It’s been 5 or so months since my last update. I don’t really care to fill you in with what I’ve been doing between then, so I’ll just post about what I’m doing right now.
Today was a productive day for me. I cleaned my place up, got my paycheck, went grocery shopping, played video games, worked out, worked on a story I’ve been working on, and went garb shopping for Rag. The last two are the things I’m posting about.
On a whim, I decided to check out the flea market and see what I could see, and I must say it was a productive trip. Went to one of those all-leather biker shops. Found a vest that comboes well with the grey poet shirt Derek gave me, a neat leather bag that I can attach to a belt, and some new fingerless gloves that don’t have a Nike symbol on them. I’m thinking about adding some gold studs on the knuckles if they’ll fit. Not sure yet. I asked the guy there if he’d add em for me if I paid him extra and he said “I don’t want to be on the wrong end of your fists as it is. I don’t make weapons.” I laughed and said “no, not like brass knuckles. Studs, just like the gloves here. See?” (Grabs a pair of studded gloves off the rack) “Nope, can’t do it.” “Why not?” “They don’t make them like that.” “Oh, you don’t make them yourself?” “Nope, they come shipped from Asia.”
Well why not just say so in the first place? Waste of breath, all that…
His wife went further to explain that that would be against his religion and that they lose a lot of business because he won’t carry items with flaming skulls in the store. She seemed less than thrilled and made it clear that it was HIS religion and not hers (whatever that religion may be) and that she would be glad to get me flaming skulls if not for him, even though I wanted knuckle studs. I think it was the fact that I was wearing my ONE item of clothing with a motorcycle on it (a hoodie of mine) that got her thinking I was some kind of biker-fellow. Also saw an old co-worker of mine there, which was kinda funny. She even asked me “oh, do you have a bike now?”
That made me laugh. Once I find my battery recharger, which periodically shifts to the Astral Plane, along with my socks and pencils, I will post a garb-shot and you guys tell me if it’s up to snuff and what I should add/take away.
Tam and I were talking one day and she was showing me a story she was working on, and like a mac truck out of the blue inspiration hit me and I had to write one of my own, too. I used to write a decent amount in high school. Poems, short stories…People said I was good. So I decided to write, too, and suggested we try merging our characters at some point into a single story. She agreed. Her story is about…Damn, I can’t recall the char name we came up with, but it’s a German werewolf-chick. Underworld-esque is the idea. So far it’s coming along well. My char is as-of-yet unnamed, but is based on the one Werewolf: the Apocalypse character I’ve ever made. He’s intelligent, frail, and a mystic, basically the opposite of the feral, ass-kicking werewolf everyone’s familiar with. Care to read the prologue I wrote up? It’s a rough draft; not sure if I want to keep it as a short story or expand on it in novel fashion, but hey, read along if you care to and critique, even! This draft is based on the Whitewolf Universe, so here’s some translations so the story makes sense. I do plan on changing things and making it my own world; it was just easier to get a draft done using the familiar first.
Uktena: specific tribe of shamanistic werewolves
Silver Fangs: leading tribe of werewolves; think European nobles, pure bloodlines, and all that. Pure as in I only have sex with my cousins pure, which causes all sorts of genetic problems. Like insanity.
Wyrm: Evil spirit of corruption and decay
Mule: Derogatory term for werewolves born from two werewolf parent. Two werewolves as parents causes the child to be born crippled and deformed in some way and are always looked down apon.
With an undignified “thump!,” he hit the ground in a sitting position, his seven-foot frame having been knocked off his feet in a single shove. The warm red desert sand felt good between his fingers. A pleasant contrast to the polluted muck he has been drowning in not a moment before. He didn’t know how he got back, but the sand felt good…That was his link to the Real. It was always there to greet him and that’s how he knew the importance of what he saw.
“What part of ‘get your muzzle out of your ass and pay attention’ didn’t you get?!” A clawed, furred hand, human in its basic design but easily three times as large swatted at the dazed form in front of it. There was a second “thump!,'” and the world blurred briefly before a third thump ended the spinning motions. Warmth appeared, and after a brief instant, a familiar scent tainted the air. Blood. It brought back the taste…Coppery blood mingled with filth and decay. It plastered his fur and filled his mouth and lungs. Despair. Burning exhaustion. Fear. All of it fogged his mind at once, choking him, lapsing him back into unconsciousness.
The vision returned. The creature’s hooked tentacles held him spread eagle just above the surface of the bog, suspended like a fly in an animate web. The clouds revealed Luna’s Full gaze and he was afforded a brief glimpse of his own reflection in the water, that of a panic-stricken wolf with striking blue eyes and a once silver-white coat, now blackened by bog muck and drying blood. With a reverberating growl, a yawning black chasm lined with ivory daggers opened in the water in front of his face. Then he was back.
A gruff chuckle sounded somewhere above and ahead. “You know how Uktena are. Only the truly insane become their elders. With luck our little mule is well on his way to representing the best the Wyrm-dabblers have to offer.” Murmured agreement and snorts of laughter echoed the voice’s sentiment. The voices of his pack.
Free of his vision, he glanced at the large rear paws before him, standing upright, the muscular calves covered in fine silver tipped hair that caught the light like shards of Luna herself. They tinkled like metal chimes in the wind, accompanied by whispers that he knew only he could hear. All of them, urging him to give voice to his broodings. His brother’s voice was there among the chorus.
Luna’s Spirit should know.
He could say that Alpha was wrong. He could say that dismissing the whispers of the nether as “insanity” is what’s truly insane. He could say that it would take an inbred, backwards tribe like the Silver Fangs to begin to understand insanity. But he didn’t. He never did. Instead he simply forced himself to rise, allowing the blood of Gaia to run between his fingers like water and inclined his head in a submissive posture.
No. Luna’s Spirit need not hear about my craziness. Luna’s Spirit need not know he will be dead within the week.