the anime and video game fanfic I was reading at the time. It's still a story I'd actually like to write at some point, because I'm terribly fond of the main characters- but I have very little idea of what's going on in it, beyond the main characters having wacky hijinx.

After the Second Era, the Godhead was split with the opening of Rianna's Tower; Radrezyne kept half of it and and became the God-Empress of the eastern half of the continent. Her story directly affects Stella Matin in the Fourth Era, but for the rest of the Third Era, Radrezaria isn't all that important. A lot of awful shit happens, but it calms down pretty quickly. (The only really important thing is that she marries the exiled prince of Izalia, one Jarrek DeLavrey. By the time the Fourth Era swings around, no one remembers his name- just his title, the Dragonlord. (Razhia and Drazhene have the most screwed up genealogies everaaaahahaha.))

The other half of the Godhead went to an elf named Tybarra Ridelaine, who spent about a day as a goddess before she got sick of it. She split her piece of the godhead into six elementals- earth, fire, water, air, life, and death. Then Ty and her girlfriend wandered off into the cosmos, happily ever after. (Alright, yes, fine, okay, all of my characters are gay. Whatever. >_< Tybarra's girlfriend was the Lady DeLavrey of her generation, though she didn't realize it for a while. They're also really cute together.)

The six elementals became the patrons of various areas of the western half of the continent; Celesia, the White Lady, became the patron deity of Shaivhen; the Kraken (the physical elementals all have real names, beyond their titles, but they haven't told me them) took Akvaria and the Akvarian Ocean; the Wyrm took Tarmish and the Wild Woods; the Wyvern took the Reichen Mountains and Murundcar; the Salamander took the deserts in the south (which were part of Radrezaria), most of the southeastern coast, and Dzyrach; Adarial, the Dark Lady, took the Ikatian peninsula and all the northern nomadic tribes. Everything was cool and stuff until Adarial decided that, in addition to presiding over the domain of death, she was also the personification of betrayal.

Edrana Niceeraea Coralin was a shaman of the Ikatai; the position is hereditary, and she came from a long line of powerful and distinguished shamans. Adarial chose her to be Her Avatar on the material plane. Edrana had no choice in the matter, and found herself undergoing a series of upsetting and uncomfortable transformations into various forms of undead. After being a zombie, a vampire, a wight, a ghost, a nightwalker, and a shade, she finally descended to lich-queen and rampaged across the Ikatian peninsula, turning whole tribes into armies of hungry undead as she went.

(...should she and Theron ever meet, I'm rather convinced they'd fall madly in love.)

The plan was for Edrana to conquer the rest of the continent in Adarial's name, gathering souls and power for Adarial. Meanwhile, Adarial would use the boost in power to tear open the Rift and release seven of the Greater Demons of the first era- creatures so horrific and destructive, the creator put them to sleep at the very bottom of the Rift and charged the rest of the monsters with keeping them there.

The other five elementals weren't about to let this happen, so they raised Avatars of their own. Celesia chose the youngest prince of the Rothish royal family, Prince Siegfried al Rothcar. Ziggy was a scholar and a geek and was kind of gay for his best friend, and was, in general, not at all suited to be a warrior for Good and Light and things like that. But then Edrana's army of undead sacked the city (Shaivhen gets sacked a lot. Like, constantly. It's a thing.) and slaughtered the rest of the royal family. Celesia downloaded fantastic combat skills into his head, turning him into the greatest warrior of the age, but all Ziggy wants to do with himself is read books and raise hawks.

The Kraken picked a sea elf whose name is utterly unpronounceable; everyone calls him Blue. Blue was assigned a position as a border guard, because he had an upsetting tendency to go berserk at inopportune moments and bite people's faces off. The Kraken thought it was hilarious. Most of the time, though, Blue was a nice guy with a slightly quirky and morbid sense of humor.

The Wyvern's Avatar was a windrider named Redea Stormcry; windriders are basically avian humanoids- wings and talons and beaky noses. Redea was something like a princess and something like a shaman/warleader; she had a sunny disposition and a mean right hook, and an eidetic memory.

The Salamander picked a Gathare shaman named Deryll; the Gathare are usually called desert ravens, though they look a lot more like Disney's gargoyles than anything else. Daryl was an albino and an exceptionally powerful shaman among his people, but he doesn't speak much to non-Gathare. He's a bit of a snob.

The Wyrm's Avatar was Joradi Deethanas, a bobcat type malestri. The elves in the Third Era were less actively fascist than in the Second Era, but they were still in the process of slaughtering all the other sentient forest dwelling species. It was a territorial thing- the cities were encroaching on the forests, so the malestri and lesser fae agreed to give up the borderlands and retreat deeper into the woods. The elves, however, were having none of this; they allowed the refugees beyond their borders, and then executed them. After that, the elves started expanding their borders and invade what parts of the woods the malestri and lesser fae still inhabited.

Most malestri are bound to the forest; they're lesser elementals of a sort, and favored children of the Wyrm. Jora, however, wanted nothing to do with living in trees- so she hightailed it out of there and went to live in Tarmish, where she joined the Thieves Guild and caused mayhem wherever she went. She was the first Citywalker among the malestri, and her existence paved the way for the grand experiment that led to Foxbird, Harbard, and Sharecht being abandoned in Shaivhen in the Fourth Era.

The five Avatars eventually take down Edrana; they can't kill her, though, so Celesia breaks Adarial's control over her and de-undead-ifies her. She joins up with the other Avatars, and they seal Adarial away. Then the six of them get put to sleep until they are needed again.

Cut to a few hundred years in the future: the world is full of peace and happiness, the Radrezarians have gone isolationist, the Gathare and the windriders have been slaughtered and hunted nearly out of existence, along with the malestri and the lesser fae, Dzyrach has become a breeding ground for political insurrectionists, Tarmish is ruled by gangs and undercity guilds, Akvaria is destroyed by a hurricane, and Shaivhen has been taken over by a bizarre religious cult that preaches bigotry and the sacrifice of intelligent creatures to appease its made-up gods. The Elementals finally realize something isn't right, and they wake up their Avatars to fix things.

Shennanigans ensue (by which I mean plot and epic battles and religious politics, and all those other things I suck at writing), and Rianna's Tower gets opened. The Elementals are sucked in, chewed up, and spat out as the Thousand Little Gods. All six of the Avatars die in the process (even though I really want Edrana to live forever; she shows up in several other stories of mine because I adore her so much), and the Fourth Era begins out of the wreckage of the Third.

Sometimes, in the dark corners of my mind, I like to call the Avatars the Planeteers. They get really upset with me when I do that. But anyway. The basic plotline and a lot of the minor characters and locations in the Third Era are lifted from Dennis L McKiernan's The Eye of the Hunter, which is a most excellent book.

I don't have any other characters for the Third Era, beyond a few elves and maybe a cultist or two; someday I'll sit down and start plotting, but that day is not likely to be any time soon.

stupid vampire story

Dunno why the feed's been spazzing- I may take the feed offline for a while, but I'll give the two of you who read this on a semi-regular basis a heads up before I do that.

And now, a stupid vampire fragment.
-----------------
The Frost and Monthly Building was quiet at this time of night- it was too early for any of the real clients to be up and about, and too late for any of the daytime stragglers to be around. Toby was probably the only person on the ground floor, and he was stuck behind the reception desk until midnight.

He tilted his chair back as far as it would go and propped his bare feet up on the desk. Evening secretary duty sucked, and he'd be damned if he stuck to dress code at this time of night. He was wearing jeans with holes in the knees and an eye searing Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned, over a black t-shirt.

At least he had a chance to catch up on his Tetris playing; Martin had beaten his high score last week. The tinny music of his gameboy drowned out the soft sounds of the lobby fountain and covered up the faint noise of the doors hissing open.

Someone cleared their throat. Toby very deliberately paused his game and set it down on the desk before looking up. A man in a finely tailored suit stood at the desk, holding a briefcase in front of him.

Toby raised an eyebrow at him. "Well aren't you exceptionally well dressed." He swung his feet off the desk and sat up in his chair. "What can Frost and Monthly do for you today?"

"I have an appointment with Mr. Frost." His voice buzzed pleasantly in Toby's ear, somewhere between a growl and a purr.

Toby pulled flipped through the datebook. "Yeah? Which one? No- just tell me your name, that'll be easier."

"Prufrock. Owen Prufrock, representing J. Prufrock and Sons, attourneys at law." He pulled a business card out of his jacket and placed it carefully on the desk, then settled back with both hands clasped around the handle of his briefcase.

"Prufrock? No wonder you're well dressed." Toby grinned, baring his fangs. "Says here you're meeting with Noah- third floor, office on the right. He'll be expecting you."

"Ah." Owen tilted his head slightly. "And you are?"

His grin widened, and his pupils lengthened into slits. "No one important, really. You can call me Toby." He settled back in his chair and put his feet up again. "Better hurry along. Mr. Frost doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Owen kept his expression controlled, but Toby could hear his heartrate skyrocket. "Of course. Thank you for your assistance."

"Pleasure's all mine." Toby waited until the man was on the elevator to snicker madly into his Gameboy. Sometimes evening secretary duty was awesome. Prufrock hadn't made a move on them in years- and if this was their opening gambit, things were bound to get interesting around the office again.

It was almost midnight when the elevator doors opened again; Owen Prufrock strode out, with his tie slightly askew. He made eye contact with Toby as he wound his way through the night shift crowds in the lobby, and smiled.

Toby smiled back. He couldn't wait to hear all about this one from Noah; life around the office had been so very boring lately.

--------------------------

The Frost siblings:
January (Jane)
February (Aubrey)
March (Martin)
April
May
June
July (Jules)
August (Gus)
September (Beryl)
October (Toby)
November (Noah)
December (Daisy)

The Frost Family is a bunch of eccentric vampires and demonologists; the Prufrock family is mostly vampires and supplicants. (The natural state of a Frost sibling is human but weird- Toby's an anomaly; the natural state of a Prufrock child is vampire and bitchy.)

Toby was an accidental vampire in the Boffo universe, and Dei's roommate for a little while. Then he picked up eleven siblings and became Anya and Leto's genius programmer friend in DDD. Now he's insisting on staying a vampire and going to law school- only he's dragged his whole family into the mess too. And since I've been introduced to Angel, I seem to have acquired a bunch of warring vampire lawyer clans in my head.

Toby is also an adorable, twinky redhead with freckles and a lot of eyebrow piercings. I think he thinks he's punk, or something, but really, he isn't. He's mostly just cute and twinky and ambiguously gay.

Owen is the guy my iPod is named after. And as far as I can tell, he isn't a vampire, yet- it's possible he's still just a paralegal, and hasn't been promoted in the family yet. Solneki also seems to think they're related- distant cousins of some sort. My opinion on this is that not only does Solneki not need a last name, but he also doesn't need to invade every single bloody universe in my head.

Naturally, he and Mordant disagree. *sigh*

These guys may exist in their own universe; Boffo's vampires are all solitary creatures, not prone to developing clans or families. If I put them in Song of Shadows, there's a chance Von, Cata, and Ari'i would run into them in court, and as hilarious as that would be, it probably wouldn't end well- Ari'i would have to explain to Von, patiently, patronizingly, that they don't automatically win the case if they stake the prosecution.

Eh. We'll see; I doubt I'll do anything with them, regardless. I need a vampire story like I need a pencil through the eye, so they con consider themselves on permanent hiatus.