The alternate title to this entry is: "I call it my big, fat, dumb, derivative fantasy universe for a reason." The alternate-alternate title is: "I swear I'm not just making it up as I go along." And the hyper-mega-crazy AU title is "Age of consent? What's that?"
A chronology, of sorts, and the answers to a few inevitable questions. (Sometimes Silverlock makes things better. And sometimes he makes them worse.) Warnings for baby!Foxbird (she's around 13/14), creepy!Silverlock, violence and gore, cryptic references to things I haven't written or explained, angst, Theron (he's 16), and issues of questionable consent. While Silverlock is occasionally prone to angst, he is completely incapable of denial and he is fully aware of how unsettling the truth can be.
This is technically three unrelated fragments, but I am too lazy to post them separately. The parts with Foxbird take place before Blaine and Silverlock meet and kind of reference this, from back in January; the parts with Blaine take place before Nagendra's death; the part with Theron takes place before Theron gets his mother's memories, which happens in this bit.
This isn't at all what I set out to write- but at this version doesn't have nearly as much lolicon, so I can't actually complain.
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"You're up early. Going somewhere?" Blaine had the day off, which meant he would spend most of it lounging around their common room, reading, until he got too fidgety to sit still any longer. Then he'd go down to the infirmary to do things until Maddel chased him out, and then he'd mope for the rest of the day.
Foxbird loved her father, really, but sometimes she felt he needed a few more constructive hobbies. "My trial is today- I have to go get ready."
"What? Since when are you finished with your apprenticeship?" He set down his book and gave her an accusing stare.
She crossed her arms and glared back. "I told you last week I'd finished my preliminaries. I just had to wait for someone to run my trial. If this goes well, I'll get my tags."
He thumbed his eyes wearily. "Last week...that was when Lady Catherine's pregnancy went wrong. I didn't see you for more than fifteen minutes the whole week."
"Yeah, Lady Catherine and her bloody baby," she spat. "I did tell you- it's not my fault you forgot. And now a friend of mine is running my trial, and I need to get ready."
"Oi. It's not the baby's fault his mother is an idiot. And it's not my fault she earned her tags last year, so don't even think of taking it out on me. You were too young to go to trial then- and that wasn't even my decision."
She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Blaine. I know, Blaine. Can I go now?"
"I don't know, can you?" he countered, grinning. She stuck out her tongue at him. "Who's running your trial?"
"Lord Silverlock D'Alestri. I practice hand to hand with him sometimes."
"I've heard of him." Blaine's smile vanished, replaced with a worried frown. "He has something of a reputation, Birdy."
"Don't." She glared at him again. "What happened with Greymalkin wasn't my fault, and this isn't anything like that. He's just a friend. Besides, I can take care of myself, now."
He held her gaze for a few tense moments, but in the end he looked away first. "Varun only knows your instincts are better than mine, but it is my job to worry about you. Come here." He grabbed her in a quick hug before she could dodge out of the way. "Good luck, then. And if you get hurt, I'll make you wish you were dead."
She hugged him back. "Yes, Blaine. I know, Blaine. I shouldn't be gone more than a a few days, at the most. Stay busy- spend some time in the library, or something."
"You make me wish I'd beaten you more when you were younger, sometimes. Go on, you've places to go and people to kill, I'm sure."
"Take care of yourself while I'm gone." She gave him a kiss on the cheek and dashed out the door.
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They took a carriage to the DeLavrey manor more for appearances than anything else; Silverlock could have teleported them just as easily. Foxbird read over the mission brief as they traveled, committing the details to memory. She handed the folder to him as they arrived, and he disintegrated it with a snap of his fingers.
"You look lovely tonight, little bird." This evenening's purpose was twofold: not only would they gather valuable information on their mark, but Foxbird was forced to wear proper clothing for once, and not some variation on "smock" and "sackcloth".
Her expression of dismay when told she'd be wearing a dress had been incredibly entertaining, too. He gave her a hand out of the carriage; once on the ground, Foxbird shifted awkwardly, hands brushing over the needles concealed in her hair. "I feel like a doll." She pulled at the many layered skirt.
Silverlock straightened her hair and tugged her dress back into place. "Stop fidgeting. The skirt was made to come right off if you pull at it with any sort of force, and it's got slits in it so you can reach your knives with no trouble at all. You have full range of movement and you don't look like you've been living under a bridge."
"I know, but-"
"Shh. Rembember what you're trying to be tonight."
She scowled and straightened her back. "I'm an assassin."
"No." He tapped her on the nose, and made a few more minute adjustments to the fall of her dress. She was all knife-sharp edges and hard angles; she was unlikely to ever develop much of a figure, but the dress provided the illusion of curves. "You're a lady. A useles, pretty, flighty young woman whose only purpose is to make me look slightly respectable. You're not an assassin until you earn your tags- and that won't happen until I say you're ready. So for tonight, you smile and simper and dance and listen. We're here to gather information, nothing more."
"Boring. When do I get to kill people?" She cocked her head to the side, radiating impatience.
Silverlock laughed and straightened her head. "Brat. You know perfectly well we're not allowed to kill anyone in Lady DeLavry's home. Don't try to play me- your ears twitch when you're up to mischief. Now," he offered her his arm. "Shall we?"
"Of course, my lord." Foxbird schooled her features into an expression of vapid submission and took his arm.
"Good girl. You really do look beautiful." She would be even lovelier if she did away with her nervousness; anxiety would do her no good in this situation. His boots echoed on the marble floor of the atrium as he led her towards the ballroom.
Foxbird moved silently beside him save for the swish of her skirts. "Thank you." She looked up at him from the corner of her eye. "And thank you for agreeing to run my trial. They say you haven't taken an apprentice in years."
"It's nothing, little bird." He handed his invitation to the herald at the door. "We are friends, aren't we?"
"Of course." She relaxed minutely.
He leaned to whisper directly into her ear. "And how old are you, now?" Her eyes widened, and she went stiff with shock. He smiled. "I'll still let you bite me, if you like."
"Lord Silverlock D'Alestri and Miss Foxbird Torkehaav!" the herald announced.
He gave Foxbird a little push to get her through the door; she'd temporarily forgotten how to move.
Heads turned at the herald's announcement- and number of them weren't even staring at him. He could hardly blame them. Foxbird did look particularly fetching with that half-embarrassed, half-infuriated flush high on her cheekbones. But there was an undercurrent of fear to that anger, tinged with something like betrayal.
That wouldn't do. He sighed, more for dramatic effect than anything else. "Still too young, I suppose. Ah, well. Off you go- play nice and go easy on the champagne." He snagged a glass for himself from a passing servant and gave her another little push towards the dance floor. "Go, mingle, dance, be clever. I'll find you in a few hours, and you'd best have found me at least five major security flaws and some useful intel on Sheharen."
She glared at him and flounced- flounced, all attitude and scandalized affrontery- towards a group of unaccompanied young men. They descended upon her like a pack of hyenas, armed with champagne and empty compliments. Silverlock grinned. She would be fine, of course. Anyone could scale a wall and put a needle through someone's eye at twenty paces- and they'd be doing plenty of that sort of thing later, after the party. But the mark of a good assassin was versatility, and Foxbird was going to be a very good assassin.
"I've only ever seen that expression in two places- on cats with feathers in their teeth, and you. It's indecent." A one-eyed woman with long, heavily silvered hair snagged his champagne flute out of his unresisting fingers. She sipped at his drink and followed his gaze to where Foxbird stood with her entourage. "She's pretty. Too boyish for my tastes, but you did always prefer the ones with more attitude than cleavage."
"Now, now, my lady. You know my tastes are more varied than that. I enjoy attitude and cleavage in equal measures, when they are the gifts of a woman who knows how to use them." He gave her a leer out of habit; Ayanna DeLavrey had attitude and cleavage in abundance, though she concealed both beneath her military uniform. "But that one is still a child and, to make use of a very tired metaphor, there is no enjoyment to be had in unripe fruit."
She snorted. "It's a good thing no one ever paid you for your powers of metaphor. And since no one has paid you to smile at one of my parties in a very long time, I must conclude someone is paying you to murder one of my guests."
"You are as cynical as you are beautiful, Lady DeLavrey. I'm only here to introduce my young friend to society, and to enjoy your company, of course."
"And you are sadly as full of shit as you are of arrogance, Lord D'Alestri. I haven't been beautiful in thirty years." Light glittered off the military insignia on her shoulder as if to reprimand him for the misuse of her title. "But I'll warn you, a number of my guests are staying with me tonight. If I wake to find any bodies in my home tomorrow morning, I will come down on your Guild so hard, Azaun himself won't be able to find your remains."
"Of course. Under the hypothetical circumstance in which I were here on business, I would never dream of being so tactless as to harm a guest in your house."
"Good. Now I can introduce you to the latest additions to my retinue with a free conscience. And may I add that I dearly hope you've been sent after the Census Master's wife, as she has a voice like a harpy in heat, and if I have to listen to her much longer tonight, I may be forced to cut out her tongue."
"Not that I have any idea what you are talking about, of course, as I am only hypothetically here on business, but if I did, I would consider doing such a thing to such a lady as a favor to you for six thousand marks- a paltry sum which would not even cover my fees to the Guild for freelance work." He offered her his arm.
"You've always been so thoughtful, my dear. But I couldn't bear to trouble you with such a thing, especially since you're only hypothetically here on business. Taking on two contracts at once- even hypothetical ones- is bad form." She took his arm with a smile. "Now, there's an envoy from Ikatai you should meet- I know how you mages like talking shop. Why don't you tell me all about this unripe fruit of yours while we look for him."
Lady DeLavrey had a grip like steel; Silverlock didn't doubt that she could snap him in half without breaking a sweat. "Whatever my lady wishes."
"Indeed."
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He found Foxbird laughing with pretty young lord over a glass of wine; she was flushed from the alcohol and possibly from the dancing, and he had to pause for a moment to admire the view.
He'd always had such a weakness for pretty things.
She glanced in his direction, and her smile fell away. The lordlet said something, and she was laughing again, but then she excused herself with a curtsey and a smile.
"How are you enjoying the party, Miss Torkehaav?" He gave her a half bow. Her anger had refined itself over the course of the evening into something rarefied and sharp. It was a delightful feeling.
"Well enough, Lord D'Alestri." She curtseyed with as much formality, and kept her voice even despite her anger.
He led her to an empty balcony, away from the crowds. Rianna's Tower rose up before them, blocking the view of the rest of the city. Looking at the tower always put a headache right between his eyes; Silverlock leaned against the railing, with his back to the view.
"So what have we learned tonight?"
She began ticking off points on her fingers. "No one searched us for weapons at the door; none of the blades in the room are bound; only the main entrance is guarded; the windows and balconies are unguarded and unprotected, although the view is quite nice; no one was sniffing for poison, and if the stuff in the wine is a cure-all, it's a weak one; the upper gallery is poorly lit and unguarded, making it the perfect hiding place for a sniper; the chandelier is a summoning circle that anyone standing in the center of the dance floor could have used; you are a condescending, manipulative son of a bitch, and I would have no qualms about cutting off your balls and feeding them to the Shrive if you so much as think about touching me without my permission."
She was smiling, but it was the sort of smile that brought to mind wolves and other creatures with very sharp teeth.
"Quite right on all points, though Lady DeLavrey's presence renders any sort of security completely unnecessary. It was unkind of me to tease you, Foxbird." It was easy to modulate his voice and presence into something soothing and trustworthy; he had never claimed to be anything other than a manipulative son of a bitch.
She crossed her arms and stared at the toes of her shoes. "Yes. It was. You're not supposed to ask me that question for another year, at least." She looked up, and her eyes flashed yellow-green in the lamplight. "I trust you. I don't know if that's because you're actually trustworthy, or because you're manipulating me. And that's a problem."
She reached into the bodice of her dress and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "We can deal with it later, though. Sheharen is having a private party in Southmark tonight; I've got an invitation."
"You are a clever girl. I suppose you've got a plan to go with it?"
Her smile still had too many teeth. "I might."
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It was a simple plan, but the circumstances didn't call for anything particularly complex. All she had to do was get Sheharen alone and dose him with enough Sweet Dream to kill him.
Simple, given that the uppermost floor of the hotel was little more than a drunken orgy. Getting Sheharen alone was a futile task, but the other occupants of the room weren't in any condition to notice anything. The poor lighting would conceal the fact that he was dead, and not just passed out drunk, for quite a while.
Now all she had to do was get to a window and wait for Silverlock to find her- simple.
She pressed up against the glass; the room was warm and the window was half fogged over. She could still see the reflections of three lesser nobles as they entered the room; she watched them kick at the bodies on the floor and laugh when they received no response.
They were unarmed, but much larger than her. They were also drunk and high on something- and she'd misjudged their distance in the distortion of the glass.
The skirt really did come right off, and there was nothing to hamper her movements when she broke the face of the nearest man with her foot. He stumbled back, half screaming, half gurgling, and crashed into one of his friends. The next one grabbed at her legs, but that left her hands free to drive a needle into the base of his skull. The last one shoved his companions' bodies out of the way and got a hand in her hair. He threw her against the wall hard enough to make her teeth clack in her skull. She tasted blood, and her head spun for a moment. A pair of hands tore at her bodice.
She went for his eyes out of instinct, and was almost surprised at how easily her claws could sink into the sockets. Viscous fluid and blood welled up over her hands with a disgusting squelch. His neck bent backwards as she pressed in, digging at his eyes- and his throat made too tempting a target to pass up. He stopped screaming when her teeth crushed his windpipe.
"That, I think, is more than enough." Silverlock's magic always smelled like blood and sex, so it wasn't so surprising that he'd managed to sneak up on her in this place. His voice was sharp, but she could feel him Leeching away her panic and bloodlust. "Come on, little fox. Time to go."
Her ears flattened against her skull in irritation, but she spat out her mouthful of flesh and pulled her claws away with a wet sucking noise. Silverlock kicked the body off of her, but made no other move to help her up. She stared at her ruined gloves, and resisted the urge to lick her fingers.
"Are you hurt?"
Tiny green beads ran off her torn bodice like water; the skirt was in shreds, and her leggings were soaked with blood. "Bit my tongue when I hit the wall." Her mouth was full of the taste of someone else's blood, though, and her nails were too sharp and too long.
"That will heal. Are you ready to go?" He held out his hand.
"Just a moment." She pulled herself up against the window ledge and traced a shape on the glass with a gory claw. "There. Let's go."
She took his hand, and the room and its carnage faded away. The ragged outline of a fox looked out from the window, grinning.
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They hadn't gone back to the Guild; Silverlock teleported them to a set of rooms overlooking the river where Foxbird was able to clean off the gore and change her clothing. She curled up on a corner of the bed and tried to bend her fingers. "I'm sorry." Her hands were still wrong.
"What for?" Silverlock was sitting by the window with his feet propped on the table, facing away from her.
"I screwed up. Shouldn't have made such a mess- it was inefficient."
He laughed. "If that's all, then you've nothing to worry about. Ours is a messy profession. This time, it will turn out in your favor. Those three were expendable- not much more than servants. No one will care that they were killed, but everyone will assume they were your targets. The Watch will be too busy dealing with them to realize Sheharen didn't die of his own stupidity- and the contract specified something quiet and untraceable."
"I still should have been more careful."
"And you will, next time." He turned around, straddling the back of the chair. "You handled yourself very well, up until the end."
She cringed at the neutrality in his voice and in his eyes, and glared at her hands. Human, she thought fiercely. I'm human. Her claws ignored her.
"There haven't been Malestri in the city since the Sundering." His tone was conversational, radiating calm and other soothing things, but she could smell his fascination. It made her skin crawl.
"With good reason," she snapped. "I'm a person, not an animal. Stop looking at me like I'm some kind of test subject."
Immediately, the excess flow of emotion in the room ceased. "I look at everyone that way, Foxbird. You know that."
"You also look at everyone like you want to fuck them."
"Irrelevant. You're a part of the Guild; I'm no more likely to rape you than I am to dissect you."
"And if I weren't?" Her skin was crawling again, for different reasons.
"Then I'd put more effort into seducing you." Silverlock slouched casually over the back of the chair. "I won't deny that I'm curious from a purely academic standpoint- the study of demi-humans has always been sadly neglected- but I'm not willing to hurt you to satisfy that curiosity."
"Because you'd lose your standing in the Guild." She felt sick.
"Because it would be a crime to ruin someone with so much potential," he said sharply. "And because I like you, you little twit. I will never claim to be even remotely trustworthy, but I have always been honest with you."
He stood up. "Your secret is safe with me. Whenever you're ready, we can return to the Guild; I'll be waiting outside." The door shut silently behind him.
She stared at her hands until the bones reshaped- her claws shrank back into nails, her fingers lengthened, and her thumbs snapped back into place.
She'd just killed four men. And it still bothered her that she'd made such a mess of the last three- but it didn't bother her at all to think they were dead.
She smiled. Demon or not, she belonged to the Guild now.
In the end, that was all that really mattered.
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A scene goes here, but I'm totally not writing it!
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"I don't understand you."
"What's not to understand?" He poured more wine into Blaine's glass. "I'm really a very simple man. Very easy to please."
"Didn't anyone ever tell you lying to priests is bad for your soul?" There was a crinkle of a smile around Blaine's eyes.
Happy was a good look on him. "Slander! I never lie."
"Then explain yourself." The deep burgundy of the wine disappeared when Blaine touched the glass; when he raised it to drink, there was nothing but water contained therein.
He shrugged, smiling. The wine-to-water trick never ceased to amuse him. "Everything I do, I do to further my own happiness. That's all."
"How do I fit into that, then? At the very least, disconnecting yourself has to give you a headache."
"I don't think I'm even capable of noticing something so insignificant as a headache these days. And as for you- that's another simple matter. Events have conspired against me in such a way as to make your happiness integral to my own."
Water splashed across the tablecloth; the glass rolled in a slow circle beside the empty bread basket.
Silverlock leaned back in his chair and looked out over the city. "Don't worry," he said. "Ultimately, I care for myself more than I could ever care for anyone else. I have a very small soul." His gaze shifted sideways. "As long as you continue to enjoy these conversations, I see no reason to ask anything more of you. You, of course, are quite welcome to ask whatever you wish of me."
"I see." Blaine righted his glass and scooped up the spilled water in the palm of his hand. He shaped it into a ball and rolled it over the backs of his fingers with practiced ease. "I'll keep that in mind."
He was smiling again. Silverlock laughed, and poured more wine into their glasses. "See that you do."
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Silverlock usually hated when people played with his hair; it was his most impractical vanity, and having someone tugging at it usually just emphasized that fact. Blaine, however, had clever hands, and knew better than to pull too hard.
Well, unless they were having sex, but hair-pulling was one of the least annoying habits Silverlock had encountered in his lovers.
He'd been lying face down, dozing in a pleasant, post-coital sort of way, while Blaine played with his hair. After a few minutes, the fact that Blaine had ceased petting and was clenching his hair close enough to his scalp to actually hurt- Blaine would have cuts on his palms for that- was more than a little alarming.
"I've been wondering." Blaine's voice was flat.
Silverlock went completely still. "Oh?"
Blaine released his hair. "Did you take an interest in me before or after you started fucking my daughter? I'm curious."
He didn't need his magic to tell that Blaine was angry. He slid off the bed and retrieved his robe from the floor. "After we stopped, actually. I don't suppose that matters?" He glanced over his shoulder; Blaine was staring at his hands with completely blank features. "Ah. Stupid question."
"Indeed."
"Well, then." He shrugged into his robe and fastened it shut. "If I may ask one question before I leave?"
"Go ahead."
"Why did you wait until now to be angry with me? You had to have known beforehand." Silverlock had always been skilled at reading people, even without the help of his magic- but Blaine hid most of his secondary emotions quite well. If he was feeling anything beyond the obvious anger and hurt at the moment, Silverlock couldn't see it.
Blaine looked up and smiled. It wasn't the sort of smile that reached his eyes. "I'm sure this is hardly the first time someone has used you for sex."
"I thought that might be it." Silverlock walked around the bed and placed one hand on either side of Blaine's head, caging him in. "You are very, very lucky," he whispered in the other man's ear, "that I love you. Because if I didn't, you would not be able to afford those words."
"Get out."
He left without another word, unsatisfied by the stricken look on his lover's face.
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blah blah blah Blaine vs Foxbird shouting match blah blah being a liability, blah blah, lots of broken pottery, blah blah Nagendra's death, blah blah blah drowning metaphorical and real blah blah blah "Breathe. Life is just breathing." blah wow they're all idiots, blah blah blah more broken pottery blah blah it's not like I'm ever going to write the fucking story anyway, the end.
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(Several hundred years later!)
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"I do recall telling you not to touch the books in this part of the library." Silverlock lounged against one of the bookshelves with his arms crossed. "You haven't mastered enough of the basics to attempt these spells."
"That's your opinion," Theron snarled, clutching a spellbook to his chest. "How am I supposed to improve if you won't let me do anything but copy histories and census documents?"
"Put the book away." Silverlock sounded weary. "I have you copying histories and census documents in the faint hope of undoing all those years of brainwashing you've endured. I had also hoped that you might also learn a little patience and, gods willing, maturity."
"You treat me like a child no matter what I do."
Theron didn't see Silverlock move, but a moment later he found himself pressed against the bookshelf with a hand around his throat.
"You are by no means my equal. You refuse to act towards me as a student should towards his teacher. I'm not fucking you. Therefore, you are a child, because I don't fuck children, and the only reason I have to keep you here if you are neither my equal nor my student is to fuck you." The hand around Theron's throat tightened, and a knee pressed his thighs apart. "If you wish to be treated as an adult in this house, you should be prepared to accept the consequences."
"Y-you bastard." Theron clawed at Silverlock's hand, but the mage's grip was unshakeable. "Let go of me!"
"According to the laws of this city, I own you. Do not presume to give me orders." His hand tightened further, cutting off Theron's air. "So, tell me. Are you a child, or an adult? Be thankful I'm even giving you the choice. There are few other men in this city who would be so kind."
"F-fuck you!" Theron choked and tried to smith something- anything- but the aether slipped out of his grasp.
"Your choice." Silverlock kissed him, hard and invasive and completely oblivious to Theron's struggling, to the tiny, panicked noises he made, to the tears that gathered in the corners of his eyes.
His mouth felt bruised when Silverlock finally pulled away; he remained standing only because the other man still held him pinned against the bookcase.
"Tell me your place in this house." Silverlock was still completely composed. "Tell me, or I make this decision for you."
"Y-your student." He squeezed his eyes shut, and felt the burn of tears sliding down his face. It hurt to speak, to breathe.
"And?" Silverlock pressed closer, threatening.
"A child." Fear warred with humiliation, and ultimately won. When Silverlock let go, he dropped to the ground bonelessly.
"Good. Don't try stealing books from the library until you're good enough to not get caught." The ringing of Silverlock's boots against the floor faded, and disappeared.
Theron stayed on the floor and stared blankly into the distance. It was a long time before he stopped shaking.
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...*cough*
Uh, yeah. I'm-a gonna be elsewhere, pretending I didn't write this.
(Name that reference! If you found pieces of Steven Brust, Mercedes Lackey, Tamora Pierce, Eve Forward, and Dennis L McKiernan in this, congratulations! You get a gold star!)
City/Guild babble (I suppose it goes without saying that everything I write is subject to change at any moment in time.)
The DeLavrey family is very old and very powerful (those were enormous understatements- they basically own the universe), and Ayanna DeLavrey finds society in general highly amusing. She throws lots of parties, and anyone who disobeys her rules gets righteously smote, so there's no fighting of any sort, no assassinations, no feuding, no stealing, and no pseudonyms.
As far as the city is concerned, a person is considered an adult at seventeen, but the Census Board will recognize someone as young as fifteen as an adult if the correct forms are filled out. The Overcity Guilds (tradesmen and crafters and the like) require members to be legal adults before allowing them full membership, but the Undercity Guilds (Thieves, Assassins, Bardic) aren't overly concerned with legality. The Bardic and Thieves' Guilds have no age requirements; if you're capable of performing, you can earn your tags, and from that point on, the Guild will consider you an adult.
The Assassins' Guild insists that members either be legal adults or spend at least seven years as apprentices. They won't take apprentices younger than five and they rarely take new, untrained apprentices older than twelve. On average, an apprenticeship takes between seven and ten years of training; most of the humans in the Guild earn their tags at eighteen. People who want to specialize in something usually spend a few extra years training in their area of focus before becoming full fledged Guildmembers.
Adults with some sort of prior physical training, or people with non-human lifespans are, of course, exceptions to the age rules. Silverlock joined the Guild at fifty and spent six months as a normal apprentice, then another three years with probationary tags under the tutelage of the only other assassin-mage in the Guild at the time. The Guildsmen are mostly human- Shaivhen is, in general, a human city- but there are still considerable numbers of nonhumans in the ranks.
And, because the Undercity Guilds are an important part of Shaivhen's past, all Guild members have the right to a noble title. This requires submitting a request to the Census Board; very few thieves or bards bother with it. Assassins, on the other hand, are snobs and very good at filing paper work- most Guildsmen are lords, even though they aren't actually landowners. The titles have become something of a joke among in the Undercity, however.
They're still criminals, of course- but it's actually more illegal to hire an assassin than it is to be one. Everyone's got to make a living, after all, and the Guildmaster has enough influence in the city to keep his people safe.
A number of assassins have a trademark- the fox Foxbird scribbled on the window is hers. Silverlock usually leaves a few strands of his hair, which is really just his way of telling the authorities to fuck themselves, since he expends quite a bit of time, money, and effort to make himself aetherially untraceable. (The fact that he became an assassin is already an enormous "fuck you" to the authorities; he's something of a celebrity to begin with. I'd make an analogy involving porn stars and the mafia, but that would just be excessive.) It's their way of advertizing; the Guild assigns contracts, but sometimes employers will ask for a specific assassin by trademark. Trademarks are risky because they do make it easier for the Watch to trace people- and assassins can get arrested and executed, same as anyone else.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Thursday, April 27, 2006
scribble
Arty thing.
Silverlock, in a suit. I dunno. I kind of figure after he and Theron part for the last time as equals, he goes off and does another ritual-suicide-slash-tattoo-removal thing. And then, because he's very much in favor of people doing the things they're good at, he goes back to killing people for a living. New name, new persona, new haircut, new outfit. It would be even more of a reinvention of self than what he goes through after Blaine's death.
Every time I try drawing him, it ends badly; this is, sadly, no exception. I lack the artistic skills to put the image I have of him in my head onto paper.
Kind of want to draw the other characters, too- especially Foxbird, and the dress she wears in the scenes I'm working on right now. Maybe then I can remind myself that she doesn't look thirteen, and then my characters can stop completely skeeving me out. ...well, I can hope. *sigh*
Right now, however, I really need to do homework. Like, really really. Sleep would also be good, but not until I've finished my bloody presentation. Augh, I hate social sciences. (Now watch me take intro sociology next year, and realize it was what I wanted to be doing my whole life. >_< Too bad I'm only interested in fictional societies!)
Silverlock, in a suit. I dunno. I kind of figure after he and Theron part for the last time as equals, he goes off and does another ritual-suicide-slash-tattoo-removal thing. And then, because he's very much in favor of people doing the things they're good at, he goes back to killing people for a living. New name, new persona, new haircut, new outfit. It would be even more of a reinvention of self than what he goes through after Blaine's death.
Every time I try drawing him, it ends badly; this is, sadly, no exception. I lack the artistic skills to put the image I have of him in my head onto paper.
Kind of want to draw the other characters, too- especially Foxbird, and the dress she wears in the scenes I'm working on right now. Maybe then I can remind myself that she doesn't look thirteen, and then my characters can stop completely skeeving me out. ...well, I can hope. *sigh*
Right now, however, I really need to do homework. Like, really really. Sleep would also be good, but not until I've finished my bloody presentation. Augh, I hate social sciences. (Now watch me take intro sociology next year, and realize it was what I wanted to be doing my whole life. >_< Too bad I'm only interested in fictional societies!)
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
AUGH
DEAR INTERNET,
It's prostate, not prostrate; ministrations, not menstruations; taut, not taunt, taught, or tault.
Disappear and disappoint have one (1) "s" and two (2) "p"s.
Difference/different and deference/deferent are not synonyms. "Differant" is not a word.
Disparate and desperate are different words.
You apply rouge to your face. You apply rogues to locked doors. Do not ask unreasonable things of your cosmetics.
When in doubt, Dictionary.com is your friend.
No love,
Me
It's prostate, not prostrate; ministrations, not menstruations; taut, not taunt, taught, or tault.
Disappear and disappoint have one (1) "s" and two (2) "p"s.
Difference/different and deference/deferent are not synonyms. "Differant" is not a word.
Disparate and desperate are different words.
You apply rouge to your face. You apply rogues to locked doors. Do not ask unreasonable things of your cosmetics.
When in doubt, Dictionary.com is your friend.
No love,
Me
Monday, April 24, 2006
torn to tattered (meander)
I think I'm only resisting giving the Bleach characters voices in my head because introducing Yumichika to Silverlock can only end in horrendous mayhem. There would be glitter everywhere.
Spent the weekend writing, more or less. My productivity is laughable, given how much time I spent doing nothing but staring at a text file- but now I've got nearly 4000 words of Foxbird-related-backstory-and-wtfery. (And at least three thousand of those words are just there so I don't have to write all of the lolicon going on in the background! *cries*) Not entirely sure how that happened. I had three scenes in my head that wanted writing, and somehow the universe expanded on me again. -_-
(Sometimes I feel like my head is full of doors; most of them open on closets or walls, but a few of them just open, and open, and never stop.)
I do like it when new things pop into my head, though. A few years ago, when Song of Shadows first started growing, I spent maybe three days living through the entire story of the second book- just a constant stream of information and events. It was pretty fucking awesome. Now, of course, I can't remember half of it, and the only SoS things I've written since have been my typical post-plot character development pieces.
But that's okay, really. I don't write for the sake of story or plot. I write to explore worlds or characters- if I can manage that exploration without having to do the actual writing part, even better. I'm lazy, and I spend more time daydreaming than anything else.
And, of course, by "daydreaming," I mean "retconning entire storylines in my head." Ah, well. I don't actually care that I tend to contradict myself quite a bit- characters and worlds evolve, and sometimes things that seemed to fit a year ago just don't anymore. This is why I cannot keep my own timelines straight for the life of me. "Oh, sure, that happened three years after this...no, maybe it was five. Actually, this didn't even happen, and they spent six months in the Congo instead...heh, bananas."
And, in other news, this past weekend was Preview Weekend, making it three years since my parents didn't get divorced. (I wish I could do everything over. I can't retcon my life, but god, I wish I could.) There's a sick sort of symmetry in the way mom and grandma came up to help me this weekend, but dad stayed home.
...Oh, fuck this for a lark. I indulge in my own drama too much sometimes. Back to writing kiddie pr0n.
Spent the weekend writing, more or less. My productivity is laughable, given how much time I spent doing nothing but staring at a text file- but now I've got nearly 4000 words of Foxbird-related-backstory-and-wtfery. (And at least three thousand of those words are just there so I don't have to write all of the lolicon going on in the background! *cries*) Not entirely sure how that happened. I had three scenes in my head that wanted writing, and somehow the universe expanded on me again. -_-
(Sometimes I feel like my head is full of doors; most of them open on closets or walls, but a few of them just open, and open, and never stop.)
I do like it when new things pop into my head, though. A few years ago, when Song of Shadows first started growing, I spent maybe three days living through the entire story of the second book- just a constant stream of information and events. It was pretty fucking awesome. Now, of course, I can't remember half of it, and the only SoS things I've written since have been my typical post-plot character development pieces.
But that's okay, really. I don't write for the sake of story or plot. I write to explore worlds or characters- if I can manage that exploration without having to do the actual writing part, even better. I'm lazy, and I spend more time daydreaming than anything else.
And, of course, by "daydreaming," I mean "retconning entire storylines in my head." Ah, well. I don't actually care that I tend to contradict myself quite a bit- characters and worlds evolve, and sometimes things that seemed to fit a year ago just don't anymore. This is why I cannot keep my own timelines straight for the life of me. "Oh, sure, that happened three years after this...no, maybe it was five. Actually, this didn't even happen, and they spent six months in the Congo instead...heh, bananas."
And, in other news, this past weekend was Preview Weekend, making it three years since my parents didn't get divorced. (I wish I could do everything over. I can't retcon my life, but god, I wish I could.) There's a sick sort of symmetry in the way mom and grandma came up to help me this weekend, but dad stayed home.
...Oh, fuck this for a lark. I indulge in my own drama too much sometimes. Back to writing kiddie pr0n.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
song call- Chantal Kreviazuk, "Eve"
Eve is gone again
Back to her palace
Back to her island
Eve can smile again
And run 'round the hedges
In the Garden of Eden
Run the way you did before the nightmares
Run just like before the overkill
Run the way you did, it's over darling
Oh, could I be so gentle
Oh, so soft and tender
Oh, and could I forgive
And could I die in my mother's arms
Like her
Eve's a child again
Sing her a lullaby
Read to her every night
Eve's in heaven
Plenty of friends are there
No one the enemy
Run the way you did before the nightmares
Run just like before the overkill
Run the way you did, it's over darling
Oh, could I be so gentle
Oh, so soft and tender
Oh, and could I forgive
And could I die in my mother's arms
Like her
Like her ...
Run the way you did before the nightmares
Like her ...
Run just like before the overkill
Like her ...
Run the way you did, it's over darling,
Could I die in my mother's arms
Like her
- Chantal Kreviazuk, "Eve"
I have a version of this song done by Duke University's women's a cappella group, Out of the Blue. Here it is. Someone in my head wants to claim it, but I'm not sure who- either way, it's an awesome arrangement.
I wish it were easier to find good college a cappella music. I realize I don't actually have any reason to complain, given that I've got three colleges and a university within driving distance...but I am lazy, and I never find out about music events until it is too late. For instance, Amherst did a celebration of the music of Cowboy Bebop last week- and I didn't see the posters for it until two days later. I'd have maimed someone to be able to go to that concert. *sulk*
What I would truly love would be for some group- any group, really, so long as I get to hear it- to do an arrangment of "Lazy Bones" and also an arrangement of "Improper Dancing." Granted, the universe might implode from the force of the awesome that would be those songs in a cappella form, but I feel it would be worth it.
(Speaking of "Lazy Bones," Thick has a new album coming out this year. How excited am I? So excited. Mmm, cheesy whiteboy funk.)
Back to her palace
Back to her island
Eve can smile again
And run 'round the hedges
In the Garden of Eden
Run the way you did before the nightmares
Run just like before the overkill
Run the way you did, it's over darling
Oh, could I be so gentle
Oh, so soft and tender
Oh, and could I forgive
And could I die in my mother's arms
Like her
Eve's a child again
Sing her a lullaby
Read to her every night
Eve's in heaven
Plenty of friends are there
No one the enemy
Run the way you did before the nightmares
Run just like before the overkill
Run the way you did, it's over darling
Oh, could I be so gentle
Oh, so soft and tender
Oh, and could I forgive
And could I die in my mother's arms
Like her
Like her ...
Run the way you did before the nightmares
Like her ...
Run just like before the overkill
Like her ...
Run the way you did, it's over darling,
Could I die in my mother's arms
Like her
- Chantal Kreviazuk, "Eve"
I have a version of this song done by Duke University's women's a cappella group, Out of the Blue. Here it is. Someone in my head wants to claim it, but I'm not sure who- either way, it's an awesome arrangement.
I wish it were easier to find good college a cappella music. I realize I don't actually have any reason to complain, given that I've got three colleges and a university within driving distance...but I am lazy, and I never find out about music events until it is too late. For instance, Amherst did a celebration of the music of Cowboy Bebop last week- and I didn't see the posters for it until two days later. I'd have maimed someone to be able to go to that concert. *sulk*
What I would truly love would be for some group- any group, really, so long as I get to hear it- to do an arrangment of "Lazy Bones" and also an arrangement of "Improper Dancing." Granted, the universe might implode from the force of the awesome that would be those songs in a cappella form, but I feel it would be worth it.
(Speaking of "Lazy Bones," Thick has a new album coming out this year. How excited am I? So excited. Mmm, cheesy whiteboy funk.)
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Foxbird (still needs a real title, damnit)
Curious. The site feed never updated when I changed an entry before. Curious indeed.
Anyway. For my own reference, and possibly yours:
Cast of side characters
The Healers
Maddel- The master healer and a crotchety old elf with no compunctions about beating his apprentices or his patients into submission.
Ratha- Blaine's primary apprentice, and an exchange from the Thieves' Guild. She talks far too much and gets a little queasy around blood, but she can juggle scalpels with her eyes closed.
Sigliss- An ex-assassin with no magical talent whatsoever. He can perform adequate field medicine on any bodies that come through the ward, but he specializes in chemical compounds- if you can poison 'em, Sigliss can come up with an antidote.
The Shrive (All of them have flower or plant names. I think they think it's ironic.)
Geranium- The oldest Shrivecat in the Guild. He supposedly represents the agreement between the Guildmaster and Azaun, a god of death, that allows the Guildmaster to live indefinitely. He refuses to say anything on the matter, preferring to maintain an aloof silence when not chatting up the ghosts that hang around the Guild.
Hibiscus- Another Shrivecat. He likes hanging around the healers' ward, because occasionally someone will lose a body part and he can grab it before one of the healers notice that it's missing. Blaine and the other healers call him Biscuit and throw things at him whenever they can.
Flax- An adorable little Shrivekitten who hangs around the ward and helps out with the healing. She and Blaine are quite fond of each other.
Henna- A Shrivebeast who has worked with Silverlock on occasion.
The Assassins
The Guildmaster- He had a name once, but he's forgotten it after centuries of being a ghost. I'm reworking the mess with Blaine's parents, so I'm not actually sure whose body he currently inhabits.
Midnight- A friend of Blaine's with a minor drug problem.
Greymalkin- Blaine, Silverlock, and Foxbird hate him with a fiery passion; the feeling is mutual. Also, he's one of the few Guildsmen whose primary weapon is a sword. ("Why can't I sneak attack with a longsword?" "Because it's not sneaky enough!")
Banshee- An ex-assassin mage who still has ties to the Guild. She was one of Silverlock's teachers.
Ivy- A poisoner who does less assassining and more teaching nowadays.
...okay, I know there are others, but I can't remember any of their names- and the only names I can come up with at the moment are pirate names, which really don't suit assassins. At all.
The Clergy (The Apostles's names are alphabetical. I'm sure they have a very good reason for this.)
Nagendra- A severely unbalanced Avatar of Varun.
Mandhatri- A slightly less unbalanced Avatar of Varun. He's also very young for his position, but since he reversed nearly all of Nagendra's proclamations, no one is going to complain. He's a nice sort of fanatic.
Manikarnika- Mandhatri's successor, and more of a scholar than a fanatic.
Cecelia- The most junior Apostle; she is the first Apostle ordained by Mandhatri.
Ansem- The Apostle who was directly responsible for Blaine's training. He's the only member of the Church Blaine remains in contact with after he leaves.
Zenobia- An Apostle who isn't a raving bitch.
Yelena- An Apostle who is a raving bitch.
Xeric- The only Apostle who gets more flak for his name than Blaine.
Wyn- A genderless water elemental, and an Apostle.
Vatel-a gratuitous movie reference One of Nagendra's favorite Apostles.
Uma- An Apostle and a Mystic.
Trent- An water elf, and the oldest Apostle. (His
Sarasvati- A Nagini and the most senior Apostle; she rarely spends any time at the main temple. She travels a great deal, and hasn't been back to Shaivhen in over twenty years.
The Other Guys
Rellen- Ratha's brother, and a Mystic in training under the employ of the Assassins' guild. He's fascinated by the Shrive, but they all think he's creepy.
Kupric- A half elf ex-convict living in Candlemark; he was arrested on several counts of homicide. Doesn't talk much, likes tattoos.
Harbard- A wolf-type Malestri and a captain in the City Watch.
Gannet- Silverlock's first teacher and an all around no-accound drunk.
Soriss- A Census Board official who may or may not be completely and utterly corrput. No one really knows.
Anyway. For my own reference, and possibly yours:
Cast of side characters
The Healers
Maddel- The master healer and a crotchety old elf with no compunctions about beating his apprentices or his patients into submission.
Ratha- Blaine's primary apprentice, and an exchange from the Thieves' Guild. She talks far too much and gets a little queasy around blood, but she can juggle scalpels with her eyes closed.
Sigliss- An ex-assassin with no magical talent whatsoever. He can perform adequate field medicine on any bodies that come through the ward, but he specializes in chemical compounds- if you can poison 'em, Sigliss can come up with an antidote.
The Shrive (All of them have flower or plant names. I think they think it's ironic.)
Geranium- The oldest Shrivecat in the Guild. He supposedly represents the agreement between the Guildmaster and Azaun, a god of death, that allows the Guildmaster to live indefinitely. He refuses to say anything on the matter, preferring to maintain an aloof silence when not chatting up the ghosts that hang around the Guild.
Hibiscus- Another Shrivecat. He likes hanging around the healers' ward, because occasionally someone will lose a body part and he can grab it before one of the healers notice that it's missing. Blaine and the other healers call him Biscuit and throw things at him whenever they can.
Flax- An adorable little Shrivekitten who hangs around the ward and helps out with the healing. She and Blaine are quite fond of each other.
Henna- A Shrivebeast who has worked with Silverlock on occasion.
The Assassins
The Guildmaster- He had a name once, but he's forgotten it after centuries of being a ghost. I'm reworking the mess with Blaine's parents, so I'm not actually sure whose body he currently inhabits.
Midnight- A friend of Blaine's with a minor drug problem.
Greymalkin- Blaine, Silverlock, and Foxbird hate him with a fiery passion; the feeling is mutual. Also, he's one of the few Guildsmen whose primary weapon is a sword. ("Why can't I sneak attack with a longsword?" "Because it's not sneaky enough!")
Banshee- An ex-assassin mage who still has ties to the Guild. She was one of Silverlock's teachers.
Ivy- A poisoner who does less assassining and more teaching nowadays.
...okay, I know there are others, but I can't remember any of their names- and the only names I can come up with at the moment are pirate names, which really don't suit assassins. At all.
The Clergy (The Apostles's names are alphabetical. I'm sure they have a very good reason for this.)
Nagendra- A severely unbalanced Avatar of Varun.
Mandhatri- A slightly less unbalanced Avatar of Varun. He's also very young for his position, but since he reversed nearly all of Nagendra's proclamations, no one is going to complain. He's a nice sort of fanatic.
Manikarnika- Mandhatri's successor, and more of a scholar than a fanatic.
Cecelia- The most junior Apostle; she is the first Apostle ordained by Mandhatri.
Ansem- The Apostle who was directly responsible for Blaine's training. He's the only member of the Church Blaine remains in contact with after he leaves.
Zenobia- An Apostle who isn't a raving bitch.
Yelena- An Apostle who is a raving bitch.
Xeric- The only Apostle who gets more flak for his name than Blaine.
Wyn- A genderless water elemental, and an Apostle.
Vatel-
Uma- An Apostle and a Mystic.
Trent- An water elf, and the oldest Apostle. (His
Sarasvati- A Nagini and the most senior Apostle; she rarely spends any time at the main temple. She travels a great deal, and hasn't been back to Shaivhen in over twenty years.
The Other Guys
Rellen- Ratha's brother, and a Mystic in training under the employ of the Assassins' guild. He's fascinated by the Shrive, but they all think he's creepy.
Kupric- A half elf ex-convict living in Candlemark; he was arrested on several counts of homicide. Doesn't talk much, likes tattoos.
Harbard- A wolf-type Malestri and a captain in the City Watch.
Gannet- Silverlock's first teacher and an all around no-accound drunk.
Soriss- A Census Board official who may or may not be completely and utterly corrput. No one really knows.
Index of Poetry
April is National Poetry Month; in honor of that, here is an index of all the poetry I've posted to the blog.
Most of the verse I wrote prior to 2004 is absolute and utter crap- it's wangsty, stereotypical whiny teenager stuff. There are a few pieces here and there that I like, though- but for the most part, I wouldn't recommend reading any of it, especially the pieces from 2002. The things I wrote for my verse writing classes in 2004 and 2005 aren't half bad; I'm much better at writing decent verse for class than I am for myself.
09/06 (free thought: in erratis veritas)
7.06 (musings)
4.06 (easter sunday)
4.06 (easter bread)
4.06 (love poems)
2.06 (february, redux)
2.06 (now and then)
10.05 (funeral sestinet)
6.05 (musings on fireflies)
4.05 (polka dot slot machine)
4.05 (dreamscrape sestina)
3.05 (insomnia)
3.05 (february)
3.05 (hands)
3.05 (the death of elaine)
12.04 (blank verse narrative; miltonic inspiration)
12.04 (orion)
12.04 (i guess)
Villanelle draft 1 draft 2 draft 3
Childhood first drafts final draft
11.04 (narrative braindump)
11.04 (ache)
11.04 (orchestra sonnet)
Birthday Sonnet draft 1 draft 2
Death note poem draft 1 final draft
9.04 (attempted ekphrasis)
9.04 (emily dickinson imitation)
7.04 (word dump)
4.04 (imitative, light in darkness)
2.04 (3 imagist poems)
11.03 (be not ungentle)
11.03 (2 haiku)
10.03 (when you will be sleeping)
9.03 (the duck on the door)
6.03 (richard III)
6.03: Poetry generator poems 1 2
2.03 (ffiv)
2.03 (and look:)
1.03 (brought to you by the letter L)
1.03 (anything else)
12.02 (invocation of elements)
10/02 (just another girl)
9.02 (idol)
8.02 (hypertextual smile)
8.02 (livewire)
8.02 (should i cease?)
8.02 (lament)
7.02 (burn it down)
7.02 (nothing to say)
6.02 (lady of the lipgloss)
4.02 (and she screams)
3.02 (don't mess with me)
3.02 (late night haiku)
3.02 (late night blues)
3.02 (not much)
3.02 (sushi stupidity)
3/02 (dot dot dot)
2/02 (art museum)
2/02 (if i say what i say)
Most of the verse I wrote prior to 2004 is absolute and utter crap- it's wangsty, stereotypical whiny teenager stuff. There are a few pieces here and there that I like, though- but for the most part, I wouldn't recommend reading any of it, especially the pieces from 2002. The things I wrote for my verse writing classes in 2004 and 2005 aren't half bad; I'm much better at writing decent verse for class than I am for myself.
09/06 (free thought: in erratis veritas)
7.06 (musings)
4.06 (easter sunday)
4.06 (easter bread)
4.06 (love poems)
2.06 (february, redux)
2.06 (now and then)
10.05 (funeral sestinet)
6.05 (musings on fireflies)
4.05 (polka dot slot machine)
4.05 (dreamscrape sestina)
3.05 (insomnia)
3.05 (february)
3.05 (hands)
3.05 (the death of elaine)
12.04 (blank verse narrative; miltonic inspiration)
12.04 (orion)
12.04 (i guess)
Villanelle draft 1 draft 2 draft 3
Childhood first drafts final draft
11.04 (narrative braindump)
11.04 (ache)
11.04 (orchestra sonnet)
Birthday Sonnet draft 1 draft 2
Death note poem draft 1 final draft
9.04 (attempted ekphrasis)
9.04 (emily dickinson imitation)
7.04 (word dump)
4.04 (imitative, light in darkness)
2.04 (3 imagist poems)
11.03 (be not ungentle)
11.03 (2 haiku)
10.03 (when you will be sleeping)
9.03 (the duck on the door)
6.03 (richard III)
6.03: Poetry generator poems 1 2
2.03 (ffiv)
2.03 (and look:)
1.03 (brought to you by the letter L)
1.03 (anything else)
12.02 (invocation of elements)
10/02 (just another girl)
9.02 (idol)
8.02 (hypertextual smile)
8.02 (livewire)
8.02 (should i cease?)
8.02 (lament)
7.02 (burn it down)
7.02 (nothing to say)
6.02 (lady of the lipgloss)
4.02 (and she screams)
3.02 (don't mess with me)
3.02 (late night haiku)
3.02 (late night blues)
3.02 (not much)
3.02 (sushi stupidity)
3/02 (dot dot dot)
2/02 (art museum)
2/02 (if i say what i say)
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Easter Sunday
(Behind the altar, brightly backlit,
bored with bondage, and Unamused,
the pornographic Christ presides.
Embarrassed, (not humbled), I avert my eyes
from his withered figure, high on the wall.)
We gather to hear, in this hallowed space,
the strange story of that beloved disciple;
and of Mary Magdalene, mother, whore;
and the vacant vault where their savior was.
No body there, only hidden hope,
wrapped in ragged rolls of cloth.
Is faith so simple: a hollow tomb?
Then my grave overflows, filled with bones.
And yet, faithless, I feel I am never
more at home than here, in the house
of god: our offerings echo in the emptiness.
Who will hear our halleluiahs?
The arcs and angles of the architecture
drawing my drifting eyes upward.
I lose myself in lines and silence;
I will not wonder at the deafness of angels,
nor the cold comfort of an open tomb.
The sermon is short, a small blessing;
little miracles mean more
to me than sacrifice and faceless Fathers.
Outside, heralding the onset of spring,
the snow recedes in the sun. In rows
and lines of brightly blooming crocuses
I read, "Resurrection time."
I believe in nothing, if not in this.
-------------------------
I wrote this last year, but apparently never posted it here; there is no snow on the ground now, and I did not go to church today.
I think I wish I had.
bored with bondage, and Unamused,
the pornographic Christ presides.
Embarrassed, (not humbled), I avert my eyes
from his withered figure, high on the wall.)
We gather to hear, in this hallowed space,
the strange story of that beloved disciple;
and of Mary Magdalene, mother, whore;
and the vacant vault where their savior was.
No body there, only hidden hope,
wrapped in ragged rolls of cloth.
Is faith so simple: a hollow tomb?
Then my grave overflows, filled with bones.
And yet, faithless, I feel I am never
more at home than here, in the house
of god: our offerings echo in the emptiness.
Who will hear our halleluiahs?
The arcs and angles of the architecture
drawing my drifting eyes upward.
I lose myself in lines and silence;
I will not wonder at the deafness of angels,
nor the cold comfort of an open tomb.
The sermon is short, a small blessing;
little miracles mean more
to me than sacrifice and faceless Fathers.
Outside, heralding the onset of spring,
the snow recedes in the sun. In rows
and lines of brightly blooming crocuses
I read, "Resurrection time."
I believe in nothing, if not in this.
-------------------------
I wrote this last year, but apparently never posted it here; there is no snow on the ground now, and I did not go to church today.
I think I wish I had.
Friday, April 14, 2006
And still, we call this Friday good.
"take this bread" this dough this food and
let it rise let it soar let is sit in warm
dark places to be nurtured "take this
my body my bread my self" take this and be
whole in my memory, in my name, in my love;
"take this bread" though ours is leavened with
yeast and tradition and braided twice;
three pieces for the father the son and
that greatest ghost; three more for us
for love and hope and faith (lyubov,
nadezhda, vera), and bound together by
floury hands, kneaded into something more
than wheat and egg and yeast. this is
more than bread; it is love, it is spring
and hope renewed it is sustenance, it is faith.
"take this wine" and share of yourselves
in my memory, in the memory of all who are
not here at this table, for the empty places
we have betrayed. take this cup and drink it
in memory of our sacrifices and regrets; our sorrows
and rejoicings. this is more than wine; it
is truth and tragedy all at once and so
much more besides.
please forgive us our trespasses and
pagan inclinations; forgive the smell
of vinegar and my purple fingers, the color of
eggs that will never hatch please forgive
these palms woven beneath your image,
grave and graven, flat, behind the water cooler.
we partake of sweetness, of gingerbread
and jam, of khulich and pryaniki that won't
last the day. the bread never lasts, either,
no more than a week of sweetness on the tongue
and then nothing but anticipation;
we will wait until next year, when once again
this dough might rise (in a buttered bowl
behind the toaster, covered over by a shroud).
Take this bread and eat it.
Do this in memory of me.
let it rise let it soar let is sit in warm
dark places to be nurtured "take this
my body my bread my self" take this and be
whole in my memory, in my name, in my love;
"take this bread" though ours is leavened with
yeast and tradition and braided twice;
three pieces for the father the son and
that greatest ghost; three more for us
for love and hope and faith (lyubov,
nadezhda, vera), and bound together by
floury hands, kneaded into something more
than wheat and egg and yeast. this is
more than bread; it is love, it is spring
and hope renewed it is sustenance, it is faith.
"take this wine" and share of yourselves
in my memory, in the memory of all who are
not here at this table, for the empty places
we have betrayed. take this cup and drink it
in memory of our sacrifices and regrets; our sorrows
and rejoicings. this is more than wine; it
is truth and tragedy all at once and so
much more besides.
please forgive us our trespasses and
pagan inclinations; forgive the smell
of vinegar and my purple fingers, the color of
eggs that will never hatch please forgive
these palms woven beneath your image,
grave and graven, flat, behind the water cooler.
we partake of sweetness, of gingerbread
and jam, of khulich and pryaniki that won't
last the day. the bread never lasts, either,
no more than a week of sweetness on the tongue
and then nothing but anticipation;
we will wait until next year, when once again
this dough might rise (in a buttered bowl
behind the toaster, covered over by a shroud).
Take this bread and eat it.
Do this in memory of me.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Stuff!
Mooncalf rants about yaoi.
And that pretty much sums up my thoughts on the subject, too.
Other things!
Hotei vs Rip Slyme - Battle Funktastic
This is the music video; the song itself is a crazy blend of J-rock, hip hop, techno, and funk and the theme song from Kill Bill. Delicious.
Dela - Johnny Clegg
I...feel vaguely ashamed to admit that this is my Silverlock/Blaine song. And by "vaguely" I mean "totally." But their love is so "let's dance naked around a bonfire, have lots of sex, and be completely and utterly happy with our place in the world" once Blaine works through his issues. Seriously. They're all about the sap, when they're not about the vomit and throwing things. I do really like the song, though; it's cheerful and catchy and involves random words in an African dialect and it reminds me of many happy events in my past.
Mike Doughty - Looking at the World from the Bottom of a Well
I've sort of fallen in love with Mike Doughty's voice; it has an addictive, nasal, gravelly quality to it, and his lyrics entertain me. The first verse of this song is a little generic, but I like the second, and I like the sound of the refrain.
...I cannot stop listening to Cartoon Heroes or Improper Dancing. God help me.
And that pretty much sums up my thoughts on the subject, too.
Other things!
Hotei vs Rip Slyme - Battle Funktastic
This is the music video; the song itself is a crazy blend of J-rock, hip hop, techno, and funk and the theme song from Kill Bill. Delicious.
Dela - Johnny Clegg
I...feel vaguely ashamed to admit that this is my Silverlock/Blaine song. And by "vaguely" I mean "totally." But their love is so "let's dance naked around a bonfire, have lots of sex, and be completely and utterly happy with our place in the world" once Blaine works through his issues. Seriously. They're all about the sap, when they're not about the vomit and throwing things. I do really like the song, though; it's cheerful and catchy and involves random words in an African dialect and it reminds me of many happy events in my past.
Mike Doughty - Looking at the World from the Bottom of a Well
I've sort of fallen in love with Mike Doughty's voice; it has an addictive, nasal, gravelly quality to it, and his lyrics entertain me. The first verse of this song is a little generic, but I like the second, and I like the sound of the refrain.
...I cannot stop listening to Cartoon Heroes or Improper Dancing. God help me.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Meander
So, I bought the first season of Gargoyles (shut up shut up shut up, I know I'm still twelve, leave me alone) last week, and watched all of it over the weekend. And now I need to find some excuse to buy the second season, because damn. I'd forgotten how much I loved it. Yeah, sure, its cheesy, didactic, full of plot holes, and was very clearly made in the mid-nineties, but the power of nostalgia is strong, indeed. And the line "If you pay a man enough, he'll walk barefoot into hell" still fills me with endless, endless glee. (Naturally, Xanatos is tied with Owen as my favorite character. Mmm, evil in a suit.)
The animation is clean, if not fancy- I would say it's aged well, considering how old the series is. And, cheesiness aside (OMG, the chopper! Whose idea was that, because he needs to be beaten), the story and characters are remarkably mature for Disney. Also, I'm a nostalgia-obsessed twit, and the things that shaped my childhood have their claws sunk so deep in me, I'll need surgery to remove 'em.
So, I've been reading Gargoyles fic. Alas, there isn't that much Owen fic out there, and there is even less Hyena and Jackal fic (I have to keep telling myself I don't like incest, but ohgod, they're practically canon). And the fandom is an old one, and largely made of Mary Sues- but there is some good stuff out there. I'll probably do a recs post eventually.
In other news, I've got a good three thousand words of unfinished Silverlock fic sitting in an open post field, where it's been for the last week and a half. -_- The problem is that it's kind of angsty, and Silverlock doesn't know how to do angsty properly. He just gets lightheaded and kind of spacey- which, I'm finding, is actually pretty funny. Like most of the Foxbird fragments, this is just another thinly veiled infodump. I suppose it serves a purpose in terms of character building, but if I want to be totally objective, it's just a lot of self indulgent bloodplay and exposition. *le sigh*
Oh well. Even if things are often nonsensical or cliche, I do dearly love worldbuilding for this universe. Shaivhen in the Fourth Era is one of my favorite places to be inside my head, and I keep learning new things about it.
I do think I need to write my assassins actually being assassins. It would probably make everyone happier in the long run. I should also write up a general outline so that people know what the hell is going on- but sometimes (all the time) my plotlines embarrass me.
And beyond that, I still love One Piece and am rediscovering my love of Bleach. I tried to explain to Sonya why One Piece was just so good; I'll eventually finish up one of those half dozen or so essays on One Piece and post it. And I've rediscovered my respect for Kubo Tite, so perhaps I shall do an essay on Bleach as well.
Huzzah, useless posts!
The animation is clean, if not fancy- I would say it's aged well, considering how old the series is. And, cheesiness aside (OMG, the chopper! Whose idea was that, because he needs to be beaten), the story and characters are remarkably mature for Disney. Also, I'm a nostalgia-obsessed twit, and the things that shaped my childhood have their claws sunk so deep in me, I'll need surgery to remove 'em.
So, I've been reading Gargoyles fic. Alas, there isn't that much Owen fic out there, and there is even less Hyena and Jackal fic (I have to keep telling myself I don't like incest, but ohgod, they're practically canon). And the fandom is an old one, and largely made of Mary Sues- but there is some good stuff out there. I'll probably do a recs post eventually.
In other news, I've got a good three thousand words of unfinished Silverlock fic sitting in an open post field, where it's been for the last week and a half. -_- The problem is that it's kind of angsty, and Silverlock doesn't know how to do angsty properly. He just gets lightheaded and kind of spacey- which, I'm finding, is actually pretty funny. Like most of the Foxbird fragments, this is just another thinly veiled infodump. I suppose it serves a purpose in terms of character building, but if I want to be totally objective, it's just a lot of self indulgent bloodplay and exposition. *le sigh*
Oh well. Even if things are often nonsensical or cliche, I do dearly love worldbuilding for this universe. Shaivhen in the Fourth Era is one of my favorite places to be inside my head, and I keep learning new things about it.
I do think I need to write my assassins actually being assassins. It would probably make everyone happier in the long run. I should also write up a general outline so that people know what the hell is going on- but sometimes (all the time) my plotlines embarrass me.
And beyond that, I still love One Piece and am rediscovering my love of Bleach. I tried to explain to Sonya why One Piece was just so good; I'll eventually finish up one of those half dozen or so essays on One Piece and post it. And I've rediscovered my respect for Kubo Tite, so perhaps I shall do an essay on Bleach as well.
Huzzah, useless posts!
Thursday, April 06, 2006
The funny thing? I actually do this.
They say
one is influenced
by the things one reads.
In that case
my words are spirals
of electrons, crashing
into reality at
right angles--
and you, you
are the coil of wire
around my heart
inducing current
with your shifting
magnetic moods.
I write letters
in the margins
of my textbook:
Dear Self,
Please stop writing love poetry
to Einstein, Shroedinger, and Heisenberg.
Newton and Galileo feel slighted,
as forgotten first loves often do.
Next week, we will read Shakespeare;
then, you can write a sonnet for
some Dark Lord or Lady who might
actually deign to respond.
(3/10/06)
one is influenced
by the things one reads.
In that case
my words are spirals
of electrons, crashing
into reality at
right angles--
and you, you
are the coil of wire
around my heart
inducing current
with your shifting
magnetic moods.
I write letters
in the margins
of my textbook:
Dear Self,
Please stop writing love poetry
to Einstein, Shroedinger, and Heisenberg.
Newton and Galileo feel slighted,
as forgotten first loves often do.
Next week, we will read Shakespeare;
then, you can write a sonnet for
some Dark Lord or Lady who might
actually deign to respond.
(3/10/06)
Monday, April 03, 2006
Thoughts on books and plotlines and movies and music.
Things the Rothcar/Radrezaria universe is not allowed to do:
1) Swallow up any other peripheral universes and plotlines (That means you, film-noir-7th-Hour-future-with-strippers-fic);
2) Produce extraneous family members for any characters that already have pre-existing family structures (No, Silverlock, you cannot have a sister. What is this, bad fanfic? "This is the story of Melody Stardust, one of the Executive Chancellor's harem slaves..." Besides, let's be honest- all you'd do is sleep with her);
3) Indulge in any more religious and philosophical wankery than it already does (Seriously, guys, cut that shit out. We're really not that deep).
I've been reading Stephen King's On Writing lately (lots of free time in Glee Club, you see)- I seriously enjoy King's style, so I'm enjoying the book even if the advice isn't anything I haven't heard before. It has got me thinking a little more about plot and such things; most of my stories are character driven, which is why they have no point. Boffo is the exception to this- it's a situational story, founded on a series of "what if" propositions. This may be why I was actually able to finish it (sort of)- it had a definite resolution.
Stella Matin and Foxbird are currently at the forefront of my creative brain- Foxbird is more character driven than Stella, but both are largely just worldbuilding exercises. And Foxbird, lack of title notwithstanding, is just better constructed than Stella. Things have rules, things follow these rules, and the rest is just anthropology. I'm still not entirely clear on the rules for magicrafting or any of the shit Theron does, and the whole thing has the most implausible and self indulgent non-ending ever, even by my standards.
Anyway. Foxbird may actually have a real plot, one involving riots, cranky watchmen, and possibly a cast of more than six characters. I mean, the missing assassins thing worked as a plot, but it was a shallow one at best. What the story really needs is a conspiracy; it's a shame I have no head for intrigue and political scheming.
Feh. Why is it always so difficult to come up with motivations for a villain? "He's batshit crazy" only flies so far, after all.
I also just finished (finally!) The Etched City by KJ Bishop. The whole thing reminded me strongly of Invisible Cities, which I loved as a collection of essays and vignettes, but I really don't think it works as a novel. I'm a fan of that pretentious, artsy, stream-of-conscious style of writing- but only in small amounts.
Most of the major plot revelations occur when the main character is on drugs or under the influence of mind altering otherworldly influences, and that gets really annoying by the time you reach the epilogue. All the bits that weren't trying to be artsy and deep were entertaining, though. The main character is a mercenary working as a bodyguard in one of your standard corrupt and seedy Steampunk cities. He kills people and occasionally makes snarky comments, and every Tuesday he hangs out with a drunken priest and debates the existence of god. Then he starts hanging out with a woman who may or may not be a sphinx and weird shit starts happening.
I suppose I enjoyed it, even if I didn't so much approve of the ending- as I said, the parts that weren't narrated in a drug induced haze were entertaining and gripping. I prefer my steampunk with a little more narrative coherence, but I'm not seriously invested in the genre.
I need to read more. *sigh*
Saw Mirrormask last night; much as I generally disapprove of Neil Gaiman, it was about seven thousand different kinds of awesome. It's done in the tradition of Labyrinth and Legend (which in turn follow after Alice in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz), but that storyline never gets old, no matter how many times it's done and overdone.
Dave McKean's art is downright disturbing at times, and Neil Gaiman is a master of the creepifying, so when you put them together you get tasty, tasty crack with masks and hungry cat things. It's all very predictable and very pretty, and occasionally Helena or Valentine will toss off one liners that make me squee, and I bought the soundtrack as soon as the movie ended. ...yesterday was actually a day filled with impulse buying, but we won't talk about that. But yes, good movie. I approve.
I've been listening to "Improper Dancing" by Electric Six on repeat for the last three days, because it makes me wildly, wildly happy. It's the most perfect Ikkaku song in the history of ever, and it just makes me want to get up and...dance, improperly. In the middle of the street, even. I'm also still listening to KT Tunstall on a loop, because her voice is still teh sex. Otherwise, my playlist continues to grow more and more bizarre by the day- FST rocks my socks.
I don't want to go to class. I mean, I really, truly don't want to go to class. Seriously. Passionately. But, alas, I skipped two weeks ago, and it only meets once a week anyway. Augh.
(I keep waiting for a rapid, violent change, but no metamorphosis ever occurs that quickly. *le sigh* I could make some flowery metaphor about butterflies and shit, but that would be entirely out of character at the moment. Some other time, perhaps.)
1) Swallow up any other peripheral universes and plotlines (That means you, film-noir-7th-Hour-future-with-strippers-fic);
2) Produce extraneous family members for any characters that already have pre-existing family structures (No, Silverlock, you cannot have a sister. What is this, bad fanfic? "This is the story of Melody Stardust, one of the Executive Chancellor's harem slaves..." Besides, let's be honest- all you'd do is sleep with her);
3) Indulge in any more religious and philosophical wankery than it already does (Seriously, guys, cut that shit out. We're really not that deep).
I've been reading Stephen King's On Writing lately (lots of free time in Glee Club, you see)- I seriously enjoy King's style, so I'm enjoying the book even if the advice isn't anything I haven't heard before. It has got me thinking a little more about plot and such things; most of my stories are character driven, which is why they have no point. Boffo is the exception to this- it's a situational story, founded on a series of "what if" propositions. This may be why I was actually able to finish it (sort of)- it had a definite resolution.
Stella Matin and Foxbird are currently at the forefront of my creative brain- Foxbird is more character driven than Stella, but both are largely just worldbuilding exercises. And Foxbird, lack of title notwithstanding, is just better constructed than Stella. Things have rules, things follow these rules, and the rest is just anthropology. I'm still not entirely clear on the rules for magicrafting or any of the shit Theron does, and the whole thing has the most implausible and self indulgent non-ending ever, even by my standards.
Anyway. Foxbird may actually have a real plot, one involving riots, cranky watchmen, and possibly a cast of more than six characters. I mean, the missing assassins thing worked as a plot, but it was a shallow one at best. What the story really needs is a conspiracy; it's a shame I have no head for intrigue and political scheming.
Feh. Why is it always so difficult to come up with motivations for a villain? "He's batshit crazy" only flies so far, after all.
I also just finished (finally!) The Etched City by KJ Bishop. The whole thing reminded me strongly of Invisible Cities, which I loved as a collection of essays and vignettes, but I really don't think it works as a novel. I'm a fan of that pretentious, artsy, stream-of-conscious style of writing- but only in small amounts.
Most of the major plot revelations occur when the main character is on drugs or under the influence of mind altering otherworldly influences, and that gets really annoying by the time you reach the epilogue. All the bits that weren't trying to be artsy and deep were entertaining, though. The main character is a mercenary working as a bodyguard in one of your standard corrupt and seedy Steampunk cities. He kills people and occasionally makes snarky comments, and every Tuesday he hangs out with a drunken priest and debates the existence of god. Then he starts hanging out with a woman who may or may not be a sphinx and weird shit starts happening.
I suppose I enjoyed it, even if I didn't so much approve of the ending- as I said, the parts that weren't narrated in a drug induced haze were entertaining and gripping. I prefer my steampunk with a little more narrative coherence, but I'm not seriously invested in the genre.
I need to read more. *sigh*
Saw Mirrormask last night; much as I generally disapprove of Neil Gaiman, it was about seven thousand different kinds of awesome. It's done in the tradition of Labyrinth and Legend (which in turn follow after Alice in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz), but that storyline never gets old, no matter how many times it's done and overdone.
Dave McKean's art is downright disturbing at times, and Neil Gaiman is a master of the creepifying, so when you put them together you get tasty, tasty crack with masks and hungry cat things. It's all very predictable and very pretty, and occasionally Helena or Valentine will toss off one liners that make me squee, and I bought the soundtrack as soon as the movie ended. ...yesterday was actually a day filled with impulse buying, but we won't talk about that. But yes, good movie. I approve.
I've been listening to "Improper Dancing" by Electric Six on repeat for the last three days, because it makes me wildly, wildly happy. It's the most perfect Ikkaku song in the history of ever, and it just makes me want to get up and...dance, improperly. In the middle of the street, even. I'm also still listening to KT Tunstall on a loop, because her voice is still teh sex. Otherwise, my playlist continues to grow more and more bizarre by the day- FST rocks my socks.
I don't want to go to class. I mean, I really, truly don't want to go to class. Seriously. Passionately. But, alas, I skipped two weeks ago, and it only meets once a week anyway. Augh.
(I keep waiting for a rapid, violent change, but no metamorphosis ever occurs that quickly. *le sigh* I could make some flowery metaphor about butterflies and shit, but that would be entirely out of character at the moment. Some other time, perhaps.)
Friday, March 31, 2006
Index Entry: Rothcar and Radrezaria
Tower of the Gods
(Toggle)
The story of a couple of assassins, a priest, some talking cats, a god, and a city. The original concept came from my first reading of Eve Forward's Villains by Necessity.
Most of my story fragments involve Blaine, an excommunicated priest and healer working in the Assassins' Guild, and Silverlock, his lover and a conscience-less killer. Occasionally Blaine's adopted daughter Foxbird makes an appearance, too. Silverlock also appears in Stella Matin as Theron's teacher, a good 200 years after the end of this story.
Earlier fragments no longer fit into the story continuity as it currently exists.
02/02 (blaine/silver dance)
08/02 (if wishes were fishes)
09/02 (young foxy)
04/03 (foxbird no father)
1/06 (silverlock, foxy)
2/06 (silverlock, blaine, blindness)
2/06 (silverlock, blaine, yes dear)
02/06 (silverlock, blaine, a match made in heaven)
03/06 (silverlock prepares for a funeral)
04/06 (silverlock: you need to be nicer)
6/06 (blaine, greymalkin)
8/06 (blaine, silverlock, domesticity)
10/06 (blaine, silverlock, dying)
12/06 (addendum to dead inside)
01/07 (meet the zanadreths)
01/07 (silverlock, aya, death)
02/07 (maddel, kicking ass, chewing bubblegum)
02/07 (silverlock, blaine, end of the world)
03/07 (various, fragments)
03/07 (silverlock, orrin, for the love of thee)
Info posts:
05/06 (timeline)
05/06 (creation mythos)
03/06 (magic use)
02/06 (plane system, races)
01/06 (not-entirely-accurate timeline)
07/05 (half elves)
06/03 (blaine)
-------
Stella Maeroris (or Stella Matin)
Nanowrimo 2004: Zombies! It's a story in two parts, the first part being mostly backstory for the world in the second part. It revolves around Theron, a superpowerful user of forbidden magics, and Bren, his best friend and an all around nice guy. They fight crime! Only they don't, not at all; Theron snaps and takes over the country, killing Bren and a lot of other people in the process. He turns them all into zombies and turns himself into an immortal quasi-undead thing, and starts doing his damndest to turn the whole world into a zombie infested ball of pollution.
Cut 200 years in the future; live people are second class citizens, and Theron rules everything with an iron fist. A Dead woman starts showing prophetic powers, and sees Theron's downfall. She leads a revolution, eventually; Theron (known as the Voyance at this time), tracks her down and presses her into his service. The second half of the story isn't really plotted, but it involves Stella, the prophetess, Walker, the zombified version of Bren, and a bunch of other characters who are vaguely important, sort of.
The earlier fragments aren't entirely accurate, story-wise; I wrote them before the start of the Nano, so they're mostly just proto-plot and character pieces.
At some point after meeting Bren but before he goes crazy, Theron leaves Radrezaria and goes to Rothcar to learn magic. Silverlock picks him up and spends seven or eight years training him and making his life miserable; a number of these fragments deal with that.
Theron also occasionally runs into Drake and Finbar from Asprosdrakos' 2003 Nanowrimo story "Wake of Wings." Shennanigans generally ensue.
9/04 (Theron, blacklisted)
9/04 (Bren, Mih, healing)
9/04 (child Bren)
9/04 (Theron, Bren, unravel)
10/04 (theron, molestation of corpses, stella, bus stop)
12/04 (walker, stella, rooftop)
03/05 (bren, theron, end of all things)
06/05 (bren, theron, aftermath)
9/05 (sometimes Theron wakes up his mother)
9/05 (Drake, Theron, barfight; crossover with Wake of Wings)
11/05 (drunken shennanigans with drake and finbar)
12/05 (theron, apprenticed)
12/05 (theron, silverlock, what's in a name)
1/06 (winter in shaivhen)
02/06 (silverlock, temple of varun)
6/06 (cold light: part 1)
09/06 (cold light: part 2)
8/06 (cold light: part 3)
01/07 (wake of wings nonsense)
Info posts:
09/05 (magicrafting)
05/05 (character spotlight: brenon zonila)
07/05 (necromancy, Theron style)
(Toggle)
The story of a couple of assassins, a priest, some talking cats, a god, and a city. The original concept came from my first reading of Eve Forward's Villains by Necessity.
Most of my story fragments involve Blaine, an excommunicated priest and healer working in the Assassins' Guild, and Silverlock, his lover and a conscience-less killer. Occasionally Blaine's adopted daughter Foxbird makes an appearance, too. Silverlock also appears in Stella Matin as Theron's teacher, a good 200 years after the end of this story.
Earlier fragments no longer fit into the story continuity as it currently exists.
02/02 (blaine/silver dance)
08/02 (if wishes were fishes)
09/02 (young foxy)
04/03 (foxbird no father)
1/06 (silverlock, foxy)
2/06 (silverlock, blaine, blindness)
2/06 (silverlock, blaine, yes dear)
02/06 (silverlock, blaine, a match made in heaven)
03/06 (silverlock prepares for a funeral)
04/06 (silverlock: you need to be nicer)
6/06 (blaine, greymalkin)
8/06 (blaine, silverlock, domesticity)
10/06 (blaine, silverlock, dying)
12/06 (addendum to dead inside)
01/07 (meet the zanadreths)
01/07 (silverlock, aya, death)
02/07 (maddel, kicking ass, chewing bubblegum)
02/07 (silverlock, blaine, end of the world)
03/07 (various, fragments)
03/07 (silverlock, orrin, for the love of thee)
Info posts:
05/06 (timeline)
05/06 (creation mythos)
03/06 (magic use)
02/06 (plane system, races)
01/06 (not-entirely-accurate timeline)
07/05 (half elves)
06/03 (blaine)
Stella Maeroris (or Stella Matin)
Nanowrimo 2004: Zombies! It's a story in two parts, the first part being mostly backstory for the world in the second part. It revolves around Theron, a superpowerful user of forbidden magics, and Bren, his best friend and an all around nice guy. They fight crime! Only they don't, not at all; Theron snaps and takes over the country, killing Bren and a lot of other people in the process. He turns them all into zombies and turns himself into an immortal quasi-undead thing, and starts doing his damndest to turn the whole world into a zombie infested ball of pollution.
Cut 200 years in the future; live people are second class citizens, and Theron rules everything with an iron fist. A Dead woman starts showing prophetic powers, and sees Theron's downfall. She leads a revolution, eventually; Theron (known as the Voyance at this time), tracks her down and presses her into his service. The second half of the story isn't really plotted, but it involves Stella, the prophetess, Walker, the zombified version of Bren, and a bunch of other characters who are vaguely important, sort of.
The earlier fragments aren't entirely accurate, story-wise; I wrote them before the start of the Nano, so they're mostly just proto-plot and character pieces.
At some point after meeting Bren but before he goes crazy, Theron leaves Radrezaria and goes to Rothcar to learn magic. Silverlock picks him up and spends seven or eight years training him and making his life miserable; a number of these fragments deal with that.
Theron also occasionally runs into Drake and Finbar from Asprosdrakos' 2003 Nanowrimo story "Wake of Wings." Shennanigans generally ensue.
9/04 (Theron, blacklisted)
9/04 (Bren, Mih, healing)
9/04 (child Bren)
9/04 (Theron, Bren, unravel)
10/04 (theron, molestation of corpses, stella, bus stop)
12/04 (walker, stella, rooftop)
03/05 (bren, theron, end of all things)
06/05 (bren, theron, aftermath)
9/05 (sometimes Theron wakes up his mother)
9/05 (Drake, Theron, barfight; crossover with Wake of Wings)
11/05 (drunken shennanigans with drake and finbar)
12/05 (theron, apprenticed)
12/05 (theron, silverlock, what's in a name)
1/06 (winter in shaivhen)
02/06 (silverlock, temple of varun)
6/06 (cold light: part 1)
09/06 (cold light: part 2)
8/06 (cold light: part 3)
01/07 (wake of wings nonsense)
Info posts:
09/05 (magicrafting)
05/05 (character spotlight: brenon zonila)
07/05 (necromancy, Theron style)
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
The measure of love isn't loss. (Rust and the rain endure, I'm sure.)
SELF-INDULGENT DRIVEL/INFODUMP
Silverlock prepares for a funeral, and I am an opportunistic backstory/worldbuilding whore. -Or- I have no idea where this came from (that's a lie, that's a lie!) and all I really have to say is, WTF, Silverlock. WTF. Being solemn and cryptic doesn't count as angst.
Warnings for Silverlock wandering around bleeding and Blaine being both a transcendentalist and dead, but not at the same time. And warnings for nowhere near enough editing, dear god.
---------------------
A bell chimed as the door of the tattoo parlor opened; the girl behind the counter looked up from her sketchpad and grinned. "Well, if it isn't our favorite customer! It's been a while since you rang our bell, Silverlock." She was human, but she wore her skin like a half-elf, and left her apprentice smock unbuttoned to show off the geometric patterns that covered her shoulders and torso.
"It's good to see you, too, Annali. Is Zi in?" Silverlock untangled his hair from the hood of his cloak, still unaccustomed to the weight of the tiny braids.
"You even got skin left under that getup? Thought you'd covered it all over by now- unless you came for new shinies. We got those. What do you need?"
"A blank canvas."
The grin fell off her face in an instant. "Oh, no." She pressed a hand to her mouth. "Zi's gone to visit some of his Kin in Tarmish. Won't be back for another month. Silverlock..."
He shook his head, braids swaying violently with the motion. "It's two days to the funeral. I've already asked Sherrick and Orianne, but they're booked through to next week. Zi's the only other Kin in the city I'd trust for the job."
Annali tore a corner from her sketchpad and scribbled out an address. "Sherrick's a drunk and Ori don't know up from down, anyway. Here, you go to Kupric. Tell him I sent you."
He took the paper and raised an eyebrow at her. "Candlemark?"
"Lot of talent in Candlemark. Just gotta know where to look, s'all. He's the only man Zi'll let near him with a needle." She shrugged uneasily. "Get there early enough, and he'll take you, even for a clean slate."
"Thank you." He paused in the doorway. "You can tell Zi I'll have some work for him in a few months."
The bell chimed as the door shut behind him.
------------
The judicial council gave convicts two choices: they could work and live on the chain gangs in the rock quarries, or they could live as free citizens in Candlemark. Most of them chose the chain gangs. Silverlock had never had to deal much with the district's inhabitants; his clients had always made some effort to walk on the sunnier side of legality. The city watch had abandoned the place to the dogs, and the Guilds avoided it at all costs. Any gods that might have watched over it long ago were dead.
Candlemark was a breath of fresh anarchy; Silverlock had to remind himself that he wasn't here for a fight, no matter how much he itched to break some bones. He cloaked himself in power, sending a not-so-subtle message of "Fuck off" to the groups of hollow-eyed, wolf-like youths haunting the narrow streets. He'd promised to abstain from bloodshed, if only out of respect for the deceased.
Annali's scrap of paper led him to a battered door in a dark, narrow alley. The interlocking rings of Joshel's Shackles had been drawn on the weathered wood in chalk. The door swung open before he could knock.
"What do you want?" The man was practically a half-giant; he had to stoop to fit in the door. Lines of green and bronze bisected his face, and a row of interlocking bronze plates hooked into the skin of his neck as a collar. He radiated distrust and the threat of violence.
"Annali from Zizi's shop in Southmark sent me, said you did good work." Silverlock pulled back his cloak hood and tucked a few loose braids behind his ear.
Kupric grunted, and some of his hostility was replaced with grudging curiosity. "What'd she send you for?"
"A blank canvas."
"Funeral?"
"It's in two days."
The curiosity turned into pity tinged with respect. He held out his hand. "Kupric Sanavess."
"Silverlock D'Alestri." Silverlock took his hand, and felt the respect turn into something more like admiration; he wasn't surprised to find that his name was known even in Candlemark. Fortunately, the man was nearly unreadable beyond his surface emotions. There was something comforting in his utter blankness.
"Room's in the back." He stepped out of the doorway. "Let's take a look at you."
A dim hallway led to the studio, bypassing a number of curtained doorways that probably led to living quarters of some sort. There were other people in the building, all wrapped up in their own sleepy thoughts and emotions.
The room was small, but surprisingly clean and well lit. A padded chair and table took up most of the space and a curtain partitioned off one corner. The walls were covered in charcoal sketches of religious figures and wrapped in aether. It was a solid warding spell, with no obvious weaknesses. There were wards on the case of needles beside the chair, as well.
Kupric leaned against the door with his arms crossed and gave a perfunctory nod of his head towards the table.
Silverlock almost smiled as he removed his clothing. He left his cloak and robes folded neatly on the table, and placed his Guild tags on top of them. He faced the other man, naked save for the black collar around his throat. If he was anything, he was comfortable in his own skin. "Well?"
"Collar's gotta go too." Kupric cocked his head to the side. "Full body blanking usually takes a week. Could be dangerous to do it in a day. It'll hurt."
"Pain is hardly a deterrent." He hooked his fingers underneath the back of the collar an unlatched it with only the slightest hesitation. "I'd appreciate it if we got this done with as quickly as possible."
The artist nodded. "On the table, then. I'll start with your back."
Kupric's touch stung a bit, like the pins and needles tickle of dead nerves being slowly woken up. It wasn't nearly as bad as having a hand reattached, but few things in Silverlock's experience had been. The sensation intensified gradually, but not to the point of being unbearable.
Magic rang clear and bell-like in his head- a familiar tune. "It's none of my business, of course, but I do find it curious that a Leech would live as a tattoo artist in Candlemark, of all places." He pillowed his head on his arms and chuckled softly. "I told you, I don't care if it hurts. Concentrate on your work, Artist, and I'll deal with my own pain."
Kupric grunted, and the magic took on a different tone. The pain spiked; he channeled it away into a separate, isolated corner of his mind. He could deal with it later- a week or a year, or a hundred years from now, when he wasn't preoccupied with other forms of pain.
Something warm and wet trickled down his shoulderblade; he could smell blood mixed in with the ink. It was a good smell.
Silverlock closed his eyes and let himself drift.
----------
Blaine's health had never recovered after all that had happened; humans weren't meant to seize godhood and let it go. It sometimes seemed like he'd left most of himself in the aether, afterwards, as though everything in him that had been truly alive had been eaten away by raw magic.
Silverlock was still angry with Varun for letting it happen, and not only because he'd lost friends to Mandhatri's culling. Even after the heresy and the betrayal, Blaine still held to his faith.
"It's not like I have a choice in the matter," he'd said once, not long before his death. "And that angers me as much as it does you. But even if I did have that choice, nothing would change. It has nothing to do with the gods- I know how little in this world is truly of the divine.
"It's the ideas behind them that matter. I can live as I do and believe as I do, and in doing so I can touch something greater than myself or Varun or the memories of the Six and the Twain. Scoff all you like, but I know you understand it, too.
"I have no regrets now. I am exactly who I choose to be, and nothing else. How could I ever need anything more?"
Blaine always had been very good at throwing Silverlock's words back in his face.
----------
The absence of pain jolted him back to his senses.
"Enough for now," Kupric muttered. "You're still bleeding, so step carefully. There's a bath behind the curtain. Clean up, and then we'll continue."
Blood and ink pooled along the curvature of his spine and dripped down the backs of his thighs as he slid off the table. "I've had worse paper cuts." His back ached in a way that indicated massive bruising.
Kupric said nothing, and began wiping down the table.
Silverlock examined his back in the tarnished mirror behind the curtain once he'd cleaned off the blood. There were still faint shadows of the tattoos in places, but otherwise, his skin was completely blank from the top ridge of his spine to the backs of his knees.
Kupric nodded to the chair when he finally left his contemplations in the mirror. Silverlock sat down and made himself as comfortable as possible while the taciturn artist examined his left arm.
"Spellsigns?" Kupric prodded at a few of the sigils.
"Most of them, but they've been disabled." That was one of the first things he'd done, after the Avatar had taken Blaine. Accidental mayhem was never as fun as the premeditated sort, and some of the spellsigns operated on a hairtrigger. Keeping them active just wasn't worth the risk when he was feeling unbalanced.
"Good." Kupric's hands engulfed his own, and the pins and needles tingle began again.
There was a little magic in all of his tattoos; it was the only way to keep the ink from fading or rejecting. The blanking spell was deceptively simple- Kupric was pulling the ink out of his skin, dragging it to the surface and sloughing it off.
A little blood was inevitable, but the trick lay in not calling out too much of it, or pulling veins and bone out with the ink. There were always stories- rumors of sloppy artists who left their clients mutilated or dead, torn to pieces by uncontrolled magic.
Blood and ink trickled down his fingers and dripped on the floor. For a single disconcerting moment, it felt like he was watching his past drain away to spatter across the floorboards.
"I did most of those myself, in the last few years of my indenture," he said absently, watching the ink seep out of his skin. "As insurance, mostly, in case my master tried to cheat me out of my allotment. As you can see, I'm no artist. It took me years to find someone willing to ink a sleeve around the spells to make them look less like a child's scrawling."
"Zizi?"
"You can tell?"
"Geometric work is his specialty. And he's not afraid of magic." Kupric tapped the center of the sigil on his palm, already half melted away. "Your teacher was an occultist?"
"An eclectic. He knew a few Greater Shrive by name, and he taught me the basics of summoning. It was never one of my interests, though."
"You started out as an elementalist." Kupric touched the rune on the inside of his wrist, then followed a succession of sigils up to his elbow. "Air. But then you found you had a knack for healing and creation, and that led you to necromancy."
"You're good," Silverlock observed. "But I never had much of a knack for healing." He turned his arm over, where another series of runes crawled from wrist to elbow. "I learned fire after I grew bored with air, and then the basics of healing when my master grew tired of cleaning up after me. I spent several years learning creation, and then my indenture ended. I didn't learn necromancy until after I joined the Guild."
"You must have been Gannet Sorlin's last apprentice, then, and Banshee taught you necromancy." The rest of the summoning rune on his hand melted away.
Silverlock laughed; it was a tired sound. "Master Sorlin has been dead a good thirty years now, and Lady Banshee left the Guild not long after I earned my tags. I'd wonder how you know of them, but it's clear you've been in this business a long time. Go ahead, Artist, and tell me the rest of my story, if it pleases you."
Kupric shrugged. "I only know what you tell me." He obliterated another rune with a flash of magic between his fingers. "Your skin is very loud."
"I suppose." He watched the swirls of excess aether drift away from his skin like so much smoke, and thought of silence.
--------
The tattoos on his torso came away layer by layer, arrays of runes giving way to fantastical creatures, which sloughed off to reveal stark abstract lines. Underneath all of them, against bare, blank skin, a line of black cherry blossoms stretched across his collarbones.
"Those were my first- one outline for every year of my indenture." His voice was hoarse from too much speaking; Kupric didn't say much, but he listened, and Silverlock had plenty of stories to tell. "I had to pay back fifteen years when Master Sorlin bought me." He tilted his head back, feeling dizzy with exhaustion and blood loss, and grimaced. "Do you have any idea how much a trained, licensed Southmark whore is worth? It took me decades clear that debt, even after I joined the Guild- I earned more in a month then than I do in a year, now."
That still annoyed him. If it weren't for the Guild's exorbitant fees, his current income would be comparable to the profits he'd pulled in for the brothel.
Kupric didn't utilize much range of facial expression, but he radiated amusement all the same. "Gannet should have paid that debt for you."
"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But Master Sorlin was a drunkard with a gambling problem; he couldn't afford to buy me, much less pay off my indenture. They only let me go because he marked my face, and there are laws about that sort of thing."
His voice was steady, but he was drunk on pain; they'd been at this for hours, pausing only occasionally for Silverlock to sluice away the blood. "I'm bleeding to death, aren't I?" The only tattoos that remained where the chest piece and his face and neck work.
"A little. I did say this was dangerous."
"So you did. I think I'll survive a bit longer, all the same. Ironically enough, I've nothing left to die for."
"Is what you've lost worth this?" It was the first real question Kupric had asked; possibly it was the only one he didn't already know the answer to.
"Shouldn't you have asked that fifteen hours ago?"
"You wouldn't have known the answer then." The cherry blossoms dissolved quickly; the magic holding them together was old and easily broken. Kupric cupped his chin in one hand and examined the intersecting lines of scar tissue and ink on Silverlock's face. His fingers were warm and slick with blood.
Silverlock obligingly closed his eyes, and felt the tickle of magic on his eyelids a moment later. "The woman who did those told me I was crazy to let her put a needle that close to my eyes. Said it would be my own fault if she blinded me. The writing is Shrivish, one of the Ikatian variations; the words mean different things depending on which direction you read them in."
The Shrive had a love of puns that was, at times, unbearable. The words on his eyelids could be translated as "death" or "the stillness of moonlight reflecting on a pond at midnight," with another half a dozen meanings in between. When combined, they spelled out his own pseudonym: "Silverlock."
Kupric grunted in response, and continued with his work. The words slid away like dark tears, and pooled in the hollows beneath his eyes. The rest of the facial tattoos went just as quickly.
His hair went next; the slide of the razor against his scalp was practically painless, but watching the pile of braids gather on the table hurt more than he'd expected. Three lengths of bleached silver landed on top of the black, and then Kupric was washing away the blood, ink, and stray hair with a soft wet cloth, and the only things left were the letters around his throat.
Kupric's large hands settled around his neck. "Is what you have lost worth doing this?" he asked again.
There was a glib reply on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it; there was no point in avoiding the question any longer. "Of course not. Objectively, I haven't lost much. One lover among many, a few dozen years of my life. I intend to live well beyond the limits nature intended; I can hardly balance everything that I am against the memory of what he meant to me."
Kupric looked at him steadily and said nothing.
"It's time for me to shed my skin," he said quietly. "I owe him a great deal, but ultimately I do this for myself."
The name tattooed around his throat came away with a single swipe of Kupric's hand.
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I AM SO UNSUBTLE, I THINK I JUST GAVE MYSELF A CONCUSSION. JESUS.
Bleh. There was a sex scene in there that I didn't write, because I feel dirty enough as it is (and I'm incapable of posting any sex scenes that are longer than two lines, anyway), and it ends abruptly because there should be at least another three scenes, not including the sex.
I should, I don't know, maybe write the fucking story. Maybe. (Brief rundown: Nagendra's successor as Avatar of Varun is even crazier than she was; he does a lot of evil shit and kills a lot of people, and eventually Blaine takes him down by becoming an Avatar himself. Afterwards, he goes back to being a normal human, and they all live happily ever after until Blaine stops living. Also, there are riots. I'll do a proper outline at some point, I'm sure.)
City babble!
Shaivhen is divided into six districts: Southmark, Eastmark, Redmark, Candlemark, the Harbor District, and the Temple District. Southmark is the ritzy district- all the fanciest restaurants, all the famous theaters and opera houses, all the most expensive brothels. Eastmark is more middle class- it's also the sales district, where out-of-city merchants sell things in the giant open air market in the center of the district. Eastmark is home to a number of universities, arcane and otherwise. The Harbor District is mostly industrial- shipyards and the like, but there's also a fair bit of organized crime. The slave markets are in the Harbor, too. Redmark is the political and historical district; Rianna's Tower, the Great Library, the palace, and a number of museums are located there. The Guild Council and the City Watch operate out of Redmark. Candlemark is the slum district- all of the districts have a lower class, but Candlemark is the end of the line, more or less. There isn't even any organized crime, because there's no money in Candlemark. It's just a lot of very poor, very hungry people trying to scrape by- and the occasional misfit and ex-convict, like Kupric. The Temple District was once dedicated entirely to the worship of Celesiana, the Elemental of Life- but after the Sundering of the Six, it became home to the Thousand Little Gods. A memorial dedicated to the Six and their Avatars is located in the very center of the district.
The entire city is built on top of an enormous system of tunnels and catacombs. There are entrances to the underground in every district- but some are more easily accessible than others. The Thieves' and Assassins' Guilds guard their entrances vigilantly; the Gypsy Court doesn't care who comes and goes from their camps. There are tunnels beneath Candlemark and Harbor that are rumored to be filled with dark creatures with flailing tentacles and gnashing teeth, but very few people are interested in exploring them to verify those rumors. The Emancipation Movement uses the catacombs to transport slaves out of the city, but with minimal success- the City Watch uses the tunnels as well, and they get a kickback from the slave traders for every escaped slave they recapture.
Very few individuals actually own slaves; most of the slave population in the city is owned by the city, or by businesses. They're expensive; beyond purchasing and upkeep, slave owners have to supply freed slaves with enough capital to become functional, contributing members of society. The laws concerning slave ownership are very detailed, and the fines for breaking them can be astronomical. Most people, aside from the very wealthy, find it more trouble than it's worth.
Silverlock prepares for a funeral, and I am an opportunistic backstory/worldbuilding whore. -Or- I have no idea where this came from (that's a lie, that's a lie!) and all I really have to say is, WTF, Silverlock. WTF. Being solemn and cryptic doesn't count as angst.
Warnings for Silverlock wandering around bleeding and Blaine being both a transcendentalist and dead, but not at the same time. And warnings for nowhere near enough editing, dear god.
---------------------
A bell chimed as the door of the tattoo parlor opened; the girl behind the counter looked up from her sketchpad and grinned. "Well, if it isn't our favorite customer! It's been a while since you rang our bell, Silverlock." She was human, but she wore her skin like a half-elf, and left her apprentice smock unbuttoned to show off the geometric patterns that covered her shoulders and torso.
"It's good to see you, too, Annali. Is Zi in?" Silverlock untangled his hair from the hood of his cloak, still unaccustomed to the weight of the tiny braids.
"You even got skin left under that getup? Thought you'd covered it all over by now- unless you came for new shinies. We got those. What do you need?"
"A blank canvas."
The grin fell off her face in an instant. "Oh, no." She pressed a hand to her mouth. "Zi's gone to visit some of his Kin in Tarmish. Won't be back for another month. Silverlock..."
He shook his head, braids swaying violently with the motion. "It's two days to the funeral. I've already asked Sherrick and Orianne, but they're booked through to next week. Zi's the only other Kin in the city I'd trust for the job."
Annali tore a corner from her sketchpad and scribbled out an address. "Sherrick's a drunk and Ori don't know up from down, anyway. Here, you go to Kupric. Tell him I sent you."
He took the paper and raised an eyebrow at her. "Candlemark?"
"Lot of talent in Candlemark. Just gotta know where to look, s'all. He's the only man Zi'll let near him with a needle." She shrugged uneasily. "Get there early enough, and he'll take you, even for a clean slate."
"Thank you." He paused in the doorway. "You can tell Zi I'll have some work for him in a few months."
The bell chimed as the door shut behind him.
------------
The judicial council gave convicts two choices: they could work and live on the chain gangs in the rock quarries, or they could live as free citizens in Candlemark. Most of them chose the chain gangs. Silverlock had never had to deal much with the district's inhabitants; his clients had always made some effort to walk on the sunnier side of legality. The city watch had abandoned the place to the dogs, and the Guilds avoided it at all costs. Any gods that might have watched over it long ago were dead.
Candlemark was a breath of fresh anarchy; Silverlock had to remind himself that he wasn't here for a fight, no matter how much he itched to break some bones. He cloaked himself in power, sending a not-so-subtle message of "Fuck off" to the groups of hollow-eyed, wolf-like youths haunting the narrow streets. He'd promised to abstain from bloodshed, if only out of respect for the deceased.
Annali's scrap of paper led him to a battered door in a dark, narrow alley. The interlocking rings of Joshel's Shackles had been drawn on the weathered wood in chalk. The door swung open before he could knock.
"What do you want?" The man was practically a half-giant; he had to stoop to fit in the door. Lines of green and bronze bisected his face, and a row of interlocking bronze plates hooked into the skin of his neck as a collar. He radiated distrust and the threat of violence.
"Annali from Zizi's shop in Southmark sent me, said you did good work." Silverlock pulled back his cloak hood and tucked a few loose braids behind his ear.
Kupric grunted, and some of his hostility was replaced with grudging curiosity. "What'd she send you for?"
"A blank canvas."
"Funeral?"
"It's in two days."
The curiosity turned into pity tinged with respect. He held out his hand. "Kupric Sanavess."
"Silverlock D'Alestri." Silverlock took his hand, and felt the respect turn into something more like admiration; he wasn't surprised to find that his name was known even in Candlemark. Fortunately, the man was nearly unreadable beyond his surface emotions. There was something comforting in his utter blankness.
"Room's in the back." He stepped out of the doorway. "Let's take a look at you."
A dim hallway led to the studio, bypassing a number of curtained doorways that probably led to living quarters of some sort. There were other people in the building, all wrapped up in their own sleepy thoughts and emotions.
The room was small, but surprisingly clean and well lit. A padded chair and table took up most of the space and a curtain partitioned off one corner. The walls were covered in charcoal sketches of religious figures and wrapped in aether. It was a solid warding spell, with no obvious weaknesses. There were wards on the case of needles beside the chair, as well.
Kupric leaned against the door with his arms crossed and gave a perfunctory nod of his head towards the table.
Silverlock almost smiled as he removed his clothing. He left his cloak and robes folded neatly on the table, and placed his Guild tags on top of them. He faced the other man, naked save for the black collar around his throat. If he was anything, he was comfortable in his own skin. "Well?"
"Collar's gotta go too." Kupric cocked his head to the side. "Full body blanking usually takes a week. Could be dangerous to do it in a day. It'll hurt."
"Pain is hardly a deterrent." He hooked his fingers underneath the back of the collar an unlatched it with only the slightest hesitation. "I'd appreciate it if we got this done with as quickly as possible."
The artist nodded. "On the table, then. I'll start with your back."
Kupric's touch stung a bit, like the pins and needles tickle of dead nerves being slowly woken up. It wasn't nearly as bad as having a hand reattached, but few things in Silverlock's experience had been. The sensation intensified gradually, but not to the point of being unbearable.
Magic rang clear and bell-like in his head- a familiar tune. "It's none of my business, of course, but I do find it curious that a Leech would live as a tattoo artist in Candlemark, of all places." He pillowed his head on his arms and chuckled softly. "I told you, I don't care if it hurts. Concentrate on your work, Artist, and I'll deal with my own pain."
Kupric grunted, and the magic took on a different tone. The pain spiked; he channeled it away into a separate, isolated corner of his mind. He could deal with it later- a week or a year, or a hundred years from now, when he wasn't preoccupied with other forms of pain.
Something warm and wet trickled down his shoulderblade; he could smell blood mixed in with the ink. It was a good smell.
Silverlock closed his eyes and let himself drift.
----------
Blaine's health had never recovered after all that had happened; humans weren't meant to seize godhood and let it go. It sometimes seemed like he'd left most of himself in the aether, afterwards, as though everything in him that had been truly alive had been eaten away by raw magic.
Silverlock was still angry with Varun for letting it happen, and not only because he'd lost friends to Mandhatri's culling. Even after the heresy and the betrayal, Blaine still held to his faith.
"It's not like I have a choice in the matter," he'd said once, not long before his death. "And that angers me as much as it does you. But even if I did have that choice, nothing would change. It has nothing to do with the gods- I know how little in this world is truly of the divine.
"It's the ideas behind them that matter. I can live as I do and believe as I do, and in doing so I can touch something greater than myself or Varun or the memories of the Six and the Twain. Scoff all you like, but I know you understand it, too.
"I have no regrets now. I am exactly who I choose to be, and nothing else. How could I ever need anything more?"
Blaine always had been very good at throwing Silverlock's words back in his face.
----------
The absence of pain jolted him back to his senses.
"Enough for now," Kupric muttered. "You're still bleeding, so step carefully. There's a bath behind the curtain. Clean up, and then we'll continue."
Blood and ink pooled along the curvature of his spine and dripped down the backs of his thighs as he slid off the table. "I've had worse paper cuts." His back ached in a way that indicated massive bruising.
Kupric said nothing, and began wiping down the table.
Silverlock examined his back in the tarnished mirror behind the curtain once he'd cleaned off the blood. There were still faint shadows of the tattoos in places, but otherwise, his skin was completely blank from the top ridge of his spine to the backs of his knees.
Kupric nodded to the chair when he finally left his contemplations in the mirror. Silverlock sat down and made himself as comfortable as possible while the taciturn artist examined his left arm.
"Spellsigns?" Kupric prodded at a few of the sigils.
"Most of them, but they've been disabled." That was one of the first things he'd done, after the Avatar had taken Blaine. Accidental mayhem was never as fun as the premeditated sort, and some of the spellsigns operated on a hairtrigger. Keeping them active just wasn't worth the risk when he was feeling unbalanced.
"Good." Kupric's hands engulfed his own, and the pins and needles tingle began again.
There was a little magic in all of his tattoos; it was the only way to keep the ink from fading or rejecting. The blanking spell was deceptively simple- Kupric was pulling the ink out of his skin, dragging it to the surface and sloughing it off.
A little blood was inevitable, but the trick lay in not calling out too much of it, or pulling veins and bone out with the ink. There were always stories- rumors of sloppy artists who left their clients mutilated or dead, torn to pieces by uncontrolled magic.
Blood and ink trickled down his fingers and dripped on the floor. For a single disconcerting moment, it felt like he was watching his past drain away to spatter across the floorboards.
"I did most of those myself, in the last few years of my indenture," he said absently, watching the ink seep out of his skin. "As insurance, mostly, in case my master tried to cheat me out of my allotment. As you can see, I'm no artist. It took me years to find someone willing to ink a sleeve around the spells to make them look less like a child's scrawling."
"Zizi?"
"You can tell?"
"Geometric work is his specialty. And he's not afraid of magic." Kupric tapped the center of the sigil on his palm, already half melted away. "Your teacher was an occultist?"
"An eclectic. He knew a few Greater Shrive by name, and he taught me the basics of summoning. It was never one of my interests, though."
"You started out as an elementalist." Kupric touched the rune on the inside of his wrist, then followed a succession of sigils up to his elbow. "Air. But then you found you had a knack for healing and creation, and that led you to necromancy."
"You're good," Silverlock observed. "But I never had much of a knack for healing." He turned his arm over, where another series of runes crawled from wrist to elbow. "I learned fire after I grew bored with air, and then the basics of healing when my master grew tired of cleaning up after me. I spent several years learning creation, and then my indenture ended. I didn't learn necromancy until after I joined the Guild."
"You must have been Gannet Sorlin's last apprentice, then, and Banshee taught you necromancy." The rest of the summoning rune on his hand melted away.
Silverlock laughed; it was a tired sound. "Master Sorlin has been dead a good thirty years now, and Lady Banshee left the Guild not long after I earned my tags. I'd wonder how you know of them, but it's clear you've been in this business a long time. Go ahead, Artist, and tell me the rest of my story, if it pleases you."
Kupric shrugged. "I only know what you tell me." He obliterated another rune with a flash of magic between his fingers. "Your skin is very loud."
"I suppose." He watched the swirls of excess aether drift away from his skin like so much smoke, and thought of silence.
--------
The tattoos on his torso came away layer by layer, arrays of runes giving way to fantastical creatures, which sloughed off to reveal stark abstract lines. Underneath all of them, against bare, blank skin, a line of black cherry blossoms stretched across his collarbones.
"Those were my first- one outline for every year of my indenture." His voice was hoarse from too much speaking; Kupric didn't say much, but he listened, and Silverlock had plenty of stories to tell. "I had to pay back fifteen years when Master Sorlin bought me." He tilted his head back, feeling dizzy with exhaustion and blood loss, and grimaced. "Do you have any idea how much a trained, licensed Southmark whore is worth? It took me decades clear that debt, even after I joined the Guild- I earned more in a month then than I do in a year, now."
That still annoyed him. If it weren't for the Guild's exorbitant fees, his current income would be comparable to the profits he'd pulled in for the brothel.
Kupric didn't utilize much range of facial expression, but he radiated amusement all the same. "Gannet should have paid that debt for you."
"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But Master Sorlin was a drunkard with a gambling problem; he couldn't afford to buy me, much less pay off my indenture. They only let me go because he marked my face, and there are laws about that sort of thing."
His voice was steady, but he was drunk on pain; they'd been at this for hours, pausing only occasionally for Silverlock to sluice away the blood. "I'm bleeding to death, aren't I?" The only tattoos that remained where the chest piece and his face and neck work.
"A little. I did say this was dangerous."
"So you did. I think I'll survive a bit longer, all the same. Ironically enough, I've nothing left to die for."
"Is what you've lost worth this?" It was the first real question Kupric had asked; possibly it was the only one he didn't already know the answer to.
"Shouldn't you have asked that fifteen hours ago?"
"You wouldn't have known the answer then." The cherry blossoms dissolved quickly; the magic holding them together was old and easily broken. Kupric cupped his chin in one hand and examined the intersecting lines of scar tissue and ink on Silverlock's face. His fingers were warm and slick with blood.
Silverlock obligingly closed his eyes, and felt the tickle of magic on his eyelids a moment later. "The woman who did those told me I was crazy to let her put a needle that close to my eyes. Said it would be my own fault if she blinded me. The writing is Shrivish, one of the Ikatian variations; the words mean different things depending on which direction you read them in."
The Shrive had a love of puns that was, at times, unbearable. The words on his eyelids could be translated as "death" or "the stillness of moonlight reflecting on a pond at midnight," with another half a dozen meanings in between. When combined, they spelled out his own pseudonym: "Silverlock."
Kupric grunted in response, and continued with his work. The words slid away like dark tears, and pooled in the hollows beneath his eyes. The rest of the facial tattoos went just as quickly.
His hair went next; the slide of the razor against his scalp was practically painless, but watching the pile of braids gather on the table hurt more than he'd expected. Three lengths of bleached silver landed on top of the black, and then Kupric was washing away the blood, ink, and stray hair with a soft wet cloth, and the only things left were the letters around his throat.
Kupric's large hands settled around his neck. "Is what you have lost worth doing this?" he asked again.
There was a glib reply on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it; there was no point in avoiding the question any longer. "Of course not. Objectively, I haven't lost much. One lover among many, a few dozen years of my life. I intend to live well beyond the limits nature intended; I can hardly balance everything that I am against the memory of what he meant to me."
Kupric looked at him steadily and said nothing.
"It's time for me to shed my skin," he said quietly. "I owe him a great deal, but ultimately I do this for myself."
The name tattooed around his throat came away with a single swipe of Kupric's hand.
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I AM SO UNSUBTLE, I THINK I JUST GAVE MYSELF A CONCUSSION. JESUS.
Bleh. There was a sex scene in there that I didn't write, because I feel dirty enough as it is (and I'm incapable of posting any sex scenes that are longer than two lines, anyway), and it ends abruptly because there should be at least another three scenes, not including the sex.
I should, I don't know, maybe write the fucking story. Maybe. (Brief rundown: Nagendra's successor as Avatar of Varun is even crazier than she was; he does a lot of evil shit and kills a lot of people, and eventually Blaine takes him down by becoming an Avatar himself. Afterwards, he goes back to being a normal human, and they all live happily ever after until Blaine stops living. Also, there are riots. I'll do a proper outline at some point, I'm sure.)
City babble!
Shaivhen is divided into six districts: Southmark, Eastmark, Redmark, Candlemark, the Harbor District, and the Temple District. Southmark is the ritzy district- all the fanciest restaurants, all the famous theaters and opera houses, all the most expensive brothels. Eastmark is more middle class- it's also the sales district, where out-of-city merchants sell things in the giant open air market in the center of the district. Eastmark is home to a number of universities, arcane and otherwise. The Harbor District is mostly industrial- shipyards and the like, but there's also a fair bit of organized crime. The slave markets are in the Harbor, too. Redmark is the political and historical district; Rianna's Tower, the Great Library, the palace, and a number of museums are located there. The Guild Council and the City Watch operate out of Redmark. Candlemark is the slum district- all of the districts have a lower class, but Candlemark is the end of the line, more or less. There isn't even any organized crime, because there's no money in Candlemark. It's just a lot of very poor, very hungry people trying to scrape by- and the occasional misfit and ex-convict, like Kupric. The Temple District was once dedicated entirely to the worship of Celesiana, the Elemental of Life- but after the Sundering of the Six, it became home to the Thousand Little Gods. A memorial dedicated to the Six and their Avatars is located in the very center of the district.
The entire city is built on top of an enormous system of tunnels and catacombs. There are entrances to the underground in every district- but some are more easily accessible than others. The Thieves' and Assassins' Guilds guard their entrances vigilantly; the Gypsy Court doesn't care who comes and goes from their camps. There are tunnels beneath Candlemark and Harbor that are rumored to be filled with dark creatures with flailing tentacles and gnashing teeth, but very few people are interested in exploring them to verify those rumors. The Emancipation Movement uses the catacombs to transport slaves out of the city, but with minimal success- the City Watch uses the tunnels as well, and they get a kickback from the slave traders for every escaped slave they recapture.
Very few individuals actually own slaves; most of the slave population in the city is owned by the city, or by businesses. They're expensive; beyond purchasing and upkeep, slave owners have to supply freed slaves with enough capital to become functional, contributing members of society. The laws concerning slave ownership are very detailed, and the fines for breaking them can be astronomical. Most people, aside from the very wealthy, find it more trouble than it's worth.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Index Entry: Naruto
I spent a year obsessing over this series with a frightening intensity. Here are the fruits of that obsession; the asterisked ones are either on FF.net or will eventually be edited to the point where I will post them there. Links to the finished versions on ff.net or ficwad are provided.
Blindsided Index (multichapter fic)
12/04 (hinata)
12/04 (neji/lee)
12/04 (shino)
12/04 (sasuke/naruto)
*12/04 (naruto, psychic cancer- sorrows and rejoicings) ficwad
*12/04 (various- Spirals) ff.net
*12/04 (team 8) ff.net
*12/04 (team 10) ff.net
12/04 (kakashi, iruka)
12/04 (kakashi, iruka, epic length)
12/04 (sasuke)
*12/04 (kakashi, burnout)
*12/04 (kakashi, aftermath) ff.net
12/04 (team 8)
1/05 (sand nin)
2/05 (kakashi, iruka, rooftop)
*2/05 (kakashi/sasuke- apron no jutsu) ff.net
3/05 (kakashi, sasuke, obito AU)
*3/05 (kakashi, yondaime) ff.net
06/05 (dreamscape crossover AU)
06/05 (dreamscape crossover AU)
07/05 (dreamscape crossover AU)
*08/05 (temari/kankurou, paint)
08/05 (kakashi, dreaming)
*09/05 (onesided gaara/temari, soft)
11/05 (Naruto, Gaara, pictures)
10/05 (sasuke, naruto, insanity)
*11/05 (kankurou/gaara, control)
*12/05 (tsunade, orochimaru, cancer)
12/05 scars (ino, sakura, part 1)
12/05 (house hyuuga, hope)
12/05 scars (ino, part 2)
12/05 (kankurou, 20 truths style)
12/05 scars (ino, part 3)
12/05 scars (ino, part 4)
12/05 scars (ino, part 5)
05/06 (temari)
Blindsided Index (multichapter fic)
12/04 (hinata)
12/04 (neji/lee)
12/04 (shino)
12/04 (sasuke/naruto)
*12/04 (naruto, psychic cancer- sorrows and rejoicings) ficwad
*12/04 (various- Spirals) ff.net
*12/04 (team 8) ff.net
*12/04 (team 10) ff.net
12/04 (kakashi, iruka)
12/04 (kakashi, iruka, epic length)
12/04 (sasuke)
*12/04 (kakashi, burnout)
*12/04 (kakashi, aftermath) ff.net
12/04 (team 8)
1/05 (sand nin)
2/05 (kakashi, iruka, rooftop)
*2/05 (kakashi/sasuke- apron no jutsu) ff.net
3/05 (kakashi, sasuke, obito AU)
*3/05 (kakashi, yondaime) ff.net
06/05 (dreamscape crossover AU)
06/05 (dreamscape crossover AU)
07/05 (dreamscape crossover AU)
*08/05 (temari/kankurou, paint)
08/05 (kakashi, dreaming)
*09/05 (onesided gaara/temari, soft)
11/05 (Naruto, Gaara, pictures)
10/05 (sasuke, naruto, insanity)
*11/05 (kankurou/gaara, control)
*12/05 (tsunade, orochimaru, cancer)
12/05 scars (ino, sakura, part 1)
12/05 (house hyuuga, hope)
12/05 scars (ino, part 2)
12/05 (kankurou, 20 truths style)
12/05 scars (ino, part 3)
12/05 scars (ino, part 4)
12/05 scars (ino, part 5)
05/06 (temari)