rix_scaedu: (Default)
This is the second background piece for the April Prompt Request[livejournal.com profile] aldersprig wanted "to know about the rebel god in Rensa".  You may like to consider who gets to write history and what they they have to base their writing on.

Suohonn was sitting in his study, his fingers picking out a lament on the guitar across his lap.  All of their sons, all five of their boys, all of their children, dead and Kalhara blamed him.  Morris and Vann had died in that vehicle accident and now-.  Intemperate, she called him.  Unwilling to compromise.  Stubborn and mule headed.  Then she’d quoted his words back at him, paraphrased with all of his offers of compromise and negotiation stripped out.  She accused him of the explosion that had killed their three surviving boys in the training base at Farmhome, not that they’d been boys any more but they were his sons, forever the younger generation.  Kulas had been engaged to be married – Andromache, he needed to talk to her.  Persis’ daughter and almost his own daughter-in-law, Kulas’ fiancée must be distraught and he hadn’t thought to speak to her.  He really was getting as caught up in his own thoughts as Kalhara accused him of being.

He put the guitar aside, turned to his communications and data hub, and selected Andromache’s number.  A few rings and the link to her home workstation opened.  The agouti-haired young woman with the pale gold skin had been crying recently but she smiled when she saw him, “Uncle Suohonn, did Aunty Kalhara tell you?  The blasting charges came from the construction supplies, not the military armoury.  Uncle Tellis,” she referred to the male half of their engineering team, “says they’re so simple to use it could have been anyone.  They can’t believe you were responsible.”

“That’s not what your Aunt told me,” Suohonn said slowly, his mind working so fast he didn’t want to speak in case he said what he was thinking.  “Who told you they were construction charges and who else was there?”

“Uncle Tellis told me.  There were three or four of us there.  Halgrim, Moid, Vollin and me.  Why?”  She waited for an answer.

“Kalhara and your parents weren’t there?”  He leaned forward in his seat.

“No.  Moid was going to pass on the report to them.”  She looked puzzled.

“Andromache, I need to talk to your parents.”

“I’ll put you through to their office.”

“No,” he stopped her with a raised hand.  “Bring them to your room.  Don’t let Moid or any of the others follow and don’t let anyone know I want to talk to them.”

“Okay.”  She stood up and walked off screen, puzzled but happy to comply.

Suohonn opened his study door and leaned out into the corridor.  The trouble with Kalhara being angry at him was that she was good at throwing things, knives for instance.  “Kalhara, could you please come here and talk to Andromache?”

She appeared from their gym, boxing gloves still on her hands.  “What have you been saying to the poor girl?”  She glared at him as she walked past him into his study.

Back on the screen Andromache had her parents beside her.  Persis and Herida looked as angry at him as Kalhara did.  Time to test his theory, so he asked her “Andromache, can you please repeat what you told me Tellis reported?”  She did so and he watched their expressions change to shock.  “I believe we have been played.”  Suohonn said that with some satisfaction – interference in their lines of communication made sense of some of the oddities in their dispute.

“And I may have done something very foolish because I believed I had almost everyone’s support,” added Persis shamefacedly.


There is more in this story line here.


rix_scaedu: (Default)

It took me a little over a month to finish off the prompts from April, which was why I didn't hold a May prompt request.

April resulted in the following stories:

Public Consultation
Complications Happen
Forewarning
Inheritance 2
Wedding Day  
Traitor
The Project
Inappropriate Use of a Time Machine
How The World Changed
Side Effect
It Was Just A Card Game
Dealing With Objections
Choices and Consequences
The Only Girl For You
Beginning Of The Year Adjustments
Defence
Too Clever
An Introduction To Rope
Wherein Nai Makes A Decision
The Prince Of Cats
The First Of Her Kind

I also wrote a background piece, Rensa's Universe: Background 2, and counting the list of stories above, I owe everyone a second background piece.

The Prompters' Story continues with our protagonists hiding on a train.

The April Prompt Request also resulted in my first paid extension - I regret not having having a suitably flabbergasted image to show you all.

Thank you everyone who participated.

Everyone who has a background piece they would like to see, please leave a comment below giving me an idea of what you would like.

rix_scaedu: (Elf)

It took me a little over a month to finish off the prompts from April, which was why I didn't hold a May prompt request.

April resulted in the following stories:

Public Consultation
Complications Happen
Forewarning
Inheritance 2
Wedding Day  
Traitor
The Project
Inappropriate Use of a Time Machine
How The World Changed
Side Effect
It Was Just A Card Game
Dealing With Objections
Choices and Consequences
The Only Girl For You
Beginning Of The Year Adjustments
Defence
Too Clever
An Introduction To Rope
Wherein Nai Makes A Decision
The Prince Of Cats
The First Of Her Kind

I also wrote a background piece, Rensa's Universe: Background 2, and counting the list of stories above, I owe everyone a second background piece.

The Prompters' Story continues with our protagonists hiding on a train.

The April Prompt Request also resulted in my first paid extension - I regret not having having a suitably flabbergasted image to show you all.

Thank you everyone who participated.

Everyone who has a background piece they would like to see, please leave a comment below giving me an idea of what you would like.

rix_scaedu: (Default)
I wrote this in response to [livejournal.com profile] aldersprig's eighth prompt.  It is the same world as 'Forewarning' and 'Choices and Consequences'.  It overlaps with the second story.

“I’m afraid that you’re not quite what we’re looking for,” the Choirmaster said regretfully, his wings held tightly behind his shoulders, their great white feathers only visible where the folded wings protruded above his head.  Tala had already learnt that this posture meant the speaker was uncomfortable about what he or she was saying.  “Perhaps there is a place for you in one of the other choirs.”  He turned and began to shepherd his recruits away, his wings relaxing into a more natural position as he went.

Tala watched as he and her cohort-mates moved away, her own wings drooping as she did so.  “But you were the last of the Choirmasters,” she murmured sadly, uncertain of what she was going to do.  The newly created angels, and they’d been given to understand that angels were not often created so they were all special, had been told that they would be taken into a Choir serving one of the gods.  Looking around, she was the last of her cohort still standing in the middle of the sward in this junction of the divine realms.  The older angels who’d escorted them here from the place of their creation all seemed to have gone and the few angels who remained were beginning to disperse.  She needed to ask someone what she should do and quickly, before she was left alone.

“Why are you still here?”  The voice came from behind her and she turned quickly to face the speaker.  He was an angel with buff wings almost as large as any of the Choirmasters’ but unlike any of them he was wearing a short tunic and a garment her mind called ‘trousers.’  “If you’re not careful you’ll get left behind.”  His wings sat in a natural rest position and she thought he had a kind face.

“I wasn’t accepted into a Choir,” she admitted.  “Apparently I’m not what any of them are looking for.”

He ran a hand through his sandy hair.  “I thought we’d gotten past this with banded wings,” he said in a slightly annoyed tone.  “When the first angels with bands of colour on their wings were created, the Choirmasters were reluctant to take them on because angels had only been self-coloured until then.  Now they’re used to that but the younger gods tried something different with you and the Choirmasters have baulked again.  Now-.  I’m Micorah, by the way.  What’s your name?”

“Tala.  Are my wings really that different?”  She extended the right one forward so she could look more closely at it.  Each of her feathers was one of two patterns: a white rachis with white afterfeather and alternate white and black barbs; or a black rachis with black afterfeather and alternate black and white barbs.  The two designs leapfrogged each other down her wings, the fine striation and lines complicated by her new-made iridescence.

“I’ve never seen anything like them,” he admitted.  “I’m not a member of a Choir myself,” he went on, “more of a general roving task pool but you get selected for that by distinguishing yourself in a god’s Choir.”  As her suddenly hopeful face faded again he went on, “What I think you should do is visit the seats of gods who don’t have a Choir and ask for the chance to serve.  Start with the younger gods who were involved in your Cohort’s creation.”

“Because they must have wanted angels or they wouldn’t have helped make us?”  Her silver-speckled dark eyes lit up again with hope and a touch of curiosity.

“Exactly,” he agreed.  “I can give you names and directions.  Follow the directions and be polite to anyone you meet and I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Thank you,” she clutched the parchment he handed her to her bosom, “thank you so much.  I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

“Off you go,” he instructed.  “The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll be settled.”  He watched her enter the demesne of the first god on her list.  If this strategy didn’t find her placed then certain gods were going to find themselves being divinely admonished along with Choirmasters who needed to be reminded of their responsibilities.  He hoped he wasn’t going to be presenting an unplaced Tala along with his report.

Tala had reached the last name on her list.  At least this god’s servitors hadn’t turned her from the door with her plea unmade.  The uncanny automatons matched the gloomy architecture, full of shadows and the whispering shades of the dead.  The automaton that led her through the building paid the shades no attention and Tala wondered if they were being rewarded or punished by their presence here.  Finally the automaton brought her to a chamber lit by torches and braziers.  Weapons and other war gear lay around while in the centre of the room, under a ruddy candelabra, a sole figure was sharpening a sword.  The automaton indicated the figure in the middle of the room and left.

Tala approached the god enthroned in his demesne and bowed.  “Excuse me, Lord Thaladeneth-“

“Which of my sibs sent you?”  He kept sharpening the sword as he spoke, the rhythmic sound oddly comforting.

“None, my lord.  I am Tala, one of the newly created angels and as yet unplaced.  As you contributed to my cohort’s creation I thought you might have need of my services.”  She waited on his reply.  The whetstone continued its work.

“I contributed to your creation as a favour in repayment of a debt.”  The god-voice rumbled through her.  “However, I do have a need for a messenger.”

“My lord?”  She looked up hopefully.  “Might I serve?”

He put the whetstone and blade aside.  “Let us consider this task a test.  Come here and I will tell you what I want you to do.  Your ear please.”

She walked up to him and turned so he could whisper into her ear, then listened intently as he did so.  The thrum of the god-voice through her body was surprisingly intimate at this range.

When he finished speaking and leaned back in his throne she did not move for a moment, then turned slowly to face him.  “Is there anyone, my lord, whom you do not wish to know of this matter?”

He smiled slowly at her.  “That is a very good question.”  He spoke a little longer before finishing, “And do not return until you believe the matter has reached the completion I desire.”

“Yes, my lord.”  She bowed.

“And you may use that exit,” he pointed with the sword at an archway that led to an outside balcony, “and come back that way when you return.”

“Thank you, my lord.”  She left him without a backward glance as she made a small run up towards the balcony, but he was not offended.  Angels needed that run to get easily airborne.  He resumed sharpening his blade.  This new one’s wings were really quite extraordinary.  He would have to make enquiries.

It was several months before Tala returned, re-entering by the door from which she’d left.  Thaladeneth might not have moved during her absence.  He was, as when she’d gone, sharpening a sword.  He looked up from his task as she presented herself and noted that she had acquired a light tan and a change of clothing, no, her clothing had been remade.  The long white robe a newly created angel was given had been resewn into a belted thigh length tunic and trousers.  Somewhere she had acquired a pair of soft brown knee-high boots.  Confidence glowed off her in happiness.

“You’re back.”  He laid aside the sword and whetstone.  “I had expected you sooner.”

“I wanted to make sure it all worked, my lord.”  She smiled, pleased with herself.  “Once I found someone for the task it was easy enough to put the scroll in his hand.  It was in with some books he wanted, and he didn’t even notice that I wasn’t one of the librarians.  Then all I needed to do was watch him to make sure he actually got it and it got back into circulation.  If I hadn’t stayed I wouldn’t have known if anything went wrong.”

“Very true,” he nodded.  “You have done well and I am pleased.”  Pleasure at his praise rolled off her in waves.  “A chamber has been prepared for you with a bath, bed and clothing.  There are chambers there for my other few servants of your kind, but they are rarely occupied and it will be some time before you meet your fellows.  This servitor will take you there,” he gestured and an automaton moved forward.  “I will send for you again when I have another task for you.”

“Yes my lord.  Thank you, my lord.”  She bowed and then went after the automaton.  She had barely left the room before a happy little song in an angelic soprano reached his ears.

The god took up the sword whetstone and resumed his rhythmic sharpening.  “What do you think, Dorthiel?”

A dark olive-skinned angel with black wings stepped out from behind a pillar.  “She is very young, my lord.  Micorah was concerned about her when I spoke to him and he’s right, she should be in a Choir with her fellows.”

“Perhaps,” Thaladeneth allowed the opinion.  “She is a thoughtful messenger and certainly a less threatening one than any of you.”

“True, my lord.”  Dorthiel did not smile.  “Our messages tend to be very final.  When will you put her to the work?”

“I won’t.”  Thaladeneth regarded the blade in his hand and with a flip of his will swapped the sword with another from a far corner of the room.  He resumed sharpening.  “I have other tasks for her.  You all carry out my will and the will I have the rest of you execute is often dark and grim.  Her task is to remind the rest of you that you have not become monsters or demons but remain angels.”  Only the whetstone spoke for a moment.  “Despite what I have you do.”

“You’d have us sing rounds of hymns with her?”  Dorthiel was sardonic.

“Why not?”  Thaladeneth looked up at him.  “It might be good for you.”

rix_scaedu: (Elf)
I wrote this in response to [livejournal.com profile] aldersprig's eighth prompt.  It is the same world as 'Forewarning' and 'Choices and Consequences'.  It overlaps with the second story.

“I’m afraid that you’re not quite what we’re looking for,” the Choirmaster said regretfully, his wings held tightly behind his shoulders, their great white feathers only visible where the folded wings protruded above his head.  Tala had already learnt that this posture meant the speaker was uncomfortable about what he or she was saying.  “Perhaps there is a place for you in one of the other choirs.”  He turned and began to shepherd his recruits away, his wings relaxing into a more natural position as he went.

Tala watched as he and her cohort-mates moved away, her own wings drooping as she did so.  “But you were the last of the Choirmasters,” she murmured sadly, uncertain of what she was going to do.  The newly created angels, and they’d been given to understand that angels were not often created so they were all special, had been told that they would be taken into a Choir serving one of the gods.  Looking around, she was the last of her cohort still standing in the middle of the sward in this junction of the divine realms.  The older angels who’d escorted them here from the place of their creation all seemed to have gone and the few angels who remained were beginning to disperse.  She needed to ask someone what she should do and quickly, before she was left alone.

“Why are you still here?”  The voice came from behind her and she turned quickly to face the speaker.  He was an angel with buff wings almost as large as any of the Choirmasters’ but unlike any of them he was wearing a short tunic and a garment her mind called ‘trousers.’  “If you’re not careful you’ll get left behind.”  His wings sat in a natural rest position and she thought he had a kind face.

“I wasn’t accepted into a Choir,” she admitted.  “Apparently I’m not what any of them are looking for.”

He ran a hand through his sandy hair.  “I thought we’d gotten past this with banded wings,” he said in a slightly annoyed tone.  “When the first angels with bands of colour on their wings were created, the Choirmasters were reluctant to take them on because angels had only been self-coloured until then.  Now they’re used to that but the younger gods tried something different with you and the Choirmasters have baulked again.  Now-.  I’m Micorah, by the way.  What’s your name?”

“Tala.  Are my wings really that different?”  She extended the right one forward so she could look more closely at it.  Each of her feathers was one of two patterns: a white rachis with white afterfeather and alternate white and black barbs; or a black rachis with black afterfeather and alternate black and white barbs.  The two designs leapfrogged each other down her wings, the fine striation and lines complicated by her new-made iridescence.

“I’ve never seen anything like them,” he admitted.  “I’m not a member of a Choir myself,” he went on, “more of a general roving task pool but you get selected for that by distinguishing yourself in a god’s Choir.”  As her suddenly hopeful face faded again he went on, “What I think you should do is visit the seats of gods who don’t have a Choir and ask for the chance to serve.  Start with the younger gods who were involved in your Cohort’s creation.”

“Because they must have wanted angels or they wouldn’t have helped make us?”  Her silver-speckled dark eyes lit up again with hope and a touch of curiosity.

“Exactly,” he agreed.  “I can give you names and directions.  Follow the directions and be polite to anyone you meet and I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Thank you,” she clutched the parchment he handed her to her bosom, “thank you so much.  I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

“Off you go,” he instructed.  “The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll be settled.”  He watched her enter the demesne of the first god on her list.  If this strategy didn’t find her placed then certain gods were going to find themselves being divinely admonished along with Choirmasters who needed to be reminded of their responsibilities.  He hoped he wasn’t going to be presenting an unplaced Tala along with his report.

Tala had reached the last name on her list.  At least this god’s servitors hadn’t turned her from the door with her plea unmade.  The uncanny automatons matched the gloomy architecture, full of shadows and the whispering shades of the dead.  The automaton that led her through the building paid the shades no attention and Tala wondered if they were being rewarded or punished by their presence here.  Finally the automaton brought her to a chamber lit by torches and braziers.  Weapons and other war gear lay around while in the centre of the room, under a ruddy candelabra, a sole figure was sharpening a sword.  The automaton indicated the figure in the middle of the room and left.

Tala approached the god enthroned in his demesne and bowed.  “Excuse me, Lord Thaladeneth-“

“Which of my sibs sent you?”  He kept sharpening the sword as he spoke, the rhythmic sound oddly comforting.

“None, my lord.  I am Tala, one of the newly created angels and as yet unplaced.  As you contributed to my cohort’s creation I thought you might have need of my services.”  She waited on his reply.  The whetstone continued its work.

“I contributed to your creation as a favour in repayment of a debt.”  The god-voice rumbled through her.  “However, I do have a need for a messenger.”

“My lord?”  She looked up hopefully.  “Might I serve?”

He put the whetstone and blade aside.  “Let us consider this task a test.  Come here and I will tell you what I want you to do.  Your ear please.”

She walked up to him and turned so he could whisper into her ear, then listened intently as he did so.  The thrum of the god-voice through her body was surprisingly intimate at this range.

When he finished speaking and leaned back in his throne she did not move for a moment, then turned slowly to face him.  “Is there anyone, my lord, whom you do not wish to know of this matter?”

He smiled slowly at her.  “That is a very good question.”  He spoke a little longer before finishing, “And do not return until you believe the matter has reached the completion I desire.”

“Yes, my lord.”  She bowed.

“And you may use that exit,” he pointed with the sword at an archway that led to an outside balcony, “and come back that way when you return.”

“Thank you, my lord.”  She left him without a backward glance as she made a small run up towards the balcony, but he was not offended.  Angels needed that run to get easily airborne.  He resumed sharpening his blade.  This new one’s wings were really quite extraordinary.  He would have to make enquiries.

It was several months before Tala returned, re-entering by the door from which she’d left.  Thaladeneth might not have moved during her absence.  He was, as when she’d gone, sharpening a sword.  He looked up from his task as she presented herself and noted that she had acquired a light tan and a change of clothing, no, her clothing had been remade.  The long white robe a newly created angel was given had been resewn into a belted thigh length tunic and trousers.  Somewhere she had acquired a pair of soft brown knee-high boots.  Confidence glowed off her in happiness.

“You’re back.”  He laid aside the sword and whetstone.  “I had expected you sooner.”

“I wanted to make sure it all worked, my lord.”  She smiled, pleased with herself.  “Once I found someone for the task it was easy enough to put the scroll in his hand.  It was in with some books he wanted, and he didn’t even notice that I wasn’t one of the librarians.  Then all I needed to do was watch him to make sure he actually got it and it got back into circulation.  If I hadn’t stayed I wouldn’t have known if anything went wrong.”

“Very true,” he nodded.  “You have done well and I am pleased.”  Pleasure at his praise rolled off her in waves.  “A chamber has been prepared for you with a bath, bed and clothing.  There are chambers there for my other few servants of your kind, but they are rarely occupied and it will be some time before you meet your fellows.  This servitor will take you there,” he gestured and an automaton moved forward.  “I will send for you again when I have another task for you.”

“Yes my lord.  Thank you, my lord.”  She bowed and then went after the automaton.  She had barely left the room before a happy little song in an angelic soprano reached his ears.

The god took up the sword whetstone and resumed his rhythmic sharpening.  “What do you think, Dorthiel?”

A dark olive-skinned angel with black wings stepped out from behind a pillar.  “She is very young, my lord.  Micorah was concerned about her when I spoke to him and he’s right, she should be in a Choir with her fellows.”

“Perhaps,” Thaladeneth allowed the opinion.  “She is a thoughtful messenger and certainly a less threatening one than any of you.”

“True, my lord.”  Dorthiel did not smile.  “Our messages tend to be very final.  When will you put her to the work?”

“I won’t.”  Thaladeneth regarded the blade in his hand and with a flip of his will swapped the sword with another from a far corner of the room.  He resumed sharpening.  “I have other tasks for her.  You all carry out my will and the will I have the rest of you execute is often dark and grim.  Her task is to remind the rest of you that you have not become monsters or demons but remain angels.”  Only the whetstone spoke for a moment.  “Despite what I have you do.”

“You’d have us sing rounds of hymns with her?”  Dorthiel was sardonic.

“Why not?”  Thaladeneth looked up at him.  “It might be good for you.”

rix_scaedu: (Default)
I wrote this to [livejournal.com profile] aldersprig's seventh prompt.

“Parts.  It has to have lots of parts,” Elvira Madden was flicking through a stack of play scripts regarded as being suitable for small children to perform.  “Christmas is easy, even if someone complains about the Nativity play being religious or not their religion or not religious enough.  With shepherds and angels you can easily get twenty five year olds on stage at some point during the proceedings.”

“That is the point, after all,” agreed her friend the fifth grade teacher, Dorothy James.  “At least your lot will still hold hands with the opposite sex.  Half the boys in my class don’t even want to stand beside the girls.  The Shrimptons’ mother seems convinced that she’ll be a grandmother by next year if either of her daughters is within a yard of a boy and no matter how she’s cast, Melissa Wright’s parents will hire a professional costume for her.”

“Both our lot are too young for musicals,” Elvira put a number of books to one side, “perhaps there’s something in here based on a fairy tale?”

“How about this one?”  Dorothy picked up a slim volume and handed it to Elvira, “The Prince of Cats?”

“Let me have a look,” Elvira opened the text pamphlet to look at the cast.  “There’s Tom, his mother, the mice, the cat, some dogs, and more cats.  This could work.  Is it okay if I take this one to read through?”

“Go ahead,” Dorothy waved a hand at her, “I need to find something that won’t upset any of my parents.  All the vocal ones hate something different!”  With that she turned back to the stacks of the school’s accumulated drama resources.

Six weeks later, the school drama night was a great success.  The kindergarten play had gone first and was greeted warmly, with the tallest girl in the class playing the mother and the five smallest children being the mice.  Joe Grimolochin, a happy boy, played a surprisingly cat-like rescued cat who turned out to be the Prince of Cats.  Elvira sought him and his father out at the beginning of the intermission, the first of twenty families she needed to see in the break.

“I think that very well, don’t you?”  The tall, olive-skinned man who was Joe’s father smiled at her.  Every time he did that she found herself wanting to curl up in front of a fire somewhere and stroke him.  That was totally inappropriate.

“Yes, it did Mr Grimolochin,” Elvira smiled politely back at him.  “At least partly because Joe,” she smiled down at her student, “was so good as the Prince of Cats.”

“Please Miss Madden I’ve told you before, I’m Tybalt.”  That smile again.  “I must agree with you, Joe is a most excellent Prince of Cats.”  Father and son looked at each and Joe smothered a giggle as if they had shared a joke.

After a few more words Elvira moved on to the next family with the odd feeling she’d just missed something important.

rix_scaedu: (Elf)
I wrote this to [livejournal.com profile] aldersprig's seventh prompt.

“Parts.  It has to have lots of parts,” Elvira Madden was flicking through a stack of play scripts regarded as being suitable for small children to perform.  “Christmas is easy, even if someone complains about the Nativity play being religious or not their religion or not religious enough.  With shepherds and angels you can easily get twenty five year olds on stage at some point during the proceedings.”

“That is the point, after all,” agreed her friend the fifth grade teacher, Dorothy James.  “At least your lot will still hold hands with the opposite sex.  Half the boys in my class don’t even want to stand beside the girls.  The Shrimptons’ mother seems convinced that she’ll be a grandmother by next year if either of her daughters is within a yard of a boy and no matter how she’s cast, Melissa Wright’s parents will hire a professional costume for her.”

“Both our lot are too young for musicals,” Elvira put a number of books to one side, “perhaps there’s something in here based on a fairy tale?”

“How about this one?”  Dorothy picked up a slim volume and handed it to Elvira, “The Prince of Cats?”

“Let me have a look,” Elvira opened the text pamphlet to look at the cast.  “There’s Tom, his mother, the mice, the cat, some dogs, and more cats.  This could work.  Is it okay if I take this one to read through?”

“Go ahead,” Dorothy waved a hand at her, “I need to find something that won’t upset any of my parents.  All the vocal ones hate something different!”  With that she turned back to the stacks of the school’s accumulated drama resources.

Six weeks later, the school drama night was a great success.  The kindergarten play had gone first and was greeted warmly, with the tallest girl in the class playing the mother and the five smallest children being the mice.  Joe Grimolochin, a happy boy, played a surprisingly cat-like rescued cat who turned out to be the Prince of Cats.  Elvira sought him and his father out at the beginning of the intermission, the first of twenty families she needed to see in the break.

“I think that very well, don’t you?”  The tall, olive-skinned man who was Joe’s father smiled at her.  Every time he did that she found herself wanting to curl up in front of a fire somewhere and stroke him.  That was totally inappropriate.

“Yes, it did Mr Grimolochin,” Elvira smiled politely back at him.  “At least partly because Joe,” she smiled down at her student, “was so good as the Prince of Cats.”

“Please Miss Madden I’ve told you before, I’m Tybalt.”  That smile again.  “I must agree with you, Joe is a most excellent Prince of Cats.”  Father and son looked at each and Joe smothered a giggle as if they had shared a joke.

After a few more words Elvira moved on to the next family with the odd feeling she’d just missed something important.

rix_scaedu: (Default)
I wrote this to [livejournal.com profile] aldersprig's fifth prompt.  It is quite long and I expect there will be at least one more instalment.


It was the robes that set me off on the decision path that led to everything else.  My mother and my sister Ruh were carrying them in from the car.  Brightly coloured responsibility ceremony robes all ready for Ruh’s birthday the next day.  Just like the robes I hadn’t gotten two years earlier for the ceremony I hadn’t had almost two years earlier.  I’d thought I’d gotten over that disappointment.  I’d spent that day on my own because everyone else had been busy, finally accepting that no-one was going to be coming with me and then taking myself off to the temple to make a donation from my pocket money and burn my incense on my own in front of a stern-faced priest.

I’m kid number eight and there are five more after me.  That’s a lot of interests and activities and events to remember.

I held the door open for them and they swept in with their shopping, all happy excitement.  Then I went upstairs to my room to look out my best set of clothes and polish my shoes for the next day.

I left my birthday present with the others as I went out to my gi class.  When I got back, Mother was already fussing in a countdown.  I walked through the door and was ordered, “You, shower, now!”  As I went up the stairs I was followed by, “And then get ready to go to the temple!”

I was downstairs again twenty minutes later neatly dressed in my best clothes, the only black trousered figure in a room of traditional robes.

Mother stopped fussing over the set of father’s outer robe and shrieked at me, “What are you wearing?”

“My best clothes.”

“You’re supposed to wear your ceremonial robes!”  She was almost screaming across the room at me and the rest of the family moved out of the way.

“They’re four years old and I’ve put on three inches.”

“You stuffed your face and got fat!?!”  That sounded as bad as it reads in print.

“Up,” I corrected her, “not out.”

She settled immediately.  “I’m sorry.  You can wear…”  She looked at my two older sisters who still lived at home, willowy like her while I’m blocky like father.  “No, you can’t.  Why didn’t you say something?”

“I tried.  Several times.  Other things were more important and you told me to be quiet.”  I was careful to be neutral, not antagonistic or whining.

“Well, you can’t come dressed like that and it’s far too late to get you something else.”  She’d decided a way ahead.  “You can stay here and let the caterers in when they deliver the food for this afternoon.  I’m sure you’ve got some work to do for Mr Heng.”  Mr Heng tutored my siblings so they’d get scholarships.  The family believed they were bright enough to be worth it.

“Mr Heng has never been paid to tutor me.  I have no work to do for him.”  A couple of my brothers nodded in agreement.

“Well, you can study for your exams next year, it’s not too early to start.”  She nodded at me, satisfied with her solution.

“My finals were this year,” I corrected her as she began to turn back to my father.  “We’ve just finished them and I’m waiting on my results.”  I paused then added, unable to help myself, “You all keep telling me I’m stupid, so I expect I didn’t do very well.”

I left the room at that point as Hu, the older brother nearest to me in age, looked up from figuring on his fingers, saying in a surprised tone, “She’s right.  It is this year.  Oh, heck.  Two years ago.  I was the only one who didn’t go, wasn’t I?”

They came back in time for a late lunch, accompanied by the rest of the extended family.  The length of their absence had already told me that they’d had the full blown ceremony laid on by arrangement for Ruh.  I’d let the caterers in and watched them set up, but I’d decided that I didn’t think I could do the gracious guest thing at Ruh’s party so I took myself off to my room as everyone started getting out of the cars in front of the house.

Yes, I was jealous.  Yes, I’d discovered I was still upset.  No, I didn’t want it to be me instead of Ruh in the middle of this party.  I did wish that I’d had a party like this when it had been my turn.  My sixteenth birthday had competed with the provincial championship gi tournament, a couple of concerts family members had been playing in and one of my brothers being a groomsman at a wedding.

I’m not sure how much of what I felt when there was a knock on my bedroom door was surprise and how much was pleasure.  It was my mother.  “You need to come down to the party.”  She had her being firm face on.  “You’ll ruin it if you stay in here and sulk.”

I’d been crying, my eyes were wet, my nose was purple and, with complete disregard for anything else including reality, I was feeling both unloved and less loved than my siblings.  “I don’t think I can behave in company at the moment,” I admitted.  “It shouldn’t make a difference if everyone will just act the way they normally do when I do go to these things – if they just ignore me then everything will be fine.”

“We don’t ignore you.”  My mother spoke firmly, positively.

“Which is why I don’t have robes to wear today, you’d forgotten which year of school I’m in and I didn’t have a responsibility ceremony.”  I hadn’t opened the door the whole way and now I started closing it again.  “I think I have less chance of ruining Ruh’s party if I stay in here.”  I closed the door.

Kae was next.  My eldest sister is a lot like our mother.  Confident, determined and rarely not convinced that she’s right.  Some of those are reasons why her husband loves her.  “Have you finished sulking yet?”

“Can you explain why we don’t mark my birthday and the rest of you get what’s going on downstairs now?”

“Your birthday’s on at a very busy time of year,” Kae repeated something I’d told myself quite often.

“I know.”  Then I added, “So, why didn’t you even call me for my last two birthdays?  Even heaps late?”

“Ma and I were busy with the gi championships,” her reply was slightly defensive.

“Kae,” I almost started crying again, “no-one called for either birthday.  I took myself to the temple for my responsibility ceremony.  No-one wished me luck with my final exams.  Then you do all this for Ruh.  How would you feel if you were in my position?”

“I-.”

“That’s right.  Everyone knows you’re beautiful and clever and talented and likable.  You’ve never been on the outside hoping people you care about will like you anyway.  Or had to face up to it when they don’t.”  I slammed the door in her face.  I’d felt my apparent maturity dropping with every word but I’d been unable to shut up.  I locked the door not so much to stop anyone coming in but to stop myself rushing after Kae to apologize.

I ignored the next few knocks on the door, partly because I was crying again and partly in the hope that if I was left alone to get past the tears I could compose myself enough to go outside before the party was over to apologize to Kae without groveling, wish Rue a happy birthday and act like a normal person around some of the extended family.  I’d managed to stop crying and I was drying my face when the door unlocked from the other side.  Someone had involved the one person who could open every lock in the house, Father.

He opened the door wide as I stood up from where I’d been sitting on the bed.  I was pleased that I’d hung up my jacket when I’d first come upstairs and my shoes were neatly tucked away.  I don’t think anyone else had seen the inside of my room since I was twelve but now Father was standing inside the threshold and as many of the family who could were looking in through the doorway.  Father looked around at the off-white walls, the unlined curtains, the faded rug on the bare boards, the furniture and bedcovers I’d had since I started school, the photo-poster of a bare to the waist Tai Ru Jin in a defensive pose across the room from a piece of calligraphy I’d bought at someone’s garage sale, and the light bulb that had been bare since the shade had smashed.  “We truly meant,” he said quietly, “to redecorate this for you when you turned sixteen.  I’m afraid time got away from us.”

“You can redo it in your colour,” suggested my maternal grandmother.  “That would improve it.”

“My colour seems to be a dull olive sludge.”  I gave a barking laugh.  “I think I prefer this.”

“Oh,” my grandmother looked sympathetic, “that does make it difficult.”

“I’ve given the matter some thought,” that was Father again.  “Our opportunities to make it up to you are very few.  There’s your eighteenth and then your majority.  And then there’s your birth prediction.”

“Oh?”  I knew my birth prediction.  It was very prosaic in a family where the sons are all being examined as potential reincarnations of an Immortal Scholar but I wasn’t prepared to embrace my predicted future just yet.

“Your happiness will come from your marriage and children,” my father beamed at me.  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?  I shall apply myself to finding you the perfect husband.  You can have a nice big wedding, be settled in your own home and by, well not this time next year, the year after next you could have a baby too.”

I stared at him in horror.  I couldn’t imagine why the “middle-aged bureaucrat” of my birth prediction would want to be married to me as I was.  I wasn’t grown up enough.  I hadn’t done anything.  I wasn’t interesting.  My father seemed to be proposing a disaster and expecting me to be delighted with it.

“I’m hoping to get into tertiary school next year.”  That was the truth.  Even though I hadn’t been able to get my parents to sign the tertiary application I’d still put it in with my signature – I’d turn eighteen a month before the universities started and I hoped to pick up a place in the final sweep of offers.

“A final sweep place?”  He raised an eyebrow at me.  “I doubt that a place at any university I would countenance a child of mine attending would be available in the final sweep.  No,” he smiled at me, “leave it to your mother and I, we’ll arrange everything.  Wash your face now and come downstairs.”  He swept away in a grand gesture, satisfied that he was engaged in fixing my world.  Most of the family followed him.

Aunty Tael, my father’s sister, and her husband, Uncle Ebi, stayed behind.  “Nai, your father means well,” she walked over and leant down to hug me, resplendent in royal blue and sea green, “but if he moves too fast for you, come and stay with us for the summer.  My esteemed elder brother hasn’t quite conquered his tendency to talk at people instead of conversing with them.”  She and Uncle Ebi gave each other a smile that made me think they were remembering the same thing.

I could have taken Aunty Tael up on her offer but I’d already decided what I was going to do.

I washed my face and went down stairs.  I ate some food, talked to the relatives and kept the conversation on Ruh.  I behaved.  I smiled every so often and I helped clean up afterwards.  When the relatives were gone and the house was tidy, I went upstairs and changed then went for a walk.

I went to see my gi master.  Master Que looks like a villainous extra in a movie.  His hair is too long and more than a bit wild.  He’s got tanned skin, he’s sort of skinny, his squint almost looks like he only has one eye, he could bathe at least once more per week than he does and he smokes when he isn’t in the training room.  The brown liquid in his tea cup isn’t always tea.  His training school, where I seemed to be one of very few students, looked dilapidated from the outside.

Inside it was much better.  The attentions of his cleaning lady showed and the training room was impeccably maintained.  Master Que was in the kitchen slicing vegetables for his dinner when I arrived, a cigarette in his mouth and a tea cup of brown liquid at hand.  “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” he’d taken the cigarette out of his mouth with the hand that wasn’t holding the knife.  “Don’t you have a big party on at your place tonight?”

“That was this afternoon.  Master,” the prospect of looking bad in his eyes was almost worse than looking bad in front of my family, “and I got upset about not having a big ceremony and a party when I was sixteen.  I think I behaved badly.”

“Oh.”  He took a draw on his cigarette.  “Who did you kill?”

“No-one.”

“Did you destroy the furniture, food and decorations?”

“No.”

“Did you have a screaming temper tantrum in the middle of the party?”

“No.  I went to my room, cried, locked the door and cried again.  My father came and got me.”

“So you didn’t behave that badly after all.”  Master Que puffed on his cigarette again.  “You’re seventeen and a half and a bit.  If you didn’t get carried away with your emotions and hormones sometimes, I’d be worried about you.  So, why have you come to see me?”  He recommenced chopping vegetables.

“I think that if we’re ever going to try the tournaments to see if I’m as good as you say I am, it has to be now.”  He looked at me sideways, taking his attention away from the knife and vegetables for less than half a blink.  “Father’s decided to find me the perfect husband.  He’s talking about me being a mother in two years’ time.  I’m worried he’ll decide my next birthday is an auspicious time for a wedding.  Frankly, I’m in the mood to run away.”

Master Que took the cigarette out of his mouth.  “Yes,” he agreed and blew a smoke ring.  “It could indeed be time for a road trip.”

rix_scaedu: (Elf)
I wrote this to [livejournal.com profile] aldersprig's fifth prompt.  It is quite long and I expect there will be at least one more instalment.


It was the robes that set me off on the decision path that led to everything else.  My mother and my sister Ruh were carrying them in from the car.  Brightly coloured responsibility ceremony robes all ready for Ruh’s birthday the next day.  Just like the robes I hadn’t gotten two years earlier for the ceremony I hadn’t had almost two years earlier.  I’d thought I’d gotten over that disappointment.  I’d spent that day on my own because everyone else had been busy, finally accepting that no-one was going to be coming with me and then taking myself off to the temple to make a donation from my pocket money and burn my incense on my own in front of a stern-faced priest.

I’m kid number eight and there are five more after me.  That’s a lot of interests and activities and events to remember.

I held the door open for them and they swept in with their shopping, all happy excitement.  Then I went upstairs to my room to look out my best set of clothes and polish my shoes for the next day.

I left my birthday present with the others as I went out to my gi class.  When I got back, Mother was already fussing in a countdown.  I walked through the door and was ordered, “You, shower, now!”  As I went up the stairs I was followed by, “And then get ready to go to the temple!”

I was downstairs again twenty minutes later neatly dressed in my best clothes, the only black trousered figure in a room of traditional robes.

Mother stopped fussing over the set of father’s outer robe and shrieked at me, “What are you wearing?”

“My best clothes.”

“You’re supposed to wear your ceremonial robes!”  She was almost screaming across the room at me and the rest of the family moved out of the way.

“They’re four years old and I’ve put on three inches.”

“You stuffed your face and got fat!?!”  That sounded as bad as it reads in print.

“Up,” I corrected her, “not out.”

She settled immediately.  “I’m sorry.  You can wear…”  She looked at my two older sisters who still lived at home, willowy like her while I’m blocky like father.  “No, you can’t.  Why didn’t you say something?”

“I tried.  Several times.  Other things were more important and you told me to be quiet.”  I was careful to be neutral, not antagonistic or whining.

“Well, you can’t come dressed like that and it’s far too late to get you something else.”  She’d decided a way ahead.  “You can stay here and let the caterers in when they deliver the food for this afternoon.  I’m sure you’ve got some work to do for Mr Heng.”  Mr Heng tutored my siblings so they’d get scholarships.  The family believed they were bright enough to be worth it.

“Mr Heng has never been paid to tutor me.  I have no work to do for him.”  A couple of my brothers nodded in agreement.

“Well, you can study for your exams next year, it’s not too early to start.”  She nodded at me, satisfied with her solution.

“My finals were this year,” I corrected her as she began to turn back to my father.  “We’ve just finished them and I’m waiting on my results.”  I paused then added, unable to help myself, “You all keep telling me I’m stupid, so I expect I didn’t do very well.”

I left the room at that point as Hu, the older brother nearest to me in age, looked up from figuring on his fingers, saying in a surprised tone, “She’s right.  It is this year.  Oh, heck.  Two years ago.  I was the only one who didn’t go, wasn’t I?”

They came back in time for a late lunch, accompanied by the rest of the extended family.  The length of their absence had already told me that they’d had the full blown ceremony laid on by arrangement for Ruh.  I’d let the caterers in and watched them set up, but I’d decided that I didn’t think I could do the gracious guest thing at Ruh’s party so I took myself off to my room as everyone started getting out of the cars in front of the house.

Yes, I was jealous.  Yes, I’d discovered I was still upset.  No, I didn’t want it to be me instead of Ruh in the middle of this party.  I did wish that I’d had a party like this when it had been my turn.  My sixteenth birthday had competed with the provincial championship gi tournament, a couple of concerts family members had been playing in and one of my brothers being a groomsman at a wedding.

I’m not sure how much of what I felt when there was a knock on my bedroom door was surprise and how much was pleasure.  It was my mother.  “You need to come down to the party.”  She had her being firm face on.  “You’ll ruin it if you stay in here and sulk.”

I’d been crying, my eyes were wet, my nose was purple and, with complete disregard for anything else including reality, I was feeling both unloved and less loved than my siblings.  “I don’t think I can behave in company at the moment,” I admitted.  “It shouldn’t make a difference if everyone will just act the way they normally do when I do go to these things – if they just ignore me then everything will be fine.”

“We don’t ignore you.”  My mother spoke firmly, positively.

“Which is why I don’t have robes to wear today, you’d forgotten which year of school I’m in and I didn’t have a responsibility ceremony.”  I hadn’t opened the door the whole way and now I started closing it again.  “I think I have less chance of ruining Ruh’s party if I stay in here.”  I closed the door.

Kae was next.  My eldest sister is a lot like our mother.  Confident, determined and rarely not convinced that she’s right.  Some of those are reasons why her husband loves her.  “Have you finished sulking yet?”

“Can you explain why we don’t mark my birthday and the rest of you get what’s going on downstairs now?”

“Your birthday’s on at a very busy time of year,” Kae repeated something I’d told myself quite often.

“I know.”  Then I added, “So, why didn’t you even call me for my last two birthdays?  Even heaps late?”

“Ma and I were busy with the gi championships,” her reply was slightly defensive.

“Kae,” I almost started crying again, “no-one called for either birthday.  I took myself to the temple for my responsibility ceremony.  No-one wished me luck with my final exams.  Then you do all this for Ruh.  How would you feel if you were in my position?”

“I-.”

“That’s right.  Everyone knows you’re beautiful and clever and talented and likable.  You’ve never been on the outside hoping people you care about will like you anyway.  Or had to face up to it when they don’t.”  I slammed the door in her face.  I’d felt my apparent maturity dropping with every word but I’d been unable to shut up.  I locked the door not so much to stop anyone coming in but to stop myself rushing after Kae to apologize.

I ignored the next few knocks on the door, partly because I was crying again and partly in the hope that if I was left alone to get past the tears I could compose myself enough to go outside before the party was over to apologize to Kae without groveling, wish Ruh a happy birthday and act like a normal person around some of the extended family.  I’d managed to stop crying and I was drying my face when the door unlocked from the other side.  Someone had involved the one person who could open every lock in the house, Father.

He opened the door wide as I stood up from where I’d been sitting on the bed.  I was pleased that I’d hung up my jacket when I’d first come upstairs and my shoes were neatly tucked away.  I don’t think anyone else had seen the inside of my room since I was twelve but now Father was standing inside the threshold and as many of the family who could were looking in through the doorway.  Father looked around at the off-white walls, the unlined curtains, the faded rug on the bare boards, the furniture and bedcovers I’d had since I started school, the photo-poster of a bare to the waist Tai Ru Jin in a defensive pose across the room from a piece of calligraphy I’d bought at someone’s garage sale, and the light bulb that had been bare since the shade had smashed.  “We truly meant,” he said quietly, “to redecorate this for you when you turned sixteen.  I’m afraid time got away from us.”

“You can redo it in your colour,” suggested my maternal grandmother.  “That would improve it.”

“My colour seems to be a dull olive sludge.”  I gave a barking laugh.  “I think I prefer this.”

“Oh,” my grandmother looked sympathetic, “that does make it difficult.”

“I’ve given the matter some thought,” that was Father again.  “Our opportunities to make it up to you are very few.  There’s your eighteenth and then your majority.  And then there’s your birth prediction.”

“Oh?”  I knew my birth prediction.  It was very prosaic in a family where the sons are all being examined as potential reincarnations of an Immortal Scholar but I wasn’t prepared to embrace my predicted future just yet.

“Your happiness will come from your marriage and children,” my father beamed at me.  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?  I shall apply myself to finding you the perfect husband.  You can have a nice big wedding, be settled in your own home and by, well not this time next year, the year after next you could have a baby too.”

I stared at him in horror.  I couldn’t imagine why the “middle-aged bureaucrat” of my birth prediction would want to be married to me as I was.  I wasn’t grown up enough.  I hadn’t done anything.  I wasn’t interesting.  My father seemed to be proposing a disaster and expecting me to be delighted with it.

“I’m hoping to get into tertiary school next year.”  That was the truth.  Even though I hadn’t been able to get my parents to sign the tertiary application I’d still put it in with my signature – I’d turn eighteen a month before the universities started and I hoped to pick up a place in the final sweep of offers.

“A final sweep place?”  He raised an eyebrow at me.  “I doubt that a place at any university I would countenance a child of mine attending would be available in the final sweep.  No,” he smiled at me, “leave it to your mother and I, we’ll arrange everything.  Wash your face now and come downstairs.”  He swept away in a grand gesture, satisfied that he was engaged in fixing my world.  Most of the family followed him.

Aunty Tael, my father’s sister, and her husband, Uncle Ebi, stayed behind.  “Nai, your father means well,” she walked over and leant down to hug me, resplendent in royal blue and sea green, “but if he moves too fast for you, come and stay with us for the summer.  My esteemed elder brother hasn’t quite conquered his tendency to talk at people instead of conversing with them.”  She and Uncle Ebi gave each other a smile that made me think they were remembering the same thing.

I could have taken Aunty Tael up on her offer but I’d already decided what I was going to do.

I washed my face and went down stairs.  I ate some food, talked to the relatives and kept the conversation on Ruh.  I behaved.  I smiled every so often and I helped clean up afterwards.  When the relatives were gone and the house was tidy, I went upstairs and changed then went for a walk.

I went to see my gi master.  Master Que looks like a villainous extra in a movie.  His hair is too long and more than a bit wild.  He’s got tanned skin, he’s sort of skinny, his squint almost looks like he only has one eye, he could bathe at least once more per week than he does and he smokes when he isn’t in the training room.  The brown liquid in his tea cup isn’t always tea.  His training school, where I seemed to be one of very few students, looked dilapidated from the outside.

Inside it was much better.  The attentions of his cleaning lady showed and the training room was impeccably maintained.  Master Que was in the kitchen slicing vegetables for his dinner when I arrived, a cigarette in his mouth and a tea cup of brown liquid at hand.  “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” he’d taken the cigarette out of his mouth with the hand that wasn’t holding the knife.  “Don’t you have a big party on at your place tonight?”

“That was this afternoon.  Master,” the prospect of looking bad in his eyes was almost worse than looking bad in front of my family, “and I got upset about not having a big ceremony and a party when I was sixteen.  I think I behaved badly.”

“Oh.”  He took a draw on his cigarette.  “Who did you kill?”

“No-one.”

“Did you destroy the furniture, food and decorations?”

“No.”

“Did you have a screaming temper tantrum in the middle of the party?”

“No.  I went to my room cried, locked the door and cried again.  My father came and got me.”

“So you didn’t behave that badly after all.”  Master Que puffed on his cigarette again.  “You’re seventeen and a half and a bit.  If you didn’t get carried away with your emotions and hormones sometimes, I’d be worried about you.  So, why have you come to see me?”  He recommenced chopping vegetables.

“I think that if we’re ever going to try the tournaments to see if I’m as good as you say I am, it has to be now.”  He looked at me sideways, taking his attention away from the knife and vegetables for less than half a blink.  “Father’s decided to find me the perfect husband.  He’s talking about me being a mother in two years’ time.  I’m worried he’ll decide my next birthday is an auspicious time for a wedding.  Frankly, I’m in the mood to run away.”

Master Que took the cigarette out of his mouth.  “Yes,” he agreed and blew a smoke ring.  “It could indeed be time for a road trip.”

rix_scaedu: (Default)
I wrote this to [livejournal.com profile] lilfluff's seventh prompt and [livejournal.com profile] aldersprig's sixth prompt.

“The subject of today’s lesson is rope.”  Their Year Master looked across the rows of first year student adventurers, most of whom had yet to finalise their professional choice, and picked up a coil of his subject matter.  “Every member of your party should carry a useful length of rope capable of bearing the weight of at least two of you at once.  There is nothing more certain than if only one of you does not fall into the hole or get caught on the collapsing floor then that will be the person who has no rope with which to rescue the rest of you.”  He looked around the room.  “And there is nothing surer, if you live long enough in this business, that you will fall down something.”

“Please sir,” that was Sudella in the front row sticking up her hand, “what sort of rope should we buy?”

“The best you can afford that will do the job.  Remember that “the best” is not necessarily the most expensive.  Shop around and examine the goods before you purchase,” the Year Master waggled a warning finger.  “Cut ropes can be spliced back together again, no matter what their quality.  An unrepaired cut rope will fail if you stress it to its normal capacity.  Magical ropes can be excellent but you don’t want to sleep with a Rope of Strangling as a pillow.  Now then, who of you know what rope can be made from?”  He looked about and then pointed the coil at a lad in the back corner who was gazing at the ceiling.  “Robbins!  Name one thing rope can be made from!”

The freckled boy startled.  “Hemp, sir!”

“Very good.”  The Year Master swivelled and selected a girl is the middle row on the far side of the room, “Rosemany!”

“Flax, sir!”  The flat chested, half elven girl was the daughter of a paladin and sometimes a question could get her to flash the inner fire that could make her the equal of her mother.  Most of the time though she sat quietly in her seat trying not to be noticed, pointed ears carefully hidden under her hair.

The Year Master whirled on his heel and pointed the rope at the thick boy one desk along from Sudella of the eternally raised hand, “Brucheld!”

“Wire!”  Sudella snorted in disgust and Brucheld desperately corrected, “Silk!”

“Both are correct answers,” the Year Master said smoothly, “but wire rope is less often used for our purposes.  Pray keep in mind, Brucheld, that I am the one teaching this class.  Sudella, please wait back after the others leave.”  Sudella appeared stunned at the idea that she might be about to be punished.

The Year Master walked back to the front desk and put down the rope in his hand.  “You will spend the rest of the class familiarising yourselves with the different weights and materials displayed in these samples.”  He indicated the desk.  “Tomorrow we will start on knots and we will discuss weight for purpose as we go.  There will be an exam on this unit of work but the ultimate test in this subject is when you find yourself suspended over a one hundred foot or more drop while secured by a knot of your own tying.  That’s when you get the final pass or fail mark.”

rix_scaedu: (Elf)
I wrote this to [livejournal.com profile] lilfluff's seventh prompt and [livejournal.com profile] aldersprig's sixth prompt.

“The subject of today’s lesson is rope.”  Their Year Master looked across the rows of first year student adventurers, most of whom had yet to finalise their professional choice, and picked up a coil of his subject matter.  “Every member of your party should carry a useful length of rope capable of bearing the weight of at least two of you at once.  There is nothing more certain than if only one of you does not fall into the hole or get caught on the collapsing floor then that will be the person who has no rope with which to rescue the rest of you.”  He looked around the room.  “And there is nothing surer, if you live long enough in this business, that you will fall down something.”

“Please sir,” that was Sudella in the front row sticking up her hand, “what sort of rope should we buy?”

“The best you can afford that will do the job.  Remember that “the best” is not necessarily the most expensive.  Shop around and examine the goods before you purchase,” the Year Master waggled a warning finger.  “Cut ropes can be spliced back together again, no matter what their quality.  An unrepaired cut rope will fail if you stress it to its normal capacity.  Magical ropes can be excellent but you don’t want to sleep with a Rope of Strangling as a pillow.  Now then, who of you know what rope can be made from?”  He looked about and then pointed the coil at a lad in the back corner who was gazing at the ceiling.  “Robbins!  Name one thing rope can be made from!”

The freckled boy startled.  “Hemp, sir!”

“Very good.”  The Year Master swivelled and selected a girl is the middle row on the far side of the room, “Rosemany!”

“Flax, sir!”  The flat chested, half elven girl was the daughter of a paladin and sometimes a question could get her to flash the inner fire that could make her the equal of her mother.  Most of the time though she sat quietly in her seat trying not to be noticed, pointed ears carefully hidden under her hair.

The Year Master whirled on his heel and pointed the rope at the thick boy one desk along from Sudella of the eternally raised hand, “Brucheld!”

“Wire!”  Sudella snorted in disgust and Brucheld desperately corrected, “Silk!”

“Both are correct answers,” the Year Master said smoothly, “but wire rope is less often used for our purposes.  Pray keep in mind, Brucheld, that I am the one teaching this class.  Sudella, please wait back after the others leave.”  Sudella appeared stunned at the idea that she might be about to be punished.

The Year Master walked back to the front desk and put down the rope in his hand.  “You will spend the rest of the class familiarising yourselves with the different weights and materials displayed in these samples.”  He indicated the desk.  “Tomorrow we will start on knots and we will discuss weight for purpose as we go.  There will be an exam on this unit of work but the ultimate test in this subject is when you find yourself suspended over a one hundred foot or more drop while secured by a knot of your own tying.  That’s when you get the final pass or fail mark.”

rix_scaedu: (Default)
I wrote this to [livejournal.com profile] lilfluff's sixth prompt.  More stories in this world can be found on my Trideian tag.

Bennoli and Edita had taken a house together for the winter.  They’d parted company with Tarrascotti after the king had paid for their services, heading towards the wider valleys along the lower reaches of the rivers rather than up into to the mountains as he had.  Edita had declined to take any road that led towards Montefulciano and Bennoli had acquiesced.  They’d spent a few weeks working for a merchant in Bruschano while his own guards recovered after a beating and followed that up by escorting a group of pilgrims on their way home to the capital as far as the Sign of the Moon’s Cloak at Fiveways.

From there they’d spent most of autumn helping a nobleman’s feckless younger son explore a patch of ruins on the edge of the family estate.  Papa had seemed happy to have him out of the way of the harvest and the village girls.  Then they’d surprised everyone by actually finding treasure three levels down and back into the hill.  Bennoli and Edita had not only been paid, they’ received a cut of the find, and when they’d moved on the feckless son had been having an unexpectedly mature conversation with his family about the estate improvements he’d be funding.

Chiero was three towns down the highway from the estate and the first one they’d come to that had a reasonable, sound house for rent.  After dealing with a bit of business and signing a lease that would take them well into spring, they stocked up with a winter’s worth of supplies and wood and settled in to be part of the town for six months.

They had their hearth blessed by the local Keviran priestess and attended the weekly militia weapons practice.  The boys and men who looked askance at Edita’s presence worked harder when she outshot most of them all at the butts with a short bow.  Bennoli was welcomed by the town’s small cadre of professional guardsmen as an addition to their sword-work class.  The two of them together frequented the market and the inn, being neither extravagant nor parsimonious.  They settled in.

They weren’t the only folk of their ilk who’d chosen Chiero for their overwinter.  Verdi and Scarlatti were swords for hire.  They’d moved into town for the winter but they’d not settled.  They changed inns three times.  They didn’t go to the militia practice and they didn’t frequent the market.  Soon it became noticed that they had a habit of suddenly ducking down streets and laneways like startled rabbits.  Anyone would think that they were avoiding someone.

Edita pointed them out to Bennoli on market day while they were debating the merits of buying another cheese.  He looked where Verdi had been and then looked further afield from there.  A broad smile broke out across his face.  “I think those two have miscalculated,” he told Edita, managing not to laugh.  “They came into town when the harvest was well over, didn’t they?”

“Well, yes,” she agreed, “they did.  What of it?  They beat the winter.”  She and the farmer’s wife selling cheese both took a moment to look at the sell-swords’ antics as they kept dodging around a group of stalls

“They miscalculated.”  Bennoli’s smile was turning into a grin.  “They waited until the harvest taxes had been collected and the tax collectors had moved on but they didn’t realise,” he suppressed a guffaw as Verdi got his feet tangled up in a cat and a sack of root vegetables, “that Chiero has a permanent tax collector, what with its size and the market.”

“I’d have thought,” observed Edita, her paid-tax token safe in the bottom of her purse, “that it would be easier just to pay their taxes rather than have all that carry on.”

Bennoli, equally secure in the possession of his own tax token, replied, “Some people will insist on being clever.”

“If they keep being clever like that,” the farmer’s wife observed as Verdi, the cat now clinging to the top of his head, peered around the corner of a stall to see if the coast was clear, “the Reeve’ll have their penny off them for setting up an entertainment.”

rix_scaedu: (Elf)
I wrote this to [livejournal.com profile] lilfluff's sixth prompt.  More stories in this world can be found on my Trideian tag.

Bennoli and Edita had taken a house together for the winter.  They’d parted company with Tarrascotti after the king had paid for their services, heading towards the wider valleys along the lower reaches of the rivers rather than up into to the mountains as he had.  Edita had declined to take any road that led towards Montefulciano and Bennoli had acquiesced.  They’d spent a few weeks working for a merchant in Bruschano while his own guards recovered after a beating and followed that up by escorting a group of pilgrims on their way home to the capital as far as the Sign of the Moon’s Cloak at Fiveways.

From there they’d spent most of autumn helping a nobleman’s feckless younger son explore a patch of ruins on the edge of the family estate.  Papa had seemed happy to have him out of the way of the harvest and the village girls.  Then they’d surprised everyone by actually finding treasure three levels down and back into the hill.  Bennoli and Edita had not only been paid, they’ received a cut of the find, and when they’d moved on the feckless son had been having an unexpectedly mature conversation with his family about the estate improvements he’d be funding.

Chiero was three towns down the highway from the estate and the first one they’d come to that had a reasonable, sound house for rent.  After dealing with a bit of business and signing a lease that would take them well into spring, they stocked up with a winter’s worth of supplies and wood and settled in to be part of the town for six months.

They had their hearth blessed by the local Keviran priestess and attended the weekly militia weapons practice.  The boys and men who looked askance at Edita’s presence worked harder when she outshot most of them all at the butts with a short bow.  Bennoli was welcomed by the town’s small cadre of professional guardsmen as an addition to their sword-work class.  The two of them together frequented the market and the inn, being neither extravagant nor parsimonious.  They settled in.

They weren’t the only folk of their ilk who’d chosen Chiero for their overwinter.  Verdi and Scarlatti were swords for hire.  They’d moved into town for the winter but they’d not settled.  They changed inns three times.  They didn’t go to the militia practice and they didn’t frequent the market.  Soon it became noticed that they had a habit of suddenly ducking down streets and laneways like startled rabbits.  Anyone would think that they were avoiding someone.

Edita pointed them out to Bennoli on market day while they were debating the merits of buying another cheese.  He looked where Verdi had been and then looked further afield from there.  A broad smile broke out across his face.  “I think those two have miscalculated,” he told Edita, managing not to laugh.  “They came into town when the harvest was well over, didn’t they?”

“Well, yes,” she agreed, “they did.  What of it?  They beat the winter.”  She and the farmer’s wife selling cheese both took a moment to look at the sell-swords’ antics as they kept dodging around a group of stalls

“They miscalculated.”  Bennoli’s smile was turning into a grin.  “They waited until the harvest taxes had been collected and the tax collectors had moved on but they didn’t realise,” he suppressed a guffaw as Verdi got his feet tangled up in a cat and a sack of root vegetables, “that Chiero has a permanent tax collector, what with its size and the market.”

“I’d have thought,” observed Edita, her paid-tax token safe in the bottom of her purse, “that it would be easier just to pay their taxes rather than have all that carry on.”

Bennoli, equally secure in the possession of his own tax token, replied, “Some people will insist on being clever.”

“If they keep being clever like that,” the farmer’s wife observed as Verdi, the cat now clinging to the top of his head, peered around the corner of a stall to see if the coast was clear, “the Reeve’ll have their penny off them for setting up an entertainment.”

rix_scaedu: (Default)
Both [livejournal.com profile] aldersprig and [livejournal.com profile] kelkyag asked about Rensa's world when I asked what my readers would like in a background piece.  Their questions were, to me, interrelated and so I have cheated and provided background I think is needed to begin answering both their questions.

One of the technological advantages the world of Firilis had when they discovered the danger coming towards them was genetic engineering.

Firilis already had a number of daughter worlds, both privately founded and government sponsored.  A government-organised colony normally began as a high-concept project.  There would be extensive planetary surveys to identify resource locations and aid the selection of food crops and livestock species.  Colonists would be carefully selected for personality traits, skill sets or the ability to be trained therein, and a lack of undesirable genetic characteristics.  Suitably subtle genetic enhancement and modification usually occurred to make, for instance, the colonial population better able to cope with the amount of ultraviolet light received on the surface of their new world.  Teams of specialists would be trained to supply the colony with meta-skill sets the colony would benefit from.

Such arrangements took time and individual crafting.

Both were things the designers of the Defensive Diaspora decided they couldn’t afford.  They were determined to set up hundreds of shielding colonies and to do it as quickly as possible.  All colonial endeavours that hadn’t launched were suspended, ships and colonists subsumed into the new endeavour.  The teams of specialists engineered, bred and trained for the next government-sponsored colony were divided up so that each colony of the initial round of launches had a pair of each specialist type in a team rather than a team for each speciality.  The male/female pairing was to ensure that each colony would receive all of the genetic upgrades the specialists had received.  New cohorts of specialists in the same pattern were birthed and educated to accompany later waves of colonists.  The speciality hair colour-coding used with the reassigned initial cohort was continued as there would have been additional cost to remove it from the genetic engineering package.

No genetic engineering was carried out on colonists who had not already received it.  So little was known of the worlds they were going to that it was pointless to attempt to build world specific packages.  It was decided to rely of miscegenation to spread the longevity, energy metabolism, immune system and skin modifications included in the specialists, now known as guides, among the colonial populations.

To obtain the number of colonists required in the time frame available, selection criteria were relaxed.  In some intakes, in some criteria, the acceptable percentage variable spread from three to thirty per cent.  The discussions over the relaxing of psychological criteria should, perhaps, have been more vigorous and less professional and gentlemanly.



rix_scaedu: (Elf)
Both [livejournal.com profile] aldersprig and [livejournal.com profile] kelkyag asked about Rensa's world when I asked what my readers would like in a background piece.  Their questions were, to me, interrelated and so I have cheated and provided background I think is needed to begin answering both their questions.

One of the technological advantages the world of Firilis had when they discovered the danger coming towards them was genetic engineering.

Firilis already had a number of daughter worlds, both privately founded and government sponsored.  A government-organised colony normally began as a high-concept project.  There would be extensive planetary surveys to identify resource locations and aid the selection of food crops and livestock species.  Colonists would be carefully selected for personality traits, skill sets or the ability to be trained therein, and a lack of undesirable genetic characteristics.  Suitably subtle genetic enhancement and modification usually occurred to make, for instance, the colonial population better able to cope with the amount of ultraviolet light received on the surface of their new world.  Teams of specialists would be trained to supply the colony with meta-skill sets the colony would benefit from.

Such arrangements took time and individual crafting.

Both were things the designers of the Defensive Diaspora decided they couldn’t afford.  They were determined to set up hundreds of shielding colonies and to do it as quickly as possible.  All colonial endeavours that hadn’t launched were suspended, ships and colonists subsumed into the new endeavour.  The teams of specialists engineered, bred and trained for the next government-sponsored colony were divided up so that each colony of the initial round of launches had a pair of each specialist type in a team rather than a team for each speciality.  The male/female pairing was to ensure that each colony would receive all of the genetic upgrades the specialists had received.  New cohorts of specialists in the same pattern were birthed and educated to accompany later waves of colonists.  The speciality hair colour-coding used with the reassigned initial cohort was continued as there would have been additional cost to remove it from the genetic engineering package.

No genetic engineering was carried out on colonists who had not already received it.  So little was known of the worlds they were going to that it was pointless to attempt to build world specific packages.  It was decided to rely of miscegenation to spread the longevity, energy metabolism, immune system and skin modifications included in the specialists, now known as guides, among the colonial populations.

To obtain the number of colonists required in the time frame available, selection criteria were relaxed.  In some intakes, in some criteria, the acceptable percentage variable spread from three to thirty per cent.  The discussions over the relaxing of psychological criteria should, perhaps, have been more vigorous and less professional and gentlemanly.



Defence

May. 17th, 2012 02:38 am
rix_scaedu: (Default)
I wrote this to [livejournal.com profile] aldersprig's fourth post.  It follows on from Walking in the Rain at Sunset.

Sometimes the sound of wind in the trees is just the sound of the wind in the trees.  Not tonight.

We’d been hunting the Doom.  The flesh-eaters that had attacked Sourbridge, Halthorpe and a handful more of villages across the Loon valley were the scouts.  There had been victories, even against those early surprise incursions, but tonight ghost hounds were hunting the hunters.

Traces of phosphorescence dashed between the trees down on the river flat, finding the scent from where we’d crossed the river.  Those were the ghost hounds, smudges of glowing light with noses, saucer eyes and rending teeth.  The ghost hounds could kill but tonight there was a smudge darker than midnight crossing the river too, a Doom Master was guiding them.

We were long out of the woods and had spent our time well, fortifying the hilltop against the assault that would come.  With a Doom Master here, dawn wasn’t going to save us.  Our dissenter and pestilence burner was reinforcing our defences but he’d not been tested against this calibre of enemy before.  The sound of wind in the trees below us, the sound of the ghost hounds seeking us out, was coming closer, becoming easier to hear.

Moonrise would mark the beginning of the most dangerous part of the night.  The ghost hounds would be harder to see by moonlight, harder to see and easier to miss.  We looked at each other, there were only seven of us and that wasn’t going to be enough.

We’d done everything we could, we’d done everything right, but then the wind began to move in the trees above us.

I automatically looked around for the deadly gleaming traces but what I saw was a man standing watch within our perimeter on the western flank.  We had no light but I could see every detail of his kit.  No-one had worn anything like that for over a millennium.  “Canae,” he said gravely, nodding at me and pointing in the direction of the hounds.

“Dominus,” added a voice from behind me.  A second ghost was there, whetting his ghostly sword.

More ghosts were becoming apparent around us.  The pestilence burner looked astonished.  “I knew this was possible but where are we to get so many?”  There were over a score of them now.

“They used to hang sacrifices on a sacred tree that stood here,” said an almost modernly-dressed ghost standing close to him.  “Not myself of course, I’m far too recent – died of cold one night about two score years ago.  What on earth’s been going on in the world?  Some of the older fellows here really want a go at whatever-they-are coming up the hill.”

Around us the ghosts were joining us in the defensive positions, with their ghostly weapons limber.  Some, indeed, looked eager for a fight.


Defence

May. 17th, 2012 02:38 am
rix_scaedu: (Elf)
I wrote this to [livejournal.com profile] aldersprig's fourth post.  It follows on from Walking in the Rain at Sunset.

Sometimes the sound of wind in the trees is just the sound of the wind in the trees.  Not tonight.

We’d been hunting the Doom.  The flesh-eaters that had attacked Sourbridge, Halthorpe and a handful more of villages across the Loon valley were the scouts.  There had been victories, even against those early surprise incursions, but tonight ghost hounds were hunting the hunters.

Traces of phosphorescence dashed between the trees down on the river flat, finding the scent from where we’d crossed the river.  Those were the ghost hounds, smudges of glowing light with noses, saucer eyes and rending teeth.  The ghost hounds could kill but tonight there was a smudge darker than midnight crossing the river too, a Doom Master was guiding them.

We were long out of the woods and had spent our time well, fortifying the hilltop against the assault that would come.  With a Doom Master here, dawn wasn’t going to save us.  Our dissenter and pestilence burner was reinforcing our defences but he’d not been tested against this calibre of enemy before.  The sound of wind in the trees below us, the sound of the ghost hounds seeking us out, was coming closer, becoming easier to hear.

Moonrise would mark the beginning of the most dangerous part of the night.  The ghost hounds would be harder to see by moonlight, harder to see and easier to miss.  We looked at each other, there were only seven of us and that wasn’t going to be enough.

We’d done everything we could, we’d done everything right, but then the wind began to move in the trees above us.

I automatically looked around for the deadly gleaming traces but what I saw was a man standing watch within our perimeter on the western flank.  We had no light but I could see every detail of his kit.  No-one had worn anything like that for over a millennium.  “Canae,” he said gravely, nodding at me and pointing in the direction of the hounds.

“Dominus,” added a voice from behind me.  A second ghost was there, whetting his ghostly sword.

More ghosts were becoming apparent around us.  The pestilence burner looked astonished.  “I knew this was possible but where are we to get so many?”  There were over a score of them now.

“They used to hang sacrifices on a sacred tree that stood here,” said an almost modernly-dressed ghost standing close to him.  “Not myself of course, I’m far too recent – died of cold one night about two score years ago.  What on earth’s been going on in the world?  Some of the older fellows here really want a go at whatever-they-are coming up the hill.”

Around us the ghosts were joining us in the defensive positions, with their ghostly weapons limber.  Some, indeed, looked eager for a fight.


rix_scaedu: (Default)
I wrote this to [livejournal.com profile] lilfluff's fifth post.

A ripple of surprise ran through the Honours students assembled for the first lecture of the year in one of their four elective subjects.  The man in the black academic gown was not the lecturer they had been expecting.  He strode to the lectern and said brusquely, “You will all have noticed that I am not Professor O’Malley.  He was to have returned to his teaching duties here this semester but his sabbatical has been unilaterally extended by Veringian government.  Those of you who have been following the current crisis in the Franco-Deutsch-Swiss triangle will no doubt share the faculty’s concern for his continued safety.”  The sharp eyes looked at the class over the lecturer’s reading glasses.  “Yes, Mr Bartholomew?”

“Sir, Professor O’Malley was supposed to be the faculty adviser for my thesis.”  The awkward young man looked nervous, “Who will be replacing him?”

“Who else’d let you play around with a crazy conspiracy theory?”  That male-voiced comment floated up from the other side of the room.

“As it happens,” the lecturer interposed, “I have read your thesis proposal, Mr Batholomew.  Like all the others, it requires refinement but I believe it has promise.  I will enjoy guiding your progress in the coming year.”  He expanded his regard to include the rest of the class, “Those others of you who also had Professor O’Malley as faculty adviser will find the revised list of advisers on the faculty noticeboard.”  He looked in the direction of the interjection.  “Mr Dumfries, I encourage both smart and clever in my classes, but I do not tolerate smart-aleckery.  Keep it up and I’ll keep you in mind for the next time I need a body.  Are there any more questions?”

A young man whose appearance spoke of a background from the subcontinent raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr Singh?”

“Sir, will there be any changes to the published assessment schedule?”  Rajendra Singh was poised to make notes.

“Yes.”  The lecturer looked around the room.  “A 750 word task due halfway through this semester is worth 20% of your marks.  The 1500 word paper on a set topic, due at the beginning of second semester is worth 30% of your mark.  Your plan for world domination, due the first day of second semester final exams, is worth 50%.  You must attend at least 75% of classes in this course for me to mark your written work.”

“What if we’re too busy enacting our world domination plan to attend class?”  The same voice interjected again.

“Mr Dumfries, please learn to adhere to class etiquette.”  The lecturer looked over his glasses at the interjector.  “It would make our acquaintance far less painful.  However, all of you please keep in mind that this is an Honours-level political science course.  I do not require undergraduates to enact their plans and neither do I give extra credit for attempting to complete the course at a higher level than required.  Successful implementation of a world domination plan is only required in Doctorate level courses.”  A hand went up at the front of the room.  “Miss Woodrow?’

“Sir, wouldn’t we have noticed if someone had achieved world domination?”  The honey blonde in the second row pouted.

He riposted, “Would you?”  He glanced around the auditorium.  “Your first class assignment, ladies and gentlemen.  In 50 to 100 words due at the beginning of next class, why might a person in your position not have noticed that someone had achieved world domination?”  He glared at the red head who was staring at an open book in front of her instead of making notes.  “Miss McCaffery, what is so much more interesting than your first assignment?”

She looked up, snapped back from wherever her mind had been.  “Sorry sir.”  She stood the book up so he could see the cover.  “Faculty handbook sir.”  A half beat pause then, “Are you Professor Moriarty, sir?”

He gave a thin lipped smile.  “Yes.”

rix_scaedu: (Elf)
I wrote this to [livejournal.com profile] lilfluff's fifth post.

A ripple of surprise ran through the Honours students assembled for the first lecture of the year in one of their four elective subjects.  The man in the black academic gown was not the lecturer they had been expecting.  He strode to the lectern and said brusquely, “You will all have noticed that I am not Professor O’Malley.  He was to have returned to his teaching duties here this semester but his sabbatical has been unilaterally extended by Veringian government.  Those of you who have been following the current crisis in the Franco-Deutsch-Swiss triangle will no doubt share the faculty’s concern for his continued safety.”  The sharp eyes looked at the class over the lecturer’s reading glasses.  “Yes, Mr Bartholomew?”

“Sir, Professor O’Malley was supposed to be the faculty adviser for my thesis.”  The awkward young man looked nervous, “Who will be replacing him?”

“Who else’d let you play around with a crazy conspiracy theory?”  That male-voiced comment floated up from the other side of the room.

“As it happens,” the lecturer interposed, “I have read your thesis proposal, Mr Batholomew.  Like all the others, it requires refinement but I believe it has promise.  I will enjoy guiding your progress in the coming year.”  He expanded his regard to include the rest of the class, “Those others of you who also had Professor O’Malley as faculty adviser will find the revised list of advisers on the faculty noticeboard.”  He looked in the direction of the interjection.  “Mr Dumfries, I encourage both smart and clever in my classes, but I do not tolerate smart-aleckery.  Keep it up and I’ll keep you in mind for the next time I need a body.  Are there any more questions?”

A young man whose appearance spoke of a background from the subcontinent raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr Singh?”

“Sir, will there be any changes to the published assessment schedule?”  Rajendra Singh was poised to make notes.

“Yes.”  The lecturer looked around the room.  “A 750 word task due halfway through this semester is worth 20% of your marks.  The 1500 word paper on a set topic, due at the beginning of second semester is worth 30% of your mark.  Your plan for world domination, due the first day of second semester final exams, is worth 50%.  You must attend at least 75% of classes in this course for me to mark your written work.”

“What if we’re too busy enacting our world domination plan to attend class?”  The same voice interjected again.

“Mr Dumfries, please learn to adhere to class etiquette.”  The lecturer looked over his glasses at the interjector.  “It would make our acquaintance far less painful.  However, all of you please keep in mind that this is an Honours-level political science course.  I do not require undergraduates to enact their plans and neither do I give extra credit for attempting to complete the course at a higher level than required.  Successful implementation of a world domination plan is only required in Doctorate level courses.”  A hand went up at the front of the room.  “Miss Woodrow?’

“Sir, wouldn’t we have noticed if someone had achieved world domination?”  The honey blonde in the second row pouted.

He riposted, “Would you?”  He glanced around the auditorium.  “Your first class assignment, ladies and gentlemen.  In 50 to 100 words due at the beginning of next class, why might a person in your position not have noticed that someone had achieved world domination?”  He glared at the red head who was staring at an open book in front of her instead of making notes.  “Miss McCaffery, what is so much more interesting than your first assignment?”

She looked up, snapped back from wherever her mind had been.  “Sorry sir.”  She stood the book up so he could see the cover.  “Faculty handbook sir.”  A half beat pause then, “Are you Professor Moriarty, sir?”

He gave a thin lipped smile.  “Yes.”

rix_scaedu: (Default)
I wrote this to [livejournal.com profile] aldersprig's third prompt.

The family of Fingate Farm were having a meeting, all of them seated around their communal table.  The oldest generation were Ester and Olrin, the only surviving members of their marriage.  Technically Ester was the farm’s sole owner these days but as they weren’t considering the sale of land, that wasn’t an issue.  The three sons of their marriage were there, along with their sister-wives: Halanda sitting thigh by thigh with Brond; Junery and Chloe with Steen between them on the bench seat; and Phil sitting at the far corner from all of them looking, when he looked at the others, as if he’d arranged everything.  Then there were the boys, all seven of them, ranging in age from eighteen to twenty-seven.  That was the problem.

“Really,” pointed out Ester, “there should be two marriages between you, but the farm simply doesn’t do well enough to support that.”

“I’m happy to be left out, if that helps,” volunteered Rafe the soldier.  “I support myself, after all.”

“And send money home,” noted Phil approvingly, “but I imagine you’ll probably want to retire here.  It would best if you have an acknowledged interest when that time comes.”

“True.”  Rafe conceded the point gracefully.

“To further limit your options,” pressed on Ester, “our neighbours not only have a shrewd idea of our position, but most of them don’t have unmarried daughters.  Those that do aren’t prepared to agree to an unbalanced agreement.”

“But?”  Unsloe, the second eldest spoke up while Bast, the toffee-haired youngest brother, looked confused beside him.  “I hear a ‘but’ in there.”

“Midridge Farm over to Joltholp, the ones that own that detached strip on the other side of our creek, have one daughter.  Her brothers are getting married and their brides want her out and settled before their wedding.”  Brond grinned.  “Seems they’re worried they’ll have a spinster sister-in-law in the house for all eternity if they don’t insist now.  They’ll gift her with that detached strip as part of her dower.”

“Seven of us and one of her?”  Rafe sounded concerned.  “We could hurt her if we’re not careful.”

“How?”  That was Bast, finding something else to be confused about.

“I’ll explain it to you later,” Rafe promised him.

“When do we meet her?”  Tim was the eldest.  “I can’t remember her being at anything we’ve been to – I don’t even know her name.”

“Borophy,” supplied Steen.  “Midridge does their socialising around Joltholp so it’s not surprising we haven’t seen her.  We’ve arranged for her to visit in the afternoon of the day after tomorrow, to meet you and see the place.”

“Boys,” added Olrin grimly, “she’s the only girl for you.”

Mead, the second youngest brother summed it up.  “I think we have some tidying to do.”


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