Some Jobs Just Aren’t Worth the Risk, a ficlet of Tír na Cali fr @dahob

Aug27

Courier jobs were, sometimes, risky. They were sometimes people who didn’t want messages to go through, sometimes people who hadn’t heard don’t shoot the messenger.

It paid immensely well, however, and Cory was willing to take quite a few risks for the money. Risks like taking packages over closed borders into war zones. Risks like delivering people to and from situations where they didn’t, legally, belong.

Risks like carrying a very lovely hand-written note to a very lovely, rich woman.

Cory swallowed and reminded himself of his Californian-style manners. Look down, smile, stay polite and speak when you were spoken to. He’d prefer the Middle East. He’d prefer North Korea.

“You’re certain this is for me?”

“Yes, your ladyship.” Cory had practiced in front of a mirror. He practiced every time he had a mission.

“And did you read it?”

“No, your ladyship.” Of course not, your ladyship.

“You weren’t even a little curious?” She still sounded bored. Bored was good.

“I’m not paid to be curious, your ladyship.” Which meant he never gave any indication that he cared in any way what was in his messages.

“And you are paid to be polite.” Oh, dear she was sounding amused.

“Very well, your ladyship.” Very, very well, your ladyship.

“Come here.”

“Your ladyship?”

“Come. Here.”

Ten feet separated Cory and the Lady. He liked those ten feet, his standing position and her lounging on the couch.

On the other hand, he knew better than to say no to a Lady in Tír na Cali. “Your ladyship.” Cory bowed, deeply, the way he’d practice.

“You’re cute, and you know your manners. Very cute.” Her hand darted out and grabbed his chin. “I think I’ll keep you.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/793430.html. You can comment here or there.

Wildlife Refuge, a story of Fae Apoc for the Giraffe Call

Aug27

To [personal profile] rix_scaedu‘s prompt

“Let me see.”

The gate-keeper had four legs, which wasn’t the weirdest things Capri had seen on this trip. The fact that they were giraffe legs was kind of interesting, at least.

“See?” Capri made the nothing-to-hide gesture, jacket held wide open. “I left my weapons at the front gate, as instructed.” And if that wasn’t an uncomfortably vulnerable feeling, Capri didn’t know what was.

“Drop your pants and your Mask.”

Oh, that was.

“Excuse me?”

“You saw the sign on the front gate, didn’t you?”

It had been written in Old Tongue. Capri had gotten maybe one word out of seven. “Yes.” One of the words had been half-man or maybe half-human. That could mean a lot of things, all of which applied to Capri.

“So, it’s a wildlife refuge.” The… centaur? pawed the ground with one hoof. “Satyrs, fauns, minotaurs, centuars, griffins… you get the idea. Gotta be half-human, half animal, to walk in here. Or fly.”

“Ah.” Now that was a meaning Capri hadn’t thought of. “Right. So, you want me to drop my pants…”

“Well, if your upper half is animal, taking your shirt off will work, too.”

“I don’t suppose you’d settle for just seeing my ankles…”

“What, are you shy? Everyone drops trou. I mean, everyone who wears pants. I, obviously, didn’t have that problem.”

Shy. “Well. It’s just that… yeah. I’m shy.” Capri gave up and dropped Mask and trou both. “Also, faun.”

At least the fur covered almost everything.

More: Safety

Want more words, or just really like this post? Drop some money in the tip jar!


(the tip jar is a kitty for reasons)

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/792954.html. You can comment here or there.

Did You KNOW… (Giraffe Call Commissions)

Aug27

…Giraffe Call commission rates are significantly lower than my standard rate?

PLUS Giraffe Call commissions get you

* a second fic written to your prompts
* Movement towards group goals, such as more stories.

Giraffe Call rates ($1/100 words) are available until I finish this round of stories:


(the tip jar is a kitty for reasons)

Request a continuation of any giraffe story & help me support other artists.


At $25, T. & I get take-out. Thai, I think, though it may be Indian.

at $40, I will commission a piece of character art from a crowdfunded artist

At $50, I will write an extra fic for everyone.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/792790.html. You can comment here or there.

Three-Word-Wednesday – Entanglement

Aug27

To Three-Word-Wednesday (Today’s words are entanglement, death, heartless).

This one wrote itself – helps I’ve been watching a lot of Supernatural.

She intended to avoid entanglements.

They were a bad idea in her line of work – they led to uncomfortable explanations, teary goodbyes, jealous shouting matches, and, on a couple regrettable occasions, death.

So she tended to stay away from emotional connections.

There were liaisons, of course – she still needed human contact, and her cousin was, while pleasant, her cousin. Not the sort where you’d spend the evening cuddling, watching TV, necking, even when the job didn’t get in the way.

But she avoided anything more… long-lasting than a bump-and-cuddle.

It had gotten her called heartless, a time or thirty. It had gotten her called a lot worse than that, too: slut was a favorite, tease – although she never really deserved that one – bitch. But in her line of work, she was used to being called bitch.

And who wanted an entanglement with someone who called you a bitch, anyway?

But sometimes, despite all that, she found herself caring. The job could wait for a day or a week, she’d say. Her cousin could handle this case on her own. She wasn’t actually heartless, after all. She needed human contact. But the problem with entanglements was, they tended to twist you up in knots.

And there you were all tied up, when the job called. Safer to just avoid emotional connections altogether.

Following/riffing off of this: Better Left Unsaid

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/792296.html. You can comment here or there.

With the Goats

Aug27

To wispfox‘s prompt

Morning came, and Lazhman slipped out of the house and into the herd. When he could, he slept among the goats, too, but the census-counter was in town, and everyone had been pressuring him, act normal, Lazhman. Act like a person and not a goat.

Lazhman had no interest in such things, but he did sometimes like bread and stew and, to be fair, didn’t have the stomach the goats did. So he spent most his time among the herd, let his beard grow like a goat’s and his hair as well, twisted two braids to look something like goat-horns when nobody was looking, and spent just enough time in town to convince people to keep selling him bread and stew.

He’d done that, last night. Now he could sit out on the hill near Copper and Counter and the other goat, watch the clouds and the river move by, and have no cares except the wildcats and the occasional bandit.

“Hello there.”

What? Words? Lazhman snorted and looked around.

“Hello.” She’d snuck up behind him, how had she done that? “I’m Liegya.” The census-taker, that’s who she was. “I’d like to talk to you.”

more

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/792013.html. You can comment here or there.

I was Curious, so I went back 8 years in my Livejournal

Aug27

12:04 pm August 29th, 2006
Care & Feeding of the [Lyn]…

Painting with broad strokes, it’s generally a good idea to not tell me things unless I ask for information. I’m a bright girl; I know a lot of common knowledge things and am good about asking for information when I don’t know something. I get irritated when I’m told things that a moment’s thinking should suggest I already know.

But, worse that that… ye gods, don’t ever tell me what I’m thinking, what I want, what I’m feeling. Not to put too fine a point on it, but you don’t know. Yo’re not in here, and assuming you know what I want/feel/think more than I do is an onforgivable arrogance.

Feel free to suggest that my words and my actions don’t seem to be in line, of course (“You said you liked him, and then you spit in his coffee. That doesn’t seem to make any sense” but not “Bah, you don’t like him!”)

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/791693.html. You can comment here or there.

Teaser – Staff yell at Regine for Kuro_Neko

Aug27

“We already have monitoring in place…”

“Clearly is it not enough!” It was a roar. It needed to be more. Caitrin dropped her voice to a very quiet, calm, analytic tone. “This cannot happen again.”

(to @Kuro_Neko’s commissioned request for the staff yelling at Regine.)

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/791436.html. You can comment here or there.

Landing Page: Doomsday Academy

Aug26

A sub-setting of Addergoole and the Fae Apoc, Doomsday Academy is what happens when a fae graduate of Addergoole decided to build something better.

It features Addergoole characters from two generations as professors, and an all-new cast of students. The school experience runs from ten years old to 18, covering a wide swath of education not often found in the post-apoc world.

And post-apoc it is. Set approx. forty years after the titular Faerie Apocalypse (“the Disaster” “the Collapse”), the world is a far different place. Monsters still roam the blasted countryside, and cities are mostly destroyed shells. The human/fae population are just beginning to move past bare survival. Electricity, running water, telephones – these things exist, but mostly in sheltered enclaves.

I Have this School (LJ)
A Drabble of Addergoole meets Doomsday (Facebook)

The Professors
Doomsday Academy: First Day of Math (by [personal profile] inventrix)
First Day of School for First years (LJ)
First Day of History Class (LJ)
First Day of Survival Class (LJ)
First Day of Law Class (LJ)

The Students
Aquilina at School (LJ) at least 4 years in.
Gonna Be A Samurai (LJ)

The Parents
The Tower (LJ)

The City
The Year Cya Didn’t Keep Anyone (LJ)
Tweets: Planning a City (LJ)
Takes a Village to Build a City (LJ)
Boom Town: Center Street (LJ)

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/790873.html. You can comment here or there.

Jumping Rings: A Story of the Circled Plain – Chapter Five

Aug26

Chapter Five: Taslin

Thrust

Thrust. That was step one. Step two was definitely don’t get thrust into. Taslin danced out of the way of her larger opponent’s blade and, because she could, made a twist out of it so that she could then go for another thrust, this one a move that looked far more complicated than it was.

The audience – such as it was – cheered. Her opponent – such as he was – barely managed to dodge in time. Her teammates – such as they were – shouted encouragement and his – such as they really, really weren’t – hissed and yelled.

Taslin loved it. She slapped him in the face with the flat of her blade – not grandstanding, she told herself, she could tell Gan she’d done it because she wanted to get him angry.

If she’d been trying for that, it worked. He bellowed in rage and came running at her, head down and sword out.

It was too easy. It had to be a trick. If it was a trick, if he was actually planning this out, his off hand would come up like thus.

She dove out of the way – to his sword-hand side, not to his off-hand side – rolled up behind him while he was still trying to stop his forward momentum, and slipped her blade through the thin gap in his armor.

The crowd took in a collective breath.

It wasn’t a killing blow, but, then again, it wasn’t supposed to be. Instead, it was a humiliating blow, a distraction from what her off-hand was doing and, most importantly, leverage to get herself tall enough to get that off-hand and its weapon to his throat.

The crowd screamed its pleasure.

All of this had to be more than a bit painful for her opponent, but Taslin was going to have bruises over two-thirds of her body, so he could cope.

“Yield.”

It wasn’t for him, it was for the audience, so her voice was pitched loud, aiming for the back of the amphitheater.

“Fountainspawn.” He lifted his left hand, palm-up. No, no, he was not going to start pulling power here, not in the middle of the sandbox, what did he think he was doing?

“YIELD!“ She made it a bellow because she didn’t want to make it a panicked shout. He didn’t care about his throat. He didn’t care about his throat. Didn’t care about…

She dropped her hold on her sword and wrapped both her arms around his left. From that angle, she could put the blade to his wrist the same as she’d had it to his throat.

The crowd rose to their feet.

“Yield.” This time, she kept it at almost a whisper. “Drop the weapon and yield or I drop your hand in the sand and you’re a one-handed bond-slave.”

Her opponent’s blade fell to the ground, and he fell to his knees. “I yield, damn you, fountain-spawn.”

She sheathed her off-hand blade and scooped up her sword, never taking her eyes off him. She’d learned that lesson the hard way in her second match.

He stayed on his knees. The audience cheered. Taslin, making certain she was well out of her opponent’s reach, bowed, turned, and bowed again.

This match – like all of her matches so far – was a warm-up before the main event, a crowd-appetite-whetter. Taslin didn’t mind. She needed the practice, for one thing, and for another, sometimes those who would be patrons showed up early.

The man on the ground twitched. Taslin ducked out of the way and struck out with a foot to his face as he dove towards her.

“Fucking fountain-spawn!” He fell back onto his face. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

She danced back again and shifted her blade into guard position. “No. No, you won’t.” Would the guards interfere?

“You miserable waste-lander, I need this win!” He dove at her again, and she danced backwards again. She was going to have to kill him if he kept this up. She didn’t want to kill him.

“You’re free with the insults for someone who can’t win a basic match of sword-fighting.” She stepped around behind him. “You’re pretty free with the insults altogether, actually. What do you think that says about you?”

“What do you mean, you useless waste of flesh?” He’d gotten to his feet again, oh, good. That was the last thing she wanted. Well, the second to last thing.

“Well, seriously. You’re relying on insults. You’re throwing around curse words.” She took a moment to unsheathe her off-hand blade and watched her opponent. “You’ve stepped outside the realm of honor, of course. You yielded.”

“Are you…. are you playing to the crowd?” He blinked at her. “Are you making a game out of my life? Some sort of show?“

It almost threw her off her game. “We’re gladiators.“ She took three steps backwards and pitched her voice to the crowds. “We’re gladiators. We fight for them!”

The audience cheered and jeered back at her. Her opponent, however, had clearly had enough. “Not me!” He rushed her, head down, a blade he hadn’t been showing before in his right hand. “Not me, you miserable fountain-spawn, not me!”

She’d been trying to get him angry, but there was angry and then there was raging. He was pulling power again, too, no, no, they would not be impressed with her if they had to seal off the ring, they hadn’t had to do that in at least twenty years.

Ten? Lots of years, at least, and that was in no way the point. The point was coming at her, followed by a bellow. She dodged out of the way, rolled – a different roll this time, in case he was actually paying attention – and came up under his legs with her offhand pricking where his balls ought to be if he had any.

Which remained to be seen.

Her sword, from here, nicked his wrist and rested just so on that delicate place where everything could go really, really badly. “Stay yielded this time, or die.”

She made sure everyone in the audience could hear her. She, of course, could hear them, too, as they chanted.

“Die, die, die, die, die.”

He’d frozen again. “Fountain-spaaawn…”

“Yield. Or die. It’s that simple.” She pricked a little deeper with both weapons.

“You cannot be this good!”

Frankly, she didn’t think she was, but she was also pretty sure that agreeing with him wouldn’t help the situation. “Yield. Do. You. Yield?”

“Blast and damn it, I yield.” He once again dropped his weapon.

“Don’t move.” She rose to her feet, slowly, keeping the points of her weapons in place. “Shall he be pricked or shall he be slit?”

“You’re not…”

“You forfeited everything when you ignored your yield. You knew that.”

“I had to win! They told me to win!”

“Honorably.” She gave a little twist to both blades. “Pricked or split, good people?”

The crowd – made noise. It was unclear, at first, what the running trend was going to be; there was just shouting and then a little more shouting. And then one man stood from the oligarch’s boxes.

The crowd fell silent. They were all looking at him. Taslin was looking at him. Her opponent was looking at him.

“Pricked or Split, good oligarch?”

Which one was it? From here, it would be almost impossible to tell, even if she knew all of them by sight. Male, she was pretty sure – he wasn’t wearing so much clothing as to obscure that, for one. But beyond that? He had black hair, copper skin, and nipples that were almost black through his white top.

“Pricked. And scarred. Let his treachery be remembered. Let it be burned into his Name.”

Taslin hissed. Even her opponent groaned, and she’d thought he was beyond that.

But then she lifted her voice up properly. “As I am commanded.” Her knives dug in until he groaned in pain, and then again, until she could watch the blood well up red and sweet from both target. “Remember this.”

“I’ll remember you. I’ll remember you, Fountain-spawn.”

Taslin pulled back her blades and wiped them on his clothing. “Good. I’ll certainly remember you.”

Next: Valran: Thrust

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If we reach $20/month in Patreon or $30 in donations in Paypal – or a combination therof – I will post a second chapter this week, on Sunday.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/790420.html. You can comment here or there.