It was a quiet night as Harr and Arianna rested outside under the stars. They had been staying in the village of magic for a few months now, and while they much preferred to sleep with a roof over their head, they found it oddly relaxing to spend some time under the night stars. It was how they had spent most of their time together, seeing as how before the walking storm had arrived they had barely ever even seen each other. They had learned much together, about themselves and one another, that had things not transpired as they had, they may have never learned. That was not to say that they were happy about how things had happened - far from it - but it had in fact happened, and there were oddly a few good things that had come from it.
"Harr?" Arianna asked, her voice quiet not because she was shy or afraid, but because she did not want to disturb the night air. "Do you know much about the stars and the constellations?"
The princess' uncle turned to look at her, lifting himself up onto one elbow. "A little," he replied. "Why do you ask?"
Arianna hadn't turned to look at him - she was still staring up at the night sky, her eyes slightly narrowed as she stared at the stars she was asking about. "I remember, back at the castle, of all the lessons Perman would try to teach me, the stars and constellations were always my favorite. But it's been so long, and I had so few chances back then to actually look at them, that I can't remember any of the names or shapes. I realized it while I was on my own. I would look up at the stars as the fire burned out every night, and I would try to remember what he taught me. But... it's all gone. I can't remember any of it."
"Well, you never were much good at listening to your lessons."
She gave a half smile to that. "No, I wasn't. And I feel bad about it. Perman... Saved me. I'd like to learn what I can about the stars, so that at least those lessons won't have been wasted on me."
"We can work on that. And I'm sure there's someone else in the village who would be happy to help with what I can't."
Arianna finally turned to look at her uncle and smiled. "I'd like that."
Friday, March 31, 2017
Thursday, March 30, 2017
Clones
The room was dark and dank, lit only vaguely by the numerous tubes that filled it, each filled with a luminescent blue liquid, humanoid shapes at different levels of development floating inside. Marcus walked through the area slowly, checking on each body as he passed over them, evaluating their form and progression as they developed. He had begun his experiments several years ago, but it had only been recently that they had truly begun to make any progress in them. However, one day he would assuredly be capable of growing new people, and once the bodies were prepared, he would begin to begin developing the technology necessary to upload and download a person's consciousness both to and from a database and the new bodies.
He had found that excessive amounts of light were damaging to the bodies as they grow, so rather than turn off the lights, he had removed them entirely, so as to prevent any mistakes being made. The luminescence from the tubes provided enough light for him to do his work and keep the area clean, and he had long since taken to recording his findings by voice rather than writing them down. It was cleaner and faster, and while it meant that he had to listen through them any time he wished to review his notes, it also ensured that all information remained in context.
It was not by any means a mass-production thing. The process was slow and costly. It was likely something he would offer only to those he believed worthy, or those who were willing to pay the price for it all. Preferably not the latter, but he would not be one to pass up the funding. He could only maintain at his current pace for so long. Granted, he could steal supplies - it wouldn't be the first time - but he preferred not to take those manner of risks if at all possible. He had nearly been caught more than once. He was a scientist, not a rogue.
He had failed many times over, but one of his latest bodies was soon to be harvested. A month, at most, and it would be prepared. If it managed to survive outside of its tube, than he would be able to test is physical capabilities. Mental was irrelevant - the only use of its brain was to act as a holding cell.
Once he had a body he could work with, the real work could begin.
And then he would be able to create a new human race.
He had found that excessive amounts of light were damaging to the bodies as they grow, so rather than turn off the lights, he had removed them entirely, so as to prevent any mistakes being made. The luminescence from the tubes provided enough light for him to do his work and keep the area clean, and he had long since taken to recording his findings by voice rather than writing them down. It was cleaner and faster, and while it meant that he had to listen through them any time he wished to review his notes, it also ensured that all information remained in context.
It was not by any means a mass-production thing. The process was slow and costly. It was likely something he would offer only to those he believed worthy, or those who were willing to pay the price for it all. Preferably not the latter, but he would not be one to pass up the funding. He could only maintain at his current pace for so long. Granted, he could steal supplies - it wouldn't be the first time - but he preferred not to take those manner of risks if at all possible. He had nearly been caught more than once. He was a scientist, not a rogue.
He had failed many times over, but one of his latest bodies was soon to be harvested. A month, at most, and it would be prepared. If it managed to survive outside of its tube, than he would be able to test is physical capabilities. Mental was irrelevant - the only use of its brain was to act as a holding cell.
Once he had a body he could work with, the real work could begin.
And then he would be able to create a new human race.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Crown
The room fell silent as the would-be king kneeled down in the center, the mish-mashed crowd which had come to observe him pushed against the walls in a circle, all eyes trained on him. He had called for representatives of all people who would rest under his jurisdiction - he was surrounded not only by his own ilk, but towering orcs, impatient dwarves, and disinterested elves as well. They had all gathered together to see whether or not the new king would be accepted by the Truth.
Though they could not make out the words, they could hear the candidate murmuring under his breath as he touched his head to the floor. The words were ancient, spoken in a language that even the elves had forgotten, but they had been passed down for generations in the royal family, even if their original meaning had been lost. But as he spoke them, the would-be king felt as though a warmth were spreading through his body, starting in his core and extending out into every toe and finger. It spread like fire through his blood, and it nearly choked the air out of him, but still he forced out the words.
And then the air was cold. As though ice had rushed through the room, blowing out every torch on the walls, the room grew dark and frigid. Yet still not a word was spoken. This was something that had not been seen in their lifetimes. Though it scared the viewers, man and orc alike, they dared not speak - they could feel the power swirling around them, and were afraid that if they spoke it would strike against them.
Slowly their candidate rose to his knees, his eyes closed and his mouth shut. They could barely make out his outline until they saw his hand rise into the air, and in a brief moment they became suddenly and abruptly able to see. There, above his head, floated a crown of glass, light emitting from within with a bright blue hue. It hovered only inches above him, and slowly lowered itself onto his head.
The new king did not open his eyes until the crown landed upon him, and when he did his eyes were clearly just as surprised as those around him. No one had expected something like this to happen. For generations the ceremony had been little more than pomp and circumstance. But this... This was unheard of.
Perhaps, for the first time, the king had truly been accepted by the Truth.
Though they could not make out the words, they could hear the candidate murmuring under his breath as he touched his head to the floor. The words were ancient, spoken in a language that even the elves had forgotten, but they had been passed down for generations in the royal family, even if their original meaning had been lost. But as he spoke them, the would-be king felt as though a warmth were spreading through his body, starting in his core and extending out into every toe and finger. It spread like fire through his blood, and it nearly choked the air out of him, but still he forced out the words.
And then the air was cold. As though ice had rushed through the room, blowing out every torch on the walls, the room grew dark and frigid. Yet still not a word was spoken. This was something that had not been seen in their lifetimes. Though it scared the viewers, man and orc alike, they dared not speak - they could feel the power swirling around them, and were afraid that if they spoke it would strike against them.
Slowly their candidate rose to his knees, his eyes closed and his mouth shut. They could barely make out his outline until they saw his hand rise into the air, and in a brief moment they became suddenly and abruptly able to see. There, above his head, floated a crown of glass, light emitting from within with a bright blue hue. It hovered only inches above him, and slowly lowered itself onto his head.
The new king did not open his eyes until the crown landed upon him, and when he did his eyes were clearly just as surprised as those around him. No one had expected something like this to happen. For generations the ceremony had been little more than pomp and circumstance. But this... This was unheard of.
Perhaps, for the first time, the king had truly been accepted by the Truth.
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
Creating
I've been spending a lot of time recently focusing less on my writing, and more on physical creation. I've talked about the building and the pyrography, and I've been looking into how I can combine those, expand them, and what other skills I would like to gain and work with them. More mechanical building, more freeform building, wood turning. I've been looking into them a lot, looking for plans and ideas, and getting really excited about the possibilities. At this rate, some day nearly everything I own will be something that I've created, and likely created out of wood. And I'm ok with that.
It feels different from how I've been writing for a while. I have an actual goal as I step into my little workshop area, I have an image in my head of what I want to step out with, and even if I don't quite end up there, I'm at least getting close to that. I can see it. When I write, I step up to my story and I just start filling out words on the paper. I let my characters be in control of the story, frequently not even knowing the end goal, much less the path for how to get there. And I don't necessarily have a problem with that, I enjoy that that's a thing that I can do. It's a very cool experience to be able to go in with nothing and come out with something. But it can also be very intimidating at times, and it can make it very hard to know what steps to take to get through a tough spot.
I'm not sure that I necessarily prefer one to the other. But I have been writing for a very long time, and it's nice to actually be able see what's coming and how to go about it. It's nice, when you hit a snag in the road, to have a clear cut, solid way to be able to get around it. You don't have to go out of your way to make something up. You have a proven way to fix problems.
Of course, in both, sometimes those imperfections and problems are what end up making them beautiful and unique. Not always, obviously - sometimes they destroy the project entirely. But sometimes, when you take a step back from it, you can see it for what it really is and start to build the rest around it, instead of putting all your energy into correcting it.
Although, to be fair, it is much easier to do that when the problem is something you can actually lay your eyes on, rather than picture in your brain.
It feels different from how I've been writing for a while. I have an actual goal as I step into my little workshop area, I have an image in my head of what I want to step out with, and even if I don't quite end up there, I'm at least getting close to that. I can see it. When I write, I step up to my story and I just start filling out words on the paper. I let my characters be in control of the story, frequently not even knowing the end goal, much less the path for how to get there. And I don't necessarily have a problem with that, I enjoy that that's a thing that I can do. It's a very cool experience to be able to go in with nothing and come out with something. But it can also be very intimidating at times, and it can make it very hard to know what steps to take to get through a tough spot.
I'm not sure that I necessarily prefer one to the other. But I have been writing for a very long time, and it's nice to actually be able see what's coming and how to go about it. It's nice, when you hit a snag in the road, to have a clear cut, solid way to be able to get around it. You don't have to go out of your way to make something up. You have a proven way to fix problems.
Of course, in both, sometimes those imperfections and problems are what end up making them beautiful and unique. Not always, obviously - sometimes they destroy the project entirely. But sometimes, when you take a step back from it, you can see it for what it really is and start to build the rest around it, instead of putting all your energy into correcting it.
Although, to be fair, it is much easier to do that when the problem is something you can actually lay your eyes on, rather than picture in your brain.
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
Taking
It was impossible to see. Possibly because there was nothing to see, or possibly because he needed new eyes. When had he replaced them last? Had he? He wasn't sure how long he had been standing there, in the void of a hallway, standing before the door and waiting for it to swing open. His back hurt. And his neck. Pretty much all of him. He was used to it. Though every once in a while it was nice to relieve some of it.
He could hear the door swing open, though he couldn't see it. But what he could see was a man, frozen instantaneously by his appearance. A younger man, whose parts were still working. And best of all, a man with a nose. A bruised nose, from the look of it, but bruised was better than broken and battered, and it was certainly better than hanging by a string. His entire body surged and lurched, throwing his weight onto the man's body. He could see the man trying to flee, but he was too slow. Just like all the ones before him.
His fingers clenched around the fresh nose, digging into flesh and muscle and breaking the bone beneath them. He pulled, strength made by centuries of practice, and could feel the man's face beneath his fingers tearing apart. He pulled harder and harder still, feeling the man attempt to fight him off, though each blow felt more like a gentle pat on the belly than a punch thrown in desperation. He had forgotten if that was because of his strength, or because he had simply experienced far worse already. It hardly mattered.
The cracking and splitting was loud as the nose finally came free, and he looked down at the bloodied and bruised appendage in his hand. It didn't look as fresh as it had on the man's face. Still fresher than his, though. He finished tearing off what little was left of his own nose and pushed the new one against the open wound, feeling the curse pulse through his body anew. Within moments the blue vines were extending from him, grabbing the nose and fusing it to his flesh like a welder fused metal.
The man before him vanished as the door slammed shut, and for a brief moment he could smell the iron of the spilt blood in the room. It was fresh. It was lively. It reminded him of the old days.
And then he set once more to waiting.
He could hear the door swing open, though he couldn't see it. But what he could see was a man, frozen instantaneously by his appearance. A younger man, whose parts were still working. And best of all, a man with a nose. A bruised nose, from the look of it, but bruised was better than broken and battered, and it was certainly better than hanging by a string. His entire body surged and lurched, throwing his weight onto the man's body. He could see the man trying to flee, but he was too slow. Just like all the ones before him.
His fingers clenched around the fresh nose, digging into flesh and muscle and breaking the bone beneath them. He pulled, strength made by centuries of practice, and could feel the man's face beneath his fingers tearing apart. He pulled harder and harder still, feeling the man attempt to fight him off, though each blow felt more like a gentle pat on the belly than a punch thrown in desperation. He had forgotten if that was because of his strength, or because he had simply experienced far worse already. It hardly mattered.
The cracking and splitting was loud as the nose finally came free, and he looked down at the bloodied and bruised appendage in his hand. It didn't look as fresh as it had on the man's face. Still fresher than his, though. He finished tearing off what little was left of his own nose and pushed the new one against the open wound, feeling the curse pulse through his body anew. Within moments the blue vines were extending from him, grabbing the nose and fusing it to his flesh like a welder fused metal.
The man before him vanished as the door slammed shut, and for a brief moment he could smell the iron of the spilt blood in the room. It was fresh. It was lively. It reminded him of the old days.
And then he set once more to waiting.
Monday, March 20, 2017
Burning
So if you didn't know what the title of my post the other day meant, Pyrographer, I recently learned that pyrography is the art of woodburning. Specifically, that mean using fire to draw and write, typically on wood though it can be on other mediums, using varying levels of burn marks to create depth and texture in a piece. Having spent a lot of time recently doing woodworking, looking into building things, and generally trying to create with my own two hands, I love this idea. And having found out that you can get a tool for it for twenty bucks, you're damn right I went and bought one.
Now, I've expressed before that I don't dislike drawing, but I have absolutely no talent for it. I can barely draw a stick figure - much less some of the incredible art that I have found while looking into how pyrography works. But I think this is the first thing that's really made me want to learn. Maybe it's the fact that it's in materials that a lot of people today don't work with as often. Maybe it's just the fact that it's fire. But the more I think about it, the more I want to get good at it. The more I want to do research on how to draw - specifically things like shading, and how to get proportions right, and how to take what's in my head and give it physical shape without looking like a hideous pile of crap.
And I have all kinds of ideas in my head of things that I want to do. Things for me, things for friends, hell, even things for work. I can't think of another project that I've been this excited to work on in a long time. Maybe even since I started this blog. But a lot of the things that I have in mind are things that I know full well I won't be able to just jump into right away. They're complicated, complex, and generally require me to be better at other things that I'm already working on. But they serve as goals. When I'm burning simple straight lines and wondering what I'm doing with my life, I'll remember the things that I'm working towards making. Concrete, solid plans. Not like wanting to write a book - which, don't get me wrong, I still want to do, but that's a lot vaguer than "I want to build a box for someone and burn a picture of them into it."
I don't expect to be able to start doing these things overnight. Even before the tool arrives, I have a lot of research I need to do. What kind of wood works best, where I can get it, how much sanding I should do on it both before and after, what's the best way to preserve it once it's done. And it'll be dangerous - I'm effectively going to be using a pen with a tip that can reach over a thousand degrees fahrenheit.
But god damn if it wouldn't be cool to do.
Now, I've expressed before that I don't dislike drawing, but I have absolutely no talent for it. I can barely draw a stick figure - much less some of the incredible art that I have found while looking into how pyrography works. But I think this is the first thing that's really made me want to learn. Maybe it's the fact that it's in materials that a lot of people today don't work with as often. Maybe it's just the fact that it's fire. But the more I think about it, the more I want to get good at it. The more I want to do research on how to draw - specifically things like shading, and how to get proportions right, and how to take what's in my head and give it physical shape without looking like a hideous pile of crap.
And I have all kinds of ideas in my head of things that I want to do. Things for me, things for friends, hell, even things for work. I can't think of another project that I've been this excited to work on in a long time. Maybe even since I started this blog. But a lot of the things that I have in mind are things that I know full well I won't be able to just jump into right away. They're complicated, complex, and generally require me to be better at other things that I'm already working on. But they serve as goals. When I'm burning simple straight lines and wondering what I'm doing with my life, I'll remember the things that I'm working towards making. Concrete, solid plans. Not like wanting to write a book - which, don't get me wrong, I still want to do, but that's a lot vaguer than "I want to build a box for someone and burn a picture of them into it."
I don't expect to be able to start doing these things overnight. Even before the tool arrives, I have a lot of research I need to do. What kind of wood works best, where I can get it, how much sanding I should do on it both before and after, what's the best way to preserve it once it's done. And it'll be dangerous - I'm effectively going to be using a pen with a tip that can reach over a thousand degrees fahrenheit.
But god damn if it wouldn't be cool to do.
Sunday, March 19, 2017
Falling
Time seemed to come to a stand still as Matthew watched his two friends tumble off the side of the cliff, the snow under their boots giving way and stealing their balance away from them. Jeremiah attempted to correct his balance, feeling his feet tilting forward as the snow broke, and thus threw his weight backwards, unknowingly sending him further from the edge. Drew dove towards Matthew instead, though his feet had nothing to grip and the motion barely moved him. Matthew could see the two so clearly, suspended in air, falling in different positions at different heights, and he knew that he could save only one of them.
His movement would have to be nearly instantaneous. He was the only one with shoes that had actually had spikes in them, so he would be able to maintain solid footing in the remaining ice before the spot where the snow had broken. Jeremiah had been Matthew's friend since childhood. They had been through everything together. Had helped each other through break ups, court cases, every fear and every triumph. They had been the best man at each other's weddings. But Drew was Matthew's wife's brother. He had been the one to talk her into going through with the wedding. He had loaned them the money to pay off their first mortgage, and he had literally saved her life as a child.
He owed so much to them both. He would be broken to lose either of them. In different ways, the death of either one of them would tear his world apart. And yet he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could not save them both. If he tried to give each one a hand, he would only be dragged down with them, and they would all tumble to their dooms. He could support the weight of one. Not the two.
But there was also another factor. A far more important factor. The one that forced his hand into making a choice, whether he liked it or not.
As time crawled back to life, Matthew was already in motion. He dove forward, dug his heels into the ice, and grabbed Drew's arm, trying his best not to look in Jeremiah's direction. He tried not to think about it. But he couldn't.
But he could actually reach Drew.
His movement would have to be nearly instantaneous. He was the only one with shoes that had actually had spikes in them, so he would be able to maintain solid footing in the remaining ice before the spot where the snow had broken. Jeremiah had been Matthew's friend since childhood. They had been through everything together. Had helped each other through break ups, court cases, every fear and every triumph. They had been the best man at each other's weddings. But Drew was Matthew's wife's brother. He had been the one to talk her into going through with the wedding. He had loaned them the money to pay off their first mortgage, and he had literally saved her life as a child.
He owed so much to them both. He would be broken to lose either of them. In different ways, the death of either one of them would tear his world apart. And yet he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could not save them both. If he tried to give each one a hand, he would only be dragged down with them, and they would all tumble to their dooms. He could support the weight of one. Not the two.
But there was also another factor. A far more important factor. The one that forced his hand into making a choice, whether he liked it or not.
As time crawled back to life, Matthew was already in motion. He dove forward, dug his heels into the ice, and grabbed Drew's arm, trying his best not to look in Jeremiah's direction. He tried not to think about it. But he couldn't.
But he could actually reach Drew.
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