 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Long, long ago, ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) tuftears prodded me to write about a merchant crew in space. The resulting short story about Theresa "Reese" Eddings and the crew of the TMS Earthrise evolved into a trilogy of novels... one that had me in discussions with Roc before the interested editor left the company. I'm still deeply fond of this trilogy, and if I can get together a cover for the first novel in the series I think it'll be next year's autumn release. Here's an excerpt from the beginning of book one:
"We're doing what?" Irine exclaimed, striped hands twitching on the mess hall table.
Reese leaned back against her chair, letting her silence speak for her. As she expected, Bryer, the Phoenix, had nothing to say; the giant birdlike creature rested against the front of the chair, straddling it so as to give the full length of his metallic plumage unrestricted space.
Kis’eh’t, while obviously perturbed, did nothing beyond wrinkle her dark, furry brow and lay back her feathered ears. She had more limbs than all of them: two black arms, four black and white legs, and two stunted leathery wings protruding from the shoulder-blades of her second back. And a tail, black with two white strips running down it, which currently flicked against the cool floor.
The round ball of fluff on the table between the Phoenix and the Glaseahn only ruffled part of its neural fur, turning from ivory to rosy peach in places.
Irine, in her socks and little else, was pouting. "So what . . . we have to ride in like champions and rescue some random spy? For nothing?"( Read More )
And here's some art: Reese, Hirianthial and Allacazam:  Bryer, Kiseht'h, Irine and Sascha:    Stardancer Home.Tags: books, excerpts, her instruments
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Spots the Space Marine is a biweekly serial. Find out more and read prior episodes."You've probably heard the news—" Fang2. "Yeah, the crabs are getting more aggressive." "—yes. Which means from now on we patrol in teams of four. You're keeping your partners but we'll change out the pairs in the teams so that one pair can get extra rack-time between patrols." Long pause. Then, Hairball."****, Boss." "I know. But Dusty's got three Dogs on their backs and it's only getting worse out there." Claws. "Any plans for relief?" "Yeah. Me. I'll be tagging along during my watch so one of you can sleep in." Claws again. "Wow, that's mighty kind of you." "That's me. Sweet as your grandma. Any questions?" No one speaks. "Good. One final thing... word from up high is that we don't leave bodies anymore. Ever." Fang2. "What the hell is that about?" Whiskers. "We've always done retrieval." "When we could. But if we can't, we don't leave prisoners. And if you're taken, you don't either. You get my drift." Hairball. "****." Fang. "You planning on getting captured, Hairball?" Hairball. "Way things are shaping, might be the only way I get any shut-eye." ###Armory. Spots and Claws are climbing into their armor. They are listening to the comm channel while doing their checks.Hairball: Control, maintenance 4B is clear. Heading home. Control: Copy that, Hairball. Your relief is suiting up. Hairball: Great, ETA ten minutes. Fang: BREAKTHROUGH— Fang2: ****! Both walls! Claws and Spots glance at one another, then start rushing through their final prep."Air supply, green. Ammo, topped. Reserve power, topped. All lights green. Seal checks—" "Air supply, green ammo topped reserve power topped all lights green seal checks, airlock, go go go!" They jump into the airlock. When the exterior door opens they burst through and sprint down the corridor. They turn a corner: the entire end of the hall is filled with flailing bodies. Hairball is running toward them with Whiskers over his back. Fang and Fang2 are laying down covering fire but aren't killing fast enough.
Claws and Spots add their guns. The bodies pile up so quickly the aliens have to stop to unplug the hall. The humans retreat.Hairball: At the airlock. Fang: Hold it open, we're almost there. The ground beneath them shivers.Fang2: What the— The ground falls from beneath the two Fangs. Claws grabs Fang2's arm, Spots Fang's belt. Pincers and legs everywhere.Fang2: **** DON'T LET GO Claws hauls him back so hard he staggers backwards. Spots has an arm around Fang's waist, but the bugs are pulling her in.Fang: LET GO! Spots: No! Fang: DAMMIT LET GO! She shoves an elbow at Spots's faceplate. Spots is startled just enough to loosen her grip and Fang wrestles free. She vanishes into the pit.Spots: FANG! Fang pops back into view, jumping off the thorax of a heaving bug.Fang: RUN RUN NOW They start running. The pit explodes behind them, blowing them forward. They slam into the airlock and the exterior door closes behind them.Fang2: **** **** **** **** Fang: Next time I tell you to do something, you do it. I know my job. Claws: That was a damfool stunt and you know it. Fang: I know what I'm doing. Claws: You're not a super-special samurai, Fang, stop ****ing actin' like one. Fang: I got news for you, newb. We're all supposed to be super-special samurai. If you think I'm acting like one it's because you can't ****ing cut it. Fang2: ****, Fang, tone it down. You got balls, we get it. You don't have to shove them in our face. ###Later. Barracks."Claws... does Fang want to die?" "Just go to sleep, Spots." "Maybe I'll say a prayer for her. Do you think it would help?" "As long as she never finds out." ###I now have a plan! It's going to be good. Mwahahaha. :)
Donate.Stardancer Home.Tags: excerpts, spots the space marine, writing
Current Music: NIN - The Only Time
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The Real Window. A long window with four layers—an exterior surface for storm debris, two pressure panes and an interior panel—looking out on the dismal murk of an alien night. Spots is in a physical training uniform, loose shirt and pants; she is sitting on the broad sill, face turned toward the exterior. Her cheek is wet. She has a photo in one hand. She is joined by a lean middle-aged man with stubble-short hair, a broken nose and a scar edging one cheekbone, in utility uniform.
He hands her a tissue. She wipes her face."Want to talk about it?" "No." "Fair enough." A few moments later. "Why the Real Window? There are plenty of others you can program to something nicer." "Because it gets tiring, having to have everything be about you. It's good to face reality instead of trying to... to impose your personality on it all the time. I don't know if that makes sense..." "Perfect. I like the Real Window better myself. Quite a storm out there." "Yes." "That your family?" "Oh? Oh. Yes." "May I see?" She hands the picture over: a solid brick of a man with his hand on the shoulder of a young boy, who is holding a younger girl in his arms."Good-looking folks." "I think so." Quiet again. Then:"Will I ever get any better at this? I mean... I enlisted over a decade ago, and not as Armor. I feel like..." "Like you're too old to keep up?" "No. Like I'm too old to catch up. Maybe if I'd been doing this more than a few weekends a year..." "You'll get there." He nods at the photo. "You've got a reason to go back." "A lot of people have reasons to go back. They still die." He's quiet a while."If you've been around long enough to understand that, then you're too old for my standard pep talk." She looks up with a startled laugh. He grins."So your bones creak and maybe you were supposed to be riding a desk. You're not going to be benching what the eighteen-year-old kids are and you know that and I know that. You can't have that body back, or the years you could have spent working at it instead of, say, raising those beautiful kids. But you're here now, and you can get better at this: you can get as good at it as you, in particular, at this point in your life, have the potential to get. And that's a lot better than you think, and it's all in your hands. You wouldn't be sitting at the Real Window if you didn't know that. You'd be in front of some picture window, being reassured by things that aren't." Spots inhales slowly, then blows out the breath and nods. He stands and clasps her shoulder."Besides, you know things those kids haven't learned yet. And they need that from you. You give it to them, they'll give you the strength of their best years." "Do you really think those are the best years?" He grins again. "No. But they don't know it." She laughs, soft."Try to get some sleep, private." "I will. And thank you." ### Up too late, so you get an extra Spots. (Donate link, for form's sake.)Stardancer Home.Tags: excerpts, spots the space marine, writing
Current Mood: up too late
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Small common room. There is a poster above the door that reads: "Varmint Gutter: Crawling Out of it So You Don't Have To." Scythe and two other squad leaders are playing cards at a round table: a tall, broad man, bald, with black skin and a green-eyed woman with light brown hair. There's a half-empty bottle (unmarked) and three glasses. The one nearest empty is next to the woman.
The black man speaks first."Need more, Dusty?" "Shut up." "Just deal the cards, Roach. She can pour a bottle same as you." "Hey, just taking care of the lady. Varmint hospitality." The woman: "Is that what you're calling this **** we're drinking?" "**** would taste better. At least mine would." The door opens for another woman, Asian with bronze hair."Well hey-lo, Big Lion. What's the news?" She sits. "We're ****ed. None of us special snowflakes are getting more warm bodies. Deal me in." "What! Have you seen what those new shells are doing to us? I've got three Dogs on biobeds tonight!" "I know, Dusty." Scythe is tense, but calmer than the other two. "We need more people. We can't send them out in pairs anymore. And if we start sending more we're going to run into serious fatigue issues." "**** it. I think Roach is the only left with a fire-team that knows any of its own by name." "Doesn't change anything. We're a depot for the front, we're not supposed to need replacements. We'll talk more about it tomorrow, along with the really ****** parts." "There's worse?" "There's always worse. Pass the hooch." ### Later. Scythe is coming back by way of Control."Any problems?" "We were just about call. Your B-team had a breakthrough and they handled it. Alone." ### Much later. Practice Room. Claws is leaning against a wall. Spots is in armor (without helmet) standing in front of a 3d target next to Scythe, a short, limber man with brown skin, black eyes, black brows and a Persian mouth. He speaks with a faint accent: Southern, maybe Cajun."So you cut them by shortening the shield's field. How did you keep them off your back while you were doing that?" "By turning it back into a full shield, sir." Scythe looks over at Claws. "Didn't you have this talk with her?" "Yep. Spots, didn't we have this talk?" "About... oh, I'm not supposed to call Scythe 'sir'. Sorry, s—um, sorry." Scythe shakes his head. "So you shortened the shield radius in the middle of a fight?" "Yes. Claws showed me how to toggle on the interactive mode... he also said we never use it. 'Shields are for protecting snipers from enemy needles.' " "That's right. There's a reason for that. Do you remember?" "Yes s... um, Scythe. We are to avoid closing with the enemy at all times. Because they can snip off a limb or cut through armor if you close." "Good t'know you were actually listenin' to my lectures, there." "Show me this shield modification." Spots nods and faces off against the foam target. She lunges forward, swinging her arm in an arc in front of it, never actually hitting it. But as she redoubles, the top of the target slides off the bottom and bounces to the floor. Scythe picks it up."And you can reconfigure on the fly." "I... guess I must ha—" Scythe throws the target head at her. She brings up her arm and it bounces off with a splash of bright light."Damn. Interesting." "Is it? I... mean, I'm sure someone else has done it before. It's the same shield built into all the standard suits, right?" "Yes, but you might be the only one crazy enough to have rammed a forty-bug group with nothing but a shield. Why didn't you use your gun?" "I... didn't think I could shoot them fast enough." Claws coughs behind a fist.
Scythe eyes him. "Well, obviously you need to work on learning to shoot faster, yes?" "Right." "Good. Somebody spent a lot of money shipping you all the way out here, Guitart, we don't need you dying yet." "Yes. Um, right. I'll work on it." Scythe shakes his head and leaves.Spots sighs. "I guess I should go to the range." "I guess we should. Come on, ninja. Lemme introduce you—again—to the wonders of automatic weapons." ### I went running just so I could write this a day early. >.>
Anyway, here's the donate button. If you're enjoying Spots, drop me a tip! I've decided that some portion of anything I earn from Spots will go to Soldier's Angels and The Wounded Warrior Project.Stardancer Home.Tags: excerpts, spots the space marine, writing
Current Mood: pleased
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Quiet circuit. You see anythin'?" "Nothing." "Good, let's hope it stays that way." "From your mouth to God's ear." " 'Nother hundred meters and we can go b—" The wall between Spots and Claws erupts, smashing them apart on a wave of bugs."BREAKTHROUGH!" "CLAWS!" There is a stream of cursing from Claws and then silence."CLAWS!" No answer.oh God almighty, Claws claws hang on can't let them have you they eat people
damn you all you won't have him you won't have any of them not my child not anyone's child NOT ANY MOTHER'S SON DAMN YOU ALL
NOT ANY MOTHER'S SON! Suddenly the corridor is empty of anything but bodies. Claws has staggered to his feet and is staring at a very gory Spots."Jesus ****ing Christ!" Spots turns and starts walking away. Claws lunges after her."Dammit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... to blaspheme, Spots... Spots...! GUITART! Magda!" At last Spots stops. Claws grabs her shoulders."Are you okay? You're not supposed to wade into them like that!" "Sorry... I'm... sorry, Claws. I thought you were in trouble." "I was, but... what the hell did you DO to them?" "I... threw the shield forward of my arm and used the edge." Claws stares at her. "Like the drill you screwed up and almost put a slice in the bulkhead." "Well... yeah." A long pause. "Well, can't argue with results, I guess." Still gripping her shoulder. "Control, Claws. You read?" "Control here. Go ahead, Claws." "We've got two breakthrough tunnels in hall 7-Spoke-32, about a hundred meters from the end." "Understood. We'll send a patch team. Can you guard?" "Yeah. We're a bit shook up, but we can watch it." "Patch team is on the way, ETA six minutes." "Copy that. Hey, Spots." "Yes, Claws?" "You with me?" "Yes, Claws." "Good." ### Armory, post-battle. Spots is crouching in her suit, helmet off. Claws is painting on its back with a red brush."How many was it?" "That you went freaking ninja on? Musta been forty or fifty. I'm callin' it fifty, five ticks. We'll fill up your back soon enough." "I never got to ask... why the different colors? Is that... by team or something?" "No, that's keepin' count too. If you fill up the back panel and got no room left, you paint over it in the next color on the spectrum. Orange, yellow, 'cetera." Spots glances at Fang's suit, which is already hung."When do you get to black?" "You don't get to black without dyin'." Noting the direction of Spots's gaze. "Unless you were part of Dragon Team." "Right." "Hey, Spots. Mind tellin' an ol' farm-boy where a cookie-bakin' mom comes by that much ***-kickin' wrath?" "You don't know much about being a mom, do you, Claws." " 'Fraid I don't got the equipment." Spots is quiet. Then she smiles. "It's all love." "Remind me not to date any moms." "Claws!" "Must sorta be like prayin' mantises. Snip, snip." Spots is laughing. "C-Clawssss!" Claws grins and keeps painting.### Decided I was going too easy at the gym and gave it a good kick. But there's plot here developing.Stardancer Home.Tags: excerpts, health, spots the space marine, writing
Current Mood: working
Current Music: Nine Inch Nails - Head Like a Hole
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Are you sure we should be here, Claws?" "Relax, Spots. Everyone checks their equipment before a mission. Hairball and Whiskers were probably just here." "If they were just here, doesn't that mean the equipment's already been checked?" "We do our own—Spots, quick!" Claws grabs Spots and pulls her behind an equipment locker as the door to the darkened armory opens. Two armed guards step through and take position beside the door. Then a thin, tall silhouette ducks to enter, and the smell of thyme and spice fills the air."Is that a...oh my gosh, Claws! That's a Violinist!" "Spots, wait!" Spots dashes out and almost into a nine-foot-tall alien resembling a streamlined praying mantis. It has a wedge-shaped head with large, multifaceted eyes and two backswept antenna. It has three pairs of arms: the topmost ending in long hand-like appendages, the middle sporting a set of scythe-like pincers with serrated edges, and a vestigial set near the joint of the thorax and abdomen. Its carapace is painted in fluorescent designs along its back, sides and up around six spiracles arranged in vertical rows on the thorax, three to a side.
It sees Spots, pauses, then "speaks" through these holes, a breathy, song-like sound. The vestigial arms glide together to add a counterpoint."Pardon, have we intruded?" "Uh... no, no. We were just... just checking the armor." "Ah! We also came for this purpose." Claws hisses her name from the corner. She ignores him."Really?" "Yes. Before each engagement, we make a visual inspection and take data, to compare to data after the engagement. This allows us to design better technology for your use." "Oh! You... you were one of the Violinists who gave us the technology?" The alien approximates a bow. "We have that memory, yes." "Wow. That's... that's amazing." "We are glad you approve, Mother." "...how...did you know I'm a mother?" "Your body has the scent-memory of milk and blood. We have learned to associate this with mammalian mothers. You are here to inspect our work?" "I... sort of. We're going out tomorrow and—" "Pardon us. Did you say you are going out? You mean in our work?" "Yes?" "You, a mother?" The lower arms make a somehow distressed trill. "We did not know our work would be used for such important purposes." Spots reaches to touch but thinks better of it. "It has served very well so far." "We are glad to hear it." A pause. "You wished to know our lineage?" "Know... your lineage?" "To smell the paint. It speaks of our lineage and its accomplishments." "I... I don't know if my nose is that good, but... I'd be honored to try." The alien extends its middle arm. Spots eyes the blade-like pincer and reaches over to sniff hesitantly at the fluorescent paint."I'm sorry. It smells... good, but I don't understand what it says." "It is no surprise. Humans do not appear to have good talent in that way." "Maybe you could explain it to me?" Claws starts to say something. "Uh... another day, when it's convenient." "We would be honored, Mother-soldier. We have been named Samuel-Colt by the humans, if you wish to ask for us." "Thank you, Samuel Colt. I'll remember. Come on, Claws." Claws inches around the locker, giving the alien a wide berth, and follows Spots out. In the corridor..."Are you crazy? Talking to one of the fiddlers?" "What's wrong with talking to them? They're our allies." "Haven't you noticed they kind of look like the bugs we're fighting? They've admitted the bugs are from their planet." "They also gave us the technology we use to kill them, Claws." "You're way too trusting, Spots." Claws squints at her, leans over and snaps fingers in front of her face. "Hello! Earth to Spots, come in, Spots!" "Sorry. I was just wondering why he kept saying 'we' all the time. Do you think he'd explain if I asked him later?" "There's not going to be a later, Spots!" "I guess you're right." Wistful. "I would have liked to have known." *** Because you know with me, it doesn't take long before aliens show up.Stardancer Home.Tags: excerpts, health, spots the space marine, world-building, writing
Current Mood: amused
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Long ago (it seems), I promised if we met a donation cap for the illustrations I would tell you a little about the first servant of Shame. You delivered... and now it's my turn. PrecedentM.C.A. Hogarth vuler en anaj [ voo LEHR EHN ahn AHJZ ] , [ adj ] — "truth in the gaze", used to describe someone around whom you feel compelled to behave well because you sense that they can tell when you haven't. From an old love poem; began as a noun (so-and-so has "truth in the gaze") and migrated to adjective form, ("so-and-so is truth-in-the-gaze-ish").
Silence. Always it was silence with him. Thirukedi's regard rested on his bent head. The first. Not of many, He knew, but enough. Always there would be enough.
He lifted the male's face to meet those light eyes and traced one thumb over the cheek just below the rightmost. The skin creased beneath His touch: a smile, moving only half the male's face.
"I know," Thirukedi said. He would be one of the few who could meet this gaze, and yet there was no regret in the servant's eyes. No sorrow, no fear of isolation.
The male stood then and drew his cloak from his body, and then all his garments, until he stood naked before the Emperor, inviting His touch. Know me, the gesture said. Map me. Find the right place for your mark.
So He did... ran His fingers over the entirety of that spare body, spare not like a sword but like a firing iron, meant to be thrust into a molten heart. It was not a beautiful body, but it was supremely purposeful.
But again, Thirukedi returned to those eyes and lingered. Brushed a thumb beneath one of the dark-rimmed lower lids, watching the light glimmer off delicate lashes. He met this servant's eyes, and then reached... not for the shadowflower dye, but for the glove.
The male's eyes rolled upward even as they closed. It was the only sign he allowed of his gratitude. They were of one mind. As the Emperor parted the flesh in a long thin line toward the first eye, He gave His subjects a gift: the illusion that this male's gaze was difficult to meet because they were marked with scar and poison... and not because they were his. It was a lie, but for the first servant of Shame, a necessary one. Or there would be no second.
 Stardancer Home.Tags: ai-naidar, excerpts, the admonishments of kherishdar, writing
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I don't actually have any drawings from this short story... which is kind of funny, because it's one of my favorites. A lot of the short stories I've sold, I feel as if I've outgrown; but I still love reading "Stormfront," and the things I'd change are mechanical rather than philosophical.
"Captain! We're getting a read on the ship. She still has a few of the original deck-plates from the shipyards."
Wyatt leaned forward. "And?"
"She's six years old, sir. They stripped a lot of the plating from her, but there's plenty of the original material on her spine and belly." The short foxine at the sensor station squinted at her display, ears flipping back. "We have a positive match on the T&S, sir. She's a threat."
Wyatt's hand tightened around the handle of his mug. "Confidence?"
"We have a ninety percent match, sir," the lieutenant replied, looking up at him. Her voice lowered. "She's listed as a slaver, Captain."
Read the story!
It's funny, this one I sold to someone who expressly wanted stories where "things blow up." And since I was tired of talky SF, I was totally ready to sell a story where I got to blow up spaceships. I always wanted to write more short fiction about Wyatt and the Spiralwhite. Maybe one day.... Anyway, if you enjoy the space opera and want to tip the writer, here's a button! Stardancer Home.Tags: excerpts, paradox, writing
Current Mood: tired
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Today's Image of the Day was Ledin, a character from the first pro writing sale I ever made. I think my art and writing work best in harmony, so for your enjoyment I present the three drawings I did of those characters, plus a link to the story:   
"Money for Sorrow, Made Joy" (click to read the story)If you haven't already, go and meet the Jokka. And see why miintikwa says "no one writes neuters like M.C.A. Hogarth"! lol :) (Oh, almost forgot... tip the writer, if you feel the inclination. :) ) Stardancer Home.Tags: art, excerpts, jokka, writing
Current Mood: very tired
Current Music: Lumines - Shinin'
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Lisinthir and the Emperor Today's Image of the Day on Stardancer is of Lisinthir, which made me think of Even the Wingless... a book I only barely remember writing as I spent most of it in a fugue. When I re-read it I am startled at how lucid it is and I love it again. I snipped this part out of the beginning, one of the first conversations Lisinthir has with the Emperor of the Chatcaava. (The words denoted /thus/ indicate a concept that has no translation in Chatcaavan, so the Emperor uses the Alliance word.) "Take it," the Emperor said, leaving the glass on the table before sitting. As Lisinthir did so, he continued, "You have yet to bore me, Ambassador."
"I am relieved," Lisinthir said, struggling to regain the composure the Emperor had wicked away so effortlessly.
"You tell me I give away intelligence by stealing your people," the Emperor said. "A novel idea, if true."
"Oh, it is," Lisinthir said and borrowed from the Seersa's plight. "You have taken in plants from us before."
The male's brow ridges lifted, drawing back the shadows from his eyes. "So you mean to entice me to cease stealing your people by suggesting it is in my best interests. You hope to deny me slavery by making me believe it impractical."
"No," Lisinthir said. "I hope to deny you slavery by making you realize it is morally reprehensible. But if you will listen only to the most pragmatic of reasons, then I suppose those will suffice."
The Emperor stared at him in silence. Lisinthir ignored him and drank. On the palate the scent of fruit evaporated, leaving nothing but heat . . . he let it center him.
"Slavery is morally reprehensible," the Emperor said after the pause became heavy.
"Yes," Lisinthir said. "I think less of the Empire for practicing it."
The Emperor watched him lazily, cupping his glass with fingers so black they looked more like silhouettes than things with volume. "And you tell me this."
"Should I hide it?" Lisinthir asked.
"All your predecessors did. They showed their distaste, but as females do... fearfully and with easy denials or swift evasions when questioned. You do not."
"No," Lisinthir said. "I do not toy with words. The Alliance believes all creatures are meant to be free." He sipped again for strength, then continued as steadily as he could, "that means your women as well as our people."
"Females do not wish for freedom," the Emperor said. "If we set them loose they would hardly know what to do with themselves... and even if they did, they would come to a bad end. Ours is a harsh world."
"Is it harsh because it is? Or is it harsh because you made it so?" Lisinthir asked.
The Emperor flashed his sharp teeth. "We make it so because the world made us so first." The drake leaned forward. "I will say this, Ambassador . . . I do not share your views. We are strong, and the strong are entitled to the weak. The universe is not served by weakness. Such weakness is culled by nature... and we must all serve our natures."
"Even our basest?" Lisinthir asked.
"Especially our basest," the Emperor replied.
Lisinthir finished the alcohol and set his glass on the table between them.
"You still haven't told me what you were /crying/ about, Ambassador."
"Nor do I have any intention to, Exalted," Lisinthir said. "Some things are simply not important enough to discuss."
"/Tears/ are always worth discussion," the Emperor said. "I would like to know what makes you /cry./"
Something about the way the male said that drained the warmth from Lisinthir's hands and face. "Very little, Exalted Emperor. Very little indeed."
"And that is all you will tell me," the Emperor said. "I suppose I'll have to discover it myself."
Lisinthir couldn't help it... he laughed. "And your plan is to make all your aliens weep, is that it? To drive them from the Empire in shame, shackles or coffins?" He shook his head. "With all my deepest respect, most Exalted One . . . good luck." He stood and bowed. "May I go?" More links: The art I've drawn while working on the novel, more about the Chatcaava and more about the Eldritch. Stardancer Home.Tags: books, chatcaava, eldritch, even the wingless, excerpts, paradox
Current Mood:  sleepy
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I have several things to wrap up before I can sit down and work on anything new... but I admit I couldn't resist adding a page to this last night.
I continued reading as the day waned, rising only to bring a lamp to my window-seat. Though terse, each entry evoked a self-contained world in all its nuance: a twisted spirit or ungentle mind, the circumstances that had brought it to that sickness, and through each, like a thread of incense, the presence of the osulkedi, Shame's servant, who led each supplicant back to righteousness and cleansed their spirits. It was a record of redemption found in the pain of expiation and the darkness of confession, and I found it haunting, unnerving and irresistible.
I fell asleep there, leaning back against the pillows and twisted with knees raised so as not to drop the book from my lap; when I woke, my hand was resting on its edge, protective. I had neither packed nor washed in preparation for my journey, and while I hastened to both tasks I am ashamed to say I kept the carriage-master waiting.
Resistance may be futile. -_- Stardancer Home.Tags: ai-naidar, black blossom, excerpts, writing
Current Mood: sleepy
Current Music: The Beatles - I'll Follow the Sun
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Previous
