Nestor's eyes slide with wary misgiving over the werewolf's form as she licks her fangs, (Whether I could sense danger or not in this one, my profession had never been exceptionally kind to the careless.), grey orbs trailing after the pink member until the very moment it vanishes back into the maw. He gives the cigar a little more life, draws air to the embers and then releases a long, drawn-out sigh; thick clouds of earthy smoke briefly shroud his face, the expression drawn into a pensive frown.
But he does not speak. Rather, it would seem the Werewolf's acceptance of the cigar have proved far more curious than any exchange of words – and even in the space of a lingering moment I realise I am so intent upon watching what she might do next, that I have still got the tin held out, motionless, in my hand! – it snaps back into its place beneath what remains of his jacket, a few more clouds of smoke are dragged from the coals, and his eyes remain upon the creature.
“I must offer my apologies, ma'am – events for me have been, well... destructive, of late...” He offers something that might be considered a shrug – hands extending briefly, palms outward – the gesture masked at once as he raises the cigar, fills the space above his head with a little more smoke still:
“So perhaps my ignorance can be excused. As for my words – the strands all split from the same hair, or so they say – so perhaps the details matter less to you when I might just as simply say I would sooner tear loose and devour the soul from my own body, before standing idly by as I watched the world burn.”
Nestor's final words are punctuated by the chill static of an aggravating voice in the venerable Werewolf's vicinity:
“But maybe, just maybe, She-Wolf, you should be ware of the ones you proposition... maybe he means to say he'd be just as happy to lend a hand to the burning himself... if you follow...”
But the Demonspawn's attention is diverted elsewhere at the moment, both eyebrows shooting upward as he struggles not to break into a grin at Veti's sudden outburst and the subsequent havoc wreaked by the cigar. Biting briefly at his lip, he manages a dry remark – gaze caught all the while upon the neatly bound roll in his own hand – “Not to fear, Mistress Veti – it makes the lungs strong. Like iron. Breathe deep”. He taps his chest with a forefinger before finally offering a lopsided kind of smirk.
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Back from the abyss. Settling in for Monday writing sessions.
Drugs, alcohol and violence. Then a memorial service for the dead just to cap it all off. Chances of me posting before Monday are slim, but not altogether impossible! Whatever the case, I'm all set up to glean plenty of inspiration from the insanity of the upcoming weekend.
Ahhh to be young!
Ahhh to be young!
The liquor warmed my palate; left a tingling in the roof of my mouth, a soft burning down the back of my throat and through my innards... I found my thoughts drifting to both times and places far away. The grey rain of London that seemed to so often greet me here – the grey rain of London that toiled and struggled against the indomitable stone and iron and glass of the aged Baine and Hoyle headquarters – became something else altogether: the soft rattle of a gentle summer's storm upon the tin roof of some farmstead outbuilding. There was laughter in the air, and a scent as strong as the smell of the thunderheads borne upon the fresh rains, as pungent as the bales of straw stacked neatly in the loft above us. I could not quite place it. A strange scent. No, not a scent but a -feeling-; thick and heady as the warmth of any well-crafted spirit Youth. Passion. Feeling. Yet it was not a name I could place, as though some invisible hand had latched onto the word and pulled it away, thrust it into some deep hole and buried it; left perhaps a gravestone at the site of its death: a marker that read only “For what was and might never be again – Dire warnings....”
Nestor was pulled quite without warning from his reverie; the scent of memories long past became the odour of an encroaching werewolf, the weight of his thoughts nothing more than a heavily clawed hand digging into the back of his shoulder. He did not move. Did not flinch, did not twitch so much as a muscle – save his eyes, which darted at once sidelong toward the creature, took her in with a swift glance, followed her motions as she dropped her head slowly toward his tumbler, took a lapping sip in a manner.... (Was it a challenge? A greeting? A simple show of no etiquette? I resisted the urge to glance toward my comrades – Veti in particular, if she was even still present in the room. No, instead, I drew breath. Eyed my glass)
The Demonspawn does not immediately speak, nor seek to at once answer her question, rather – in the very moment that Aislinn raises her maw from the glass – he lifts the thing to his lips and takes another sip, eying her steadfastly all the while (Revolting, really! I feel the convulsions of disgust tickle their way down my spine as I forcefully suck down the remnants – real or imagined – of were-spittle and were-fur and god-knows what rotted carrion perhaps still stuck between her teeth. But what doesn't kill me, hmm...?). Releasing a pent-up breath, Nestor finally responds to the question:
“Ragnorok, you say, Ms....” Here he trails off, pausing uncertainly for a moment before plunging back into speech: “But how, might I ask, are we...” He turns whilst speaking, takes up another tumbler and the decanter – begins to pour another after setting down his own: “To stop that which has already happened; to prevent that which has already occurred? Can one fight their own fate? We are immortals in our own way, you and I...” These words are punctuated by pointed gestures with the freshly filled glass; the first toward the werewolf, the second toward his own chest. Afterward, the glass is held out by way of offering, along with a brief aside:
“I might add, Ms...” His words are kept low – a conspiratorial tone, almost – as he offers helpfully: “In these parts, it is appropriate to drink from one's own glass; and several decades ago, perhaps, quite rude if I should not have offered you one...”
With that, Nestor continues on his prior train of thought:
“And thus it is for us to understand the revolutions of our own lives; the brevity of humanity, the longevity of the gods... and the fate of you and I, thrust somewhere awkwardly inbetween.” (She might take the glass, or she might not – but I find myself warmed to the outward expression of my own inner dialogue, and after having offered the glass I produce from its precious breast pocket (opposite the flask) the sacred tin of cigars. I eye the wolf woman thoughtfully a moment, before flipping the tin open and presenting to her the personal array of a favoured pastime.)
Gleaming tin of cigars extending, Nestor selects one himself, nimble fingers feeling with some caution at the firmness of the wrap, one nostril wrinkling as he raises the roll to his nose and takes an exploratory whiff. His words, meanwhile, churn on more or less unabated:
“But this fate is that of the gods – their 'Twilight', or so it might be called; 'The dusk of the gods'. A strange thing, is it not? The death of gods to signal the rebirth of humanity... and for whom shall we side, you and I?” Nestor allows these last few words to linger a while in the air. Still holding the offering toward the werewolf, he meantime clips the end of his own cigar (an adroit manoeuvre, considering he uses only one hand), places it between his lips and scorches the tip with a match before lighting it, a few clouds of smoke sent toward the distant ceiling before his words resume.
“And yet perhaps for us both, at the end of it all, it is our humanity that claims the day – the desire to -live-, even if by struggling to avert the inevitable we only prolong the existence of the gods; delay the rebirth of humankind. But that is humanity, is it not? To struggle against the yoke though it might very well choke us to death... and we are human, you and I, just so much as we are gods.”
A chilling laughter slices through the air in the silence following, wrapping itself around the forms of the two – Demonspawn and Werewolf – the blistering hilarity of some being caught up in the irony of a joke too sickening for any right-minded creature to laugh at. But Nestor pays it no mind, eyes remaining locked upon the creature opposite him.
Nestor was pulled quite without warning from his reverie; the scent of memories long past became the odour of an encroaching werewolf, the weight of his thoughts nothing more than a heavily clawed hand digging into the back of his shoulder. He did not move. Did not flinch, did not twitch so much as a muscle – save his eyes, which darted at once sidelong toward the creature, took her in with a swift glance, followed her motions as she dropped her head slowly toward his tumbler, took a lapping sip in a manner.... (Was it a challenge? A greeting? A simple show of no etiquette? I resisted the urge to glance toward my comrades – Veti in particular, if she was even still present in the room. No, instead, I drew breath. Eyed my glass)
The Demonspawn does not immediately speak, nor seek to at once answer her question, rather – in the very moment that Aislinn raises her maw from the glass – he lifts the thing to his lips and takes another sip, eying her steadfastly all the while (Revolting, really! I feel the convulsions of disgust tickle their way down my spine as I forcefully suck down the remnants – real or imagined – of were-spittle and were-fur and god-knows what rotted carrion perhaps still stuck between her teeth. But what doesn't kill me, hmm...?). Releasing a pent-up breath, Nestor finally responds to the question:
“Ragnorok, you say, Ms....” Here he trails off, pausing uncertainly for a moment before plunging back into speech: “But how, might I ask, are we...” He turns whilst speaking, takes up another tumbler and the decanter – begins to pour another after setting down his own: “To stop that which has already happened; to prevent that which has already occurred? Can one fight their own fate? We are immortals in our own way, you and I...” These words are punctuated by pointed gestures with the freshly filled glass; the first toward the werewolf, the second toward his own chest. Afterward, the glass is held out by way of offering, along with a brief aside:
“I might add, Ms...” His words are kept low – a conspiratorial tone, almost – as he offers helpfully: “In these parts, it is appropriate to drink from one's own glass; and several decades ago, perhaps, quite rude if I should not have offered you one...”
With that, Nestor continues on his prior train of thought:
“And thus it is for us to understand the revolutions of our own lives; the brevity of humanity, the longevity of the gods... and the fate of you and I, thrust somewhere awkwardly inbetween.” (She might take the glass, or she might not – but I find myself warmed to the outward expression of my own inner dialogue, and after having offered the glass I produce from its precious breast pocket (opposite the flask) the sacred tin of cigars. I eye the wolf woman thoughtfully a moment, before flipping the tin open and presenting to her the personal array of a favoured pastime.)
Gleaming tin of cigars extending, Nestor selects one himself, nimble fingers feeling with some caution at the firmness of the wrap, one nostril wrinkling as he raises the roll to his nose and takes an exploratory whiff. His words, meanwhile, churn on more or less unabated:
“But this fate is that of the gods – their 'Twilight', or so it might be called; 'The dusk of the gods'. A strange thing, is it not? The death of gods to signal the rebirth of humanity... and for whom shall we side, you and I?” Nestor allows these last few words to linger a while in the air. Still holding the offering toward the werewolf, he meantime clips the end of his own cigar (an adroit manoeuvre, considering he uses only one hand), places it between his lips and scorches the tip with a match before lighting it, a few clouds of smoke sent toward the distant ceiling before his words resume.
“And yet perhaps for us both, at the end of it all, it is our humanity that claims the day – the desire to -live-, even if by struggling to avert the inevitable we only prolong the existence of the gods; delay the rebirth of humankind. But that is humanity, is it not? To struggle against the yoke though it might very well choke us to death... and we are human, you and I, just so much as we are gods.”
A chilling laughter slices through the air in the silence following, wrapping itself around the forms of the two – Demonspawn and Werewolf – the blistering hilarity of some being caught up in the irony of a joke too sickening for any right-minded creature to laugh at. But Nestor pays it no mind, eyes remaining locked upon the creature opposite him.
Well, it's ground down from a flat piece of stock steel, but the only forging, per se, is the heat treatment -- hardens the metal so it can hold an edge; I.e., I didn't actually beat on anything with a hammer, just lots and lots of filing and sanding. Then tossing it in the forge and crossing my fingers that it didn't warp between the heating and quenching. Then more sanding.
And it's my first experience of this sort with metal too, Tirg -- and one wood guy to another -- if you can freehand sand a piece of wood consistently, you can do it with metal too. It just takes more passes, so in a way it's more forgiving.
And it's my first experience of this sort with metal too, Tirg -- and one wood guy to another -- if you can freehand sand a piece of wood consistently, you can do it with metal too. It just takes more passes, so in a way it's more forgiving.
Sorry for the silence; been working on this the last few days:
It's a Pukko-Inspired blade (Traditional Finnish knife). 1084 steel heat treated in a makeshift charcoal forge. The grip is from what I believe to be a chunk of old black walnut from a log found beneath a barn. The real beauty of the grain doesn't show in the picture. The white strip is a bit of deer bone... I think it was a pelvic bone. All in all pretty satisfied for my first attempt. I'll be back to writing again tomorrow -- Tuesday!
It's a Pukko-Inspired blade (Traditional Finnish knife). 1084 steel heat treated in a makeshift charcoal forge. The grip is from what I believe to be a chunk of old black walnut from a log found beneath a barn. The real beauty of the grain doesn't show in the picture. The white strip is a bit of deer bone... I think it was a pelvic bone. All in all pretty satisfied for my first attempt. I'll be back to writing again tomorrow -- Tuesday!
After escaping Easter celebrations for three straight years, I made the mistake of being in the country for this round. Goodbye, last of the weekend! At least I had enough time to get my project mostly finished up. But no time for writing.
DotCom said
My only experience with EVE is my bank calling to say someone had charged $400 to my credit card to the site. >< Whatever the FUCK are you spending $400 on a goddamn website for? WAS YOUR FUCKING AVATAR THE SON OF GOD? DID YOU RECEIVE A PILE OF GOLD KRUGERRANDS WITH YOUR PURCHASE? DID YOU ALSO BUY A BLACK MARKET KIDNEY? ...bitch. *is still absurdly bitter*
Lulz. I used to lay down three and four hundred dollar charges to my card on a weekly basis for one of the MUDs I used to frequent. Never thought about trying to use someone else's...
Oooooh... EVE. Dive is indeed the right word. My feelings on it are mixed but mostly positive. At the risk of sounding philosophical, I'll step right out and say that EVE is like life: You'll get from it what you give, and take from it what you've got the ambition to seize. You can grind for hours on end and make a few billion, or you can master the market system and grind for a few hours a week and make a trillion. You could have been playing since 2003 and never been heard of, or playing for just a mere three or four years and be a legend. I'll bust out a few paragraphs, but to be honest it would be difficult to capture the entire scope of the game in anything less than a few dozen pages.
One very important thing for prospective players: This 'game' takes a time investment like no other. Not personal time actually playing, but simply by virtue of the fact that all skills increase steadily over time whether logged in or not, it both levels the playing field and creates a huge gap between old timers and fresh blood. You literally will -not- be able to engage in many activities, fly certain ships or even use the vast majority of items until training for them. Training takes time. On the order of a few minutes for basic skills, to entire months for higher-end skills. This aspect has both pros and cons -- I personally like it, but some people might be turned off by the long wait from being able to fly those shiny hightech ships and snazzy weaponry.
The other major difference... there is really -nothing- fed to you. Nothing at all. Unlike any other MMO I've played (and I have played many) EVE does not offer definitive endgame content, definite goals, levels or leaderboards. There is no PvP and PvE distinction: both activities are well supported, but just like in the real world anyone can kill you anywhere for any reason at any time... it's just a question of consequences. You could be happily mining away at asteroids in a high security system only to have your vessel instapoopped by some badass who doesn't give a shit that Concord (the game's version of police) will descend on his ass within seconds and obliterate him. He still gets to kill you before they kill him. And for some people that's totally worth.
Not that it happens frequently. My own foray into the game has been an on-and-off affair over the last couple of years (honestly, I haven't played in over a year at this point -- lots has changed, but the core game is still the same). I've done everything from mining, to mission running, to gate-running through nullsec (player run systems) and farming NPCs in the more lawless areas, to roaming around the galaxy and finding random people to pick fights with (getting repeatedly wrecked in the process)... which to be honest covers only a miniscule percentage of a monstrosity of a game. Hell, I never even got to the point of delving into corporations and alliances -- the real meat and bones (as I see it) of a game like EVE. I was still caught up -- even after hundreds of hours of play! -- in just exploring the single-player aspect.
Rambled more or less long enough, I think. And now you've got me fiending to play the game again. Which says something -- from a guy who plays most games for a heavy stint and then never touches them again, EVE is a rarity in that I keep coming back just because the lure of the unknown has that particular lustre to it.
But if you're interested in plot and story, be warned that EVE has none -- beyond what players, corporations and alliances make amongst themselves.
Damnit. Thanks to you, I'll probably be firing my toon back up in the next couple of weeks... probably making a shift from the lawful side of the game to more piraty endeavours. I only barely scratched the surface of PvP in my time I did play. And yeah, if you're serious about playing, I'd totally cruise the galaxy with you (and anyone else interested); space is lonely, and it's been so long since I played I'm practically a novice myself.
One very important thing for prospective players: This 'game' takes a time investment like no other. Not personal time actually playing, but simply by virtue of the fact that all skills increase steadily over time whether logged in or not, it both levels the playing field and creates a huge gap between old timers and fresh blood. You literally will -not- be able to engage in many activities, fly certain ships or even use the vast majority of items until training for them. Training takes time. On the order of a few minutes for basic skills, to entire months for higher-end skills. This aspect has both pros and cons -- I personally like it, but some people might be turned off by the long wait from being able to fly those shiny hightech ships and snazzy weaponry.
The other major difference... there is really -nothing- fed to you. Nothing at all. Unlike any other MMO I've played (and I have played many) EVE does not offer definitive endgame content, definite goals, levels or leaderboards. There is no PvP and PvE distinction: both activities are well supported, but just like in the real world anyone can kill you anywhere for any reason at any time... it's just a question of consequences. You could be happily mining away at asteroids in a high security system only to have your vessel instapoopped by some badass who doesn't give a shit that Concord (the game's version of police) will descend on his ass within seconds and obliterate him. He still gets to kill you before they kill him. And for some people that's totally worth.
Not that it happens frequently. My own foray into the game has been an on-and-off affair over the last couple of years (honestly, I haven't played in over a year at this point -- lots has changed, but the core game is still the same). I've done everything from mining, to mission running, to gate-running through nullsec (player run systems) and farming NPCs in the more lawless areas, to roaming around the galaxy and finding random people to pick fights with (getting repeatedly wrecked in the process)... which to be honest covers only a miniscule percentage of a monstrosity of a game. Hell, I never even got to the point of delving into corporations and alliances -- the real meat and bones (as I see it) of a game like EVE. I was still caught up -- even after hundreds of hours of play! -- in just exploring the single-player aspect.
Rambled more or less long enough, I think. And now you've got me fiending to play the game again. Which says something -- from a guy who plays most games for a heavy stint and then never touches them again, EVE is a rarity in that I keep coming back just because the lure of the unknown has that particular lustre to it.
But if you're interested in plot and story, be warned that EVE has none -- beyond what players, corporations and alliances make amongst themselves.
Damnit. Thanks to you, I'll probably be firing my toon back up in the next couple of weeks... probably making a shift from the lawful side of the game to more piraty endeavours. I only barely scratched the surface of PvP in my time I did play. And yeah, if you're serious about playing, I'd totally cruise the galaxy with you (and anyone else interested); space is lonely, and it's been so long since I played I'm practically a novice myself.
The feeling again was familiar, and as I lay there – floating upon the sublime beauty of the Goddess' grace – the visions that came to mind were familiar too: a hanging tower, tier upon tier tracing away skyward into the clouds above, the whole of the structure covered in heaping tendrils of greenery. Spilling, tumbling down, down and bending into endless streams of water that went surging over the edge to the unguessed ground below. Something within me yearned to reach out – to touch, to hold, to -stay-. There was a voice in the water. A whisper in the air. A soft call in the lush sway of the grassy gardens.
The warmth of a new spring breeze rustles amongst the ivy; soft promises a year only just begun slip through the chinks in wrought-iron gate. There is a life to things now – a life lost in the time before, which makes little sense as in all reality the time was -then- and I gaze upon it from -now- – but somehow in the muddle things are confused. The fringe of an ill-remembered dream. The edge of pleasant memories where all that remains is the pleasure. The eaves of nightmares where naught remains but the pain. I feel them all, see them all, and then with a sudden rush reality springs forward...
I am seated beneath the shade of our garden walls. The light play of a fountain springs to life before us, soft patter of water upon water; darker shades of tricklings upon stone. We have guests. I am terrible with names. She leans over, gives me a bemusedly wry smile before cupping a thin hand over my ear and helpfully remarking:
“Madame Villefort and her Daughter, Miss...” Her voice trails off as a pair emerges from around the corner; generally my luck – the pair of us rise as one and...
I shudder even now, a certain cold seeping in from some place beyond as I reorient my thoughts: embarrassing moments are the same now as they might have been for me some two centuries in the distant past. I feel my teeth clench, my eyes again opening as I prepare for the inevitable...
And then the whole image rippled – spread into ever expanding rings, surging outward as though some unfriendly passerby had hurled a stone into the midst of Nestor's thoughts and with that the Demonspawn found himself surrounded once more by the cold marble tile and heavy wood paneling of the Baine and Hoyle London Headquarters.
He draws a breath. Glances about himself. Absently rolls his so recently mangled and battered shoulder, now seemingly as hale as it had ever been... “A convenient trick, that – suppose the gods are still useful for -something-” might be heard to trail from beneath his breath as he spares no time in claiming a tumbler from the table just vacated by Atticus. Left hand resting heavily upon the table, right raising the decanter and pouring... not one finger, not two -- no gentleman's glass this – straight to the brim, and then straight to a chair.
The warmth of a new spring breeze rustles amongst the ivy; soft promises a year only just begun slip through the chinks in wrought-iron gate. There is a life to things now – a life lost in the time before, which makes little sense as in all reality the time was -then- and I gaze upon it from -now- – but somehow in the muddle things are confused. The fringe of an ill-remembered dream. The edge of pleasant memories where all that remains is the pleasure. The eaves of nightmares where naught remains but the pain. I feel them all, see them all, and then with a sudden rush reality springs forward...
I am seated beneath the shade of our garden walls. The light play of a fountain springs to life before us, soft patter of water upon water; darker shades of tricklings upon stone. We have guests. I am terrible with names. She leans over, gives me a bemusedly wry smile before cupping a thin hand over my ear and helpfully remarking:
“Madame Villefort and her Daughter, Miss...” Her voice trails off as a pair emerges from around the corner; generally my luck – the pair of us rise as one and...
I shudder even now, a certain cold seeping in from some place beyond as I reorient my thoughts: embarrassing moments are the same now as they might have been for me some two centuries in the distant past. I feel my teeth clench, my eyes again opening as I prepare for the inevitable...
And then the whole image rippled – spread into ever expanding rings, surging outward as though some unfriendly passerby had hurled a stone into the midst of Nestor's thoughts and with that the Demonspawn found himself surrounded once more by the cold marble tile and heavy wood paneling of the Baine and Hoyle London Headquarters.
He draws a breath. Glances about himself. Absently rolls his so recently mangled and battered shoulder, now seemingly as hale as it had ever been... “A convenient trick, that – suppose the gods are still useful for -something-” might be heard to trail from beneath his breath as he spares no time in claiming a tumbler from the table just vacated by Atticus. Left hand resting heavily upon the table, right raising the decanter and pouring... not one finger, not two -- no gentleman's glass this – straight to the brim, and then straight to a chair.
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