More comics- Templesmith pwns me.

I picked up issue #5 of Fell over the weekend; have I mentioned that I adore cop dramas? The real reason I collected all of Fake (aside from teh gay) was because it was about policemen doing policey things. The occasional make-out sessions were a tasty bonus. Fell continues to make me wildly happy. (Rich and Mayko are so cute in a sociopathic sort of way.)

I also picked up issues 1 and 2 of Hatter M by Frank Beddor and Liz Cavalier with art by Ben Templesmith. Yes, I've become as much of a whore for Mr Templesmith's art as I am for Mr Ellis's writing. It's sketchy, frenetic, and grotesque- and I can't get enough of it.

I'll admit I bought Hatter M solely because of the art- I didn't even bother reading the intro blurb on the title page. Turns out the comics are connected to a book series coming out in the fall called The Looking Glass Wars; it's all Alice in Wonderland themed stuff, with a twist. The main character, Hatter Madigan, is a Milliner in the Royal Guard, entrusted with the safety of Princess Alyss. Alyss goes missing, and he has to track her down across 19th century earth, armed with dozens upon dozens of blades and a hat.

...omg hat. It's the coolest hat since the invention of hats. And the story starts of in France, where Madigan loses his hat. A native comes across it and says, "Le huh?" and from that point on, I think I fell in love. It didn't hurt that right around that time, Madigan busted out with the blades and started slaughtering people, but the silly French was definitely the thing that did it. Also: "It's a pigeon!" "It's a dirigible!" "It's- Le Monstre!"

I'm a sucker for cheese, what can I say. (omg hat) Silliness aside, the story feels rather well thought out and romantically lovely- Wonderland operates on the power of imagination, and Madigan tracks the Princess by following people who glow with an excess of imagination. It's just one of those things that makes me squirm in my seat and go, "Cooooool!" And, y'know- omg hat, and steampunk necromancy. I've got such a soft spot for steampunk necromancy.

I need to find a comic shop and quickly, because I've got too many series to keep up with now. I guess I could always order from Khepri.com, but I'd much rather purchase from a shop.

Feeling vaguely tempted to write to Warren Ellis's Fell account, because yes. I am that much of a fangirl.

(omg hat)

Index of Recs

Fic and other thing recs: THE INDEX. (DUN DUN DUUUNNNNNNNN)

02/05 (Naruto, multiple genres, multiple pairings)
04/05 (Naruto, other crossovers)
07/05 (Naruto, FMA)
08/05 (Naruto, various pairings, various genres)
09/05 (Bleach, various parings, genres, and the 11th division; FFVII, IX, IV; Saiyuki; Naruto)
09/05 (Naruto, FFVII, Bleach)
11/05 (webcomics)
02/06 (one piece)
07/06 (X-Men, PotC, FFVII, Firefly, House)
8/06 (Generation X)
01/07 (FFXII)

Toggle: something like a timeline

I'm going to have to go on an indexing spree soon. Bleh. Not especially looking forward to that. On the other hand, a lot of my old info/backstory posts are no longer applicable, because I keep rewriting the details of this universe in my head.

Also, I'm still lacking huge pieces of plot, but I think I now know how Silverlock and Co stop Dekar from rearranging the universe. (I have names! And plot points! *does the happy dance*)

Timeline!

4E 29
Ketheden DeLavrey makes a deal with the newborn god Natash'Azuan; in exchange for immortality, he agrees to serve the death aspect of the god for the rest of his existence.
4E 37
Ketheden founds the Assassins' Guild; Kaya DeLavrey kicks him in the face, exiles him from the family, and shuts down the Guild.
4E 40
Keth assassinates Kaya; Kalena DeLavrey becomes the next head of the family. Kalena threatens to reopen the Tower just to revoke Keth's immortality if he doesn't behave. He points out that he could have just opened the tower on his own- he was behaving. She eventually strikes a deal with him and Azuan regarding the Assassins' Guild, and allows it to exist.
4E 43
Someone tries to assassinate Kalena and a number of other important political figures; Keth and the rest of his Guild hunt down the people responsible and slaughter them. The Assassins' Guild becomes the first guild recognized by the census board; it sets a precedent for guild licensing rights. Parliament grants all of the guildsmen noble titles and tries to buy the Guild to use for their own purposes. Keth refuses to become affiliated with the government; as a result, the Guild is allowed to exist, but the assassins remain criminals.

4E 726
Nagendra becomes the Avatar of Varun; her first act as Avatar is to issue a list of activities and objects that are considered forbidden and profane. The list includes the following, among others: Leechmages, alcohol, drugs, mongooses, and anesthesia. In the future, hundreds of assassins grit their teeth and hope that the twitchy priest isn't on duty in the infirmary when they get injured; assassins are a stoic lot, but even they appreciate painkillers on occasion.
4E 734
Silverlock is born.
4E 737
Silverlock is sold to The Black Cherry Tree (AUGH I HATE NAMING THINGS) and begins his training and indoctrination.
("The Black- you're kidding. Isn't that just a bit...lewd?" Blaine valiantly tried to repress his snickering.

"There's a tree. In the courtyard. It happens to be a black cherry tree. Go ahead and laugh, but bear in mind that any off color comments you could ever think of have already been made.")
4E 751
Dekar DeLavrey is born; he is the youngest of eleven children (all half siblings), and the only one who carries Rianna's Legacy.
4E 754
Ayanna DeLavrey is born, and adopted as Ninaya's successor. Ninaya refuses to ever endure pregnancy again, and drops all of the men in her retinue like a bad habit (which, technically, they were).
4E 769
Gannet Sorlin cuts off half of Silverlock's face in a debacle that remains legendary at The Tree; due to a strict "You break it, you buy it" policy, he gets to keep Silverlock.
("You ought to be happy I've taken you away from that place- I'm not interested in you for your body."

His face still hurt and Sorlin's attitude of moral superiority was just adding insult to injury. "The fuck you don't. In three weeks, you'll be begging to fuck me."

"In three weeks, I'll have broken you five times over and will want you just as much as I do now- which is to say, not at all."

"Don't flatter yourself, old man. Everyone wants me.")
4E 784
Silverlock's indenture ends; Ninaya DeLavrey dies of natural causes; Ayanna DeLavrey becomes the new head of the family; Dekar attains a seat in Parliament.
4E 785
Silverlock becomes so bored with being free he signs himself away to the Assassins' Guild; Banshee Harkiss takes him on as an apprentice in the ways of assassin magery.
4E 786
Tyrin Samarkand is born to the assassins Hawk and Civet.
4E 794
Tyrin gets traded to the Thieves' Guild.
4E 802
Tyrin's team gets caught by the mage they were attempting to burgle; most of his teammates die immediately. He is unlucky enough to survive long enough to be found by an Acolyte of Varun. Tyrin officially dies; Blaine Torkehaav becomes the newest Apostle of Varun. Word of Tyrin's death gets back to Civet and Hawk; Civet, somewhat overwhelmed by grief, agrees to become the Guildmaster's next body. Hawk leaves the Guild.
4E 804
Foxbird shows up on the doorstep of the temple; Blaine adopts her (or rather, she adopts him) and gets banished and cursed. He goes back to the Assassins' Guild, hoping to find his parents. (Oh, buuuuurn.) The Guildmaster realizes he should've checked his intelligence better before propositioning Civet, and gives Blaine a job and a place to stay. A few months later, Blaine meets Greymalkin again.
("If I ask you why, exactly, the Guildmaster owes you so many favors, will I have any chance of getting an answer?"

"Does a snowball have a chance in hell? Will Nagendra let me go back to the temple? Is Lady DeLavrey ever going to sleep with you?"

"That's a lot more promising than I thought it would be, actually.")
4E 805
Greymalkin reveals himself to be a number of things, none of which are a decent person; the Shrive threaten to dismember Greymalkin slowly and painfully if he does anything at all to upset either Blaine or Foxbird in any way.
4E 806
Silverlock meets Foxbird.
4E 811
Foxbird earns her tags.
4E 813
Blaine meets Silverlock. A month or so later, Silverlock learns to detatch his soul enough to keep Blaine from going into convulsions. They start dating spending time together- mostly this involves Silverlock dragging Blaine out into the sunlight occasionally, and the two of them going to ridiculously expensive restaurants in Southmark. A few months after that, Blaine realizes he's being courted (he's a little slow on the uptake). About a week later, they start screwing like minks.
4E 816
Blaine and Silverlock stop speaking to one another for about three months (because of the Foxbird thing), during which they are both fairly miserable and irritable. Nagendra dies, and they get back together; Mandhatri becomes the next Avatar of Varun and abolishes all of Nagendra's decrees; assassins start disappearing.
4E 817
INSERT STORY HERE; afterwards, Silverlock and Blaine go back to screwing like minks. Foxbird kicks Harbard in the face for hitting on her one too many times; the Malestri are recognized as full citizens under the protection of Rothcaran and Shaivhen law. Varun apologizes profusely to Silverlock, Blaine, the surviving Apostles, the Guildmaster, and Natash'Azuan, and agrees to owe them all huge favors.
4E 830
Silverlock retires from active duty in the Guild and starts teaching. Foxbird continues to not marry Harbard.
4E 839
Blaine dies; Silverlock and Foxbird leave the Guild. Foxbird, Harbard, and a few other Malestri leave the city and go looking for their relatives. Silverlock hires a Mystic for a seance and Blaine, filled with righteous ghostly wrath, tells him to get a new hobby that doesn't involve bothering his exes post-mortem. Silverlock sulks.
4E 843
Silverlock goes to work for the mafia as a crime lord's "personal assistant".
("I'm not a pet." They'd bound his hands properly; it would take him several minutes to untie the knots. "If you treat me as such, our contract becomes void and I'll extract my compensation from you however I see fit."

"I don't need another body guard. Why else would I decide to keep you?"

He glanced around the room lazily and catalogued the condition of the other body guards. There were six of them, each well armed. "Nine seconds."

"What?"

He tripped the first guard and used his body in mid-fall as a stepping block to better break the face of the second with his knee and use that one's body for leverage to pull his arms back in front of himself. By that point, the other four were rushing him; a moment later all four were disarmed and on the ground, and two chairs were broken.

He shook his head to settle his hair back into place. "Nine seconds. It would have been eight, but I didn't want to kill them."

The man gestured to the remaining unbroken chair with a slightly unsteady hand. "Would you prefer to be paid on a monthly schedule or a bi-weekly one?")

Somewhere around 4E 950ish
Silverlock becomes an Acolyte of Joshel for half a year before Joshel himself tells Silverlock to bugger off; Blaine laughs hysterically for about a week.

4E 1042
Theron is "born." Whimsy replaces Shanreth's memories.
4E 1054
Theron and Shanreth move to Luthra; Theron meets Bren.
4E 1056
The dragon Rhapsody breaks the seal on Shanonil's memories in Theron's head; Theron goes into a coma for a few months; Bren weaves tapestries in the basement and talks until his throat bleeds.
4E 1057
Theron stumbles into Shaivhen and gets kidnapped by some slavers on his first night in the city; Silverlock finds him and purchases him and starts fucking with his head.
4E 1062
The remnants of the seal on Shanonil's memory shatters all at once; Theron spends several weeks thinking he is actually his mother.
4E 1064
Theron goes back to Radrezhaea, gets Blacklisted, gets Bren Blacklisted (and maybe Mihonil, too), gets arrested, gets Bren arrested, chews off his fingers, kills Bren, fucks Bren, turns Bren into the Walker, kills his father, becomes the Voyance, and turns the majority of the population into an army of mindless zombies.
4E 1097
The Voyance perfects the creation of Revenants and Ghosts, and starts his conquest of the eastern half of the continent.
4E 1231
Stella Matin dies; in the process, she goes blind accidentally acquires a piece of the Voyance's soul. After a few years, she starts seeing the future.
4E 1263
The Voyance finds out about Stella and keeps her around as his personal advisor; she hangs out with the Walker a lot, and they become something like friends. A group of living humans and sympathetic Revnants start planning to overthrow the Voyance.
4E 1289
Walker puts down the terrorist rebellion but finds himself remembering things about the leader of the rebels- she turns out to be Whimsy, who was a friend of Bren's in Luthra. Whimsy turns out to be the lost goddess Razhia, and she convinces Walker and Stella to help her destroy the Voyancy. Everyone dies, the Voyance recovers his old memories and becomes Theron again, and they all wander across the border to have wacky hijinx in Shaivhen and open a pawn shop.

Roleplay babble: 'Stacia Venomtongue

I've been rather lax about posting here in this, the merry month of May. Been busy, I suppose; I'm likely to remain busy for a while yet.

Yesterday I engaged in my first serious act of online roleplaying over at Izland H0ppin. It was pretty fuckin' awesome, all things considered. The character I'm playing will probably get incorporated into Toggle at some point; many of my roleplay characters either originate or settle there (Tana and Neru lived in the Second Era; Vlad settled into the Fourth, and brought his god along with him; my D&D character for next year will be another Second Era personality).

Back when I first started playing D&D with my brothers, I was always stuck being one of two things: the cleric, or the kobold. And then when we started playing 3rd edition, I was occasionally allowed to play a halfling sorceress. I'm still fond of those old cleric characters- my favorite was the rogue/cleric with the sun and trickery domains. I worshipped a very confused god, used a scythe as my primary weapon, and backstabbed things to death more often than I healed them. It was good times.

Haven't gamed with my brother since first year; the mess with Alan and James came to a head, and then people got girlfriends and jobs, and the gaming stopped. It's a good thing Renegades is as awesome as it is, because otherwise I'd be quite sad. Roleplaying is what keeps me sane these days.

My Island Hopping character is Anastacia Venomtongue; she goes by 'Stacia most of the time, and doesn't tell people her last name. It raises too many annoying questions. She's a Jerren, which is a variation of halfling from the Book of Vile Darkness; they radiate evil the way orcs radiate body odor. Stacia's bluff is pretty good, though, and she isn't very evil. (The paladin in the party hasn't started throwing fits yet.) I hate the D&D alignment system; people can't be pared down to two qualifiers on a sliding scale. Stacia sees herself as a law abiding citizen of the Islands; she doesn't cause trouble, she doesn't kill people, and she doesn't cheat at cards. On the other hand, she's a drug addict, a thief, and a poisonmaker.

Stacia is a horizon walker; she lives to travel and research new places. Poison is her passion- she travels to find new poison components, and supports herself by selling the fruits of her research. She steals things when they interest her or when she's short on cash and needs to restock her supplies. She uses blue mushroom powder to increase her concentration; technically she isn't a drug addict (her fortitude save is too high), as she's very careful about not overdosing or taking too much, too often. The powder increases her intelligence and charisma, but lowers her strength, will, and constitution; when she's on it, she's brilliant, but she has a strength of 3.

Blue mushroom powder is also a mild hallucinogenic, so she tends to giggle a lot when she's on it. She giggles a fair amount the rest of the time, too; the antics of her party members amuse her to no end. When she's not higher than a kite, she's a good humored, easy going sort of person. She's polite and tends to speak formally, with a lot of pauses and thoughtful noises mixed in with her words. It's a bad habit, but it's one she's never quite been able to lose; she's slightly spacey at the best of times, in that stereotypical academic sort of way.

She's small, even for a halfling- barely more than two and a half feet tall, and very weak. She wears boots of flying to avoid being trampled, and wears sunglasses all the time, even at night. This isn't because her eyes are sensitive- it's because the sunglasses are magical. She has two pairs- one pair with round lenses, one with rectangular- and she switches between them periodically. She's got bright red hair, tied back in a high ponytail and covered by a bandana, pale blue eyes, and very fair, freckled skin. In short, she's adorable, or she would be if she smiled more often. She tends to look very serious and thoughtful, and covers her mouth when she laughs. She carries a small crossbow at all times, and is decked out in belts full of pouches and flasks. She has a pair of heavy gloves for dealing with contact poisons, and a lot of sharp and nasty looking tools for dissecting things. She doesn't wear armor; with all of her equipment, she's already bordering on encumbered, and when she's on drugs, she has to drop a lot of stuff just to be able to walk.

So yes. She's cute, she's poisonous, and she does drugs (but she can quit any time, honest). And I have far too much fun playing her, because, wow. I love roleplaying, especially with my Renegades darlings, and anyone associated with Trina. It's good times.

If Stacia shows up in Toggle, she'll probably be one of the Guild's independent contactors; they make their own poisons, but 'Stacia supplies rarer components and new toxins for the right price. And she'd be a friend of Silverlock's, because he's friends with everyone, except Greymalkin. (I should work on that plot point. Hm.)

Toggle (rasputin) creation mythos

You know, I used to be really good at naming things. Now I suck at it; I'm afraid to name characters and places because naming something gives it permanence, and names are harder to change than any other detail. Meh.

I think Silverlock would qualify as neutral evil in D&D terms; he's got a number of antisocial personality traits, but he operates within the laws of society for negotiable values of "society." (He was a model slave until Gannet stole him; he's completely devoted to the Guild. But he feels that Rothcaran and Shaivhen laws are gentle suggestions at best.) He's very rarely capable of actual empathy; things like remorse and guilt are purely academic concepts to him (much to Blaine's irritation).

Anyway. I also realized, in D&D terms, he probably started out as a bard and then multiclassed to sorceror and assassin. And that just burns me inside, but it's not like D&D has a geisha or companion equivalent class. So, bard. (This is entertaining, because he's kind of tone deaf. Great sense of rhythm, though.)

I vaguely feel that I should work more on the villain part of the story- villains have always been my weak point, because they end up being faceless and cliche. But, as this is only a very vague feeling, I will instead discuss more backstory.

Creation Myths: Because they don't actually need to make sense.

The Toggle world hatched out of a giant egg; the thing that laid the egg nurtured and cultivated the universe until it could support life, and then it laid three more eggs. From the first egg hatched a multitude of creatures to fill the land, the sea, and the sky- creatures that ran and slithered and swam and flew. The very first of these creatures to escape the egg were dragons (of course), and they spread across the land and watched over the lesser creatures as an elder brother or sister does its younger siblings. From the second egg hatched a multitude of creatures that walked on two legs and spoke in many tongues, and they spread across the land and lived in relative harmony with their elder siblings. From the third egg hatched a multitude of creatures to fill all corners of the plane with the faces and voices of Men and the bodies of Monsters; these half-breeds filled in the spaces between their elder siblings, and the creator was pleased to see her children thriving.

The creator laid a fourth egg and hid it in the dark wilderness, and built a tower around it to keep it safe. She left it there and kept watch over her other children.

The Men built cities and Monsters built lairs, while the Demi-Beasts settled between them, and there was peace and prosperity. There were wars, of course, as civilizations grew, but they were small, brief skirmishes, involving no more than a few species, if that.

That was the First Era, which took place mostly before recorded history. Some humans and dwarves settled in the mountains to the south that would eventually come to be named the Reichen Mountains, and built a city there. The creator settled into the city and watched and waited, and when a war broke out that involved all of her children, she declared her allegiance and fought alongside the Men and Monsters of her city against the others that threatened its walls.

She was not all powerful when it came to waging war; creation was her sole purpose, and for every one of her children she destroyed, she destroyed a piece of herself. But not long after the war broke out, the egg within the hidden tower hatched.

A dragon noble and her gryphon retainer were fleeing the armies of the enemy when they came across a young human woman in the middle of the uninhabited forest. The only thing she had on her to identify herself was a signet ring. They took her back to the city in the south, where she was clothed, fed, given a sword, and sent out onto the battlefield.

She came back with the head of the enemy commander; the king of the city gave her a noble house, and the dragon who found her adopted her into her clan. This was Rianna DeLavrey, who became the general of the Men and Monsters who fought on the side of the creator. People called her a god of war, but even with her aid, the fighting raged on for years.

(Christ, I'm wordy. And dumb.) Anyway. The city withstood a siege for a good long while, but eventually the walls broke, and the place was overrun. The creator sacrificed her life to save her daughter- up until that point, Rianna had no idea who she was or where she'd come from. With the creator's death, all the potential of creation was set loose on the world- and that much untamed potential is incredibly destructive. Psychic cancer everwhere. Rianna took her closest companions (the gryphon and the dragon, a few fae, the royal family) and fled back to the forest where she'd been hatched. The tower had been made to contain excess creative potential; the inside of it was practically dripping from the leftover energy of Rianna's birth. Rianna opened the tower, creating an energy sink that drew in all of the wild potential of the creator's death.

The creator was reborn in the tower; acts of sacrifice and rebirth hold great significance in this universe, so she came back with the ability to lay down the righteous smackdown on her children. She split the universe in half and banished all of the monsters and demi-beasts into the hole and sealed it up. Then she laid another egg. Three things hatched out of it: the Aetherial Plane, and two androgenous beings made of creative potential, one to represent the past, and one to represent the future. Their names are currently up for debate; most people just refer to them as the Twain.

The creator kicked everyone out of the tower and went to sleep; Rianna locked the doors and told the two godlets to keep track of the Aetherial Plane and the Rift. Then she went out into the world to help people rebuild and whatnot.

The royal family of the destroyed city in the Reichen Mountains built a new city on the coast, around the tower, and swore to protect it at all costs. Rianna was sort of like, "Uh, whatever," since only someone of her race could open it, and the thing is indestructible.

Rianna's signet ring is the key to the tower; it gets passed down to the most responsible woman who carries Rianna's legacy every generation. (Rianna's legacy being the gene or what-have-you that lets her open the tower.) The tower is only ever opened to end an Era, when the balance of creative potential goes awry. The creator is less of a sentient entity than an unconscious imaginative power sink at this point; when the tower is opened, it draws in all of the Godhead, chews it up, and spits it out in a more palatable form. Or just in more pieces, as that's what chewing things tends to do.

Jump forward to the Fourth Era, where Ayanna DeLavrey is the current head of the family. She's about twenty years younger than Silverlock; the DeLavreys tend to live human lifespans, but the women who carry Rianna's legacy are healthier and age better than the rest of the family. Ayanna's mother, Ninaya DeLavrey, had a hard time producing an heir with Rianna's legacy; as a result, Ayanna has a lot of bastard half siblings. (Traditionally, the DeLavrey women never marry; they bear children out of wedlock and then adopt the heir.) Aya was the only girl to carry the legacy; she has a half-brother who also carries it.

The children who don't inherit are usually exiled or foisted off on foster parents with no one the wiser; the DeLavrey family has a number of retainers whose sole purpose is to deal with these children.

Anyway. I said I wasn't going to give Silverlock a sister, but he's half convinced he's Aya's brother. If she knows, she isn't telling; the only person who would know is Ninaya, and she's definitely not telling, if she even knows. (She had at least twelve children, and didn't acknowledge any of them except Aya and the son with the legacy; it's more than possible that she had the rest sold to brothels.)

And, now that I think about it, they probably haven't had sex, so I wouldn't even have to worry about the incest. This has more to do with the fact that Silverlock is terrified of her than the fact that she really just isn't interested. (Terror aside, I think he finds her lack of interest partly insulting and partly a blatant challange. *sigh*)

So really, he wouldn't get anything out of being a DeLavrey. It would just be horrible indulgent of me, which is why I shouldn't do it. >_< Augh. Really, it's a bad idea- he'd be related to all of Aya's half siblings, and he's probably slept with several of them. And incest is never a good idea. I know this. I've read the first few books of Angel Sanctuary.

But anyway. Eggs everywhere, and the creation/rebirth thing means there's an Easter-equivalent holiday, complete with candy eggs. The creator (who had a name, but she doesn't really need one anymore) probably tried to hatch a universe several times before she actually succeeded; I imagine all the unsuccessful universes were delicious. Scrambled, sunny side up, omelettes, served raw over rice...all the other godlike entities in the void ate well for ages.

...AUGH.

comics- Wormwood: Gentleman Corpse

OH. OH. OHGOD.

Ben Templesmith is a comics writer/illustrator. He does horror. He does zombies. I want to do his zombies, and I'm not actually channeling Theron at the moment. Templesmith does the art for Fell, which is amazing and you really, really ought to be reading it because it's pulp noir detective fiction by Warren Ellis, and the least you can do is shell out two bucks for the first issue.

Anyway Ben Templesmith. He's done a few series of his own, and illustrated a few others. His latest solo project just put out its zeroth issue- and now I have have Wormwood: Gentleman Corpse in my hot little hands. It is so amazing I just put it down and felt the need to babble incoherently on my blog about it.

Interdimensional strip clubs filled with zombies(patrons and employees) and tentacular plant monsters, women wearing thongs and dragon tattoos and little else, interdimensional cell phone (easy minutes plan), robot sidekicks with shotguns and beards and reflective sunglasses, and Ben Templesmith's dirty, gorgeous, disgusting, luminous art. I am in love. (And I want some of these prints so very badly. So. Fucking. Pretty.) The main character is a zombie- a tentacle monster sprouts out of his eye sockets so his sidekick has to blast his head off with a shotgun, and afterwards, the bits of his head that are still intact on the floor ask if anyone has a stapler. Next panel, Wormwood is back on his feet, with the caption, "Minutes and 54 staples later-" and it is amazing.

I'm not at all certain where this love of detective stories came from (the zombies are easy- entirely Trina and Gina's faults, and I do mean entirely)- I mean, I'm not feeling any particular urge to start reading Doyle or Chandler (maybe Chandler), but then, I don't feel many urges to read books these days. Comics seem uniquely suited to noir- it works well as a visual genre. And I love it. I may have always loved it, and just not realized it until I picked up Fell. And now I've got Wormwood to keep me entertained, too, and I think I may need to find more noir comics to feed this gaping black void in my soul.

Comics: like cake, only better. (And after yesterday, I have so many of them. I haven't even counted them, because they are so multitudinous, and almost all of them were free. The only things I bought were Wormwood, Blackgas #2 (zombie survivial by Warren Ellis), The Apparat Singles Collection (self contained SF by Warren Ellis), and Samurai Champloo volume 2.)

God, I'm such a whore for Warren Ellis and all things related to him. I really need to finish reading Transmet.

Life is so good right now. :)

on writing

(The feed is acting weird again, and I'm not sure why. Hm.)

Sometimes I find myself using phrases that are completely cliched and overused without even realizing it. Take the Temari fragment down there- Sonya is quite right, the "sexless as her weapons" thing has been used and over used by multitudes of authors.

And yeah, sure, in a general sort of way, a knife is sexless in that it is an inanimate object and has no gender. But weapons have an inherent sensuality to them that transcends gender. And while I was going for lack-of-gender in the fragment, the lack of sensuality/sexuality was more important.

It's like every time I realize I've actually used the word "stunning" in a paper. I can't think of what I actually want to say, so I fall back on something someone else has said. (This is the second time Sonya's caught me doing this. For the win!) I wish I had someone to grab me by the shoulders and shake me violently every time I do it.

Anyway, knives are sexy and so is Temari. Maybe I'll fix it.

Also, on the subject of unoriginality, I'm getting the temptation to stick Marcus and Blaine in a room together just to let them complain about their small redheaded children, secret identities, and fucked up religions. They're the same person, augh. This is what I get for rereading my 2002 Nano when I ought to be doing homework.

I think, however, that the Seventh Hour universe is about seven million times more fucked up and unstable than Toggle even at its most ridiculous. What the hell was I thinkin? I know part of the point of Seventh Hour was to see if I could maintain an elevated style of writing for extended lengths of time, but damn. The grammar, it burns.

Remember, kids: it may look pretty on the page and it may sound pretty in your head, but chances are that dangling modifier is just going to confuse the hell out of you later on in life. I'm still occasionally guilty of convoluted sentence structure (oh, man, prepositional phrases, I hate you so much), but I've been trying very hard to cut back. Simplicity is the key to not wanting to gouge your own eyes out.

In other news, I've tracked down a copy of "Beauty and the Mess," and now I want to see Nickel Creek in concert so badly it hurts. *sigh* Will probably do a song post for it, because it's one of my favorite songs evar.

Temari fragment

I don't read Naruto fic anymore, but I'll read anything Sunfreak writes, especially if it's something new and full of eyeballs. (Shit! She beat me to it! XD)

Rather than rant about how much I hate Sasuke/Sakura, despite the fact that I have no interest in Naruto any longer, I give you this (I still like making shit up about Hidden Sand):

In Sunagakure, the word "kunoichi" is an insult.

Women cannot be shinobi in the desert; the sand strips away femininity the way it strips away skin- until there is nothing left but bleached bone. Those among the ranks of shinobi who happen to be female are as hard and weathered as the men, and as sexless as their weapons.

Temari bares her legs to the brutal desert sun and the equally brutal disapproval of her superiors, and hides the pale crosshatch of unburned skin on her thighs from her brothers and her father when she removes her skirt and mesh half-leggings. She ignores the whispers that tell her she should be ashamed, the voices that tell her to bind her breasts and cover her hair.

Temari is a shinobi, the equal of any man and the better of most; she is also a woman, and she will not let her family, her village, or the desert take that from her.

Women are meant to be protected, cherished. Shinobi are tools, to be used until they break.

Temari thinks of her mother and knows: she will not be protected, she will not be cherished, she will not be used.

And she will never break.
---

AHAHAHADRIVEL *spontaneously combusts*

ToGgle and scribble

I've figured out a title for the fucking story! "Tower of the Gods," which is both silly and cliched, and shall henceforth be shortened to "Toggle."

I did a sketch page of most of the major Toggle characters- scribbly things, ahoy. It was originally just going to be Blaine and a random snake, but then I realized that I can't actually draw full bodies without them looking like crap. So I cut off his legs and doodled everyone else in the whitespace.

The rift horror may look all cute and squishable, but it'll melt your face right off if you get too close to it.

Greymalkin is supposed to look kind of terrifying; he's a lot like Silverlock, only without the charm, the restraint, or the good intentions to counteract his overwhelming sleaze and creepiness. (He's one of the very few people Silverlock will never, ever sleep with. Ever. It's the principle of the thing.) He's part demon of some sort- in D&D terms, he'd probably be considered a tiefling.

Ayanna DeLavrey controls Rianna's Tower, which makes her the most powerful woman in the world. The Tower has been in the care of the DeLavrey family since the First Era, when the creator (who has a name, I swear) entrusted it to Rianna DeLavrey. Apart from being at the center of the worlds creation mythos, the Tower acts as a command center for the entirety of the Godhead; whoever controls the Tower has the powers of all of the gods, including the Radrezarian ones, at their disposal. It is, essentially, all the power of creation. It's only been opened a few times since the First Era, and then only to keep the world from blowing up.

Ayanna is a general in the army by birth and by merit; she's the sort of person who doesn't take shit from anyone, for any reason. (She may or may not be Silverlock's half sister, just like Varun may or may not secretly be the patron deity of tentacle sex. AUGH.) Officially, she has no political influence, but she tends to ignore the family tradition of noninvolvement. She's something of a loose cannon; she makes a lot of people very, very nervous.

Mandhatri is, like, twelve, or whatever the equivalent is to the Naga. He's a nice kid, really. Just a little...misguided. And psychotic. He's directly responsible for the dead assassins; he has them kidnapped, tortured, diced, and sent back to the Guild in bags. At some point in the story, he cuts off one of Silverlock's hands, just for the hell of it. (It gets put back on. Eventually.)

Blaine (who really ought to be a lot paler- he lives in a frickin' cave, after all) is saying "tits!" as in "Varun's tits!" It's his favorite curse (he's been saying it in my head since long before I really knew who Varun was)- it gets him all kinds of strange looks, though.

(Silverlock: Waitaminute- does Varun even have tits?
Blaine: Well, actually...uh...sometimes. We're really not sure why- it just happens.
Silverlock: Huh. That's kind of hot.
Blaine: *facepalm*)

Varun is a fairly popular deity- any god that promotes free healing tends to get a lot of support from the general populace. He was originally a Naga deity, but there are very few Naga left, and his followers have become more diverse.

Natash'Azaun is a dual deity; Natasha is a luck goddess, and Azaun is a death god. Assassins and thieves tend to have a very personal relationship with both of them, for obvious reasons. Azaun is responsible for the Guildmaster's immortality- it's still unclear whether or not this was meant as a blessing or a curse.

Joshel is probably the most popular deity in the country. He doesn't have very many actual followers, but he gets a week long celebration every spring that everyone takes part in- it's a little like Mardi Gras (or the Radrezarian Festival, without the historical connotations). Lots of drinking and dancing and nakedness. Joshel is the patron of slaves, the oppressed, and half-elves; his holy symbol is a pair of interlocking shackles with a broken chain.

So, The Kleptones. They're a bunch of British DJs and mix artists who do mash-ups, which are tasty combinations of songs and soundclips which are more delicious than the sum of their parts. They also violate all kinds of copyrights, which is why The Kleptones have all of their music available for free on their website. I've got their latest EP; the individual tracks are all pretty cool, but when you listen to the whole thing in order, it's got a powerful sort of resonance to it. It's story telling at its most oblique, and I like that.

Mashups are pretty addictive things, actually- I've now got three different ones involving NIN's "Bite the Hand that Feeds." I don't even like NIN, but I'm almost tempted to get the original song. I think it would just be a disappointment, though. I mean, it'll be weird hearing the song without pieces of the Ghostbusters theme in the background, or "Dude Looks Like a Lady". XD

Possibly I'll write my final paper for English on them; I'm not really an expert on the mixing scene. Middle sk00l video games, on the other hand...well. I'm sure I could write an 8 page journalistic analysis of FFVII as art, but I'm not sure I could hand it in for a grade. (I did get an A- on my Fell paper. It was actually pretty shitty, as far as the writing quality goes, but damn if you couldn't hear me chortling in the background of every paragraph.)

...for some reason, the word "chortle" always makes me think of birds. Something like a chicken crossed with a turtle, with fewer brain cells.

My brain has gone dry; this is a disconcerting feeling. I finally finished that chunk of story I just posted- and it still needs work, everything always needs work- but now, 4800 words later, I don't have anything else in my head. Nothing but dust bunnies and crumpled gum wrappers. It's startling to think that I'm running out of backstory.

When I get home, I'm going to have to tear my room apart to find the notebook that birthed this story; it's one of the little spiral bound ones I've had since eighth grade. I'll tear out everything I've already written and start over again, until I remember how much I hate handwriting things.

Two weeks, and I'm out. I can't wait.

I need some fine wine, and you, you need to be nicer.

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.
------------------------------
------------------------------
"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.
-------------------------

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."
--------------------------

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."
---------------------

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.
---------

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!
=========================================================================

"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."
---------------------
---------------------

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.
-----------------------
-----------------------
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.
==============================================================
(Several hundred years later!)
-----------------------

"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.
========================================================================

...*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.

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!)

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

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.

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.)

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.

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)

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.

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.