[RP] An Involuntary Reassignment [PG-13]

Staying up all night with the writing bug: not always a good idea, especially on a school night, but what can you do?

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"I respectfully decline, sir."

Late summer in the Outlands, such as it was, always brought sticky-hot temperatures to Hellfire Peninsula (there are only three seasons in Hellfire, as the old saying goes: summer, late summer, and son-of-a-bitch), and the barracks at Honor Hold were sweltering. Lieutenant-Commander Rowsell raked a hand through his hair (these days far more salt than pepper), sweat forming it into wild peaks that, when paired with the look of woeful exasperation stamped on his typically dignified features, made him look as unsettled and pissed-off as she felt.

"You can't decline. The paperwork's done. You've been promoted." He dropped a thick sheaf of parchment on his desk to illustrate. The top sheet was heavy, embossed with the seal of Stormwind and signed by both the acting field marshal and Force Commander Trollbane.

"That's shit."

"Sergeant Harker--"

"Corporal Harker, sir."

His lips disappeared, pressed into the thin white line she knew and hated. Standing, he planted his hands on his broad, immaculately-polished desk and leaned forward, dropping his voice to a low rumble. "Shut the door."

Crossing the office with purpose, Brijania locked the door behind her, killing the light draft that was the room's only source of relief from the choking heat. She snapped back to attention before him, her blonde hair dark and matted with sweat, undershirt stuck miserably to her body. For the first time in eight years she disregarded his gesture, the extended open palm that had been their signal that she could come forward and be frank, even intimate. She may as well have slapped him. When he was distressed, she noted, he actually looked his age.

Old, even.

"Bri. Don't be like that."

"Easy for you to say," she spat, trembling with rage and something else she couldn't or wouldn't identify. "You're not the one takin' the 'needs o' the Kingdom' right up the arse."

"You've been a corporal for over a decade, Bri. You're fast approaching the point where the powers that be take offense to a terminal lack of motivation."

"Funny that, you didn't seem to give two shits when you were fucking me."

"For the love of the Light, Bri, keep your voice down." Rowsell held his breath and listened for footsteps, the rustle of clothing, anything that might betray an unsolicited ear.

As far as he knew, everyone in the administrative wing and most everyone else on regular duty was released early for the midday heat. Only a skeleton crew remained on the noon watch, a duty for which buck privates and corporals, the workhorses of the post-Sargeras era, drew short straws, bartering and gambling them away at every opportunity. Still, a patrol might wander by and catch enough to start a wildfire of gossip and a fraternization suit that would make last year's infidelity scandal look like child's play. In that case, the logistics officer and his assistant had gotten off with a slap on the wrist and a minor reassignment. This was a bit more complicated.

"I've worked my arse off for you, spare me your fuckin' motivation. You said keepin' low would protect me. You said you'd protect me, no matter what. And stop calling me that." Her chest heaved, and she realized a little too late that she was about to cry. He must have seen it in her face, because he skirted the desk between them and sat on the edge, his once-crisp uniform as wilted and tired as he looked, and spread his hands in an expression of surrender. Brijania closed her eyes. A line of sweat trickled off her brow and merged with the hot salt on her cheek. A second soon appeared, the burning drops falling from her chin, the tip of her nose.

"Bri." His voice was firm, but not unkind. "At ease, love. Come now."

She brought her hands to her face, refusing the comfort she knew he wanted her to take, the comfort he knew she wouldn't. It was over. Her fingers went white, pressing against her wet, contorting face, willing herself to speak calmly, to put on a stony mask of I-don't-care. It didn't come. "How long've I got?" she choked through her hands.

"You're to report in two weeks." He exhaled, bracing himself for the worst of it. "Ship leaves port four days from now, out of Stormwind. You've got 48 hours to pack and run through logistics."

"Why not Carter? Or Lambeck? Gerald Bitch-in-Boots Kinley's been dyin' to get out o' here since day fuckin' one, for Light's sake. Why the hell not one o' them?"

"I didn't have a choice."

She batted his hand off her arm and took a step back. "Bullshit. You're the personnel officer, it's all y--"

He cut her off. "Bonnie knows."

The fight went out of her at once. His arms were around her, but she hardly felt them as he led her to the austere sofa where they'd worked, talked, and done any number of things of questionable morality and legality. The stifling hot-box that served as Barrett Rowsell's command center was suddenly cold, and her damp clothes chilled her to the bone.

"She's got me on the wall, Bri. She was set on going straight to the liaison marshal up at Shattrath unless I reassigned you. You know what that means, don't you? Stripped rank, prison, fines. Time in the stocks. For both of us, though I think we both know they'd be harder on you than on me. I'm not going to let it happen." There was a brief pause. She supposed he expected her to respond, but when she elected to keep her mouth shut (a skill he had always appreciated) he added quietly, "She's not bluffing, either. She has a list of witnesses who'd testify if she asked, and a barrister on retainer."

The grim set of his jaw was telling; in it she saw what she already knew, and where she stood.

Bonnie Rowsell was a veteran of her husband's first ambitious, then harrowing career; she bore his three children (now grown and close to Brijania's own age); she wanted desperately to return to her homeland but, to her credit, had waited with a greater reserve of patience than Bri had ever seen in an officer's wife. When it came right down to the heart of it, he was fiercely loyal to the woman, and if Bonnie was dissatisfied with the integrity of their marriage, he would attempt to repair it. He certainly cared for the young woman in his arms (perhaps not so young anymore, but still nigh thirty years his junior), he might want her, even love her. But after all was said and done, it was an affair. Bonnie was family, and family came first.

Brijania Faye Harker was on her own.

A little fun at someone else's expense: Mixing reviews and creative writing [Possibly NSFW]

I've been following Heidi Swanson's vegetarian cooking/photography blog off and on for some time now. I like her photos, and I have really enjoyed trying some of her recipes. At the same time, I find her writing style grates on my nerves. A lot.

Thanks to Miss Heidi, I now cringe any time I see the words vibrant, spritz, jolt, drizzle, pop, and flecked. Especially flecked. Everything Heidi makes is flecked with something. It's like the Glitter Fairy threw up in her kitchen ten years ago and she's still having a hard time keeping the mess out of her food.

Heidi, some words are fun. I understand that! But sometimes words are uncommon for a reason. Unlike salt, you can't just liberally drizzle them all over everything you make, or they stick out like sore thumbs.

I'm fairly certain she'll never read this blog. I'm also pretty sure that I would never quite fit into the odd yuppie-granola category that seems to be her target audience. It's not really any of my business how she writes (and I know that her hordes of fawning foodie fans would eviscerate me if I dared to criticize her on her own territory) but it's bothered me for a while and something came up tonight that gave me a reason to write about it.

I was discussing a typical Swanson-esque blog segment with my friend Andrew. Here's an excerpt from her recipe for Buckwheat Cheese Straws:

Crispy, cheddar-flecked, and rustic, it's the buckwheat flour that lends these slender creations their convincing shade of brownish gray.

He came up with the brilliant idea to write pornography using the same words. I got on that right away, because I'm always up to a pervy challenge. Sorry, Heidi, this one's for you.

They made love in the rustic cottage until the sheets were crispy and his face was a convincing shade of brownish-gray. She knew he was sated then, and as they lay twined together in her fine, cheddar-flecked linens, she traced her fingers up and down his body. He was perfectly vibrant; her strong, yet slender creation. "I think we're all out of buckwheat flour," said Martha Stewart.

Here's another example of Ms. Swanson's flavor text. If you pornify it (yes, I know that's not a real word) in the comments I'll send you something nice!

It's just the sort of thing to slather on a sandwich, dollop over hot pasta, or you can do what I did, and work it through a bowl of plump, chewy wheat berries. The bite of the arugula is tamed by the creaminess of the pine nuts, and the saltiness of the grated Parmesan and chopped Kalamata olive offsets the wheat berries nicely.

One more sample before I sign off, a little gem that was just a few lines down on the same page:

These wheat berries have a beautiful, barely-noticeable red blush when cooked, and they plump into perfect oblong orbs that look like they might pop between your molars.

[RP] The Faire, Chapter 2

Whenever we traveled, our home stacked neatly behind us on the graying slats of Midan's wagon, I sat quietly beside my mother on the seat we shared. Midan drove. He was my mother's uncle, a big man, dark and quiet with great white whiskers. I was afraid of him just as I was afraid of everything, even though he took care of Mama and me. He sweetened me with treats, always silent as he made his offerings of cake or candy in the rough palms of his enormous hands, and I would steal them like a mouse, heart hammering in my chest. Now that I am grown I see how like him I am. Sometimes I wonder what he thought of me. He only spoke when words were needed. I never saw him smile.

Mama was dead eight months before word reached me. I was living in the desert then. My shoa came to me during meditations, rousing me with a firm hand on the shoulder. It was one of only two times he ever interrupted the sessions he himself prescribed, and I knew even before I opened my sun-stung eyes what news he bore. The paper was brittle from much traveling and changing of hands; the ink was smudged, no doubt from the damp of some dewy eden worlds away. I can still remember the hot, sterile sand shifting over the tops of my feet (always swathed in leathers to the knee, a desert-dweller's humble protection against the scorpion's sting), the sun baking into the crown of my head as I carefully unfolded the fragile note and began to read. Ever brief, Midan's letter was quickly read even though I was only just learning my letters. "Take heart," he'd written, "she suffered well." My heart mourned. I understood why she had begun creeping into my dreams, returning always to those balmy Faire nights when I slept in her arms. Only in my dreams, I held her.

To this day I can feel his overwhelming pride as I refolded the letter, solemn but tearless, returning it to the man who had become my teacher, my mentor, and my guardian. He was not yet my lover, not in those days. He had made me strong, and like Midan, he did not speak often, but his satisfaction and displeasure were as unmistakable to me as my own when he permitted me to see. Soon there came a time I could read him as though he were written on paper, whether he allowed it or not. This, he said, was my power.

It made me valuable.

[RP] The Faire, Chapter 1

Thiyenn is not a new character. Over the last year or two she's grown a lot, and I'm profoundly affectionate toward the timid little thing. No matter where she finds herself, or how terrified she is, she always manages to get by. I had an epic dream the other night and, while I can't remember much of it, it sparked the idea for a formidable writing project that really fills out the character and makes her feel even more real to me.

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When I was little, the open sky was my roof and canvas tents my shelter. The earth was my floor. I would like to say that simple living brought peace, but I cannot; I was never suited to the life to which I was born, and for me, peace was a rarity.

The Darkmoon are a people of wanderers. For those who do not know them, the name invokes images of dark, exotic beauty, brazen deception, squalor and tawdry mysticism. As one who has belonged to them, I can truthfully say that only two things can be claimed almost universally of the Darkmoon's diverse tribe: they are hardworking, and deeply superstitious.

The Faire was only quiet in the early mornings just before dawn, and this was when I liked it. I saw only my own people then, bright costumes hanging over their shoulders as they finished preparing their stalls and games for another day and ate the morning meal standing up or sitting on mats, or on the tall stools behind their tables while they arranged their wares. Their mugs steamed with a drink the Darkmoon love, a pungent, syrupy brew made from roasted leaves. Mama said I tasted it once, when I was small. My eyes went wide "just so," she would say-- and here she would open her own beautiful dark eyes until they swallowed me whole -- "and then they stuck that way." I was a mirror of her in those days, a perfect miniature. Only my blue eyes were my own, yet I envied hers, the color of coffee swimming with flecks of gold.

Mama told fortunes. She wore her wealth on her body, gold loops circling her wrists and ankles, chiming softly halfway up to her dark elbows; coils of hammered gold with ruby eyes, like snakes, wrapped themselves around her thin upper arms. I made myself small and hid in our tent while she made herself a dusky oracle for strangers. Men and women, young and old sat spellbound before her, helpless as I was helpless to resist the pull of her spirit and those soulful eyes. I crouched in the corner and stared at my bare feet, dark with sun and dirt. I smelled the earth and incense and my mother's perfume, enthralled by the lulling and husky tones of her voice.

At night, long after I first slept, Mama would scatter her bowl of spent incense across the entrance to our tent to ward off demons and evil spirits. Then she would lower the heavy flap of canvas that served as a door and undress, peeling off the rustling red and orange silks, the peacock velvets and cinnamon satins, all woven through with threads of gold. She left them hanging like shed skins over the crates and chests that were our tables and chairs and held everything we owned. She came to bed in simple nightclothes, made for warmth, and there she would wake me, curling one of her bangled arms under my head in the dark. Sometimes she spoke to me, sometimes she sang the old lullabies the Grandmothers taught her, and sometimes she merely watched me until I fell asleep again, my eyelids heavy under the weight of night.

I loved her.

RP: Keeping Warm

It's cute, it's sappy, it's geeky. It's Libby-Fenn RP!

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The fully crystallized birches of Crystalsong Forest are useless for traditional burning. The effects of magical petrification are most visible in the dramatic, alien landscapes above key ley lines and below the hovering magic city of Dalaran, but extend far beyond what is visible to the naked eye. 90% of Crystalsong timber contains at least 5% crystalline cells, permanently altered by the perpetual magical current. The most valuable lumber is found a few hundred feet into the grassline bordering the purple lichens of the magic zone, where the trees are between 35 and 40% striated crystal. Logs of this type burn hot, produce even, violet flames, and typically last over one hundred times longer than their uncrystallized counterparts.

In a high-ceilinged apartment of the Legerdemain, a single piece of this prized timber burns on a bed of grey coals. A particularly large node of phosphorescent pitch ignites with a loud pop, and the devilsaur sleeping on the hearth opens one blue eye before falling back asleep. In the bedroom, Libby wakes up. Her dark face is groggy and soft with sleep, and Fenniel is watching her.

"... Fenni?"

Fenniel blushed. "S-sorry Libby, I was just thinking."

"Is everything okay?"

Not everything is okay. In fact, pretty much everything outside of this little apartment is not okay. People are scary and every day there are battles, some too close for comfort. Fenn remembers that he was lucky today. He also remembers his last breath--what should have been his last breath, had luck not been with him--and who that breath was for. He wraps his long arms around her. She is warm.

"Y-yeah."

Her long hair is loose again. She pulls and tugs at it when she is nervous, when she is anxious, when she is thinking, when she is breathing. Now they are a mass of unfurled, braid-kinked black curls contrasting with her pillow and her pink pajamas. She wears them because she is too nervous to be undressed in front of Fenniel. She wears them because sleeping in her quick-blooded feline form is too hot. She wears them because he gave them to her. She wears them because she loves him.

"I can go make you some tea if you need help slee--"

Fenniel squeezed tight, cutting her off. "No, don't go. I'm fine."

"A-are you sure?" Her face was hot.

He's going to kiss her, he wants to kiss her, his face is turned to hers and for a moment he almost looks like he might. Her eyes are purple, looking back at him over the soft dark fuzz of her nose. Then he looks at her mouth and he wavers, afraid he'll mess up or do it wrong or that she won't like it. His cheeks turn a brilliant red that shows even in the dark.

"I--I'm sure. Let's go back to sleep." He put a hand on the back of his neck, his usual nervous scratch making an appearance.

Libby looked at him for a long moment, then sank back into her pillow and sighed. "Okay, Fenn. Goodnight."

And as she drifted off, he listened to her breathe. When he was sure she was asleep, he found just enough courage to say how he felt.

"I love you, Libby."

Literary Food Porn? YES!

I stumbled over this blog today and I can't stop reading it. Vivid epicurean excerpts from literature served in blog form? Hell yes. They're like potato chips--crunchy bits of awesome that are delicious on their own and always leave you wanting more.

I still remember reading about Laura Ingalls Wilder's little farm boy and the massive homey spreads they managed to serve up every day. Food was a huge part of their lives. They grew it, preserved it, prepared it; it was their sustenance, their livelihood and the stuff of their memories.

We are what we eat. Food nourishes and replenishes us. The preparation and consumption of meals are intricate rituals born of a simple nutritional imperative, and have evolved into an experience more varied than any one lifetime could contain.

I'll always remember those who have fed me and those I have fed; the processes of cooking and baking; learning from others and through intrepid solo experimentation. The smells and tastes and textures invoke powerful recollections of people and places that hold no small significance in my life.

Not everyone feels as strongly as I do on the subject of food. Not everyone is passionate about what they put in their bodies or feed to their families. For some, food is fuel, and that is all. That's fine. But if you share my love of food, if you collect recipes and books and kitchen tools that never collect dust, do yourself a favor and have a look at Lashings & Lashings of Ginger Beer.

(P.S. Happy New Year!)

RL: December! A month of stuff.

December! It is here, it is cold (relatively speaking) and pretty much the second half of the month is going to be spent traveling and with friends & family. Hooray!

RP seems to have hit a tiny bit of a lull, but not to worry. I'm going to get off my ass (figuratively speaking) and write some today. If that fails, well, there's still lots more to archive.

WoW is scraping the barrel to keep my interest right now. I'm tired of the content that's available and have very little interest in some of the things that usually keep me entertained between major patches and expansion, such as alt-leveling and gold-making. All that I really want right now are the stories, the meaty little interactions between characters and the moving forward of their supposedly exciting lives. In a world where everything's always hovering on the edge of catastrophe, you'd think things would be a little crazier.

Then again, one of the surest ways to prevent falling apart during times of extreme duress is to maintain your daily routine.

Some storylines that I'll be working on soon:

Ambika. Bika's still trapped in a elf's body and is none too happy about it. I need to write up Yayo'jin's meeting with her to begin moving forward.

Ysani. Yissy is playing tug of war with her conscience right now. Spending countless hours on a joint engineering project with Fenniel and Firael has her wondering if she's missing something in her relationship with Keilos. She's young and still learning what compatibility means. Is there ever a truly right answer?

Libby. Our favorite obsessive-compulsive druid is still happily distracted from impotency woes by her pet geek. Having Fenniel around gives her life focus. Learning to live with both companionship and intimacy is an enjoyable challenge, but she's not sure where to go from here.

Skulley. Laying low for the most part, Miss Adelaide (and no, you may not call her that) may be in for a shock if anything comes of her little foray into the Stormwind prison system. She is a dot on SI:7's radar, and what happens next will depend on whether they dismiss her or not.

Astrani. You haven't seen her in this blog, which is understandable considering she's all but retired. However, there's a story for her in the works and it promises to be a very interesting one. Sorry I'm being vague, but it's going to be awesome and you'll want to be surprised. Everyone loves sekrits, right?

I have two cups of coffee in me now, and I've caught up on my reading. Looks like it's time to get to work.