“Shiny!” – the crew of Serenity many, many times.
((Ona here. Since no one else seems to be able to update I’m going to give it a shot. Unfortunately Gemma is unconscious, so I am going to add a new character for at least part of this entry. Ishack, if you yell at me I swear I will get very mad, I will yell right back. I know I promised but it’s not fair to deprive me of my inspiration, so I’ll just hope this doesn’t ‘ruin it’ for you. If it does I’m really sorry, I am trying.))
A young woman dressed in vivid colors walked down the dusty dirt road to the Blythe farm. She was in her thirties, and still very pretty, with long dark brown hair and huge brown eyes. Her name was Airia, and she had a single purpose being here. The Blythe farm and the surrounding land held many memories for her, many of them pleasant, some not so pleasant. However much she may have wanted to avoid these memories she had to warn the girl. She was innocent and had always been kind to Airia, she did not deserve the fate John Goldstein would visit upon her.
As Airia walked past an apple orchard she heard a lot of yelling. Airia was not of a suspicious nature and she was the type to investigate anything she wanted to just because she found it interesting, so she followed the noise to its source. There she found a curious sight. A snowman, a big man with an eye patch, a goat, and woman all stood looking at each other. Next to them on the ground lay another woman and on top of her, obviously unconscious, the very girl Airia had been so determined to warn.
“Gemma!” she yelled, horrified. The standing creatures turned toward her, momentarily distracted. “What have you done to her?” Airia continued. “You… you… huài rén…” So it only meant ‘bad person’ she was a little too angry to come up with something worse. That didn’t last for long. "Chou ma niao," she flung at the man, who looked so disreputable that Airia had no doubt he was the reason Gemma was hurt.
***
Gemma awoke slowly to a familiar voice that she hadn’t heard in years whispering a language she hadn’t spoken for just as long. "Fahng-sheen," whispered the voice.
((Now Ishack should now why not to yell at me and I will repeat my plea and add one for people not to yell at me for this being slightly cheesy.))
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
"If you're not mad enough to bare-knuckle box, you're not mad at all."
-Red Foreman
((OOC: I apologize ahead of time for the sappy sap-fest that will most likely take place in this post. What can I say? Ishack, you handed me the reigns! BTW, the quote doesn't have much to do with the post.))
Vera and Pedro had rushed through the apple orchard towards where the crash had come from. Vera only hoped that Myrtle hadn't broken any bones -- they'd already been delayed once when Myrtle sprained her ankle a few days into their journey. (Vera had warned her that jumping in murky brown puddles wasn't be a good idea. Had Myrtle listened? No.)
Soon enough they found Myrtle...along with Tanngnjóstr, a pale young woman, a dying snowman and -- Vera's breath caught in her chest. The shock of seeing Kyrus here left her momentarily stunned. For one eternal second, as they held each other's gaze, unspoken feelings of loathing, longing, betrayal, hurt and deep mistrust flew between them.
The moment only lasted for a split second, thgouh, and in the next instant she regained her wits. She couldn't let her history with Kyrus distract her from her job -- that was how he had escaped last time. He was staring at her in awe; she had the upper hand now.
In an instant, she had channeled a powerful freezing charm in his direction; it hit him squarely in the chest, and the force of it knocked him over. She was left breathless for a moment: she hadn't meant to send the spell so forcefully, but the flare of emotion at the sighte of him had gotten her carried away. She carefully suppressed any other wayward feelings before approaching him.
((OOC: Arrrggg. This is so horribly awful, I can't continue. I tried some dialogue. It was crap. Please, someone take over. Feel free to add in the promised sap that I only partially got to. Maybe I'll fix this post in a little bit, if that's better...))
-Red Foreman
((OOC: I apologize ahead of time for the sappy sap-fest that will most likely take place in this post. What can I say? Ishack, you handed me the reigns! BTW, the quote doesn't have much to do with the post.))
Vera and Pedro had rushed through the apple orchard towards where the crash had come from. Vera only hoped that Myrtle hadn't broken any bones -- they'd already been delayed once when Myrtle sprained her ankle a few days into their journey. (Vera had warned her that jumping in murky brown puddles wasn't be a good idea. Had Myrtle listened? No.)
Soon enough they found Myrtle...along with Tanngnjóstr, a pale young woman, a dying snowman and -- Vera's breath caught in her chest. The shock of seeing Kyrus here left her momentarily stunned. For one eternal second, as they held each other's gaze, unspoken feelings of loathing, longing, betrayal, hurt and deep mistrust flew between them.
The moment only lasted for a split second, thgouh, and in the next instant she regained her wits. She couldn't let her history with Kyrus distract her from her job -- that was how he had escaped last time. He was staring at her in awe; she had the upper hand now.
In an instant, she had channeled a powerful freezing charm in his direction; it hit him squarely in the chest, and the force of it knocked him over. She was left breathless for a moment: she hadn't meant to send the spell so forcefully, but the flare of emotion at the sighte of him had gotten her carried away. She carefully suppressed any other wayward feelings before approaching him.
((OOC: Arrrggg. This is so horribly awful, I can't continue. I tried some dialogue. It was crap. Please, someone take over. Feel free to add in the promised sap that I only partially got to. Maybe I'll fix this post in a little bit, if that's better...))
My Thought Train Wreck
"Dont eat yellow snow," Katy, along with lots of hundreds of thousands of people.
((OCC: Ruby here. As you see, quotes are currently inaccessible to me at the moment, so I asked my good friend katy for a piece of wisdom, and she complied.))
Lets retrace Transjostre's thought process from a few moments before--we'll start from when Myrtle begins to climb the apple tree:
"Myrtle is climbing an apple tree. Myrtle is clumbsy. Myrtle is going to fall off the tree. That tree looks old and brittle. That tree has a knot that looks like Myrtle's great Auntie Caroline. Myrtle's great Auntie Caroline has an ugly dog. Myrtle's great Auntie Caroline's house smells funny and has termites. I wonder why termites eat only wood. I eat wood. Do termites eat trees? Does that tree have termites? Myrtle is going to fall off the tree. Myrtle is going to get hurt. Myrtle is going to need an icepack. Icepacks are cold. Hoth is cold. Mark is cold. Myrtle is going to need Mark. When we were at Hoth, Myrtle fell through some thin ice. Myrtle is clumbsy. Myrtle is going to fall off that tree..."
CRASH!
"Oh dear, Myrtle has fallen off the tree."
((OCC: Ruby here. As you see, quotes are currently inaccessible to me at the moment, so I asked my good friend katy for a piece of wisdom, and she complied.))
Lets retrace Transjostre's thought process from a few moments before--we'll start from when Myrtle begins to climb the apple tree:
"Myrtle is climbing an apple tree. Myrtle is clumbsy. Myrtle is going to fall off the tree. That tree looks old and brittle. That tree has a knot that looks like Myrtle's great Auntie Caroline. Myrtle's great Auntie Caroline has an ugly dog. Myrtle's great Auntie Caroline's house smells funny and has termites. I wonder why termites eat only wood. I eat wood. Do termites eat trees? Does that tree have termites? Myrtle is going to fall off the tree. Myrtle is going to get hurt. Myrtle is going to need an icepack. Icepacks are cold. Hoth is cold. Mark is cold. Myrtle is going to need Mark. When we were at Hoth, Myrtle fell through some thin ice. Myrtle is clumbsy. Myrtle is going to fall off that tree..."
CRASH!
"Oh dear, Myrtle has fallen off the tree."
Thursday, August 16, 2007
My Train of Thought
"Don't approach a goat from the front, a horse from the back, or a fool from any side.” Yiddish Proverb
((This is Ishack, sorry, this will be a short entry, catching Kyrus up))
Let us retrace Kyrus' thought process from moments before:
The man of snow was talking,“This goat came running at me and when it hit me instead of knocking me over I was here and the goat was gone.”
Magic, Kyrus realized.
Goat! he gasped.
Myrtle... he murmured
Vera. he choked.
A crash nearby broke his thoughts. Vera!!! She was nearby, he was sure of it, forgetting that she was out to kill him, he rushed towards the sound, followed by his frozen friend and the confounded flautist.
Not five seconds later, he saw them.
So did the snowman, "It's the goat!"
Myrtle smiled as she approached, and said fondly, "Mark, I wondered where you'd gotten to..." But was taken down by Gemma.
"Gemma!" Kyrus exclaimed as he rushed to help her.
"Myrtle" came a voice.
Kyrus looked up, there she was. Shock replaced all other emotions as he gazed upon her. It had been so long. And Vera hadn't changed a bit.
((Flo, it's so your moment...))
((This is Ishack, sorry, this will be a short entry, catching Kyrus up))
Let us retrace Kyrus' thought process from moments before:
The man of snow was talking,“This goat came running at me and when it hit me instead of knocking me over I was here and the goat was gone.”
Magic, Kyrus realized.
Goat! he gasped.
Myrtle... he murmured
Vera. he choked.
A crash nearby broke his thoughts. Vera!!! She was nearby, he was sure of it, forgetting that she was out to kill him, he rushed towards the sound, followed by his frozen friend and the confounded flautist.
Not five seconds later, he saw them.
So did the snowman, "It's the goat!"
Myrtle smiled as she approached, and said fondly, "Mark, I wondered where you'd gotten to..." But was taken down by Gemma.
"Gemma!" Kyrus exclaimed as he rushed to help her.
"Myrtle" came a voice.
Kyrus looked up, there she was. Shock replaced all other emotions as he gazed upon her. It had been so long. And Vera hadn't changed a bit.
((Flo, it's so your moment...))
Monday, August 13, 2007
A Walk in the Park
“When people are laughing, they're generally not killing one another.” -- Alan Alda
((OCC: Ona here. Sorry about that long wait between updates but we’ve had some problems with motivation, creativity, and time. And I’ve been working on some of my other writing instead of this. But Flo was getting upset that no one had written for a while and jokingly said I should write about a snowman trying to eat Kyrus and Gemma. Then one thing led to another and I came up with this all by myself, don’t blame Flo for it, this was all me. Hope you enjoy it.))
Gemma and Kyrus walked down the rode that lead to the farm, not in the direction that led to town but in the direction that led to many other things none of them really all that interesting. An awkward silence hung between the two of them and Gemma didn’t like it. She had no idea why she had agreed to go walking with him anyway. If they where found it would ruin her reputation and she didn’t even like him.
But she was here now and she wasn't going to waist the time. She would have to find something to talk to him about. Music was out since it was an art he obviously had no appreciation for. He had made that quite clear when she had tried to talk to him about it earlier.
However before Gemma could decide what to say to the annoying mysterious stranger he spoke. “Why did you answer music earlier?” he asked. “When I wanted to know what we should talk about.”
“You didn’t have any interest in it at the time,” said Gemma icily. “Why the sudden interest.”
“I have no interest in music because I forced to learn about it at a young age when I would much rather have been playing with the other boys my age,” responded Kyrus. “My question pertained not to music in this case but to you and your interest in the subject.”
“Music is not just a subject to me sir,” responded Gemma slowly; she didn’t trust this sudden interest in her interests. “It is my one hope to leave this place forever and make a good life for myself.”
“You could marry like any other girl of your age,” Kyrus pointed out.
This time Gemma did not take offence at this view of women. For one thing his tone made it clear that he was simply observing not seeking to insult her, and for another he was right, it was the custom of the day that girls of her age should be focusing on marriage and nothing else. “To whom?” she asked. “One of the farmers sons? Or one of the boys form town? I’d still be stuck here. And I wouldn’t make a difference. If I can show people that women can do more than make a good marriage and keep house maybe I can help some poor soul who would otherwise be forced into a marriage to some man they hate.”
Kyrus seemed to be thinking about her speech long and hard. Either that or he had assumed that look while she was talking and had tuned her out so completely he hadn’t noticed she had finished. Gemma wasn’t going to interrupt him either way; if she just waited she might be able to figure out which it was.
However before Kyrus reviled himself a great blood-curdling scream pierced the night. Both Gemma and Kyrus spun to the left, the direction form which the scream seemed to be coming.
“Help! Please someone help,” said a voice from the same direction. Neither of our protagonists wasted any time in rushing to the aid of whatever creature might be in need. Which might be a sign of how late at night it really was because both of them tended to be suspicious and would normally have suspected a trap. Luckily this was not a trap so this unusual behavior brought neither of them to any immediate harm.
They rushed through the trees eyes scanning the dark for whoever it was who might be in need. When they reached the end of the first row they spotted the unusual damsel in distress.
It was wailing in the most irritating manner. “I’m melting!!!!!!” It screamed over and over again.
And sure enough it was. Water dripped from the body of the unfortunate, obviously lost snowman.
Gemma and Kyrus froze in surprise for a moment. Where on earth had it come from? All the snow had melted ages ago.
However they soon had no time to ponder this as the said snowman spotted them. “Oh good sir,” said the snowman. “And gentle lady please help me! I am lost and if I stay here much longer I will melt all away and be nothing but a puddle of water soon to nourish these lovely apple trees.”
Gemma still stood there in shock but Kyrus, a man who had traveled far and wide, responded calmly. “Slow down please,” he said. When the snowman seemed to have calmed a bit he continued, “Now tell me your story from the beginning.” Gemma approved of this; it was always good to start at the beginning.
The snowman didn’t say anything; he just stared at Kyrus in a confused way. Well Gemma thought it was confused; his top snowball rolled a little to the right, his coal mouth arranged itself in a frown and his eyebrows drew together a little. “Why don’t you start with who you are, where you came from, and how you got here,” she suggested to the poor creature.
The snowman’s face cleared up immediately. He rolled his head forward and backward in a gesture that vaguely resembled a nod and began. “My name is Mark,” said the snowman. Gemma thought Mark did not seem a very snowman-ish name but she didn’t say so for fear that the snowman would fly off the handle again. “I’m from a place called Hoth, it’s not a very big town but it’s nice enough. There are lots of good ice cream shops there and a lot of elves and reindeer…” he didn’t seem inclined to stop describing Hoth any time soon but Kyrus interrupted impatiently.
“So how did you get here?” he demanded.
Gemma would have though that Mark would have started panicking again but instead he reacted quite calmly. “Well I’m not quite sure,” he told them. “I was going to visit my friend Tom but while I was walking along…” Gemma didn’t see how a snowman could walk. “This goat came running at me and when it hit me instead of knocking me over I was here and the goat was gone.”
This was very puzzling to Gemma who knew many goats none of whom she would have thought had any magical powers. She did not have much time to think about this though because just then there was a crash a few rows over and Kyrus, Gemma and Mark all ran in that direction. This lapse in judgment might cause a little more trouble for our heroes then the earlier one.
Gemma was not thinking about that though, she still wanted to know how Mark walked. She turned and looked at him to see him rolling the bottommost of the three balls that made up his body and getting covered in dirt. Then she tripped over something, something soft and warm and definitely human. She hit her head and the last thing she heard before falling unconscious was three people shouting. One called her name, another started yelling about a goat and a third shouted about someone named Merle or something like that.
((OCC: Ona here. Sorry about that long wait between updates but we’ve had some problems with motivation, creativity, and time. And I’ve been working on some of my other writing instead of this. But Flo was getting upset that no one had written for a while and jokingly said I should write about a snowman trying to eat Kyrus and Gemma. Then one thing led to another and I came up with this all by myself, don’t blame Flo for it, this was all me. Hope you enjoy it.))
Gemma and Kyrus walked down the rode that lead to the farm, not in the direction that led to town but in the direction that led to many other things none of them really all that interesting. An awkward silence hung between the two of them and Gemma didn’t like it. She had no idea why she had agreed to go walking with him anyway. If they where found it would ruin her reputation and she didn’t even like him.
But she was here now and she wasn't going to waist the time. She would have to find something to talk to him about. Music was out since it was an art he obviously had no appreciation for. He had made that quite clear when she had tried to talk to him about it earlier.
However before Gemma could decide what to say to the annoying mysterious stranger he spoke. “Why did you answer music earlier?” he asked. “When I wanted to know what we should talk about.”
“You didn’t have any interest in it at the time,” said Gemma icily. “Why the sudden interest.”
“I have no interest in music because I forced to learn about it at a young age when I would much rather have been playing with the other boys my age,” responded Kyrus. “My question pertained not to music in this case but to you and your interest in the subject.”
“Music is not just a subject to me sir,” responded Gemma slowly; she didn’t trust this sudden interest in her interests. “It is my one hope to leave this place forever and make a good life for myself.”
“You could marry like any other girl of your age,” Kyrus pointed out.
This time Gemma did not take offence at this view of women. For one thing his tone made it clear that he was simply observing not seeking to insult her, and for another he was right, it was the custom of the day that girls of her age should be focusing on marriage and nothing else. “To whom?” she asked. “One of the farmers sons? Or one of the boys form town? I’d still be stuck here. And I wouldn’t make a difference. If I can show people that women can do more than make a good marriage and keep house maybe I can help some poor soul who would otherwise be forced into a marriage to some man they hate.”
Kyrus seemed to be thinking about her speech long and hard. Either that or he had assumed that look while she was talking and had tuned her out so completely he hadn’t noticed she had finished. Gemma wasn’t going to interrupt him either way; if she just waited she might be able to figure out which it was.
However before Kyrus reviled himself a great blood-curdling scream pierced the night. Both Gemma and Kyrus spun to the left, the direction form which the scream seemed to be coming.
“Help! Please someone help,” said a voice from the same direction. Neither of our protagonists wasted any time in rushing to the aid of whatever creature might be in need. Which might be a sign of how late at night it really was because both of them tended to be suspicious and would normally have suspected a trap. Luckily this was not a trap so this unusual behavior brought neither of them to any immediate harm.
They rushed through the trees eyes scanning the dark for whoever it was who might be in need. When they reached the end of the first row they spotted the unusual damsel in distress.
It was wailing in the most irritating manner. “I’m melting!!!!!!” It screamed over and over again.
And sure enough it was. Water dripped from the body of the unfortunate, obviously lost snowman.
Gemma and Kyrus froze in surprise for a moment. Where on earth had it come from? All the snow had melted ages ago.
However they soon had no time to ponder this as the said snowman spotted them. “Oh good sir,” said the snowman. “And gentle lady please help me! I am lost and if I stay here much longer I will melt all away and be nothing but a puddle of water soon to nourish these lovely apple trees.”
Gemma still stood there in shock but Kyrus, a man who had traveled far and wide, responded calmly. “Slow down please,” he said. When the snowman seemed to have calmed a bit he continued, “Now tell me your story from the beginning.” Gemma approved of this; it was always good to start at the beginning.
The snowman didn’t say anything; he just stared at Kyrus in a confused way. Well Gemma thought it was confused; his top snowball rolled a little to the right, his coal mouth arranged itself in a frown and his eyebrows drew together a little. “Why don’t you start with who you are, where you came from, and how you got here,” she suggested to the poor creature.
The snowman’s face cleared up immediately. He rolled his head forward and backward in a gesture that vaguely resembled a nod and began. “My name is Mark,” said the snowman. Gemma thought Mark did not seem a very snowman-ish name but she didn’t say so for fear that the snowman would fly off the handle again. “I’m from a place called Hoth, it’s not a very big town but it’s nice enough. There are lots of good ice cream shops there and a lot of elves and reindeer…” he didn’t seem inclined to stop describing Hoth any time soon but Kyrus interrupted impatiently.
“So how did you get here?” he demanded.
Gemma would have though that Mark would have started panicking again but instead he reacted quite calmly. “Well I’m not quite sure,” he told them. “I was going to visit my friend Tom but while I was walking along…” Gemma didn’t see how a snowman could walk. “This goat came running at me and when it hit me instead of knocking me over I was here and the goat was gone.”
This was very puzzling to Gemma who knew many goats none of whom she would have thought had any magical powers. She did not have much time to think about this though because just then there was a crash a few rows over and Kyrus, Gemma and Mark all ran in that direction. This lapse in judgment might cause a little more trouble for our heroes then the earlier one.
Gemma was not thinking about that though, she still wanted to know how Mark walked. She turned and looked at him to see him rolling the bottommost of the three balls that made up his body and getting covered in dirt. Then she tripped over something, something soft and warm and definitely human. She hit her head and the last thing she heard before falling unconscious was three people shouting. One called her name, another started yelling about a goat and a third shouted about someone named Merle or something like that.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Hay, Pedro! Pobrecito!
"If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you."
-Oscar Wilde
((OOC: It's me, Flo. I was trying to figure out how to make the content of this entry fit this quote, and I was stumped stumped. So I just gave up and wrote my entry, and it ended up being almost perfect for it anyway! I love when things just work out like that! :D))
Vera and Pedro walked in uncomfortable (for Pedro, anyway) silence for a while, before Pedro summoned the courage to speak. "Vera, I-um-I have something to say." He took a deep breath, and continued, "I know that everyone thinks Myrtle and I are in love, and are bound to be married some day, but-well-what I mean is, I can see why, but I just don't feel...that way about her. I mean, I do care about her, and I suppose I do love her, but I'm not in love with her, really. What I mean to say is that she feels more like a-a sister than anything else, and--"
"Is there a point you're trying to make, because if not, I'll just tune you out," Vera interrupted impatiently.
"What I'm trying to say is that...oh, bugger. Vera, I have very strong feelings for you, and was wondering if you felt the same way." He said this last part very fast, as if he were getting a heavy weight off his chest. Vera could practically feel his face grow hot with embarassment.
She then did what any other jaded, compassionless witch would do: she laughed. Hard. "Pedro-haha!-Pedro, you can't be-hee!-you can't be serious! You're-you're-that was a joke, right? Right? You were just...joking...you weren't joking, were you," she concluded when Pedro failed to join in the laughter. This would have been awkward, were it somebody with a bit more sensitivity in Vera's place. However, she managed to brush away her embarassment with a superior and slightly amused, "I'm very flattered, Pedro, but no. Just-no."
So this was why he had been throwing pebbles at her window! He thought he was going to woo her with pathetic cliches and romantic ideals. It was awfully sweet of him to go to the effort, but Vera had no time for sweetness. She swiftly steered the conversation to Myrtle, before Pedro, who now looked as though he would very much like to disappear, could protest.
"So, according to this Myrtle-ometer, Myrtle should be somewhere in this apple orchard." For indeed, the device had led them to the edge of a vast grove of apple trees. From somewhere in the thick of trees, they heard a faint crash and an alarmed bleeting. "And that would be Myrtle."
-Oscar Wilde
((OOC: It's me, Flo. I was trying to figure out how to make the content of this entry fit this quote, and I was stumped stumped. So I just gave up and wrote my entry, and it ended up being almost perfect for it anyway! I love when things just work out like that! :D))
Vera and Pedro walked in uncomfortable (for Pedro, anyway) silence for a while, before Pedro summoned the courage to speak. "Vera, I-um-I have something to say." He took a deep breath, and continued, "I know that everyone thinks Myrtle and I are in love, and are bound to be married some day, but-well-what I mean is, I can see why, but I just don't feel...that way about her. I mean, I do care about her, and I suppose I do love her, but I'm not in love with her, really. What I mean to say is that she feels more like a-a sister than anything else, and--"
"Is there a point you're trying to make, because if not, I'll just tune you out," Vera interrupted impatiently.
"What I'm trying to say is that...oh, bugger. Vera, I have very strong feelings for you, and was wondering if you felt the same way." He said this last part very fast, as if he were getting a heavy weight off his chest. Vera could practically feel his face grow hot with embarassment.
She then did what any other jaded, compassionless witch would do: she laughed. Hard. "Pedro-haha!-Pedro, you can't be-hee!-you can't be serious! You're-you're-that was a joke, right? Right? You were just...joking...you weren't joking, were you," she concluded when Pedro failed to join in the laughter. This would have been awkward, were it somebody with a bit more sensitivity in Vera's place. However, she managed to brush away her embarassment with a superior and slightly amused, "I'm very flattered, Pedro, but no. Just-no."
So this was why he had been throwing pebbles at her window! He thought he was going to woo her with pathetic cliches and romantic ideals. It was awfully sweet of him to go to the effort, but Vera had no time for sweetness. She swiftly steered the conversation to Myrtle, before Pedro, who now looked as though he would very much like to disappear, could protest.
"So, according to this Myrtle-ometer, Myrtle should be somewhere in this apple orchard." For indeed, the device had led them to the edge of a vast grove of apple trees. From somewhere in the thick of trees, they heard a faint crash and an alarmed bleeting. "And that would be Myrtle."
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
They're Out to Get You
Three quotes this time because I couldn't choose, all on this entry's theme:
-“Sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts.”-William S. Burroughs
-Paranoia doesn't mean the whole world really isn't out to get you.
-If you ever wanted to know what a person with acute paranoia looks like, just keep watching.
((OOC:Ishack here. Didn't really get anywhere with this entry but hopefully it will lead to a bigger and better next entry either by Ona or myself. Still it is somewhat enlightening about Kyrus' character))
That night, Kyrus didn't sleep. He knew he needed the rest, his body was exhausted, but his mind was restless. He couldn't stop thinking about her and how different his life could have been if their paths had never crossed. Not that it would have all been good. She had caused him to grow up, awakened him to the responsibilities of a Prince and the importance of an united Kingdom. Before she betrayed him, that is.
He rolled over on his side and reached his hand beneath his pillow to touch his dagger's hilt. It was going to be a long night, what with the paranoia and the memories. Still, he tried for seven minutes more before finally giving up.
He dressed slowly, meticulously, and patted his hair into place. He glanced into the mirror on the wall. It had been a long time since he had cared about his reflection.
'Thank God those days are over,' he thought. His arrogance in those days had been three times as bad as his pride was now.
He finished dressing and strapped on his sword and an extra sledge-hammer (because he could).
Of course, now that he was all prepared to do something he couldn't just undress and go back to bed. He had to do something at least semi-productive. He started by leaving the room.
It had been a long evening, sitting in primarily stony silence with the girl--he forgot what her name was--until her brother got home. Her brother had looked at him suspiciously but gone along with the girls judgement. It was rather stupid of them, Kyrus thought. It was likely they would end up dead for helping him. Dratt those witches!
He reached the front door.
"Where do you think you are going?"
It was the girl again.
Kyrus sighed, "Out."
She raised an eyebrow.
"For a walk," he clarified.
She didn't move so he did the only thing that seemed remotely reasonable, asked her if she'd like to come.
For reasons unknown to him, she nodded and followed him out.
-“Sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts.”-William S. Burroughs
-Paranoia doesn't mean the whole world really isn't out to get you.
-If you ever wanted to know what a person with acute paranoia looks like, just keep watching.
((OOC:Ishack here. Didn't really get anywhere with this entry but hopefully it will lead to a bigger and better next entry either by Ona or myself. Still it is somewhat enlightening about Kyrus' character))
That night, Kyrus didn't sleep. He knew he needed the rest, his body was exhausted, but his mind was restless. He couldn't stop thinking about her and how different his life could have been if their paths had never crossed. Not that it would have all been good. She had caused him to grow up, awakened him to the responsibilities of a Prince and the importance of an united Kingdom. Before she betrayed him, that is.
He rolled over on his side and reached his hand beneath his pillow to touch his dagger's hilt. It was going to be a long night, what with the paranoia and the memories. Still, he tried for seven minutes more before finally giving up.
He dressed slowly, meticulously, and patted his hair into place. He glanced into the mirror on the wall. It had been a long time since he had cared about his reflection.
'Thank God those days are over,' he thought. His arrogance in those days had been three times as bad as his pride was now.
He finished dressing and strapped on his sword and an extra sledge-hammer (because he could).
Of course, now that he was all prepared to do something he couldn't just undress and go back to bed. He had to do something at least semi-productive. He started by leaving the room.
It had been a long evening, sitting in primarily stony silence with the girl--he forgot what her name was--until her brother got home. Her brother had looked at him suspiciously but gone along with the girls judgement. It was rather stupid of them, Kyrus thought. It was likely they would end up dead for helping him. Dratt those witches!
He reached the front door.
"Where do you think you are going?"
It was the girl again.
Kyrus sighed, "Out."
She raised an eyebrow.
"For a walk," he clarified.
She didn't move so he did the only thing that seemed remotely reasonable, asked her if she'd like to come.
For reasons unknown to him, she nodded and followed him out.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Lost in an Apple Orchard
"Promises and pie crusts are made to be broken." --Jonathan Swift
((OCC: True, that quote really does have nothing to do with what is written, but i liked it anyway. I visited an apple orchard once. It was pretty cool. And I eat an apple for lunch everyday, which helped provide for inspiration for this next part of the story. Its Ruby, by the way, in case you haven't already guessed. And I like pie. Especially apple pie. But cherry pie is better. And lemon meringue pie is good too, but not quite as good as apple or cherry. I also like Creme Brulee. Possibly because I like using a blow torch to burn the sugar on top of it. I could go on like this, but Ill stop and let you get on to the story.))
Myrtle was feeling unfortunate, as usual. In her futile attempt to please her sister, she had already tripped over a large rock, a cat, and twisted her ankle on an uneven cobble stone sticking out in the middle of the road. Then, while she was sitting in the street massaging her unhappy ankle, so mean boys wandering the streets at night threw rocks on her beloved Tranjoster, thinking he was some sort of toothy demon apparition. He had subsequently bolted down the street frightened, going the WRONG WAY, to make everything worse. So Myrtle had to hop up on her hurt ankle and go chasing after her terrified goat. Now she was in expansive unkempt apple orchard , with absolutely no idea where she was or how she had gotten herself out of town and lost so gosh darn fast. Luckily she had found transjoster, and unlike Myrtle, who was now contentedly chomping on an old green apple he had picked off the ground. at least someone was happy. Myrtle personally had no qualms about being lost, but she knew that Vera would be very unhappy with her, and she had lost one of her precious earplugs out of her pocket when she had gone chasing after her goat.
Myrtle sat down and starred glumly about her. The apple orchard looked like it had not been watered or tended too for about a millennium, and the underbrush and tall grass made eerie shadows in the pale moonlight. Myrtle had no clue to where she was. She was just about to give up and go to sleep right then there when she hit upon the obvious course of action. Of course! Why hadn't she thought of it earlier? she was surrounded by trees... all she had to do was climb one and look for the town lights to guide her back! She almost kicked herself for not thinking of it earlier--except for her foot still hurt, so she decided not to.
Up the tree she went, with Transjoter staring incredulously up at her. It was marvelously difficult in a skirt, and her already tattered mud-stained skirt got a little more ragged. Finally she got high enough to poke her head above the highest foliage and look out about the dark landscape. She couldn't see very far past the other tree tops, but she thought she could spot a small yellow light off in the distance to the north. Just then she heard a loud creak under her. A few seconds later the ancient gnarled branch she had been so carefully balanced on gave way, and she tumbled down through the leaves and twigs, through the air, and onto the dense undergrowth bellow.
((OCC: True, that quote really does have nothing to do with what is written, but i liked it anyway. I visited an apple orchard once. It was pretty cool. And I eat an apple for lunch everyday, which helped provide for inspiration for this next part of the story. Its Ruby, by the way, in case you haven't already guessed. And I like pie. Especially apple pie. But cherry pie is better. And lemon meringue pie is good too, but not quite as good as apple or cherry. I also like Creme Brulee. Possibly because I like using a blow torch to burn the sugar on top of it. I could go on like this, but Ill stop and let you get on to the story.))
Myrtle was feeling unfortunate, as usual. In her futile attempt to please her sister, she had already tripped over a large rock, a cat, and twisted her ankle on an uneven cobble stone sticking out in the middle of the road. Then, while she was sitting in the street massaging her unhappy ankle, so mean boys wandering the streets at night threw rocks on her beloved Tranjoster, thinking he was some sort of toothy demon apparition. He had subsequently bolted down the street frightened, going the WRONG WAY, to make everything worse. So Myrtle had to hop up on her hurt ankle and go chasing after her terrified goat. Now she was in expansive unkempt apple orchard , with absolutely no idea where she was or how she had gotten herself out of town and lost so gosh darn fast. Luckily she had found transjoster, and unlike Myrtle, who was now contentedly chomping on an old green apple he had picked off the ground. at least someone was happy. Myrtle personally had no qualms about being lost, but she knew that Vera would be very unhappy with her, and she had lost one of her precious earplugs out of her pocket when she had gone chasing after her goat.
Myrtle sat down and starred glumly about her. The apple orchard looked like it had not been watered or tended too for about a millennium, and the underbrush and tall grass made eerie shadows in the pale moonlight. Myrtle had no clue to where she was. She was just about to give up and go to sleep right then there when she hit upon the obvious course of action. Of course! Why hadn't she thought of it earlier? she was surrounded by trees... all she had to do was climb one and look for the town lights to guide her back! She almost kicked herself for not thinking of it earlier--except for her foot still hurt, so she decided not to.
Up the tree she went, with Transjoter staring incredulously up at her. It was marvelously difficult in a skirt, and her already tattered mud-stained skirt got a little more ragged. Finally she got high enough to poke her head above the highest foliage and look out about the dark landscape. She couldn't see very far past the other tree tops, but she thought she could spot a small yellow light off in the distance to the north. Just then she heard a loud creak under her. A few seconds later the ancient gnarled branch she had been so carefully balanced on gave way, and she tumbled down through the leaves and twigs, through the air, and onto the dense undergrowth bellow.
Rude
"The chief difference between horror fans and science fiction fans lies in why they won't walk backwards. A horror fan won't walk backwards because he knows he'll be knifed by a madman. A science fiction fan won't walk backwards because he knows he'll step on the cat." -- Aaron Allston
((OCC: Ona here. I wrote this a couple days ago but haven’t been able to post it until now. Hope you enjoy it and that it makes sense to every one. The above quote is one of my favorite quotes of all time by one of my favorite authors of all time (even though I’ve only read his Star Wars books so far, not my fault I can’t find the others). Before I get to off topic lets get to our feature presentation.))
How dare he! Thought Gemma. This man had just barged in a threatened her insisting she provide him with room and board. Then he tells her that he has a murdering sisterhood of witches after him and because of that she should take him in. Doesn’t he understand that she in putting her entire family in danger by taking him in?
Gemma showed the man with the eye patch into the house and took his coat. Just because he didn’t have any manners was no reason for Gemma to forget her own. Gemma offered the man a seat at the table and then sat down across from him. Anyone who had walked into the room at that moment would have sworn the air between them was on fire from the intensity of each of their glares.
Gemma was first to break the silence, “I must prepare supper now for when Ben returns for the fields.” She began to busy herself with the kitchen work and tried to forget the man sitting at the table behind her.
Now before we continue let us clear up any confusion the reader may have about Miss Gemma Blythe. Gemma is not shy, no quite to the contrary; she is very outgoing and independent in her own way. She was however raised by a very proper mother who taught her how to behave as was expected of a woman, shyly and demurely. Just because Gemma acts this way in public does not mean that this is her personality, no it is simply a mask she puts on for the world. In many ways Gemma is a far more modern woman that she appears. She does however, like anyone her age, have a tendency to get nervous.
“Where is you father child?” asked eye-patch-man, not unkindly.
“My name is Gemma and I am not a child,” responds Gemma. Her father is not a popular topic in this household.
“You did not answer my question Gemma,” said the man evenly.
“What’s your name?” asked Gemma, still trying to avoid the subject.
“Kyrus,” answered the man, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice.
“Why are the witches after you Kyrus?” asked Gemma finally turning around to look him square in the eye. Which she would admit was a bit unnerving.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” snapped Kyrus.
Gemma smiled icily. “And I don’t want to talk about my father.”
With that Gemma turned back to the stove and after a few minutes of silence Kyrus spoke.
“Then what shall we talk about?” he asked.
Gemma thought for a moment. A safe topic. A safe topic. Safe. “Music,” she told him.
((OCC: Ona here. I wrote this a couple days ago but haven’t been able to post it until now. Hope you enjoy it and that it makes sense to every one. The above quote is one of my favorite quotes of all time by one of my favorite authors of all time (even though I’ve only read his Star Wars books so far, not my fault I can’t find the others). Before I get to off topic lets get to our feature presentation.))
How dare he! Thought Gemma. This man had just barged in a threatened her insisting she provide him with room and board. Then he tells her that he has a murdering sisterhood of witches after him and because of that she should take him in. Doesn’t he understand that she in putting her entire family in danger by taking him in?
Gemma showed the man with the eye patch into the house and took his coat. Just because he didn’t have any manners was no reason for Gemma to forget her own. Gemma offered the man a seat at the table and then sat down across from him. Anyone who had walked into the room at that moment would have sworn the air between them was on fire from the intensity of each of their glares.
Gemma was first to break the silence, “I must prepare supper now for when Ben returns for the fields.” She began to busy herself with the kitchen work and tried to forget the man sitting at the table behind her.
Now before we continue let us clear up any confusion the reader may have about Miss Gemma Blythe. Gemma is not shy, no quite to the contrary; she is very outgoing and independent in her own way. She was however raised by a very proper mother who taught her how to behave as was expected of a woman, shyly and demurely. Just because Gemma acts this way in public does not mean that this is her personality, no it is simply a mask she puts on for the world. In many ways Gemma is a far more modern woman that she appears. She does however, like anyone her age, have a tendency to get nervous.
“Where is you father child?” asked eye-patch-man, not unkindly.
“My name is Gemma and I am not a child,” responds Gemma. Her father is not a popular topic in this household.
“You did not answer my question Gemma,” said the man evenly.
“What’s your name?” asked Gemma, still trying to avoid the subject.
“Kyrus,” answered the man, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice.
“Why are the witches after you Kyrus?” asked Gemma finally turning around to look him square in the eye. Which she would admit was a bit unnerving.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” snapped Kyrus.
Gemma smiled icily. “And I don’t want to talk about my father.”
With that Gemma turned back to the stove and after a few minutes of silence Kyrus spoke.
“Then what shall we talk about?” he asked.
Gemma thought for a moment. A safe topic. A safe topic. Safe. “Music,” she told him.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Pedro
"But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
who is already sick and pale with grief
That thou her maid art far more fair than she."
-Romeo and Juliet
((OOC: Hiya, Flo here. I'm sure you recognized the quote immediately. I suppose my entry won't be quite like that, but what's a good story without a little romance, even for a cranky witch?))
Tap...tap...
"Myrtle, I thought I told you to go to sleep."
Tap...tap...tap...
"Myrtle, I swear I'll-"
Tap...CRASH!
"MYRTLE!!" Vera sprang out of bed and grabbed a candle. She had trouble lighting it at first, because there was a breeze coming from the open -- wait. She hadn't opened the window! She squinted at it. Sure enough, it was broken. Shards of glass littered the ground beneath the window sill, and a largish stone lay on the ground beside it.
"Myrtle, once again, you and your clumsiness -- Myrtle?" Myrtle was not in her cot. Come to think of it, Vera realized that she hadn't made a sound all this time. She crept silently over to the window, aware of the apprehension that tinged her annoyance. If Myrtle wasn't standing lurking under the window (and why she would be there, Vera had no idea), well...let's just say it could be anyone.
"Who's there?" she called in her most authoritative voice.
There was a rustling of bushes, a thud and a muffled curse. Then someone cleared their throat and half whispered/half shouted, "Is that -- is that you, Vera?"
Vera frowned. She knew that voice. Where did she know that voice from? Hold on...it couldn't be..."Pedrito?" She stood up and leaned out the window, careful not to cut herself on the broken window pane. Squinting, she could barely make out the scrawny young man from her village. "Pedrito, why have you thrown a rock through my window?"
"Actually, I go by Pedro now. Is that just you up there, or is Myrtle with you?" Pedro asked, ignoring her question.
"That's none of your business, and you didn't answer my question. What are you doing down there, throwing rocks through people's windows?"
He shuffled awkwardly. "I didn't mean to break your window, I'm really sorry about that. The pebbles didn't seem to be working, so I opted for one that was a bit heavier...sorry. Can I talk to you, Vera?"
What?! Myrtle was missing, this idiot had just shattered her window with a rock, and he wanted to talk? She voiced these thoughts aloud.
"Myrtle's gone?" asked Pedro, genuinely surprised.
"Yes, she is. I'd thought you might have had something to do with it. If I remember correctly, you two were practically betrothed."
"Yes, well," Pedro scuffed his foot nervously against the ground, "that's sort of that I wanted to talk to you about. Do you think I could come up there? It's very cold out here."
"So sorry, but I can't, seeing as Myrtle's off and disappeared. Again. If you'd like to come along to help me find her, you're welcome. I'll meet you down there in half a second." And before Pedro could protest, Vera ducked back into her room. She gathered a few essential tracking materials (most significantly, her Myrtle-ometer, a device that was far more efficient than a tracking spell, which her mother had made when she realized how prone Myrtle was to wandering off), donned a traveling cloak and made her way out of the inn.
As she walked, she thought about Pedro. It had been years since she had last seen him. He hadn't grown much. He and Myrtle had played together often as children. They both came from significant, well-to-do families, and everyone sort of assumed that he and Myrtle would end up marrying each other. He still kept in contact with the two sisters, even after they were orphaned and sent off to be raised by the League of Witches. Of course, he didn't know that: he simply thought they were sent away to boarding school.
Vera herself had been betrothed once. (This was when it was just about to go out of fashion. Myrtle had never been traditionally betrothed: it was merely assumed that she'd settle down with Pedro.) It was ironic, she thought, that now, years later, she should be pursuing this man not to marry him, but to kill him. Ahhh, how things had changed.
Wait till Myrtle finds out she has a stalker. Of course, she'll probably be overjoyed that her beau came all this way to see her. They do get a bit ridiculous at that age, what with the raging hormones and whatnot. I'm sure I was never like that, of course.
As Vera approached the clearing, Pedro's face lit up. (No, not just because Vera had a lantern. It was more of an internal thing for him.) "Vera! Excellent! Now can we talk?"
"Yes, talk while we walk, and make it quick. By the way, this had better be very, very important. You're a great nuisance, you know." At this, Pedro looked genuinely hurt, but Vera took no notice. At least, she pretended not to. "Now, be quiet a moment." She pulled her Myrtle-ometer out of her pocket. The instrument comprised of a swiveling triangle mounted on a stand. She held the device firmly in her hand, bent her head over it, and muttered something to it. The triangle began to spin very fast, until it suddenly stopped dead, pointing straight down the street. "Come. This way," she ordered, before taking off at a brisk pace.
"What's that?" Pedro pointed to the strange instrument.
"A Myrtle-ometer."
"Oh. What's it for?"
"Finding Myrtle."
((OOC: Ok, well, that didn't go exactly as planned, but what can ya do? By the way, I tried to avoid just dumping a bunch of back story into this post, so there's still some stuff I'll explained later. Me an' Ruby plotted a bunch of it out, and I'm not sure if I remember it all properly. I hope I got it right. 'Twas very entertaining to come up with it. Mwahahaa.))
It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
who is already sick and pale with grief
That thou her maid art far more fair than she."
-Romeo and Juliet
((OOC: Hiya, Flo here. I'm sure you recognized the quote immediately. I suppose my entry won't be quite like that, but what's a good story without a little romance, even for a cranky witch?))
Tap...tap...
"Myrtle, I thought I told you to go to sleep."
Tap...tap...tap...
"Myrtle, I swear I'll-"
Tap...CRASH!
"MYRTLE!!" Vera sprang out of bed and grabbed a candle. She had trouble lighting it at first, because there was a breeze coming from the open -- wait. She hadn't opened the window! She squinted at it. Sure enough, it was broken. Shards of glass littered the ground beneath the window sill, and a largish stone lay on the ground beside it.
"Myrtle, once again, you and your clumsiness -- Myrtle?" Myrtle was not in her cot. Come to think of it, Vera realized that she hadn't made a sound all this time. She crept silently over to the window, aware of the apprehension that tinged her annoyance. If Myrtle wasn't standing lurking under the window (and why she would be there, Vera had no idea), well...let's just say it could be anyone.
"Who's there?" she called in her most authoritative voice.
There was a rustling of bushes, a thud and a muffled curse. Then someone cleared their throat and half whispered/half shouted, "Is that -- is that you, Vera?"
Vera frowned. She knew that voice. Where did she know that voice from? Hold on...it couldn't be..."Pedrito?" She stood up and leaned out the window, careful not to cut herself on the broken window pane. Squinting, she could barely make out the scrawny young man from her village. "Pedrito, why have you thrown a rock through my window?"
"Actually, I go by Pedro now. Is that just you up there, or is Myrtle with you?" Pedro asked, ignoring her question.
"That's none of your business, and you didn't answer my question. What are you doing down there, throwing rocks through people's windows?"
He shuffled awkwardly. "I didn't mean to break your window, I'm really sorry about that. The pebbles didn't seem to be working, so I opted for one that was a bit heavier...sorry. Can I talk to you, Vera?"
What?! Myrtle was missing, this idiot had just shattered her window with a rock, and he wanted to talk? She voiced these thoughts aloud.
"Myrtle's gone?" asked Pedro, genuinely surprised.
"Yes, she is. I'd thought you might have had something to do with it. If I remember correctly, you two were practically betrothed."
"Yes, well," Pedro scuffed his foot nervously against the ground, "that's sort of that I wanted to talk to you about. Do you think I could come up there? It's very cold out here."
"So sorry, but I can't, seeing as Myrtle's off and disappeared. Again. If you'd like to come along to help me find her, you're welcome. I'll meet you down there in half a second." And before Pedro could protest, Vera ducked back into her room. She gathered a few essential tracking materials (most significantly, her Myrtle-ometer, a device that was far more efficient than a tracking spell, which her mother had made when she realized how prone Myrtle was to wandering off), donned a traveling cloak and made her way out of the inn.
As she walked, she thought about Pedro. It had been years since she had last seen him. He hadn't grown much. He and Myrtle had played together often as children. They both came from significant, well-to-do families, and everyone sort of assumed that he and Myrtle would end up marrying each other. He still kept in contact with the two sisters, even after they were orphaned and sent off to be raised by the League of Witches. Of course, he didn't know that: he simply thought they were sent away to boarding school.
Vera herself had been betrothed once. (This was when it was just about to go out of fashion. Myrtle had never been traditionally betrothed: it was merely assumed that she'd settle down with Pedro.) It was ironic, she thought, that now, years later, she should be pursuing this man not to marry him, but to kill him. Ahhh, how things had changed.
Wait till Myrtle finds out she has a stalker. Of course, she'll probably be overjoyed that her beau came all this way to see her. They do get a bit ridiculous at that age, what with the raging hormones and whatnot. I'm sure I was never like that, of course.
As Vera approached the clearing, Pedro's face lit up. (No, not just because Vera had a lantern. It was more of an internal thing for him.) "Vera! Excellent! Now can we talk?"
"Yes, talk while we walk, and make it quick. By the way, this had better be very, very important. You're a great nuisance, you know." At this, Pedro looked genuinely hurt, but Vera took no notice. At least, she pretended not to. "Now, be quiet a moment." She pulled her Myrtle-ometer out of her pocket. The instrument comprised of a swiveling triangle mounted on a stand. She held the device firmly in her hand, bent her head over it, and muttered something to it. The triangle began to spin very fast, until it suddenly stopped dead, pointing straight down the street. "Come. This way," she ordered, before taking off at a brisk pace.
"What's that?" Pedro pointed to the strange instrument.
"A Myrtle-ometer."
"Oh. What's it for?"
"Finding Myrtle."
((OOC: Ok, well, that didn't go exactly as planned, but what can ya do? By the way, I tried to avoid just dumping a bunch of back story into this post, so there's still some stuff I'll explained later. Me an' Ruby plotted a bunch of it out, and I'm not sure if I remember it all properly. I hope I got it right. 'Twas very entertaining to come up with it. Mwahahaa.))
Sunday, May 27, 2007
when the sun's out
“It’s not too bad when the sun’s out, but the sun only comes out when it feels like coming out." (J.D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye)
((OOC: I thought I'd mention that the blog title--sleep tight, ya morons!--also comes from Catcher in the Rye, which (in my most humblest of opinions) is a brilliant book and, if you haven't read it, you should. What's my post going to be about? A man's search for identity and for love as he battles to recover from a tumultous past. Yeah, I just made that up, but who knows it could be. How will you know? Read on, brave soul.-Ishack))
Kyrus hesitated before raising a hand to knock on the porch door--
"What do you want...sir?"
He turned to see a young woman, gazing at him with cold black eyes.
"Just a room for the night, if it's available."
"I doubt it," the girl said quickly.
"Well I'd prefer to rely on your father's word and not yours," he proceeded to knock.
"My father is not home."
He turned back to look at her. "I can wait."
"No, he is not coming home any time soon."
"Who is your guardian?"
Without directly answering the question, she said, "I live with my older brother, Ben, and my mother."
He was becoming rather irritated at the extent of the conversation, "Then may I speak your brother?"
"No."
"Pardon?"
His words, so polite, were growled, but Gemma held her ground. "You may talk to me, or you may leave. I have as much authority in this house as anyone."
He laughed.
She glared at him.
He stopped laughing abruptly and asked in a truly stupified voice, "Oh come on, you cannot be serious."
She said nothing.
"You are." For a moment he just eyed her incredulously. "Well then...ma'am, may I use one of your spare rooms for the evening."
"No."
"On what basis can you say no to a weary traveler!" he roared angrily.
"On the basis of your having insulted my authority, raised your voice to me, and expected for no reason that my family would serve your every need."
"I said nothing about 'serving my every need'. I am a weary traveler, I want somewhere to rest."
"There is an inn at the village."
He sighed, "They turned me away."
"Then why would we want you?"
He hit the porch wall angrily, "If you don't give me a room I'll be dead by dawn!"
"What?" she said, quieter.
He gazed elsewhere, "Nothing, I shouldn't have said that."
"Dead?"
He looked her in the eye and growled, "Yes, dead. Murdered by a sisterhood of witches. Sound good?"
"That's a rather awful circumstance, isn't that." Gemma was truly worried, somewhat against her better instinct.
"Only for one night." It was as close to pleading as he could come.
For a moment she was silent, then she sighed, "I suppose, for tonight only. And you will stay away from my mother, she has not been feeling well of late and I do not want you to disturb her further. It is my house and you will follow my rules. If I ask you to fetch firewood, you will, if I tell you to leave the room, you will."
"There isn't another house within the next few miles, is there?"
"No, why?"
"Just making sure," he said regretfully.
((P.S. Sorry Ona that I took such control over your character's finer points. We can change them if there's a problem, e-mail me.))
((OOC: I thought I'd mention that the blog title--sleep tight, ya morons!--also comes from Catcher in the Rye, which (in my most humblest of opinions) is a brilliant book and, if you haven't read it, you should. What's my post going to be about? A man's search for identity and for love as he battles to recover from a tumultous past. Yeah, I just made that up, but who knows it could be. How will you know? Read on, brave soul.-Ishack))
Kyrus hesitated before raising a hand to knock on the porch door--
"What do you want...sir?"
He turned to see a young woman, gazing at him with cold black eyes.
"Just a room for the night, if it's available."
"I doubt it," the girl said quickly.
"Well I'd prefer to rely on your father's word and not yours," he proceeded to knock.
"My father is not home."
He turned back to look at her. "I can wait."
"No, he is not coming home any time soon."
"Who is your guardian?"
Without directly answering the question, she said, "I live with my older brother, Ben, and my mother."
He was becoming rather irritated at the extent of the conversation, "Then may I speak your brother?"
"No."
"Pardon?"
His words, so polite, were growled, but Gemma held her ground. "You may talk to me, or you may leave. I have as much authority in this house as anyone."
He laughed.
She glared at him.
He stopped laughing abruptly and asked in a truly stupified voice, "Oh come on, you cannot be serious."
She said nothing.
"You are." For a moment he just eyed her incredulously. "Well then...ma'am, may I use one of your spare rooms for the evening."
"No."
"On what basis can you say no to a weary traveler!" he roared angrily.
"On the basis of your having insulted my authority, raised your voice to me, and expected for no reason that my family would serve your every need."
"I said nothing about 'serving my every need'. I am a weary traveler, I want somewhere to rest."
"There is an inn at the village."
He sighed, "They turned me away."
"Then why would we want you?"
He hit the porch wall angrily, "If you don't give me a room I'll be dead by dawn!"
"What?" she said, quieter.
He gazed elsewhere, "Nothing, I shouldn't have said that."
"Dead?"
He looked her in the eye and growled, "Yes, dead. Murdered by a sisterhood of witches. Sound good?"
"That's a rather awful circumstance, isn't that." Gemma was truly worried, somewhat against her better instinct.
"Only for one night." It was as close to pleading as he could come.
For a moment she was silent, then she sighed, "I suppose, for tonight only. And you will stay away from my mother, she has not been feeling well of late and I do not want you to disturb her further. It is my house and you will follow my rules. If I ask you to fetch firewood, you will, if I tell you to leave the room, you will."
"There isn't another house within the next few miles, is there?"
"No, why?"
"Just making sure," he said regretfully.
((P.S. Sorry Ona that I took such control over your character's finer points. We can change them if there's a problem, e-mail me.))
Saturday, May 19, 2007
The Great Escape
"When I came into the room, I told the man that a lady would like to see him; to which he simply answered: 'Why?' 'She is going through the house, and wants to see every one in it,' I answered. 'Oh very well,'he said; 'let her come in, by all means; but just wait a minute till I tidy up the place.' His method for tidying was peculiar: he simply swallowed all the flies and spiders in the boxes before I could stop him. It was quite evident that he feared that he feared, or was jealous of, some interference. when he had got through his disgusting task, he said cheerfully: 'Let the lady come in.'" --from Dracula, by Bram Stocker
((OOC: Ruby here. As you may have guessed, i had some difficulty finding a meaningful quote to go with what I had written, so I found one about eating bugs, which could be said to relate slightly with what is written here. Judge for yourself. In any case, this quote comes from one of my all time favorite books, Dracula, and is about one of my all time favorite characters within that book, which is the main reason I put it in here))
The room was dark and drear, and Myrtle could hear Vera snoring lightly close by, while she tried vainly to fall asleep. Myrtle rolled onto her left side. Then she rolled onto her right side. She rolled back onto her left side. She tried lying on her stomach with her face in her pillow, but this too failed because it made her nose hurt, and she couldn't breath at all that way. The worst thing that happens when you cant fall asleep, but you stay in bed anyway, is that for no reason at all, your feet start feeling really hot and sweaty. Myrtle the unfortunate was experiencing this at that very moment. Suddenly she couldn't stand it any longer, and sat bolt upright in bed. she but her feet onto the cold wooden floor, and they felt much better.she followed up this motion by getting the rest of herself out of bed as well, then getting dressed, putting shoes on her ever so much happier feet, and walking quietly out the door. she just had to go do something, she just couldn't lie in bed with hot feet for the rest of the night without sleeping. So, out of lack of anything else to do, she went out in search of the guy she had seen in the bar that night.
Myrtle went out to the stables to go get Transjotr. She may be a witch in training, but she still wasn't planning on going out in the middle of the night in the streets of the town alone. Although most of her attempts at training Tranjostr to be an attack goat had failed, she figured it couldn't hurt to bring him along just in case. she took him everywhere anyway. If anything, all the bad drunk people would be too weirded out because she had a pet goat to bother her.
Myrtle went quietly out of the now quite tavern, and pushing open the heavy wooden door, stepped out into the warm night air. It was a nice night, warm and clear, with fire flies buzzing all around, and fairies buzzing along with them. Transjostr, who had a peculiar habit of eating bugs, snapped at the fireflies and fairies alike. Myrtle started heading down the main street in town, and out away into the country.
((OOC: Ruby here. As you may have guessed, i had some difficulty finding a meaningful quote to go with what I had written, so I found one about eating bugs, which could be said to relate slightly with what is written here. Judge for yourself. In any case, this quote comes from one of my all time favorite books, Dracula, and is about one of my all time favorite characters within that book, which is the main reason I put it in here))
The room was dark and drear, and Myrtle could hear Vera snoring lightly close by, while she tried vainly to fall asleep. Myrtle rolled onto her left side. Then she rolled onto her right side. She rolled back onto her left side. She tried lying on her stomach with her face in her pillow, but this too failed because it made her nose hurt, and she couldn't breath at all that way. The worst thing that happens when you cant fall asleep, but you stay in bed anyway, is that for no reason at all, your feet start feeling really hot and sweaty. Myrtle the unfortunate was experiencing this at that very moment. Suddenly she couldn't stand it any longer, and sat bolt upright in bed. she but her feet onto the cold wooden floor, and they felt much better.she followed up this motion by getting the rest of herself out of bed as well, then getting dressed, putting shoes on her ever so much happier feet, and walking quietly out the door. she just had to go do something, she just couldn't lie in bed with hot feet for the rest of the night without sleeping. So, out of lack of anything else to do, she went out in search of the guy she had seen in the bar that night.
Myrtle went out to the stables to go get Transjotr. She may be a witch in training, but she still wasn't planning on going out in the middle of the night in the streets of the town alone. Although most of her attempts at training Tranjostr to be an attack goat had failed, she figured it couldn't hurt to bring him along just in case. she took him everywhere anyway. If anything, all the bad drunk people would be too weirded out because she had a pet goat to bother her.
Myrtle went quietly out of the now quite tavern, and pushing open the heavy wooden door, stepped out into the warm night air. It was a nice night, warm and clear, with fire flies buzzing all around, and fairies buzzing along with them. Transjostr, who had a peculiar habit of eating bugs, snapped at the fireflies and fairies alike. Myrtle started heading down the main street in town, and out away into the country.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Quick to Anger
“It is only our bad temper that we put down to being tired or worried or hungry; we put our good temper down to ourselves.”
-C.S. Lewis
((OOC: Flo here, not really sure where I'll go with this, but we'll see...))
Vera rummaged through her bag for some ingredients. She intended to make a simple aromatic to soothe the oncoming migraine she felt. Unfortunately, there was no instant spell for curing headaches, so this was her best bet.
She always got these awful migraines when life was particularly stressful, so it came as no surprise when, a few hours ago, she began to feel the all-too-familiar acute pressure in her right temple. She was, after all, under a huge amount of stress these days. This runaway prince scandal was really fraying her nerves. They'd been on his tail for almost a month, and Vera was terribly worried that if he hadn’t spilled the beans by now, it wouldn’t be long before their secret was out. And if that happened, she couldn’t imagine what the League of Witches would do...
Suppressing her nausea, she found the herbs she needed and had just begun grinding them when the door banged open. It was her sister.
"Myrtle, I thought you were downstairs!" Vera snapped irritably. She had been looking forward to some time to herself. Myrtle simply let out a deep, mournful sighed. "What? Don't you know how to talk anymore? Speak up, girl!"
"I was downstairs. But they wouldn't let Tanngnjóstr in. I grew so lonesome, I even missed your company. So I came up here."
Vera rolled her eyes. If you asked her, the world was better off without that wretched goat.
"You're telling me there was absolutely nobody worth talking to?"
"Yes, well, the only half-decent person around was a big guy in terrible need of anti-depressants. I don't blame him -- one of his eyes was missing, and he was covered in all sorts of horrid scars. I kept thinking he looked sort of familiar..." she trailed off thoughtfully.
Vera became very quiet. One might have assumed that she, too, had become lost in thought, but Myrtle knew better. She took her sister's flared nostrils and rapidly increasing breathing rate as a sure sign that she was headed for an explosion.
"You...didn't...happen to notice...if he was wearing...an eye patch...did you?" Vera asked through clenched teeth. By this time, Myrtle had pulled a pair of earplugs out of her pocked and was casually inserting them into her ears.
"Yes, he was, the poor man. I can't imagine having to-"
"You imbecile, you just described the prince we're after! Did you stop and think about that?! No, not once!"
"Well, I never actually-"
"Don't interrupt! I wish that just once you wouldn't make a mess of things, but no. You let him escape again, and all because of your IDIOCY!" By now, her anger had built itself into uncontrollable rage. "YOU FOOL! YOU DIMWIT! MY LIFE IS MISERABLE BECAUSE -- OF -- YOU!" With this last word, she sent mortar, pestle and herbs crashing through the wall.
"Finished?" asked Myrtle, reaching for her earplugs. She was used to this sort of verbal abuse, and hadn't been paying any attention to her sister.
"Yes," said Vera, breathing heavily. She stood up from the bed, and with a snap of her fingers and a muttered incantation, the wall was mended and the mortar and pestle flew back into her open hand. She immediately felt her head spin, and sat back down. All that shouting had worsened her headache ten fold. She would be capable of next to nothing in this condition. "What time did you say the prince left?"
"You mean that man with the eye patch? About ten minutes before I came up here. Perhaps a quarter to ten?"
"Good. We'll get on his trail in the morning. In the meantime, I need to sleep."
"Vera, if you wanted, I could follow him right now. I'll bet he's not far off-”
“No.”
“But-”
“No! You don’t know how to work a tracking spell, and I don’t want you getting lost. You’ve caused enough trouble already. Now, I’m going to sleep. Do try not to get us killed.” With a flick of her wrist, she extinguished the all the candles in the room. After a moment, Vera mumbled something into the darkness.
"Hmmmm?"
"I said I was sorry."
"What?"
"Sorry."
"What?"
"Sorry, OK?!"
"Oh."
Silence.
"Sorry for what?"
"Go to sleep!"
-C.S. Lewis
((OOC: Flo here, not really sure where I'll go with this, but we'll see...))
Vera rummaged through her bag for some ingredients. She intended to make a simple aromatic to soothe the oncoming migraine she felt. Unfortunately, there was no instant spell for curing headaches, so this was her best bet.
She always got these awful migraines when life was particularly stressful, so it came as no surprise when, a few hours ago, she began to feel the all-too-familiar acute pressure in her right temple. She was, after all, under a huge amount of stress these days. This runaway prince scandal was really fraying her nerves. They'd been on his tail for almost a month, and Vera was terribly worried that if he hadn’t spilled the beans by now, it wouldn’t be long before their secret was out. And if that happened, she couldn’t imagine what the League of Witches would do...
Suppressing her nausea, she found the herbs she needed and had just begun grinding them when the door banged open. It was her sister.
"Myrtle, I thought you were downstairs!" Vera snapped irritably. She had been looking forward to some time to herself. Myrtle simply let out a deep, mournful sighed. "What? Don't you know how to talk anymore? Speak up, girl!"
"I was downstairs. But they wouldn't let Tanngnjóstr in. I grew so lonesome, I even missed your company. So I came up here."
Vera rolled her eyes. If you asked her, the world was better off without that wretched goat.
"You're telling me there was absolutely nobody worth talking to?"
"Yes, well, the only half-decent person around was a big guy in terrible need of anti-depressants. I don't blame him -- one of his eyes was missing, and he was covered in all sorts of horrid scars. I kept thinking he looked sort of familiar..." she trailed off thoughtfully.
Vera became very quiet. One might have assumed that she, too, had become lost in thought, but Myrtle knew better. She took her sister's flared nostrils and rapidly increasing breathing rate as a sure sign that she was headed for an explosion.
"You...didn't...happen to notice...if he was wearing...an eye patch...did you?" Vera asked through clenched teeth. By this time, Myrtle had pulled a pair of earplugs out of her pocked and was casually inserting them into her ears.
"Yes, he was, the poor man. I can't imagine having to-"
"You imbecile, you just described the prince we're after! Did you stop and think about that?! No, not once!"
"Well, I never actually-"
"Don't interrupt! I wish that just once you wouldn't make a mess of things, but no. You let him escape again, and all because of your IDIOCY!" By now, her anger had built itself into uncontrollable rage. "YOU FOOL! YOU DIMWIT! MY LIFE IS MISERABLE BECAUSE -- OF -- YOU!" With this last word, she sent mortar, pestle and herbs crashing through the wall.
"Finished?" asked Myrtle, reaching for her earplugs. She was used to this sort of verbal abuse, and hadn't been paying any attention to her sister.
"Yes," said Vera, breathing heavily. She stood up from the bed, and with a snap of her fingers and a muttered incantation, the wall was mended and the mortar and pestle flew back into her open hand. She immediately felt her head spin, and sat back down. All that shouting had worsened her headache ten fold. She would be capable of next to nothing in this condition. "What time did you say the prince left?"
"You mean that man with the eye patch? About ten minutes before I came up here. Perhaps a quarter to ten?"
"Good. We'll get on his trail in the morning. In the meantime, I need to sleep."
"Vera, if you wanted, I could follow him right now. I'll bet he's not far off-”
“No.”
“But-”
“No! You don’t know how to work a tracking spell, and I don’t want you getting lost. You’ve caused enough trouble already. Now, I’m going to sleep. Do try not to get us killed.” With a flick of her wrist, she extinguished the all the candles in the room. After a moment, Vera mumbled something into the darkness.
"Hmmmm?"
"I said I was sorry."
"What?"
"Sorry."
"What?"
"Sorry, OK?!"
"Oh."
Silence.
"Sorry for what?"
"Go to sleep!"
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Trust
Quote: “I wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member.” -- Groucho Marx
((OCC)) Ona again. It was suggested that I change from posting the results to having a messenger sent to Gemma when the results where known so that is now what Mr. Goldstein said in my last entry.
Gemma sat in her tree and let the wind blow her hair back of her face. The feel of the wind on her face and tugging at her hair was soothing, it calmed her nerves. It really was her tree too; she had planted it there when she was two years old, with the help of her older brother, Ben. One of the most useful things about her tree was that it now reached high enough that when she climbed to the top she could see the road leading to the house where she and her family lived.
She had climbed up with a book as soon as she finished her morning chores, only climbing down to prepare lunch and only come down to help prepare lunch before climbing back up with her own lunch and her book. She wanted to known about the messenger as soon as possible.
A few hours after the afternoon meal a man came walking down the road. Gemma rushed to climb down from her perch and scrambled around to the front of the house. There she sat on the porch to wait for the messenger.
The man who came into view didn’t look much like the kind of man who would work as Mr. Goldstein’s messenger, he carried a sword, was covered in scars and had an eye patch over one eye. He did not look very reputable, but Gemma knew that looks could be deceiving; her nanny had been a Gypsy who wore colors that where far to bright for any proper woman to be caught dead in. However, that same woman had discovered that Gemma had a natural talent for music and convinced her parents that she must be trained.
Never the less bright clothes where an entirely different thing form a man who carried arms and looked as though he had used them, though apparently not very successfully. The man however had no such fears about her and walked right up the driveway until he stood at the bottom of the stairs to the porch.
((OCC)) Ona again. It was suggested that I change from posting the results to having a messenger sent to Gemma when the results where known so that is now what Mr. Goldstein said in my last entry.
Gemma sat in her tree and let the wind blow her hair back of her face. The feel of the wind on her face and tugging at her hair was soothing, it calmed her nerves. It really was her tree too; she had planted it there when she was two years old, with the help of her older brother, Ben. One of the most useful things about her tree was that it now reached high enough that when she climbed to the top she could see the road leading to the house where she and her family lived.
She had climbed up with a book as soon as she finished her morning chores, only climbing down to prepare lunch and only come down to help prepare lunch before climbing back up with her own lunch and her book. She wanted to known about the messenger as soon as possible.
A few hours after the afternoon meal a man came walking down the road. Gemma rushed to climb down from her perch and scrambled around to the front of the house. There she sat on the porch to wait for the messenger.
The man who came into view didn’t look much like the kind of man who would work as Mr. Goldstein’s messenger, he carried a sword, was covered in scars and had an eye patch over one eye. He did not look very reputable, but Gemma knew that looks could be deceiving; her nanny had been a Gypsy who wore colors that where far to bright for any proper woman to be caught dead in. However, that same woman had discovered that Gemma had a natural talent for music and convinced her parents that she must be trained.
Never the less bright clothes where an entirely different thing form a man who carried arms and looked as though he had used them, though apparently not very successfully. The man however had no such fears about her and walked right up the driveway until he stood at the bottom of the stairs to the porch.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Hide-and-Seek
"Actually I ran away from school when I was 13. No one could find me, and the police were called. I was just hiding in a little thicket of grass at my school, and went to sleep." Zhang Ziyi
((OOC: It's Ishack again, I'm not sure what this post will be about. We'll see, hopefully the writing will go somewhere interesting.))
"The big burly guy" at the bar was Kyrus, after being refused a room (supposedly there were none remaining, although the innkeeper had welcomed two women directly after he arrived), he had paid several coppers for a meal, promising the innkeeper that afterwards he would leave. He was feeling very irritated that he was being thrown out merely because he appeared intimidating. Still, there was nothing he could do, unless he wanted to cause a rucus, and that would only attract attention, something he could not afford.
Kyrus downed another pint of ale. Kyrus considered himself a good drinker. He could drink more than three pints and still be able to win a fight, a theory well tested to be sure. Now, he ordered a second one, to go with his quail. It was a hearty meal, but he felt miserable. He was tired of this game, the hide-and-seek he had played for more than three months. He was tired of being cold and hungry. He was tired of all the bounty hunters that were after him, that he had to tediously dispose of.
They were tiresome and he had begun to loose all hope of a new, free life. He peered around the dark inn, in part scanning the crowds as was his custom, looking for anyone suspicious, also because he was restless for a brawl. Nah, no one worth fighting.
He finished the meal and wandered outside, maybe he could slip into an empty room through the window. He could a good nights rest without anyones knowing. He began to walk around the inn, peering through the windows, looking for an empty room he could use. He came to the stable, it would have to do for the night. He'd tip the stable boy, or just scare him into servitude and silence. He hurried and began setting up a bed in the hay.
That's when he saw the goat. He approached it slowly, briefly checking his surroundings to be sure he was alone.
"I know you..." he muttered. Where had he seen that goat before? It reminded him of something very important, what was it?
"Oh, shit. The Sisters." Instinctively his hand went to his eye patch.
((OOC: It's Ishack again, I'm not sure what this post will be about. We'll see, hopefully the writing will go somewhere interesting.))
"The big burly guy" at the bar was Kyrus, after being refused a room (supposedly there were none remaining, although the innkeeper had welcomed two women directly after he arrived), he had paid several coppers for a meal, promising the innkeeper that afterwards he would leave. He was feeling very irritated that he was being thrown out merely because he appeared intimidating. Still, there was nothing he could do, unless he wanted to cause a rucus, and that would only attract attention, something he could not afford.
Kyrus downed another pint of ale. Kyrus considered himself a good drinker. He could drink more than three pints and still be able to win a fight, a theory well tested to be sure. Now, he ordered a second one, to go with his quail. It was a hearty meal, but he felt miserable. He was tired of this game, the hide-and-seek he had played for more than three months. He was tired of being cold and hungry. He was tired of all the bounty hunters that were after him, that he had to tediously dispose of.
They were tiresome and he had begun to loose all hope of a new, free life. He peered around the dark inn, in part scanning the crowds as was his custom, looking for anyone suspicious, also because he was restless for a brawl. Nah, no one worth fighting.
He finished the meal and wandered outside, maybe he could slip into an empty room through the window. He could a good nights rest without anyones knowing. He began to walk around the inn, peering through the windows, looking for an empty room he could use. He came to the stable, it would have to do for the night. He'd tip the stable boy, or just scare him into servitude and silence. He hurried and began setting up a bed in the hay.
That's when he saw the goat. He approached it slowly, briefly checking his surroundings to be sure he was alone.
"I know you..." he muttered. Where had he seen that goat before? It reminded him of something very important, what was it?
"Oh, shit. The Sisters." Instinctively his hand went to his eye patch.
Concerning Goats and Termites
"Some primal termite knocked on wood,
And tasted it, and found it good,
And that is why your Cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today."
--"The Termite", from Parents Keep Out, by Ogden Nash
((OCC: Ruby wrote this. Tanngnjostr was inspired by her sheep Woolfgang, who did not grind his teeth, and now lives in someone's freezer.))
Myrtle was even more miserable than ever. Vera had gotten a head ache and decided to go to bed early, so Myrtle sat all alone in the tavern part of the inn, wallowing in her misfortune. The owner of the Sowburry Inn, which she and her sister were now residing, had made Myrtle leave her goat, Tanngnjóstr, outside with the horses. Without her goat, Myrtle felt lost and unhappy.
Myrtle named her goat Tanngnjostr because Tanngnjostr was a mythological goat that ground its teeth a lot. Tanngnjostr did grind his teeth a lot, and it drove Vera crazy. To tell the truth, that was why Vera had a head ache had gone to bed early. Myrtle didn't care if Tanngnjostr ground his teeth into pale yellow powder, she loved him anyway. Myrtle and Tanngnjostr were made for each other. True, most sixteen year old girls didn't have goats following them around, but Myrtle wasn't afraid to be a little odd. Most sixteen year old girls weren't witches either. If anyone had a problem with her goat, she would just give them the plague.
Myrtle looked around the dark tavern. She spied a ratlike man with a ferret hanging off his shoulder. "How come he gets to bring his pet inside?" Myrtle wondered jealously. She averted her eyes from this slimy rodent injustice. The room was filled with happy laughing people who were drinking ale and singing stupid songs about alcohol. The hearth was burning merrily, which provided only enough light to make the wood that made up the tables, walls and floor looked damp, dark, and perfect for termites--not that Myrtle knew what sort of wood termites liked to eat. She just liked the thought of the whole building being eaten hollow from the inside out and collapsing on rat-man and his ferret.
Myrtle continued her people watching. Besides rat-man, there was a little man with six fingers, a man who was missing an ear, a dark looking man with a dark hood covering his face, and long greasy dread locks hanging out of his cloak, a hunchback that was missing an arm, and a big burly guy sitting at the bar next to her who looked even more unfortunate than even Myrtle herself. There were also plenty of pock marked people. Too bad, Myrtle couldn't give them the plague a second time.
And tasted it, and found it good,
And that is why your Cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today."
--"The Termite", from Parents Keep Out, by Ogden Nash
((OCC: Ruby wrote this. Tanngnjostr was inspired by her sheep Woolfgang, who did not grind his teeth, and now lives in someone's freezer.))
Myrtle was even more miserable than ever. Vera had gotten a head ache and decided to go to bed early, so Myrtle sat all alone in the tavern part of the inn, wallowing in her misfortune. The owner of the Sowburry Inn, which she and her sister were now residing, had made Myrtle leave her goat, Tanngnjóstr, outside with the horses. Without her goat, Myrtle felt lost and unhappy.
Myrtle named her goat Tanngnjostr because Tanngnjostr was a mythological goat that ground its teeth a lot. Tanngnjostr did grind his teeth a lot, and it drove Vera crazy. To tell the truth, that was why Vera had a head ache had gone to bed early. Myrtle didn't care if Tanngnjostr ground his teeth into pale yellow powder, she loved him anyway. Myrtle and Tanngnjostr were made for each other. True, most sixteen year old girls didn't have goats following them around, but Myrtle wasn't afraid to be a little odd. Most sixteen year old girls weren't witches either. If anyone had a problem with her goat, she would just give them the plague.
Myrtle looked around the dark tavern. She spied a ratlike man with a ferret hanging off his shoulder. "How come he gets to bring his pet inside?" Myrtle wondered jealously. She averted her eyes from this slimy rodent injustice. The room was filled with happy laughing people who were drinking ale and singing stupid songs about alcohol. The hearth was burning merrily, which provided only enough light to make the wood that made up the tables, walls and floor looked damp, dark, and perfect for termites--not that Myrtle knew what sort of wood termites liked to eat. She just liked the thought of the whole building being eaten hollow from the inside out and collapsing on rat-man and his ferret.
Myrtle continued her people watching. Besides rat-man, there was a little man with six fingers, a man who was missing an ear, a dark looking man with a dark hood covering his face, and long greasy dread locks hanging out of his cloak, a hunchback that was missing an arm, and a big burly guy sitting at the bar next to her who looked even more unfortunate than even Myrtle herself. There were also plenty of pock marked people. Too bad, Myrtle couldn't give them the plague a second time.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Music
"Ah, music. A magic beyond all we do here" -- Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
((OOC: This is Ona again. This entry is much longer and introduces you to my character quite well if I do say so myself. Her name is not very creative and it may be rather obvious too some where it comes from. Hope you enjoy it anyway))
"You must be here for the audition," Gemma turned around looking for the source of the voice. A friendly looking old man sat in the first row of seats in the theater.
"Yes sir," Gemma answered nervously. "My name is Gemma Blythe."
"Pleased to meet you Gemma Blythe," said the old man. "My name is John Goldstein, I'm the conductor of the Dunlin national orchestra."
Gemma curtsied and muttered a polite 'how do you do'.
“Why don’t you warm up a bit and then we will see what you can do,” said Mr. Goldstein, with an encouraging smile.
Gemma nodded and sat down on the chair set in the middle of the stage, she felt very much on the spot, up on the big stage all by herself. In the small village she came from she rarely performed for more than one of two people, and anyway not many people in Sand Point knew enough about music to tell if she was playing well or not.
She opened that black case that held her precious flute with care. Then she carefully removed each piece from where it was nestled in the red velvet lining of the case. The flute was old, the same one she’d had since she started playing when she was a child, and the silver was tarnished, but it still played beautifully.
She put the instrument too her lips, closed her eyes and played a simple but pretty little tune. As she did she could feel the emotion behind it, the happiness and joy it evoked in any one who listened, she felt tenfold when she played.
“Very good, Miss Blythe,” said Mr. Goldstein. Gemma was startled, she had forgotten where she was for a moment. “Now look at the music on the stand. Have you seen it before.” Gemma shook her head. “You may have a few minutes to look at it and then you will play it for me.”
The piece in front of her had three parts. The first two she knew she would have no problem with, the first was slow and beautiful, it would require lots of expression and breath control, not something she had ever had a problem with. The second section was a march, relatively simple the kind of thing she loved to play because it always made her think of heroes and adventures. The third part was the kind of thing that she had forced herself to master, the kind she hated to play because it was always more difficult to master, it was a fast paced section, full of sixteenth note runs and no room to breath. It would sound like a fairy dance if played right but she still hated sight reading this kind of music.
Finally she looked up at Mr. Goldstein and, when he nodded, began to play. She glided through the first section, proudly marched through the second and then came to the third. She did her best and her best was quite good, she only messed up two of the runs.
“Thank you Miss Blythe,” said Mr. Goldstein. “The results of the audition will be posted in the lobby tomorrow.” Gemma curtsied again, put her flute away and left the room quietly.
Mr. Goldstein smiled and nodded to himself. “Yes she’ll do quite nicely.”
((OOC: This is Ona again. This entry is much longer and introduces you to my character quite well if I do say so myself. Her name is not very creative and it may be rather obvious too some where it comes from. Hope you enjoy it anyway))
"You must be here for the audition," Gemma turned around looking for the source of the voice. A friendly looking old man sat in the first row of seats in the theater.
"Yes sir," Gemma answered nervously. "My name is Gemma Blythe."
"Pleased to meet you Gemma Blythe," said the old man. "My name is John Goldstein, I'm the conductor of the Dunlin national orchestra."
Gemma curtsied and muttered a polite 'how do you do'.
“Why don’t you warm up a bit and then we will see what you can do,” said Mr. Goldstein, with an encouraging smile.
Gemma nodded and sat down on the chair set in the middle of the stage, she felt very much on the spot, up on the big stage all by herself. In the small village she came from she rarely performed for more than one of two people, and anyway not many people in Sand Point knew enough about music to tell if she was playing well or not.
She opened that black case that held her precious flute with care. Then she carefully removed each piece from where it was nestled in the red velvet lining of the case. The flute was old, the same one she’d had since she started playing when she was a child, and the silver was tarnished, but it still played beautifully.
She put the instrument too her lips, closed her eyes and played a simple but pretty little tune. As she did she could feel the emotion behind it, the happiness and joy it evoked in any one who listened, she felt tenfold when she played.
“Very good, Miss Blythe,” said Mr. Goldstein. Gemma was startled, she had forgotten where she was for a moment. “Now look at the music on the stand. Have you seen it before.” Gemma shook her head. “You may have a few minutes to look at it and then you will play it for me.”
The piece in front of her had three parts. The first two she knew she would have no problem with, the first was slow and beautiful, it would require lots of expression and breath control, not something she had ever had a problem with. The second section was a march, relatively simple the kind of thing she loved to play because it always made her think of heroes and adventures. The third part was the kind of thing that she had forced herself to master, the kind she hated to play because it was always more difficult to master, it was a fast paced section, full of sixteenth note runs and no room to breath. It would sound like a fairy dance if played right but she still hated sight reading this kind of music.
Finally she looked up at Mr. Goldstein and, when he nodded, began to play. She glided through the first section, proudly marched through the second and then came to the third. She did her best and her best was quite good, she only messed up two of the runs.
“Thank you Miss Blythe,” said Mr. Goldstein. “The results of the audition will be posted in the lobby tomorrow.” Gemma curtsied again, put her flute away and left the room quietly.
Mr. Goldstein smiled and nodded to himself. “Yes she’ll do quite nicely.”
Friday, April 20, 2007
Must've been some godawful wallpaper
"Either that wallpaper goes, or I do."
-dying words of Oscar Wilde
((OOC: I'm Flo. I am the "nice" one of the group. I know that's a bland word, but it's basically true. I think I'm kind of boring sometimes, but what can ya do? I have my ditzy moments, but generally I am able to keep my blondenss in check. I like humor, and it tends to leak into my writing entries, no matter how I try to stop it. I guess I just can't take myself that seriously. I love laughing, and dancing, and music, and writing, and my little brother and sister, and my family, and my friends, and words, and a whole bunch of other things. But if I talk too much longer, I'd bore your pants off, so on with the story!))
Dear Diary,
It rained again today, and Myrtle was whiney as ever. Did you know she's given herself a new name? Myrtle the Unfortunate. No joke. Not only is she not old enough for an official title, but could she have come up with a more absurd name? I've told her it's just for now, and that she'll have to be re-christened when she comes of age, and do you know what she said? "All right, Vera. Would you like a daisy?" A daisy?! A DAISY! She's unbelievable, I tell you. Always complaining, she is, about how the broom is ill, and how tired she is, and how dirty her cloak is getting, and every little thing you can think of. I have to keep reminding myself of why I have to bear her as a burden: I promised Mother I'd train her in the art of witchcraft, and by gods, I'll do it if it kills me.
Today marks the first day of the fourth week of searching, and I'm beginning to lose hope. It seems as if we're always right on his tail, and then when we've about caught him, the accursed prince escapes! Last time, we even got so close as to be in the same inn as him, and right when we were about to ambush him in his room, he escaped out the window. There were no knotted bedsheets to speak of, so it at least gives me satisfaction to think that he took with him a few bruises, and perhaps even a broken limb or two. I must go, for the light grows dim, and Myrtle's goat ((OOC: Ruby, can I pleeeeaaase give you a goat?)) has eaten the last of the candles. Hopefully we will have made some headway tomorrow, and if not, well...we'll see what happens. We're on our way into a town called Sowburry. Perhaps they raise pigs there? Until tomorrow,
Vera the Vicious ((OOC: Vehement? Vicarious? Virile? Naw, jk, but what about the first two? I can't decide.))
-dying words of Oscar Wilde
((OOC: I'm Flo. I am the "nice" one of the group. I know that's a bland word, but it's basically true. I think I'm kind of boring sometimes, but what can ya do? I have my ditzy moments, but generally I am able to keep my blondenss in check. I like humor, and it tends to leak into my writing entries, no matter how I try to stop it. I guess I just can't take myself that seriously. I love laughing, and dancing, and music, and writing, and my little brother and sister, and my family, and my friends, and words, and a whole bunch of other things. But if I talk too much longer, I'd bore your pants off, so on with the story!))
Dear Diary,
It rained again today, and Myrtle was whiney as ever. Did you know she's given herself a new name? Myrtle the Unfortunate. No joke. Not only is she not old enough for an official title, but could she have come up with a more absurd name? I've told her it's just for now, and that she'll have to be re-christened when she comes of age, and do you know what she said? "All right, Vera. Would you like a daisy?" A daisy?! A DAISY! She's unbelievable, I tell you. Always complaining, she is, about how the broom is ill, and how tired she is, and how dirty her cloak is getting, and every little thing you can think of. I have to keep reminding myself of why I have to bear her as a burden: I promised Mother I'd train her in the art of witchcraft, and by gods, I'll do it if it kills me.
Today marks the first day of the fourth week of searching, and I'm beginning to lose hope. It seems as if we're always right on his tail, and then when we've about caught him, the accursed prince escapes! Last time, we even got so close as to be in the same inn as him, and right when we were about to ambush him in his room, he escaped out the window. There were no knotted bedsheets to speak of, so it at least gives me satisfaction to think that he took with him a few bruises, and perhaps even a broken limb or two. I must go, for the light grows dim, and Myrtle's goat ((OOC: Ruby, can I pleeeeaaase give you a goat?)) has eaten the last of the candles. Hopefully we will have made some headway tomorrow, and if not, well...we'll see what happens. We're on our way into a town called Sowburry. Perhaps they raise pigs there? Until tomorrow,
Vera the Vicious ((OOC: Vehement? Vicarious? Virile? Naw, jk, but what about the first two? I can't decide.))
Man or Beast?
“There are two methods of fighting, the one by law, the other by force: the first method is that of men, the second of beasts.”-Machiavelli (The Prince)
((OOC-What makes a good man good and a bad man bad? Is it, as it often is with history, point of view and therefore the winner and recorder of history that names themself as 'good'? Just bringing it up because this story is from the point of view of four very different character and, from each of their minds, their own actions or justified--although one of the character's you'll meet may just be confused--from their point of view.Interesting pondering, that's all. Now to the good part, the entry))
Erik and the stranger entered the village. It was a busy place. Women bustled at a nearby stream, fervently washing the last load of laundry in time to prepare supper. Men split wood for the evening fire. Young boys parried with wooden sticks. Erik waved to another young man of his age.
“Who is that by your side, Erik?”
“Foreigner. Just arrived, I think.”
“My name is Jacob? Pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur.”
“I am Kyrus of Rochefou.”
“Welcome to Sowburry, Kyrus of Rochefou. Will you be staying at Erik’s?”
“No,” replied Erik, “He merely asked me to show him to the village. I fear I must now take my leave. As I said before, Monsieur, my parents will be expecting me.”
“Thank you for all your help,” growled Kyrus.
Erik swiftly hurried away, and after turning the block, ran all the way home.
Kyrus glared at Jacob, “Tell me boy, are there any inns in this here village?”
Jacob, now alone with the burly traveler, became greatly aware that all he wanted to do was be away. Something about the man discouraged badinage. “Yes, Monsieur, we have an inn two streets down. I would take you there but…my folks are expecting me as well.”
Kyrus frowned at him, unconvinced.
“You know, folks these days, do not want us young ones staying out too late, missing supper.”
“Go then.”
“Farewell, if I do not chance to meet you again, I hope you enjoy your stay in Sowburry.”
“I am sure I shall.”
Kyrus watched the boy go. Shaking his head, he laughed. It was an unnerving laugh, which raised the hairs on several villagers nearby. Smiling a crooked grin, he strode down the street toward the inn.
Myrtle the Unfortunate
Quite #4: "Be virtuous and you will be eccentric." --Mark Twain.
((OCC: My name is Ruby. I have a scary cat with fangs and I used to have an attack sheep. I like plants and fish and playing piano and camping and vegetables and cats and sheep.))
Myrtle the unfortunate trudged unhappily behind her sister. For such a long trip, Myrtle would have preferred to have taken the broomsticks, but the kitchen broom had the flu, and the mop was always grumpy and unpleasant, making for a very bumpy ride. She tried in vain to keep her ragged black dress from dragging in the mud and horse droppings, but to no avail on such an rough road. She and her sister had left in a hurry. Annoyingly, like so many times before, their quarry had disappeared into thin air. Well, not literally. But thats what it seemed like. Of course, Myrtle could herself disappear into thin air, but that was irrelevant, because she had no way of knowing unto whither her target gone. Some people thought witches could do anything. Those people were sorely mistaken.
The ragged sisters had passed through many small towns and villages throughout the last three weeks of searching. The two had disguised themselves as old hags, a simple, quick spell, good for people in a hurry. It took much longer to disguise one's self as say, a princess, or a dashing young knight; essence of old hag was much easier to come by than essence of royalty. Unfortunately, pretty people were often treated much better in inns and restaurants than the more homely crowd. Indeed, Myrtle predicted a plague outbreak to appear in the kingdom of Dunlin presently.
((OCC: My name is Ruby. I have a scary cat with fangs and I used to have an attack sheep. I like plants and fish and playing piano and camping and vegetables and cats and sheep.))
Myrtle the unfortunate trudged unhappily behind her sister. For such a long trip, Myrtle would have preferred to have taken the broomsticks, but the kitchen broom had the flu, and the mop was always grumpy and unpleasant, making for a very bumpy ride. She tried in vain to keep her ragged black dress from dragging in the mud and horse droppings, but to no avail on such an rough road. She and her sister had left in a hurry. Annoyingly, like so many times before, their quarry had disappeared into thin air. Well, not literally. But thats what it seemed like. Of course, Myrtle could herself disappear into thin air, but that was irrelevant, because she had no way of knowing unto whither her target gone. Some people thought witches could do anything. Those people were sorely mistaken.
The ragged sisters had passed through many small towns and villages throughout the last three weeks of searching. The two had disguised themselves as old hags, a simple, quick spell, good for people in a hurry. It took much longer to disguise one's self as say, a princess, or a dashing young knight; essence of old hag was much easier to come by than essence of royalty. Unfortunately, pretty people were often treated much better in inns and restaurants than the more homely crowd. Indeed, Myrtle predicted a plague outbreak to appear in the kingdom of Dunlin presently.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
A Kindred Spitit...
Quote #2: "You're both queer enough if that's what you mean by kindred spirits" -Marilla Cuthbert, L.M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables
OOC: Hello all allow me to introduce myself; I'm Ona (pronounced like Anna with a short a). I'm the one who is described as a 'drama queen' and 'obsessive' (at least most of the time I get called all kinds of things). My entry will be short because I have to go to my flute lesson. Sorry about that.
Meanwhile in Sowburry a woman stood out side a theater, nervously biting her lip. She held a flute case in one hand.
"It's all right," she said to herself. "It’ll be just like in books, when the protagonist is dreading whatever they have to do and it turns out just fine. Nothing to worry about."
Then she took a deep breath and opened the door to face her greatest fear, the only thing that stood between her and her dreams: the dreaded audition.
OOC: Hello all allow me to introduce myself; I'm Ona (pronounced like Anna with a short a). I'm the one who is described as a 'drama queen' and 'obsessive' (at least most of the time I get called all kinds of things). My entry will be short because I have to go to my flute lesson. Sorry about that.
Meanwhile in Sowburry a woman stood out side a theater, nervously biting her lip. She held a flute case in one hand.
"It's all right," she said to herself. "It’ll be just like in books, when the protagonist is dreading whatever they have to do and it turns out just fine. Nothing to worry about."
Then she took a deep breath and opened the door to face her greatest fear, the only thing that stood between her and her dreams: the dreaded audition.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
A Dreamer...
Quote #1: “There is no man more fearful in action than a dreamer.”-Victor Hugo (Les Miserables)
((OOC- Okay, first off: OOC means Out Of Character. Second off: This is not the typical blog, this is a role play. My friends and I will be alternating as authors of each entry and in that manner will create a story. Each of us will be assuming a character, of our own unique choice. Before I begin, let me introduce myself a bit better—I’ll let my ‘colleagues’ introduce themselves in their own entries— My name is Ishack, of the group I have been described as the “cynical pessimist”, in truth I just have a very dry (desert dry) sense of humor. I am interested in political theories (all things ending in ism—collectivism, communism, individualism, fascism, socialism…you get the point). That’s all I can think to say about myself, now to the fun part, the writing!))
Dark clouds hung over an empty forest. Rain fell from leaf to leaf. Thunder split the night. And yet, there it was, still just an empty forest. No one was there to see the howling wind. No horse sludged through the mud that foul night. No drenched cloak weighed heavily upon a traveler's back. Quite simply, the forest was empty. This is why our tale takes place elsewhere, on a different night, in a different forest. Our character now is no tired traveler, but a nimble lad of seventeen, with unkempt black hair and a bow in hand.
Erik wandered through the trees, towards home. He had had a good hunt, resulting in a rabbit for supper. His father would be proud. He began to whistle a tune from his boyhood.
CRASH.
“Darn tree!”
Erik quickly readied an arrow and, pivoting, looking for the speaker. It was quite apparent, a foreigner lay fallen on the ground, surrounded by broken tree branches and autumn leaves, rubbing his bottom ridiculously. Still, upon closer examination, Erik found that that was the only thing ridiculous about this man. He bore scars upon his arms and face, a patch covered one eye, and a two-inch wide broad sword was tied, in a hilt, to his back.
“May I help you, Monsieur?” Erik figured that, after comparing his lean size to this man’s broad shoulders and strong build, it was best not to anger or embarrass the man.
The man looked him over, “What is your name, boy?” He spoke in a heavy accent, hardening the “t” and growling the “r”.
“Erik, Monsieur, but if you don’t need help, I’ll be on my way. My parents are expecting me.”
“I wonder if you would show me the way to your village.” The man turned a light pink and Erik realized why he had been in the tree in the first place.
“Yes, Monsieur, just follow me.”
They began to walk, Erik leading the way, the traveler moving quietly behind him.
“What country is this lad?”
Erik stared at him, “Dunlin, of course.”
“Ah yes, and which village are you taking me to?”
“The Village of Sowburry. Have you been here before?”
“To Sowburry? Not even to Dunlin, not that I knew, that is.”
((OOC- Okay, first off: OOC means Out Of Character. Second off: This is not the typical blog, this is a role play. My friends and I will be alternating as authors of each entry and in that manner will create a story. Each of us will be assuming a character, of our own unique choice. Before I begin, let me introduce myself a bit better—I’ll let my ‘colleagues’ introduce themselves in their own entries— My name is Ishack, of the group I have been described as the “cynical pessimist”, in truth I just have a very dry (desert dry) sense of humor. I am interested in political theories (all things ending in ism—collectivism, communism, individualism, fascism, socialism…you get the point). That’s all I can think to say about myself, now to the fun part, the writing!))
Dark clouds hung over an empty forest. Rain fell from leaf to leaf. Thunder split the night. And yet, there it was, still just an empty forest. No one was there to see the howling wind. No horse sludged through the mud that foul night. No drenched cloak weighed heavily upon a traveler's back. Quite simply, the forest was empty. This is why our tale takes place elsewhere, on a different night, in a different forest. Our character now is no tired traveler, but a nimble lad of seventeen, with unkempt black hair and a bow in hand.
Erik wandered through the trees, towards home. He had had a good hunt, resulting in a rabbit for supper. His father would be proud. He began to whistle a tune from his boyhood.
CRASH.
“Darn tree!”
Erik quickly readied an arrow and, pivoting, looking for the speaker. It was quite apparent, a foreigner lay fallen on the ground, surrounded by broken tree branches and autumn leaves, rubbing his bottom ridiculously. Still, upon closer examination, Erik found that that was the only thing ridiculous about this man. He bore scars upon his arms and face, a patch covered one eye, and a two-inch wide broad sword was tied, in a hilt, to his back.
“May I help you, Monsieur?” Erik figured that, after comparing his lean size to this man’s broad shoulders and strong build, it was best not to anger or embarrass the man.
The man looked him over, “What is your name, boy?” He spoke in a heavy accent, hardening the “t” and growling the “r”.
“Erik, Monsieur, but if you don’t need help, I’ll be on my way. My parents are expecting me.”
“I wonder if you would show me the way to your village.” The man turned a light pink and Erik realized why he had been in the tree in the first place.
“Yes, Monsieur, just follow me.”
They began to walk, Erik leading the way, the traveler moving quietly behind him.
“What country is this lad?”
Erik stared at him, “Dunlin, of course.”
“Ah yes, and which village are you taking me to?”
“The Village of Sowburry. Have you been here before?”
“To Sowburry? Not even to Dunlin, not that I knew, that is.”
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