Tag Archive | giraffecall: donor

Mud Fight, a continuation of Stranded World for the March Giraffe Call

To inventrix‘s commissioned continuation of Ax Fight, and following directly on after it.

“Duck!”

Autumn’s duck turned into a slide across the mud. The Grey One’s crouch turned into a tumble. The ax flew. The audience cheered.

They slid across the mud until they were nearly touching, their wooden weapons locked against each other.

“Show, go on, yadda, yadda.” The Grey One whispered it under the cheers.

“Yep.” Autumn hopped to her feet, her ax held in a guard position. “Avast! What scallywag intrudes on our fair duel?”

Somewhere in the crowd, someone complained about pirate talk. Autumn ignored him. She wasn’t even getting paid for this.

“Indeed! Come forth, you villain, that we might see your face before we smash it in!”

The crowed made a low ooooo noise. They liked The Grey One. Possibly because of his killer biceps under the thin shirt.

“Art thou to cowardly to come forth?” Autumn shook her ax. Something, something, there had to be something in the strands. Somewhere. She reached out with her free hand, making it look like a dramatic gesture. “It is the most cowardly of things, to fight from-“

She was expecting it this time, and made a smooth dive of her duck. A second ax embedded itself in the wood next to the first.

“Grey,” she muttered, tilting her head that way. He nodded, and walked casually behind her. She pitched her voice to carry. “Back up, folks, if you would, a performance such as this requires air. The first three rows may get bloody; we have leeches on staff if there be a problem.”

Grey yanked the axes out of the wood, and handed one to her. They twirled their new weapons, getting a feel for them, the heavier weight, the much more deadly edges.

Autumn let Grey take lead. Somewhere out there, someone was doing something. Someone was attacking them. “Come, thou coward! What say thee? Why would you hide such skill, such grace with a weapon?”

“Art thou besotted with his throwing with never having seen his face?” The Grey One moved forward, stalking their invisible prey.

“Besotted? Nay. I simply wish to thank him for the fine blade. And it may be a she, thou knowest!”

The strands were always twisted at a Ren Faire. People cared, deeply, and those people laid thick lines on the earth. Other people came and went, leaving thin lines, quickly fading. Someone throwing weapons into a crowd… “Oh bless us with a hammer.”

“Mmm?” Grey asked the one sotto voce and then threw out a bellow of laughter to cover it. “A woman? Nay, for there cannot be more than one as wild as thou and as sharp, not in all the land.”

“You flatter me, Grey One. Surely a woman could – duck!” They ducked and rolled in sync, coming up near each other on the other side of the clearing. “You know tanglers?” she hissed. “A woman could sow chaos as well as any man!” Her voice went back up for the challenge.

“If it is chaos we’re looking for -” They both looked, dramatically, at the hammer, a Mjölnir replica, sitting next to Autumn’s booth. “-well, then, a woman I’m sure it could be!”

“A woman,” Autumn taunted, “or a man lost in the liquor.” Someone was trying to create havoc. Terror, perhaps? As benign as her sister was, Autumn knew that was not always the case with tanglers.

The Grey One was doing something complicated with his off hand. Autumn kept up her banter to pull the attention away from him. “For as we all know, the men of the species are more messy than the female!”

Some of the crowd booed. Some cheered. But they were still listening. Still watching. Autumn shifted her feet, knowing she wasn’t going to be able to get solid footing in this muck.

“Aye!” The Grey One had finished his twisting; she could see the way an errant set of strands trailed out from his hand, now, like a flail, a magical cat o’ nine tails. “Aye, the male is messier, certainly.” He scooped up mud with his ax and flung it over Autumn – spraying some of the crowd with the splatter. “Thou’rt as clean and shiny as a fresh-minted coin, aren’t thou?”

“Why, you, you…” Autumn scooped deep with her ax and splashed muck up, intentionally missing Grey with most of it. If she aimed correctly – there. “And down! Thou varlet!” They ducked in time as a long spear came flying at them; they ducked, Autumn turned it into a roll and dive, and Grey threw his strand-handful: not a flail, but a bolo.

Their hidden attacker went down, suddenly visible and very much tied up. Autumn landed on him, pinning him shoulders-and-knees. “And I’ve caught thee, vandal!”

The cheers of the audience were deafening, and they only served to strengthen the ties around their captive. Autumn sat back on her heels and bowed from that position, grinning from ear to ear.

It ought to rain at the Ren Faire more often.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/512725.html. You can comment here or there.

Thick, a continuation of Facets of Dusk for the Giraffe Call (@Rix_scaedu)

Apr3

After Deep in the Autumn Air, after Cloaked. rix_Scaedu‘s commissioned continuation.

“The air is thick with magic.”

Josie had been singing, skipping down the dusty road. Suddenly, she stopped, turned three sixty, and then turned around again until she was looking at Aerich.

Aerich harrumphed. The woman insisted on assuming kinship with him.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Do the Aseteshin Rote, widdershins.”

“Counterclockwise.” He corrected her reflexively. “Wait, how do you know of the Aseteshin Rote? And why would I do it widdershins?”

“Because the moons hang in the wrong side of the sky, here.” Her placid, cheerful smile ignored the fact that she’d only answered half his question. “Do it. You’ll see.”

Aerich grumbled, because the woman had a way of doing that to him that irritated him more than anything in the world, except possibly Alexa.

And then, because she was actually an expert in her field, albeit a crazy one and one who couldn’t keep her head out of the clouds with an anvil tied to her feet, Aerich did the Aseteshin Rote. Counterclockwise.

This particular rote was, he’d thought, known only to his family. Aseteshin was a family word, at least, penned in family chronicles; he had only ever seen the rote drawn in those same tomes.

“A moment, if you would, Cole.” He’d finally unbent to first names, because the rest of the team was merciless when he didn’t.

“This is your sort of world. Do your oogy-boogy stuff.” Cole leaned against a walking stick – where he’d gotten that, Aerich didn’t want to know – and waited.

The dust of the road would do. Aerich squatted down and drew out a circle in the dirt, and then, from memory, sketched in the symbols of the Rote.

“The air,” he allowed after a moment, “is thick with magic. Thicker than any place I have ever read of. It’s not as if it is coming from a single source; it’s as if it’s another element in the atmosphere.”

“They’re breathing magic?” Peter looked less than impressed. “They’re certainly breathing something.” His infernal gadgets beeped along under his cloak.

Aerich didn’t deign to answer. Instead, he looked at Josie. He did not like to admit weakness, but it was only fair to acknowledge when she acted reasonably. “You were right.” He braced for a mindless piece of fluff.

“Thank you.” She pointed at one of the symbols of the Rote. “If you reverse that, I think you can determine the source.”

“If you are so wise in rotes-“

“Why do I do things my way? You said it yourself. Some people are born to the arcane methods of thaumaturgy, and some are merely dabblers in the art.”

“That is not what I-“

“She’s got you word for word, Aerich.” Cole sounded far too amused. “Besides, she covers areas you don’t, and you get the things she can’t. Specialization.”

“Specialization.” Aerich swept the rote away carefully. “As Ms. Carlyle indicated, there is a high concentration of magic in the atmosphere. It may affect our instruments, Dr. Hill. It may affect your weapons, Sergeant Hampton, Lady Hart. It will almost certainly affect our minds.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/505085.html. You can comment here or there.

An Education

Mar21

For rix_scaedu‘s commissioned continuation of Educational.

Teach me.

It was the best way to couch it to him and, it seemed, the best way to show her, too.

Ambrus could teach. He hadn’t been given that much opportunity, before, but he knew how it worked. He had been watching people teach for years, spending his free time around teachers, reading the books in the Library on teaching. He had an idea of the concept.

And Phillipa seemed to enjoy learning. She wasn’t one of those goody-good-good students, the ones who knew everything and kissed the teacher’s ass – he couldn’t imagine her kissing anyone’s ass, or anyone’s anything, for that matter – but give her a challenge and she dove into it with a vengeance.

Learning how to be a sub was her new challenge. Teaching it was Ambrus’, and he found that, despite knowing all of it, so many of the ins and outs, teaching was turning out to be an entirely different thing.

“We’re going to the Library.” He was running out of other ideas. She kept asking why. He couldn’t remember, not clearly, the last time he’d asked why.

“Why?”

He almost laughed. Instead, he took hold of the ring in the front of her collar. The gesture forced her chin up, so that she was looking into his eyes. He smiled; she shivered. Something about his smile did that to her. He couldn’t really say he disliked it, but it was certainly novel. “We are going to the Library to research the condition of being submissive. You may come along unbound and speaking, or you may come along bound.”

Ambrus was a little surprised to see Phillipa licking her lips. “Bound sounds kind of hot.”

Damn. How was he going to get this one past Luke? He took the opportunity as a teaching moment while he worried about that.

“‘It sounds hot’ is one of the primary reasons for a great deal of d/s. After all, being Kept might be a cultural condition…”

“But being a submissive is a social kink.” Phillipa recited the response with a lip-licking smile. “Yes, sir. And I’m being a submissive today, right, sir?”

He’d found he couldn’t stand being called Master. Well, he was in charge, he could choose which title he wanted to hear.

“Today is a sub day. Good girl.” He patted her head and thought about the problem he’d created. All right. Taking her bound to the library. “Go put on that pretty little sundress. Skip the shoes and underwear. You won’t need them.”

“Yes, sir.” Her arousal was coming off her in waves. Ambrus adjusted his pants and thought about will-power, and the sacrifices of being in charge. You should Keep someone, indeed. His Mentor was a sadist.

While Phillipa dressed – such as it was – he dug through the toy box until he found the restraints and collar he wanted. His penchant for playing dress-up with her meant that his Kept had more collars than anyone but Zita. Luckily, she didn’t mind.

Today would be white leather. He took off her classroom collar and buckled the heavy collar around her throat. O-rings everywhere; this one jingled like a parade.

Then he added wrist cuffs – jangle, jangle, until he hooked them behind her back – and then the ankle cuffs. He stepped back and grinned at her.

She smiled back, testing out her range of motion. “I think I need a leash.”

“I think you need a leash, too. Conveniently, I brought one.” He hooked it to her collar. “Now. Let’s go to the Library.”

“I thought you said I was going to be silenced.”

“I like talking to you.” He kissed her, because the taste of her lips was wonderful. “Fine. Do not speak unless spoken to until we get back to the room. You are a hard woman to please.”

“I try.” She was grinning widely. Ambrus found her pleasure thrilling, a sort of thrill he didn’t remember feeling in a long time. He could make her happy, not because he had to, but just because he wanted to. That was neat.

Leading her through the hall made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. What if they ran into a…

“Ambrose.”

“Luke.” He swallowed hard. Ever since Regine had first brought him here, the angry Mara had terrified him. Even when Luke had clearly been trying not to be scary, he had still been so angry.

“Phillipa.”

“Sir.” She was grinning, the little minx, grinning. Awesome. He’d never seen an unhappy Kept be able to pull of a real grin.

“This is an interesting arrangement for the hallway.”

Oh, he was going to do his disappointed face. Ambrus smiled back at him, hoping he could pull this off. “We’re going to the Library to research Kept-Keeper dynamics.” He threw in, for fun, a little barb. “My Mentor thought it would be good for me to learn how to Keep someone.”

“Hrmph. He would.” Ambrus thought he saw the ghost of a smile on Luke’s face. “Well, if Wysteria doesn’t complain, I won’t either. Have fun, you too. Just… not in the halls.”

“Yes, sir.” Phillipa’s grin was catching. Ambrus tugged on her leash. “Come on, Pretty Petal Pony. Let’s… study.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/495078.html. You can comment here or there.

First Thanksgiving, a story of Vas’ World for the Giraffe Call (@rix_scaedu, @dahob)

Mar10

For rix_scaedu‘s commissioned continuation of Holy Fuck, it’s Snowing.

The snow kept falling.

The clear-sky thing hadn’t lasted for more than a few hours; now the sun struggled to be seen through thick layers of cloud cover, and the flakes fell and fell and fell.

It was similar enough to snow from home to make them want to make snow-men and snow-angels and snow-forts. They declared a holiday, and the entire town went out and played.

By the third day of snowfall, they had Aoife out trying to get answers from the sleeping trees. When that didn’t work, they sent the scientists out to pull samples.

By five days, they were making snow forts again. Not so much for fun, this time, as for shelter. Their roofs weren’t built to handle the weight; their structures weren’t built for the winds that were coming in.

They started on the windward side, forming bricks out of packed snow. “I read a documentary about this, once.” Surprisingly, it was Tarval who came up with the idea. “If we do this right, we can even make roofs.”

The snow walls kept the worst of the drifting off of their shelters. That gave them time to rig something for their roofs.

And that was a week into the snowfall, and it was still coming. Tarval had stopped swearing at it. H was the only one; everyone else had started. The gen-mod horses were starting to snort at it, even.

And still the snow kept falling.

“I thought this was supposed to be brief.”

“Trees have a different sense of brief than we do?” Aoife shrugged. “I don’t have training in xenobotanical ambassadorial duties.”

They were beginning to get really worried. They could handle the cold for another week or two with the deadwood they’d gathered, and they could – and did – send out teams to gather more fuel from the sheltered areas of the forest.

That took care of warmth, for maybe – they estimated – a month of really hard fall. The wall took care of the bad wind, and Tarval managed to rig a tent-dome over the settlement with the last of their tarps, which took the last of the snow weight off the roofs. (It looked, from the outside, like a giant igloo, so said the salvage-and-scrounge teams going into the woods).

Food was going to be a problem. There wasn’t any meat around, and they hadn’t prepared enough in advance for this winter.

“What we need is a bunch of mythical Thanksgiving Indians.” Tarval, as much as he’d been fighting the whole idea of snow was in his element now that it was here. “With turkey.”

“Not going to happen, I’m afraid.” Aoife was helping Tarval patch their dome and fix some of the rigging underneath to make it more, well, dome-like. “The trees had never seen humans before, or sentience of any sort except the plants.”

“These trees, here. They could be anywhere else on this place.”

“Probably won’t be travelling in this, then. Unless they have the most well-hidden high-technological civilization ever. No, we’re going to have to find something to eat, or we’re going to have to accept losses.”

“How can you be so damn cold about this?”

“Because this isn’t my first rodeo, and if I flip out, someone else will flip out, and then someone else, and before we know it, everyone’s spazzing.”

“I don’t want to accept losses. We need to find a way. Damnit. There has to be something.”

“Cat!” The shout at the gate was something else: a bellow, more than a crier-call, a panicked bellow.

Tarval and Aoife started running. “Cat” could be anything, around here.

Young Soni was standing in the gate tower, staring over the wall. By the time Tarval and Aoife got there, she was shaking. “Cat.” She pointed a trembling arm out over the wall.

“Cat, indeed.” Aoife’s voice was reverent. Tarval didn’t blame her. “You wanted Indians, Tar.”

“…Yeah.” Sitting outside the gate was a mammalian-looking creature the size of an elephant. Its – call it a mane, why not – was feathery, sticking out in wild colors from its grey pelt.

Two more, with less vivid colors, sat nearby, watching. And in every single one’s mouth was a large, freshly-dead-looking animal.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/490364.html. You can comment here or there.

Post-Apoc Studies 101, a continuation from the January Giraffe Call (@rix_scaedu)

Mar5

To Rix_Scaedu‘s commissioned continuation of this unnamed fragment from the Jan. Giraffe Call.

“You don’t think the things you learned in your human school will be useful?” Tomas was looking around, pacing around, sniffing the air.

“Well. Why am I going to need to know history now? Or literature?”

“Hrmph.” He sat down with a thump. “Because you will need to remember the past. Don’t you people have a quote about that?”

“Those who don’t remember the past, I think.”

“Are doomed to repeat it. yes. You’re going to want to remember that information, so you can share it.”

“If the world depends on me remembering my 9th grade global studies, we’re screwed.”

“Surely you remember one thing.”

“Ninety and ten. And irregular coastlines.”

“Explain.”

She stirred the heating soup with a chopstick. “In developing countries, especially with , um, bad leadership-“

“Dictators?”

“Those. Ninety percent of the wealth is held by ten percent of the people.”

“So they’re controlling everyone else with their wealth. How does that help you here?”

“Well, I don’t have any wealth, and I don’t know where the people are with wealth.”

“But that’s what you need to find. Wealth, or people with wealth.”

“You want me to be a dictator?”

“Better than being dictated to.” He grinned at her cheerfully. “At least, in my book. So what’s wealth?”

“Money.” Duh… She was surprised to find him shaking his head at her. “What?”

“Money is what you use to buy wealth. What good is a bunch of paper?”

“It buys stuff from… damn. Okay. But the guys who had all the money before, they can have supplies, and probably full roofs, and all that stuff.”

“So that’s a good place to start. Supplies and a roof are wealth.”

“Supplies and a roof. Check. Wait. So, people who had money might have wealth, right?”

“Right. In the world we were living in, money was almost the same as wealth.”

“You know a lot for a hobo.”

“You know enough to know that I’m not a hobo.”

“Yeah, but I’m having a hard enough time dealing with everything else that happened right now. Dealing with the fact that you’re a 300-year-old fairy is just too much.”

“That is fair. Back to your lessons, then, and I believe your can of foodlike stuff is burning.”

“Caramelizing.” She stirred it carefully. “So, right now, wealth is ‘things people need and want.’ Okay. So, I don’t want to be poor. And I really am, right now. We are, unless you have a lot more up your sleeve than I think you do.”

“We’re rather poor right now. But. Did you take physics, did your school teach such a thing?”

“Physics? Yeah.” She stirred her food again, wondering where this was going.

“So you understand the idea of potential energy, yes?”

He was sounding less and less like a hobo every minute. “Yes. Like a ball at the top of a cliff has a lot of potential energy.”

“So what we are sitting on, my dear student…” He sounded positively Giles, now, as he sat a pebble on the edge of their rooftop campground, “is a great deal of potential wealth. And all it needs is a little shove.”

Armona watched as he tipped the pebble off the edge.

Next: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/542328.html

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/486742.html. You can comment here or there.

Unexpected Family

Feb10

This is written to Rix_Scaedu‘s commissioned prompt.

“I think you should know that I’m going to hate you forever.” Sullivan shot off an Abatu working, one that had taken some practice to perfect. The collar he’d been wearing for a year vanished in a spray of fireworks.

“You’re more than welcome to hate me for as long as you want.” Vilhemina’s voice displayed irritation for the first time in the entire year. “I, for one, am not going to miss our relationship at all.”

“That’s two of us.” They shared a child. That would make things awkward, anywhere but Addergoole. Anyone but the fae. Being in Addergoole, being fae, they had a creche and the Law to handle that.

What did make things awkward for them, however, was that their parents, Sullivan’s mother and Vilhemina’s father, were chatting, chatting, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. As if they didn’t now share a grandchild. As if they hadn’t set their kids up for this awkward situation.

“Mom?” Sullivan called. It sounded a little bit pitiful, and they both knew it. In a moment of tired camaraderie, Vilhemina called out, just as sadly.

“Dad? My summer’s burning up.”

“Coming, coming.” Vilhemina’s father bore the guilty look of a parent putting themselves first. It was a look Vilhemina already knew from the inside.

“Sorry.” The little abashed mutter could have been to Vilhemina, or it could have been to the parents hurrying over. “It’s just, this place…”

“Oh, is this your son, Allana?” Vilhemina’s father was suddenly smiling. “Well, I guess we’ll have cause to see each other again, then, won’t we? What Cohort?”

“Fifteenth.” Sullivan muttered it uncomfortably, shoulders hunched. “Three more years.”

“And my Vilhemina has two more. Wonderful.”

“Yeah. Wonderful.” They shared a glance. This had potential to get very, very awkward.

“And maybe we can see your little friend Sullivan’s mother again when we drop you off.”

“Dad, did you seriously call Sullivan ‘my little friend?”

“Well. He’s rather little. And he’s your friend, right?”

“I’m really not sure what world you live in, Dad, but if you could ship some of its drugs over to this plane, it would be awesome.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Do you have any idea what kind of school you’re sending me to?”

“It’s an elite boarding school.”

“Not the bullshit answers, Dad. The real ones. The truth about Addergoole.”

“Well. Um.” Yeah, no answers were coming out there.

“Right. So, let’s not talk about my little friend anymore, okay? Not that little. Not my friend.”

“You two seemed close enough when we picked you up.”

Vilhemina shook her head. There were some situations where it really just wasn’t worth it, trying to talk to her father. “Look. I just… don’t want to be involved, okay?”

“I know you think your old man can’t still get it on…”

“No, no, it’s not that at all!” Not with Mike VanderLinden as a professor, it certainly wasn’t. “It’s just… look, Dad, can you trust me for once?”

“Well, I think you’re being silly, but all right. Whatever Allana and I do, we’ll leave you out of it.”

That was the best she was going to get. “Thanks. Thanks.” It would have to do.

A school year is a long time to ignore someone. It’s longer when you share a child, even if neither of you really quite want to admit that you have that kid. Sullivan kept running into things that just screamed Vilhemina, in places that should have been safe. He Kept someone for three weeks, thinking that that would help, somehow, like washing the taste of her out of her mouth. All it did was make things worse.

A school year is a long time. The wait for your parents can seem even longer, especially when it’s you and your former Keeper waiting at the end. Especially when those parents show up in a car together.

Sullivan and Vilhemina shared a glance.

Sullivan sighed. “This is going to be bad, isn’t it?”

“Well… yeah. Yeah, it is. Have you told them yet?”

“No.” Sullivan shook his head. “Have you?”

“No. I didn’t want to admit…”

“Yeah, that too. And they seemed so happy together.”

“Kids! Good news!” Vilhemina’s father bore a smile that could only lead to badness. “Allana and I have had a long talk, and she’s agreed to marry me. We’ll be moving in together this summer, as soon as we get you two settled in.”

“…what?”

They wanted to be surprised, they really did. Somehow, however, neither of them could manage it. The two of them shared another glance.

“We should go to Maureen’s, first, shouldn’t we?” They’d been doing a good job of pretending they didn’t have a daughter together. But if they were going to have to pretend they were family…

“Yeah.” Vilhemina sighed. “Yeah, we should.”

“What?” Vilhemina’s father looked very perplexed. Sullivan almost felt bad for him. Especially when Vilhemina began.

“You see, Dad, when a Keeper and a Kept don’t like each other very much…”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/472369.html. You can comment here or there.

Totally Saturated Big Brother

Feb6

For rix_scaedu‘s commissioned continuation of Big Brother.

Ashele had to talk to Katina before she talked to Mr. Ankay.

She wasn’t sure how to broach her question: “did you see someone sitting next to you?” didn’t seem to cover it.

Jacque solved that dilemma for her, at least. “Did you see that totally saturated boy? The one sitting next to your kid sister?”

Saturated was better even than in-depth. Ashele tried not to smile and pretended not to know what Jacque was talking about. “You mean Mr. Pierson, my piano teacher? He’s maybe a little in-depth…”

“Oh, come on, he must be your cousin or something. Doesn’t your mother at least have a big brother?”

“No. But my dad has three.” Could it have been a cousin? Mr. Ankay had acted like there was something to talk about, but maybe, maybe it was nothing at all, just an older cousin showing up for no reason at all.

“You’ve utts got to introduce me. Me, first, before Bradelli or Miko. Promise it, Ashele. Data port swear it.”

“I don’t know who he is, Jacque.”

“But your kid sister does. And if your kid sister does, eventually you will. It’s the big brother rule.”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“I know. But it’s true. She’s your kid sister. Thus, you will get to glare at the boy, and then you will introduce me. Ergo Sum.”

“Ergo sum yourself. What if he’s dating my kid sister?”

“…oh. Well, if he’s not? Then you’re data-port swearing.”

Ashele couldn’t argue with her logic. “If he’s not dating Katina, I will introduce you to him before I introduce Bradelli or Miko. Data-port swear.”

Jacque was satisfied. And Ashele was mostly-comfortable with it. Mostly. She was pretty sure that she could manage not introducing her imaginary brother to anyone else before Jacque, but data-port swears were nothing to mess with. Everyone knew you could get a nasty virus that way.

Her friends dealt with, or at least one friend, Ashele tracked down Katina. She, in turn, was talking to dad.

“I told you we needed a big brother.”

“And I told you that you had a perfectly serviceable big sister. You shouldn’t be so bound by societal trends, Kattie.”

“Easy for you to say!” Katina was working up a good head of steam.

“Woah, woah, cowgirl.” Ashele stepped in and took the irritation on herself. “You know you’re right. I know you’re right. Deep in his sandbit heart, Dad knows you’re right. He’s still Dad, though, and that means we gotta pretend to respect him, especially in public, where all his friends can see.”

“Thank you, Ashele… I think.” Her father frowned at her. “So. Do you want to talk about it?”

Um.

She held up her diploma. “I graduated. High honors and everything.”

“You did, and I’m very proud of you. But, Ashele, people noticed that manifestation. And if you don’t work on controlling that, you’re going to have created a Solid. And then what will you do?”

“We’ll have a big brother, that’s what! If you’d just done things right…”

Ashele couldn’t bring herself to argue with Katina’s logic.

Their father looked like he was having trouble with it, too. “Girls. You know why we chose to do things the way we did…”

“No, actually.” Ashele was getting too wound up to be polite. “No. We know you had some worry about ‘societal norms,’ but all that meant is that I had to be big brother to Katina and not have one of my own, when all my friends did.”

“I…” Their father sat down, hard. “I would ask if it really meant that much to you, but you manifested a solid creation in the middle of a crowded theater. It certainly mattered to you.”

“Yeah.” She wasn’t sure how to deal with him agreeing with her. He’d never done that before, at least not over the brother issue. “Yeah. Look at my friends. Their brothers are all here, cheering them on. Their brothers pulled them out of messes. Their brothers helped them out and tutored them in math.”

“And you got through math without a tutor, taught Katina, and bloodied enough noses that the teachers had us in their top emergency call file. You’re a strong, lovely young woman, and you did it without the help of a big brother.”

“Are you saying I wouldn’t have been strong with one? How would you know? Maybe I could have learned to hoverblade sooner. Maybe I could have passed that Ivy admittance exam.”

Their father sighed. “Well, what will you do with one now?”

“What will I… what?”

“You created him, Ashele. He exists now, even if he’s not solid at the moment. You’ve made the big brother you always wanted. So what are you going to do with him?”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/470615.html. You can comment here or there.

Little Fears and Little Hopes

Feb6

This is a continuation of The Darkness in the Shadows (LJ) to kc_obrien‘s commissioned continuation.

Dawn was threatening, waving its red flag of war at the edge of the horizon.

Up aboveground, the good people of the world would be waking up, cleaning off their dreams, putting on their day-skins.

Down on the streets, the monsters were slipping back into the cracks, back into their basement caves. They cradled the last few night-time whispers, gathering them like grain before the storm, like fruit before the frost. The days could be so very long, down in the gutter.

It was a clear night, the sort where dawn would burn its way clear of the night time faster than expected. There were no clouds to shroud the world, to protect it for a few precious moments. And that sort of dawn would burn the creatures who thrived on the night.

Still, they lingered. It had been a lean night, too cold, too bleak for many passers-by, too deep into winter for much hope, for many shining dreams. They would be hungry through the day. They would start nibbling on what little they could see through the grates, if they went to their caves hungry.

And that way lay trouble. That way lay madness. One nibble, then another. One daytime theft, and then you were slipping out during the rain storms. One early riser grabbing too much, and then everyone was whispering in the ears of the nine-to-fivers.

There was a place for the monsters, and that place was in the gutters. Everyone had to remember that for the world to work properly.

They knew that.

And yet this little monster lingered, peeking out from under the stairs, waiting. It was a hungry troll, near to starving, for the big fears often eat first, and the little ones eat what’s left.

A girl stumbled down the street, feet sore, body exhausted, her short dress no coverage at all against the cold. Somewhere, someone made a noise like a wolf-whistle. Somewhere else, someone made a noise like a gunshot.

The little troll licked his lips. She was bright, and shiny, and full of hope, but the fear was beginning to overwhelm her. He could taste the tiniest hopes, and he licked at them, like a creature might lick at moss.

It scooted out of the darkness a little. She stumbled on a piece of ice and fell forward. The trolls, the monsters, the nightmares, all inched forward hungrily. If she fell…

The little troll snuck out a little further. If she fell, she would fall nearest its hole.

Fear surged in the woman, and hope. She could see the bus. If she could only make it to the bus on time, she could get home in time. If she could get home in time…

The little troll ate up the hope. Yes, yes. Wish for the bus to slow down. It’s always late, it’s always slow. Wish a little more. Run a little faster.

Run a little faster in those silly shoes. The road is smoother than you think. The road is fine.

The sun was rising, but she was right there, right there. The little troll reached out… just as the girl tripped and fell.

Dawn was the time for pushing things. The time for hope, and the time for fear. Dawn was the time when some people just vanished. Just fell into holes, the people said. Fell between the cracks.

Dawn was a lean time, but sometimes, the creatures underground got fat as the sun snuck through the clouds.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/470276.html. You can comment here or there.

Packing

Jan26

For @dahob’s commissioned request.

This is erotica with very little veneer of plot.

“I’m going to have to ship you.”

The man was frowning at Alisa. Alisa had learned, quickly, not to like it when the man frowned at her. It was never good, and sometimes it was rapidly very, very bad.

“I’m sorry?” she tried, but the gag in her mouth made it “Ah ahrree.”

“You certainly will be. Did you have to bite her?”

Did she have to bite her? She thought about that one, and then decided that the man was already angry at her, and nodded. Yes, she had needed to bite that obnoxious little shit. Yes, she had needed to hear her squeal. She thought she was so much better than the rest of them – and why? Because her collar weighed less? Because her chains were thinner?

“I know she’s a prat.” The man might as well have been talking to himself. He wasn’t looking at Alisa anymore, at least. He was looking at his shelf of packing material. She swallowed, and looked away. Shit. He really meant to do it. “I know she’s a miserable little bitch. But look at her, Number Seven. She’s perfect. She’s beautiful.”

What was she, then? Because he liked hearing her talk, mangled and miserable, through the gag, she tried again. “Uh Uh-ow ee?”

“What about you, indeed? You seem to dive into this lifestyle like you were born to it. You’re a gorgeous sub. You’re responsive. Even when you try to run away, you do it with style. And I’m sure your new owner will enjoy you. You’ll be able to be the jewel of his collection, which should suit you better than being one of the chorus line.” He was walking back over to her, his bootsteps echoing on the concrete. She wasn’t going to look. She wasn’t going to look. “But you are not nearly as perfect as she is, I’m afraid. Your height, for one.” He squeezed her breast until she whimpered. “These giant things. That’s not what men here are looking for.”

“Uh ee ih?”

“Yes. He’s a bit of a pervert, you see.”

“Oh, uu.”

“You’re going to have to learn to watch your mouth. The gag is coming off. Don’t try to speak.”

She closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to look. She wasn’t going to look. The gag came out, leaving her working her jaw and swallowing drool. She hated that. She hated many things about the gag, actually, but that was the worst.

“Breathing tube. Tilt your head back, and relax.” He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, until her head was tilted as far back as it would go. “Mouth open.”

There was no point in disobeying, and no point in trying to plead. She opened her mouth while he worked something hard and unyielding down her throat.

“That’s a girl. Posture collar, to hold you where you need to go.” The thing was more than just a collar; he’d put her in it before. He buckled it around her neck, forcing her head to stay in that position, around her breasts, around her waist. She couldn’t move her spine at all when he was done buckling.

“That’s my good girl. Hood.” She didn’t have her eyes open anyway, but the hood always freaked her out. She made a worried noise in the back of her throat, around the tube that was keeping her airway open.

“You’re doing very good. Your new owner will be very happy.” The hood zipped up, leaving her in the dark. “All right. I’m strapping your arms to the bracing, and then into the box you go.”

She made low keening noises, unable to stop herself. Not the box. Not the box. But he was pinning her arms to her sides, wrapping more strapping around her, and then there was the bubble wrap.

By the time he was done wrapping her, she couldn’t have moved even without the restraints, and she couldn’t hear a thing. He patted the sole of her foot, and then there was nothing at all.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/461258.html. You can comment here or there.

Eralon Explains

Jan22

To flofx‘s Commissioned Continuation of The Second Restriction

It had taken a week for the temple to settle down.

In that time, the Lesser High Priest of the Evening had been induced to return the Oracle and the Duty Scribe to their rightful places in the temple, and every priest in the nation, or so it seemed, had gone over their interpretation of the Oracle’s words.

In that time, no Oracle had taken the holy seat, and none had attempted any of the other six methods of contacting the gods. The priests were, although they would never admit it, playing it safe.

Finally, however, tradition and the weight of a holy bureaucracy insisted that they put the girl back on the chair, and call forth Eralon’s voice again.

She rolled her eyes back in her head, and her voice became thick and deep. “You think to question me?”

“Err, blessed light upon the morning, blessed waters we shall not sully, of course we do not question you.” The Higher High Priest of Evening was not going to be outdone by a mere Lesser High Priest; he stepped to the front of the dais to speak, perhaps not entirely mindful enough of the thin line of red tiles, or having forgotten their purpose. “We simply seek clarification as to the Oracle’s words.”

“Are not the Oracle’s words mine? Are her throat and her lips not the vessels you have chosen through which to hear me?”

“Well, yes, oh highest light on the sky…” The Higher High Priest stepped forward again, heedless of others around him stepping back. “But it’s just… it is, to us, strange, to hear you contradict that which you have said before. And are not the restrictions holy and to be kept, regardless of all else?”

“The restrictions and the requirements I gave you are holy and of the highest importance.”

“But, oh brightly shining…” The Higher High Priest got no further. The Lesser High Priest found it promising that he did not burst into flames, but simply sigh and fall to the ground. Three burly acolytes pulled him away from the dais, and, with considerably more caution, the Lesser High Priest of the Evening stepped forward, mindful to keep his toes behind the red line of tile.

“Oh brightly shining beacon in the sky, we thank you for correcting our ignorance. Know that the second restriction shall be stricken from the books, and that none shall be required to build bridges where the path should be passable by foot.”

“Good.” The voice of the god in the oracle sounded sullen. “It’s a silly restriction. There are far better things to spend your money on, your time, and your energy.”

“We thank you, oh sun of the morning. Ah… what about the third requirement?”

The Oracle’s head swiveled until the god’s glance was firmly upon the Lesser High Priest. “That one stays. Know you not why you are required to do so?”

“Ah…” He didn’t dare look down, but he did shuffle backwards as subtly as he could. “No, exalted lord.”

“Well then.” The Oracle crossed her legs and leaned forward. “Get this vessel some water, and get your scribe some more ink. Today, Eralon will educate you.”

The Lesser High Priest of Evening scrambled to do as his god had bade him. He had a feeling this was going to be an interesting evening.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/458750.html. You can comment here or there.

Alder's Grove Fiction

The Worlds of Lyn Thorne-Alder