Archive | April 26, 2013

All The Characters – trading help for words

As discussed with [personal profile] moonwolf in this thread here, I could use a character list.

I will write 50/words a character for lists by setting with links:

Vas’ World
Paz (Observe and Report)
Vas (By the Wall)

With the link being their first appearance, bonus points (20 more words) for noteworthy later appearances.

DW links preferred, but some writing only exists in one or the other setting.

Please claim settings below if you are interested. I will start a list here that will X post.

Edited to add: I have set up DW and LJ to allow people who are friended (access list, whathaveyou) to add and alter tags on posts. The format I use is character: shahin (for example), for primary/viewpoint characters of a story.

Aunt Family [personal profile] moonwolf
Unicorn/Factory [personal profile] moonwolf
The Planners [personal profile] moonwolf

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S for Shahin, a story of Addergoole Post-Apoc for the Giraffe Call

To [personal profile] natalief‘s Prompt of the same name. After Mimosas.
The hermaphrodite – known alternately as Ty, Tya, and Red Sun at Night, and now known as oro’Shahin – studied its mistress uncomfortably.

The mimosas, Ty thought, had been a good idea. They had melted a bit of the ice Shahin kept around herself like a shield, gotten the vestiges of a smile of out her. Ty found, and was surprised and enlightened by the discovery, that those smiles had become a bit of an addiction.

I will allow you in my bed, she’d said, when you have learned what it is to serve. And it had been, so far, an education. Not just in serving, although Shahin had been an apt and firm instructor. But in the life she and her people lived, in the hunt for the monsters that survived – and in Ty’s mistress herself.

Ty kowtowed. It was a position with which the slender fae had more than a little experience, although generally in situations more playacting than real. Now, with the feel of Shahin’s metal-and-leather collar weighing down its neck, the position took on far less playfulness and far more gravity. It could stay down here forever.

“I would send a message to sa’Lady of the Lake.” Ty spoke to the floor. “It has been long enough that she’s going to be sending someone to look for me.” There, mistress, take that information for what it’s worth.

“And what would you tell her?” Ty didn’t dare look up at Shahin’s face, not yet, but he thought she was not too displeased.

“Ah. Well, mistress, therein lies the rub.”

“And what rub is that?” She had not, yet, given her new Kept a pet name; most of the time she used no name at all. Ty wondered at it, being nameless. Would it eventually forget its name?

Ty coughed. “You asked what I wanted. What if I want to stay?”

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R is for Runaway, a story of Tír na Cali for the Giraffe Call

For Rion’s prompt.
“You have a thing for runaways, don’t you?” Roberts leaned back against the wall of the van and smirked.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Reggie tried for prim innocence, but didn’t manage to pull it off, ending up grinning instead. Prim really wasn’t her thing. “I haven’t picked up more than six or seven of them this month.”

“Nine, counting the red-head.”

“The redhead was a special case.”

“There’s always special cases, Reggie.”

“This one is…”

“If you say he’s different, I’m going to hit you.”

“If you hit me, I’m going to break your arm. No. Well. I suppose.” She looked down at the unconscious boy, draped across the floor, arms bound, feet bound. She hadn’t hooded him; there was no need. Identifying her would do him no good at all. “He’s interesting.”

“That’s just a fancy way of saying different.”

“Would you two shut up?” In the front seat, Sirocco was getting cranky. “Yay, you picked up your load. Now can we get home without your bickering? Because otherwise I’m going to pull over and break all of your arms.”

They fell quiet; Roc could do it, and would. Reggie looked down at the boy, and at the other three in the van, all unconscious. The blond runner Roberts had taken was blindfolded; she would make good ransom money, and ransoming off every third or fourth kidnapee confused the authorities. The American authorities, at least. The Californian ones probably knew what they were up to.

The other two were hooded and bound out of normal expediency – a junkie and a skater-boy, neither of them weighing more than a hundred pounds. Reggie found her gaze settling again on the runaway. Runaways were fun because they tended to run again, among other reasons.

“Different.” She mouthed the word, rather than saying it out loud. There was something different about this one, no matter how many times she’d said this.

Reggie reached down and stroked this one’s cheek, ignoring the mock-gagging expression on Roberts’ face. This one was going to be different.


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Way-Back Wednesday, a story of Regine

March 7, 1810

Regine studied her son – her only son, her only child. She studied his Change, the echo of her father, all those years ago, muttering in the back of her mind.

She took three measured breaths, and then a fourth. “You are my son.”
She affirmed this truth, in case anyone had any doubt. “We will find an appropriate Mentor for you, who can teach you what I have not.”

“If there is anything you have not taught me.”

“I am certain I have missed, perhaps, one or two things.” Regine did not touch easily, but she made herself touch the fluted, fin-like ears that his Change had brought. “You are my son.” She did not know if she was reassuring him, or herself.

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