Archive | March 24, 2013

Syllabic Sunday: Don’t know much about History…

I have these four words in my list, although I cannot find the post in which I posted them:

telyen: story
telnyent: truth-known
telyentozh: myth
telnyenttozh (hunh. I think that should be telenyentozh): history (Wow, that’s clumsy, don’t take that one as canon yet, or the myth one)

Where I wanted to get with this post was BOOKS.

Because the Cālenyena love books. Well, they love the written word. They were fascinated with it when they discovered it. They wrote histories into their tents. Usually biographies. They decorated their clothes with tales of their prowess, and lessons learned. They painted stories on their saddles.

Actual books, paper in a library? That took a little longer.

The word for writing come from the [east-coast-people] word Saayish, and is zhēzhet

The word for book comes from the proto-bitrani word urnia, and is turnē

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Clean, a story for the Giraffe Call (@inventrix)

For [personal profile] inventrix‘s prompt

“…and always remember, when fighting the Hosether, is that the only true and clean way to kill is with a blade.”

Instructor Blaias had lost one arm, his off arm, in a battle with the Hosether (or perhaps the Glarth); now he taught the next generation of sword-fighters how to war properly and with honor.

They listened, the young students holding their practice swords, wide-eyed with awe. They listened as he worked them through their exercises. They listened as he showed them how to block properly, so that they would not lose an arm themselves, or a leg or their lives.

They listened as he told them the evil of sorcery. The way that a distance kill was both immoral and illegal, the way that the cleanliness of a blade finished the soul properly, the way that only sword-training gave a truly disciplined soul.

The student Gilcas listened as intently as the rest, learning the way to cut cleanly, for all that he missed his twin.


“…and always remember, when fighting the Rodrigerafaus, that the only true and clean way to kill is with a spell.”

Teacher Charis had lost her left eye and half of her nose in a battle with the Glarth (or possibly the Rodrigerafaus); now she taught basic spellcasting for the next generation of fighters.

They listened, the young apprentices. They watched, wide-eyed with awe, as she showed them how you killed someone without ever showing your face. How you took the personal out of the kill, how you took your own soul out of it. They watched as Teacher Charis showed them how to sling a death-spell, so that the death was quick and perfect.

They took it all in, as she showed them how a sword-death was both illegal and immoral, how the blade severed the soul from the body, so that it entered the afterworld bereft of its needed skin, the way that the death-spell finished the body and soul in one swift shot, the way that only spell-casting created a truly disciplined soul.

The student Sashlie listened intently, practicing the motions and whispering the words to herself, learning a clean death, for all that she missed her twin.


There was never a time when the Rodrigerafaus were not at war with the Glarth, or the Glarth at war with the Hosether, the Hosether with the Rodrigerafaus. There was never a time when those with swords were not up against those who slung death-spells.

“When you fight, the only true and clean way…” Gilcas, his sword hilt-deep in a Glarth soldier, thought the blood splatter across his face was anything but clean. He muttered a spell he wasn’t supposed to know, and watched the soul separate and fly away. There were a lot of souls leaving today, and the sun hadn’t reached its zenith yet.

“…make the death clean and perfect.” Sashlie used a forbidden knife-block to push a soldier off of her, and pressed a death spell into another soldier’s face. The look on his face was in no way impersonal; the feel of his death flooding back over the spell was intimate and dirty.

She watched the way the body twisted into the heavens. There were a lot of deaths for the gods today, and the sun was barely climbing up its stairs.

The two, half a battle-field apart, took it all in, using the motions they’d been taught and the lessons they had learn, for all that they missed their twin, for all that the cleanest of deaths left them feeling filthy inside.

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I.D., a continuation of FaeApoc/Addergoole @kissofjudas

After Convincing, after Identity.

“Tell me who you truly are, and give us reason to believe it.”

Adder panicked.

Stuck in the man’s gaze, he had no choice but to answer. But what could he say?

“I’m Adder, sh’Hana, cy’Caitrin, called the Link. I was oro’Orlaith in my first year of school. We joked about it being oro-oro, remember, Ora? And when I Named Hunter, when I named my son,” he was freaking out and he didn’t know how to stop, damnit, the first time he met his son and he was hyperventilating. “When I named Hunter, you looked at me, and rolled your eyes, and you said, ‘why, Addy?’ and all I could say was ‘he’s going to need both halves to get through it.’ Is that enough, Ora, please?”

He dropped his Mask, holding out his hands with the tiny pointed fangs under the nails. “And you know I never show anyone these.”

“Careful with those, Adder.” Her voice was level and unimpressed. “Silas, I’m convinced. This is the boy I Kept my last year of school.”

Adder held his breath. There was no mistaking the fact that she was deferring decision to this… this man. This man who had taken his spot, his Ora, his son.

He needed them. Adder waited on judgement.

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