After taking a few experimental stabs at forging a couple weekends ago, I intend to spend this one taking things a bit slower and crafting a knife via stock removal, i.e., grinding metal stock down. A pity I kept melting everything in half the last time around. And I had one just a reheat or two away from the grinder! Charcoal gets to inferno temperature pretty quick with just a metal pipe and blow drier.
We'll see how it goes. I work with wood for a living; metal is a whole new adventure. But the basic idea is the same.
Clumsywordsmith
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It lives again! Unfortunately, the site was down on Monday when I meant to catch up, so having no context on which to write I still haven't made my post. Wednesday evening is generally busy, so tomorrow if not today.
Did... Did I really just work a sixteen hour day on the weekend? I will be catching up tomorrow! So expect a post then; provided nothing disastrously unexpected.
It got so bad, when I did -- on rare occasion -- fold my laundry, I would pair together mismatching socks out of necessity. And if anyone came to visit, I would always be sure to acquire at least one extra pair for my own purposes.
Aha! But the rock was metaphorical, even if the tedious day was not. Never to fear! I solved things with a bit of wardrobe bolstering. Three new pairs of shoes, four new breezy-spring-inspiring shirts, and eighteen socks to solve that 5 AM dilemma of 'Where the hell did all my socks go again...?!"
Lillian Thorne said
For certain. Which foot do you start with? Also important.
I always work from left to right. But from big toe to little, and start on the right side of the toe on the left foot, and the left side of the toe on the right foot. Fingernails work the same way -- thumb to pinky -- excepting that the left middle finger often gets saved for last -- that nail has never worked quite the way it's meant to after I ran a sawblade through the better part of it. Oops.
Lunchbreak at work. The boredom here is so thick you can practically smell it.
And I don't think I've seen a movie yet this entire year! You should see the rock I'm living under some time; it's positively sublime.
For the present, Nestor seems quite content to leave the happily reunited pair to themselves; in fact, had it not been for Max's brief – and almost cursory – nod, he might have said next to nothing at all. (But anyone who knew me knew this would be my way, and for me perhaps the better of most options – nothing worse, really, than being hounded by 'Welcome Backs' and smiles. I think I'd just as well have walked up to Max -- in front of them all -- and shaken his hand, as I might have turned to Bratty Death Girl and proffered up a diamond ring replete with promises of undying love...) But something unexpected seems to cause him to bite back a laugh; both eyes dart toward the Reaper. The right corner of the Demonspawn's lip quirks upwards. Something like a smile breaks across his face... (And then I quite unaccountably lost control, and felt my heart falter a beat as she slipped away...)
And with that came the Demoness, now as humanlike as ever – shorter, maybe, than in her more uncouth moments. Pleasanter to the eye. And with a broad and seeming genuine smile borne upon her features, she goes trooping straight through the lot of them, something large and dark clutched tight to her chest. Offering Veti an oddly sisterly smile as she brushes past, the icy creature extends both hands, holding aloft before the Warlock a pair of mud and sand-spattered boots as she exclaims with no small degree of glee:
“I bet you didn't miss these bastards one -bit-; but I saved them for you, all the same. I'm thoughtful like that.” With that, she dumps the boots unceremoniously before Max's feet, straightens – offers Veti another smile -- before vanishing without a further word as Nestor breaks his moment of solitude and approaches. He at first makes an effort to extend his right hand toward the man – winces, offers an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. Winces marginally again before announcing (as my left hand slips into my breast pocket)
“Well, well – it does me some good to see you again, Werewolf Max.” (She was right – she was usually... no, always right – there was always something uniquely and markedly different about him; the throbbing hum of something unspeakably powerful hidden beneath the skin of something otherwise terribly unremarkable... well, excepting size, that is.) Offering his flask, Nestor adds – while sparing a glance toward the pair of boots sitting on the ground between them – “She, it would seem, agrees. Death is a tough business. Feel free to have a drink, on me. And then do me a favour and ask your most wonderful paramour here whether she's any tricks on tap to get us back to London.”
And with that came the Demoness, now as humanlike as ever – shorter, maybe, than in her more uncouth moments. Pleasanter to the eye. And with a broad and seeming genuine smile borne upon her features, she goes trooping straight through the lot of them, something large and dark clutched tight to her chest. Offering Veti an oddly sisterly smile as she brushes past, the icy creature extends both hands, holding aloft before the Warlock a pair of mud and sand-spattered boots as she exclaims with no small degree of glee:
“I bet you didn't miss these bastards one -bit-; but I saved them for you, all the same. I'm thoughtful like that.” With that, she dumps the boots unceremoniously before Max's feet, straightens – offers Veti another smile -- before vanishing without a further word as Nestor breaks his moment of solitude and approaches. He at first makes an effort to extend his right hand toward the man – winces, offers an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. Winces marginally again before announcing (as my left hand slips into my breast pocket)
“Well, well – it does me some good to see you again, Werewolf Max.” (She was right – she was usually... no, always right – there was always something uniquely and markedly different about him; the throbbing hum of something unspeakably powerful hidden beneath the skin of something otherwise terribly unremarkable... well, excepting size, that is.) Offering his flask, Nestor adds – while sparing a glance toward the pair of boots sitting on the ground between them – “She, it would seem, agrees. Death is a tough business. Feel free to have a drink, on me. And then do me a favour and ask your most wonderful paramour here whether she's any tricks on tap to get us back to London.”
I intend to cut my toenails, take a shower, find some inspiration through the piano and then start writing.
The order is very important.
The order is very important.
I am present as well. Working overtime this weekend, but will have time free again over the week.
I had the vague inclination to wonder whether Wight's really feel pain, and then a further inclination to steal a glance at the slowly unfolding bag of medical instruments... not, to be sure, that I am an absolute stranger to the art of sharp objects myself – though granted my own skills lie more in the capacity of dissassembly – but still I found a disturbingly pressing image in the back of my mind, of cloaked and sinister figures bearing lascivious smiles as they unveiled instruments of torture before the terrified eyes of watchful captives.
Nestor gives a faintly noncommital grunt at Semyon's first words, allowing the Wight to go to work with as little resistance as possible – though upon mention of 'stinging' the Demonspawn dryly remarks:
“Sting a little, hmm? The whole should... gah!... is on fire as it is...!” Perhaps the feeling is dull to Semyon's undead flesh, but the term 'fire' would appear quite at odds with the strangely chilly state of Nestor's lifesoure – human, or so he claimed – but his otherwise normal blood is not merely tepid, but quite cold to the touch; the majority of it evaporates within moments of being exposed to the sunlight, leaving a thin film of bluish tint on the surface of the Wight's tools. How his skin retains any semblance of warmth at all would appear a complete mystery.
He perks up a bit upon Semyon's return with the flask, taking a measured sip before eying the undead creature (man, thing, it – I still was uncertain what to think of him as; he seemed very much alive for something dead, though that in an of itself was no great miracle – souls have a life of their own, after all... I should know... a greater intrigue as to what held so much rotting flesh and bone together. I'd always thought of wights as nasty, disturbing creatures – lurking in bogs and barrows and graves, waiting to come forth late at night, to drink the blood of children and steal infants from cribs... etc., etc.), eventually remarking – perhaps having noticed his interest with the flask:
“A pretty trick, eh? Care for any? An Islay Single Malt – gotten direct from the source, so to speak... ungodly sums of money for hellishly good spirits; classless, I know – drinking it from a flask – but times are desperate good Sir, desperate indeed” He pauses here, extends the flask toward the wight before offering a wry quirk of his lips and adding: “Tastes a bit like a bog, really – peat and moss and -fire-...” A brief laugh follows, then the words continue once more:
“Ironic, in a sense – we call you a wight now, but in the past to be a Wight meant to be alive and hale – neither dead nor undead... but that's besides the point. The flask! There's a little place in a particularly decrepit shantytown in the purgatory caught just on the border of Hell and something a little ways beyond death... there's a dealer there – drives a hard bargain – I could get you in, mayhap... you're half dead as it is anyway!” Another long look at the wight, lips pursing, thoughts spinning: “But places like that are as unpredictable as they come. Getting in is easy. Getting out sometimes not so much.”
Gradually, Nestor rouses himself from the ground, managing to regain his feet just as the surroundings warp once again, leaving them now before the otherworldly tree. He has just time enough to tuck the flask away again, and take a few steps up behind Semyon, peering toward the thing from over the Wight's shoulder when Max bursts forth onto the scene. (Beautifully absurd, as usual) But whether he were concerned or no of the prospect of hell – or unlife, or death, or whatever lurked on the other side of the gateway coming through – the Demonspawn does not show, rather pursing his lips together, watching the reunited couple for a few lingering moments before remarking quietly – mostly to himself – “And what have the others been up to meantime, I wonder...”
Nestor gives a faintly noncommital grunt at Semyon's first words, allowing the Wight to go to work with as little resistance as possible – though upon mention of 'stinging' the Demonspawn dryly remarks:
“Sting a little, hmm? The whole should... gah!... is on fire as it is...!” Perhaps the feeling is dull to Semyon's undead flesh, but the term 'fire' would appear quite at odds with the strangely chilly state of Nestor's lifesoure – human, or so he claimed – but his otherwise normal blood is not merely tepid, but quite cold to the touch; the majority of it evaporates within moments of being exposed to the sunlight, leaving a thin film of bluish tint on the surface of the Wight's tools. How his skin retains any semblance of warmth at all would appear a complete mystery.
He perks up a bit upon Semyon's return with the flask, taking a measured sip before eying the undead creature (man, thing, it – I still was uncertain what to think of him as; he seemed very much alive for something dead, though that in an of itself was no great miracle – souls have a life of their own, after all... I should know... a greater intrigue as to what held so much rotting flesh and bone together. I'd always thought of wights as nasty, disturbing creatures – lurking in bogs and barrows and graves, waiting to come forth late at night, to drink the blood of children and steal infants from cribs... etc., etc.), eventually remarking – perhaps having noticed his interest with the flask:
“A pretty trick, eh? Care for any? An Islay Single Malt – gotten direct from the source, so to speak... ungodly sums of money for hellishly good spirits; classless, I know – drinking it from a flask – but times are desperate good Sir, desperate indeed” He pauses here, extends the flask toward the wight before offering a wry quirk of his lips and adding: “Tastes a bit like a bog, really – peat and moss and -fire-...” A brief laugh follows, then the words continue once more:
“Ironic, in a sense – we call you a wight now, but in the past to be a Wight meant to be alive and hale – neither dead nor undead... but that's besides the point. The flask! There's a little place in a particularly decrepit shantytown in the purgatory caught just on the border of Hell and something a little ways beyond death... there's a dealer there – drives a hard bargain – I could get you in, mayhap... you're half dead as it is anyway!” Another long look at the wight, lips pursing, thoughts spinning: “But places like that are as unpredictable as they come. Getting in is easy. Getting out sometimes not so much.”
Gradually, Nestor rouses himself from the ground, managing to regain his feet just as the surroundings warp once again, leaving them now before the otherworldly tree. He has just time enough to tuck the flask away again, and take a few steps up behind Semyon, peering toward the thing from over the Wight's shoulder when Max bursts forth onto the scene. (Beautifully absurd, as usual) But whether he were concerned or no of the prospect of hell – or unlife, or death, or whatever lurked on the other side of the gateway coming through – the Demonspawn does not show, rather pursing his lips together, watching the reunited couple for a few lingering moments before remarking quietly – mostly to himself – “And what have the others been up to meantime, I wonder...”
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