Tag Archive | giraffecall

Paradox and… a story of Superheroes

Jul1

For [personal profile] imaginaryfiend‘s commissioned continuation of Returned Paradox

I was born to death.

I was born to the memory of a dead woman, forty weeks to the day after Paradox Maverick died, and I was told so, in whispers and glances and blasted macaroni and cheese on my birthday every year. I was born, it seemed when I was younger, to echo her back to my mother’s companions, to look like her in every way I could.

Sometimes I think that she did it on purpose, Paradox, tinkered with my genetics in the womb to put them off the scent, as it were, to make them keep looking in the wrong place and never think to look where they should have. I wonder, if she did that, if she had any idea how well she would succeed?

Here I am, now, exactly what they created, exactly what I created, and not what they would have had me be. Nothing, nothing, I might add, like Paradox Maverick, may she rot in a cold cell in the darkest corner of Hell.

I am Order. And today is my eighteenth birthday.

There will be macaroni and cheese. There will always be macaroni and cheese. And my mother will buy me a pretty dress, and I will wear it. It will be the last thing I wear that I did not choose myself. And it will be the last time I eat macaroni and cheese. Today, I am going to start my plans. Today, I am going to begin my empire.

~

“Bit serious, are you?”

The window was open. The window was not supposed to be open. Marciana looked up, frowned, and then felt her frown deepen from mere irritation to true anger.

“You don’t belong here.”

“Oh, but let’s be honest, neither do you.” The girl in the window was green, her hair blue, her wings – she had wings, humans did not have nor need wings – purple. She looked like she’d been dropped in a tye-dye pot. “You know it. All those tidy little notes in your journal. Didn’t anyone tell you that the primary flaw of villains is monologuing? Get in the habit and they’ll never stop. I’m Arsenic, by the way.”

“Lovely villain name. And I’m not a villain. I’m a hero. See,” she gestured at the tower they were in. “The Tower of Truth? Heroes live here.”

“Heroes and their kids. And Arsenic isn’t my villain name, it’s my given name.”

“Who names their kid Arsenic?” Because she was a kid, as much as Marciana was, maybe-eighteen, probably-less.

“Who names the daughter of two heroes Marsha?”

“It’s Marciana.”

“It’s Marsha with a flourish. Seriously. They knew they were going to let you grow up in the public eye. They knew they were already thinking of little Parry when you were born. Why in the world would they name you Marsha? Did they want you to turn evil?”

It was too much like her own thoughts. She squinted at the tye-dyed fairy. “Are you another one like Szec Mzip Wrisverhmersl?”

“Szeccie? Little pink goblin? No, Marsha, I’m not reading your mind. I’m not a mirror of your conscience – not like that, at least.”

“Then what are you? I mean, other than a green intruder.” She should be hitting the panic button. She should be calling in the Truth Troops. But she wasn’t panicked, and she didn’t want to see the Troops. Not now. Not with what she was planning.

“I’m you.” She waved both hands, making a blur and whirring noise like a flying bug. “Not like that. Not like Szeccie or any of the mirror-universe imposters.”

“Imposters, what?”

“Nevermind that. You people in the Truth Tower are awfully bad at telling truth, that’s all I have to say on the matter. No, I’m what you were supposed to be.”

It only took a second. Marciana was bright, after all, and her entire life had been haunted by the specter of what she was supposed to be. “You’re Paradox Maverick.” Her hand was on her blaster before she finished the sentence.

“I was. I’m Arsenic right now.” The green girl shrugged, looking entirely undisturbed. “Did you get any powers?”

“I did.” She didn’t want to admit that. “You know I haven’t told anyone else?”

“Neither have I. Of course, I haven’t told anyone I’m their enemies’ favorite troublemaker, either. You think I ought to?”

“Will they believe you? Nobody believes that I’m not.”

“Which is funny, all things considered. They think I’m…well, half of them think I’m Szeccie’s kid. Including my mother.”

“Wait, your mother thinks you’re a world-shifter’s kid? Your mother…?”

“I might be. It would suit my other me. Look, are you going to shoot me or what?”

“Your other you, what?” She set the blaster down but kept her hand on it.

“I’m not all Peri. I’m Arsenic, but there’s this little voice in the back of my head that is, or used to be, Paradox. I mean, sometimes it’s the other way around and she takes over. But for the most part, I’m me. Sennie.”

“Sennie?”

“Well, ‘Arse’ is a stupid nickname, isn’t it? Marsha?”

“Marciana. Yeah.” She was smiling. When was the last time that had happened? “So… why are you here?” Quick, think about business.

“Well.” She sat down on Marciana’s clean desk, one foot on the journal, leaving a smudge of dirt over Marciana’s declaration of self-hood. “Half of me was homesick. The rest of me was sick of being there, not being what they wanted. Watching their confused faces…”

“While they try to figure out who this cuckoo in their nest is, what she’s planning, why she doesn’t fit in.” The words tumbled out. She was half-standing. She sat down again, mortified. “Oh, Fillzbot.”

“No, no, you’re right. Exactly. They know about you. They think you’re me, too. Or sometimes they think you’re her, one of theirs, that died.” She paused. “Are you?”

“As far as anyone can tell – and everyone has looked – there’s nobody in here but me. It might have been easier if I really was the enemy.”

“Well… my folks are the agents of world domination, and yours want to protect truth and light. How do we go about being enemies of both?”

“We?”

“Well, who else have we got?” The green girl’ smile was pink, very, very pink. “And maybe if you have someone to talk to, you’ll stop monologuing.”

“So we become…” She thought about it for a moment. “Chaos and order. Paradox and reason. We’re monkeywrenchers. We’re the ones who tell them when they’re all being stupid. We crash wild schemes and stupid plans and bad press conferences.”

“Awesome.” She held out one long-fingered hand. “You have a deal, partner.”

~

I was born to defy expectations.

We were. We were born to be nothing our parents wanted. We were born to be trouble in their sides. We were born to legends we didn’t ask for, habits we didn’t have. We were born to ask questions. All the questions.

We are Order and Chaos. We are Madness and Reason. We are the Wrench in the Machine, and today is our eighteenth birthday.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/363365.html. You can comment here or there.

Pride, a story of Bithrain (Reiassan) for the giraffe call (@lilfluff)

Jun28

For [personal profile] lilfluff‘s prompt. The Callanian language does not have an “f” sound.

Cairifan had learned early in his career that too much pride was a useless hindrance.

Pride in a job well done, yes. Pride in your people, yes. In your land, yes. Pride for pride’s sake would get you killed, sacked, jailed, or all three.

It had been easy enough when he had been Mayor of one of Bithrain’s biggest coastal cities. It had been harder when the Callennan overran the city, but then all he’d needed to focus on was putting out fires and keeping his city intact.

It was harder now. Cairifan bowed low to the Callennan officer overseeing his city. Not his city, anymore, not with the invaders everywhere, but Goulunder was still his home. “Your Ladyship.” He was glad he was not married. He would not want to describe this to a wife.

“Kairipan. You have the reports?” Her accent was clipped and short, making her sound angry even when she wasn’t.

“I have them, your Ladyship.” He set the slate down, the numbers written in Bitrani script and notated with pictured. Cairifan spoke about a hundred words of pidgin-Callenian. That number was increasing daily. Yesterday, he had learned “submit.” Again. He had trouble with that one.

She perused the slate, her finger hovering over the words and numbers. “Why so few goats?”

“Our herds have not been rebuilt yet.” He was not a livestock-herder. His people never had been; in between wars, they had hired Callennans to do that work.

“Tch. I will send someone to help. You will need more goats.”

“I? We?” He swallowed a lump of hope that was as dangerous as pride.

She leveled a look at him that he had no words for. No polite words, at least. From another man, it would have been a challenge. From her, he didn’t know. “You are a clever man, Kairipan. And this place is not my home.”

Her hand on his arm he understood well. He’d had secretaries before; he’d put his hand on their arm like that. Cairifan was very glad he was not married.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/360148.html. You can comment here or there.

Wild Horses, a story of Reiassan for the Giraffe Call (@inventrix)

Jun28

For [personal profile] inventrix‘s prompt.

“She’s playing with the horses again.”

Kakaya leaned out on the porch, watching their oldest daughter in the pasture behind their home. Her braids bounced on her back as she ran back and forth with the tiny, goat-like creatures, the biggest hardly bigger than their dog Guard.

“I worry that they’ll bite her.” Pokas had settled onto the porch as well, using the bright daylight to work on his carvings. Their high-valley house gave them access to the best wood for his work, but the herd of horses that shared the field and nearby forest-edges made him nervous.

“Their bite’s hardly as bad as a goat’s, and she’s been bitten by Loudmouth before. She’ll be fine.”

“But shouldn’t she be playing with other children? When I was her age…”

“I knew you then, Po. You can’t fib to me. When you were her age, you were off in the woods, playing with the trees.”

“The horses won’t give her a livelihood, the way the trees gave me.” He frowned to realize the goat he’d been carving had turned into a horse, with the long curved neck and the strange back legs. “And she’s been skipping her lessons again.”

“Well, that can’t stand. I’ll go get her.”

“Hunh. It looks like you don’t have to. She’s coming back.. and is that Loudmouth’s harness?”

“Can’t be. Maybe from when we had her kids?” Their daughter was heading into their goat pasture, leading two tiny horses in two tiny harnesses. They were prancing, turning their heads – but neither were attacking her. And they looked finer than the others, prettier, their spots almost symmetrical.

“I thought,” their daughter announced, “like we were learning about in class? Breeding goats for size and prettiness? These two are very pretty. They might pull a baby cart…?”

Kakaya and Pokas shared a look. Kakaya won the exchange, although both were picturing tiny horses for the rich country-visit set. Perhaps their daughter’s strange obsession with horses would provide, as Pokas’ with the forest had.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea, dear.” Pokas set his carved horse down behind himself. It would be a good winter gift for her.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/359896.html. You can comment here or there.

Hand-Shaking, a story of Rin & Girey for the June Giraffe Call

Jun28

For [personal profile] kelkyag‘s prompt(s)

This comes after everything posted in the Rin/Girey timeline.

There was a great deal of hand-shaking going on, and a good deal of bowing, and more than a little bit of staring.

Callennan weddings appeared to involve a good deal of talking. This part of the ceremony, where a Bitrani temple would be full of silence and reverence, was instead full of a good deal of milling about and chatting, sometimes directly interrupting the ceremony.

There were a thousand things on Girey’s mind, very few of them directly related to the wedding. Arinyanca’s parents had been talking, and when they weren’t talking, they were sending pointed looks. Her Uncle – and then some other relatives who she called Uncle as well – had been making his own set of pointed looks. In the heart of what passed for Callennan diplomacy, Girey would not be able to pass as “Girey of Tugia” forever, no matter how many times some rude Aunt or cousin suggested that “All Bitrani look the same. That nose, that silly hair.”

As a matter of fact, while Elin pledged her strength and her bow (That wasn’t in the priests’ book of vows), her saddle and her tent to her new groom, another probably-an-aunt was sniping about his hair.

“How do they do anything at all with that? No wonder they keep it short; it wouldn’t hold a braid for anything.”

He had grown up in the heart of Bitrani politics; Girey didn’t even show that he’d heard. But Rin did. Just a smile, a very sharp smile.

She shifted her hand so that she was holding his, the glittering band around his wrist clearly obvious. “Aunt Alunyez. Have you met my companion, Girey of Tugia?”

The look on the old woman’s face was worth every snipe about his hair.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/359573.html. You can comment here or there.

Goatless, a story of Steam!Reiassan for the Giraffe Call (@dahob)

Jun27

For [personal profile] imaginaryfiend‘s prompt and @dahob’s prompt

“It’s a prototype, of course.” Diryid ran his hands over the long shafts of his new machine. “And I still believe the river-boat was more practical. Our rivers and canals, after all, are smoother than our roads. But this will go, and if you stack the wood properly in the back by the boiler, and if you keep this little pocket here loaded with the proper fire-aether, it will go nearly as long as my river boat. Which is to say, it will get you easily from city to city in less time than a conventional carriage.”

He tightened a nut and burnished a shining piece of brass, smiling all the time at his audience. Finally, Syadaia cleared her throat.

“But what is it? I thought you were working on a dirigible?”

“Oh, that.” The engineer waved his hand in the air. “That is much easier, although its distance is, at the moment, more limited. We do not have a proper way, yet, to contain the most flammable aether. And wood weighs it down, you see. But it will go.”

They all looked over his head, where he was pointing, but they were in his garage, and there was nothing to be seen. It was Syadaia, youngest of the group, who was delegated by eye contact to ask, again.

“Where is the dirigible? And what is this… thing, Diryid? What does it do?”

“This. This is a goatless carriage. It will go, as I said, from Lannamer to the Arran cities in two-thirds the time it will take a two-goat conveyance. And, unlike that monstrosity your other contractor was working on, it will not blow up. Nor will it eat its passengers.”

“It never…!” Tallgua’s denial was only half-feigned. The “other contractor’s” conveyance hadn’t actually eaten anyone. But he’d been using wild aether. Nobody used wild aether in something that close to people!

“But the dirigible?”

“Dirigible, dirigible.” Diryid stomped his foot. “You will have your damn dirigible. But anyone can design one of those. This… this is my masterpiece, and you all will admire it.”

There seemed nothing to do but make the appropriate noises. They needed that dirigible, if their plans were to succeed. And to have the dirigible, it appeared, they needed… this.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/359150.html. You can comment here or there.

The Goat-Bride, a story of Reiassan pre-history, for the Giraffe call

Jun27

For [personal profile] clare_dragonfly‘s prompt.

Long ago and far away, when the Callanthe people had a different name and roamed far different hills, there lived the woman who was mother to the women and men who would not marry. She was called the Goat-Bride, and in her honor, every year, there are those who stand before the gods and swear their troth to their goats.

They will bear or seed no children, save those born to the festivals. Their home is the goat-pasture and the goat-tent. They stand with the herds when everyone else must stand with their family, and they sleep with their spear and their blade.

They serve as the first to fight and the last to fall, they serve as the spine of the people. There is no shame in standing as Goat-Bride or Goat-Groom. But when the first to do so stood there, the times were different.

Kyerzha stood to one side of Stinky, watching the tribe watch her.

“It’s time.” Daryas was one of the strongest men in the tribe. “The people need babies, to give them strength”

“The people need the goats, to give them feet, to give them wind, to give them food and milk, wool and leather.” She turned her back on Daryas.

“It’s time.” Talgub was one of the cleverest hunters in the tribe. “The children are the future of our tribe.”

“The herd is our future, and its kids, as much as our children. The goats need watching when they come to term; they need guiding when they are ready to be bred” She turned her back on Talgub.

“It’s time.” Puhntozh was the oldest and wisest of the tribe. “Every goat must bend its neck to harness and every tribesmember must bend to responsibility.”

“There are goats we do not ride, but set to stud. There are goats we do not use to pull a plow but instead use for milk. There are those we do not use for wool, but ride them into battle.” She turned her back on Puhntozh.

“You turn your back on your tribe.” Kesaku was her mother, and she was angry.

“I turn my back on the road that leads no-where, to the road that leads somewhere fruitful. That is all.”

And that was all, though it took her family many years to understand.

more here

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/358759.html. You can comment here or there.

Every Gift, a story of Steam!Callenia for the Giraffe Call

Jun27

To fflox‘s prompt

Some time after Road Map

If there was one situation in everyday life where everyone seemed to have a need to get involved it was weddings.

And the problem was, in this case, Katyebah and Larzhal couldn’t find a way to deny any of them.

They were providing the land for their house – not traditional, but when Katyebah and Onton had, with Larzhal’s help, designed a plan to widen Lannamer’s worst traffic intersections, they had necessitated the semi-demolition of several buildings. One of those lots – now holding half of a former Education Bureau facility – had been deeded to Katyebah and Onton for their service.

Onton, in a rare move of complete generosity, had gifted his half to Katyebah and Larzhal as a wedding gift (until then, they hadn’t realized they were getting married, although everyone around them knew it). And the Education Bureau, grateful for the excuse to rebuild, had donated the services of their builder for a week of time.

All that was left were the designs to turn a half a building on a small lot into a full home.

And there, well, everyone had an opinion. Onton, who had given the land, had spent half a day scribbling on plans, adding “improvements.” At least he was an engineer. The happy couple’s parents, who by tradition would have provided the land and the building, had any number of ideas and input, most of which were completely unsuitable.

As the sun set, two days before the builder would arrive, Katyebah and Larzhal stared at the notes, the gifts, and the two pieces of useful input their families had provided.

“Double walls on the windward face.” Larzhal’s uncle Bantas has drawn in the lines with smooth, engineer’s-hand lines. “It’s facing the road, so it will block sound and protect you in the winter.”

“I got an overshipment of these blue tiles. It’s not enough for the whole roof.” Katybah’s aunt Gelah had dropped the cartons with a loud thump. “But you could do some sort of design.”

Katybah’s pencil was wandering, sketching designs suggesting wind and sea. The ancient building had good lines and sturdy walls, those that were left. The double wall would close in the building, and the tiles…

“Block the wind and bless it over with a prayer?” Larzhal smiled. “Always practical.”

“Always using every gift. That’s the tradition, after all.” She leaned against his arms, and considered the turret Onton wanted them to install.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/358516.html. You can comment here or there.

On Giraffes and such

Jun27

I will leave the June Mini-Giraffe Call (LJ) open until 11 EST this morning!

Don’t know anything about Reiassan? The setting spans 1500 years, from a dark-and-gritty war-torn pre-medieval society to a high fantasy setting to a steampunk era. Two warring nations inhabit a continent, the constrained and conservative Bitrani to the south, the warlike goat-herding former nomadic Callenians to the North, warring over territory, religion, and the magic-carrying síra they mine from the earth.

Many aspects of fantasy, steampunk, and Roman-era living are present here, although possibly in different forms than that you’re used to

~

The Linkback Story (LJ) has been updated with most, but not all, of the current linkbacks, donations, and prompts.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/358342.html. You can comment here or there.

Change of Power, a story of Reiassan for the June Giraffe Call @Rix_Scaedu

Jun26

To [personal profile] rix_scaedu‘s prompt. Set two three rulers before the Rin & Girey stories.

The preparations for coronation were excessive, intensive, exhaustive, and boring. Ankahbena nursed her youngest child while, around her, half of the palace fluttered around like goat kids out to pasture for the first time. Three tailors worked on the Imperial robes, around her, around Iladeta, fitting over her bare breast.

Ankahbena had been a mother for far longer than she’d been an Empress. Her grandfather had fought his battles young and then enjoyed a very long life; four heirs had died before her, while she had served in his Army and taught at his University, married and given birth to children and seen them off to the Army as well.

“Mother.” Her oldest son bowed deeply in front of her.

“Aby.” She shifted Ila, brushing away a maid with her free hand. She could still do this for herself, if nothing else.

“I asked Ukyenna if she would accept a marriage contract, if you and Father, and her parents, are amenable.”

“Ukya…?” She had seven sons, three daughters, and, to date, four grandchildren. She had a long piece of paper with all of their important information written down. She could not remember Ukyenna anywhere on the list.

“She’s a distant cousin, descended from a younger sister of Empress Ellanasia. She’s very pretty.” He sounded a bit defensive, there. “And very smart. And… she understands the palace.”

“Ah.” She studied her most ambitious child for a moment. “You think she will make a good mother to the next Emperor.”

“I do.” He tilted his head in submission. “But the choice is yours, Mother.”

She snapped her hand, trying not to hit the tailor who was still trying to fit the inner sleeve properly. The choices were all hers, now. And if her sons followed tradition and cloistered their wives, in a decade she would be the only woman in the nation with any choice. “Let me meet this girl.” Maybe she could talk some sense into Aby.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/358030.html. You can comment here or there.

Rub a Coin, a story of Reiassan for @anke, for the mini-giraffe Call

Jun26

For [personal profile] anke‘s prompt. A tien and a vieg are two units of currency, roughly a penny and a dollar (A vieg is worth a loaf of bread).

“Rub a coin.” Gettar passed over a tien coin to Polla. “Rub a coin, and toss it in the holy fountain.”

His little sister rubbed the coin between two fingers until the metal and the inlain stone were warm to the touch, despite the cooling days. “Why?”

“If you rub it while thinking of something good, the stone holds the thought, and takes it to the gods.” He rubbed his, his lips moving in the way they did. Cantya. Polla knew he was thinking of Cantya, the tanner’s daughter with the eyes like coal. She was all he ever thought about, lately.

Talgya. She mouthed the word as she rubbed the coin warm, and again as she tossed the coin into the fountain. Talgya. It might work.

~

The kids were throwing tien coins and pieces of bone into the fountain, their faces twisted in concentration.

“Rub a coin.” Polla passed the vieg to Talgya. “Something my brother taught me, when I was under-goat tall. “Think of your wish, and the sira in the coin will send it to the gods.”

“Does it work?” The veteran took the vieg, pinching it between two fingers of the hand she had left. Polla knew what she was thinking, like she’d always know who was on Gettar’s mind. It was easy. Gettar. Bring him back to us.

She pinched her own vieg. Getta. Senan. Attorora. Bring them back to us. Bring them home.

She tossed the coin into the fountain, high over the heads of the children. “It brought you home, every time.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/357686.html. You can comment here or there.