And now, your daily dose of STUFF
Sep. 6th, 2007 10:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonsheenMeme results. I'm still working on these, slowly but surely in the scant few days of summer laziness I have left before work/LIFE IN GENERAL finally starts. (Oh my god it begins on MONDAY. I am going to DIE. AAAH.) I've been really happy with how these have been coming out. Especially the Tactics one. BECAUSE I AM PREDICTABLE LIKE THAT. And also because my Delita is apparently just bugfuck insane.
Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt thou the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt--
when she knelt in the chapel, he watched her, hiding in the shadows, lying in wait. her hands were folded in prayer. her face darkened by shadow. her hair glowing soft gold in the light from the candles, sputtering in the damp air from the storm outside. So this was the princess, he thought. this was the girl whose greatest purposes in the eyes of princes and queens would be to die for their wars and their conveniences and he resolved to change this. to change her fate. so taken he was by her tragedy, and by her young, lonely face…
He brings her the tray. Stiff meat, vegetables boiled too long, served on a torn loaf of bread soaked in these juices. A banquet in this era. She lifts her head at the smell. She shoves it away.
“You lied to me,” she hisses, pressing herself to the mossy wall.
This confuses him. “About what?”
She looks at him bleakly, as though he has disappointed her in every possible way. “About everything.”
“You should’ve eaten that.”
“I’ll not take anything from you!”
“Would you like to live?”
This startles her. She grows stiff. She folds her hands at her breast, a spell’s intent already in her eyes.
“It’s no threat,” he assures. He shows her his empty hands. “I am curious. Your death would be to the benefit of many. Do you feel otherwise?”
Outrage flashes in her eyes. “What sort of question is that?”
“Do you?”
“Yes!” she cries. “Yes, of course I wish to live. I have wished to live all of my life.”
He nods. “Good.” He kneels before her. “I wish for that as well,” he says, truly. “Now eat.” He shoves the loaf into her mouth.
he does not believe in god. he has taken the oaths of a knight of the rood. he bears a blessed sword. he knows the prayers. knows how to ask the sky for its power, but he no longer believes. there is no god that would have taken that girl over him. there is no god that would have left her dead in the snow. yet here is in the cathedral. here he is standing at the altar. here he is staring upwards.
i would die for her, he says
it nearly comes back to him
“How convenient I am for you. You have your hero’s story. You have gone from lowly squire to commander of the highest order. You have unified your country. You have the love of your men, the love of your people, and even the love of the queen. How well this has worked out for you. How absolutely perfect it has been…”
“You are crying.”
“I am a fool.”
“All of us are.”
“I believed you.”
“As well you should. To you, I meant every word.”
She quivers in his arms, and somewhere in the midst of it he realizes that there is still dampness on her cheeks. He presses her into the sheets and stares down at her until she flinches at his gaze. He brushes it away, first with his fingers, then with his mouth, then with words that he whispers into her neck, as her breath turns to quick, sharp gasps and her fingers curl over his shoulders.
“You will live,” he tells her. “You will live. As long as I am with you. You will live.”
It was a grand celebration, though not the grandest. The Queen had a most godly modesty, and refused anything deemed ‘too extravagant’, but it was spectacle enough: the newly crowned Queen and her Common consort. He clasped his hands in hers and led her to the church doors.
“Will they accept this, do you think?” she asked, softly. Her doubts were only his to hear. He chuckled, looking down at her pale, upturned face with the utmost fondness in his eyes; fondness, and some devilish amusement, for good measure.
“We are young and beautiful,” he whispered. “They’ll love us.”
The doors swung open.
and in the end there is pain and there are flowers and there is darkness in the corners of his sight and redness in everything else. there is death between her fingers and defeat in her face and every breath she draws is one unwanted and all he can think with the knife in his breast is this: why for, my love? i did this for you.
(p.s. things I never mentioned from The Great Baltimore Adventure this summer: Like gnomes, Delita and Ovelia will dig up the flowers from your garden. Just a heads up, everybody.)
“I guess, yeah. The trade ship could probably be hijacked and returned to Archadian territory. But that would take an extremely skilled pilot and an even more talented navigator, especially because you’d have to take it down through the gorge to keep it beneath ground level and off of any readings. Not to mention it’d be completely illegal, but then so’s the arms trade. But this isn’t actually happening, so this is all hypothetical anyway, right?”
“Of course,” said the Emperor of Archadia. He leaned forward in his chair, gloved hands steepled on the desk. “Absolutely theoretical.”
“And so, hypothetically, with a new skystone certain parties could intercept this ship and have it well on its way back in about, hm. Maybe half a day?”
The Emperor of Archadia smiled the smile that launched a thousand years of gossip. It looked absolutely winning on the new currency. “And this fictional estimate would be absolutely ideal. How long would it take, in theory, to be refitted?”
“An hour. I mean, if we happened to have the best guild masters working on it…”
“Which you would have.”
“Which we would have,” repeated Penelo, hand at her mouth to cover her laughter. “Hypothetically. Thank you, Larsa.”
“Say nothing of it,” murmured the Emperor, quite pleased.
At the end of the day my FFXII fic attempts are much like how I played FFXII. I was trying to grasp the beautiful, complex plot, but I kept missing it due to Vaan, Penelo, and Larsa being completely retarded.
Word must have spread fast of Orochi’s defeat, because for the first time in many ages, a night traveler stopped through Kamiki. He’d arrived several hours before morning, a straw hat covering him from the rain that lingered over the village. He had hiked up the path, sat down next to the young sapling, produced a wooden flute, and began to play. It was a sad tune, like the wind over a stark cliff, and he played until the skies above began to pale. He set the instrument aside, tipped up the brim of his hat. The rain had stopped. The clouds had thinned.
“Ah, mon petite chou,” said the traveler. “What weather there’s been this year.”
“I’m Sakuya,” said the spirit of the tree, a little sorely. She had been sitting next to him since he had arrived, and now that he had acknowledged her, she stood up. “And I’m still growing.”
The traveler gave her a shrewd glance, proving beyond all doubt that he could see her. A sliver of hair was stuck to his cheek, a light, peculiar yellow. His fingers were long, and pressed to his bottom lip quite curiously. “But of course,” he agreed. “Here.” He conjured a dumpling from his sleeve and offered it to her.
Sakuya took it, mollified. “Are you waiting for someone?”
The traveler tipped his head up. “Am I,” he murmured. He thought on it, looking into the muddy sky. “This date has been set for the last hundred years.”
“Oh,” said Sakuya. “You are different from the people here.”
“I am different from the people everywhere.”
The sapling shivered curiously. “I haven’t met people from everywhere, yet. Will they be here soon? Who you are here to meet?”
“No,” said the traveler, and there was suddenly something very lonesome about the way he sat, and Sakuya remembered his song, and how mournful it was. “I came too late. I’ve just missed her, and she may not come this way again.”
Sakuya frowned. “That’s sad. And you are waiting, anyway?”
The traveler said nothing.
“I will wait with you,” said the young spirit, plopping herself down beside him. She affected a posture like his, sitting with her back straight, facing east. “Mister Traveler, we can be friends. So you won’t be too lonely in the meantime.”
“Merci,” murmured the stranger, deeply moved. “Then, as friends, I must give you something.” He reached into his things.
“Another dumpling?” asked Sakuya.
“No. Something better.”
The mirror was old and chipped at the corners, going green from an excess of years. The carvings on the back were nearly worn off, but the faint grooves suggested a craftsmanship of the highest caliber. “Here,” said the traveler, rolling it to her. Sakuya laid her hands on it; it was nearly bigger than she was. “You must take good care of it. You, my little friend, are the guardian of this village. You will need this, when the time is right.”
It looked awfully familiar. Sakuya squinted, tracing the patterns with her palm. “Mister Traveler.” It hit her. “Isn’t this…”
And then she blinked away. A great flash of light came off of the surface, for the clouds had broken, and the edge of the morning sun was hot and bright on the horizon. The traveler stood up all at once, and had he not already confessed to his spiritual nature, Sakuya could have guessed then, for he stared right into that light without flinching. The sound he made was at once deeply pained, and deeply relieved. “Ah,” he said. “Ah.” He extended a hand briefly, as though meaning to touch that rising circle. “So it still rises…” His arm dropped to his side and, trembling with either joy or sadness or some strange mixture of both, the prophet laughed.
...I've been waiting way too long to slap that title onto an Okami fic just to feel clever.
…and then, with a horrible croak, the frog belched the coins out onto the ground.
“Ugh,” he said. “Take those and give them to the pooka who sells his wares in the grove. Highest quality. Better than any human goods.”
They sparkled, damply. Mercedes drifted a step back, covering her mouth. “That’s disgusting,” she squeaked.
“So you tell me. You didn’t have them clanking around in there for the past day.”
“I…didn’t need to know that.” Grimacing, the fairy dropped her wings and crouched over the…puddle of new monetary advantage. “Are these even real?”
“Of course they’re real,” snapped the frog. “They’re Valentinian. The exchange rate is quite good on them, you’ll find. It ought to serve our purposes quite well. Now, take them. I’m tired of looking at them.” As though to emphasize this, the frog squeezed his eyes shut. Mercedes pulled a leaf patterned handkerchief out from her packs and, not looking too hard, quickly scooped them up.
“Well…thank you,” she said, tucking them away, “I think.”
“This venture is a bad idea on your part and I am aiding it. You have nothing to thank me for.”
Mercedes scowled. “You could at least be a little happy when a queen pays you her compliments.”
The frog eyed her archly. “Oh? There were compliments in that?”
Mercedes felt suddenly cross. “Yes,” she said. And just to be spiteful, she added a, “You’ve been a Very. Good. Friend.” She flew off to make her purchases.
The frog sat there in the middle of the road, a strong taste of metal, and a weaker taste of magic in his mouth. He stared after her.
“…mad rulers are the worst,” he muttered.
Won't you be my Valentine?
The kid slammed Phoenix into a row of lockers.
Okay, he thought, This is just playing into the stereotype.
“Uh, Larry?” he said. Except Larry was suddenly nowhere to be found and hello Jude Punch, tallest kid in their class was dangling him by the front of his t-shirt, looking like he was about to stuff him into one of the lockers. He couldn’t be serious though. People only did that in, like, old nineties sitcoms, right? One look at the guy suggested otherwise. Phoenix was probably toast. He sort of wanted to cry.
“You know, that constitutes assault.”
“Eh?” That was the sound of Jude and Phoenix both turning their heads at the same time.
With no fanfare at all, Miles Edgeworth was standing with his arms crossed next to them, Larry Butz vaguely visible in his shadow. “What you’re doing,” he clarified, with a bored roll of his eyes. “Assault. Theft. You could get detention, or suspension, expulsion. Or…”
“What,” sneered Jude, catching at least the very gist of what Miles was rambling on about. “You gonna tell on me?
“No,” said Miles. “But someone could sue you, and you’d probably lose, seeing as you’re a repeated offender, with a number of previous victims as witness, and really damning testimony from teachers who’ve all had you in detention before. You’d have a right to an attorney. So you’d have a fair go of it, like everyone deserves of course. But I can tell you without doubt that it would be a very difficult case to win.”
“Huh?” said Jude.
Phoenix took the pause afforded by the kid trying to figure out what the heck Miles just said. He wormed out of his grip (and also, his shirt), and quickly rejoined his friends. Who, seeing as the bully was still trying to process all of that information, seemed to have a free pass to continue on their way. They turned the corner into a busier hall, and it really, really nice to be able to breathe again.
“Guess I’ll have to grab my gym shirt,” grumped Phoenix. “But, uh, wow Miles.”
“You didn’t even have to punch him,” marveled Larry who, now that it was safe, had rematerialized in full. Miles didn’t seem particularly moved by the praise, he just scowled.
“I mean,” he muttered. “How idiotic can you be? It’s obvious. Doesn’t everyone know that?”
“…I don’t think Mrs. Finster knows that,” said Phoenix.
“Yes. Well. Mrs. Finster…” Miles left that thought unfinished and unsaid. “Let’s just find you a shirt before you’re brought in for indecent exposure.”
Phoenix stared. “Ind-a-what?”
“Never mind.”
I wrote this after an episode of Psych. Ten points to whoever guesses which one.
The great dragon was already old by the time the last scale at the tip of Wagner’s tail had hardened. Wagner was young, young and impetuous, and had come with flame spouting between his fangs, tail lashing. He had thought the mountains a fine place to set up a lair. He had thought the old dragon fat and soft from years of trading wisdom in exchange for human pampering. He had thought it laughable. Hindel had dispatched him with a simple roll of his wing and Wagner’s scales, impervious to all forms of steel, had screeched painfully against the rock face. Hindel rested his foreleg over the soft place where Wagner’s membrane met his flank. He pressed lightly, to let him know precisely what he could do, and precisely what he was choosing not to do. His talons were yellowed, but the tip was no less sharp.
“Why,” hissed Wagner, “Why do you not rip out my throat?” Wagner had come from the Northern lands, where such bouts ended thus. The old dragon regarded him with a slight cock of his head, and blew smoke from his nostrils.
“That would be a waste,” he said, easing back. Wagner wrenched his pinned wing back from against the mountain face. He flexed his joints, curled his wing claws. He watched the larger dragon warily. Hindel was vast, but his voice had no fire in it. His voice was milder than any self-respecting dragon’s ought to be, Wagner thought, but his strength had been unmistakable. “Our numbers are ever dwindling. Whom would it serve, to take your life?”
The young dragon spat petulantly, tail tip cracking. “It matters not! It is how these things are done! Or has so many years at the beck and call of man softened you?” he taunted, spared and shamed by it. Hindel swung his snout forward, catching Wagner under the jaw, and pressing him back into the stones. It was not death he brought, just admonishment.
“Humans live brief lives. And thus they value those brief lives. Tell me, my young friend, could you shout for death again and claim to do the same?”
Wagner clacked his teeth in strangled reply.
“No, I shall not kill you for this,” Hindel drew away, “Nor shall I drive you back from whence you came. I offer you my hospitality. Hunt these grounds, if you like, and tell me if shame of it is truly so unbearable.”
“Hmph,” said Wagner. Young, impetuous, and terribly hungry, he agreed.
I DON'T EVEN KNOW I HAVEN'T WRITTEN DRAGONS SINCE I WAS FIFTEEN OKAY SHUT UP
Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt thou the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt--
when she knelt in the chapel, he watched her, hiding in the shadows, lying in wait. her hands were folded in prayer. her face darkened by shadow. her hair glowing soft gold in the light from the candles, sputtering in the damp air from the storm outside. So this was the princess, he thought. this was the girl whose greatest purposes in the eyes of princes and queens would be to die for their wars and their conveniences and he resolved to change this. to change her fate. so taken he was by her tragedy, and by her young, lonely face…
He brings her the tray. Stiff meat, vegetables boiled too long, served on a torn loaf of bread soaked in these juices. A banquet in this era. She lifts her head at the smell. She shoves it away.
“You lied to me,” she hisses, pressing herself to the mossy wall.
This confuses him. “About what?”
She looks at him bleakly, as though he has disappointed her in every possible way. “About everything.”
“You should’ve eaten that.”
“I’ll not take anything from you!”
“Would you like to live?”
This startles her. She grows stiff. She folds her hands at her breast, a spell’s intent already in her eyes.
“It’s no threat,” he assures. He shows her his empty hands. “I am curious. Your death would be to the benefit of many. Do you feel otherwise?”
Outrage flashes in her eyes. “What sort of question is that?”
“Do you?”
“Yes!” she cries. “Yes, of course I wish to live. I have wished to live all of my life.”
He nods. “Good.” He kneels before her. “I wish for that as well,” he says, truly. “Now eat.” He shoves the loaf into her mouth.
he does not believe in god. he has taken the oaths of a knight of the rood. he bears a blessed sword. he knows the prayers. knows how to ask the sky for its power, but he no longer believes. there is no god that would have taken that girl over him. there is no god that would have left her dead in the snow. yet here is in the cathedral. here he is standing at the altar. here he is staring upwards.
i would die for her, he says
it nearly comes back to him
“How convenient I am for you. You have your hero’s story. You have gone from lowly squire to commander of the highest order. You have unified your country. You have the love of your men, the love of your people, and even the love of the queen. How well this has worked out for you. How absolutely perfect it has been…”
“You are crying.”
“I am a fool.”
“All of us are.”
“I believed you.”
“As well you should. To you, I meant every word.”
She quivers in his arms, and somewhere in the midst of it he realizes that there is still dampness on her cheeks. He presses her into the sheets and stares down at her until she flinches at his gaze. He brushes it away, first with his fingers, then with his mouth, then with words that he whispers into her neck, as her breath turns to quick, sharp gasps and her fingers curl over his shoulders.
“You will live,” he tells her. “You will live. As long as I am with you. You will live.”
It was a grand celebration, though not the grandest. The Queen had a most godly modesty, and refused anything deemed ‘too extravagant’, but it was spectacle enough: the newly crowned Queen and her Common consort. He clasped his hands in hers and led her to the church doors.
“Will they accept this, do you think?” she asked, softly. Her doubts were only his to hear. He chuckled, looking down at her pale, upturned face with the utmost fondness in his eyes; fondness, and some devilish amusement, for good measure.
“We are young and beautiful,” he whispered. “They’ll love us.”
The doors swung open.
and in the end there is pain and there are flowers and there is darkness in the corners of his sight and redness in everything else. there is death between her fingers and defeat in her face and every breath she draws is one unwanted and all he can think with the knife in his breast is this: why for, my love? i did this for you.
(p.s. things I never mentioned from The Great Baltimore Adventure this summer: Like gnomes, Delita and Ovelia will dig up the flowers from your garden. Just a heads up, everybody.)
“I guess, yeah. The trade ship could probably be hijacked and returned to Archadian territory. But that would take an extremely skilled pilot and an even more talented navigator, especially because you’d have to take it down through the gorge to keep it beneath ground level and off of any readings. Not to mention it’d be completely illegal, but then so’s the arms trade. But this isn’t actually happening, so this is all hypothetical anyway, right?”
“Of course,” said the Emperor of Archadia. He leaned forward in his chair, gloved hands steepled on the desk. “Absolutely theoretical.”
“And so, hypothetically, with a new skystone certain parties could intercept this ship and have it well on its way back in about, hm. Maybe half a day?”
The Emperor of Archadia smiled the smile that launched a thousand years of gossip. It looked absolutely winning on the new currency. “And this fictional estimate would be absolutely ideal. How long would it take, in theory, to be refitted?”
“An hour. I mean, if we happened to have the best guild masters working on it…”
“Which you would have.”
“Which we would have,” repeated Penelo, hand at her mouth to cover her laughter. “Hypothetically. Thank you, Larsa.”
“Say nothing of it,” murmured the Emperor, quite pleased.
At the end of the day my FFXII fic attempts are much like how I played FFXII. I was trying to grasp the beautiful, complex plot, but I kept missing it due to Vaan, Penelo, and Larsa being completely retarded.
Word must have spread fast of Orochi’s defeat, because for the first time in many ages, a night traveler stopped through Kamiki. He’d arrived several hours before morning, a straw hat covering him from the rain that lingered over the village. He had hiked up the path, sat down next to the young sapling, produced a wooden flute, and began to play. It was a sad tune, like the wind over a stark cliff, and he played until the skies above began to pale. He set the instrument aside, tipped up the brim of his hat. The rain had stopped. The clouds had thinned.
“Ah, mon petite chou,” said the traveler. “What weather there’s been this year.”
“I’m Sakuya,” said the spirit of the tree, a little sorely. She had been sitting next to him since he had arrived, and now that he had acknowledged her, she stood up. “And I’m still growing.”
The traveler gave her a shrewd glance, proving beyond all doubt that he could see her. A sliver of hair was stuck to his cheek, a light, peculiar yellow. His fingers were long, and pressed to his bottom lip quite curiously. “But of course,” he agreed. “Here.” He conjured a dumpling from his sleeve and offered it to her.
Sakuya took it, mollified. “Are you waiting for someone?”
The traveler tipped his head up. “Am I,” he murmured. He thought on it, looking into the muddy sky. “This date has been set for the last hundred years.”
“Oh,” said Sakuya. “You are different from the people here.”
“I am different from the people everywhere.”
The sapling shivered curiously. “I haven’t met people from everywhere, yet. Will they be here soon? Who you are here to meet?”
“No,” said the traveler, and there was suddenly something very lonesome about the way he sat, and Sakuya remembered his song, and how mournful it was. “I came too late. I’ve just missed her, and she may not come this way again.”
Sakuya frowned. “That’s sad. And you are waiting, anyway?”
The traveler said nothing.
“I will wait with you,” said the young spirit, plopping herself down beside him. She affected a posture like his, sitting with her back straight, facing east. “Mister Traveler, we can be friends. So you won’t be too lonely in the meantime.”
“Merci,” murmured the stranger, deeply moved. “Then, as friends, I must give you something.” He reached into his things.
“Another dumpling?” asked Sakuya.
“No. Something better.”
The mirror was old and chipped at the corners, going green from an excess of years. The carvings on the back were nearly worn off, but the faint grooves suggested a craftsmanship of the highest caliber. “Here,” said the traveler, rolling it to her. Sakuya laid her hands on it; it was nearly bigger than she was. “You must take good care of it. You, my little friend, are the guardian of this village. You will need this, when the time is right.”
It looked awfully familiar. Sakuya squinted, tracing the patterns with her palm. “Mister Traveler.” It hit her. “Isn’t this…”
And then she blinked away. A great flash of light came off of the surface, for the clouds had broken, and the edge of the morning sun was hot and bright on the horizon. The traveler stood up all at once, and had he not already confessed to his spiritual nature, Sakuya could have guessed then, for he stared right into that light without flinching. The sound he made was at once deeply pained, and deeply relieved. “Ah,” he said. “Ah.” He extended a hand briefly, as though meaning to touch that rising circle. “So it still rises…” His arm dropped to his side and, trembling with either joy or sadness or some strange mixture of both, the prophet laughed.
...I've been waiting way too long to slap that title onto an Okami fic just to feel clever.
…and then, with a horrible croak, the frog belched the coins out onto the ground.
“Ugh,” he said. “Take those and give them to the pooka who sells his wares in the grove. Highest quality. Better than any human goods.”
They sparkled, damply. Mercedes drifted a step back, covering her mouth. “That’s disgusting,” she squeaked.
“So you tell me. You didn’t have them clanking around in there for the past day.”
“I…didn’t need to know that.” Grimacing, the fairy dropped her wings and crouched over the…puddle of new monetary advantage. “Are these even real?”
“Of course they’re real,” snapped the frog. “They’re Valentinian. The exchange rate is quite good on them, you’ll find. It ought to serve our purposes quite well. Now, take them. I’m tired of looking at them.” As though to emphasize this, the frog squeezed his eyes shut. Mercedes pulled a leaf patterned handkerchief out from her packs and, not looking too hard, quickly scooped them up.
“Well…thank you,” she said, tucking them away, “I think.”
“This venture is a bad idea on your part and I am aiding it. You have nothing to thank me for.”
Mercedes scowled. “You could at least be a little happy when a queen pays you her compliments.”
The frog eyed her archly. “Oh? There were compliments in that?”
Mercedes felt suddenly cross. “Yes,” she said. And just to be spiteful, she added a, “You’ve been a Very. Good. Friend.” She flew off to make her purchases.
The frog sat there in the middle of the road, a strong taste of metal, and a weaker taste of magic in his mouth. He stared after her.
“…mad rulers are the worst,” he muttered.
Won't you be my Valentine?
The kid slammed Phoenix into a row of lockers.
Okay, he thought, This is just playing into the stereotype.
“Uh, Larry?” he said. Except Larry was suddenly nowhere to be found and hello Jude Punch, tallest kid in their class was dangling him by the front of his t-shirt, looking like he was about to stuff him into one of the lockers. He couldn’t be serious though. People only did that in, like, old nineties sitcoms, right? One look at the guy suggested otherwise. Phoenix was probably toast. He sort of wanted to cry.
“You know, that constitutes assault.”
“Eh?” That was the sound of Jude and Phoenix both turning their heads at the same time.
With no fanfare at all, Miles Edgeworth was standing with his arms crossed next to them, Larry Butz vaguely visible in his shadow. “What you’re doing,” he clarified, with a bored roll of his eyes. “Assault. Theft. You could get detention, or suspension, expulsion. Or…”
“What,” sneered Jude, catching at least the very gist of what Miles was rambling on about. “You gonna tell on me?
“No,” said Miles. “But someone could sue you, and you’d probably lose, seeing as you’re a repeated offender, with a number of previous victims as witness, and really damning testimony from teachers who’ve all had you in detention before. You’d have a right to an attorney. So you’d have a fair go of it, like everyone deserves of course. But I can tell you without doubt that it would be a very difficult case to win.”
“Huh?” said Jude.
Phoenix took the pause afforded by the kid trying to figure out what the heck Miles just said. He wormed out of his grip (and also, his shirt), and quickly rejoined his friends. Who, seeing as the bully was still trying to process all of that information, seemed to have a free pass to continue on their way. They turned the corner into a busier hall, and it really, really nice to be able to breathe again.
“Guess I’ll have to grab my gym shirt,” grumped Phoenix. “But, uh, wow Miles.”
“You didn’t even have to punch him,” marveled Larry who, now that it was safe, had rematerialized in full. Miles didn’t seem particularly moved by the praise, he just scowled.
“I mean,” he muttered. “How idiotic can you be? It’s obvious. Doesn’t everyone know that?”
“…I don’t think Mrs. Finster knows that,” said Phoenix.
“Yes. Well. Mrs. Finster…” Miles left that thought unfinished and unsaid. “Let’s just find you a shirt before you’re brought in for indecent exposure.”
Phoenix stared. “Ind-a-what?”
“Never mind.”
I wrote this after an episode of Psych. Ten points to whoever guesses which one.
The great dragon was already old by the time the last scale at the tip of Wagner’s tail had hardened. Wagner was young, young and impetuous, and had come with flame spouting between his fangs, tail lashing. He had thought the mountains a fine place to set up a lair. He had thought the old dragon fat and soft from years of trading wisdom in exchange for human pampering. He had thought it laughable. Hindel had dispatched him with a simple roll of his wing and Wagner’s scales, impervious to all forms of steel, had screeched painfully against the rock face. Hindel rested his foreleg over the soft place where Wagner’s membrane met his flank. He pressed lightly, to let him know precisely what he could do, and precisely what he was choosing not to do. His talons were yellowed, but the tip was no less sharp.
“Why,” hissed Wagner, “Why do you not rip out my throat?” Wagner had come from the Northern lands, where such bouts ended thus. The old dragon regarded him with a slight cock of his head, and blew smoke from his nostrils.
“That would be a waste,” he said, easing back. Wagner wrenched his pinned wing back from against the mountain face. He flexed his joints, curled his wing claws. He watched the larger dragon warily. Hindel was vast, but his voice had no fire in it. His voice was milder than any self-respecting dragon’s ought to be, Wagner thought, but his strength had been unmistakable. “Our numbers are ever dwindling. Whom would it serve, to take your life?”
The young dragon spat petulantly, tail tip cracking. “It matters not! It is how these things are done! Or has so many years at the beck and call of man softened you?” he taunted, spared and shamed by it. Hindel swung his snout forward, catching Wagner under the jaw, and pressing him back into the stones. It was not death he brought, just admonishment.
“Humans live brief lives. And thus they value those brief lives. Tell me, my young friend, could you shout for death again and claim to do the same?”
Wagner clacked his teeth in strangled reply.
“No, I shall not kill you for this,” Hindel drew away, “Nor shall I drive you back from whence you came. I offer you my hospitality. Hunt these grounds, if you like, and tell me if shame of it is truly so unbearable.”
“Hmph,” said Wagner. Young, impetuous, and terribly hungry, he agreed.
I DON'T EVEN KNOW I HAVEN'T WRITTEN DRAGONS SINCE I WAS FIFTEEN OKAY SHUT UP
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(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-07 03:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-08 12:59 am (UTC)I think if those two hung around long enough actually have kids those kits were pretty much doomed to being the Most Neurotic Family Ever.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-07 03:17 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-07 03:21 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-07 04:18 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-07 06:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-08 12:50 am (UTC)Also, boy, he loves his wolf. :(
(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-07 06:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-08 12:48 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-07 09:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-08 12:55 am (UTC)Atticus FinchGregory Edgeworth, or something. With a little Miles as your assistant character...(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-07 04:01 pm (UTC)BUT I'LL DO IT AGAIN♥♥♥♥ you're so awesome♥
(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-08 12:52 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-07 04:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-08 12:47 am (UTC)also larsa grows up really hot(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-08 01:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-28 04:41 am (UTC)