Post by Rikku on Nov 4, 2008 13:43:42 GMT -5
I'm working on it. One excerpt at a time. xD
Heh. =D Making other people write more is what I'm here for!
[spoiler title=Gosh, an excerpt! Wow!
Gosh.]
It was midmorning. This was kind of difficult to tell, as the buildings blocked anything that could come even close to being described as ‘sky’, but all the same, somewhere, a morning was midded and it was proud of it.
Bentasmal pulled out his phone. It was sleek, silver, shiny, and roughly the size of one and 0.35ths postage stamps. He poked at the number pad cautiously with his thumb. His thumb was considerably larger than the number pad.
Bentasmal sighed. He was quite young, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that looked like they had been slept in. (They hadn’t.) His hair was darkish-lightish brown, his eyes more of the same, and he blended in with the crowd like … like a somewhat scruffy teenager blending in with a crowd, really. He manipulated the number pad of the phone, barely glancing at it. His eyes were riveted on the ATM across the street. Someone was keying in their PIN.
Before he drowned on acronyms, Bentasmal activated the camera and flicked up the top of the phone. He slouched against a half-wall, managing to be noticed as being completely unnoticeable. In his mind he composed an email to an online acquaintance, VengefulAngel.
Potatoes? If you say so, Venge. They seem more like fuel for the fast-food industry than a creative medium to me.
You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. No, really, you wouldn’t. So I won’t tell you. Hah.
He sighed. It was true, too. Online friends were nice, particularly this one, but it was kind of difficult to slip the words ‘Incidentally, I make enough money to live by by stealing things on commission’ into a conversation about haberdashery or Firefly or line-dancing or whatever.
He flipped the top of the phone back down again as the unknown person finished their transaction. This wasn’t even a commission job, just something to occupy his time.
“darn, I hate my life,” Bentasmal muttered.
“Tell me about it.”
Bentasmal screamed, and then instantly slouched into a position that made it look like he totally hadn’t just freaked out at a talking worm, nope, he wasn’t a sissy at all.
Wait, what?
The worm was quite an average looking one. It narrowed its bristles at Bentasmal. “Are you the one known as EyesInTheDark?”
He’d chosen the name quite some time ago. It just seemed to fit, as easily as his first one did, though it certainly didn’t sound usual. He didn’t know his real name or past, and he didn’t care to know. “That’s me,” he said, in a manly, non-screamy voice.
“I’m Winona,” the worm said. “My master sent me to talk to you.”
“Your master …?”
“Yes. She can’t spell.” Winona rolled her eyes. Somehow. She didn’t even have eyes, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her. “I was a wyrm. It’s not that hard to spell! I should be a komodo dragon or something right now!”
“No, I think not. Komodo dragons are really slow and sluggish and they take hours to digest their food.”
“Really? Gross.”
“Yeah. They’re also known as ‘average Kiwi males’.” Bentasmal snorted. “Who’s your master?”
“Saffron. She says she commissioned something from you a while ago. It was—”
And yes, he remembered now, of course he did. How could he forget? It was certainly a unique commission (‘theft’ didn’t sound very upmarket), and the client had been memorable in herself.
“Boots,” Bentasmal said.
“Yeah. She wants you to find out something about some suspicious company, or something. Foist Industries? It’s to do with a demon, and the turf war.”
“Well you’re sure helpful.” Bentasmal snorted.
“What do you expect? I’m a worm.”
Despite his casual words, Bentasmal was cringing internally. Everyone in Wellington who was wise to the hulking great hole in Space/Time that squatted over the fault line knew about the turf war. Vampires and werewolves were always a little twitchy around each other, but lately it had gotten a whole lot worse. People had died.
“I’m on it,” Bentasmal said, folding his phone into his pocket. His pocket was way too small and tight to the skin to be of any use for holding anything more than a few microns in size. The phone fitted perfectly.
What the heck. He was bored anyway.
Hey, Venge. Today a reincarnation of a dragon in the form of a talking worm contacted me on behalf of a necromancer who loves small fluffy animals. She wants me to investigate the war between vampires and werewolves and thinks it has something to do with a demon and that company that makes forms.
Hah. It was a pity that Venge would never believe him, whoever he (or she, though Bentasmal had never thought of that) was.
***
Alex Scott snapped his fangs in a menacing kind of way. Not that he was annoyed, not really. It was simply a matter of principle.
Donovan rolled his eyes. “Calm down.”
“I’m not about to let a friend stroll right into the heart of the werewolves’ lair!”
“When that friend is a werewolf, you should feel at least a little less concerned, shouldn’t you?” Donovan stared at the tides. The two acted as though they’d been friends for years, but disagreements still arose now and then. “I resent the word ‘lair’, by the way.”
“The war is flaring. It’s not safe.”
“You dragged me right into the city the other day! To get drinks! When we can’t even get drunk!”
“Well, yes.” Scott considered this, then rallied. “But that was before you were unemployed.”
“I’m always unemployed. With brief showers of working hours and a chance of guard work, but still. What’s that got to do with—”
“Do you know how many door to door salesmen and other unscrupulous individuals target people without much money, trying to trick them out of what little they have?” Scott gestured extravagantly. He was wearing a jacket that might have been leather or might have been denim and that hid stains very well. Not that there were any suspicious stains on his jacket at all. Nope.
“I need a job.”
“I have plenty of money. Oodles of it. You can borrow off me.”
“Nuh-uh. That’s when the whole ‘lair of werewolves’ thing would come in. If my pack thought I’d betrayed them they’d rip me apart.”
“That’s a little harsh. Do you at least have dental?”
“Could you at least try to be serious?”
“Nope!”
“Look, just relax. Foist Industries make forms. How dangerous could it be?”
***
Sometimes people describe the wind was roaring, or wuthering, or even whistling. None of these are technically true. The wind ripples.
The wind rippled around the buildings, guided the wings of pigeons, snatched papers from frantic hands and broke umbrellas into mere husks. It spun and danced and, to those that could listen, it sung.
The wing rustled in the long hair of the man that stood there. ‘Man’ wasn’t the right word. Not at all. He was … unidentifiable. But beautiful. So, so beautiful.
He stretched out his wings, and basked in the wind’s song.[/spoiler]
Heh. =D Making other people write more is what I'm here for!
[spoiler title=Gosh, an excerpt! Wow!
Gosh.]
It was midmorning. This was kind of difficult to tell, as the buildings blocked anything that could come even close to being described as ‘sky’, but all the same, somewhere, a morning was midded and it was proud of it.
Bentasmal pulled out his phone. It was sleek, silver, shiny, and roughly the size of one and 0.35ths postage stamps. He poked at the number pad cautiously with his thumb. His thumb was considerably larger than the number pad.
Bentasmal sighed. He was quite young, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that looked like they had been slept in. (They hadn’t.) His hair was darkish-lightish brown, his eyes more of the same, and he blended in with the crowd like … like a somewhat scruffy teenager blending in with a crowd, really. He manipulated the number pad of the phone, barely glancing at it. His eyes were riveted on the ATM across the street. Someone was keying in their PIN.
Before he drowned on acronyms, Bentasmal activated the camera and flicked up the top of the phone. He slouched against a half-wall, managing to be noticed as being completely unnoticeable. In his mind he composed an email to an online acquaintance, VengefulAngel.
Potatoes? If you say so, Venge. They seem more like fuel for the fast-food industry than a creative medium to me.
You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. No, really, you wouldn’t. So I won’t tell you. Hah.
He sighed. It was true, too. Online friends were nice, particularly this one, but it was kind of difficult to slip the words ‘Incidentally, I make enough money to live by by stealing things on commission’ into a conversation about haberdashery or Firefly or line-dancing or whatever.
He flipped the top of the phone back down again as the unknown person finished their transaction. This wasn’t even a commission job, just something to occupy his time.
“darn, I hate my life,” Bentasmal muttered.
“Tell me about it.”
Bentasmal screamed, and then instantly slouched into a position that made it look like he totally hadn’t just freaked out at a talking worm, nope, he wasn’t a sissy at all.
Wait, what?
The worm was quite an average looking one. It narrowed its bristles at Bentasmal. “Are you the one known as EyesInTheDark?”
He’d chosen the name quite some time ago. It just seemed to fit, as easily as his first one did, though it certainly didn’t sound usual. He didn’t know his real name or past, and he didn’t care to know. “That’s me,” he said, in a manly, non-screamy voice.
“I’m Winona,” the worm said. “My master sent me to talk to you.”
“Your master …?”
“Yes. She can’t spell.” Winona rolled her eyes. Somehow. She didn’t even have eyes, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her. “I was a wyrm. It’s not that hard to spell! I should be a komodo dragon or something right now!”
“No, I think not. Komodo dragons are really slow and sluggish and they take hours to digest their food.”
“Really? Gross.”
“Yeah. They’re also known as ‘average Kiwi males’.” Bentasmal snorted. “Who’s your master?”
“Saffron. She says she commissioned something from you a while ago. It was—”
And yes, he remembered now, of course he did. How could he forget? It was certainly a unique commission (‘theft’ didn’t sound very upmarket), and the client had been memorable in herself.
“Boots,” Bentasmal said.
“Yeah. She wants you to find out something about some suspicious company, or something. Foist Industries? It’s to do with a demon, and the turf war.”
“Well you’re sure helpful.” Bentasmal snorted.
“What do you expect? I’m a worm.”
Despite his casual words, Bentasmal was cringing internally. Everyone in Wellington who was wise to the hulking great hole in Space/Time that squatted over the fault line knew about the turf war. Vampires and werewolves were always a little twitchy around each other, but lately it had gotten a whole lot worse. People had died.
“I’m on it,” Bentasmal said, folding his phone into his pocket. His pocket was way too small and tight to the skin to be of any use for holding anything more than a few microns in size. The phone fitted perfectly.
What the heck. He was bored anyway.
Hey, Venge. Today a reincarnation of a dragon in the form of a talking worm contacted me on behalf of a necromancer who loves small fluffy animals. She wants me to investigate the war between vampires and werewolves and thinks it has something to do with a demon and that company that makes forms.
Hah. It was a pity that Venge would never believe him, whoever he (or she, though Bentasmal had never thought of that) was.
***
Alex Scott snapped his fangs in a menacing kind of way. Not that he was annoyed, not really. It was simply a matter of principle.
Donovan rolled his eyes. “Calm down.”
“I’m not about to let a friend stroll right into the heart of the werewolves’ lair!”
“When that friend is a werewolf, you should feel at least a little less concerned, shouldn’t you?” Donovan stared at the tides. The two acted as though they’d been friends for years, but disagreements still arose now and then. “I resent the word ‘lair’, by the way.”
“The war is flaring. It’s not safe.”
“You dragged me right into the city the other day! To get drinks! When we can’t even get drunk!”
“Well, yes.” Scott considered this, then rallied. “But that was before you were unemployed.”
“I’m always unemployed. With brief showers of working hours and a chance of guard work, but still. What’s that got to do with—”
“Do you know how many door to door salesmen and other unscrupulous individuals target people without much money, trying to trick them out of what little they have?” Scott gestured extravagantly. He was wearing a jacket that might have been leather or might have been denim and that hid stains very well. Not that there were any suspicious stains on his jacket at all. Nope.
“I need a job.”
“I have plenty of money. Oodles of it. You can borrow off me.”
“Nuh-uh. That’s when the whole ‘lair of werewolves’ thing would come in. If my pack thought I’d betrayed them they’d rip me apart.”
“That’s a little harsh. Do you at least have dental?”
“Could you at least try to be serious?”
“Nope!”
“Look, just relax. Foist Industries make forms. How dangerous could it be?”
***
Sometimes people describe the wind was roaring, or wuthering, or even whistling. None of these are technically true. The wind ripples.
The wind rippled around the buildings, guided the wings of pigeons, snatched papers from frantic hands and broke umbrellas into mere husks. It spun and danced and, to those that could listen, it sung.
The wing rustled in the long hair of the man that stood there. ‘Man’ wasn’t the right word. Not at all. He was … unidentifiable. But beautiful. So, so beautiful.
He stretched out his wings, and basked in the wind’s song.[/spoiler]
