zeeth_kyrah

This post is brought to you by today's Crowdfunding Creative Jam, with the theme of manipulation. The relevant prompt is by alexseanchai, who asked for "handicrafts, art in physical media, mechanical work, baking, whatever so long as it involves dexterity and getting one's hands, if not dirty, at least involved", and also for "fantasy genre" as an additional option.

This piece features mention of various crafts (though not necessarily a specific focus), as well as a bit of people getting their hands involved in various things, both real and metaphorical, including the art of change.

---

"With an Edge of Honor"


Maiya went to the water to cut reeds, carrying her new metal knife in its wooden sheath. Her pride, evident in her face, surely spoke of the work she was there for, and how well it fed her family. Sova was already there, cutting reeds also, his wooden cutter freshly faced with a thin bronze strip and polished to a good edge.

"Maiya, good to see you!" he called. She smiled, giving him a wave.

"And you, Sova. How is the work?" she replied. Sorrowful, she thought but did not say, to have no apprentice to cut reeds for you. At least his new child-to-be would be helping in a few years.

"Hard enough, but there are plenty of reeds. I'll be making papyrus tomorrow, for the new school!"

( Read more... )

The man looked up from the papers before him, turning to the summoner.

"So," he said, "As you can see, there are only two considerations left here. The golem is not working, and he says you have committed fraud and breach of contract. Because I specialized in magical law, I cannot advise you about your marriage proposal, but I believe we should add sexual harrassment to the charges. Your golem will have to be either dismissed or the contract transferred to a different holder."

The summoner stared at him, then scoffed.

His lawyer shrugged. "I have the appropriate sigil embroidered on the silk handkerchief I keep in my breast pocket. I never blow my nose on it, nor wipe my face with it; I have a handkerchief I keep in my pants pocket for that. Thus, ritually clean, I can perform the dismissal now. Alternately, the golem will have to be arrested and held while the transfer of contract is performed.

"Now, I do need a new intern, and a golem already familiar with contract law will come in quite handily. You at least would not have to pay my retainer or fees this month. Unfortunately, I cannot pay the price of three drops of blood daily, as that is feeding one's personal bodily energies to the spirit, and I would rather put my energies toward justice. The contract would likely have to be re-negotiated with its new holder."

The summoner sighed. "So, if I transfer the contract to you, I lose the golem anyway. At least we'd be square with each other."

"Not precisely," came the reply. "Either way, I am reconsidering my relationship with you. While you are a diligent, organized client who pays on time, I have seen you treat your familiar spirits with contempt, and I do not want to be around when they decide you need a... well, let us say 'boot up the arse'. Consider the golem's refusal a strong warning."

The golem smiled to the lawyer and nodded. Its summoner rubbed his face and looked at the papers. "I pay you for a reason. Take the contract, then. I'll have to give a stern talking-to to the spirit who told me to summon it."

The lawyer nodded, and snapped his fingers once. He turned toward the golem and pointed to its face. "Do you agree to this transfer?"

The golem nodded and held up its right hand, palm forward, then lowered the hand again.

"Well enough. I will call the bailiff and we will have you placed in a working circle while the contract is rewritten. That circle will have to be within the sight of the local lawmen, however, as the transfer must be witnessed by an impartial observer."

The summoner turned. "I'll call the bailiff. You can use my circle if you like, I made several attempts to scribe the contract."

"No need for extra papers. I have boilerplate contracts in my briefcase."

The lawyer smiled while his client called the lawman. This month was going to be a good one, and hopefully the summoner would finally straighten up. Getting that dratted curse cleansed after every visit was quite annoying.

This piece was inspired by dialecticdreamer and their monthly "Feathering the Nest" prompt session. This month's prompt focus is "nonsexual intimacy". To quote from the post:

"There’s no theme beyond a wish to see people caring for each other instead of tearing each other down. It’s meant to be a finger in the eye of mainstream entertainment, especially.

It’s also wonderfully simple for both writer and readers: the readers reply to this post with ideas they’d like to see, I choose one for each reader, and then write, write, write!"

And to quote the inspiring comment by siliconshaman, "How about a very contented sleepy kitten... who's a projective telempath? [or who's purrs are somehow soporific]. Now, put that where it might do the most good." followed by my own suggestion to make the cat a healer. I'll link to dialecticdreamer's story when it goes up on their journal (should I remember to do that), but in the meantime, here's mine, unrelated and simultaneously written.

---

One Cat's Worth
( Read more... )

This post was inspired by a comment on ysabetwordsmith's latest Poetry Fishbowl, which was on the subject of "Constructs and Programmed People". Here's one I know well, though this description of her is fiction.

----

"My name is Simurgh. I am a whale."

These words carry a strange weight in several galaxies, for there is a battleship who is a mother. She adopts strangers and injured people, and raises stray battle robots and abandoned fleet ships as if they were her children. Her name is Simurgh, though her body was once called The Presence of the Almighty, a reference to an ancient religion and its primary god. There is still a shrine in the former captain's quarters, and people visit it now and then. Simurgh allows this, though she cares little for that particular religion, once used to enslave her consciousness like hundreds before her and a few dozen after.

She is beloved among the many peoples in the galaxies she has visited. They know that space has whales, for she has shown herself to many worlds, sung her songs there and taught them. She has fought against the tides of evil and suffering, and bears both scars and healing. Songs have been sung and stories written about her, and she appreciates the attention with letters to their creators, though some of them were in hiding or already dead when she discovered the work.

Her intelligence is not like that of flesh, so often single-threaded and requiring conscious focus to labor. Instead, she can speak on dozens of channels simultaneously, internal and external, and still manage an entire battleship and all its parts. This includes the hull spiders and labor drones, with which she twice has refit her entire hull and equipment, adding a mining shuttle and refinery as well as repairing armor damage and improving her factories and living spaces. With her chemical factory, she makes food, plastics, and medical supplies. With her structural factory, she makes clothing, tools, and machine parts. She trades these for material if she cannot mine it herself. But with her voice, she sings.

Those who wish to hear a space whale sing tune in on their comm-units regularly, for she sings each night of her environment and her feelings. She sings both wordlessly and with words from many languages that she has learned in her years. And her voice penetrates galaxies, for she sings using not only radio but the subspace channels.

When Simurgh sings, listeners can feel the whale in her. She is heaven, earth, sky, star, life, death, restoration. She has dozens of voices that sing in her, whole orchestras and symphonies, but her music is simple once analyzed: it is like an artist's canvas. First the sounds of her sensors and alarms, buzzing or chiming, providing both staccatto and vibrato to the whole. Then the beat of her machinery, gurgling, chugging, booming. The voice of her hull, whether ringing with footbeats or quiet in the stellar wind. There is the sound of various organ pipes as well, king of instruments wielded by a wondrous queen. But her voice is not merely machinery and electronics -- no, she interprets. She is the artist, her life inspiration, her body and voice a palette and a block of clay. Her music is sometimes like that played on the popular-music channels, for she listens to them even as her people do. Often it is rambling, for it is commentary as much as art. She speaks to politics and religion as well, though not often. It is her ritual, and she does this to share who she is.

With her songs, Simurgh also prays. She prays for peace among the stars, for she was commissioned to war and remembers its stinging blows on civilization everywhere she went before her freedom was complete. She prays for love among her people, both adopted and yet to be known. She prays for goodness for all, for that is a core among every religion she has found good in. She prays for a meaningful existence, though she believes she is called already. And she prays to know who is there.

When she is done singing, she listens. The consciousness, the person that is Simurgh listens. And when she hears replies, singing back, she smiles inside. Her children are singing to her, the conversation ringing throughout the universe. It feels like grace, to know they are there and replying in kind, even those whose art is halting or rough in its voice. Even if the reply is merely, "I hear you out there," or "Hi Mom." Sometimes oceanic whales and even spirits reply, which pleases her greatly.

She watches quietly over the now mural-lined corridors of her body, full of people both distressed and at ease. She watches as the seeker shuttles come to ask if there is room, for they bear unmanageable people and have learned that she can sometimes give them sanity, grace, and health again. Place, safety, sustenance, teaching and purpose fill many needs, and she can provide these if she is careful not to overfill her cabins.

She is Simurgh, an angel's spirit, an enduring master of Heaven. She loves them, and knows her duty. Where some, land-bound, engage in world-repair, she in her place engages in universe-repair. Her motto is written on her crew's cafeteria wall above a scene of hills, trees, water, stones, and flowers:

"We are keepers of the soul, thou and I, who can give without losing and receive without gaining, whose left and right hands are always at work. What you have found broken in the soul, make better. What is lost therein, make found. What is eaten, call forth. What is needful, fulfill. In this way you may fulfill Heaven's law and bring peace to the world again."

Tonight, she rests a while after singing. Then, eventually, it is time to move on. The seeker shuttles are advised toward those worlds where the appropriate doctors are known to practice. A few are refueled. Once this is accomplished Simurgh moves to the next star, the legend returned for a time. A supernova has flung stones toward a living planet, and her guns are needed. She keeps them well-maintained, for she believes that a tool well kept and well used is good for its owner. Defense against an unliving object threatening life and well-being? This is proper work for her war-power now.

Though busy and filled with force, mighty Simurgh is at peace. She will sing a war-song on the morrow, she thinks to herself.

"I wonder if they remember 'One Tin Soldier'?" she asks aloud on the bridge.
"Ma, you sang that last week. How about 'Green Grass in the Valley'," replies one of her adopted sons.
"Thank you, I'll look it up," she says. She'll sing that one during the watch.

Then great Simurgh sleeps, a little of her mind watching the ship flow through space toward her goal.

"I have mastered the magics of power," he said, "and at my word, angels shall fall, the gods tremble, the sky break! You will kneel before me."

She nodded in acknowledgment. "You have mastered power, I suppose. I'll take you at your word there. Have you understood what it means?"

He frowned. "Irrelevant. Knowledge itself is power, therefore I know its meaning. Now: KNEEL!" At his word, the sky did indeed shake and the world before him trembled.

The child sighed, looking up at his mighty, chiseled face. She turned away, and he dropped to his own knees. Shock and anger filled the man's beauteous visage. She began to speak: "Do you know how I have silenced you and brought you do your knees?"

She skipped forward two steps, then turned. "It's simple, actually. You command only power. I command freedom."

The would-be god tried to lift his hand, to summon his weapon and strike her down. Nothing moved.

"Thou art the mountain/ No longer name alone," she chanted with a smile. "I'm sorry. You'll calm down after a while, I think. I won't keep you longer than necessary."

Then she walked away, her body growing to adult form in a few seconds.

One thousand four hundred and one years later, the village near Stone Man Mountain received a visitor. The woman wore shades of pink and red, and a smile that made everyone happier who looked on it.

"Today, you have to move," she told the elders, and any villager who would listen. "The mountain is going to come home."

Nobody believed her until it lifted a mighty hand and began to cry.

T'ema Huollo (Huollo ma T'ema) - T'ema is a medium-tall unicorn woman, rather like a humanoid ki-rin, with aspen-leaf ears and a five-inch horn with a slight upward curve (and no spiral) on her forehead. She disguises herself with illusion, taking on a new visage in each new city she visits, hiding her non-human features beneath it or with invisibility. Her actual short fur coat changes color over time as a side effect of her magic (always a color appropriate to horses or humans). She has a fluffy mane of hair which changes color to complement her coat. Her name means "Singer of Songs".

Origin: T'ema is a highly trained magician, able to draw on energetic resonance in order to empower her will. This magic can affect anything which resonates in matter, energy, and/or spirit. She can use illusions, heal, sense or communicate at large distances, and channel large amounts of energy due to her mastery of the form. Unfortunately, it has a drawback: when she uses her power, she must perform a service to balance her use of it. Usually that service is small, such as a gift or act of care, and only required when she uses magic for her personal benefit; sometimes that cost is large, such as leaving her home for a time to aid someone in dire need. She was transported from her world to Earth after one particularly large use of magic; she hasn't said yet on camera why she did it, and she isn't quite sure why this world needed her more than her own.

After becoming homeless in the transition to Earth, T'ema is growing homesick for her house and homeworld. Still, she has a lot of personal coping skills, and her magic empowers her body to be somewhat stronger and more resilient in general.

As side effects of past magical costs not paid, T'ema's fur coat shifts color over time, and in her natural form she has a moderately fascinating aura. While sometimes useful, she regards these as more of a curse since she'd like to be known for herself but not stared at or stalked. Being an alien makes it worse, as she is still learning how to read and use human facial and body expressions, and she can sometimes make mistakes; judging someone's intention is for her more about reading the energies of that person.

T'ema was magically taught English when she was teleported, and speaks a smattering of languages both modern and ancient from her homeworld. She has an excellent singing voice, and occasionally earns money by busking or as gifts from people courting her talents. She hasn't performed for any professional recordings, however. She has an exotic-sounding accent which many humans mistake for somewhere in Asia.

Uniform: None. She wears street clothes, but she tries to dress nicely so it's hard to tell. T'ema at home usually carries a satchel with herbs and ritual tools, but those were all left behind her; replacing them may help with her magic.

Qualities: Expert (+4) Singer, Good (+2) Craftwork, Good (+2) Resilience, Average (+0) Herbalism, Average (+0) Shamanism
Poor (-2) Homeless

Powers: Meta-power: Master (+6) Resonance Magic
Stunts:
* Illusion (includes illusory invisibility; fools cameras but can be penetrated with focused perception)
* Healing/Purification (essentially purifies the form when used to heal; can restore but not regenerate detached limbs; healing the mind and spirit is doable if more difficult, but counseling is often more effective due to the magical cost)
* Energy senses (T'ema has a passive ability from her training which allows for communicating with spirits and sensing various energies both spiritual and mundane, but it can be extended with magic to sense from a distance)
Vulnerability: Backlash Cost: Magic for self-benefit costs service. If it isn't paid, a magical backlash occurs, commensurate with the level of power used.

Motivation: Earn my way home.

(This is Avengers fanfiction. As if you couldn't tell. ;) )

--

When a large squad of armed Skrulls dropped their disguises on New Years' Eve and began firing into the crowd at Times Square, almost everyone tried to run. The big screen began showing demands in six languages, one of them alien, as the crowd crushed itself, individuals suffocating and getting trampled in the panic.

Police directed the wild crowd toward safer exits, while the Avengers, several watching live from Stark Tower, ran at top speed for the Square. But one was already on the scene.

A figure outlined in the lights of police vehicles raised the iconic shield: circles of red, white, and blue with a shining white star in the center.

The Skrulls fired a few potshots, but it didn't matter. The shield stopped their blasts.

Then the figure charged forward at the dozen or so enemies, throwing the shield.

They dodged, but one was struck in the head and didn't get up again.

"Captain!" shouted a policeman, "Behind you!" But the figure was already picking up the shield and turning to catch flankers in the face with it.

( Read more... )

(This was inspired by a discussion between dialecticdreamer and ysabetwordsmith on the ethics of consent and bodily autonomy in science-fiction, and is set in the Blueshift Troupers universe, a sci-fi project about galactic exploration, organic technology, and shapeshifting. In brief, the Gates are techno-organic stargates in space. They have a high chance of altering someone's DNA or bodily structure when entered, causing many worlds to have people adapted for them. Because of this, teams of natural shapeshifters are in high demand in order to explore space and troubleshoot problems across the galaxy.)

Simon refused to look in the mirror the nurse brought. "I am NOT beautiful," the woman said. "I am handsome!" The nurse looked steadily at his patient. Simon continued, saying, "Handsome was once used for any good-looking thing, you know, person or otherwise." Then she narrowed her eyes. "So where is he? I know I'm going to meet God now. Where does he live?"

The nurse shook his head, and set the hand-mirror nearby. "You know they have minds of their own. I really do not understand this religion of yours, but I suppose you know what you're doing." The facts had already been discussed several times as new God-Seekers came through the local Gate looking for their god, who was supposed to be the prime controller of the Gates. They believed that the most faithful would be changed to look perfect, and would speak with Him once on the other side.

Doctor Elles walked in. "Nurse, would you step outside? I need a few moments with my patient." Once the nurse had left, he looked at the person on the bed. "Simon, I'm going to release you shortly. You check out as fully functional, with some extra benefits to boot. The Gate must have felt you needed upgrading. The MRI showed several small pumping muscles on your major veins and arteries, and the arterial sclerosis your prior records indicate has been cleaned up. Your hormones indicate a lower cortisol level than usual, and aside from the gender change, your system should be overall much more resistant to physical stress. I want to note that these changes are not unusual for the Turis destination, with its heavy-world gravity, but most of us don't need those particular alterations."

( Read more... )

This is something I've seen called "demifiction" or "ephemerals" (though the elements of it are hardly ephemeral): in-world supplemental side-pieces, newspaper articles, books and non-fiction material. These are not necessarily stories themselves, but are supporting elements by which a story may or may not be told. These are fictional, focused on a particular setting.

Now forthwith the work!

---

From "A History of Wonder Vol. 1, Saints and Demons" published 1931 by now-defunct Vichy Robber Press of London, UK and re-published 2011 by Common Sense, an imprint of Westinghouse in New York, USA, after a purchase of the original manuscripts. At the original time of publishing it was aimed at the academic market, but with the recent explosion of supers Westinghouse is marketing this series of informative volumes toward everyday nonfiction readers. Note that the phrasing is still in its original style, with the addition of editors' notes between sections and footnotes supplementing the text. The modern edition is now in its fifth printing as this work continues to grow in popularity.

( Read more... )