Fool Moon

The forge is dead, the oven cold;
The lingering scent of baking bread
Is blowing past the potter's wheel.
Under the tree-limbs, tended grass
Where tailors kneel and silk is spun
Lies solitary, green and still,
All jewel-deep in evening sun.

---

This journal is retired.
The material in it may or may not be reposted at a later date,
but remains copyright 2004-2005 Corrvin Smith.

It's time for a little lessonin' so sit your California ass down. You started the flirt, and you started it wrong. Maybe you noticed me going a leeeetle bit politely cold and you don't have a clue why, do you?( Here's your clue, honey. Don't let it burn ya mouth. )

( a work story )

It's true, I swear it.

ETA: ( technical notes )

In a discussion with the Bossy Enchanter last night (who, by the way, has nothing to do with this post topic), the subject of "Short Man Syndrome" came up. (For the record, we were discussing my former husband, who was 5'6" and didn't have it.) We got cut short before I could really define it, and I thought it might be interesting enough to blather about here.

( but I'm cutting it for a digression into possibly NSFW anatomy discussion. )

And no, I'm not going to make any assumptions about your size just because you comment on this post.

C.

( Cough. (Warning: Not Suitable For Breakfast) )

Corrvin

"Nothing is given to man on earth - struggle is built into the nature of life, and conflict is possible - the hero is the man who lets no obstacle prevent him from pursuing the values he has chosen." --Andrew Bernstein

---

"And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero. "--Walt Whitman

---

Husband, father, and business owner-- after 67 years, he's left quite a legacy. In the past few days of his final illness, his colleagues, customers, and friends have called in concern for this fine man.

I remember the many nights he came home late after a full day's work, and I remember well the one night he shared with me how he ran his business-- his goal was to do the work for each call on the day he received it. He was, I believe, one of those people who finds what they are good at and does it, for their own enjoyment and that of those around them.

Heroes don't have to be just the people who dramatically save lives; sometimes they're the people that work to make your day more comfortable, your home more welcoming. He wasn't a police officer, or a doctor, or a firefighter; he owned a heating and air business.

And he was a hero. We'll miss you, Ron.

Corrvin
(Edit: Ron passed away around the time I wrote this last night. I knew him only from work; I can only imagine how those who knew him better must feel.)

Dr. Boyd, one of my college instructors (History of Western Religion, three semesters) had a wonderful story he'd tell sometimes. He was working with some children who attended an inner-city school system, and one young boy had asked him "Who is God?"
( Read more... )
snippaged for my own sanity, subject added for Sanna, who likes subjects on all postses

"So where were you getting that new wand?" Moranh scraped the last of the gravy off her plate, watching Nhartis daintily nibbling meat off a skewer.

"Oh, just wait till I tell you!" Her eyes glowed a brighter silver as she smiled. "They asked me if I was willing to try a really important mission, something vital, and of course I said yes--"

The dwarf rolled her eyes. "Something vital, I've found, usually means they're too cowardly to do it themselves. But go on."

"Yes, well, it sounded so simple! All I had to do was mix up a bowlful of food and set it out for the furbolgs-- they're only dangerous when they smell you, you know--"

"Or see you, or hear you. They're always dangerous."

"Not always! The food was to calm them, and draw out the evil being who was making them so angry." She shivered. "So he came out, I think he was one of those satyrs, and just yelled something about being horribly upset that I'd calmed down his furbolgs, and then he tried to kill me."

Moranh blinked. "And what did you do then?"

The elf beamed at her. "Why, I killed him, of course!"

"Ah, well, that'd solve the problem all right." Moranh nodded, and picked her fork back up.

"Oh no, I was supposed to get his talisman, and I looked all over him and couldn't find it."

Moranh smirked, almost predatory. "So where do I get these jobs that involve searching men who look like satyrs?"

Nhartis scowled at her. "He was dead, you know. So, then I saw the bag next to him, a demon bag, and I just thought, what if it's in there?"

The dwarf stood up, mailed boots scraping on the stone floor. "You opened a bag clearly marked DEMON? What exactly did you think would be in there?"

"Well, yes? Whatever it was, he could handle it, and I handled him, so it couldn't be too bad."

She put her hands to her temples. "Too bad? When my grandmother had me over once, she told me not to open a bag on the counter, the one that said 'Spider parts' on it. I did, of course, and what do you think was in it?"

"A talisman!"

"No! Spider parts! Do you have any idea how disgusting spider parts feel when you stick your hand in them?"

Nhartis looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. "They weren't too bad this morning, and they're certainly tasty enough to make up for it." She waved her mostly-finished skewer of meat bits at the paladin. "Want a taste?"

Moranh turned pale. "I'll be right back." She swiftly walked outside, where several of the dwarves passing by noticed a redheaded paladin sticking her head completely into a snowbank, retching a bit, and then muttering under her breath before walking back inside...

For the lady whose grief showed through her calm poise tonight.

"I'm calling to let you know that my husband, --- -----, has taken his final breath."

"Thank you Mrs -----, I'm very sorry to hear it. Let me reach the nurse for you."

It struck me as I said it. For the first time, Mrs. means not wife of, but widow of.

That is why I use titles, and not first names: respect, recognition, and love for that part of the human spirit that rises to the challenge, faces the waves of emotion, upheaval, and loss, and surpasses them. I can't describe the emotions I heard in her voice, except to say that I hope someday I can do what she did.

This morning, as the morning sky lightens and my solitary shift ends, I will remember her in my prayers, with the families of the others who passed tonight. This is the kind of person that makes me proud to do what I do.

Corrvin

Nhartis floated, hair swirling around her, peering through the water to the shipwreck below. Surprisingly, the constant clouds made it easier to see; she supposed it was the lack of glare on the surface.

Once, she'd considered herself a good swimmer, as much as she considered it at all. Back home, the only swimming was the small, icily refreshing pools scattered through the forest, just deep enough for a dunk or two, easy to spring from one side to the other with just a few flips of the feet. Some were still, but the ones she liked best were the rushing rivers with waterfalls you could slip down just-so.

The ocean currents were slow, but varied, and tugged at her as she scouted the area. She dove, feeling her ears pressurize, and made it halfway down to the wreck before she stopped to reconnoiter. She flipped slowly in place, then stopped, head down, letting a stream of bubbles escape before she hastily rose to the surface.

Gasping there, she slowly paddled her way to the beach, and lay down flat on the sand, pondering. She didn't understand this vast, unfriendly sea, but if she couldn't get her bearings in it, find some sort of elven grace, be surefooted and poised--

Poised. Like her little cousin, one day; he'd found a treebranch and bounced on it, leaping off and crying "Watch me fly!" She'd picked him up after he fell and skinned both knees and his jaw, of course; "I guess I still need to work on landings."

She chuckled; if he hadn't had that trouble with landing so fast--she sat up.

Paddling out into the ocean again, she flipped onto her back, took a deep breath, and put her head down, and arched her back until-- by a strange flip of perspective, the shipwreck was floating in the water "above" her. She took a few experimental kicks, pushing "up" toward the ocean floor, and then smiled in satisfaction. She'd spring down underwater, go and take what she needed from the wreck, and then come back to land softly, back in the air once again.

She finally understood what it was to fly, even if she had to hold her breath to do it.

Nh.

As of Monday, my EQ and EQ2 accounts will be closed, most likely permanently. For those of you wondering what ever happened to Nhian, here it is.

( Read more... )

At some point between midnight and now, the drizzly rain has turned into tiny, fluffy snowflakes that are melting as soon as they hit the ground. It's hovering at 35 degrees, which hopefully will keep us from anything short of a few slick overpasses in the morning.

In the city, the night sky is a golden-bronze dome of reflected light that slowly dims as the night passes and traffic slows. But in the snow, the lights become indistinct, the dome fades, and the world is only a few hundred feet across, the sky a fuzzy gray halo close enough to touch.

I've started a new sweater, light gray and fuzzy, the color of clouds on a dreary snow day. I have a few bits of grayed colors left over, some blue and dark green and rose, that may be added in, or may not. We'll see how the weather goes.

C.

Moranh shook her hair back, wondering again if she ought to braid it like some of the other dwarves she'd seen, and slung her hammer over her shoulder. She ducked under the doorway into the workshop, and started looking for the gnome she'd been told to meet.

"Hello there! Looking for work, are you?" She turned and nodded to the gnome behind the workbench piled high with metal bits, parts, pieces of wire, and tools. "Wonderful! I was just putting the final touches on the de-skinner, just a moment."

She peered curiously at it; the thing looked more like a pair of tongs, and had no visible blades. "No offense, but that doesn't look like it'll be able to skin anything I've seen around here."

He laughed, pushing his hair back behind his ears. "Oh, it's not for skinning animals. It's a coffee de-skinner. The boss just built a rewarmer for his coffee-maker, but he likes milk in it, and when the milk is reheated it gets the skin on the top, and he hates that. So I just whipped up a little something to take that off...and now I just need to get it working a wee bit better, and attach it somehow. You're not here about the coffee, are you?"

"No, I'm a paladin. I heard he was looking for some adventurers to go out by Gnomeregan."

The gnome shook his head sadly. "Yes, yes. What a tragedy there. So many great inventions, halted in the making, so much documentation lost. And the gnome survivors, of course, all deliriously sick and insane. Sad, it was. Yes, he'll be interested, he's been looking for someone to pick up some parts from there. Go on back."

********************
Some hours later, cold and frustrated, she stumbled back into the workshop. "Can I ask you for something?"

"The boss will be back any moment, he's gone to get more milk. Can you believe the silly thing exploded on us?"

She shook her head. "No, I actually wanted to ask your help with getting the parts I need off the gnomes. They're a little feistier than I'd hoped, and to be honest they're too tough for me to fight off four or five at a time, but I have a plan. Do you have-- um, something that doesn't work, that you're not using, that I can borrow?"

"Something that doesn't work? Well, let's see." He looked under the workbench in some boxes there. "Well, here's my automatic boot-unlacer, but I've always felt like it just needed a bit more trial and error. Would you care to help me with it for a moment?"

She looked down at her feet. "But my boots don't lace up. And you're not wearing any."

"Well, yes, there is that. But it should work on anything laced. Don't your pants lace?"

"Yes, but--wait. No, you may not try to unlace my pants." She blushed, furiously.

"Not even in the name of knowledge? No? Well, it was worth a try. Here, take it, and bring it back when you're done, all right?"

She stuffed it in her backpack, then trotted out across the snow again. Sneaking up on the ruined city outskirts, she found a likely spot in the wreckage, then loudly sighed. "Oh no. My automatic boot-unlacer is broken! I'll just set it here and come back for it later, and hope I can fix it." She set it inside a doorway, wedging the door shut so it was open just enough to get a hand inside, then walked away.

Sneaking back and into a hiding place, she arrived at the same time as the first gnome, who was quietly tiptoeing up to the doorframe, reaching around the door. She ran up behind him, pinning his other hand with her foot. He squeaked indignantly, but since he was unwilling to let go of the unlacer, he couldn't get free. She then swiftly searched his clothes, pulling out the tiny gears she sought from his pocket. Then she gently tapped him on the back of the head with her hammer, and dragged his unconscious body well away.

She returned to her hiding place, grinning smugly. Getting the parts she needed was going to take no time at all!

********************

Begins at part 1
Continued from part 3:

My father says singing to yourself is the first sign of insanity. But then, he used to sing all the time.

Antonica is a green and pleasant land, except for the gnolls everywhere, yapping and barking like so many deranged coyotes. They're as much a nuisance as the orcs back in Commons. I talked to Vishra about getting me into Qeynos as a full citizen; he's testing me, I think, asking me to kill five hundred of them. Cynic that I am, I bet there's a bounty and he's going to make some cash off it.

There's some specific gnolls I'm supposed to take out, but that can wait for later. For now, I'm just going to sit under the aqueduct, and watch the walls of Qeynos shimmer in the afternoon haze, drink some tea, and draw out some jewelry designs. I've got some ore stored back for when I can finally get in and do some crafting in my new home.

Also, I've got some more thinking to do, as it seems the hamlets of Qeynos aren't uniform slums like the ones in Freeport, so I have a choice of what sort of place I'd like to live. Do I want to live with the elves, or the Kerrans, or the gnomes-- I'll have to wait and see once I get inside.

Nhian
killer of 54 gnolls-- and counting

Nhian, parts 1 and 2

Well, I made my choice.

My father would say, "You made your bed, now you lie in it." But I don't have a bed anymore. I left my apartment in Freeport. In fact, I left Freeport.

I found a few folks who were talking about leaving for Qeynos, and joined up with them. Turns out one of them was a traitor. He led me straight to Lucan-- I won't call him the Overlord, he's not MY lord-- and I was executed as a traitor.

Good thing the executioner was on my side. She slipped my "body" outside the city, gave me a few directions, and sent me off to Qeynos to try my fate there.

It's been a long walk. A few rough runs, too, from things I couldn't even turn around and fight. Finally, after a day and a half of sheer terror, boredom, and the worst aching feet I've ever had, I found a spot under the docks of the Thundering Steppes and pitched my tent for the night, and here I am, brewing tea and soaking my feet in ocean water.

The sounds of waves lapping on the shore always make me think of my father. I couldn't wait to get away from him, from the dull life of carpentry and farming on a little island in the middle of nowhere. So, of course, here I am running for my life from a city that hates me, to one I'm not even sure will accept me within the gates. Wonder what he'd think of his son now.

Well, I know; he'd think I was another of those stories he made up. He used to tell the most outrageous tales to me, about our family, and all the things we'd done and places we'd lived. He said we weren't even really Dark Elves, that real Dark Elves lived under the ground in huge cave-cities and clans, and didn't have anything to do with the other races, or anything that wasn't purely evil.

But then he'd go off into a story about Nhinx, apparently some ancestor of ours. Dark Elf, for certain, one of the old ones, but he told tales of her working at being a paladin, and how there was even a Troll in the family in her time. Always in his stories, since he was a craftsman, was a tale of the armor and how it was smithed, the feast and how it was baked. Life then wasn't all about surviving and trying not to be killed.

I wanted to be Nhinx, when I was little, be a master of everything made, a fighter for the Gods. But the Gods are no longer with us, and there was no room on our little island for two carpenters. So I made my pack up and went to sea, seeking adventure, and the chance to be a hero, and my very own set of that cedar-green shining armor with a holy symbol at the breast.

So here I am, aching feet, ragged leather, homeless, hungry, tired, and cold, with days or weeks of work ahead of me before I have anything to call my own, if ever.

But someday-- someday-- I'll be that hero I wanted to be. I'll be a paladin if it's the last thing I do.

I think Nhinx's feet must have hurt, too.

(continued in part 4)
Nhian, future Paladin of Innoruuk
beginning of the 16th season, the Thundering Steppes

(Yeah, this is rough; I'll finish it off this afternoon. Might come back and see what's changed, if this doesn't make sense. --C.)

Nhian, part 1

So, it's not a bad life being a fighter.

There's always someone willing to barter armor, or food, for a small favor or two. And there's services to offer, maybe getting someone's loan back or making sure a "new" vendor doesn't set up shop where the customers like to go. Be quick with a punch, or a sword, and there's copper to be made as well.

I was wandering through the Beggars' Court slum, looking for my latest victim and warning him to pay up or else, when I saw her walking straight up to me, as if she ruled the whole city. Chin high, hand outstretched to kiss. I wouldn't put my lips anywhere near her filthy human skin, though, and who knows where those rags she called clothes had been before she got them.

"You scorn to greet Queen Antonia Bayle?" she sniffed.

"Why no, your Highness, I simply don't want to catch whatever contagion is on your hands from visiting such a slum." She seemed harmless enough; I could play along.

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, you do recognize me! Even in exile, I knew that someday my true people would see me for who I am!"

"I'm sorry, but you're crazy. I've never even been to Qeynos. Never even seen the place." I began to back away from her, in case she was about to foam at the mouth or hit me or something. It would be a shame to have to beat her down for hitting me, but my reputation couldn't survive taking a sock from some weak human just because she was crazy and I felt sorry for her. Sympathy is not a way of survival in Freeport.

She reached out and grabbed at my neck-- no, at the scarf on it. "Then what is this?" She snatched it away, holding it up to the light.

"Give that back! It's mine!"

"Then surely you wouldn't begrudge it to the Queen, would you?" She tilted her head at me. "Or is it truly yours?"

"Well. No. It was a gift. From Pona."

She nodded, cradling it to her chest in one hand. "Yes. A gift. From a lady who asked you to avenge her, and in return-- bestowed this favor upon you. Honor in sorrow, that's one of the people of Qeynos."

"You mean she was an exile?" I stepped forward, half-intending to snatch my scarf back, half fascinated with her tale.

"No. Qeynos is not only a city. It is an ideal. Qeynos is honor whatever the cost. It is the freedom to be happy, to be productive, to have justice and hope and love. Love, above all else, is what drives us to Qeynos." She stopped, coughing, and scratched at her filthy, tangled hair.

"I don't love Pona. She was just a hooker that I felt like doing some work for. And she wouldn't drive me away from my-- from this city."

The Queen smiled at me. "No one can take you where you don't take yourself."

I bowed to her, and went to do service to the crown.

--Nhian
Go on to part 3

I was a very young fighter when I first saw her.

Dark Elves aren't much welcome in the Kerran enclave Stonestair Byway, one of the slums of Freeport. But then, who is? I was taking a shortcut to the Sunken City, and there she was, at the docks.

I'd just finished a mission for the Commander, facing a group of traitors trying to leave our beautiful city. Beautiful? As if. The only parts of town not in a state of ruin and disrepair are the monstrosities that pass for public buildings-- and the Overlord's palace, of course. Lovely work, it is, all blood-colored glass and sculptures of fossilized, pain-wracked faces. Only thing in town that's noticeably new, too, at least among the parts the humble citizens can see.

I was wondering what someone would want to leave the protection of the Overlord for when her purr stopped me in my tracks.

"See something you like, soldier?" I turned, looking up at her scraggly Kerran fur, twitching ears, her ragged clothes, and the cheap silver pendant at her throat. It was worked in intricate silver wire around a purplish crystal, and I couldn't help but lean closer to see.

"Yes," I said softly, almost stretching out a hand. "I'd love to see your necklace more closely."

I learned something. When a Kerran slaps you, their claws come into play.

Part 2

Subject: As Meat Loves Salt
Date: 11-Oct-02 23:16 Central Daylight Time
From: OakFast Futura
(Copy of an old story... reposted by whim)

Once upon a time there was a king. He wasn't the king of a large country, just a very small one, but he ran it to the best of his abilities. He had no Queen, but he had one daughter, and from the day she was born he loved his Princess.

One day, very suddenly, it happened that the Princess (who was now a grown woman and married to a Prince of her own) noticed that her father the King was old, and ill. She visited him in the throne room and said "Father, you are old, and ill, and you can no longer go on being the King. It is time for you to step down, and for me to take the throne."

And the King said to his daughter, "I sired you, and I saw you born. I raised you, and I gave you all of the good things I knew of, simply to see you smile. I love you and I want you to be happy. Only tell me this, how much do you love me?"

The Princess said to her father, "I love you as meat loves salt."

So, the King went down from his throne, and having nowhere else to go, he went out into the city and thence into the wasteland and desert about it. He wandered among the madmen and the hermits, and became a little of both himself. He became more and more ill, and could no longer feed himself or find shelter for the evening. He tried to find his way back to his kingdom, but it was lost.

In desperation, he asked the wise men for help, but despite their staff and writhing snakes, they would do nothing for him. He went to the scholars who argued before the high courts, and they would do nothing for him. He asked everyone to carry word to the Princess, but...perhaps she never received his pleas for help.

Finally, one day, as he sat alone in his penitent's cell, a woman brought him his dinner, and by reason of his age and delicate stomach, it was meat without salt; and as he ate his dinner, he realized that his daughter did not love him at all.

And still he sits there...

Corrvin
(who spoke to the King tonight)

Imagine you're a woman. For half of you, this doesn't take much thought.

Imagine you've just been raped. For one in four of us, this doesn't take imagining.

Now. Pull yourself together. Your answer to this question can affect the rest of your life: What are the steps you take to get emergency contraception?

Know what you need. Know what it takes. Emergency contraception must be taken within 72 hours to be effective at all, and the sooner the better. Any doctor can prescribe it (though some refuse to); some of the most common alternatives are a higher dosage of commonly available birth control pills. Will your doctor prescribe? Are they reachable after hours?

Many things in life will happen to you without your consent. This doesn't make you a victim, it makes you a human being. Find the strength, make your own choices afterwards. Take back your Will.

If you're not a woman, or you're not of reproductive age, then you know someone who is. Find this out for yourself-- any of us may end up being someone's pillar of strength. Any day. The call may come, and how will you answer it?

Corrvin
(This post has a story behind it, a story which is not mine to tell.)

It's common to have instructions in your account for reaching you, i.e. "Don't call home after 9, call my cell, or you'll wake my parents."

So. In my account, a co-worker left this gem.

"When doing a wake up call, be sure you call the right boyfriend's house. Don't spoil my game."

*shifty eyed* No one at work knows, btw.

...Of course, I copied it to HIS account intact and left him a report that I'd had a fortune cookie that read "You will get to know a co-worker better" (in bed)

Nhinx
(yes, this is standard shenanigans at work)