Scribblings of a Lost Mind

Music: Jeremy Soule

Thu, 14 May 2009 15:30:16 GMT

Okay, I play GuildWars a lot, like other people play their MMOs . . . but lately I've had time to sit in places and just chill out waiting for the guild to organize and be ready. This means time to listen to the soundtrack going on. Jeremy Soule is the man who did the composing, and I was impressed by a couple of his pieces which were used for title screens or epilogues.

For instance:

"Main Theme" (or some variation of) - Guild Wars: Prophecies
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--rxf-28YlQ

"Land of the Golden Sun" - Guild Wars: Nightfall
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G28owdg5UpE

"Crystal Oasis"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1oFGagjD18o

"Tome of Rubicon"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1LzTwnfmI9w

Then I started poking around to see what else was out there.

"White Castle Town" - Secret of Evermore
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5-xlUujLrZ0

"Main Title" - Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=68wo9S2cfac

He gets added to my list of composers to look for.

Writing Project #14 - Writing on the Wall

Thu, 14 May 2009 06:22:40 GMT

So, once again, hopping back to another realm and its continuity which has a jagged and uneven sort of feel. Entirely my fault, but I don't really finish scenes in any order or any particular line of interest.

As for why this isn't getting updated as often? It's relatively difficult to find time to sit and write something which makes sense when every time you do, you're perceived as "not doing anything" and are free to be disturbed.

Jerry sat in the parlor with the iced tea before him, listening absently as the guests described the lot of antiques they wished moved. They had provided photographs, which he leafed through slowly. They didn't show every angle, so he was reasonably certain they were hiding damages. Scuffs, scratches, dents, whatever.

He set the photos back down and closed the folder. "Mister and Miss . . . Lyndon." He smoothly let his mind fill in the blank for their names. "I'm willing to act as your agent for placing these items. Naturally, my fee is fifteen percent of the sales."

"Ten percent." The woman said stiffly. "Standard commission."

"With respect, madam, standard commission is whatever I agree on. And it may take some time and effort to place these. So as fair compensation I would like to deal for fifteen percent. It's either that or we haggle with a flat rate, but for that I'd have to inspect each piece individually before seeking buyers." As the silence dropped leaden between the two parties, Jerry cleared his throat. "If I can place these items within the first two months, I'll accept a ten percent commission. I rather hope I can move them so fast, to prevent you holding on to them for too long."

Five minutes later, the contracts were signed and Jerry filed the folder away in a drawer, sighing. "Not that it will be so fast. Bunch of old junk." He walked out to the foyer and paused as he saw a man standing outside the door in a long forest-green jacket.

"Hello Jerome. I need to talk with you."

"Max, what brings you to this side of the river?" Jerry opened the door and led his guest to the parlor. "Tea? Or wine?"

"Neither, actually, I'm not going to take too much of your time. You remember that one case over in Avon Lake I mentioned?"

"Yes, nice house, seriously bad fire. It's a shame I'm not into real estate, it could have been worth something." Jerry settled into his seat, and looked up. "Or do you mean what I found in the basement?"

"That's what I meant." Max sat down and reached into his pocket, pulling out a photograph. "But what else interested me was this, and I doubt you got that far. You never made it out of the basement, hmmm?" The photo was placed on the table. "Second floor, it was scrawled on the wall . . . does it mean anything to you?"

Jerry peered at the picture and frowned. "No." Written on the wall in large bold strokes of black soot was: 'The Light is Broken'.

"Are you sure?"

"Should it mean something?" He asked kindly, and looked up to Max's eyes. A long pause, then he sighed and looked down. "It could mean anything, really, but I don't have a good idea where to begin unraveling the mystery. I could probably list off half a dozen possibilities within a day of looking into it, but I don't have enough information to put a clearer picture together."

"I sort of expected that." Max rose to his feet and collected the photograph. "I'll see what more I can learn." After he left, Jerry paced for a while in the parlor, and moved into another room where a whiteboard was set up. He scrawled the phrase down and studied it for a moment, shaking his head.

A lot of the potentials could be eliminated if it was known who had written it, and in what state of mind . . . without that, there was indeed too much in the way of potential and not enough in the realm of answers. He hoped things would clear up, but it was probably something outside his area of expertise. Also quite likely it was outside his 'jurisdiction' as a mortal being.

Writing Project #13 - Moonlight Reunion

Tue, 21 Apr 2009 00:20:01 GMT

Another foray into a small world which has lingered in the back of my consciousness. Expect more to come flowing sometime soon.

The moon shone down on the streets as the fox walked along, head down as he regarded his shoes. There was something in the air, something which made Franklin on edge, and it chafed at his senses. He stopped at a sensed presence in time to see a tiger slide out of the shadows of a doorway and unerringly head for him.

"It's been a while." The deep, rich voice rumbled as the feline stopped and stood there. "Do you remember me, Frank?"

"John!" A sigh of relief, but the fox still tensed. Memories of fire and fear flowed back to him. "You're an unexpected sight. How've you been?" He started walking again, and the tiger fell into step alongside. "It's been what, two years?"

"Something like that. I'm just in town for a couple weeks, though." The tiger stopped at the crosswalk and murmured softly. "You never told me you were working for Damon."

"Don't."

A brief silence, and there was a vague hope the subject would be dropped. But with John, there was no such luck. "Did he know?"

"Come on!" Franklin flicked his ears and glanced up at the impassive gaze of the feline. "I get work where I can, and they appreciate my talents."

"All your talents?" The fox glanced away, and a chuckle. "So they don't know. Do they make use of another talent of yours? The killing?" Franklin was silent some more, closing his eyes tightly. The feline nudged his elbow and walked across the street slowly, voice shifting to a pensive tone. "Well that talent we at least have in common."

"John, I don't do that. I'm just a glorified coffee boy. Executive assistant isn't all it's cracked up to be." Franklin tried to put all he could into the words, swallowing nervously. "I get paid well enough, maybe I can leave some to my kids when I have them."

"You can't have kids, Franklin. None of us can and you know it. That's even if the laws eventually get changed." The tiger looked away now, a bitter note in his voice. "Technically we don't even have family . . . only purchasers. Clients of the people who control the technology."

They were quiet for a while, after that, both following their own thoughts as Franklin hoped the tiger would get to the reason he had been waiting for the fox. He didn't wait too much longer, as John stopped and let out a slow breath. "I know you don't just run coffee, or contracts, or whatever. I know what sort of work you really do." He lifted his fingers and pointed a single claw at the fox as he tensed. "And if I was going to stop you, or rat you out, I'd have done it already. What I want to know is simple."

The tiger looked up at the sky for a bit, and then down at the fox. "First, I need to know two things. You're not going to tell your employer about this." The fox shrugged and nodded. "I know you'll tell him anyway if it turns out I'm going to screw up the nice little operation he has hidden here, but that's not my intent. Secondly, have you heard from Kyle or Roland lately?"

The fox's tail bushed slightly at the names, then he shook his head. "Why? What happened?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with. The favor I need to ask of you is simple, though." He dipped a hand into a pocket and removed an index card with a name typed on it, a few more remarks penciled in after. "I'm in town looking for someone. I'm going to find him, it's only a matter of time. But your help would mean less time I have to spend chasing leads, and it would mean less disruption going on."

"Sure." He looked at the name, and his ears pinned back. "Oh, yes, I know about him. I'll help you find him, it shouldn't be hard." He pocketed the piece of stiff paper and coughed. "Look, would you like to go get something to eat? I know a good diner around here . . ."

"And we could chat over what happened since we broke apart? Since we parted ways? I don't think so. The less you know about it, the better; I figure the same is true for you, Frank." The tiger sighed and turned away. "I hope we do get a chance to talk but . . . not until this is all over."

"Until what's over? What are you after?" The fox raised his voice slightly, John a dozen feet away now. "Look, how's your sister? The Gnat? Is she all right?" The tiger paused and turned his head, his eye piercing and full of a barely suppressed fury. "Oh no . . . no, please. She is all right isn't she?"

"You'd know more about how she is than me. I haven't seen her since we all parted ways either, Franklin." The tiger's voice was silk over steel, soft spoken but there was a definite threat underneath it. Franklin felt another part of him responding, rising to the surface. The tiger must have seen it because there was an aura of menace around the steady gaze. "Go home. And for God's sake, don't get in my way. Even you don't get another warning."

Franklin stood and watched him go, then he looked at the card in his pocket, swallowing. The name on the card had been familiar, and he knew it. John hadn't meant to get any information out of the fox; this was the first warning to avoid this whole matter. To avoid what was going to happen.

Fire, and death . . . John was at the center of it again, and Franklin would rather be damned than stand idly by again. The fox closed his eyes, and opened his cellphone. He dialed without really thinking about it, and spoke quietly. "This is Franklin, authorization code nine two four. I need to talk to Mister Carlyle, immediately. I believe someone is going to threaten his life."

He waited a beat, and added. "I have an addition. Tell Mister Carlyle we have a Beta involved."

As forwarded to me

Mon, 20 Apr 2009 15:03:10 GMT

by lhuhikwdwoo

In all seriousness, I know there's a few people out there who might like this. I know it's piqued my interest . . .

Brief Update

Mon, 23 Mar 2009 21:22:46 GMT

Brain and attention too scattered and fragmented to really devote to adding posts here, let alone the fragments of writing which have been issuing forth. Far too much to get done and not enough energy to get it done . . .

Writing Project #12 - Guild Wars fiction

Thu, 12 Mar 2009 14:51:52 GMT

So, I play GuildWars and have a good time with it. I'm in a fairly low-key guild alliance which is a lot of fun and I have a blast playing in it. The writing of the lore and storylines aren't always something to write home about but they are handled really well. Better than other MMOs I've played in, which had a nice history with the "retcon button". Certainly there are some points where minor quibbles seem to happen but they make a certain kind of sense.

But it tickles my writing sense, and while there are really good writers who put together and polished the lore I had to take a crack at this mostly to start myself going with some other writing concepts. Mostly, yes, about my character . . . but also about whomever happens to share the limelight so to speak.

Enjoy the reading!

Ascalon, the year 1072 AE

Once the kingdom of Ascalon was known to many as one of the great nations of Tyria, as a great and prosperous realm in the east. The royal family held a firm and wise guiding hand to their realm, leading the people to good and peaceful lives in the wake of the Guild Wars. The subjects of King Adlebern were free to pursue what lives they chose, be it the lives of soldiers or the lives of farmers, scholars, or priests.

It is a changed world. Two years ago, a race known as the Charr called upon ancient and terrible magics to sunder the Great Northern Wall and spilled forth into the Ascalon. They rampaged across the lands, leaving behind a trail of scorched earth, and taking very few prisoners. This event became known as the Searing, and it was followed by the Charr forcing their way across the Shiverpeak Mountains into the neighboring realm of Kryta. There they were stopped, and turned back, but the damage had been done. The Searing had nearly destroyed the kingdom of Ascalon, and Kryta's political landscape had been forever altered as much as the actual landscape of Ascalon. And the kindgom of Orr was destroyed in an accident of great magic, blasted off the face of Tyria before the Charr could reach it.

Those humans who remain in Ascalon fight for survival, fight to keep the Charr from claiming the whole of the kingdom's ruins. The lands have been tainted by the wanton burning of the Charr, and the scars left by the Searing. The cities have crumbled, as the relentless attacks have left little time to repair. Those who fight against the Charr find it a daunting task, and yet the fight is all which remains for many. Peace is a distant memory, prosperity and safety ghosts of a past which can never be reclaimed.

Yet the nobility of humanity endures, and the good side of human nature continues. The grace of the Five Gods keeps all from falling to ruin, so long as the people hold to their ideals. Among the people move legends in the making, waiting for the opportunity to rise into the light. There are warriors waiting for a chance to protect what they love and value, fighting with blade, hammer, or even sheer willpower if need be. There are rangers who scout the road ahead, who blaze the trails others will follow to make it easier for those who would follow after. There are those who embrace magic, their talents waiting for the right time to be unleashed. Mesmers whose magic is rooted in the mind and heart, elementalists who tap four elements of the world to protect or destroy, necromancers who harness death and decay in order to prevent it from overwhelming others, and monks who channel the divine energies of the Five Gods to heal the wounds of body and soul.

There are prophecies which are spoken of, in whispers, passed down amidst the wise and the mad. They were called the Flameseeker Prophecies, and they speak of the turning of the pages of history. They speak of guidance through the time of unrest and upheaval into a better time. They are a call for actions to begin. All it takes is the call to be made and answered, and the legends will rise . . . and the tales will begin.

Writing Project #11: Oracle v2.1

Tue, 03 Mar 2009 18:36:34 GMT

Okay, what with some mild insanity around here and my creative energies bent elsewhere, I haven't found writing to be working. Literally every time I start something going there is a minor meltdown which takes my attention away. So it's been a question of various other projects or the writing. I've opted for other projects.

One of which is working on a story and setting which I'd used two years ago, and have about 95000 words written in currently. A lot of it disjointed and not exactly in order; I haven't had motivation to try to mesh it all together and it defies me when I try. But I want to get it working to make a good story. Soon as I figure out how to get things to make better sense weaving it all together . . .

In any case, enjoy the short segment. Those who have read my stuff all along may recognize some phrases. I hope so anyway.

"All right, let's try iteration four-twenty-six." The tiger in the lab coat frowned and consulted his screen, standing in the middle of the chamber. A large cylinder was there, having several interface wires spread out to other terminals. Six people stood or sat at collapsible desks, consulting notebooks set next to the screens. The lights flickered and there were groans. "Ignore it, we've got our own tasks to focus on."

A lapine looked up from his terminal and coughed discreetly. "Sir, are you really certain Oracle can be salvaged? I mean, the last progress report by the team suggested it was a failure."

"I have that report, John, and it said the physical architecture wasn't good enough. That's why we're here." His tone getting a little sharp. "That's why the project is being reopened, because we believe we can do better with newer advances. We just need to crack into the database."

"Why they locked it up makes no sense. They could have just disconnected it and stuck it in storage like the interface units." This came from a fox typing furiously away. "And the dozen other terminals which were left after the original project closed."

"You mean the ones which walked off unauthorized, and the dozens of copies of Project materials which are on the black market?" The tiger said with a soft growl. "I wish there'd been lawsuits filed against them. All of them."

A voice came from above, where a raccoon was sitting calmly. "Then we would have had to reveal the Project, among the other ones being carried out. We would have been held accountable for all of it, and the money which went into it without any notable returns. Personally I wish we'd been authorized to market the advances we made and not simply have to sit on them while team members were allowed to leave and reinvent them."

"Breach of contract, sir."

"We were the ones who broke the contract, Ted." The raccoon shot back with a dry, humorless smirk. "The decision was made to toss them out so there wouldn't be paperwork to snarl up a transition. And since that turned out so wonderfully, the foundation wasn't too thrilled with this whole Project. It took me five months to convince them it was worth reopening, and another ten to secure funding enough to begin scouting."

"Just saying." Ted swatted his tail angrily. "If we had filed, then-"

"If the company had allowed me to use our advances commercially, then we wouldn't have needed to beg and wheedle out funding. We could have released Neon City ourselves, and then made the money they're pulling in. But they hadn't, we aren't, and the world still is turning." The raccoon leaned forwards. "Now can we please get on with it?"

"Are we all set?" Ted looked around and saw nods. "All right, begin iteration four-twenty-six." He walked to watch one of the screens, the lapine looking up nervously as he typed away. Lines of code began to scroll, as another window had command after command typed into it, the lapine glancing to a list of number strings as his fingers worked rapidly.

The display went black, and then it flickered back to life with a text prompt. "What the hell just happened?" John said. "I'm not getting a response."

"Me neither."

"Quiet." Ted hissed out and peered as text began to fill the screen.

> To the voyeurs who think it is amusing to continue trying to crack the system. Please stop.

> We do not require you to make things more difficult than they already are. We are currently hard at work trying to fix what was broken.

> It is a dull, thankless job but someone has to do it.

> If you persist, you will negatively affect our efforts to restore the system to former working order. This is a goal to which I believe both us and you wish. In the spirit of cooperation, we ask you again to discontinue.

> If you do not, then we will have to defend ourselves. There will be no negotiation. There will be no discussion. This is your only warning.

A long moment passed, before the screen cleared and text appeared on it.

> Have a nice day :)

Writing Project #10: Dreaming Star

Sun, 22 Feb 2009 14:39:19 GMT

I have little to say about this one. It "clicked" and I dashed it out in roughly 20 minutes, only to realize it simply worked.

The crowd roared with appreciation and joy, as the blond girl bowed and raised the microphone to them. "Thank you, Charlotte!" She called out into it a moment later. "Good night!" She waved, and curtsied before heading off backstage. The roar rose, and they began chanting her name. Technicians accepted her wireless headset, where she heard her music and stage prompts and also used a discrete microphone to help.

"Hey, Gen." Her manager sidled up, the older gentleman handing her a jacket. She slipped it on without thinking. "You did good out there, except that one slip. I don't think they caught it."

"No, I tried to mix it in. So I missed the note by one. They love me anyway." She grabbed a water bottle from a cart as she passed and took a long drink. That missed note bothered her, because for a second she had felt like she was somewhere else. She shook her head to clear it, a tune starting in the back of her mind.

The drive back to her hotel room was quiet, discrete. When you're a pop music singer, with as big a following as Gen Rivers, you had to take precautions. Crazy fans would do anything to get things out of you. She began to tap her foot to the tune in her head, not one of hers but it was familiar anyway. She didn't know why, but it sounded pleasant.

At the hotel room she picked up the small pile of mail by the door; they screened out her fan-mail for her to reply when she had the time. Which was not immediately after a late concert. Nevertheless, there was an envelope stuck in the midst of the bills and notices, the paper feeling thick and the front written in cursive.

"Genevieve Goldstein."

A fan-mail which slipped by, probably because of the name. How had they found out her real name? Or was it something more important? She slipped a pencil into the edge and opened it with a sharp motion, seeing a folded card inside. She took it out, plain cream-colored paper. The front was covered with an intricate weave of lines and patterns which made her pause. Tracing a fingertip along it, she felt no indentation, no furrow where a pen or stamp had put it into the paper. The inside was likewise written in a simple script, easy to read yet looking classical in many ways.

"Miss Goldstein, as a person with your best interests at heart I implore you to be careful. You are a very popular woman, and you have a wonderful life. One might say you are living the dream. But it is very easy to slip from dream to nightmare . . . or something else. Never forget how to wake up."

It wasn't signed, just a single rune or other character which resembled two single chevrons facing each other with a line down the left side. She tossed it aside, and snorted to herself. So some crazy person had her real name, she'd have to let Mac know so he could keep an eye on things. No sense leaving herself open to identity theft in this day and age.

Gen stripped down and stepped into the shower, turning on the water. She closed her eyes and began to wash up, humming the tune from the car under her breath; it sounded so good she might have to make a song out of it. A cool breeze swept over her face, and her eyes snapped open.

She was standing in a forest at night, water pouring down around her in a gentle rain as a bluish moon cast light down through the leaves. It was silent, no night birds, no wind. She looked around, and felt exposed as her hands moved to cover herself; it wasn't just the clothing, it was the strange location.

And yet it felt . . . familiar.

She took a step, feeling leaves crackle under her foot. It certainly didn't feel like a dream, it felt very real. The forest seemed to envelop her, welcome her and invite her in. The young woman walked less hesitantly, eyes searching for something to help her understand why this place seemed so familiar.

Then without warning she reached a clearing, with a stone bench sitting in the middle before a basin. In the basin there was a fire burning, but that wasn't what made her pause. Nor was it knowing the clearing had come completely unaware to her, and she hadn't seen the flame for certain. What gave her pause was the flame flickered a bright violet color, and didn't seem to cast light.

"Welcome." The voice seemed to come from behind the basin, a warm tone which seemed meant to put her at ease. It wasn't working, just making her tighten up more. "No need to fear, this is one of the few safe sanctuaries for dreamers in these troubled times."

"Where am I?"

"In a forest. In a place which is quite dangerous ordinarily. In a world which you have never set foot in, though it's been in your dreams before." Gen blinked, realizing it did sound right; she might have dreamed this place before, and that would explain the familiar feeling. But in dreams, everything seemed familiar and nothing out of place; that's what she read in an article some years ago. "Though you should be welcome to stay, it is best if you didn't." The voice broke into her thoughts again. "Things are quite . . . unbalanced here at the moment."

"What do you mean? Who are you?"

"Me? Just a guide." The voice sounded amused, and the flame flickered. "To keep the wandering dreamers from getting lost forever." A wind started to kick up, and a chill crept over Gen's body. "I'm going to send you back now. I hope you are careful to avoid coming here again. It isn't safe. As pleasant as this place feels, there is danger for you."

"What danger?!" She tried to peer through the flickering flames to see the speaker, walking forward. "What kind of danger? Someone wants to hurt me? Kidnapping? Ransom?"

"Oh they don't have a need for money, Genevieve. They have a need for that lovely voice of yours. Now, be a good girl and wake up."

Gen felt a jolt, and then she blinked her eyes a few times as ash swept into them. The world spun, and she next opened her eyes to see her shower . . . the water running barely warm over her. She reached out to turn it off, and stopped as she heard the door to the bathroom open.

"Who's there?" She called, and quickly reached for a towel through the curtain.

There was a moment, and a voice swore, sounding odd. "Oh no, not another one . . . Max was fit to kill last time." There was a snap of the shower curtains, and two pairs of blue eyes met, though they were very different. Standing there was something like a tall white dog standing on her hind legs, though with a definite feminine form, and long blond hair behind her. The voice, the eyes . . .

"Who the hell are you?" Gen felt her heart speed up, as she stood up. Just the right height . . . no, impossible.

"Who the hell am I?! I'm Eve Goldstein, who the hell are YOU?!" The canine said, sounding just as shocked. They stared for a long time at each other, and spoke softly as one.

"Genevieve Goldstein?"

Then they both fainted, one onto the floor and the other back into the shower's bottom.

Writing Project #9: Coffee with Marie

Fri, 13 Feb 2009 12:54:57 GMT

So, it's been a trying week; sleep has not exactly come easily to me and I keep waking up way too early in the morning for no apparent reason at all. That's made it hard to focus on what I need to do around the house in addition to actually writing. I've started four different little writings but none of them got beyond a paragraph before I lost my muse. Of course, this got a little spurred after I took some time to relax with some DVD boxed sets, a movie or two, and in general relax my mind.

(Tangentially, I'd recommend "Firefly" to people who like decent character writing. Decent, not stellar, but that's better than most shows which are on television of late. It's a lot better than "Heroes" lately . . .)

In any case, this goes back to some of the other writings, meshing together in ways. I think underneath all this I've worked out the setting and how things connect. I suppose that means I need to settle into a chair sometime and pound it all out into a short story for another attempt at submission.

I think the next one is going to be different entirely in scope. Probably another fan-fiction piece, because those really do relax my muse.

"That was a harrowing experience, I'm sure several people would say." Jerome rubbed at his cheek and poured coffee from the pot into two cups. One for his guest, and one for himself. He stirred in sugar, and sank into a seat with a sigh. "Even without the interference."

"I did warn you. The paths are no longer safe with any certainty, and there are those who watch them for those they call prey." The woman sitting across from Jerome spoke evenly, dispassionately. She sipped at a cup of coffee and frowned into it. "What is it with you people and drinking bitter drinks? Last time it was cocoa . . ."

"You should add some milk or sugar." He said, waving a hand vaguely. "Most people do, one or the other. Or both." She shrugged and set her cup down, looking at him steadily. "So, there are other gateways which have been opened besides this one?"

"Yes, some of which have existed naturally for many years. Previous generations have used them before. Their secret was lost, some generations ago, when a great many of the wisest minds in this world were also lost." She looked towards the window. "There are some who survived to pass down other knowledge, but still there was much which was lost."

"I know. I find myself wishing Anton told me a whole lot more than he did." Jerome muttered and sat back with a soft sigh. "What do you think, Marie?" She turned her head to regard him with barely veiled amusement, and he sighed. "What do you recommend I do about this problem? I won't get paid unless I can track down what happened to him, and bring him back."

"The child who fell through."

"Yes."

She stood and walked to the window, staring at the street outside and the trees lining it. Jerome bit the corner of his mouth, trying to keep himself from exploding angrily at the theatrics Marie always subjected him to. It was better than being treated like an idiot, like some of his other contacts.

She spoke slowly, thoughtfully, turning around. "You will not find him, not in the manner you are searching. He is lost, body and mind, beyond this world. The gateways will not lead you to him, and those who would answer any summons you cast out would also not know." Marie raised a hand to gesture vaguely. "There are only a few who would know where to look for him, and they would ask a heavy price for their help."

"That's my business, not yours. I can afford it."

She sat down and looked down into her lap for a moment before speaking. "Jerome Richter, you have been actively invested in the matter ever since you were discovered and awakened by Aliandros. You have fought for your people, and you have done many things which have made you an enemy beyond the gateways." She lifted her cup and studied it before taking a sip. "There are many who would see you not simply killed but destroyed. Mind, body, and soul."

"I take that risk every time-"

"You do not understand." She cut him off with a fierce chopping motion of her fingers. "There once was an authority in place which set the code of conduct for the spirit world, but it has been silent and even perhaps has failed entirely. Since then, everything has become chaos outside of the gatherings. Lords have been unable to hold together any sort of order without overextending their powers. The other worlds are as open to the spirit world as yours is, and there have been . . . some leaks."

Marie set down the cup and looked away for a long and silent moment before standing up. "If you pursue this any further, it is entirely likely you will not return. I would also add, it is far more certain the child will not. You ask always for my advice, and now I give it. Make your peace with this failure, and let it go."

Jerome was quiet, and drank the whole of his cup before speaking, softly. "I can't. If I don't do this, then I can't be paid. And I really do need the money."

"This matter is not about material wealth."

"Damn straight on that, it's about what that material wealth can do to keep me moving from day to day." He set the cup down. "So who is it I need to talk to, Marie, to get a good lead?"

"I want no part of this self-destruction."

"I want a name. I'll leave yours out of it, I promise."

She closed her eyes, and sighed softly, shaking her head. "Francis Reynard. And may whatever gods you pray to help you on your journey."

Writing Project #8 - February 2039

Sun, 08 Feb 2009 04:11:34 GMT

This is particularly based off two games which I vastly enjoyed ten years ago.

X-Com: UFO Defense
X-Com: Terror From the Deep

If you're familiar with them, good. If not, all you need to know can be found out by following these links. What follows is something which sort of constructed itself as I was preparing to start yet another game in X-Com: Terror From the Deep (If you intend to play these games, learn this lesson well: there ARE no such things as "overkill" or "too much firepower" during colony missions).

So, anyway, what follows is an in-universe concept which came out of considering what the heck my team from the first game was doing when the second one started. Well those who lived anyway.

February 6, 2039

Commander Andianov,

Enclosed within this message is the latest evaluation of our deep-sea recovery program. I have a few addendums to include with the report, however, which I could not leave inside official files. Knowing the fickle nature of our funding, I want our financial backers to know as little of this as possible.

Three weeks ago we recovered the wreckage of Contact 32-541. As expected, all stores of Elenium-115 had violently reacted with water to reduce the identifiable wreckage to fragments of hull metal and electrical components. There was a distinct lack of remains which puzzled the recovery team until evidence was found there had been another craft in the vicinity some time ago. This would not be cause for much alarm until the schedules of other deep-sea operations were checked. I am confident you can understand where I am going with this, but I’ll finish the thought anyway. No known terrestrial-sphere agency was authorized to be in the recovery area, nor had filed a plan to develop there until late 2041.

In addition, three recovery sites have reported removal of reactors from the crash sites. Despite the above noted volatility of Elenium-115, these reactor removals were neat and clean. There was evidence of someone who knew what they were doing and taking their time to ensure safety of the crew and objects. These recovery sites, along with the fourth site (Contact 32-541) all are within the North Pacific region, pointing to a potential security breach. Or worse.

Communications have been uncovered within bands formerly reserved for official business, ones which we monitor but do not use anymore. The code hasn’t yet been uncovered but from early attempts to break it, we understand it is derivative of older codes which were in use during early 2000, by Hostiles. I expect we might have missed something, during our previous sweeps. I recommend releasing additional funding to investigate, particularly near the Arctic Circle.

Please review the information enclosed carefully,

Lieutenant Jacques Andrews
North Pacific Recovery

February 23, 2039

Lieutenant,

As per regulations, I am forced to deny your request for extra funding. As you said in your missive, we are under enormous pressure to justify our continued activity to the Financers. Three have pulled their funding already over the last year, leaving us with a significant lack of assets to continue operation. I had the unhappy task of shutting down the South Atlantic team last week, despite their lucrative recovery efforts.

Your additional information is interesting, but I lack the ability to follow up on it at this time. I give you permission to sell some of the salvaged materials in order to fund your efforts and to continue operations. Try to sell only verified scrap-grade material, nothing which would be a notable loss. Be discreet in your operations and report your findings back directly to me.

If there is a confirmed presence of Hostiles within the search area, you are also authorized to use lethal force to deal with the problem. If these inconsistencies and activities you have monitored are the work of a terrestrial agency however, you are required to provide evidence for review and prisoners for questioning.

Good luck,

Commander Lystria Andianov
Director of Recovery Operations

Writing Project #7: The Things We Do

Tue, 03 Feb 2009 06:18:01 GMT

An old work, revised slightly to try to help some flow . . .

It came as I was trying to figure out a character in another roleplaying chat scene I was involved in, and after I wrote this he just didn't feel quite right for the scene. Which is okay, I just wish he would have made me happier by staying in the role which had been put upon him.

Franklin sighed and looked across the table at the mouse sitting there. She was very cute, certainly; Harry and his wife Elena had chosen her from their pool of single friends to inflict upon the fox for a date. In fact, Harry had come to the same restaurant with Elena just to witness the date. The feline couple was sitting several dozen feet away, their attention split between each other and the table.

The problem is, Franklin thought while sipping his wine, Greta was simply all wrong for him. The first question she had asked had not been "what job do you do for a living" but "how much do you make?" The mouse had balked a bit at his even stare. "See, mother always said not to fall for someone working for minimum wage, even if he was cute."

"I can assure you, it's not minimum wage." He had answered before returning his gaze to the menu. He had glossed over the meal and went straight for the wine list.

"Oh, good. So what, five figures? Six?" Greta had pressed him until he named a number off the top of his head. It seemed to be enough, because the mouse had gone quiet to sip from her water.

"So what is it you do?"

The mouse shrugged, and tuned the page of the menu. "Oh, working is for the men. It's their place to support their woman." She giggled. "Mmm, that salad looks good."

Franklin now was working his way through his steak while trying to fend off Greta's questions. It worked easily enough if he made sure he was chewing as she opened her mouth to ask. The first few times she had asked something, he had dutifully reminded her it was wrong to let the food get cold.

"Oh stop, you just like to eat too fast. It's a sure sign you hate your job." She had nodded sagely, and sipped from her soda.

I don't hate my job, I just hate this date, Franklin thought to himself as he looked down at the last half of the plate. "So, Miss Harlan . . . can I call you Greta?"

"Oh sure!" She beamed across the table at him.

The fox nodded slowly. "Miss Harlan." He began again, preparing himself to be firm with her. The cellphone in his pocket buzzed softly, stopping his words and he recaptured them with a small smile. "It's a nice ring to it."

"Not as nice as your last name!"

"Naturally. Can you wait a minute, my boss is calling." He fished out the phone and got up, headed to the hall by the restrooms. His stomach sank as he noticed Harry headed over too. He clicked open the phone. "Yes, sir?"

"I have a problem I need solved, Franklin." The voice on the other end purred smoothly. "Are you busy?"

Franklin paused. "I was on a date. It just ended." He looked up to see Harry entering the hall. "What is it, sir?" A few moments later, he closed the phone and looked up to see the feline staring at him. "What is it?"

"You're not supposed to bring a cellphone on a date!" The feline sounded scandalized. "You know that!"

"And you know my job." The fox shot back, unruffled. "I'm on call, nearly any hour of the day. I've had this conversation with you before." He tucked the phone away.

"Well, nevermind that. So?"

"A needle pulling thread?"

"No!" His friend dismissed the reply with a hand. "What do you think?"

"I think it was a good movie. Needed less singing."

"About the girl."

"Julie Andrews? Well, she's rather attractive but I don't like blonds."

"The girl on the date with you tonight!" Harry snapped out, his patience visibly wearing thin.

"Oh. Well she's a nice girl. But she's not my type." Franklin shrugged. "I have to go, boss needs me to finish some paperwork for the Cosmetics Department Funding Review. Something about striped fur." He started to move past the cat, and felt Harry grab him gently.

"Look, you're never going to find a girl with that sort of attitude." Harry said softly. "Can't you just leave work at work for once?"

"Greta Harlan is a sweet girl, who is looking to be pampered for the rest of her life like a princess." The fox said slowly. "She thinks she knows everything about the world, but all she knows pales in comparison. It's comparing a koi pond to the ocean. There is no comparison." He jerked his arm free. "Now, I have to go pretend to be amused rather than annoyed at her long enough to settle the bill . . . yes, I will pay for it, I'm still a gentleman . . . and then I have to go. That's life."

The feline's ears had flattened during the long speech, and he sighed. "Well . . . we'll try again next time." He offered, and then left.

It was a good thing Greta didn't cry when Franklin told her he had to go . . . he might have seriously had troube keeping his poise.

###

The club was as wild as always, Franklin noticed as he walked across the stree. Reveling people had spilled out into the street in front, quietly dancing to the too-loud music on someone's car stereo. He passed a wolf in a fishnet shirt and plastic pants who gave him a long look. Franklin didn't look back. He knew he was overdressed for the venue, with a short-sleeve button-up shirt and jeans. Luckily both were black, so he could get away with it.

Inside he found two of the girls eyeing him and whispering. The coyote seemed only vaguely interested but the white feline had almost a possessive look in her eyes. Franklin didn't feel like dealing with it, and wandered towards the bar. The wolfhound tending bar wore nothing but his pants and a couple rattling bangles, throwing Frankling an ironic salute.

"Whatcha having?" He called over the music.

Franklin laughed and called back. "Dortmunder Gold." He looked around, and spotted a slim panther near the far end. "And one for him." The bartender winked and bent to retrieve the bottles from an ice chest under the bar. The fox had threaded his way back to the cat and waited.

When the panther noticed he had company, he turned and looked at Franklin. "What's up?" He asked, voice a little tense.

"I heard you got some good stuff."

"Who said?" The panther's eyes were wary.

"Word on the street." When this didn't get a change in expression Franklin dialed through his memory. "Francis. You know, tall snaky rat bastard?"

The feline snorted and grabbed the beer from the counter. "Oh yeah? I heard he sells complete shit."

"Exactly. Yours any better?"

"You know it." A pause. "Ain't no free samples. You have cash?" Franklin flashed a fold of bills from his palm and slipped it to the taller feline. "Well let us step outside."

"Naw, I got a room here." He held up his hand and the bartender flipped a keychain through the air into the fox's palm.

"Right. Shadow's got all you could want. Not cheap, but damn if it does't have a kick like an elephant." The panther grunted and followed Franklin to the back hall.

The club had all sorts of dealers like Shadow or Francis drop by, and it so happened very few who came here stayed 'clean' for long. The owner looked the other way, so long as dealers didn't start turf wars over clients. And why should they? There were more than enough potential clients here in one night, and when you took the long game in mind . . . there wasn't any real need to cause a ruckus. Most dealers who didn't take the long game in mind these days didn't last, anyway.

But the combination of drugs, dancing, and alcohol often caused people to need somewhere to rest. Or maybe they just wanted to shack up with someone for a one-night-stand. Or for whatever reason, they just wanted someplace quiet. That's why the owner built the soundproof rooms in the back, allowing people to rent them for a night for a fee.

Franklin was such a regular, he just needed to ask. Room number seven was his, mostly reserved for his use. The club's manager kept it well stocked, clean, and gently steered other folks away from it all night. It had paid off more than once, to have a nice place to rest or crash . . . which wasn't home.

"So what are you after?" Shadow asked as Franklin unlocked the door to the room. "I gotta tell you, man, tonight's been busy. Most of my top shelf and bottom shelf are already gone." He looked around the sparse room and grunted. "Cleaner than the others."

"Come here often?"

"You do too. Seen you with that shy girl bartender. Amber, right?"

Franklin sat on the bed. "She's new. And I'm looking for Green Blue." He knew it by reputation, but hadn't actually looked into it.

"Ah, right. New, hard to get stuff which is safe for you, and a bitch if it turns out to be a bad batch." The panther dug into a pocket and removed a baggie with a half-dozen pills in it. "Three. Each."

"Sounds a little low." Franklin dug into his pocket and began counting.

"Thousand, lil fox, not hundred."

"Ahh, now that sounds more like it." Franklin held out his hand and dropped the pill into his mouth. He pinned it against the inside of his cheek with his tongue and pretended to swallow. The panther took one as well, and pocketed the cash. "I don't feel anything."

"Give it some time. Five minutes you won't even know which way is up. So, what's the deal? You come here hunting for someone?"

"Sometimes. Other times, it's business." He noticed the panther's eyes glazing slightly. It did work rather fast. "I heard you knew a girl called Rachel Blake."

Shadow grunted and straddled a chair. "Whore walked out leaving me three thousand short last night. What, Francis know about that?" He was closing his eyes, paw tapping to some internal beat.

"No, no. Francis doesn't know shit." Franklin rose and wobbled to the miniature fridge. The cat didn't even notice him, tail swaying. "What happened?"

"Oh, she had a shot of Viper, didn't agree with her." He laughed. "She had to run off. Said she'd tell her daddy. Like I give a fuck."

"What if she did?"

"They'd never find me." Shadow boasted, thumb tapping himself in the chest. "They call me Shadow because they don't ever find me. Just where I was." He grinned stupidly, and stretched. "So you here on business or pleasure tonight, lil fox?"

"Oh a little of both." Franklin headed over with his beer and swallowed a good long drink as Shadow straightened up a bit. "The drug, that's a bit of work. Never tried it, have friends who swore by it." He grinned. "It's good."

"Of course it is!" The feline stretched his legs. "So what am I? Business or pleasure?"

Franklin walked behind him, and leaned to to speak very quietly. "In your case . . . it's my pleasure to do business." There was a sharp crash as the bottle was broken over the foot of the bedframe, and the fox swung it around, jagged edge catching Shadow's throat.

The panther gagged, and flopped out of the chair, his hand going from his pants to his throat, eyes disbelieving. The fox took the chair and sat in it now, feeling the void where the pill had been. Damnit, he had wanted to spit it out.

"Shadow. You should know Rachel Blake. Turns out she did tell her daddy about last night. He isn't very happy with her . . . oh, but that's nothing compared to you. You should have heard what he wanted done to you."

Franklin savored the expression on the panther's face, even knowing it was likely none of this was getting recogized. "Now, I'm a professional, so I have some pride in my work. And Mister Blake? He's rather well connected. Good for him. Bad for you."

The fox felt a tremble running through him as the drug was kicking in. How had they gotten this to work so fast? "Bad for me too. If you hadn't been such a dumb bastard, we just might have hooked up tonight." He rose and kicked the chair at him. "Now? You're just meat. So long."

Franklin knew it would take about four minutes from him being seen leaving before Lily would clean out the room. There wouldn't be very many questions about what happened, Franklin paid too much to suffer them. Ten minutes, they'd have the room pretty much spotless and a rug down over the stain. Or they'd give him a different room for tonight.

The fox dropped the key on the bar and groaned a bit thinking of the mess. Damnit. He noticed the wolf from outside looking him over, and gave a wink. Maybe tonight wouldn't end too badly after all.

###

"Shit, I should have known better." Franklin said vehemently as he pulled on his pants. Standing near the door was a short, plump little vixen who was staring at him fearfully. "Drugged out of my goddamn mind, I didn't think twice."

"Franklin . . . er, sir . . ."

"Amber, call me Franklin." He said seriously, checking his pants. His wallet was empty except for the cards. The cellphone wasn't tampered with either. Well the wolf had been smarter than most. "After you kept my face out of the toilet while I was ill, I think we're on a first name basis."

"That was last week."

"Oh. Right. Mind's a little fuzzy." The fox rubbed his face and shivered. Coming down off the drug was a pain in the ass, he thought to himself.

"I've hard that before." Amber said, handing him water. "Get some water in you, Franklin, it'll help."

"Help?"

"With the pain in the ass the drug's being." She said simply. "Cristine was on something the other day, told us how to help her crash safely. I hope it'll work for you."

"It's better than nothing. But right now? Orange juice. With ice, keep it cold." He drained the glass and set it down. "What time is it?"

"Seven-fifteen."

"Gotta call work." He looked up and motioned. "Just get me the drink, okay?" After Amber was out the door, he was on the phone. He waited until a voice on the other end spoke up. "Yes, it's me. It's done. I left a little mess but it's taken care of now. If anyone asks, I'm sick in bed with the flu. You can tell Mister Blake it's settled."

He hung up and stretched out on the bed, arm over his face. Some days, he hated his job. Some days, it felt perfectly fine . . . he wasn't sure which day today was yet.

Writing Project #6: Letters from another world

Tue, 03 Feb 2009 04:06:56 GMT

So there was this setting for a Dungeons and Dragons game or three which I've spent roughly 3 years working on. I've taken a lot of shortcuts with putting things together, borrowing out of history and fictional interpretations of that history in order to base things on. I've taken a couple dozen cliches and well-known devices of fantasy writing, and made use of them while working to get something together which I could look at and go "now THAT looks good". Not "cool" or "awesome" but "good" or "serviceable".

End result, I have a lot of time which has been sunk into a history which has grown around some concepts which are perhaps used before . . . but I tried to study and adapt them to my own use. One of these was the idea of a "lost civilization" which would on the surface represent a past which is not reflected in history books. The real world parallels are, naturally, intended. But once you enter a fantasy realm . . . the end conclusions might potentially . . . differ.

What follows is an in-character rendition of what today would be called archaeology. I don't know if that was an actual term back in the period this particular world is modeled after, but that isn't important. What is important is how it is handled inside the world's eyes . . .

To my fellow seekers of knowledge,

It has long been a suspicion held by a few of us the Empire was not the first establishment of human presence on Erisdaire. Proof has been far from difficult to find, yet the belief persists. I find it quite ludicrous to see the voices of otherwise intelligent men and women raised in defense of an erroneous conclusion. There are countless leads with which to begin, and I shall endeavor to detail some of the more interesting details. I will prove the allegations are indeed serious and not at all grounded in fantasy, as the detractors would state.

Three years ago there were ruins located in the desert along the southern border of the Empire, which had been long abandoned by residents and consumed by the sands. The exploration of those ruins found several artifacts which could not be connected to early Imperial years or development, not to mention journal entries detailing "a vast dried fountain which rivals some dwellings in size and is exceedingly complex in operation". The expedition is better known for the ends it met after spoiled food and tainted water supplies led to their deaths before they could retrieve significant physical evidence of their trip. The conclusions reached by the expedition were delivered largely through the journals which still survive in the keeping of the Imperial Arcanists; this was a settlement of a rather advanced human civilization, who had knowledge of how to build a fountain and possibly aqueducts. I believe this city was indeed real, and it would be exceedingly worthwhile to return and attempt a more detailed examination.

A second tangible piece of evidence would be the existence of certain objects, which are in the keeping of several learned colleagues of myself. They are made from metals which I have been assured are not workable by even master metalsmiths, and as well the material has not been positively identified. Foremost is a metal with a dark blue luster which is heavier than steel and significantly harder to damage. For an example, I would point to a suit of armor which is kept by Lord Mayor Tersa Calendria in Valencia; it has been serviceable to a great many conflicts with only minor adjustments and repairs to the leather fittings and buckles. The armor itself, however, has neither rusted nor succumbed to the lure of time. I would stress this is far from the only such material on record whose source has gone unknown all this time.

Lastly I would note there are several parts of arcane research which bear names of those who remain unknown to the records of Imperial Arcanists or Myrisian Sages. Despite a great amount of attention taken to recording the names of illustrious members of either group, there are no fewer than six names attached to carious incantations and methods of research which cannot be located in the records. From where do these names come, and what is it which caused the record of their existence or affiliation to vanish?

I present in further evidence some correspondences which were recovered from the estate of a noble family recently brought down by plague and untimely deaths. The earliest letters are written in an archaic version of our own language, but there is a number of references to a place or person known as "Ortega". I would suppose on this evidence we have our first clue on where to direct research into these matters. It is imperative we understand the true course of past years, no matter how far back it may go, in order to chart the progress of future years. No doubt my learned fellows would agree, as we are keenly aware how much history influences the world of current years.

In Service of Truth,
Rao Demasica
Second Arcanist of Tor Sanguinus

###

Gentlemen and Fellow Arcanists,

It has come to my attention the raving lunatics who spread the myth of "Ortega" have gained purchase again, this time with the letters and published works of a former Arcanist. I would stress the need to prevent the rumors and myths which undermine the exalted truth of Rhyliss from spreading any further. I call upon those who are capable of investigating the so-called evidence to do so without further delay, and assist in preventing this falsification of history. It is unbecoming of one who has sworn an oath to the good of the Empire to question the origins of this exalted land and the Imperial House's role in its creation.

This brings me to my next sad duty. I have understood there are some who would agree with some details raised in the letters and research. Any member who speaks a word of support, who writes a single agreement to the material will have their access stripped and will be branded oath-breaker and outcast of the order.

There must be unity in our group, if we are to proceed with research into the nature of arcane mysteries without distraction. Leave the pursuit of the past to the fools and Myrisi of the world, and focus on the present and that which is before us now. And it would seem, we have the honor of the Empire to defend amidst the other duties of the perform.

It must be done. Be certain it is done well, thoroughly, and completely.

Tavalan Aldirin
Arcanis Primus

Writing Project #5: The Gate

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 04:06:21 GMT

I almost didn't put this up, if only because it connects to some older writings I was doing back in college for creative writing. They were judged by two different teachers, and they gave completely opposite criticisms. After finding the box of my work and the copies, I decided "what the hell" and stopped to make some connections and decide how to approach it.

I don't like it too much, because it lacks . . . something. I'm not sure which word would meet the sense. I know there's not enough background to this; ~1075 words isn't a lot to work with for the backstory which this hangs on. I'll say this though; pinning it on some threads of other works this month helps. Eventually I'll wind up with something to seriously consider as a short story rather than a writing exercise.

Every city has its ghost stories, if you take time to listen to the people who grew up there. There are haunted places all across the world, in every little town there are rumors and legends which get passed down from parent to child. There are places where young men and women believe so haunted, they wouldn’t set foot in there even to win a bet. The older and wiser generation pretend the place doesn’t exist, to put it out of their minds. There is an air of mystery around these places, as well as a notoriety which attracts certain people to look closer.

One of these people was standing now before a shell of a house, looking up into boarded windows from beyond a fence. Signs blatantly read “no trespassing” and “offenders will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law”. According to local rumor mills, the place had been a hot spot for the ‘paranormal’ activity, until someone tried to burn it down. The stone outer construction remained solid, and the place remained standing.

The man standing there lifted the section of chain-link fence and slipped through. Obviously people had been in there before, and he could see recent tracks in the dirt of the front yard. He followed them around back, and noticed some of the boards kicked in. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket, and shone it inside only to stand after a minute and look down into the window contemplatively.

“Hey. Hey, you.” An older gentleman called from the house next door. “What are you doing there, can’t you read the signs?”

“I’m sorry?”

“No trespassing.”

“Are you the owner, sir?” The younger man walked closer to the speaker, an intensity in his gaze forcing the other to straighten slightly reflexively and glance at his shirt. He shook his head, but said nothing. “I’ll admit, I didn’t advise them ahead of time. But I am empowered to enter the premises. I’d thank you not to interrupt me again.”

“I’m calling the cops.”

The younger man sighed. “Don’t do that. They hate wasting their time, more than I hate wasting their time.” He fished out his wallet and flipped it open briefly enough towards the house. “Just let me go about my business.” The window shut, and the younger man returned his attention to the house’s window. He slid himself through, and heard his shoes splash in a small pool of water. His light cast around the basement to see bare brick scorched by the fire.

His investigation took him to another chamber of the basement, where he stopped upon seeing white paint on the floor. It was drier here, away from the broken window, and so someone had painted a circle in the ground with some symbols inside. He snorted to himself and knelt on the edge; someone always thought to conjure spirits up using one of these magic circles, and talk to those beyond the grave.
He smiled thinly to himself. “They really have no idea what they’re doing.” He reached into his pocket, and consulted a notebook. He glanced at the symbols as if trying to determine something, then nodded once. Picking a chunk of charred wood to toss into the circle, he seemed satisfied before standing up again.

A shimmer in the air drew his attention, and a light formed in the middle of the circle. Hurriedly, he stuffed the notebook in a pocket before drawing out a stone which he palmed.

“Who comes before the Gate?” The voice rasped out, wind stirring outward from the light.

“Jerome Richter. I have come to close the door.”

The being in the circle took form slowly, a shadow backlit against some ethereal lamp. Its head shifted and turned, as though seeking his presence. “The Gate will not be shut.” The voice spoke slowly, as though speech was alien to it. “You lack authority here, blood of Adam.”

Jerome shook his head. “By the laws set down before the Imperial Light, those who are not bound by flesh of this world may not travel freely. The Gate will be shut.” He lifted his hand to show a polished dark green stone. “You must honor the laws.”

“Laws of the Imperial Light.” The figure laughed, taking further form as arms reached out to either side. Its voice grew stronger. “The throne has been vacant for too long, its authority broken. Blood of Adam, you hold no authority either.” Legs formed, and paw-like feet set on the ground inside the circle. “Your words are empty. You will depart, or I will feast on you.”

“Whom do you serve?”

“I need not answer your questions. You do not bind me, and the one who called the Gate open has passed.” The voice was shifting, amused as Jerome heard the wind kick up again. “We will welcome you, and thank you for your . . . generous donation.” It moved forwards, arms reaching outwards.

Jerome stepped back and threw the stone, as it passed through the figure. It hissed and drew backwards before he dropped something from his pocket in the doorway. He ran over the shattered bottle and leapt to climb out of the window. He barely gripped it and hauled himself through, looking back to see an empty room. No, whatever was dwelling in there would not come into broad daylight no matter what its boasts said. There were still rules. He was just glad he had the sense to bring the holy water.

“Hey buddy!” The man from next door was back, calling out. “I just got off the phone with the cops. You’d better clear out before they arrive!”

Jerome dusted off his jacket and pants as he stood up. “Fine. All right, all right. I’ll leave. What’s your name?”

That stopped the man cold, and his tone became weaker again, suspicious. “What? Why?”

“So I can tell them who called them, and why I’m down at the precinct.” Again, the man shut the window rather than talk more, and Jerome smiled. Just as well, the police would definitely not be amused by his reasons for being there. This just meant he’d a talk with the owner, or have to be a little less obvious on the next trip. Despite whatever he would be told by the owner, he had to come back here and deal with that Gate. Before it could be pried open further, and admit something truly dangerous.

Writing Project #4: Rebellion

Mon, 19 Jan 2009 07:39:51 GMT

This was written after three things happened which drew my mind to imagine the scene in question: a role-play which has long concluded, a movie which lent the tone, and some music which helped my mind remember where it had been during my writing. I might actually follow this up later on, just because there's another fragment floating in my head waiting to be worked on.

This was ~1900 words by my count, which means I'm seriously outpacing my resolution's minimum limit. I should have raised it some, but I wanted to make it small enough where I wouldn't feel trapped with an idea if it didn't provide a lot of work.

Please enjoy. And this should put me up to date on my resolution writing, heh.

The bumps in the road shook Andrea awake, the young wolf blinking her dream away. Riding in the back of the pickup truck, covered by an oiled dropcloth she was definitely feeling the long trip. One more in the middle of an endless run; how long had she been on the run, anyway? It felt like forever. But there were people helping her, young folk who saw her as a legend. She didn't deserve it, but everyone around her embraced it and breathed life into it. There were stories, spreading faster than she could run, from city to city. But none of them came close to the truth of what happened . . . of why she was running, what she was running away from.

Andrea felt the truck stop and someone banged on the side twice, then once. The all-clear signal, she remembered. She hauled herself over the side and stopped; this was an abandoned steel factory, fences pulled down in places. Inside the fence she spotted a couple older boys standing watch over a doorway. She was hustled in, just enough time to grab her bag from the cargo bed.

"We're gathering here, you know." The driver was saying kindly as he walked towards the door. "Didn't have any other place, and nobody cares about this dump. Been closed for close to fifteen years since Limited Steel went out of business."

"Tough times." She mumbled, and avoided the surprised look from the cougar. "Hit the whole state."

"Where you from, really? I heard you were from out in the boonies . . . I hear a lot of things though." A little cagey, a little wary of her. Exactly how people like him had to have grown up with a secret like the one they shared. Or didn’t share, she guessed, noticing how he held himself away from her. Maybe he was having second thoughts about helping her, considering how much legend there was wrapped around her name.

"Just . . . don't ask too much. The more you know, the more you risk . . ." She looked up and saw he didn't care about the risk, the very real danger she was about to talk about. And why would he? It hadn't happened to him. "Just open the door, Dan."

He nodded and opened the door, pointing. "Just go down, the boiler room is where we mostly gather. Safer, with them all quiet. And when we get one of them running, it’s warm at night." Andrea nodded and climbed through the doorway to descend.

They're all so young, that was the first thing Andrea thought as she walked down the steps into the boiler room and got a good look around. Dozens of faces turned up to her, watching her walk into their home-away-from-home. A home for runaways who didn't want to return to their families, their friends all here or left behind. They had fled their homes for her; they'd all left because they thought she carried a message, and they wanted to hear it. They wanted to be a part of it, even without knowing if there was a message. The whispers caught at her ears as she descended the stairs, paws meeting corrugated metal. She stopped as a shorter, younger wolf stepped into her path with wide eyes.

"They say . . . you destroyed Pierston's city jail, and walked out of town." She asked quaveringly. "Is it true?" The hungry look in her eyes belied the nervous edge to her voice. "Did you really do that?"

"Yeah, and did you really fight the National Guard at Sumner?" A stallion called from the back. They began to press closer, many faces, many voices all asking the same questions . . . was it true? Did it really happen like they said it did?

"Hey!" The voice cracked like a whip through the crowd, and a tall slender husky stood up on one of the boilers. "Leave her alone, can't you see she's tired? Give her some damn space everyone!" He hopped down, and gently moved people aside. "Clear out, go on . . . Miss Andrea, just come with me. Genner's got some soup going down by boiler three."

"Thanks." The white wolf rubbed at her face, walking after him with a weary expression. "I could use something warm." She let herself be led off, shivering. The voices, they'd been animated, ready to believe her if she'd said yes. She wagered if she'd tried to quash the rumors they'd still believe. "Is that really what they're saying?"

His muzzle quirked into a grin. "Wait until you hear the bit about the radio tower at Buford."

"Oh hell." Andrea sighed. "No, please don't tell me."

"Is it true?" She looked aside swiftly at his question, and met his eyes. One gold eye, one blue one. "Can you really do what they say?" Those eyes, they drew her in briefly, and she sighed. "Look you're not alone there. Lots of us have a secret like that. Been hiding it for so long, you know . . . if you really do have that power-"

"It's not what you think." She cut in, and gently pulled him behind a boiler. Nobody around, she saw. "I don't know how it happened, it . . . it just did. And now I have to deal with it. I can't go back, I don't have anywhere to run to . . ." She closed her eyes. "The police are looking for me, they won't understand I didn't want it to happen."

"Do you regret it at all?"

Andrea shivered, and curled away, against the side of the boiler. "I don't know. I want to say yes, but . . . they deserved it, I believe that. They deserved to be punished but not like that!" The husky was silent for a while. "What's your name?"

"Vic." He stepped back and a mocking smile spread as he bowed. "Victor Octavius Syranelle at your service. My family thought it was a joke, naming me after famous people, but hey . . . they're rich." He motioned her. "Come on, if we don't get to the soup early all that's left will be the stones at the bottom."

"Stones?"

Vic's eyes turned amused, playful as his voice shifted to a country twang effortlessly. A genuine one too, not the studied tone actors might use. "Ain't you ever heard of stone soup?" When the wolf shook her head, the husky snickers. "Me neither, before I got here. They take a bunch of rocks they dig up in the yard above, and throw them in a pot of water. One time it was cream, though." A wink, and he led her through a canvas cloth into another room. "I brought a bottle of it with me. Anyway, they boil it and then they throw in anything they can add to it. Roots, berries, some herbs . . . anything. Occasionally they find meat and it goes in too. Don't ever ask what kind of meat though, it's not polite."

A new voice rose from the floor, or close to it. "They work so hard, you know." There was a mouse poking at a camping stove, a pot simmering away. Sure enough, Andrea saw three egg-sized stones at the bottom. "Don't want people to laugh if they admit it wasn't a small chicken but a pigeon instead."

Vic nodded, and took a seat on an overturned bucket, legs curled behind him. "Meet Genner. He's the head chef so behave."

The mouse shook his head. "Head chef. I'm just the only one of you people who has good taste." He offered his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Andrea Snow."

"That's not-"

"It's clear as a bell to me, that's exactly who you are. Accept no imitations, and there are quite a few you know." The mouse cut her off, and grabbed a bowl from a stack, and a spoon. "Don't expect special treatment though, not from me. You know the only reason I'm here is my sister wants to be like you? Can't stand to watch her pretending, because she can't come close at all."

"And not because she's a mouse. Coraline just doesn't have anything to make her special other than her imagination. In her own mind, she's able to walk with legends." Vic sat down and took a bowl of his own before it was offered. Genner gave him a stern glance, but didn’t deter the husky from dishing himself a shallow pool of the soup.

"You people are all here because of me?" Andrea took her bowl and looked into it, eyes closing. "Damn it all . . ."

"Hell no. I'm here because of Coraline. She's here because it's the cool thing to do. So are a lot of the others out there. They don't realize it, thinking it's for some sort of cause. To support you." Genner shook his head slowly. "No, it's really to support each other. Give them long enough and they'll start to figure it out."

Vic took his bowl and waved off the spoon, lifting it to lap gently at the broth. "I give it another week before the lack of activity starts to get to them and they feel driven to start something."

Andrea set her bowl down and dropped her head into her hands. "I never wanted this! This isn't . . . this isn't right, they need to stop. Go home. Just . . . let it all go away."

"Ah, that's not going to happen. They’re too caught up in the romantic idea of the outlaw life, among whatever legends they spin about Andrea Snow, the white wolf. A few of us are older." Vic motioned between him and Genner. "Mature . . . we look out for the others but we can't do anything more. The last person to attempt any kind of authority was chased out of here."

The mouse sucked on a spoon, and chuckled. "She was a bitch. Thought because she had a similar power to yours, Andrea, she was the second closest to God." A pause. "She would have had most of them believing it until a quiet couple words put a mutiny in motion. She was most of the way to having her own cult piggybacking on your legend."

Andrea popped up, and paced. "Shit! This isn't-" She caught herself, and closed her hands, trying to calm down. "I don't want this!" She wailed, and vented her frustration into the wall. A closed fist smashed into the concrete and there was a soft crunch. Cracks radiated outwards from the impact, and she pulled her hand back, mortified.

The two guys stopped talking, realizing how this was upsetting her. Andrea sat back on the ground, taking her bowl back and eating slowly. Vic spoke up after he finished his portion. "Andrea . . . what is it you want to do?" He leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. "Forget the legend, the hype, and those people outside. What is it you want to do about all this?"

The wolf opened her mouth, shut it, and considered. Then she leaned forwards and spoke very softly. "Set the record straight. I want them to know the truth, and once they do, maybe it will stop." Andrea caught Genner's smirk, and she sighed. "Or it will get worse, I don't know. But if I'm forgetting about everything else, this is what I want most." She looked into Vic's eyes, and squared her shoulders. "To tell people it was just an accident."

"Then that is what we need to plan to make happen." The husky said simply, nodding his head. "How do you think we're going to get that started?"

"Do you know where there's a phone? Not here, but a public one. I don't want them finding out where we are."

Genner stood up slowly, and shook out his legs one at a time. "I've got something better." He said firmly, and turned around to root in a backpack hanging on a hook. He lifted out a small handheld video camera. "Ever been part of a school play, Andrea?"

Writing Project #3: The Problem Student

Thu, 15 Jan 2009 02:43:25 GMT

I read a neat little vignette from a friend on a message board, and it clicked with a character of another friend to combine and alchemically become inspiration for something . . . else. Honestly, I never expected this to hit the 1100 words which were counted, and I wasn't trying to fluff it out like the last one.

Bonus points to people who can recognize the inspirations. You can keep score at home if you like.

Catherine Underwood looked at the file before her, and took a drink from her mug. It was easily the thickest file of any student, owing to the near-equal amounts of positive and negative reports. “Laverne Kirsch.” She sighed and rubbed her muzzle, tail swatting in annoyance. The canine was a handful, as teachers weren’t sure exactly what to do with her. She was bright enough to excel with the standard work, and yet not motivated enough to go any further. And she was disruptive to lessons, as Laverne saw her boredom as satisfactory reason to discount authority directed her way. Every so often a student like this would come around the educational system, and every time the system would take one of two ways of handling “the problem”. That term was what everyone insisted you use when talking about a student like Laverne.

Either you ignore the problem and wait for it to pass, or you stomp down on the problem until they follow the rules. This method was tried, and approved after many years of satisfaction. But it wouldn’t work well with Laverne Kirsch; that girl was something else.

The assistant principal sighed and opened the file, reading through the most notable parts before her meeting with the parents. She was still reading when her phone rang. “Miss Underwood speaking.”

“The Kirsches are here to talk with you.” The receptionist sounded edgy; it was expected the parents wouldn’t be happy in the least.

“Send them in, Darla.”

The door opened on two canines, the father wearing an aggressively professional shirt and slacks while the mother chose a demure dress. Neither looked at the feline behind the desk until seated, and then it was the father who began the conference with an annoyed snort and snappish tone. “I understand you have some problems with our daughter?”

“Quite. I have noticed there is a large number of disciplinary notices which went home with her, in the last two years.” Catherine cooly directed her gaze to her folder. “And two requests for a parent-teacher conference went ignored. As such, it becomes my responsibility.” She lifts a sheet and reads quietly. “Are you aware your daughter has left some truly interesting abuses to her instructors?”

“Abuses?” Mr Kirsch’s tone changed slightly, his eyes flashing.

His wife interjected, calmly, and almost plaintive. “She is a very special girl.”

“I am well aware. She has a special gift indeed, but she has to understand it is not a reason to act out.” A glance was shared between the two parents, as Catherine looked back down. “Let’s see, there was a significant amount of damage done to Mister Carlyle’s car which a body shop was unable to repair. I see you were contacted by his lawyer concerning it, so the disciplinary action was left open. That was last year.”
“We settled out of court. That should be it.”

“Mister Kirsch, that was between you and Mister Carlyle. It has nothing to do with our own processes.” She matched his firm tone, and her eyes glanced up. The canine sank backwards, and scowled. “Three months ago, we had to have the fire department come out to retrieve a trio of students from the top of the flagpole. They were quite curious about how the line had been used to tie them to the top third of the pole. The students all named your daughter as the one who had done it. Lacking evidence, the matter got dropped but-”

“But what? I never saw anything talking about this!”

“I still have the reports, and have to bring it up. After all, the following month there was another incident where it seems your daughter locked three students on the rooftop.” She held up a small packet of clipped together. “You were notified. This is, of course, not the most recent incident.”

“For heaven’s sake!” The father popped out of his seat. “You aren’t aware of the teasing and disruptions caused by other students? Just because she has some sort of history-”

The feline glanced up, her grey eyes peering over her glasses and pinning him in mid-rant. He stopped, and she let her voice growl slowly. “Sit. Down.” As soon as he finished sitting, she removed her glasses slowly. “Frankly, sir, I wouldn’t dream of trying to pin this solely on your daughter. The problem is how often she chooses to react, and how flamboyantly she does. It entices people to pick fights, especially considering her choice of reaction.” She stood up and opened her blinds, pointing to a large paw-print pressed into the parking lot. “Now, will you kindly explain to me how you would consider this sort of thing a proportional reaction to a little verbal teasing?”

Silence fell, and the two parents looked down with a true guilty look now. They must have known something other than fighting had been the reason for being called up here. They both had to be aware of the nature of Laverne’s “outbursts”, and didn’t want to bring it up. Indeed, if it weren’t for ample evidence, it would be laughable to even consider it as reality. Catherine had the pleasure of seeing these sorts of outbursts personally twice in the last month. Both times ended with terrified screaming, and a decent amount of groundskeeping following up.

“This is one aspect of her outbursts, which upsets me. The students seem eager to provoke purely out of the second aspect.” The feline opened a drawer and lifted a bag which held tatters of a top and skirt. “Namely, the failure of her clothing to follow her physical changes. As they say, boys will be boys, and it is a powerful . . . motivation.”

The father swallowed hard and spoke slowly. “We might have, ah, potentially, known something about this. But you can understand our, um, reluctance to come forward. It seems impossible.”

“Yes, I’d agree. However, I don’t have the luxury of overlooking the matter. It’s happening and has to be dealt with. Now, I have an idea. There’s a school I’m aware of, who has a similar student on roll.” Catherine sat back down. “They take a number of problem cases similar to Laverne, and do their best to reform their habits. I know, I know, she is a truly bright student and excels at her academics. But her interpersonal skills need . . . work.”

The parents looked guiltily down at first, then at each other. “Can you tell us more?” The mother said softly, and shifted in her seat. “Can you . . . please, tell how this will help our daughter?”

Writing Project #2: Night Wolf and Dark Wolf

Sun, 11 Jan 2009 13:21:04 GMT

I am not really happy with this entry, but it is written with the intent of it not just filling the listed "timeline" but fleshing out a concept I'd been working on for some online chat roleplaying. Hopefully the next one will be stronger with the writing.

Talk to enough people and you’ll hear about the gods of the world; they insist these omnipotent deities are watching and do indeed interfere in the lives of mortal folk. You might scoff, but they’ll chillingly relate tales of those who have indeed left their mark on the world. Two in particular bring powerful reactions where they touch the lives of mortal beings. When they bring their presence to the world, they forever alter the course of lives.

The tales concerning the being who is known as the Night Wolf are tangled and uncertain. It is known as a manifestation of fear and darkness, according to myth and legend passed down from parent to child over countless generations. A godlike being who defines the very essence of terror, and whose only goal is to spread this presence to all in a means of gaining power. Or simply out of malicious intent, for the Night Wolf's own entertainment and amusement. The stories have numbered in the hundreds, all variations describing the coming of the Night Wolf in a sweeping change to obliterate those who would not run in fear of it. And so, it is said there is no reasoning, no hope of negotiation. All who stand before the Night Wolf will be humbled, before they are utterly destroyed.

Amidst all the fearful talk of the Night Wolf is talk of another entity similar in nature called the Dark Wolf, who is said to be the other side of such a spirit. A manifestation of darkness, of the night, of all the secret things people think and feel without daring to give them voice. Not evil, like the Night Wolf, but rather a reflection whatever the individual's inner darkness takes form as. And while the Night Wolf destroys, it is said the Dark Wolf . . . changes, what it touches. Awakening that ‘dark side’ and giving it power and presence which could easily overwhelm the weaker-willed. Or even create a new being entirely by granting life to such a mind. In either case, the person would become subservient to the Dark Wolf, a thrall to the darkness . . . despite whether they are good or evil, they now belong to the darkness.

Both these entities are known to make trips through the worlds, leaving chaos and desolation in their wake. The best thing to consider, as a means of fighting off uncomfortable fears, would be how many worlds there truly are out there for these two lupine spirits to travel to. Odds are you may never meet one, in your life. Your children and grandchildren may not see them, either, which would be quite a blessing indeed. But that doesn’t stop them from existing, any more than those who live away from the sea stop the water from being.

Edit: I took this down as part of a small depression. It's back now, because if it's a waste of someone's space then I might as well waste it.

Writing Project #1: The New Year Masquerade

Sat, 03 Jan 2009 15:01:54 GMT

The first bit of writing I intended to do. Weighed in at about 1300 words, which makes me pause; it's longer than I was shooting for but even so it feels incomplete. I guess that means sometime in the future I have to pick up the thread again, huh?

As a note, it feels good to pick some characters up again . . .

Enjoy reading it, if you're going to. Feel free to leave comments and feedback (even if you want to say "you suck").

It was the last big party of the old year, and at the same time the first big party of the new. The room was buzzing with conversation, the various people wearing different variations of the same style of mask; a stylized fox, the color left a pristine white with patterns added to highlight features. Each person attending chose a pattern and color which they felt matched their personality. Men and women in simple white suits and dresses mingled through the crowd with trays of food and wineglasses, their masks the least ornate but still unique to each. The second concession to uniformity was the dress code of the guests; every person who wasn't serving was dressed in finery demure and stately.

The master of the party was the only one who dared something different. His mask was almost ashen in color, with a dark grey knotwork pattern taking up the left side of his face. He strode through the crowd, occasionally stopping to converse with a guest or two. So lovely to see you, glad you could make it, I hope the shrimp is suitable, and so on with minor little pleasantries. He kept a deliberate and slow pace to his walk, while people changed theirs to chase friends along or to dance in time to the music being played. His stride only stopped when he saw two of the white-clad servers standing flanking a woman with a black mask and deep blue dress.

He wandered over, and spoke quietly. "Thank you, please if you will fetch our . . . lovely guest . . . a glass of the sangria." After the two departed, his voice turned a shade cooler. "I don't recall inviting you, my dear."

She folded her hands before her, inclining her head forwards. "I believe you are wrong on that, Francis."

"Oh, I'm quite sorry." His eyes held her, not returning the slight bow. "Do you happen to have your invitation with you?"

"Let's not play these games tonight, of all nights." She held out her hand as a wineglass was offered, taking a sip softly. "I am free to go where I please, when I please. It interests me to be at this little gathering tonight, so I am here."

"Miss Kusagiri, I think you are confused as to what this gathering is." Francis started to walk again, the slow measured pace as he glanced around the room. He wasn't seeing the guests now, only the servants who seemed thinner in number. "A simple party to ring in the new year in fine tradition."

"I'm not confused. I may have been out of touch for a long while, but I am far from confused." Her voice sharpened in tone, and she stopped to peer at a painting hanging on the wall nearby. "These rich fools are here because it amuses you to see them, thinking they have a grip on the world with all their power and influence. But they can't even begin to see past the masks we all wear, can they? Do they have the slightest clue all things are not equal in this room? How many times have your little friends served them water instead of wine?"

His voice sharpened back at her, and he turned to face her directly. "Come now, that's insulting."

"At last a true reaction, I might have drawn you out at last from your comfortable position." The woman called Miss Kusagiri smiled behind her mask and tapped at the corner near her eye. "I can see you, just as you see me. Your glamours don't work, when you know what to look for."

"Is there something you wish to discuss?" Francis looked to one of the doors. "We could do so in private, rather than here in the open."

"Please." She waved her hand dismissively. "Like these people can understand us right now, let alone hear us. You placed a discrete filter on us the instant I entered the doorway. You can't risk it." She stopped to sit in one of the chairs, propping one leg over the other and smiling coyly up. "I can, though. Shall I dismiss your yearly game, and let these people see what they're really consuming?"

"Why are you here, Jemai?" He sat down across from her. "Just to tweak my tail?" There was a shimmering aura between the two, the woman across from him seeming to melt into something else as he spoke. Black fur taking over her skin, dainty paws clasped in the shoes she had chosen for the night, perked ears twitching to the noise in the room, and a brush of a tail sweeping idly in amusement. Likewise, his form shifted to a grey-furred male counterpart, slighter in build. Two foxish humanoids staring across at each other.

"I am owed more courtesy than your fellows are showing me, Reynard." The vixen spoke firmer, taking command of the situation with pose and tone. "I am among the last who survived the decline of the Imperial Light. While everyone else hid in their sanctuaries, while the world of humans forgot us . . . I endured. I waited."

"Quite strange. I seem to recall you were more exiled and then executed for failing to answer the orders given." Reynard said boldly, smiling briefly. "Being dead isn't waiting."

"Six one way, half a dozen the other. It matters not where I waited, only that I'm here now." She glared across at him. "I deserve more respect, especially from you."

"You have opted to be my guest, tonight. Courtesy demands you temper yourself, rather than seek tribute." Reynard replied, and leaned back in his seat. "And you are not behaving in a way which inspires others to give you the respect you feel you are due. You're browbeating those who disagree with you into following you, or destroying them for disrespect. That may have worked in the distant past but this is a different world now. There are different rules."

"These rules never change. They were laid down long before I was born. Respect and honor to the one who rules with proper authority."

Reynard steepled his fingers, frowning. "Some doubt you have the right to claim authority."

"Name them."

"You know I won't betray them to you. I know you didn't come here tonight to get that information, either." He wriggled his fingers. "And you didn't come here to embarrass me in front of these high rollers of human society. So why are you here, Jemai?"

The vixen dropped her paws to the floor and leaned forward. "I want information, of course. And everyone seems to think you're the one to come to for it. I was told to bring something to bargain with, so here we are." She held up a hand, a sparkling ball forming along the palm. "If you tell me what I want to know, then I won't break your glamour network like the hall of mirrors it is."

"Threatening your host breaks all the laws of hospitality." When all this got was a thin smile, he sighed and settled back in his seat. "What is it you wish to know?"

A long pause as Jemai seemed to formulate her request in her mind, before speaking slowly. "Tell me why the pathways are abandoned by watchers, but still are in use. Tell me about the Dreamers." Her eyes glinted. "And tell me what you know of the humans who keep turning up where they're not supposed to be."

"This could take a while. Would you like more to drink?" Reynard motioned at the edge of their small bubble of altered reality, and a servant strode into the rippled air with a tray. The human form melted away to a white fox in a plain robe, the tray containing a warm carafe of rice wine and two cups. "To make it easier to be patient with me."

"I am the very soul of patience." A sharp-toothed smile. "Now begin . . ."

New Year's Resolutions

Fri, 02 Jan 2009 18:40:23 GMT

I never was one for making resolutions for the new year, much less telling other people all about them. I suppose I'm partly doing this because a couple friends told me about theirs . . . and partly because I want to actually do something. So what follows is a dual list of resolutions, the "short list" followed by the "long list".

The Short List (Immediate things)

- Finish the move. Get all the boxes distributed to where they need to be. Find everything which belongs to folks and send it out as I do. Have all my billing addresses updated.

- Get carded. Finish the process of getting a driver's license, and by extension finish learning the details of driving rather than just the basics. Get comfortable driving, so I actually have confidence rather than just depending on everyone else for getting around.

- Educate others. Teach parents about computers, to the point where my mother doesn't always wait for me to tell her why things are working weirdly, or her having to rely on my father for information. Teach my father wireless networking is not black magick. Teach my mother why she shouldn't have 12 Firefox windows open, each with 5+ tabs. (Use hand puppets if necessary)

- Get organized. With two series I desperately want to watch starting up again within two or three weeks, get things set up so I can actually watch them and not have what happened with Heroes (AGAIN). Also, getting everything together on a calendar will ensure things go smoother, with ANY luck whatsoever. By extension, sit down and get all my computer contents organized across two machines and several other sources so I can actually find things I want to look up.

The Long List (For the whole year)

- Be less bitter. Try to be nicer, try to have a better attitude about things in general. This should be helped by the environment being less toxic than it was a month ago, but a lot of it is going to rely on my own work. I have little doubt the reason only four people talk to me is because everyone else doesn't want to deal with me. Unacceptable reason.

- Learn more. Take some time and get myself more information on how things for computers work, such as wireless networking . . . PC expansion slots on the motherboard, what makes a good computer when building one yourself . . . and how to work with laptops a little better. Get some certifications to say I know what I'm talking about, as well.

- Write more. So I want to be a writer. This means one must . . . actually write. Yes, at some point I finished a 100+ page story, good for me, what have I done LATELY? So the following rules are in effect for myself: I'll write approximately 500 words a week of something. Fiction, personal things, or maybe gaming information (FAQ, roleplaying material, character profiles, whatever). Point is, get something written and try to improve my work. Post the things which I can share here, keep it in the same spot so I know I've got it.

- Cook more. Try new things, get a feel for cooking meals which don't just come out of a box. Get a couple recipes underneath me which are my own, and function reasonably well without being Food Crime. I've done it twice before . . . I can do it again. Furthermore, this is just to get it so I can cook for myself and feel comfortable doing it.

- Be productive. Get a job where I'm going to be at least not-miserable and make decent enough money to do better than survival. Sell a damned story. Do something to seriously start moving back towards non-dependence. Have something to show for the energy which gets put into creativity.

- Play more. Shorten the list of unfinished games on my collection. It's getting depressing to sit down, and flip through the collection to realize just how many of those games I stopped more than 75% of the way through and never went back to. Get up, finish them, and move on. Additionally, finally beat that goddamned Demi-Fiend, the most hideous bonus-content boss I've EVER seen.

- Build something. This is a relatively simple resolution: build something with my own two hands. Find something which I want to make, take the time and resources to DO IT. I lamented not having something under my mattress in South Carolina, when I could have used wood and built one. Or made an outdoor table. Or built shelving for the room so I had space to put things away. It's not like I don't know how to use tools, and it's not like it's rocket science.

Movies: Role Models

Fri, 28 Nov 2008 05:33:07 GMT

Totally worth $7.00 to go see it. The humor was dead on (as a sub teacher, I deal with kids like the two "kid leads" all the time). The writers knew they were making a formulaic movie, and RAN with the idea. They slipped in several small double-entendres which didn't get the tell-tale pause for laughter. Several jokes were written to hit on two or three different levels.

I would recommend it as a good movie to go relax your mind to. I do not know if everyone would find it worth $7 but I think people would find it worth seeing.

Extra note: I must remember to see "Seven Pounds".

Animal Crossing: City Folk

Thu, 27 Nov 2008 13:57:47 GMT

I was granted the game as sort of a "thank you" from my mother, and as something to keep me happy.

Anyone out there who has the game want to share friend codes?

Name: Sethan
Town: Whisper
Code: 2278-0323-1447

Resist - by Rush

Wed, 19 Nov 2008 02:30:13 GMT

I can learn to resist
Anything but temptation
I can learn to co-exist
With anything but pain
I can learn to compromise
Anything but my desires
I can learn to get along
With all the things I can't explain
I can learn to resist
Anything but frustration
I can learn to persist
With anything but aiming low
I can learn to close my eyes
To anything but injustice
I can learn to get along
With all the things I don't know

You can surrender
Without a prayer
But never really pray
Pray without surrender
You can fight
Without ever winning
But never ever win
Without a fight

I can learn to resist
Anything but temptation
I can learn to co-exist
With anything but pain
I can learn to compromise
Anything but my desires
I can learn to get along
With all the things I can't explain

Browsing YouTube

Fri, 31 Oct 2008 02:02:22 GMT

Okay, it's amazing what you find when you poke around on YouTube . . . especially when you look at company profiles.

This makes me very happy.

For something not so dramatic!

Wed, 29 Oct 2008 23:55:13 GMT

Okay, so what have I been entertaining myself with during this lil time of stress?

Wii > Virtual Console > TurboDuo > Ys Book I & II

. . . the music ALONE is worth the cost.

Computer Issues Pt 2

Thu, 26 Jun 2008 12:38:03 GMT

Continued . . .

After thinking I had it nailed, I started playing Guild Wars again; once again after about 30 minutes it seized up and reset the computer to the original boot splash-screen. The computer, further, would NOT complete the boot sequence until I ran the BIOS setup and reseated cards. I don't know if all of it was necessary but it was worthwhile. The CPU heat sink remained cool, and the vid card was cooler to the touch however.

Before I started this up today, the computer WAS running other games fine. But Guild Wars especially seems to cause it to fall apart. I'm not sure, yet, if it's the vid card but signs are pointing to that. The fact it seems to happen without warning and without things getting hot or anything . . . makes it much harder to diagnose. ESPECIALLY due to not having a video card replacement which is supportive of Guild Wars.

I should try Morrowind and see if that causes problems. The GOOD news is, the computer will run stable when I'm just running it and it seems to be fine to run Trillian or Firefox. So far as I can tell.

Downside? I REALLY can't replace parts of the computer :P I lack a clean copy of an OS, above all else.

Computer Issues

Wed, 11 Jun 2008 15:48:15 GMT

Folks, if I disappear on you, it's not conscious unless I say 'good bye' . . . my wireless network woke up this morning with me and decided to be autistic. I can't seem to get it to work reliably on more than one computer; as soon as the Mac Mini connects, the PC can't talk anymore. Though it will tell me it is connected and listening at "Excellent" signal strength, no pages load. N.B: The PC is sitting less than three feet from the wireless router in an open room.

And when I got the PC to talk, the Mac Mini decided it no longer could find the wireless network. Until it did find it, then the PC disconnected.