The sky is in that state of extended twilight you only get with heavy cloud cover - the grey has steadily darkened, but it's not dark enough yet for the sodium lights to come on and make everything that surreal shade of orange. I'm in my dream city - a gothic metropolis that combines elements of all the places I've lived as well as a few places I've only seen in this parallel life. Or in games. A lot of it looks like how I'd imagine Metropolis would look in _Kult_, only without all the aforementioned inside-out monsters, and because of the rain it feels a lot like The City in _A/State_. Huge, glittering skyscrapers of glass and steel and black marble are standing right next to disintegrating brick warehouses. The streets are a foot deep in water, and at the right angle you can see swirls of oilslick drifting across the surface.
I'm wading down an alley with six people. I don't know them, because we're all wearing helmets with mirrored faceplates and heavy rubber suits. I suspect the rain might be the reason for all the protective gear. There's nobody else outside, but I can see a few people looking out of darkened windows or moving behind lit ones. We're carrying long metal staffs with flashing lights on them. They seem to be something between a weapon and a metal detector, because the one the guy (?) at the front of the line is carrying starts strobing, and we all stop. Someone else turns on a light attached to her (?) helmet and shines it down through the water. There's a trap door in the middle of the street. It has a lock holding it in place, but when I poke at the lock with my staff it crumbles. I reach down and grab the edge of the door, but it's heavy and the hinges aren't in the best of shape. So we stand there and pound on the thing with the staffs. Each time they connect, sparks briefly flash under the greasy water.
When it finally breaks, all the water in the street rushes to fill the hole. One of the others gets swept over the edge, but the rest of us brace our feet and manage to stay upright. The person with the light cautiously looks into the hole. Apart from the guy lying at the bottom and the water we let in, the shaft is pristine - the walls are white tile and the floor of the tunnel at the bottom looks like brushed steel. It's really brightly lit, too, although the water broke all the light fixtures in the shaft itself, we can see the tunnel clearly. The guy at the bottom struggles to his feet and beckons for the rest of us to come down. There's a ladder attached to the wall opposite the broken light fixtures. So we go down.
7.12.06
Dramatis Personae
So... I'm working on a batch of pre-gen characters for a Kult/WoD crossover one-(and possibly more)-off I'd like to run sometime when one of our regular Thursday night crew is at his monthly writers' circle whatsit. After a good long think, I decided to pretty much run with the WoD mechanics system, because I know it reasonably well, all the players know it probably more than reasonably well, and I simply can't be arsed to memorize the Kult system or keep looking things up every time someone picks a fight. In any case, on the rare occasions I actually run games, I tend to play pretty loosely around the rules anyway, because a lot of times rules get in the way of a good story.
The main changes are going to be that I'll be bringing back nature and demeanour from the old WoD system in addition to the new virtue/vice pair. Virtue and vice will still be used for regaining willpower, but I think nature and demeanour are much more useful for describing what a character is actually like as a person. I'm also turfing morality in favour of the mental balance system from Kult. Think of it this way - in this game, a mental balance of zero is roughly equivalent to a standard morality of seven. A lower mental balance generally goes with a lower morality, but it's possible to have a pretty low mental balance and not actually do anything to anyone else. Having a twisted, fucked-up soul doesn't necessarily entail acting like a fucking psycho, but it does mean that your motivations for even straightforward acts are increasingly less comprehensible to "normal" people the further the balance drops. Positive mental balance works the same way, although it takes a proportionately higher mental balance before the character is no longer able to pass as "normal". Even so, just because someone has a high mental balance, it doesn't mean they're necessarily a more compassionate or charitable person. They might just be so detached from the muck and filth of "the world" that they can witness atrocities with supreme detachment. I think it's a little more interesting and considerable less limiting than just having a straight ten-point scale based on conventional western moral/legal codes. Realistically though, unless someone makes a concentrated effort (yeah, Mal, I'm looking at you) to tip themselves over the edge one way or the other, I don't see characters going any farther from zero than plus or minus 10. At least not in the first session, anyway.
I'm also going to be borrowing heavily from the magic system in Kult, although again, I don't see this being relevant in the first session. Everyone's going to start off as just regular people, because in order to practice magic in Kult, you have to be pretty fucked in the head to start with, and in order to learn the techniques you have to a) find, and b) interact with people who are even crazier than you. This isn't just waking up to something that was there all along - this is deliberately becoming something more (or frequently less) than human.
One of the things I'm going to seriously tone down from the Kult material is all the multiple-legged, organs-on-the-outside, asymmetrical monstrosities populating the supplementary materials. I think the monsters kind of detract from the central theme of Kult, which is that every single person has the potential to become a god or a demon. Considering the heights (and depths) of himan behaviour in real life, holding out this possibility of godhood and then dumping in a bunch of drooling things with claws and mandibles seems to be seriously missing the point. So no goddamn monsters. Or at least not many, and if there are monsters, they're there because some human was evil enough (or stupid and unlucky enough) to attract their attention.
So... on with the character descriptions. You'll note that there are no stats provided. I want players to choose their character based entirely on the persona they want to play, rather than considering strategic advantages like skill in firearms, strength, ass-kicking ability and so on. You should know by now that I don't like killing characters. Think of it as Feng Shui (no, you don't get Gun Fu) - it'd be a pretty crap movie if the protagonists got ganked. Unless they did something outrageously stupid that would require a karmic boot-fucking by way of bloody violent death. Nice thing about Kult is, even if you die, you're not necessarily our of the game.
The Psychiatrist
Virtue: Justice
Vice: Lust
Nature: Autocrat
Demeanor: Caregiver
[Mechanism: Denial]
Mental Balance = -6
This isn't the sort of therapist you'd want to see if you had serious mental health problems. Or any sort of mental health problems. Doesn't provide therapy so much as exhaust his clients over a period of months or years, then gives them a prescription for mood stabilizers so they don't notice that their underlying non-chemical problems are still there. Has recurring nightmares about his reflection coming out of the mirror and eviscerating him, but thinks it indicates he's got some unresolved issues with his mother. Is romantically involved with a former patient. Despite being seriously fucked in the head, he's got a very good professional reputation, mainly for his expertise in treating "difficult" adolescents.
The Artist
Virtue: Charity
Vice: Sloth
Nature: Visionary
Demeanor: Gallant
[Mechanism: Sublimation]
Mental Balance = +6
The Artist has gained local (and to some extent, national) fame/notoreity for his paintings, which have been compared to the works of Francis Bacon, Salvador Dali, and Attila Richard Lukacs, generally followed by "only creepier". Most people whose first exposure to him is through his art are terribly surprised at how generally decent and well-adjusted he turns out to be in person. In fact, he attracts would-be lovers of both sexes like honey attracts flies, but most end up being put off by his lifestyle, which allows time for very little other than painting and as little promotion as his agent lets him get away with. Reportedly only sleeps four hours a night.
The Priest
Virtue: Faith (surprise!)
Vice: Pride
Nature: Martyr
Demeanor: Pedagogue
[Mechanism: Confrontation]
Mental Balance = +6
If his friends (see other characters) are to be believed, the Priest has not raised his voice since he was 14. Ministers to the few regular parishoners at a once-beautiful stone church in the downtown core, but mainly keeps it open at night for the local homeless population. Is currently in the third year of his novitiate to the S.J. The Priest is honest, honourable, decent, and the sort of guy who (were he not celibate) you'd want to take home to meet the folks. For all that, he's constantly surprised, in light of past events, that he doesn't burst into flames from the inside whenever he takes communion. Quite probably the only priest in Calgary who has the exorcism rite memorized.
The Criminal
Virtue: Fortitude
Vice: Envy
Nature: Penitent
Demeanor: Competitor
[Mechanism: Denial]
Mental Balance = -7
Apart from the nightmares about co-workers suddenly metamorphosing into Kafkaesque insect entites, he's fine. Really. And that accounting glitch last month? He's talked to IT about that several times now and they always swear they've got it straightened out. He'll look into it ASAP. Thinks he's a lot better adjusted than his former classmates, who keep talking about that thing they did one summer like it was some sort of sanity-shattering thing. It was just a stupid game, right?
The main changes are going to be that I'll be bringing back nature and demeanour from the old WoD system in addition to the new virtue/vice pair. Virtue and vice will still be used for regaining willpower, but I think nature and demeanour are much more useful for describing what a character is actually like as a person. I'm also turfing morality in favour of the mental balance system from Kult. Think of it this way - in this game, a mental balance of zero is roughly equivalent to a standard morality of seven. A lower mental balance generally goes with a lower morality, but it's possible to have a pretty low mental balance and not actually do anything to anyone else. Having a twisted, fucked-up soul doesn't necessarily entail acting like a fucking psycho, but it does mean that your motivations for even straightforward acts are increasingly less comprehensible to "normal" people the further the balance drops. Positive mental balance works the same way, although it takes a proportionately higher mental balance before the character is no longer able to pass as "normal". Even so, just because someone has a high mental balance, it doesn't mean they're necessarily a more compassionate or charitable person. They might just be so detached from the muck and filth of "the world" that they can witness atrocities with supreme detachment. I think it's a little more interesting and considerable less limiting than just having a straight ten-point scale based on conventional western moral/legal codes. Realistically though, unless someone makes a concentrated effort (yeah, Mal, I'm looking at you) to tip themselves over the edge one way or the other, I don't see characters going any farther from zero than plus or minus 10. At least not in the first session, anyway.
I'm also going to be borrowing heavily from the magic system in Kult, although again, I don't see this being relevant in the first session. Everyone's going to start off as just regular people, because in order to practice magic in Kult, you have to be pretty fucked in the head to start with, and in order to learn the techniques you have to a) find, and b) interact with people who are even crazier than you. This isn't just waking up to something that was there all along - this is deliberately becoming something more (or frequently less) than human.
One of the things I'm going to seriously tone down from the Kult material is all the multiple-legged, organs-on-the-outside, asymmetrical monstrosities populating the supplementary materials. I think the monsters kind of detract from the central theme of Kult, which is that every single person has the potential to become a god or a demon. Considering the heights (and depths) of himan behaviour in real life, holding out this possibility of godhood and then dumping in a bunch of drooling things with claws and mandibles seems to be seriously missing the point. So no goddamn monsters. Or at least not many, and if there are monsters, they're there because some human was evil enough (or stupid and unlucky enough) to attract their attention.
So... on with the character descriptions. You'll note that there are no stats provided. I want players to choose their character based entirely on the persona they want to play, rather than considering strategic advantages like skill in firearms, strength, ass-kicking ability and so on. You should know by now that I don't like killing characters. Think of it as Feng Shui (no, you don't get Gun Fu) - it'd be a pretty crap movie if the protagonists got ganked. Unless they did something outrageously stupid that would require a karmic boot-fucking by way of bloody violent death. Nice thing about Kult is, even if you die, you're not necessarily our of the game.
The Psychiatrist
Virtue: Justice
Vice: Lust
Nature: Autocrat
Demeanor: Caregiver
[Mechanism: Denial]
Mental Balance = -6
This isn't the sort of therapist you'd want to see if you had serious mental health problems. Or any sort of mental health problems. Doesn't provide therapy so much as exhaust his clients over a period of months or years, then gives them a prescription for mood stabilizers so they don't notice that their underlying non-chemical problems are still there. Has recurring nightmares about his reflection coming out of the mirror and eviscerating him, but thinks it indicates he's got some unresolved issues with his mother. Is romantically involved with a former patient. Despite being seriously fucked in the head, he's got a very good professional reputation, mainly for his expertise in treating "difficult" adolescents.
The Artist
Virtue: Charity
Vice: Sloth
Nature: Visionary
Demeanor: Gallant
[Mechanism: Sublimation]
Mental Balance = +6
The Artist has gained local (and to some extent, national) fame/notoreity for his paintings, which have been compared to the works of Francis Bacon, Salvador Dali, and Attila Richard Lukacs, generally followed by "only creepier". Most people whose first exposure to him is through his art are terribly surprised at how generally decent and well-adjusted he turns out to be in person. In fact, he attracts would-be lovers of both sexes like honey attracts flies, but most end up being put off by his lifestyle, which allows time for very little other than painting and as little promotion as his agent lets him get away with. Reportedly only sleeps four hours a night.
The Priest
Virtue: Faith (surprise!)
Vice: Pride
Nature: Martyr
Demeanor: Pedagogue
[Mechanism: Confrontation]
Mental Balance = +6
If his friends (see other characters) are to be believed, the Priest has not raised his voice since he was 14. Ministers to the few regular parishoners at a once-beautiful stone church in the downtown core, but mainly keeps it open at night for the local homeless population. Is currently in the third year of his novitiate to the S.J. The Priest is honest, honourable, decent, and the sort of guy who (were he not celibate) you'd want to take home to meet the folks. For all that, he's constantly surprised, in light of past events, that he doesn't burst into flames from the inside whenever he takes communion. Quite probably the only priest in Calgary who has the exorcism rite memorized.
The Criminal
Virtue: Fortitude
Vice: Envy
Nature: Penitent
Demeanor: Competitor
[Mechanism: Denial]
Mental Balance = -7
Apart from the nightmares about co-workers suddenly metamorphosing into Kafkaesque insect entites, he's fine. Really. And that accounting glitch last month? He's talked to IT about that several times now and they always swear they've got it straightened out. He'll look into it ASAP. Thinks he's a lot better adjusted than his former classmates, who keep talking about that thing they did one summer like it was some sort of sanity-shattering thing. It was just a stupid game, right?
15.11.06
That's Just Sad...
When X. let Hobbes (one of our cats) out into the yard for a wander on Saturday, he got into a scuffle with a squirrel and lost. X. claimed it was more of a draw, as both parties eventually fled in opposite directions, but I'm inclined to agree with Mal's assessment of the situation.
"You've got a predator, you've got a prey animal. Only one of them should be running away, and not the one with the sharp teeth and claws."
I'm just glad he's never been afforded the opportunity to chase after one of the local rabbits, which are even bigger and probably a lot nastier.
"You've got a predator, you've got a prey animal. Only one of them should be running away, and not the one with the sharp teeth and claws."
I'm just glad he's never been afforded the opportunity to chase after one of the local rabbits, which are even bigger and probably a lot nastier.
10.11.06
Ah, it is to laugh...
Man... the things you miss when battling the Western Mongolian Hacking Death. I only just heard about this yesterday - to think I could have been basking in the warm fuzzy glow of some major schadenfreude all week. Still, better late than never.
Let me be clear - I am well aware that university is the last place where you can indulge in serious binge drinking without suffering any more significant consequences than the simultaneous precipitous decline of your GPA and your bank balance. I majored in philosophy, after all. But philosophers, engineers, political science majors, and nurses (just to name a few faculties infamous for party-animal tendencies) generally don't engage in this sort of behaviour at a $300.00/night hotel where you're supposed to dress up for dinner. Considering these people have to wear suits to class, you'd think they could be relied upon to behave a little more decorously in public.
Mind you, given what I've seen of the private sector (especially anyone involved in sales, and especially during Stampede), I suppose I shouldn't really be all that surprised. I'm sure a lot of business deals are negotiated in favour of whichever party is better able to hold their liquor. Honestly, the people I feel most sorry for are the police, who really have better things to do than chase down a bunch of drunken idiots; the other hotel guests, who were probably having a nice quiet mountain holiday before the management students showed up; and the hotel staff, who are in all likelihood still cleaning vomit out of the carpet and steaming pot smoke out of the drapes.
And then people wonder why the service sector is chronically understaffed?
Let me be clear - I am well aware that university is the last place where you can indulge in serious binge drinking without suffering any more significant consequences than the simultaneous precipitous decline of your GPA and your bank balance. I majored in philosophy, after all. But philosophers, engineers, political science majors, and nurses (just to name a few faculties infamous for party-animal tendencies) generally don't engage in this sort of behaviour at a $300.00/night hotel where you're supposed to dress up for dinner. Considering these people have to wear suits to class, you'd think they could be relied upon to behave a little more decorously in public.
Mind you, given what I've seen of the private sector (especially anyone involved in sales, and especially during Stampede), I suppose I shouldn't really be all that surprised. I'm sure a lot of business deals are negotiated in favour of whichever party is better able to hold their liquor. Honestly, the people I feel most sorry for are the police, who really have better things to do than chase down a bunch of drunken idiots; the other hotel guests, who were probably having a nice quiet mountain holiday before the management students showed up; and the hotel staff, who are in all likelihood still cleaning vomit out of the carpet and steaming pot smoke out of the drapes.
And then people wonder why the service sector is chronically understaffed?
3.11.06
Lesser of Two Evils
Is it just me, or does anyone else think there's something fundamentally (no pun intended) fucked about the fact that Ted Haggard (president of the U.S. National Association of Evangelicals) would prefer to have people think he's a tweaker than think he's gay?
18.10.06
Firene: Precipitation
"It'll be all right, 'Rine. I'll look after you."
His mother smiles at her in a manner which is probably meant to be supportive but just looks strained. She's barely spoken five words since they discharged her from the hospital.
"You're welcome in our house, Firene. Valeri has told us so much about you. Is there anything we can do to help?"
She frowns slightly. Her gaze sharpens and focuses on Mrs. Oslawski's face.
"I want to go to Longshore University."
* * * * * * *
"Omberwell? As in Drake Omberwell's daughter?"
She nods, startled by the old herrprofessor's sudden show of interest.
"Well, this does cast things in a different light, does it not? Your father was something of a celebrity among chemists. Almost an alchemist, one might say, hmm?"
Firene has no idea what he's talking about, and it evidently shows on her face.
"From the last few articles he submitted and the preliminary results he shared with some of our mutual colleagues... Drake Omberwell was on the verge of doing some truly spectacular things with metals. I cannot, you understand, share many details with you... walls having ears and so forth, you know... But then perhaps you could tell me what it was he was doing better than I could tell you anyway."
"No, Herrprofessor. I regret that my education was somewhat curtailed by events beyond my control. I have some knowledge of chemistry and metallurgy, but I was not privy to..."
She trails off, blinking hard and biting down on her tongue to keep from crying.
"A pity, a pity. Truly. Still, if you'd managed to salvage any of his research notes, anything at all... You'd find yourself in quite an advantageous position. And I would be more than willing to act as a broker so you would not be forced to deal with... unsavoury characters who might think to put undue pressure on you in your current delicate state."
She stares at him blankly again.
"Forgive me, my dear. Allow me to speak more plainly. According to corporate protocol, your father's research materials, had they survived the fire, would revert to Arclight. And I am certain that if you assisted them, Arclight would make sure you, as Drake Omberwell's only surviving heir, would be well looked after. They might even be willing to pay your tuition at Longshore. But there might be other parties who would be willing to offer more. Gorunna, for instance..."
She stands suddenly.
"Sir, if I were in possession of my father's notes, which I assure you I am not, there would be no question whatsoever regarding their disposal. I would not dream to betray The Company and my father's memory by selling his work to the highest bidder. But this is a futile discussion, because as I have already stated, I do not have them."
"Ah. Well, then, do forgive my indelicacy, Miss Omberwell. I am sure that the Registrar will be able to assist you with the application process and payment of tuition. Perhaps I shall see you in some of my classes. Good day."
* * * * * * *
"You must be joking."
"What? Why?"
"Your application is in order, and you passed the entrance exams, which - no disrespect intended - somewhat surprised me, considering your lack of formal education. In fact, you scored higher than many applicants who have attended school. But you appear to be unable to afford even a single semester's tuition."
"That can't be right. Please, check again."
He types in the codes on the filthy banknotes with exaggerated care.
"Nothing. In fact, your parents appear to be in a spot of trouble with their bank - the account is overdrawn for a significant amount."
Firene makes a conscious effort to slow her breathing.
"All right. I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding. Would you be so good as to provide me with directions to the bank, sir?"
* * * * * * *
"Ooh - innit pretty?"
A painfully thin boy steps out of the alley to her left, and when she turns to face him she hears scuffling behind her. The edge of his rusty knife is the only thing that shines.
"You lost or somefing, sweetmeat? Or you looking for someone, eh?"
She feels something behind her catch at her skirts, hears fabric tearing.
"Sweetmeat's slumming, Chaz! And she brung prezzies, see?"
Hands snatch at the jewelry box. She pulls back sharply and trips over the torn edges of her skirts.
"Well well well... Prezzies first, or playtime? Whatchu think, lads?"
He lowers the knife and pretends to be lost in thought. He's somewhat surprised when Firene screams, kicks him in the shins, and starts running. But only for a moment.
"Ey - no fair! We din't call a hunt!"
She keeps running and tosses a couple of the now-worthless banknotes behind her to distract them. A couple of them stop, but the remainder, including Chaz, seem to find the pursuit much more entertaining. Still, she's better fed and healthier than they are, so she manages to outdistance them. Then she rounds a corner into another alley and finds the other end choked with debris. She hears shouts and catcalls and the pounding of their feet as they approach, and then decides to try to climb the pile of rubbish at the end of the alley.
She tumbles down a few seconds later, opens her mouth to scream...
And realizes she can't hear anything.
In a way, the silence is almost more terrifying. She turns around and sees a man standing in the alley mouth. He's taller than the young toughs were, thin, but wiry-looking. He's covered in blood. She releases her breath, which comes out as a startled but disappointingly decorous shriek.
"Five on one. Tha's hardly a fair go, especially when you're just a little thing."
She stares at him, frozen in shock.
"You should go have y'self a drink. Steady your nerves, like."
He turns to walk away, clearly not expecting any thanks.
"Be seeing you."
"Wait!"
He stops and stares at her as she stumbles over.
"Please... will you help me?"
She opens the charred box. Her mother's jewels glitter in the dim light. He looks at them, then looks back at her, appraisingly.
"Reckon we ought to talk about this somewhere a little more private. And you still look like you could stand a drink. Come on, then."
His mother smiles at her in a manner which is probably meant to be supportive but just looks strained. She's barely spoken five words since they discharged her from the hospital.
"You're welcome in our house, Firene. Valeri has told us so much about you. Is there anything we can do to help?"
She frowns slightly. Her gaze sharpens and focuses on Mrs. Oslawski's face.
"I want to go to Longshore University."
* * * * * * *
"Omberwell? As in Drake Omberwell's daughter?"
She nods, startled by the old herrprofessor's sudden show of interest.
"Well, this does cast things in a different light, does it not? Your father was something of a celebrity among chemists. Almost an alchemist, one might say, hmm?"
Firene has no idea what he's talking about, and it evidently shows on her face.
"From the last few articles he submitted and the preliminary results he shared with some of our mutual colleagues... Drake Omberwell was on the verge of doing some truly spectacular things with metals. I cannot, you understand, share many details with you... walls having ears and so forth, you know... But then perhaps you could tell me what it was he was doing better than I could tell you anyway."
"No, Herrprofessor. I regret that my education was somewhat curtailed by events beyond my control. I have some knowledge of chemistry and metallurgy, but I was not privy to..."
She trails off, blinking hard and biting down on her tongue to keep from crying.
"A pity, a pity. Truly. Still, if you'd managed to salvage any of his research notes, anything at all... You'd find yourself in quite an advantageous position. And I would be more than willing to act as a broker so you would not be forced to deal with... unsavoury characters who might think to put undue pressure on you in your current delicate state."
She stares at him blankly again.
"Forgive me, my dear. Allow me to speak more plainly. According to corporate protocol, your father's research materials, had they survived the fire, would revert to Arclight. And I am certain that if you assisted them, Arclight would make sure you, as Drake Omberwell's only surviving heir, would be well looked after. They might even be willing to pay your tuition at Longshore. But there might be other parties who would be willing to offer more. Gorunna, for instance..."
She stands suddenly.
"Sir, if I were in possession of my father's notes, which I assure you I am not, there would be no question whatsoever regarding their disposal. I would not dream to betray The Company and my father's memory by selling his work to the highest bidder. But this is a futile discussion, because as I have already stated, I do not have them."
"Ah. Well, then, do forgive my indelicacy, Miss Omberwell. I am sure that the Registrar will be able to assist you with the application process and payment of tuition. Perhaps I shall see you in some of my classes. Good day."
* * * * * * *
"You must be joking."
"What? Why?"
"Your application is in order, and you passed the entrance exams, which - no disrespect intended - somewhat surprised me, considering your lack of formal education. In fact, you scored higher than many applicants who have attended school. But you appear to be unable to afford even a single semester's tuition."
"That can't be right. Please, check again."
He types in the codes on the filthy banknotes with exaggerated care.
"Nothing. In fact, your parents appear to be in a spot of trouble with their bank - the account is overdrawn for a significant amount."
Firene makes a conscious effort to slow her breathing.
"All right. I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding. Would you be so good as to provide me with directions to the bank, sir?"
* * * * * * *
"Ooh - innit pretty?"
A painfully thin boy steps out of the alley to her left, and when she turns to face him she hears scuffling behind her. The edge of his rusty knife is the only thing that shines.
"You lost or somefing, sweetmeat? Or you looking for someone, eh?"
She feels something behind her catch at her skirts, hears fabric tearing.
"Sweetmeat's slumming, Chaz! And she brung prezzies, see?"
Hands snatch at the jewelry box. She pulls back sharply and trips over the torn edges of her skirts.
"Well well well... Prezzies first, or playtime? Whatchu think, lads?"
He lowers the knife and pretends to be lost in thought. He's somewhat surprised when Firene screams, kicks him in the shins, and starts running. But only for a moment.
"Ey - no fair! We din't call a hunt!"
She keeps running and tosses a couple of the now-worthless banknotes behind her to distract them. A couple of them stop, but the remainder, including Chaz, seem to find the pursuit much more entertaining. Still, she's better fed and healthier than they are, so she manages to outdistance them. Then she rounds a corner into another alley and finds the other end choked with debris. She hears shouts and catcalls and the pounding of their feet as they approach, and then decides to try to climb the pile of rubbish at the end of the alley.
She tumbles down a few seconds later, opens her mouth to scream...
And realizes she can't hear anything.
In a way, the silence is almost more terrifying. She turns around and sees a man standing in the alley mouth. He's taller than the young toughs were, thin, but wiry-looking. He's covered in blood. She releases her breath, which comes out as a startled but disappointingly decorous shriek.
"Five on one. Tha's hardly a fair go, especially when you're just a little thing."
She stares at him, frozen in shock.
"You should go have y'self a drink. Steady your nerves, like."
He turns to walk away, clearly not expecting any thanks.
"Be seeing you."
"Wait!"
He stops and stares at her as she stumbles over.
"Please... will you help me?"
She opens the charred box. Her mother's jewels glitter in the dim light. He looks at them, then looks back at her, appraisingly.
"Reckon we ought to talk about this somewhere a little more private. And you still look like you could stand a drink. Come on, then."
13.10.06
Firene: Crucible
"'Rine! Over here!"
She looks around carefully. Shasta and Valeri and a few other people she vaguely remembers from the Palova are waving wildly at her from a small table at one of the crowded floating cafes clustered by the canal bank. She lifts her skirts delicately and steps onto the barge to join them, a rare smile crossing her solemn face.
"Here, try some of this."
"What is it?"
"Edge. Just try it, you'll like it."
* * * * * * *
She's never realized how colourful the city was at night. There's just the faintest whisper of a breeze up here on the observation platform, and the surrounding buildings are all lit up, each with slightly different-coloured lights, bathing her and Valeri in a hazy glow. It's been the sort of night that Firene's only experienced second-hand in vidstories - her friends surrounding her, the brilliant, witty conversation, and Valeri...
As they walk along the canal, he brushes a strand of hair away from her face and kisses her.
Her father is waiting at the door. She notices the grey streaking his black hair and the lines etched into his face on either side of his mouth, and then the sterile whiteness of his work clothes washes over her, stealing the colour from her surroundings. Dimly, she notices that Valeri's dropped her hand and beat a hasty retreat.
* * * * * * *
"Where the blaze were you?" Shasta hisses.
"Sorry," Firene mutters, dumping her dogskin cape in the back of the water taxi and struggling out of her heavy overdress. The boatman studiously prentends not to notice.
"Your da shutter you again or something?"
"More or less. I'm still shuttered from that business tennight ago with Val, but that's not what he was on a fury about this time. Teddy, bless his dim little head, decided that tonight was the time to tell Da he wanted to be a Brigadier. You can just vis how well that went."
Shasta covers her mouth with a gloved hand. "Oh Builder. How long did he crash on for?"
Firene balances a row of small pots across her knees, daubing metallic dust along her cheekbones and at the corners of her eyes before smearing purple waxstick across her lips. "About an hour. Or felt like, anyway. After that he piped about three or four though, so he was walled out by the time I left."
"Want some Escape?"
"Hah. Does the rain fall black in Dreamingspires?"
* * * * * * *
The klaxon cuts through the landscape of her dreams. The twinking lights slowly resolve into flashing emergency beacons and the flickering glow of flames. Her house is on fire.
Her house is on fire.
Firene stumbles forward in the wake of a team of Clearwater Emergency Personnel carrying a battering ram. The heat barely registers on her consciousness, although her father's lab and the library are completely ablaze. The remainder of the house seems relatively intact, albeit filling up with acrid smoke. She walks upstairs like a sleepwalker, idly noting Ester's bloody corpse in the hallway. She turns in slow motion and sees Tedwin huddled in the space between his bed and the small worktable their father built for his birthday this year. Then she sees the awkward way his head is twisted around.
She's still screaming when the fire crew hauls her downstairs.
* * * * * * *
"Miss."
She stares at the wall. The medic clears his throat awkwardly.
"Miss Omberwell."
He shifts, opens his mouth, closes it again. She stopped screaming when they administered the sedative, but this leaden silence is almost worse.
"Miss Omberwell... the fire... your father was storing several volatile chemicals in your house. Shortly after we found you, the place blew up. We were able to save these..."
He places a handful of sooty banknotes and her mother's jewelry box on the table.
"Im sorry for your trouble."
She looks around carefully. Shasta and Valeri and a few other people she vaguely remembers from the Palova are waving wildly at her from a small table at one of the crowded floating cafes clustered by the canal bank. She lifts her skirts delicately and steps onto the barge to join them, a rare smile crossing her solemn face.
"Here, try some of this."
"What is it?"
"Edge. Just try it, you'll like it."
* * * * * * *
She's never realized how colourful the city was at night. There's just the faintest whisper of a breeze up here on the observation platform, and the surrounding buildings are all lit up, each with slightly different-coloured lights, bathing her and Valeri in a hazy glow. It's been the sort of night that Firene's only experienced second-hand in vidstories - her friends surrounding her, the brilliant, witty conversation, and Valeri...
As they walk along the canal, he brushes a strand of hair away from her face and kisses her.
Her father is waiting at the door. She notices the grey streaking his black hair and the lines etched into his face on either side of his mouth, and then the sterile whiteness of his work clothes washes over her, stealing the colour from her surroundings. Dimly, she notices that Valeri's dropped her hand and beat a hasty retreat.
* * * * * * *
"Where the blaze were you?" Shasta hisses.
"Sorry," Firene mutters, dumping her dogskin cape in the back of the water taxi and struggling out of her heavy overdress. The boatman studiously prentends not to notice.
"Your da shutter you again or something?"
"More or less. I'm still shuttered from that business tennight ago with Val, but that's not what he was on a fury about this time. Teddy, bless his dim little head, decided that tonight was the time to tell Da he wanted to be a Brigadier. You can just vis how well that went."
Shasta covers her mouth with a gloved hand. "Oh Builder. How long did he crash on for?"
Firene balances a row of small pots across her knees, daubing metallic dust along her cheekbones and at the corners of her eyes before smearing purple waxstick across her lips. "About an hour. Or felt like, anyway. After that he piped about three or four though, so he was walled out by the time I left."
"Want some Escape?"
"Hah. Does the rain fall black in Dreamingspires?"
* * * * * * *
The klaxon cuts through the landscape of her dreams. The twinking lights slowly resolve into flashing emergency beacons and the flickering glow of flames. Her house is on fire.
Her house is on fire.
Firene stumbles forward in the wake of a team of Clearwater Emergency Personnel carrying a battering ram. The heat barely registers on her consciousness, although her father's lab and the library are completely ablaze. The remainder of the house seems relatively intact, albeit filling up with acrid smoke. She walks upstairs like a sleepwalker, idly noting Ester's bloody corpse in the hallway. She turns in slow motion and sees Tedwin huddled in the space between his bed and the small worktable their father built for his birthday this year. Then she sees the awkward way his head is twisted around.
She's still screaming when the fire crew hauls her downstairs.
* * * * * * *
"Miss."
She stares at the wall. The medic clears his throat awkwardly.
"Miss Omberwell."
He shifts, opens his mouth, closes it again. She stopped screaming when they administered the sedative, but this leaden silence is almost worse.
"Miss Omberwell... the fire... your father was storing several volatile chemicals in your house. Shortly after we found you, the place blew up. We were able to save these..."
He places a handful of sooty banknotes and her mother's jewelry box on the table.
"Im sorry for your trouble."
10.10.06
Firene: Calcification
Firene shuts off the mini-telly and pushes it back into its niche in the wall above her bed. The clock on the small nightstand reads 00:17, but she can't sleep. Something's missing, or something's out of place. She sighs heavily and stares at the ceiling. She looks at the clock again - it's now 00:21.
Down the hall, she hears the rustle of Matron's skirts along the stone floor as she makes her way through the long first-year dormitory. There's a sudden startled shriek as Matron catches someone not sleeping, immediately follwed by a series of sharp snaps. Matron rustles past Firene's door but doesn't enter. There's the muffled sound of sobbing coming from the dormitory.
Firene curls up on her side and drops easily into slumber, a faint smile on her lips.
* * * * * * *
Tedwin leans against the doorframe, waiting for his sister to acknowledge his presence. She sits at her writing desk, her dark, severe clothing a sharp contrast to the pale colours of her bedroom and the misty light coming through the domed lightwell.
"Fireeeeeene..."
She looks up sharply from her dingin.
"Do you need help with your schoolwork again, Tedwin?"
"No... I mean, if you can check it later that would be good, but I think I figured it out after you explained how to do it last time. But... 'Rine... I don't like school."
"You're not supposed to like it, little one. I certainly didn't."
"No, but... you know, Da says I have to do good at school so I can go to Longshore and be a metallurgist like him, and I don't want to go to university."
"Do well at school, dear. And why don't you want to go to university?"
"'Cos I want to be in the Brigade of Light. Byron's older brother is in the Brigade - he showed me a picture of him in the Tentenel armour. I want to do that - then I could defend The Company against those dogs from Hirplakker..."
Firene takes as deep a breath as her stays allow, closes her eyes, and does not say all of the twenty things she immediately thinks of saying to her brother. He's just a baby, after all.
"Well, maybe you should wait until you're older before you tell Da you want to join the Brigade. In the meantime, it can't hurt to keep going to school. And I'll help you with your work if you need me to, all right?"
"All right... M'sorry, Firene. Mama said you liked school."
He shuffles back to his own bedroom. Firene still hasn't opened her eyes.
* * * * * * *
She stares at a point somewhere past her reflection in the dressing mirror as Ester fusses with her hair, braiding silver wire and tiny lights into the longer sections and sprinkling her exposed skin with a fine metallic powder. Her mother beams at her.
"Oh Firene - isn't it exciting? The Grand Palova is the biggest social event of the year, and our little girl was invited!"
"Well, at least all those dancing lessons won't go to waste..."
"Now, dear... I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time. Several of your friends are going, after all. This is a great opportunity for you to meet suitable young men your own age."
"Who will coincidentally be the sons of families in a position to assist Father in attaining his political ambitions within The Company?"
Ester senses a change in the atmosphere and hurries off to perform her regular duties. Beatrice observes her daughter for a moment.
"Firene... that may well be your father's hope for you. Mine is considerably less far-reaching. I would like to see you happy and secure, preferably with a husband whose goals are less lofty and hence less hazardous."
Firene looks up sharply. Her mother looks tired, possibly even a little haggard.
"Mother?"
Beatrice smiles wryly.
"Nevermind, my dear. I speak more than I think. You look radiant. Here..."
She steps forward and wraps her thin, pale arms around her daughter's shoulders for a moment. When she pulls back a heavy, ornate locket hangs around Firene's neck on a thick ribbon of some iridescent material.
"Make us proud, my darling."
Down the hall, she hears the rustle of Matron's skirts along the stone floor as she makes her way through the long first-year dormitory. There's a sudden startled shriek as Matron catches someone not sleeping, immediately follwed by a series of sharp snaps. Matron rustles past Firene's door but doesn't enter. There's the muffled sound of sobbing coming from the dormitory.
Firene curls up on her side and drops easily into slumber, a faint smile on her lips.
* * * * * * *
Tedwin leans against the doorframe, waiting for his sister to acknowledge his presence. She sits at her writing desk, her dark, severe clothing a sharp contrast to the pale colours of her bedroom and the misty light coming through the domed lightwell.
"Fireeeeeene..."
She looks up sharply from her dingin.
"Do you need help with your schoolwork again, Tedwin?"
"No... I mean, if you can check it later that would be good, but I think I figured it out after you explained how to do it last time. But... 'Rine... I don't like school."
"You're not supposed to like it, little one. I certainly didn't."
"No, but... you know, Da says I have to do good at school so I can go to Longshore and be a metallurgist like him, and I don't want to go to university."
"Do well at school, dear. And why don't you want to go to university?"
"'Cos I want to be in the Brigade of Light. Byron's older brother is in the Brigade - he showed me a picture of him in the Tentenel armour. I want to do that - then I could defend The Company against those dogs from Hirplakker..."
Firene takes as deep a breath as her stays allow, closes her eyes, and does not say all of the twenty things she immediately thinks of saying to her brother. He's just a baby, after all.
"Well, maybe you should wait until you're older before you tell Da you want to join the Brigade. In the meantime, it can't hurt to keep going to school. And I'll help you with your work if you need me to, all right?"
"All right... M'sorry, Firene. Mama said you liked school."
He shuffles back to his own bedroom. Firene still hasn't opened her eyes.
* * * * * * *
She stares at a point somewhere past her reflection in the dressing mirror as Ester fusses with her hair, braiding silver wire and tiny lights into the longer sections and sprinkling her exposed skin with a fine metallic powder. Her mother beams at her.
"Oh Firene - isn't it exciting? The Grand Palova is the biggest social event of the year, and our little girl was invited!"
"Well, at least all those dancing lessons won't go to waste..."
"Now, dear... I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time. Several of your friends are going, after all. This is a great opportunity for you to meet suitable young men your own age."
"Who will coincidentally be the sons of families in a position to assist Father in attaining his political ambitions within The Company?"
Ester senses a change in the atmosphere and hurries off to perform her regular duties. Beatrice observes her daughter for a moment.
"Firene... that may well be your father's hope for you. Mine is considerably less far-reaching. I would like to see you happy and secure, preferably with a husband whose goals are less lofty and hence less hazardous."
Firene looks up sharply. Her mother looks tired, possibly even a little haggard.
"Mother?"
Beatrice smiles wryly.
"Nevermind, my dear. I speak more than I think. You look radiant. Here..."
She steps forward and wraps her thin, pale arms around her daughter's shoulders for a moment. When she pulls back a heavy, ornate locket hangs around Firene's neck on a thick ribbon of some iridescent material.
"Make us proud, my darling."
6.10.06
I'm not Antisocial, I Just Wish You'd Stop Talking
Says it all, really. Link nicked from Sofy's blog (see R. column).
[LATER]
Wow. Another really good link, courtesy of Sofy. It appears to be a morning for startling revelations:
Five Geek Social Fallacies
I can positively say that I've got a severe case of GSF4, with a bit of GSF1 & 2 thrown in. I think I need to start compartmentalizing my social life a little more. Maybe make a little Venn diagram of people I know who can safely socialize with each other. Or something.
[LATER]
Wow. Another really good link, courtesy of Sofy. It appears to be a morning for startling revelations:
Five Geek Social Fallacies
I can positively say that I've got a severe case of GSF4, with a bit of GSF1 & 2 thrown in. I think I need to start compartmentalizing my social life a little more. Maybe make a little Venn diagram of people I know who can safely socialize with each other. Or something.
5.10.06
Strange Charm
I've been doing some research on Victorian society for Scuba's upcoming _A/State_ game as well as for a _Vampire_ character I plan to play in X's WoD crossover game. I've come to the conclusion that it probably wasn't all that nice a place to visit and I definitely wouldn't want to live there, but there are certain aspects of the culture which hold a certain nostalgic appeal. It's kind of like being in the Society for Creative Anachronism. Nobody joins up so that they can play a serf, get scurvy / lice / tapeworms / tortured by the Inquisition, and sleep in a grubby hut with six other people and a whole mess of rats. People join up so they can play a knight, dress up, get ratted on homebrewed mead, whallop the bejeezus out of each other with duct-taped weapons, and have an excuse to fool around with a relative stranger after handing them an orange with cloves all over it on the dancefloor.
Similarly, I'm guessing that most Victoriana aficionados aren't really interested in how the vast majority of the English populace lived, which was under horrific conditions of grinding Dickensian poverty, only without the drippy sentimental happy ending Dickens tended to tack on at the end of a lot of his works. (_A Christmas Carol_, anyone?) We like the elaborate clothes, the high tea, the genteel conversation, but I doubt many people, especially women, really want to go back to the weird position that women ("ladies") held in Victorian society.
Personally, I always thought the primary charm of the Goth subculture at its high point (roughly the late 1980s) was the emulation of the nicer aspects of Victorian society, particularly in matters of dress and manners. I'm especially enamoured with the detailed symbology surrounding the use of flowers in courtship (the "language of flowers") and to a lesser extent the use of fans as semaphore in flirting. It's all very complicated and strategic and charming, which is how I like it. I'm a huge fan of subtext, and it's always nice to get the impression that the other party is also aware of and appreciates the subtext under a good conversation about something completely innocuous. Beats the hell out of some nitwit sending you a picture of his dick on MSN by way of a social introduction.
Similarly, I'm guessing that most Victoriana aficionados aren't really interested in how the vast majority of the English populace lived, which was under horrific conditions of grinding Dickensian poverty, only without the drippy sentimental happy ending Dickens tended to tack on at the end of a lot of his works. (_A Christmas Carol_, anyone?) We like the elaborate clothes, the high tea, the genteel conversation, but I doubt many people, especially women, really want to go back to the weird position that women ("ladies") held in Victorian society.
Personally, I always thought the primary charm of the Goth subculture at its high point (roughly the late 1980s) was the emulation of the nicer aspects of Victorian society, particularly in matters of dress and manners. I'm especially enamoured with the detailed symbology surrounding the use of flowers in courtship (the "language of flowers") and to a lesser extent the use of fans as semaphore in flirting. It's all very complicated and strategic and charming, which is how I like it. I'm a huge fan of subtext, and it's always nice to get the impression that the other party is also aware of and appreciates the subtext under a good conversation about something completely innocuous. Beats the hell out of some nitwit sending you a picture of his dick on MSN by way of a social introduction.
29.9.06
Firene: Sublimation
The girl stomps into the library, flinging herself into a chair and scowling at her mother. Beatrice refuses to rise to her bait. She continues to prune the dead flowers from the massive climbing plant that clings to the window frame.
"And how are you liking your new tutor, my dear?"
"I don't know why you and father hired a tutor for me, mother. She refuses to talk about anything interesting - all she seems to want to teach me is useless frippery like music and art and other 'domestic arts', as she calls them. I don't think she has any knowledge whatsoever of mathematics or science."
Beatrice sighs and closes her eyes.
"Firene, sweet... she's not meant to teach you mathematics or science. To tell you true, you probably won't find anyone to teach you something you don't already know about those subjects until you're old enough to go to Longshore. Your father and I merely felt that there were certain... gaps in your education which we were ill-equipped to fill."
"But why must I learn these things at all?"
"By knowing a little about art and music, you mark yourself as a person of culture and refinement. And it is important when you are in the company of others to know how to comport yourself as befits your station. Don't you want to make us proud of you?"
Firene looks at her feet.
"Yes, mother."
"Good girl. Now, go wash up - your father will be home soon."
* * * * * * *
"This is hardly a laughing matter, Beatrice."
His wife stifles a giggle.
"I'm sorry dear; of course it isn't. But honestly, you should have seen the look on her face--"
"Damn it, Bea - that's the third one this year! It's not as though the city possesses an inexhaustible supply of governesses of suitable breeding and background. The agency is beginning to ask questions, and I suspect others are starting to talk. Jecks asked how my 'little spitfire' was the other day, and I'm assuming he wasn't referring to you. If her behaviour becomes common knowledge among our circle, there won't be a single appropriate family willing to let their sons be seen in her company, much less marry her."
"Drake, she's only twelve..."
"And if we wish to reinforce our position in The Company, we must cement our existsing alliances while building new ones. Tedwin will be starting school in just a few years, and by then I'd prefer to see Firene betrothed. I don't want him to live in his sister's shadow."
"Especially when she showed such aptitude for the work..."
"Enough! I have been considering alternatives to our current situation, and Jecks rather casually mentioned a school which might provide the discipline our daughter apparently requires."
He walks briskly to the library door and throws it open.
"Firene! Your mother and I would like a word with you!"
* * * * * * *
Drake watches Firene climb the long flight of stairs from the canal to the heavy iron doors of Miss Markham's School for the Education of Young Ladies. She doesn't look back and doesn't look up, so she fails to see the words carved deeply into the otherwise featureless stone walls.
SILENCE
GRACIOUSNESS
DEFERENCE
POISE
DECORUM
MODESTY
OBEDIENCE
This will do nicely, he thinks, then taps the cabbie on the shoulder when the doors clang shut behind his daughter.
* * * * * * *
Firene stands at attention at the end of her bunk while Matron performs the morning inspection. Unlike most of the others, she doesn't try to whisper or make gestures while Matron's back is turned. Keeping quiet has never been a problem for her. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for poor Teresa Brannart, who has just been caught mouthing something to Alice Govanade. Alice is smart enough to stare straight ahead and not give any indication that she's even aware that Teresa was trying to get her attention, so the Matron turns the full force of her scorn on Teresa.
"Is there something you wish to say, Miss Brannart?"
"No, Matron."
"I see. So you are, what, merely exercising your mouth?"
Don't laugh don't laugh don't laugh...
"Yes, Matron."
"Don't you think it gets quite enough exercise, Miss Brannart?"
Teresa looks at the floor. She knows what's coming.
"I believe you might benefit by a few hours of wearing the brank. However, since I am not convinced that you were not alone in your crime... Miss Govanade!"
Alice flinches involuntarily.
"Yes, Matron?"
"Was it you Miss Brannart was attempting to communicate with?"
"No, Matron!"
"Very well - then you may choose the severity of her punishment."
"Oh, please, Matron - not too severe. I'm sure she's sorry..."
"I'm sure you both will be. You shall both wear the gossip's cage - Miss Brannart for speaking out of turn, and you for lying. Spikes down."
Teresa whimpers slightly. Alice opens her mouth as if to protest, then seems to think better of it.
"The rest of you may leave for breakfast."
"And how are you liking your new tutor, my dear?"
"I don't know why you and father hired a tutor for me, mother. She refuses to talk about anything interesting - all she seems to want to teach me is useless frippery like music and art and other 'domestic arts', as she calls them. I don't think she has any knowledge whatsoever of mathematics or science."
Beatrice sighs and closes her eyes.
"Firene, sweet... she's not meant to teach you mathematics or science. To tell you true, you probably won't find anyone to teach you something you don't already know about those subjects until you're old enough to go to Longshore. Your father and I merely felt that there were certain... gaps in your education which we were ill-equipped to fill."
"But why must I learn these things at all?"
"By knowing a little about art and music, you mark yourself as a person of culture and refinement. And it is important when you are in the company of others to know how to comport yourself as befits your station. Don't you want to make us proud of you?"
Firene looks at her feet.
"Yes, mother."
"Good girl. Now, go wash up - your father will be home soon."
* * * * * * *
"This is hardly a laughing matter, Beatrice."
His wife stifles a giggle.
"I'm sorry dear; of course it isn't. But honestly, you should have seen the look on her face--"
"Damn it, Bea - that's the third one this year! It's not as though the city possesses an inexhaustible supply of governesses of suitable breeding and background. The agency is beginning to ask questions, and I suspect others are starting to talk. Jecks asked how my 'little spitfire' was the other day, and I'm assuming he wasn't referring to you. If her behaviour becomes common knowledge among our circle, there won't be a single appropriate family willing to let their sons be seen in her company, much less marry her."
"Drake, she's only twelve..."
"And if we wish to reinforce our position in The Company, we must cement our existsing alliances while building new ones. Tedwin will be starting school in just a few years, and by then I'd prefer to see Firene betrothed. I don't want him to live in his sister's shadow."
"Especially when she showed such aptitude for the work..."
"Enough! I have been considering alternatives to our current situation, and Jecks rather casually mentioned a school which might provide the discipline our daughter apparently requires."
He walks briskly to the library door and throws it open.
"Firene! Your mother and I would like a word with you!"
* * * * * * *
Drake watches Firene climb the long flight of stairs from the canal to the heavy iron doors of Miss Markham's School for the Education of Young Ladies. She doesn't look back and doesn't look up, so she fails to see the words carved deeply into the otherwise featureless stone walls.
SILENCE
GRACIOUSNESS
DEFERENCE
POISE
DECORUM
MODESTY
OBEDIENCE
This will do nicely, he thinks, then taps the cabbie on the shoulder when the doors clang shut behind his daughter.
* * * * * * *
Firene stands at attention at the end of her bunk while Matron performs the morning inspection. Unlike most of the others, she doesn't try to whisper or make gestures while Matron's back is turned. Keeping quiet has never been a problem for her. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for poor Teresa Brannart, who has just been caught mouthing something to Alice Govanade. Alice is smart enough to stare straight ahead and not give any indication that she's even aware that Teresa was trying to get her attention, so the Matron turns the full force of her scorn on Teresa.
"Is there something you wish to say, Miss Brannart?"
"No, Matron."
"I see. So you are, what, merely exercising your mouth?"
Don't laugh don't laugh don't laugh...
"Yes, Matron."
"Don't you think it gets quite enough exercise, Miss Brannart?"
Teresa looks at the floor. She knows what's coming.
"I believe you might benefit by a few hours of wearing the brank. However, since I am not convinced that you were not alone in your crime... Miss Govanade!"
Alice flinches involuntarily.
"Yes, Matron?"
"Was it you Miss Brannart was attempting to communicate with?"
"No, Matron!"
"Very well - then you may choose the severity of her punishment."
"Oh, please, Matron - not too severe. I'm sure she's sorry..."
"I'm sure you both will be. You shall both wear the gossip's cage - Miss Brannart for speaking out of turn, and you for lying. Spikes down."
Teresa whimpers slightly. Alice opens her mouth as if to protest, then seems to think better of it.
"The rest of you may leave for breakfast."
28.9.06
Firene: Alloyed Dynasty
A man paces and smokes a long, ornate silver pipe filled with nembelweed. He tries to ignore the gnawing in his gut with every agonized scream that filters through the tightly-closed door to the bedroom. Sometime after he smokes himself into a wall-eyed daze and collapses in a chair, the nurse comes bustling into the room, her skirts making a noise like paper falling off a desk.
"Ser?"
He turns to look at her lazily, watching the colours of his wife's much-loved plants smear across the hazy yellow light streaking the far wall.
"Ser, it's finished. You've a healthy wee girl now. Madam Beatrice is asking for ye."
She fidgets uncomfortably as his brain starts working with an almost audible grinding of gears. He sits up carefully and looks at her more closely.
"Did you say a girl?"
"Aye, ser. Madam Beatrice wishes to name her Firene, but she waits to hear your thoughts on the matter."
"Damnation."
He slumps back in the chair and starts filling the pipe again.
"Beg pardon ser?"
"Tell her she can name it whatever she likes."
* * * * * * *
A small child with curly silver-blonde hair kneels on top of a stack of heavy textbooks, which are in turn precariously balanced on top of a chair. Even with the added height, she can barely see over the edge of the workbench, but she still watches her father in rapt fascination as he carefully explains the composition of the alloy he's been developing for The Company. He says it like that too - both words capitalized, infused with meaning beyond the merely generic identification they should denote.
"Drake, do you not think she's a bit young to understand such things? Even I can scarcely comrehend your work at times, and you've been telling me about it since we were courting."
"Nonsense, Beatrice. Our Firene is going to be a fine metallurgist when she comes of age. See how she plays with the molecular models I bought for her?"
The woman smiles indulgently at her daughter. Firene has stood up on the chair and is putting together a complicated arrangement of metal rods and plastisteel balls in various colours.
"Be sure you don't give her real chemicals until she's not in danger of burning our house down."
* * * * * * *
This time, the man is more relaxed, although the sterile Arclight medical wing is considerably less comfortable than the Omberwell home. He still smokes nebelweed, but only puffs on the pipe idly - his concentration is largely focused on a technical document one of his subordinates has prepared for a conference at Longshore University. Firene is in another chair, her gaze directed with equal intensity at a maths problem in her schoolwork.
A junior doctor marches over and stands at attention.
"Yes?"
"Sir, I am happy to report that your wife has given birth to a viable and apprently healthy son."
"Really? Well... that's... that's wonderful news. Truly. May I see them now?"
"Of course, sir. If you'll just follow me..."
The clockwork doctor marches off again. Drake Omberwell turns to his daughter.
"You don't have to come in if you'd rather not."
If she notices the sudden distance in his voice, she doesn't show it. She nods absently and continues working, occasionally using a small hand-held dingin for particularly difficult calculations.
When he's gone, she looks down the corridor, a speculative expression drifting across her face.
"Ser?"
He turns to look at her lazily, watching the colours of his wife's much-loved plants smear across the hazy yellow light streaking the far wall.
"Ser, it's finished. You've a healthy wee girl now. Madam Beatrice is asking for ye."
She fidgets uncomfortably as his brain starts working with an almost audible grinding of gears. He sits up carefully and looks at her more closely.
"Did you say a girl?"
"Aye, ser. Madam Beatrice wishes to name her Firene, but she waits to hear your thoughts on the matter."
"Damnation."
He slumps back in the chair and starts filling the pipe again.
"Beg pardon ser?"
"Tell her she can name it whatever she likes."
* * * * * * *
A small child with curly silver-blonde hair kneels on top of a stack of heavy textbooks, which are in turn precariously balanced on top of a chair. Even with the added height, she can barely see over the edge of the workbench, but she still watches her father in rapt fascination as he carefully explains the composition of the alloy he's been developing for The Company. He says it like that too - both words capitalized, infused with meaning beyond the merely generic identification they should denote.
"Drake, do you not think she's a bit young to understand such things? Even I can scarcely comrehend your work at times, and you've been telling me about it since we were courting."
"Nonsense, Beatrice. Our Firene is going to be a fine metallurgist when she comes of age. See how she plays with the molecular models I bought for her?"
The woman smiles indulgently at her daughter. Firene has stood up on the chair and is putting together a complicated arrangement of metal rods and plastisteel balls in various colours.
"Be sure you don't give her real chemicals until she's not in danger of burning our house down."
* * * * * * *
This time, the man is more relaxed, although the sterile Arclight medical wing is considerably less comfortable than the Omberwell home. He still smokes nebelweed, but only puffs on the pipe idly - his concentration is largely focused on a technical document one of his subordinates has prepared for a conference at Longshore University. Firene is in another chair, her gaze directed with equal intensity at a maths problem in her schoolwork.
A junior doctor marches over and stands at attention.
"Yes?"
"Sir, I am happy to report that your wife has given birth to a viable and apprently healthy son."
"Really? Well... that's... that's wonderful news. Truly. May I see them now?"
"Of course, sir. If you'll just follow me..."
The clockwork doctor marches off again. Drake Omberwell turns to his daughter.
"You don't have to come in if you'd rather not."
If she notices the sudden distance in his voice, she doesn't show it. She nods absently and continues working, occasionally using a small hand-held dingin for particularly difficult calculations.
When he's gone, she looks down the corridor, a speculative expression drifting across her face.
13.9.06
A Huge Ever-Growing Brain that Rules From the Centre of the Ultraworld
In many of the more relaxed civilizations on the Outer Eastern Rim of the Galaxy, the Hitch Hiker's Guide has already supplanted the great Encyclopedia Galactica as the standard repository of all knowledge and wisdom, for though it has many omissions and contains much that is apocryphal, or at least wildly inaccurate, it scores over the older, more pedestrian work in two important respects.
First, it is slightly cheaper; and secondly it has the words "Don't Panic" inscribed in large friendly letters on its cover."
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
Let's be honest - even though large parts of it are fairly clearly written by academics, or at the very least interested amateurs with considerable knowledge of their chosen area of expertise (however weird or picayune it may be), the fact that Wikipedia is open source means that there's always some chance that the best-researched, most thoughtfully-written article can be completely buggered up (even if temporarily) by some asshat vandal with nothing better to do. That's the best-case scenario for topics which are sufficiently arcane or dull to avoid attracting sustained attention by the hoi polloi. For current topics or anything having to do with the standard hot-button issues of race, sex, politics, religion, drug use/abuse, or U.S. foreign policy (or lack thereof) it's a real struggle to even write about such subjects from a neutral perspective in the first place, to say nothing of keeping the article from being rewritten, "corrected" or just plain defaced every half hour.
If I were a university professor, I'd probably look a bit askance at any student paper citing Wikipedia as a primary source, although for a lot of articles the bibliographical information at the end provides a slew of references to books, journal articles, or more heavily moderated online works which are perfectly fine sources.
For all its failings, though, I could spend hours on the Wikipedia site, just jumping from article to article. I love the fact that in nearly every article, there are links to at least a dozen articles on issues which are either related to the original topic or explore side topics in greater detail. The main reason I love the Wikipedia, though, is for the stuff it covers that no standard reference work would even consider worthy of attention - the massive quantity of subcultural in-jokes, endemic memes, and pop-culture references that comprise the current cultural zeitgeist.
Any kind of information, once it's "frozen" in some form (paper, CD, DVD, etc.) becomes history. History is useful, certainly, but the threat of posterity tends to make one selective in what one writes. Wikipedia is a new kind of creature - the possibility of perpetual flux (even if in practice substantial chunks of it remain more-or-less stable after being uploaded), of being a snapshot of the sum of human knowledge (or at least what the people who write it are interested in) right now. And while accuracy and depth may suffer to some extent (at least in the short term), the breadth of information contributed is, as far as I'm concerned, a fair trade.
First, it is slightly cheaper; and secondly it has the words "Don't Panic" inscribed in large friendly letters on its cover."
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
Let's be honest - even though large parts of it are fairly clearly written by academics, or at the very least interested amateurs with considerable knowledge of their chosen area of expertise (however weird or picayune it may be), the fact that Wikipedia is open source means that there's always some chance that the best-researched, most thoughtfully-written article can be completely buggered up (even if temporarily) by some asshat vandal with nothing better to do. That's the best-case scenario for topics which are sufficiently arcane or dull to avoid attracting sustained attention by the hoi polloi. For current topics or anything having to do with the standard hot-button issues of race, sex, politics, religion, drug use/abuse, or U.S. foreign policy (or lack thereof) it's a real struggle to even write about such subjects from a neutral perspective in the first place, to say nothing of keeping the article from being rewritten, "corrected" or just plain defaced every half hour.
If I were a university professor, I'd probably look a bit askance at any student paper citing Wikipedia as a primary source, although for a lot of articles the bibliographical information at the end provides a slew of references to books, journal articles, or more heavily moderated online works which are perfectly fine sources.
For all its failings, though, I could spend hours on the Wikipedia site, just jumping from article to article. I love the fact that in nearly every article, there are links to at least a dozen articles on issues which are either related to the original topic or explore side topics in greater detail. The main reason I love the Wikipedia, though, is for the stuff it covers that no standard reference work would even consider worthy of attention - the massive quantity of subcultural in-jokes, endemic memes, and pop-culture references that comprise the current cultural zeitgeist.
Any kind of information, once it's "frozen" in some form (paper, CD, DVD, etc.) becomes history. History is useful, certainly, but the threat of posterity tends to make one selective in what one writes. Wikipedia is a new kind of creature - the possibility of perpetual flux (even if in practice substantial chunks of it remain more-or-less stable after being uploaded), of being a snapshot of the sum of human knowledge (or at least what the people who write it are interested in) right now. And while accuracy and depth may suffer to some extent (at least in the short term), the breadth of information contributed is, as far as I'm concerned, a fair trade.
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