Corinthian Blood

Original Fiction: The Protection of Stone

Mon, 23 Jul 2007 03:34:24 GMT

Sort of a twitchy, mildly morbid thing. It's not really intended to flow nicely from one idea to the next, and is written in a perspective I'm not used to. You have no idea how many times I had to go back and change verb tenses.

This is really the hours before the Horrible Transformation the character goes through that involves being dead for a while. (When in doubt, murder your characters!)

And the, uh, worms on the described planet? Are not something you'd take home to show to daddy and put in a cute jug with holes in the lid, let's just say. You also might not want to find them in a petting zoo.

Excerpt:
A freezing planet is not terribly warm, yet there are thousands that live openly on its surface. A stone never bigger than a fingernail implanted in your skin could keep the frost out of your tendons indefinitely.

The Protection of Stone

Or have we eaten on the insane root
That takes the reason prisoner?
Macbeth, 1. 3

A freezing planet is not terribly warm, yet there are thousands that live openly on its surface. A stone never bigger than a fingernail implanted in your skin could keep the frost out of your tendons indefinitely.

Meat. It is always frozen on this planet. Things die and rot and when the part with the stone on it breaks away the rest of it turns to scummy ice and the worms come and drag it away.

He has a stone in the center of his stomach but it doesn't keep away the cold. No matter how many times he goes into the desert, the worms never come. Is he so distasteful that even the hidden monsters do not want him? Sometimes he contemplates finding a tunnel and going into the earth. Maybe a place of worms and maybe a place of the ghostly people that hide from the suns. Maybe the warmth of the deep earth paired with the heat of his stone will be fatal.

He's indifferent, in any case. Dulled in many ways, but there are times when his moods become wild and violent. He likes to swear in a paisley-coated display of strength. He isn't really strong. He knows strength is control, but control is globe-leaf slippery and always bobbing away.

When there is nothing but black to see, he knows there might be control. It might be death, dreaming. More importantly, it might be the drugs or simply unconsciousness. These things he has mastery over in a way. He is emaciated, but the fainting spells are a measure of success.

He often wakes up sweating, heart erratic, wondering if this is the attack that will kill him. It never is, and he goes back to muteness. Sleep is hard, elusive. The worms are always waiting.

He drinks painful amounts of water to clean out his blood for the next dosage. It is a fine sort of needle, copper-bright. It fills out what's left of him like a quilt worn on the inside. A drug that fools the eye, rather than the mind. It has a funny sort of twinge when it goes in. He goes to lie down carefully and wait. It doesn't take long.

The familiar swim of tiny lights in the corners of his eyes start up. They are welcome, a sign of control. That the dosage level doesn't need to be raised yet. His mind wanders, can't remember the time, whether he had taken his water yet. Memory is an ephemeral thing, soft stone that weathers away in a moment.

Is it time for the unwelcome touch of others? He vaguely remembers a time when he sought it willingly, frequently. He needs pills for that now, a hopeless sort of whore.

Or is it a day of resting? A day of painful dizziness, typically. He used to read on these days. Voraciously and intelligently. Now he can't even pick the books off the floor. They're dusty, perhaps. He can't be bothered to look. Can't remember the titles of his favourites.

He expects he will die like this. He cares for a moment, panic suddenly rising and his blood running quick and cold. It subsides, and then he doesn't care.

The worms eat the panic, as they will eat everything in time. He rolls off the bed and moves to the door, feeling them under his skin, his feet, and his mind. Something diseased has mastery over him. From within; from without—it doesn't matter if it is the dark mage that owns him or his own weakness. He trips over every skin they shed and every bone they leave behind.

Meat that will freeze and flake, half-buried in sand.

Pairings and fic

Thu, 19 Jul 2007 06:01:01 GMT

Name six ships you like:
01. Touda/Nagare (Yami no Matsuei)
02. Lucius/Sirius (Harry Potter)
03. Kougaiji/Sanzo (Saiyuki)
04. Zaknafein/Jarlaxle (Forgotten Realms)
05. Civil/Dutiful (Farseer)
06. Mikami/Light (Death Note)

Three ships you used to like, but don't anymore:
07. Glorfindel/Erestor (Lord of the Rings)
08. Remus/Sirius (Harry Potter)
09. Crawford/Ran (Weiss Kreuz)

Three ships in your various fandoms that you don't ship:
10. Fitz/Fool (Farseer)
11. Tsuzuki/Hisoka (Yami no Matsuei)
12. Crowley/Aziraphale (Good Omens)

Two ships you are curious about but haven't actually started shipping:
13. Tetora/Kazuhiko (MPD-Psycho) Er. The main Kazuhiko we followed for about 6 books. Seven.
14. Crowley/Pollution (Good Omens)

1) Why do you dislike #11 so much? (Tsuzuki/Hisoka)
Because of Hisoka. Hisoka should never be paired. Because you know why? He hates being touched/fondled/raped/manhandled. Do you really think he'd start having sex with the entire office--I mean Tsuzuki? Nothing saying he can't fall in love, but he really just doesn't seem the type to do anything about it or obsess. (Although I might suspend judgement on Hisoka/Kurikara just because of the LOL factor. *___*) And Tsuzuki? I don't know, but I'd say Souryuu was pretty hot on him. ;DDDD *perv*

2) Who is someone you know that ships #13?. (Tetora/Kazuhiko)
Actually, I don't know anyone who ships anything in MPD-Psycho. It's one of those fandoms so tiny it doesn't exist. Hopefully with the English translations come fans!

3) What would be your ideal scenario for couple #3? (Kougaiji/Sanzo)
Something lovely, tense, and quite violent. Which kind of goes without saying, but there is, like above, a LOL factor. Especially with Hakkai around. I'll just let that sink in.

4) Which is your favorite moment for #1? Try to pick just one. (Touda/Nagare)
Well, they haven't exactly, uh, met. Or know about each other. But perhaps knowing Touda, he's observed a few things about Hisoka that might carry over. Anyway, there is a lovely scene in The Snake Fic I Haven't Written Yet I find quite alluring. And by alluring I mean awkward and OMG.

5) How long have you been following couple #6? (Mikami/Light)
Since the second I laid eyes on Mikami, you don't even know. Aside from the potential slavering diseased fanboy thing, it would be the best match of evil minds EVER. I'm kind of neutral in the shipping department at the moment but THIS PAIRING IS LIEK THE BEST THANG SINCE ANAL DOUCHES. Hem.

6) What's the story with #8? What made you stop liking them/caring? (Remus/Sirius)
They got kind of generic, which doesn't mean that all generic pairings suck. Let's not throw out the baby, etc etc. But I do think the two of them work together better as good friends who had a falling out and are now back to looking out for each other!

7) Which ship do you prefer--#2 or #4?(Lucius/Sirius or Zaknafein/Jarlaxle)
This is actually fairly hard, since I've faded on them both. But I'd say Zak/Jarl since I've already worked out how they get along (or rather, how Zak tolerates his drow limpet with the funny hat).

8) You have the power to make one ship non existent. Choose from #10 or #12. (Fitz/Fool or Crowley/Aziraphale)
Fitz/Fool hands down. There's been a lot of wonderful things written about it, but I think there cannot be anything worthwhile added than what is already canon. I just ain't feeling the add-on/what-if love. Maybe I'm just a curmudgeon.

9) What interests you about #14? (Crowley/Pollution)
Because I sort of thought about it while reading the book and came across it again. It's weird. It's Demon/Horseperson. What can we not love about that? Not to mention there are many WTF possibilities. ;D

10) When did you stop liking #7? (Glorfindel/Erestor)
Erestor began to get the same Hisoka-complex as mentioned above, to me. I have this image of a snappish character that is more interested in his job than romancing. And I really like that image.

11) Did your waning interest in #9 kill your interest in the show? (Crawford/Ran)
Not at all. I'm iffy on pairings in Weiss in general, though I won't say no to Nagi/Ran! And besides, Gluhen/Side B came out just as I dropped the pairing thing. X333 Now I'm kind of eyeing up Chloe/Ran. Or Frei/Ken. See what new storylines do to me? *pulls hair*

12) What's a song that reminds you of #5? (Civil/Dutiful)
One Brown Mouse by Jethro Tull. About a mouse in a cage, and eventually the song ends on the note that the barrier between mouse and man is a little more indistinct than you'd imagine. Who exactly is in that cage looking out? Anyway, go find it. It's a cute song!

13) Which of these ships do you love the most?
Touda/Nagare, because I have a Thing for lizards and snakes and traditional Japanese things. And, you know, sexy stoic mansex.

14) Which do you dislike the most?
TSUZUKI/HISOKA. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH.

15) If you could have any of these two pairings double date, who would it be? (even better if they're from different shows)
Crowley/Aziraphale and Mikami/Light. Miracle-makers vs. the most prolific murderers on the planet? Yes plz. I'd love to see Light try and kill Aziraphale for his offensive argyle jumper.

16) Have #2 kissed yet? Elaborate if you'd like. (Lucius/Sirius)
I think I'd have a bloody fit if Rowling had done that. A fit. But no. Although maybe their deadly spells kissed in OotP. ;DDDD

17) Did #4 have a happy ending? If the canon hasn't ended yet, do you think a happy ending is likely? (Zaknafein/Jarlaxle)
Not much is said about their relationship, but it didn't seem like it was a negative one. But with Jarlaxle's descriptions of anything, you really can't tell.

18) What would make you start shipping #14? (Crowley/Pollution)
A really good, IC fic. Without sloppily written, sloppy sex.

19) If only one could happen, which would you prefer--#2 or #6? (Lucius/Sirius or Mikami/Light)
Everyone with me now--MIKAMI/LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. *ASPHYXIATION LAWLZ*

20) You have the power to decide the fate of #10. What happens to them? (Fitz/Fool)
Oh god. I don't think I'd change what happened, even to have Fitz NOT have gotten stuck in the pillar and miss the Fool's goodbye. Perhaps I'd have Fitz kick the can, but have a little buzz of a phantom Skill-link before he goes--that the Fool knows and is saying the "farewell" he couldn't before. Maybe we'd even call it Wit. No matter what you changed with these two, it'd still be depressing.

Also: A Weiss Kreuz drabble about the end of Schuldig's career as an assassin. Not one OUNCE of seriousness in it, I swear. And it's only 100 words!

Partial List of Fanfiction

Wed, 18 Jul 2007 03:13:53 GMT

Will update as I find more, of course!

2002
LOTR/FR - Achas

2003
Harry Potter - Tome of Padfoot, The Eternally Bored: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
Forgotten Realms - The Poet and the Wise Man
LOTR - Computer Geeks of the Immortal Type
- Sun Sets Down Upon the Infantry: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
- Fighting Caves: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
- Sun's So Hot I Froze To Death: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
Coldfire Trilogy - Beastie: Torrential Agony of Tarrant the Agonized

2004
Yami no Matsuei - Tooth and Nail
- Burning Rain
- Fool's Courtship
- Dude Looks Like A Lady
- One is a Genius, The Other's Insane: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
- Kurikara's Guide to Wooing the Shikigami Male: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Weiss Kreuz: Of Cockroaches and Assassins

Wed, 18 Jul 2007 01:31:40 GMT

(It's been a while since I've done anything Weiss-related. Something like 4-5 years! As ever, got this idea while vacuuming the rug. Might post this to fanfiction.net. Maybe I should also try to make a list of the fics I've posted online, if I can ever find them.)

Of Cockroaches and Assassins: Also known as Why The Fuck Was Weiss Living In A Camper In The OVAs?!

Excerpt:
"A day job, I said. Any day job will do, as long as it had nothing to do with bugs. And now look at me,” said Youji from beneath an unutterably high stack of yuri magazines. He had spoken spontaneously; everyone else had thought he was asleep in his favourite nest of beer cans and illustrated breasts.

Of Cockroaches and Assassins
In which Youji has a Cunning Plan and Omi finally learns to hate school like a normal kid

“A day job, I said. Any day job will do, as long as it had nothing to do with bugs. And now look at me,” said Youji from beneath an unutterably high stack of yuri magazines. He had spoken spontaneously; everyone else had thought he was asleep in his favourite nest of beer cans and illustrated breasts. The mound of coloured paper moved around and settled again.

“I mean, look at us. Don't we have anything better to do? I know I do. I got me more ladies that you can imagine lined up.”

Omi sat beside Youji's Breast Nest, suffering over his own pile of paper and likely wishing they weren't confined to a single room. “Stop whining, you old fart,” he growled, equations and history questions swimming in his sand-filled eyes. “Aya, help me with my homework. It's Tokugawa stuff. I can't remember any of it. I mean, where was he buried? Nara?”

“He was buried in Nikko. Ken, help Omi with his homework,” said Aya. Ken glared at him and threw an orange at his head from the workbench. It made a remarkable sound on impact, much like a wet volleyball hitting a cat. The two men exchanged hostile stares.

“Why don't you? If I helped him, he'd probably get negative grades.”

“I suppose that explains your choice of profession.” Aya went back to reading. He was sitting on a tall white stool by the window display, glasses slightly crooked. Ken snarled, cracked his knuckles, and when he received no response, went to help Omi. Omi didn't seem pleased to see him.

“You know,” continued Youji after pausing long enough to make sure everyone had fallen silent, “for all we do for them, you think they could set us up somewhere fancy. Or anywhere. I'd settle for the Tokyo Hotel. It doesn't have bugs. But here we are. Alone. Alone in the front shop like abandoned puppies or something. And it's raining. Everyone knows the Youji doesn't pick up chicks as well in the rain.”

“Why don't you go practice?” Omi's patience was wearing thin as his brain flopped around and refused to remember any historical dates.

“Nah, I got enough bitches right here.” A hand snaked out of the Breast Nest and patted the top of it. “Besides, I love you guys.”

“Love us a little less and shut up,” muttered Ken. He was still caught in the terrifying gaze of the open math work on the table. He was brave, but not that brave. He was, however, profoundly grateful when Omi gave him a sour look and removed the evil math work. He sat on the table, feeling much safer.

“So what are we doing?” asked Ken brightly. Omi pointed at the ominous kanji: “rebel domains during the imperial era.”

Ken stared at him. Omi nodded in mute agony as something small and dark scuttled across the page. Ken slapped at it and scratched his neck.

“You're having trouble with this stuff? Man, I should be the new geek of this grou—what? What are you all staring at me for?”

Even Youji had parted his nest slightly to let two eyeballs stare out. Ken, unamused that his intelligence was being questioned, flipped through the history text. Omi, for his part, looked mildly relieved that someone was willing to help him.

The thumping and scrabbling that had chased them all downstairs in the first place started up again. Aya banged his fist on the metal roll-down doors that hid them from view of the public. Repeatedly.

The noise stopped and gave way to a guilty sort of silence. Aya went back to reading, the side of his hand red and slightly puffy. When no one was looking, he sucked on it.

“You know what, gentlemen?”

Youji was met by three stony stares. Of course, it wasn't like he could be stopped by anything less than a tank and several hundred feet of concrete wall.

“Okay, fine. I have a wonderful plan that you obviously don't want to hear. But if you guys want to live somewhere that isn't infested with cockroaches, you can hear me out. I mean, they're in the whole building. They'll have to burn the place down to save it.” He sat up and grinned, inch-long ponytail standing on the side of his head, crooked. “Any takers?”

And that was how the ragtag Kritiker team ended up living in a camper and selling flowers out the back of it.

As usual, the good stuff is © to Koyasu and his band of Merry Men.

Short Fiction: Fashionable

Thu, 05 Jul 2007 06:02:19 GMT

Just a wee story, a bit different than usual. Unpolished, but hay whuteva rite?

"They discovered the sun's habits quite by accident. Within decades, they'd decided the precise instant of its death and felt secure in the fact that they would not be around when it happened. Unfortunately, this was not the case."

Fashionable
Original Fiction

They discovered the sun's habits quite by accident. Within decades, they'd decided the precise instant of its death and felt secure in the fact that they would not be around when it happened. Unfortunately, this was not the case.

ΩΩΩ

Death always came too late.

He was the sort of person that set his watch seven minutes ahead but never kept his appointments. He'd stand near the tracks long after his train had left and wonder at the laziness of conductors these days. He was harried, but never so much so that he couldn't stop for coffee.

People courted Death, but he was absent-minded. When he turned to attend to these rituals, the moment had passed.

There were times when folk wished they hadn't ever done anything wrong. Mostly, it was every sort of person at any sort of age. A toddler, an old woman.

He was never on time. He could never quite save them from doing anything harmful.

On very good days, he could save other creatures. He was having more and more of these days as numerous species fell haphazardly onto the growing list of extinctions. Some of them landed crookedly and he had to go dust up the edges a bit, but all in all it was a good day's work.

Certainly, the news programmes lamented the newest dearth. They found man's artificial, disgusting hand to be responsible. A hand made of steel and coal and godlike influence. He found it quaint, this notion of artificiality. Man against everything gentle and natural.

Was this is the only species that saw itself as repulsive? No matter. Dark Columbian coffee and a cane with a brass rose on the end to support his back and he was off again.

ΩΩΩ

There were anomalies. Suns blinking out unexpectedly in distant places; sometimes turning blue and small like a frightened infant. It didn't seem to matter. It would be explained in due time.

But suddenly the purported billion years became a few minutes.

A surprise visit from a giant engulfed the quaint planet with its milling trillions in white heat--all of the local planets, be they dust or ice. One, that was green in a patchy sort of way, found an odd sort of peace.

ΩΩΩ

Dressed in a smart pinstripe vest, he fixed the tongues of both suede shoes. His rose throbbed and turned silver, melting into a bleak left hand. Earth melted away in the twisting tendrils of its bloated mother star. She was white and gold—glorious and huge with the bodies of her children.

Death was always late. But when he came, he made one hell of an entrance.

Writers are a cantankerous lot

Wed, 04 Jul 2007 01:47:23 GMT

Alright. I'm going to exhibit some peev here, perhaps to the detriment of the Earth's orbital stability. (It's actually quite inconsequential.)

My issue? Stupid thesis statements.

Don't write "... in this essay I will..." in any way, shape, or form. But you know what? Since everyone who does it uses those exact words, perhaps I'll just leave it at don't. It's fucking stupid. You write like that when they first teach you the structure of an essay back in fetus-school. You don't write like that when you hit high school. Or when you're past college. Or, you know, when you finally learn to cross all your t's and spell "cat."

But, unfortunately, people do. More often than they should, which is never. (Certain departments might like you to think this is a perfectly acceptable way to write, but you shouldn't. They're telling you it's okay simply because reading papers written like this delivers quite a substantial amount of funny. Ever wonder why your professor always looks so grimly amused around midterm time?)

I have seen in theses repeated use of "... I argue..." often under the same damn header. Fucking quit it. I don't care if it's the Thing To Do if you want your final degree. Suck a cock or two for lost time. Don't write like that.

Do you walk into a cocktail lounge with your tits out and smeared in things even a dog wouldn't roll in? Because that's what you're doing. Have some fucking class, you lazy shits. Think of something with finesse that is at the same time both clear and opaque. Your meaning should be distinct, yet not be found in the sort of statement of intention that makes you look like a slavering football player who found a pen in his sock one day and thought he'd write about y hee leiks futbal.

If you're writing a draft, whatever. But there's no excuse when you present something that should be polished with the above jewels in it. It's like walking out of the bathroom with toilet paper sticking out the bottom of your skirt. Please don't present people with something you apparently wiped your bottom with. It's just not civilized.

Werd Blok

Wed, 04 Jul 2007 00:26:24 GMT

We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important, about something real? - Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

When the flame of powder toucheth the soul of man it burneth exceeding deep. - Roger Bacon, 1242

Dinner at the Morgue

Fri, 22 Jun 2007 01:57:26 GMT

Made dinner tonight: yuba fried in oil and hickory smoke, tiny Kobe-marinated hamburger patties, and octopus all on a fat plate of lettuce and tomato. Had to simmer the octopus for more than an hour in garlic water, although most of that time was quite enjoyable, as it had a tendency to twitch (it was dead already). It also turned the water a delightful, smoky purple!

Poor thing must have been a baby--its legs were only about a centimetre across. Sure tasted damn good soaked in sansho pepper and mirin, though. I love eatin' baby. ;DD

Honestly, if I'm made to cook, I'm going to make what I like, which is really weird shit. My parents will never learn.

7 Deadly Sins

Thu, 21 Jun 2007 07:44:59 GMT

Guess which Vladfic pairing I'm using? I betcha never guess.

Pairing: Loiosh/Dead Teckla
7_deadly_sins_

1.	Greed.	2.	Gluttony.	3.	Wrath.
4.	Sloth.	5.	Envy.	6.	Lust.
		7.	Pride.

Fitzfic: A Most Popular Pastime

Thu, 21 Jun 2007 06:54:33 GMT

I know Hobb has a violent hate for this sort of thing. Frankly, I don't care.

This is an excuse to put Fitz and lace panties in the same story. Vaguely after the omg-you-gay dustup, and totally wrecking characterization. Mainly because only Hobb has the talent to write Fitz as stupid as he really is.

A Most Popular Pastime

Fitz, perplexed and angry, spent more than his share of time sulking. It might be suggested that he used up the entire keep's quota of sulking time, leaving none for anyone else to be feeling blue.

Not that he cared. It wasn't like it was his fault the Fool was a flaming tack polisher, if one knewwhathemeant. It wasn't his fault there was theoretical cross-dressing, lies, and outright wickedness. There was nothing left for him. He was alone with a brat prince and a crossdresser. He had no choice but to sulk.

Chade was less than impressed with this attitude, naturally. He really didn't see what the problem was. Why, the lads in his day did it all the time. Fitz did not want to hear about this segment of Chade's life.

“It's a hard habit to shake, Fitz. You shouldn't be so difficult.”

Fitz stared at the fire and wondered how fast a hearth flame could consume a human body. He didn't want to go anywhere near that thing he had called a friend.

Honestly, when a litter of puppies has a little mutant, it gets drowned. It doesn't grow up and befriend someone and lead them on and rape other men or--

“You've got that face on again,” said Chade neutrally. Fitz snarled something about being tired and stumped off to the hidden parts of the keep. It wasn't fair.

♂♀♂♀♂

After an entire morning of surliness and avoidance, Fitz managed to escape the Fool. Barely managing to keep the pretense of servitude, he spent the afternoon staring fixedly at the court ladies. How did they manage to contort their bodies into such clothing? How did the Fool?

Come to think of it, how did Chade? Fitz abruptly started thinking about something else.

“Well, it's nice to see that someone in relation to Lord Golden appreciates what they should,” said Civil in passing, rather snottily. Fitz resisted the need to grind his nose into the bench.

In that instant, a younger specimen of the female kind wandered past with a friend. “It's so painful,” she gushed, flapping a fan erratically. “I put it on, and it just... it was so horrible. Sometimes I hate being a woman.”

Fitz's Radar of Unease buzzed near the red zone. This only added fuel to his certainty that both the Fool and Chade were out of their minds. It also added a mute sense of mortified curiosity to the mix. He listened more closely to the conversations around him.

Mostly they centered around hair pins and boys, but there was a disturbing amount of commentary on the trials of feminine fashion.

♂♀♂♀♂

It took nearly a month of bitter silence before Fitz ventured to begin a conversation or six. The Fool was coldly civil, obviously bothered by the treatment he had been given.

Or perhaps it was because every single conversation began with the words: “You know those things girls wear...?”

“If you want a corset,” he snapped finally, “you can ask.”

Fitz fell into an enduring, surly silence once again. The Fool began to wonder if the royalty's faulty genes hadn't shown up late in this one.

♂♀♂♀♂

Fitz began to develop the distinct sense that Dutiful was staring at him strangely whenever their paths crossed.

Possibly because Fitz kept demanding to know if he was having any illicit affairs with servant girls and whether they wanted to talk to him about Certain Things.

Finally, the boy suggested delicately that he go talk to Patience. Fitz accepted this plan as fundamentally terrifying, but possibly the only chance he had left. It wasn't like anyone was helping him make sense of this cross-dressing phenomenon. He made a mental note to make sure Dutiful wasn't partaking of this. The boy was unstable enough as it was. He didn't need women's undergarments in the equation.

On the way to Patience, Fitz began to wonder why he was curious. Wasn't he raging just a month ago? The Fool was still a freak, and Chade always was, but he didn't feel so hostile. He felt naked without a violent vendetta.

That must change.

But first, he must be made to feel like a little boy. Once he appeared, Patience was all ears and matronly care. This mortified him even more as he sat in a doily-covered chair and fiddled with his tea.

“There are all sorts of fabric, you know,” explained Patience brightly. “And you must choose the right strength of boning. I had no idea you were so curious about tailoring! Is there a particular lady you were thinking of?”

Fitz muttered something and shifted around so one leg was over the chair's.

“For a man? Oh my.” She was silent for a moment, making her guest feel rather like an insect. Then she was up and going again. “You know, when I was a girl--”

“It was all the rage,” finished Fitz dully.

♂♀♂♀♂

After this escapade, Fitz spent a good few days on a tiny mission involving a sword, a few necks, and a good amount of galloping. What he didn't count on was the reception he'd receive when he got back.

He stood on one foot. Then he stood on the other. The floor of his quarters sank a good inch each time. He scuffed at it, then reached down and pulled the quivering strands.

“You could have said something,” said the Fool behind him with a touch of vindictive glee. “Everyone is talking about this hidden secret of yours.”

“It's purple,” said Fitz of the bushy carpet in his living space, lagging behind in the conversation.

With a bit more evil, the Fool put his head into the room. “Patience said it brought out your eyes. On another note, what is this? I found it in your saddlebag.” He was holding what was obviously something silken and not intended for public viewing.

This was Lord Golden talking. Or maybe some sort of monster. Fitz didn't think being sullen was going to get him out of this mess.

“If this is revenge--”

“Now why would I want that?” said the Fool sweetly, bouncing the offending garment from two long fingers. “Now tell me what a man like you is doing with a pair of such tasteless unmentionables?”

“I'm an assassin. I have to experiment. And do reconnaissance."

Fitz's stomach fell at the expression he received.

“Fitzy-Fitz, twitchy-twitch,
Caught under the table with his pants undone!”

The Fool continued on this vein for a good hour, even long after Fitz had fled. Feeling that they had reached a sort of understanding, he lovingly laid out several garments that would make Burrich squeal and hide on his grudging friend's cot.

♂♀♂♀♂

“Daddy,” said the boy in his lap, “why can't boys wear girl clothes?”

Molly's eyebrows raised over her laundry.

Fitz grimaced and avoided looking at her. “Well, when I was younger, it was all the rage.”

Vladfic: Teldra: A Butler's Tale

Thu, 21 Jun 2007 03:44:53 GMT

Lest you think I fizzle out on all my projects, here's the finished Teldra story. If you thought you were getting graphic porn, you're mistaken. The porn is there. You just have to use your imagination more than normal. Ilu miarr. I even added a wee bit of femslash for you, too! ;3

You know, the more I study Japanese, the shittier my English gets.

Teldra: A Butler's Tale
Why, Yes, I Do Watch Too Much Blackadder

Well, Kragar knew a man who knew a woman who knew another man Vlad knew. But let's be clear. Kragar knew Daymar, who was a meddlesome twit with an eye for romance. Daymar was on friendly terms with the Lady Teldra, who might also be said to have an eye for romance. And, technically, they all knew Morrolan.

Kragar comes in where he's got real close tabs on Vlad Taltos. It wasn't really his fault, he'd say later. There was no use in killing Kragar. There'd be too much cleanup involved for what it was worth. He'd have to blame it on Daymar.

Or Gaymar, as the man was affectionately called among the Right Hand for the Elimination of Irritating Psyonicists and Scholars. But perhaps "affectionate" isn't quite the word we're looking for. Kragar joined the RHEIPS out of a sense of moral duty to himself. He had two-timed the House of the Dragon, so it was only habit to two-time Daymar. Not that they were dating or anything.

More like casual fucking.

Loiosh knew, of course. The winged teckla knew everything. So, in exchange for a steady diet of kethna sausage, he promised to be quiet--with the additional promise of blackmail. Normally Kragar wouldn't care, but Vlad tended to get twitchy about certain subjects and a twitchy Vlad was the Vlad you didn't want to be social with.

So it came down to Kragar's teckla terror of Vlad's moodswings and the whims of Loiosh's cruel sense of humour. He tried to stay scarce, which was fairly easy. Except for the part where Loiosh would fly around after him with a claw in his hair so as not to lose him. After about a week of this, the jhereg cashed in his due.

Loiosh flew over and landed on the Dragaeran's shoulder. You know, Kragar, I was talking to Lady Teldra the other day. The voice was horribly sweet. When paired with the poisonous-lizard thing, it was nauseatingly creepy.

Yeah, what about it? Kragar could be excused for being slightly surly. Vlad was fishing knives out of every crack and crevice of his clothing. Kragar was fairly certain he didn't know he was there. Idly, he wondered if the man saw his familiar floating in midair, or whether they both had become invisible.

Well, we thought the boss is maybe acting a little funny lately. Needs a date.

I'm not dating an Easterner.

Oh no, said Loiosh. I know you aren't.

That almost seemed like a direct threat. Kragar's imagination ran towards devising a way of cutting the wings off the jhereg and hurling him out the window. For some odd reason, he thought perhaps Vlad might take exception.

I just thought maybe you could do some... special research next time boss asks. The kind that leads him to Castle Black.

Kragar did not like where this was going. If he finds out I've lied to him--

You don't have to. Just maybe exaggerate the price of something so he has to beg Morrolan for money. That kind of thing. I know you'll come through, you reliable man, you. With that, the little monster flew back to his owner, leaving an irate and slightly mortified right-hand behind him.

Very irate. Regardless of colours, Kragar was still a Dragon, and so Kragar wanted to kill something.

That's exactly what he went out and did. Because of this, Vlad was forced to cover the whole incident with a large amount of bodies and money. Now broke, he reluctantly went to pay Morrolan a visit, after threatening all kinds of damnation upon Kragar's head. But they were friends, and friends don't eviscerate friends. And this is where the story departs from Kragar's social machinations and takes a turn for the bizarre.

Or so Vlad decided, when he was done trying not to puke and finally noticed the strange way Teldra was smiling at him. Lady Teldra was not the sort of woman to look predatory, or even smug. But somehow, she was both at this moment and visibly trying to suppress it. Vlad was certain he was having a nightmare.

No, boss, you're not. Loiosh bit his ear as a friendly reminder of reality.

And that's how Vlad stumbled into Castle Black, oblivious to the danger he was in and with the left half of his face going numb from the ear down.

★★★

It's not like Vlad was an idiot or anything. Usually, he was quite devious. But sometimes, the obvious escaped him. With remarkable efficiency.

Teldra stood by the door with a small bottle of something that looked both deadly and perfumed (rather like the popular scents of the time, but that's another matter). Vlad, of course, noted this and thought nothing of it when, outside Morrolan's study, she stopped to put some of the noxious fluid into several wine bottles.

In fact, he picked out which one he wanted and went inside.

You're an idiot, boss, said Loiosh in a tone that brooked no argument.

The strange thing about men who have everyone they know conspiring against them is that they tend to be terribly jovial about the whole thing. At least, for the duration of time they spend in the dark, regardless of painfully obvious clues. Loiosh, of course, had to be far more careful than anyone else—Vlad knew he was up to no good.

Always.

So he was required to keep his scaled jaw shut as Vlad greeted Morrolan with a smile. With anyone else, that might have been expected, but there was something terribly wrong with a Vlad that smiled at people with no ulterior motive.

Fortunately for Morrolan, Vlad indeed did have such motives. That didn't convince him to take his hand off Blackwand, of course. With Vlad, you never knew if he'd teetered off the edge of madness or not. He also was smiling with only one half of his face, as though the other half was numb. How strange.

“I take it you're here for money,” said the Dragon, without bothering to get up. He had just, in fact, been perusing how much money Vlad had swindled out of him over the months and wasn't feeling particularly charitable.

That, and Aliera had woken up in a bad mood and let it be known through the entire castle. He had forced her out before she'd killed anyone, but not before she'd transferred her irritability to him. As such, it appeared that Vlad's purse would be carrying nothing but lint for a long while yet.

“How many times have I saved your life, now? Four times?” Vlad invited himself to a chair and put his boots up. Morrolan's gaze turned decidedly snake-like.

“Twice.”

Loiosh flew around the room and looped out to check on Teldra. He flapped in her hair pointedly, then flew back to his witch's shoulder just in time to catch something unpleasant being said about the lineage of certain Lords that may or may not have been in the room at the time.

The plan was done. Vlad would die, and all of the effort put into this scenario would have been for nothing more than to feed a soul-sucking sword for a day.

But fear not, gentle reader. Teldra is smooth. Smoother than smooth.

So smooth she floated in with a tray of glasses and placed it between the two men, careful to be in the way of any violent movements Morrolan might make. She smiled. She was beautiful. One might even say she'd diffused a bomb with remarkable elegance.

Loiosh, not born yesterday, perched on a table off to the side. Better safe than in two lizardy hunks.

“Wine? Although I would suggest this new vintage. Here—yes, this one. Vlad wanted it. It has been such a long day, hasn't it?”

Morrolan took note to kill Vlad at a later time and Vlad took note to not be there when it happened. They both started to accept the mysterious green liquid with a kind of menace. Teldra was unimpressed and told them quite firmly that they worked too hard and needed to relax.

“Me, maybe,” muttered Vlad around the wine. “I wouldn't be so sure of him, sitting around like an over-powdered--”

Teldra's nails tightened on Morrolan's wrist. Vlad stared at his goblet like it had eight heads and a dead teckla for a tail.

“That is,” he backpedaled, “I meant that. Yes. Right. Drinking on an empty stomach.”

Morrolan, for all his rather substantial annoyance, was for the moment kept from killing Vlad for the simple fact that the assassin was acting as though, well, he had eight heads and a dead teckla for a tail. Obviously, thought Morrolan, the teckla was doing the thinking.

They both sat in a peculiar kind of silence after a quarter of a glass each.

There is a sort of irony in two such people being so easily duped, especially with the old tampered-wine trick. Teldra thought it was really quite sweet, the way they were looking at each other. Loiosh thought it was really quite creepy.

What followed for the two hapless males after an entire glass is best left to the sort of people that engineer Cirque du Soleil shows. Loiosh rode out on Teldra's shoulder and tried not to lose his dinner on her hair.

She was smiling like a well-fed orca.

★★★

“I think the wine was spiked,” said Vlad the following week, quite out of the blue.

Well spotted, boss, said Loiosh. Take you a whole week to figure that out?

★★★

After another week, Morrolan was still hiding in his rooms. Teldra, quite unrepentant, looked after him so he wouldn't starve. She also watched Aliera who, true to nature, began spreading rumors of Morrolan's horrifying Easterner fetish, which upset the party-goers to no end.

If there was one thing Teldra didn't like, it was a hypocrite. So she got around to suggesting to Norathar that Cawti needed a bit of cheering up, and really, the festivities are nothing but colourful at Castle Black, what do you say?

Cawti did indeed show up, looking the worse for wear and about a second away from beheading the next Easterner male she came across.

“It might be best if you put the shuriken away,” smiled Teldra at the door, without betraying any nervousness. She, after all, did not have a mustache and a familiar. Cawti grudgingly put away her weapons.

★★★

Aliera impatiently waited, but was grateful for another ear to shower with her anti-relative propaganda. In fact, she actually sat down when her visitor arrived. (Teldra had already convinced Aliera that it was her own idea to bring Cawti to the castle. Did we mention she was smooth?)

“I hate men,” said Cawti, slouching slightly in her chair.

“They're incompetent,” agreed Aliera.

The Lady Teldra arranged a pair of cut glass goblets with a tiny little dragon smile. “Would the pair of you care for some wine? I may have some myself, if you don't mind my company..."

Setting/world/characters/awesomeness © Steven Brust.
As ever, the copyright and graces go to Steven Brust. I have no intention of making money off this drivel (like I could), nor cause issues of the legal or bloody sort. Go read his books. All of them. Then read them again. Thank you, and good day. Also: steal the writing that is actually mine, and I will hunt you like a crazed dzur.

Vladfic: Mary S Taltos

Wed, 20 Jun 2007 19:34:07 GMT

It's weird the things you think of while doing the dishes. I could have been more detailed with the horrible things, but they do say that life is swift and brutal. ;DD

Mary S Taltos: A Very Abrupt Sort of Lovestory
In which there is a degree of logic.

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Rachel. While this opening isn't as witty or even as punchy as anything Steven Brust could come up with even in a coma, it sets a fairytale beginning. Sets up for fairy tale romance!

Or something.

Moving along past the glorious descriptions of beauty and flowing yellow hair that in all honesty looks like dandelion fluff, we get to the part where Rachel is bubbly and prone to tears. This is very useful for her in America (she has to be from America, duh), where men will jump to help her.

Unfortunately, the gender-blind Dragaera isn't necessarily impressed with waterworks.

(Did we mention that she loves the Vlad books and daydreams about dating Morrolan constantly? That is very important to remember.)

Rachel one day wanders out vapidly into the streets of Manhattan and bamf! She gets hit by a gorgeous, sleek, etcetc., Jaguar. But fear not! She can't die yet!

What really happens is that she gets transported into the streets of Adrilankha via the thinly veiled metaphor-car. (Jaguar=panther=dzur. The writer is such a genius, hurhur.)

While it is much more likely that she would have been teleported into the walls of some building and thus die a very cramped death, for this story we'll give her at least one chance to live. So she ends up on a street.

Needless to say, she is given some very strange looks. But not as strange as the ones given to the man who bullies through the crowd and flees off down the street, hotly pursued by several irate Guards. A small, dangerously cute lizard is clinging to his shirt for dear life.

It takes Rachel, who isn't the most intelligent of females, about five entire seconds to grasp the situation. She panics and tries to claw her way after him screaming all sorts of coo-ey I-love-your-work-you-sexay-thang phrases.

But, you know, no one can understand a single word she's saying and quickly develop the impression that she's entirely insane. Possibly diseased. Rachel doesn't care. She saw Vlad and must save him! Because, you know, he's really small, so technically helpless against a few Teckla in armor.

However, her path is blocked! She finds herself clawing at the jerkin of a very stout, tall, and shark-headed individual who happened to be the leader of what we might call in some tongues an Orca press gang.

You didn't need to speak the language to be a deckhand. Rachel forgot about this part of the books and thought he was a nice Jhereg crimelord coming to take her to Morrolan.

She thought it rather odd that Castle Black was, apparently, a large boat.

Within a week she dies of the diseases and colds that everyone in the city was immune to, but Rachel, being from another world, was not. It is also suggested that she died of despair at being unable to talk to anyone. Or possibly being an over privileged brat who hadn't even heard of chamber pots.

And that, my friends, is why Mary Sues in the Vladverse are very, very stupid.

Alternate: Rachel poofs through one of Morrolan's windows! In which case he'd promptly behead her for being in that room in the first place. One of those situations where he'd question the corpse after the fact. (I like the disease method better. It's more satisfying. ;D)

P.S.: If you say this is autobiographical, I'll kill you.

Setting/world/characters/awesomeness © Steven Brust.
As ever, the copyright and graces go to Steven Brust. I have no intention of making money off this drivel (like I could), nor cause issues of the legal or bloody sort. Go read his books. All of them. Then read them again. Thank you, and good day. Also: steal the writing that is actually mine, and I will hunt you like a crazed dzur.

Rule #1

Wed, 20 Jun 2007 04:55:20 GMT

Rule #1 of the Sadistiverse: Whenever you have a hankering for drawing, there are no damn pencils to be had.

Bono is Liek SOOOOOO a Hippocryte Guyzzz

Wed, 20 Jun 2007 02:44:58 GMT

Minor commentary during lunch got me amused. Bono has been jumping all over Canada for slacking in the foreign aid department, which is well and good. I agree. However, my lunch buddy had read an article in today's paper that pointed out rather snidely that Canada gives Ireland some 7 million or somesuch for general keep-the-religious-folk-without-guns purposes.

For some reason, both the writer and the Lunch Buddy seem to think this has huge implications of hypocrisy for Bono. WTF? I know formal rhetoric isn't a popular class to take, but this messy fact is nothing more than a messy fact. I don't see how it affects Bono's efforts/arguments/jumping. He stands for no one but himself--not Ireland, and certainly not the Western world in its entirety. 7 mil is also peanuts, if we go down that road.

And isn't Sweden giving almost twice what Canada is to aid? Something like 1% of its total income, while Canada offers .7%? (Drawn from memory, liable to wrong. ;D)

Canada: Land of the Bloated, Incompetent Bureaucracies. And political parties that are identical, even though supposedly the one you don't support is going to Destroy Canada when they're elected. They're so crippled they can't do the apocalyptic shit people think they can. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking. I don't really see much difference between the Conservatives and Liberals at the federal level. Their philosophies are quite different, but that difference isn't translated into the real world.

Only I like to think of the Liberals as a money-puking, snake-eyed Goliath with tentacled arms representing billions of government workers and bureaucracies that do nothing but make the public think that there's lots of social programs being run that will help them deeply. When in fact, there are an uncomfortable amount of destitute people in every community that aren't exactly seeing a lot of this "aid."

But as a post-secondary student, I should be totally liberal and the like. Or be a psycho. I think I'll stick with the green-haired rocker crowd, thanks. If I want to help in something, I'll go help, not wave a little placard on a campus where the majority either don't care or agree with you.

And the new No-Fly List? "Holy shit, Orwell WAS right." Live a little, you fucking pussies. Who needs Toronto?

Term 2 Selections

Fri, 15 Jun 2007 03:21:01 GMT

Selections for second term. Will likely drop CREW 120, as it seems a bit of a waste. Not to say my writing does not need a hell of a lot of work, but I'd rather do it in a non-CW-groupie setting. That, and my patience for shoddily "deep" general fiction is running thin these days.

ANTH 336 - Visual Anthropology
This course investigates film as ethnography, as an applied research method and as a medium of communicating anthropological understanding. Topics include research methodology; visible aspects of culture; the assumed dilemma between science and art; accuracy, fairness and objectivity; the relation between written and visual anthropology; and ethics.

ANTH 350 - Primatology
A detailed survey of the field of primatology including taxonomy, genetics, morphology, palaeontology, ecology, zoogeography, growth and behaviour of the primates.

ANTH 388 - Language and Culture
A study of language in culture and society. Topics include the ways in which people use artistic and expressive language; the nature of speech communities; social meaning and social variation in language; gender and language; the use of language in identity formation and power relations; minority languages; and language revitalization.

CREW 120 - Intro to Writing Fiction
An introduction to the basic structures and approaches in the writing of fiction. Analysis and discussion of professional work will form and develop guidelines for effective criticism and revision of student writing.

ENGL 209 - Fantasy Literature
An exploration of major fantasies from the 20th and 21st centuries with some historical background to the genre.

HIST 222 - Europe 1789-1914
A survey of Europe's history from the French Revolution to World War I. Topics may include the new imperialism, industrialization, revolution and nationalism.

LING 212 - Indo-European Studies
A study of Indo-European languages and their "family" emphasizing the principles of classifying languages; debate concerning macro-families; the theories of the origins and nature of Proto- Indo-European; archaeolinguistic evidence supporting these theories; the nature of Indo-European texts; the provenance and dispersal of Indo-European languages, and the controversies concerning their relationships.

Term 1 Selections

Wed, 13 Jun 2007 06:44:50 GMT

Now all I have to do is choose five (maybe six, if I'm feeling masochistic) of these to pay for. I'm such a fucking liberal studies loser, although it could be worse. I could be a PhysEd major. Then I'd just have to hang myself to preserve some dignity.

ANTH 214 - Human Evolution
An examination of the methods of investigating the biology of human populations in the present and in the past. Laboratories will introduce students to basic techniques.

ANTH 231 - Intro to Music in Culture
An examination of musical phenomena in a cultural context to understand the forces which shape musical styles and the role music plays in broader aspects of culture. Terms and concepts from anthropology, ethnomusicology, and related disciplines are presented along with sound recordings of a wide variety of musical traditions from the Americas, Africa and Asia.

ANTH 343 - Early Prehistory of the Americas
A survey of the early prehistoric cultures of North and South America, from the peopling of the New World to the rise of complex chiefdoms and the beginnings of agriculture.

ENGL 200 - A Study of British Literature to the Restoration
A broad view of representative writing in English literature from its beginnings to the Restoration, with attention to literary form, the social and intellectual characteristics of periods or schools, and major authors.

LING 211 - History of the English Language
A study of the history and development of the English language from its origins to the present, including the historical context of the development of the language; the changes in phonology, grammar, and vocabulary from Old to Middle to Modern English; the history and diversity of English dialects; the role of English today as a world language; and the history and nature of Canadian English.

PHIL 200 - The History of Modern Philosophy
An examination of major modern western philosophers: selections from Descartes, Leibniz, Spinoza, Locke, Berkeley, Hume, Kant, Wittgenstein, Ayer, Austin, Ryle, and others. Topics include the 17th Century-the formative era of modern philosophy; the 18th Century-the age of psychology; the 19th Century-characterized by enormous religious, political and economical change; the 20th Century-the philosophers interested in philosophical and linguistical analysis.

RELI 201 - Critical Bible Study: The Old Testament/Hebrew Scriptures
An introduction to the historical, religious and philosophical significance of the Old Testament/Hebrew Scriptures, using techniques of critical Bible study. The course pays attention to the tensions between the "official line" and the "story line" within each biblical book. This course has no positive or negative religious presuppositions.