My face for the Kushielverse . . . hopefully it'll show up and work.

Pieces

I am in love with pieces. A stunningly blue pair of eyes, a swirl of hair as they turn, the jaunty set of sunglasses on their head.

Calling it love is a bit much, I suppose, but I love and hate easily. Too easily. There are advantages to thinking with one's heart instead of one's mind, but there are just as many problems. I can see why some choose logic and science over intuition and magic, but I don't see the why of it.

It's not just sight that I'm in love with - it's the cool feel of someone's hand as I brush them accidentally, the clean scent of a person, the way they say a word.

It goes beyond physical attributes, though - it's a maternal arm stretched out to a lost child, a passion about a subject, a clever word, a quirk of personality. It's a feeling I get walking by them, a good vibe.

But no one person.

Just pieces, patched together.

Gods, what's wrong with me?

Easy

Sometimes, when the drama increases to new heights, when I'm terrified about leaving home, when my parents think I've giving them a lot of attitude, my dad will invoke the 'easy' reminder. I have it so easy, I'm so lucky. I was born in America. I'm getting an education. I'm going to college, and we'll figure out a way to pay for me and both of my brothers to go. I can drive, I wasn't born in a country that does not allow women to drive or be educated. I can walk down the street in whatever I want to (and my parents let me) wear. There's the option of birth control readily available and widespread. (And the whisper in the back of my mind says that there's always the option of abortion at the worst.) I wasn't married off at the age of thirteen. I'll be able to vote and have a say in our country. I'm intelligent and healthy, and I can keep that up. I was taken around the world to see people and understand that they are all intrinsically the same, all intrinsically good, kind, intelligent people, more than the majority of my peers have ever seen. In short, I was born in one of the most privileged places in the world to a family that will aid in my success. He doesn't say most of this, but I know. That's what he means, after all, when he says I was born here.

Then comes the comparisons. "When they were your age," he says, then launches into descriptions of how I have it so easy. My mother was in college, trying to figure out how to pay for it all herself, had twice as many classes as required for a full-time student, and worked a job pretty much full time. My dad was caring for his father, who was slowly dying, and had already lost his mother over a decade before. My maternal grandfather was in college for engineering, gearing up for World War Two. My maternal grandmother was emigrating to a land where she knew no-one but an uncle, lost, and had to get married in order to make sure she could support herself. My paternal grandfather was in the Navy or nearly so, having run away from home to join the Navy in time for World War Two. (I'm still not sure if he knew how to swim, but he joined anyways and ended up on a submarine.) My paternal grandmother survived the London Blitz, biking past the river and nearly getting hit. I have it easy.

Looking back, I feel like a wimp. I have it so easy, grew up so soft. My grandfather and his father were farmers, working the land themselves. I've never known labor like that. I have to live up to these examples - and there's more than that, there's their friends, more ancestors, stories we hear in the news. People who find adversity, trample it, and laugh in its face. People who can be proud of themselves, their accomplishments. Why can't I have it hard?

snis/seutriv

Sins and Virtues. Why does the Catholic Church have a monopoly on them in our society? And why seven? There's a bit too much to remember them all, and they're all old-fashioned, out-dated words, even ideas. I mean, chastity? Temperence? Wrath? Pride? Those sins have been deemed 'fine' by our modern day culture, and the meanings of those virtues seems - lost.

So I've set up my own ethics. This is still an evolving process, and open to suggestions (though that doesn't mean I'll take them). My rules: the list must be short, it must reflect modern culture, and as it is very personal, it must reflect me and my values.

So it seems to me there are two basic forces at work in the universe, spiritually speaking: creation and destruction. Extremes of either are to be avoided at all costs. Imagine being stuck in a world of constant destruction: nothing is ever accomplished but blind hate. Now the world of constant creation: overpopulation, no room to breathe. Between the two of them is balance.

The sins and virtues are divided into two fairly obvious groups: destructive forces are sins, and creative forces are virtues. There are currently five in each group. In the virtues are beauty, love, tenacity, intelligence, and vengeance. Sins are murder, rape, waste, stupidity, and betrayal.

Allow me to explain.

Virtues

Beauty does not necessarily exclude ugliness, this is a beauty of the soul, of the mind. It is a beauty of balance and symmetry, one achieved through hard work for that hard-to-grasp aesthetic quality.

Love is passion, a pure desire for something, to care for it, nurture it. It is wanting to do something not for oneself and personal gain, but because someone else will benefit.

Tenacity is stubbornness, a 'stick-to-it' quality that ensures something will be created. It makes sure that ideas become things.

Intelligence is the ability to learn - not knowledge, not wisdom, just a thirst for knowledge and education. It is wanting to know how to make your ideas into things.

Vengeance - this one people will probably look askance at. It is, above all, righteous, not petty. It is only undertaken for serious matters, and never pre-emptively. It is exactly equal to the insult dealt.

Sins

Murder. Quite self-explanatory, but it must be clarified that murder, senseless killing, is the sin here. Not manslaughter, not killing to avenge. Pure killing for the sake of killing.

Rape: also self-explanatory, as such an intimate violation is nothing but killing a soul.

Waste is killing without reverence. To slaughter an animal, then toss out the majority of it is irreverent. One must kill only in need, and be careful in determining need at that.

Stupidity is wilfull lack of knowledge. It is not wanting to learn, for pure orneryness. Which is of course a word.

Betrayal is a violation of trust. It is one thing to lie, but to betray is to say that the person betrayed never was as important to you as you were to them.

So there it is - sins and virtues, according to me. Constructive / creative criticism and opposing views are most welcome.

Chapter Seventeen, In Which I Try My Hand At Poetry (Again)

Changing purses today

I found a paper

in my careless, hurried scrawl

detailing how you like your sandwich

from the place down the street

that I'd walk to with a friend

while you were in class with yours.

(Seven lines 'til the end

of my thought. Seven is magic.)

It was folded and ripped

just a paper, careless,

but from the time

I thought we loved each other.

(Four lines 'til the end

of my thought. Four is death.)

Those days are gone -

I still love you, but

just as much as I hate you,

and I don't know if you

ever really loved me.

(Five lines 'til the end

of my thought. Five is spiritual balance.)

I saved it.

(One line - alone.)

(SEVENTEEN IS AN ARC NUMBER)

Hands

We sit at the table, done with dinner, waiting for the check. The remains of a feast were spread in front of us, a feast of food and culture. My grandparents had just flown in from Oregon, where our family reunion had taken place- near the gravesites of Grandfather, his wife, their son Charlie, who followed his mother after only three months due to whooping cough caught in the orphanage, and their grandson, dead in a farm accident while home from college.

I call him Grandfather, but only out of habit from hearing it - he was really my grandfather's father, the first to immigrate from Korea, sending for his wife and children after making money in Hawai'i and landing in Idaho. Later, after his wife died and the children were all older, all ten of them, he moved the family to Oregon, where his oldest daughter and her husband lived. She was much older than the rest of the children - her daughter was brought up like a sister to her aunt, only a year older than her. Granted, Auntie was one of the last children, but the gap was still large.

So I am sitting at the table with my grandfather, my grandmother, my mother, and two little brothers, who sit at the far end and experiment with the grill. We are at a Korean buffet, and are not allowed to play with anything at the table, leading to incidents with grills, candles, and many origami'd napkins. I sit next to my grandfather so as to help him eat - he is old, ancient to me, only a few years shy of a hundred.

Leaning in close, my lips brush his ear as I try to shout loud enough for him to hear me. He is nearly blind, cataracts covering his once expert eyes; a buzzing hearing aid in his ear, trying to make up for all the senses he has lost. I have to tell him my name before he can figure out who I am; my voice and face are so obscured to him. His mind, however, is still sharp - once he knows my name, he knows who my mother is, who my brothers are, that I am going to college. Most of the time he even remembers my major - better than a lot of the third and fourth generation, my generation, can.

"Grandpa," I shout, mindful of the looks the people at the next table over are giving me for daring to yell at my grandfather. "Grandpa, did you enjoy the reunion last week? How was your flight?"

He nods at me, more intent on eating - the food is good, and my mother and grandmother made sure he has enough on his plate. He cannot walk well enough to get his own food at a buffet; he has trouble keeping his balance even with a cane.

"Good." He returns to eating.

I look down at my hand on his arm, jacketed even in sumer's heat against the chills of old age. My hands are youthful, smooth, stained with ink, fingernails long and feminine. His hands are gnarled and wrinkled, fingernails short and almondesque. I still have a lifetime ahead of me, but his have lived a lifetime, have raised lives. From a farmboy sharpshooter to World War II fighter, aerospace engineer and father, his hands have done so much.

I lean against his shoulder for a moment, sighing, exhausted by the possibilities of what my hands can do, will do, and by the weight of what his have done. I have so much to live up to, such a legacy to carry on for the fifth generation. My grandfather has done so much - what will my granddaughter do?

Part one of The Momesse

A new story idea - one that's been floating around in my head for nearly a decade now, finally all tied together in a coherent plot. Here's what I have so far.

It all started the summer my little sister was to turn sixteen, the usual age for being sent into service for the Church. I had already been considered, briefly, then rejected. Everyone was expected to send in one child, if not more, to serve the Church, and there really weren’t any official rules about it, but our corner of the country tends to stick to its traditions. The eldest child tends to be the heir, the second the Service, and the third usually marries or goes into trade. My little brother was going to become a doctor, an upright, respectable trade for the youngest child of the gentry. His future was all planned out, and he was only thirteen. Only seven months away from being fourteen, as he constantly reminded us, but still only thirteen. It was my sister that surprised us all.

Us Sotley girls have always been headstrong – I think it comes from the land. Something about the stones and rocky soil gets into our spirits, and we just can’t stand aside and let things walk over us. But no-one ever expected timid – comparatively – little Mary-Rose to protest her place and buck tradition. She was always small and quiet, always the one to know the histories. We never expected her to do anything but accept and comply with the fact that she was to be the one to enter the Temple – the only direct service to the Church near our estate suitable for a young lady. Everything else would be farming or the sort, and sending in tithes. Mary-Rose just is not – was not – cut out for that sort of thing.

Everything was planned out. Then she fell in love.

It was horrible. There were fights, she was told she was only fifteen, there was screaming, there were tears. Roswell and I stood at the doorway and listened to every fight the first week, then gave up and simply retired elsewhere. The shouts were loud enough to be heard echoing out of the study, out of the dining hall, out of the sitting room to half the Hall. It simply went on and on and on.

No matter how many times she was reminded of her duty to Church and family, she refused. There were, she argued, still two other children that could be their heir or sent into the Church, or even both. She had a point. Roswell wanted to be a doctor so badly, had put so much of himself into it already, apprenticing himself informally to the local medicine woman and visiting the doctor in the next village over every week. Roswell had found his calling in the traditions and expectations set out for him at birth, but I was still a wild card.

True, I was the heir, and I loved the land, but there was always something missing, something more that took me away when I dreamed of nothing, staring off into space. I was other, I was strange. Loved and accepted, but still something else. Mary-Rose had a point. I could go.

It was eerily coincidental that it was then, among all this personal drama, the Momesse unleashed the greatest drama the country had seen for quite some time: she announced her intention to take on an heir. Any and every girl or woman in the entire country of Sphera was eligible, so long as they were of upstanding moral character, pure of heart, and able to withstand the rigors of the quest. Whosoever first found the diadem of Our Lady - a mystical artifact able to call down rain for the thirsty land, summon storms for the land to fight - whosoever first found it was deemed worthy enough to serve in our highest office. The obstacles and challenges of the journey – physical, mental, emotional, spiritual – were there to cull the weak and power-hungry who sought the office simply for power.

This was a sign for me from the Lady. I could go. I was to go.

Finally, one day, I could not take it anymore. Gathering up my courage, I knocked on the study door in a momentary lull of shouts. It would have been nice to say that one of my parents had ominously said ‘enter,’ or something equally dramatic, but as it was, they were exhausted from the weeks of fighting with a sentimental teenager whose heart and mind were set on a path they did not wish for her. Instead, I received a tired “Come in.”

I took a deep breath, my hand on the doorknob. The moment I walked in there and said my piece, there was no turning back. Would it be worth it? Was I sure? Should I do this, or should I just let them finish up their fight and let the dice fall as they may?

I walked in.

Our study was much like any other found in the Hall of the mid-nobility. There were some desks, one for each member of the household old enough to conduct business, a nook with some children’s texts and stories, and the rest books of study and leisure, religion and personal interest. Letters were carefully stored in pigeonholes above the desks, and journals chronicling the family histories, both formal and informal, had their own shelf near a window. It was a cheery room, mostly blond wood and cherry red fabric, a large fireplace for the winter currently swept clean and a potted plant in the grate. My parents sat in overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace, my father leaned back, my mother erect as usual, eyes half-closed. Mary-Rose stood before them, tongue stuffed in her cheek, arms crossed, and an expression on her face I had only ever seen before on a mule.

I sketched a bow before straightening up and nodding at each of them.

“Mother. Father.” They both waved away the formalities, and I knelt before them.

“Primrose, what do you wish?”

“I have been listening these past weeks to the debate that is cutting the bond of family between us all.” I looked up. My father had leaned forward and my mother had opened her eyes fully. “After much consideration, I have a solution that may work for us all.”

“Yes?” My father always pushed for me to learn quickly, add my weight to discussions as the heir. He would listen to me, but I was not sure how he would react. Mary-Rose would latch on to my solution like a rope in quicksand, anything to follow her own path. My mother was a wild card.

“You have three children. Traditionally, Mary-Rose would be the one to go to the Church, Roswell would go into trade, and I would stay as the heir. Roswell could go in her stead, but he loves his calling as a doctor, and would better serve the community if he followed that path. Send me into the Church. The Momesse is currently seeking an heir, and if I die in the quest our family will have fulfilled its obligation to the Church. As second oldest, Mary-Rose would be my heir on the condition that Roswell may stay as long as he wishes. If I survive and succeed, I would remain the heir, but also become the Momesse, placing our family in a better position, allowing Mary-Rose to follow her heart and Roswell his calling, and putting our family lands back into the hands of the Church, as when our ancestress Rosalba Soterly was first granted the title.”

I glanced up. Everyone was looking at me thoughtfully. I could talk, yes, but usually I was interrupted long before now, especially since Roswell started talking eleven years ago.

“You raise a good point, my heir, but if you die in the effort we will have lost a member of our family. Is that a worthy price to pay for a young woman’s love?”

“It will be a sacrifice for my sister.”

“Could you really do that? Could you truly allow your sister to do such a thing for you?” He directed the last comment at my sister. She took a deep breath, bit her lip, and sighed.

She nodded.

“Very well. If you two are willing to go through with this, I cannot refuse you. However, I am only one of two. Your mother must agree as well.”

Mary-Rose and I turned as one to look at her, she with hope and I with apprehension. My mother took a long, hard look at us, eyes shifting from one sister to the other. Finally, she inhaled sharply, a habit of hers before saying anything important.

“You may go.”

I rose, numb with shock at being allowed to go, as Mary-Rose jumped to embrace me.

“I must set out immediately if I am to reach the capital in time. Where is Roswell? I wish to say goodbye to everyone.” Mary-Rose hurried out of the room, calling his name, as my parents looked at me.

“I am so proud of you for dedicating your life to the Church, my dear Prim, but at the same time, we may lose you.” My mother nodded and added, “We have a gift for you that we were waiting to give to you on your next birthday, but you have reached your age of majority, and it is a fitting time to give this to you now.”

From her pocket she pulled a small blue silk bag, embroidered with gold thread. It held the treasures of our family, heirlooms from the first of the Soterlys to us today as Sotleys. Inside was the first stone Rosalba touched on the newly named Soterly Estate, a pearl granted to our family from the Momesse herself two centuries ago, a silver thread many yards long, wrapped on a spool, with a knot for every person born or married into the Sotley family. Other treasures were held in there as well, but the last time I had seen them was at Roswell’s naming all those years ago, when the contents of the bag were spilled onto the altar.

With long, pale fingers, she pulled out a small silver ring set with a pearl and moonstones around the band. Carefully, she placed it in my hand and folded my fingers around it.

“This ring has energy stored in it with all the wisdom of our ancestors. Every one who touched Sotley land has imparted a pearl of wisdom into this ring. With the full moon and a high tide, their personalities are stronger, and you may contact their echoes. Its power waxes and wanes with the moon and the tides, but your family is always with you.”

I placed the ring on my right hand, staring at it in awe. Immediately I felt a whisper, then an aura of confidence settled on me and I straightened up. Roswell and Mary-Rose walked in, and I smiled at them.

“Farewell for now, my dear siblings, but do not worry, do not fret. I will come back twice an heir, and we shall all see each other once more in joy. Mary-Rose, I wish to see my baby nieces and nephews fat and happy when I return. Roswell, little brother, do well in your studies. I wish to see your practice thriving when I come back. Mother, Father, thank you. I will bring honor unto our family.”

And with that, I left. I went to my room, I packed supplies, I gathered foodstuffs for the journey. I walked through the Hall for the last time in what would be a very, very long time, and I walked down the road, turning only once to wave at the windows. Their faces were mournful and ecstatic, but they all watched me go. Then I was walking through the trees that formed a fairy hall, then I was down the road, then I was walking out the gates and into the village. Before long I had left that, and I was walking on her Holiness’ road to a brand new life, starting with the Holy City of the Waters, a busy port where the greatest minds and foremost theologians gathered. Anything could happen there.

Save a Horse

Screw pirates.

Screw cowboys.

Just give me a Ninja.  They were cool before ninjas were cool.

Away in a Manger Lay a Fly

An older one, directly scanned.  Please no stealing.

Dorothy strays beyond the yellow line

Again, another.  Please don't copy.

Trying out an Idea . . .

Please don't copy; remember that even though this is the internet, not everything is public.  Which means this is MINE!  Not that anyone would really want to steal it, but just saying.

No Pepper Spray

Princess

"She was like some banished princess 

who learns that 

she has inherited a domain 

in her own country, 

who knows that 

she will never see it, 

yet feels, wherever she walks, 

its soil beneath her feet."

Edith Wharton, The Pretext

This makes me laugh so much.

Earth Begotten

My version, created from fusing the version in Kushiel's Dart with Earth Begotten from Ms. Carey's website, found here, and various bits and pieces throughout the stories as I found them. Behold!:

Earth Begotten

A thousand and more years ago, when the true-gotten son of the One God, Yeshua ben Yosef, Mashiach of the Yeshuites, who say he died for the sins of all men, hung dying upon the cross of wood, a soldier of Tiberium pierced his side with the cruel steel of a spearhead.  When Yeshua was lowered, the women grieved, his beloved the Magdalene most of all, letting down the ruddy gold torrent of her hair to clothe his still, naked figure.  The bitter salt tears of the Magdalene fell upon soil ensanguined and moist with the shed blood of the Messiah. And because their union had never been sealed, Earth Herself took pity upon them and in the damp soil She quickened the divine seed of life, and of it Blesséd Elua was born, and he was nurtured in the womb of Earth, her most precious son, most cherished of all the angels.

Abhorred by the Yeshuites as an abomination, reviled by the empire of Tiberium as the scion of its enemy, Elua was cast out to wander.  And wander he did, across vast deserts and wastelands on the bosom of Earth.  Elua trod with bare feet, singing, and flowers bloomed in his wake. And where he went, people feared him, for he was strange to them, and the One God, called Adonai by the Yeshuites, whose Name is forgotten, scorned him, mourning only for his true-gotten son.

Elua was captured in Persis, and shook his head singing when the King cast him in chains, and vines grew to wreath his cell.  The tale of his wandering had come to reach the ear of Heaven, and when he was imprisoned, there were those among the angelic hierarchy who took pity on him.

Naamah, eldest sister, and it was she who gave herself to the King to win blessed Elua's freedom with a night's pleasure.  There is still told in Persis the tale of the King’s Night of Pleasure.  Following her was clever Shemhazai, gentle Eisheth and kind Anael, proud Azza, martial Camael, and Kushiel with his cruel mercies. Not last among them was Cassiel, who came in duty to the compassion the One God had forgotten. When the door to Blesséd Elua's cell was opened, a fragrance of flowers came forth and Elua emerged singing, crowned in vines, and their hearts were moved to love him.

Afterward, the King of Persis became fearful and betrayed Elua and those who followed, giving them strong wine laced with valerian to drink. While they slept, he had them cast in a boat with no sails and put out to sea; but Blesséd Elua awoke and sang, and the creatures of the sea’s deeps came to answer, guiding the boat across the sea to land in Bhodistan.

In Bhodistan, they are an ancient people, and they feared to turn from their multitude of gods, who are at turns capricious and compassionate. Yet they saw the light in Blesséd Elua and would allow no harm to come to him, so he wandered singing, and people made the sign of peace and turned away. When he went hungry, Naamah lay down in the marketplace, the stews of Bhodistan, with strangers for coin.  And the Companions followed Elua, not knowing or caring if the eye of the One God was upon them, and where they went they sang, and wound in their hair the flowers that sprang up in Blesséd Elua's wake. Alone among them, only Cassiel gave thought to Heaven, but he loved Elua too well to abandon him.

When Elua was weary, he sought sanctuary among the Tsingani in Bhodistan, but they turned him out, with jeers and stones, predicting in their pride that he and his Companions would ever be cursed to wander the Earth’s bosom, doomed to call no place home.  It is not wise to curse the son of Earth’s womb; they were punished, the fate they decreed sealed as their own, condemned to walk the long road.  But in her cruel mercy, the Mother-of-All granted them the dromonde, to part the veils of time, that next time they might see truer.

From there, Elua’s course drifted to the North, and he wandered long through lands harsh and stony, and the angels and creatures of the earth attended upon him, or surely have perished, and for many years they sojourned. In the plains of Akkad, padding lions led him to honey. In Tiroc Pass, a great eagle flew each morning, stooping low over ice and crags to drop a bright berry in Blesséd Elua's mouth. North, he wandered, then west, and in the dark woods of the Skaldic hinterlands, the ravens and wolves were his friends, but the tribesmen gave him no heed, brandishing their terrible axes and calling upon their gods in words of blood and iron. So Blesséd Elua wandered, and snowdrops poked their heads above the drifts where he went.

Westward and westward, with his Companions at his side, Blesséd Elua wandered and came at last in summer to a land unnamed where olives, grapes and melons grew, and lavender bloomed in fragrant clouds. And here the people welcomed him as he crossed the fields, answering him in song, opening their arms, and Blesséd Elua took them for his own and loved them. This place, he made his home, and it was called in his name ever after, Terre d'Ange.

In seven parts did Elua's Companions divide the land among themselves to rule, saving only Cassiel, who remained ever at Elua's side and loved him as a brother. And these parts were named Namarre, Siovale, Eisande, L'Agnace, Azzalle, Camlach and Kusheth and therein they dwelt, but Blesséd Elua himself would claim no part, wandering freely in the whole; yet along the banks of a mighty river, where he tarried longest, the City of Elua with its white walls was founded.

For three-score years they dwelled there and abided by Blesséd Elua's Precept, which was, "Love as thou wilt." And Elua and his Companions lay with women and with men, and many children were begotten, save only unto steadfast Cassiel, who kept the One God's commandments, abjuring mortal love for the love of the divine, but his heart was moved by Elua, and he stayed always by his side like a brother. But the other Companions did not, and those secrets, which they had brought from Heaven, they did teach to their children, and they grew wise in many arts.  So did Terre d’Ange come to be what it is, and the world to know d’Angeline beauty, born in the bloodlines from the seed of  Blesséd Elua and those who followed him.

Now, when the One God left off his grieving for his one true-gotten son, Yeshua ben Yosef, and ceased to be preoccupied with the course of his chosen people, and turned His thoughts to them He was wroth.  The time of deities does not move like our own, and three generations may live and die in the space between one thought and another.  When the songs of the d’Angelines reached his ears, he turned his eye to Terre d’Ange, to Elua and those who had fled Heaven to follow him, and He saw that their offspring would overrun the earth, and He sent the leader of His host, His commander-in-chief, to fetch them back and summon Blesséd Elua before His throne. But Blesséd Elua smiled upon the leader of the One God's host and gave him the kiss of peace, laying wreathes of flowers about his neck and filling his glass with sweet wines, and the leader of God’s host returned ashamed and empty-handed.

It came then to the One God that He held no dominion over Elua, his persuasion held no sway, for who was begotten in Earth's womb, in whose veins ran the red wine of his mother Earth, through the womb she gave him and the tears of the Magdalene, he did not answer to Heaven; yet through this he was mortal, and subject to mortality. Thus the One God pondered long, and sent not the angel of death, but His arch-herald to Blesséd Elua and his Companions.  “Do you stay here and love as you wilt, thy offspring shall overrun the earth,” said the herald of the One God.  “And this is a thing which may not be.  Come now in peace to the right hand of your God and Lord, and all is forgiven.”

Blesséd Elua smiled upon the arch-herald, and turned to his boon companion Cassiel, holding out his hand for the dagger. Taking it, he drew the point across the palm of his hand, scoring it.  Bright blood welled in his palm and fell in fat drops to the earth, and anemones bloomed. "My grandfather's Heaven is bloodless," Elua told the arch-herald, "And I am not. Let him offer me a better place, where we may love and sing and grow as we are wont, where our children and our children's children may join us, and I will go."

The arch-herald paused, awaiting the One God's response. "There is no such place," he replied.

And there was silence in Heaven and in Terre d'Ange, while Blesséd Elua's blood fell upon the soil and scarlet anemones bloomed, and his children and his children's children did watch and marvel. And such a thing happened as had not happened for many thousands of years and never since: Our mother Earth did speak to Her once-husband, the One God, and say, "It may be done. Let us create it together, You and I." This was done, and such a thing has not happened since.

Thus was the creation of the true Terre d'Ange, that lies beyond mortal perception, whose gate we may enter only after passing through the dark gate that heads out of this world.  Blesséd Elua and his Companions went willingly into it, passing not through the dark gate of death, but straightway through the bright gate. And alone among them, only Cassiel gazed backward in sorrow.  But this land he loved first, and so we call it after that one, and revere him and his memory, in pride and love.

Generation upon generation, the blood of Elua and his Companions runs still in the veins of their descendants, each of whom will one day follow to the land that lies beyond. And though centuries pass, we do not forget, but call our land still after that further one, and keep always sacred the precept of Blesséd Elua, that is, "Love as thou wilt."

Such is Terre d'Ange.

 

Without Hook or Scar

Yep.  I have no life.

With Fins Averted

For Alyssum's Koi:

Check out the Clouds.

Naamah's Bower

Since I hate Photobucket, here's a sketch I did of what Tejrinde and I have thought Naamah's place in the initiate garden would look like.  The black-and-white one is the original pen, and the second was colored in Photoshop.

Things in the Initiate Garden

Vegetables and Fruits
Parsnips
Potatoes

Pumpkins

Tomatoes

Yellow squash

Herbs and Spices
Catnip
Greek oregano
Lemongrass
Mandrake

Mint
     Peppermint
Monkshood
Patchouli (x 2)
Parsley
Plaintain
Rosemary

Sage (x 2)
Soapplant
Sweet basil
Wintergreen
Ylang ylang

Flowers and Greenery

Agapanthus
     Purple
Baby’s Breath (White)
Bleeding Heart
     Pink with Red and White Drops
Bougainvillea
     Red- Violet (x 2)
Calla Lilies
     Deep Purple
     Orange (x 2)
     Pink
     Pink and White
     White (x 2)
     Yellow (x 2)
Camellia
     Dark Pink
Carnations
     Pink
Cat-tails
Cereus (White)
Chamomile (x 2)
Columbine

     Blue center, White outer petals
     White

Chrysthaneum
     White with Scarlet Insides
Dahlia
     Orange
     Pink
     Pale Pink
     Red
     Red with White tips
     Yellow
Delphinium
     Blue (x 2)
     Pink
     Purple
     White
Fern
Gardenias (White)
Gentian, Fringed
     Periwinkle
Geranium
     Unidentified

Gerber Daisies
     Orange (Deep)
     Pale Pink
     Red
Gladiola
     Orange
     Pink edged in Purple
     Purple
     Red
     Red with Yellow Centers
     White
     Yellow
     Yellow with Red Centers
Heliotrope
Hellebore
Hibiscus
     Red
Honeysuckle
     Unidentified
     Yellow
Iris
     Bearded
          Black
          Deep Blue
Ivy
Jasmine
     Star (White with Pink Buds)
     Unidentified (x 2)
Lady’s Slippers
Lavender (purple) (x 3)
Lilies
     Stargazer (Pink-Speckled Pink with White Edges)
Lily-of-the-Valley
     White
Lupine
     Pink
Marigolds
Meadowsweet
Mexican Sage (Purple Flowers)
Miramelinda
     Pinkish-Purple
Morning Glory
     Blue
     White with Blue Stars

Mountain Lupine

     Purple
Orchids
     Cattleya (Red-Orange and Yellow)
     March Orchis
     White
     Yellow
Pansies
     Blue (Blue-Black and Yellow Center)
     Purple (Yellow Center)
Penstemon
     Pink (Dark)
Rhododendron
     Pinkish-Purple
Roses
     Orange
          Bronze Star
     Pink
     Pink and White Mix
          Forty-Niner
     Purple
          Blue Nile
          Heirloom
     Red
          Black Jade
     Unidentified
Sweet peas
     Pink with White Bottoms
Sunflowers
Tulips
     Purple and White
     Red and Orange
     Salmon
     White
     Yellow (x 2)
     Yellow and Red
Unidentifiable
     Blue Star-shaped Flowers (Posted by Dominique no Kushiel April 17, 2009)
     Blue Rosaceous Flower (Posted by Lya Tieran June 5, 2009)
     Orange Succulent (posted by Daphne April 18, 2009)

     Purple (posted by Ghislaine July 17, 2008)

     Yellow flower (depicted with bee) (posted by ghislaine July 17, 2008)
Venus (Red-Purple and Green)
Violet (Purple)
Waterlilies
     Unidentified

Trees
Dogwood

Japanese Maple
Ponderosa Pine
Rosewood
Sandalwood

Fruit Trees
     Lemons
          Meyer
     Orange
          Neroli
          Valencia
     Peach
     Plum

Features
Black Soil
Dryad (Carved from Wood, has Ivy Growing over her) in Corner by Fountain
Meandering Stream that empties into Pond, fed by Fountain
Octagonal Fountain with center post
     Has Floating Candles
Pond fed by Stream
     Bathing Undines and Water-Nymphs
     Koi (Unspecified)
     Rocky Beach and Shells
     Salmon
     Sign warning away Goddesses
     Soapplant
     Tilapia
Well
Woman Painted to look like Wood on Wall near Dorms

The Picture - ta-da!

I love Terre D'Ange

Thus, I am joining a forum to talk about it! Thus, I will be posting a picture here to have an avatar - it needs to be linked from elsewhere on the web.

Sock update: I found my knit kit pouch, recently picked up the second sock, and crocheted soft, fuzzy blue faux fur on the previous. It feels delicious around my ankles.

ES

The Question

Assuming the answer is 42, we at In the Loop have discovered, after more than a year of searching, testing, and researching, the question to the answer. Behold:

If you were a millionaire, what type of kitchen utensil would you be?

Observe:

The 'if' beginning immediatly opens up the questioned to many possibilities, from 'If I were rich' to 'If you do that . . .' and prepares the questioned for the fantastical.
The 'millionaire' section then brings the questioned a bit of background and information, immediatly obliterating many possibilities and narrowing down the answers.
Following that is the seemingly random 'what type of kitchen utensil would you be?' The type clears up the question somewhat, and is further clarified by the phrase 'kitchen utensil,' bringing the question to a more pedestrian, comfortable level. With the 'you,' as always in English unclear if it is the formal or intimate form, the question brings the questioned to their favorite subject - themself.