9:04 AM I have seen the future and it looks like Goth TK, complete with black Gilligan hat. Another victory for the Digimon conspiracy! Tentacles. And not a bad haul for Harry Potter slashers! Threesomes. The Princess of Tease strikes again!
Friday, November 16, 2001
6:31 PM a little explanation of my day (may be TMI for some) which began in a too-hot feather comforter, one of my favorite possessions, but I forgot to turn it down before I fell asleep with the laptop on my legs and thus was baked alive while the window was open in mid November in Minnesota. Okay, it's been a really unusually warm mid-November, but evening air is still fifty degrees and still my comforter kept me toasty. Which! Thrust me into this disturbing waking dream where fruit flies could talk and everyone had one, and I failed a German history test (in German) given by an English professor, and written by one 'wrenlet.' Sorry, Wren, my subconscious was trying to inject something soothing into the surreality. Naturally my laptop had been unplugged by the mere act of setting it off my legs and thus had run out of battery. Fortunately the fic I'd been working on for three days was still intact as I'd remembered to save.
So I had breakfast. Then I showered. Okay. Plan to go to my friends' apartment and see which Harry Potter I'm going to. Great. Ick, my hair, let's get the mousse-y stuff... and this goo is on the bottle. No, the goo is all over the drawer. My brand new shampoo has spent the week leaking into said drawer. So everything has to go into the tub, foaming up the tub, and I take it into my head to unclog the drain 'cause yep, that's my hair clogging it up... okay, no more foam, all done, right? Of course not, the Scotch Guard spray can has shampoo *in* its cap and once more I wash it up, foam up the tub, and hope the warm water doesn't cause the can to explode in my face.
I look up, and see I've missed a bus or two. Call the apartment to see if anyone's there. No dice. Clean my room, put away my food, pack up the duffel with my stuff. The duffel is heavy. If no one is at the room, I will have to lug it around campus. Decide to take the bus with minimal stuff, figure out if anyone's there, then make the two hour round trip back before dark. Okay, great plan. Wait at the bus stop, ten minutes early. Waiting... waiting... and the bus line that's never been late before, well after rush hour, is late by fifteen minutes. I decide to run and catch the bus pulling out, though it's not going to stop right in front of the apartment, but it's a short walk.
Ack. The *bus driver*'s a talker. (Bus riders, you know what I mean.) And then the crazy dude behind me keeps kicking my seat and at one point bops my head. At least he said sorry. Got off at the right stop, walked several blocks -- a lot longer than I remember it, definitely not a bus to take after dark -- and call the apartment again. Nobody's home. So I go to the computer lab and post the fic.
Which causes me a huge headache. Convert from Word Perfect to Microshit. Except I forget the smart quotes kick in, and spend half an hour changing every apostrophe and quotation mark. Only to find they're *still* smart quotes, I have to turn off the damn function and no, it does not matter that I've switched to Word Pad. So I only get one log read carefully, another log skimmed, and all the while trying desperately to turn the ?s to " to real " and watching the clock tick towards 3 pm. Two hour round trip. Sun sets at 4:40. And three o'clock ticks past as I wrestle with Blogger, the rheumatic mouse, the evil of Bill Gates, posting this awful fic which smells fishier by the second.
*deep breath*
On the bright side, the first part of the fic is posted, I'm seeing Harry Potter too late for the toddler crowd, and I took out my frustrations bleaching soap scum off my former bathroom, because my former roomies are a helluva lot tireder than I am.
You are tending to pursue your objectives with concentrated intensity and it would seem that whatever obstacles may come into your path - you will stick to your guns and will not allow yourself to be deflected from your purpose. You are striving to achieve recognition and what is more - you deserve it
All of your dreams and hopes have not materialised ..and consequently you are unsure of which way to go. This uncertainty has led to considerable stress, but you have sufficient "strength of mind" to overcome this state of affairs .. but it will take some time .. .
Being emotionally inhibited you have no alternative at this time but to be a "watcher" rather than a "doer". At this time you feel as if you are being forced to compromise and stand back ... But this is not the true you.. Deep down there is that warm "open" you which is awaiting the moment to burst forth.. maybe like the chrysalis which will soon become the butterfly...
For whatever the reason, you find it extremely difficult to sustain relationships ... that is, to sustain them in the manner that you would wish. You are a very gentle sort of person ... full of feeling, sensitivity and susceptible to love and affection ... looking and longing for a partner with whom you can enjoy "All things bright and beautiful".. someone with whom you can seek out the more esoteric things of life. But up to now this person has only existed in your imagination. You are very choosy, appreciative, refined and extremely artistic in temperament and it is your hope to seek others who will allow you to form and express your own taste and judgement, and who at the same time may assist you in your intellectual or artistic growth.
You really would like to be completely uninhibited... to let your hair down.. but you are held back by your sense of logic and rational, since you realise that by simple stupidity you could lose everything... whatever that may be.
Oh, I may change a few things for the next installment of the once in a lifetime series so it may be a while. You'll see who was watching them at the window.
2:58 PM
Okay, once more with feeling... fic there. *points* Next part coming later tonight. *gestures at reload* Fic index for the blog coming later. *flourishes* Bus missed. *growls* Someone e-mail BlackRose and Keelywolfe that this is their fault *waves*.
Okay, Shusu will now tear her hair out. This is definitely a Kahlua evening. I'll tell y'all what happened later.
Proof that BlackRose's bunnies are not only contagious, they're promiscuous. The entire series pounced me at once! I didn't cave till I read Keelywolfe's surrender to the bunnies, though, and as always I was encouraged by Wren. Incest is such an interesting kink, as kinks go... this fic kicks it up a notch, and will likely be squicky to the general audience. (Squall is, however, legal. Laguna is also coldsleep'd to early thirties subjective. Rrowr.) Oh, and naturally there's tons of angst. Title comes from the Talking Heads song. I haven't played the game, though a kind soul let me see the ending sequence.
You may forward, blog, recommend, but not post (on MLs or webpages). This is the beta version; C&C welcomed. If there are major canon problems, please tell me so I can AU this.
NC-17. NCS. Deep angst. FF8 spoilers. You have been warned.
once in a lifetime :: bourbon on the rocks
It was chillier out on the balcony, just a few steps away from the warm, boisterous party. Laguna let the wind whip his hair about, clinging to a frosty glass of alcoholic fire. The gatherings were morale boosters for the SeeDs now embroiled in the messy task of rebuilding. It was no trouble for the President of Esthar to secure an invitation to these functions. Rather more difficult to enjoy himself at them.
For the thousandth time he cursed himself for not listening to Ellone. She'd been four at the time, true, but he was increasingly convinced she had more sense than the whole lot of them put together. He could still hear her pleading voice, so high and soft, begging him to stay, please stay, Uncle Laguna...
And now Squall was a stranger. Laguna could have handled curiosity, or even disgust, but Squall looked at him like a non-entity, not even fit to be noticed. He showed more interest in the wild monster population. Hell, he was more interested in his hair than in Laguna, and Squall had the most miraculously attractive bed-heads ever. At first Laguna had written it off as the SeeD commando's usual demeanor. Then he'd observed Squall with his friends. The boy was no less quiet and authoritative, but there was a warm glimmer in his storm cloud eyes, and sometimes even a hint of smirk.
So much warmth in a cold exterior. Warm. Cold. It burned just the same, didn't it?
Laguna gulped his drink. It's time to give up, Loire. Besides, there would be so much more to deal with if you did reconcile with him. There's *that* thing... He shivered, trying not to think about it. You don't have the first clue of how to be a father. The sound of booted feet startled him out of his reverie. Laguna made himself turn around slowly, an essential trick for a soldier-turned-politician who didn't like being sneaked up on. That, and he recognized the stride.
Squall wasn't looking at him, as usual. What surprised Laguna was that he was latching the bulletproof glass doors behind him. Laguna raised the glass to his lips, found it empty, and set it aside on the railing. But there was no declaration, no opening line to latch on to, so he let the boy gather steam to talk and contented himself with staring. Given the list in his step, it was likely Squall was drunk and wouldn't notice. Must be more smashed than I am. Or maybe not. I've been coming to Balamb nearly every month to talk to him, and now he's here and I've got nothing to say. Old fool. Squall's loose bangs shuttered his eyes, the light catching on his cheekbones and making shadows everywhere else. It wasn't enough to trace Raine's features there. Laguna's night vision kicked in and he could make out the gleam in Squall's soul-deep eyes, the pouting curve of his lip, the solid muscle of his ass ... Laguna grabbed his glass before recalling that it was empty. Not this. Of all things, of all times ... ! The boy was his flesh and blood, for crying out loud.
Laguna bowed his head, walking the familiar path in his mind. The boy was also SeeD, a leader of SeeDs. He could have easily been Laguna's superior officer. And soldiers who served in the same war forged bonds stronger than blood. When the days and nights away from Raine (and Ellone and Squall) had stretched into long campaigns against loneliness, Laguna had learned much about those bonds. It was a deep old ache for Laguna, and because Squall was the commanding officer, the Lion of Balamb, it seemed no one had eased those aches in him.
Not that it made it any less wrong.
Laguna was distracted with those thoughts when Squall walked over and lifted him by the collar of his shirt. The thick smell of bourbon -- Kinneas' doing, no doubt -- hit him before the shock.
"I remember now," Squall said. Laguna's heart fluttered with excitement until some icy droplet of anger worked its way into his hearing. "Sis said you left us and Mother died. Is that true?"
The words jackhammered into Laguna. He struggled for his footing, reminded of the great height behind him. "I didn't know," he whispered. "I came back and you were all gone. I didn't know about you!"
Squall shook him. Frantically Laguna held on to his arms so he wouldn't fall. That's right, you idiot, that way you'll pull him down with you. And Squall held him close, closer than they had ever been, his eyes cold and blazing. "Why did you leave us?!"
Laguna writhed in their dangerous embrace. "I'm sorry..."
"That's not good enough!"
And suddenly Laguna was off his feet, sprawled on darkest corner of the balcony, Squall's hand working between his legs. Squall had speed and surprise and more recent training on his side while the booze and, admittedly, his age slowed Laguna down. The lascivious fire growing in the pit of his stomach didn't help either.
"If you'd just stayed..."
The air was cold on his exposed skin.
"... maybe she wouldn't have died ... "
Marble colored friction matting dug into his palms.
"... I wouldn't have lost Sis ... "
A fiery whisper against his ear.
"... I wouldn't have been made into a SeeD ... "
Rough movements as Squall shed his own clothes.
"... I wouldn't have had to fight them ... "
He was pulled upright, finally aware of his erection when Squall closed his fist around it, shivering at the hot length pressed against the small of his back. Desperately he tried to twist away. He didn't know why it was happening. As much as he'd longed for a reaction, this would only make things worse. He had to stop before Squall did something he'd regret. Before his own body gave itself to the half-remembered wet dreams and didn't want to stop.
Squall sank his teeth into his shoulder, gagged his cry with his other hand, and Laguna felt the moment slide away from him. He wasn't sure if Squall realized he wasn't having trouble lifting his hips over his erection. Or if he heard the moan against his hand, or felt Laguna spread his thighs and relax his muscles. Maybe he thought Laguna's hands clutching at his legs were trying to push away.
Vaguely Laguna heard the orchestra through an open window and nearly thrust himself down in excitement. What if someone walked in and saw them? The President of Esthar being fucked by his own son, a SeeD commander. Nothing to obscure Squall's hand pumping his cock, his neck arching against Squall's shoulder, their hair tangling in the wind. Laguna damned his younger self for developing such a powerful kink for semi-public sex.
The pain brought him back.
"I wouldn't have had to fight," Squall repeated.
Oh it hurt. Laguna hadn't been taken in a long time, and what moisture there was hardly helped. But not being able to answer hurt more. The small mercy of Squall's hand on his mouth would have prevented it even if he'd had the words. He'd composed a thousand speeches, to pep-talk his men, to hearten his people, but locked together as they were, all his eloquence deserted him. Laguna's head fell back against Squall's cheek, wet with frustrated tears.
"Watch them be destroyed by my hand, not knowing. Lie awake wondering which of my friends are expendable. Wondering which of them will fold first." It was the same cold, familiar ache, this time chanted in his son's warm breath. Laguna clung to every word, afraid the wind would rip it away. He pushed away the desire and took it, listening to Squall's fevered babble, deprived of every response except the tightening of his muscles around Squall's thrusts.
"Wondering if any of them would care if I die."
I would weep a river. All your friends would. The girls, Zell, even Irvine. My god, boy, don't you even fucking consider it...! Laguna's body betrayed him at last, spilling white heat over Squall's hand. Squall came a second later with a grunt of surprise. It was as though he hadn't expected Laguna to orgasm. Some part of Laguna thought they must look beautiful twined together like that, before the waves crashed white over his eyes.
They sat there joined for another half-minute before Laguna hoisted himself up, gritting his teeth at the pain. Squall was listless as a broken puppet. Laguna was panicked. On automatic, he tried to find their clothes through tear-blurred eyes. The sooner they got out of there, the sooner they could talk and straighten things out. There had to be something he could do to make it right. Not getting caught would be a plus, too...
He turned to see Squall standing. The SeeD was a hunched shadow against the glaring lights. When he looked up Laguna saw just how much more sober he'd become.
"Oh my god."
"Squall, I--" Laguna fumbled with his zipper.
His voice sounded too even. "So I am that cold." Squall's eyes darted to the locked glass door, then up, as though he'd actually scale the walls to get out, his teeth cutting into his bottom lip.
Laguna spoke up before Squall considered taking the short way down. "Squall, we're both drunk off our asses, it's cold as hell out here, and we need to talk about this." Laguna wondered if Squall had figured out that he had experience. If not, that would account for a good deal of the guilt trip.
It hit Laguna just before the boy spoke. Squall had done this before. And as antisocial as he was, there was only one person Laguna knew of who could have gotten that close and taught him that well.
"He was right!" Squall's voice rose to a hysterical note. "Seifer was right, I'll always be--"
Laguna crossed the space between them in an instant. His hand stopped the flow of speech. Formerly scattered senses resolved and focused, and Laguna cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. The palpable dread in Squall's eyes slammed down like a final metal girder in some twisted puzzle.
"Whatever Seifer told you, it's not true."
Squall's eyes widened. Laguna ached to see him so vulnerable. No... too late. Wounded. Deeply. Squall slapped his hand away and took a halting step back. "But I... I just..." He gestured at Laguna's disheveled state.
Laguna glanced down at himself ruefully. He wanted nothing better than a shower, a med kit, and a year-long nap. But his instincts told him any hesitation would lose him weeks, maybe even months. So before Squall could run, Laguna lunged forward and pressed their lips together.
Squall shrank away. "No," he said. Laguna took it for a sound of disbelief and kissed him again.
As he backed Squall into the wall, tasting blood and bourbon, part of him recoiled. Manipulative son of a bitch. Isn't this exactly what you wanted, Loire? You're just feeding the perversion. You're just as bad as that Almasy bastard. Laguna caught his breath. The younger man's eyes fluttered open and there was a flash of terror at an unseen phantom which wrung Laguna's heart.
I'm not like him! Squall needs my help. He is my son.
And in that moment of fierce, protective pride, Laguna understood what it meant to be a father. He'd gotten everything else wrong. He could not fail Squall now.
"I don't understand," Squall whispered.
Laguna slipped his arms around him. "You're not dirty. You're not worthless. You hear me?"
"But this is wrong..." Squall struggled a little, which only succeeded in giving Laguna a better hold on him. Squall didn't seem to mind. He leaned in till their hot breaths mingled.
"Then we'll be wrong together," Laguna said. With that, he dived in for another kiss.
To his thrill, Squall responded, tongue tip dancing out for permission. Laguna let him, bothered that Squall had learned to pleasure for forgiveness, but glad for any scrap, any opening. There was also no disguising the needy growl in Squall's throat. So Laguna wasn't the only crazy one after all.
They sank down to the same dark corner, Squall curling up small and tired. Laguna managed to find an official presidential handkerchief and wiped them both up.
"Laguna." He froze. Had he ever heard his name on Squall's lips? Either way it sounded like the first time. "I'm sorry."
This time the words came. "Listen, Squall. Way before you got it in your head to do this, I wanted it. I wanted you. Not because you're my... my son. Because you're Squall Leonhart, and you're just damned good at that. Don't you ever doubt it."
"But I hurt you."
Laguna shifted, still unnerved that Squall's voice was calm but his eyes were frightened. "You hurt me, but you hurt yourself more." He smoothed his hair from Squall's brow, and kissed it. Away from the scar, Seifer's mark. "You were right to be angry. I shouldn't have gone. Maybe the world would have ended, but we'd have been happy. I'll never forgive myself for doing that to you, and Ellone. To Raine, who'll probably turn over in her grave twice and give us both the finger."
Squall chuckled. It sounded like ice cleaving in the first thaw. Laguna continued.
"But then you wouldn't have met your friends. You probably wouldn't be a part of Balamb Garden. I totally missed all of that, Squall." Laguna sighed. "It'd probably be better if we didn't do this. Cooler heads, and all that. But we're stuck here, with this past, and that future, and maybe we should make the most of it."
Squall didn't say anything for a long while. It was a pensive silence, not charged like before. Only then did Laguna glance up and notice a fitting coda to the rollercoaster evening: someone had drawn the curtains over the glass doors. Laguna shook his head. He'd deal with that as it came. For now, he had more important things to worry about, like how to rearrange his schedule to include even more trips to Balamb Garden.
Laguna thought he was falling asleep when Squall finally spoke. "You... still want to? Even after this?"
"You're my son. You can't hurt me." Laguna huddled closer, whispering something he had never before admitted to himself. "And I think you're beautiful."
Squall hugged him tighter.
They clung together till the party died out and the ballroom closed, a tiny shell of heat in the blistering wind.
Okay, for those of you who saw a fic here.... I need to find a computer that distinguishes between them fancy schmancy apostrophes that don't show up and the normal ones that do! Gak. Perfect coda to a horrid day.
These are my absolute favorites. Where the music and the images swarm and mesh into sensory tapestries, light as meringue, heavy as the sky. I will surely hear more, and add to the list. They have violins. They are evil. And there are also the fun pop-y songs where things are blown up. And anyone who can grab a hold of these dealies for me will have their feet kissed and their boys slashed.
Epyon's theme (Gundam Wing)
Folken's theme (Vision of Escaflowne)
"Rhythm Emotion" (Gundam Wing)
Kanno Yoko's "Green Bird" and "Tank!" (Cowboy Bebop)
Yo Yo Ma's cello movements in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, composed by Tan Dun
"El Tango de Roxanne" in Moulin Rouge James Horner's Sneakers theme
Mark Snow's use of pizzicatto
John William's Jurassic Park theme and Empire Strikes Back "Imperial March"
Maurice Jarre's Lawrence of Arabia theme
Not that many percussion themes I'm real impressed with. But I do so love those strings, huh... I'm tempted to add Phantom of the Opera and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly or A Fistful of Dollars.
10:36 AM is it the time of month, the clarity of the sky?
All those people packing up to go home or visit for the first time, checking their passports, bringing chocolate and toys in their carry-ons for their friends... kids home for Veteran's Day, parents washing their cars and boats, silent firestations waiting for another day since that other bright clear morning...
Well, I don't know about you, but I'm numb. This time I will try not to feel guilty for having so much fun the night before. I pray for New York, for the children in Queens and everywhere who will grow up thinking planes fall out of the sky, but probably not for myself. Odd that last night's Bebop, when I huddled with my best friend, stealing her body heat and shrieking quietly, was about the ultimate evil of television.
I'm sorry, God. I am. This is my reality. I'll try to do better. It should scare me that if I could smell the burning fuel, the dust, I would not feel the heat. Not yet. Not until the aluminum siding melts around me, or the floor drops out of the sky, or the shards cut through. Maybe that's how Hell is. You don't really see it coming. It does bother me... empathy is the first step to compassion.
I used to be an empathetic child.
People died this morning.
I read Chalcedony Cross's Erinnerungen an die Zukunft yesterday, and I'm also reminded of Lennon Specs, a lovely SF story I read in an anthology a long time ago. Something felt funny because I didn't buy that bit about the threads connecting people. Maybe I never had that. Maybe I was more selfish than I remember. But it's not so much that I don't feel that compassion, but that I used to. It would have been better if I'd never felt that much...
Three pinches of Longbottom Leaf went up in smoke rings before midday at the Brandywine Bridge Shirrif's Station. Largo Roper flipped his wavy oak blond hair before rolling another. His cousin Bungo sat at the other bench with the window open. Bungo was a peach of a Roper, his mother having married from those Gamgees, fitting right into that mess of Tooks at Tuckborough. His hair was gold as a sunrise, his eyes clear as riverwater, and if Largo hadn't known how virtuous the hobbit was, he'd have sprung him long ago. It wasn't as though he'd end up like poor Merry Roper from Gamwich, whose Hornblower ancestors had gotten themselves mixed up. Poor inbred sod. He'd been a looker too, bright auburn hair and leafy green eyes, but it was said he'd picked up some elf on the East Road and ended up a shipwright's wench at the Havens.
Largo caught Bungo glaring at him, and quit looking at the blond hair on his toes. Wasn't his fault they were related.
"You ever going to stop smoking that rubbish, Largo?"
"Nope. It helps me think."
"Oh really? What're you thinking of?"
"Actually..." Largo took a deep pull from his pipe. "I was wondering about ole Wili Tussle, the old Shirrif."
"That little mite? Been a long while since we've seen him. His father used to be big around Stock, but the Masters at Brandy Hall could never abide by him."
"He was a good kid, though. If a bit of a peepin' Tom."
"That's no small thing." Bungo was actually relaxing a little, the oversized wooden sword drooping a bit in its scabbard. "He once caught Hobbers with his hand in the till. Never could stop thinking about money, that one..." Bungo trailed off, glancing at Largo nervously.
Largo, for his part, sighed into a smoke ring. Hobson Mugworts, late of Standelf. A good Buckland family, that one. He'd joined the Bounders some three years ago, when it was just Largo and the young Shirrif Tussle. A head of blazing red hair, and an attitude just as slow smoldering. Largo hadn't been interested at the time. But now, some months after his disappearance, Largo found he was missing the old coot.
The thing was, Hobbers hadn't picked up and gone like the Tussles. He'd been on watch one foggy night, ferrying his way along the Brandywine, and the next morning they'd found everything tied down on the east bank, and no sign of Hobbers. They'd looked for a while, told the Rangers about it, but one flighty hobbit wasn't enough to sound the Horn of Buckland.
Largo was startled out of his reverie when Bungo's oversized scabbard scraped on the floor roughly. Bungo was up, his wide shoulders tense. "What is it?" said Largo. Bungo just pointed.
They peered out the window to see a tall white figure standing before the Station door. He seemed to have trouble getting in -- but that wasn't what floored the two Bounders. Snow white skin and hair, eyes of stormy grey, and the fine woven cloak pinned with a shining jewel: this was an elf. Largo's jaw dropped. This wasn't no singing wood elf or one from the Havens.
"It's a Vala..." Bungo whispered.
"What?" hissed Largo.
"One of the guardians of the world, you dunce!" Bungo wiped his face like it would erase the shock there. "What in hell's he doing here?"
"Hello?" The elf was tapping on the window. "I'm sorry, I'm rather lost."
Largo remembered himself and raced out the door. "Ah, sorry, sir, usually not this tardy, we're the Bounders, see, and what's your name, I mean, we have to know, could we see your papers to enter the Shire?"
The Vala blinked. "I just came from there."
Bungo yanked Largo back, landing him on his butt. "You're at the Brandywine River, on the East Road. Where are you headed?" Largo could see Bungo trembling.
The deep grey eyes regarded the two hobbits. Largo could just see it in his eyes: armed but not dangerous. He clutched his club, just in case. "I am Nevcristion. I am hunting for an Avari named Sirithrauko. He lurks near rivers, but he may have moved on from here."
"Rivers?" blurted Largo. The words hunting and lurks stood out in his mind. "What did he do?"
"That is none of your concern."
Bungo stepped up. "Your pardon, sir, my partner here's none too bright. If you could tell us where--"
"Your pardon, sir, but I think it is some of our concern!" Largo drew himself up to his full height, till he was eye to eye with Nevcristion's scabbard. "A friend of ours, a fellow Bounder, disappeared near the water at night. Maybe this elf got a hold of him."
The tall Vala growled. "That orange haired son of an orc is not worthy to be called elf. That may well have been Sithrauko's work. He offers great temptations, and then spirits away his victims."
"You hear that, Bungo?" Largo shoved him excitedly. "Maybe he knows where ole Hobbers got away to."
Nevcristion bowed his head. "I'm afraid it is often too late for his victims. Once they succumb to the temptation, it is irreversible."
Largo's face fell. Bungo, looking thoughtful, stepped forward. "So maybe you need to go to the closest river. Rivendell near the Hoarwell and on the Loudwater, that's a good place. Lots of elves and half elves to show you about."
"Hmm. That does sound promising." The Vala flung his cloak over his shoulder. "Good day to you, Mortal Bounders."
"Wait!" screeched Largo. "Please, please take us with you!"
"Us?!" said Bungo, but his cousin paid him no heed.
"We've just got to find him! Pleeeeaaasse?"
Nevcristion looked down at the hobbit latched on his ankle. "Well...."
Bungo cleared his throat. They both looked at him. "You're going the wrong direction, Nevcristion."
The great and powerful Vala looked sheepish. "Oh."
"Perhaps we ought to come with you to make sure you find your way there?"
Largo nodded furiously.
Nevcristion looked at the crossroad, reading the signpost carefully. Then he turned to the two hobbits. "All right. We'll start again in the morning."
Largo fell over in relief, his pipe still clenched between his teeth.
~~~
They stopped at The Prancing Pony the next evening, staying at one of the mixed species rooms. Largo couldn't believe Bungo had the money for it, and the gall, besides. From the sly and envious glances of the other Big Folk and Little Folk, only the really eccentric foreign types ordered such a room. To Largo's disappointment, Bungo made him sleep on the floor. Nevcristion certainly didn't understand the significance of the sound-proofed walls. The Vala thought it was an excellent defensive amenity. Largo consoled himself with watching his two companions sleep with their swords.
The party made good time to the Hoarwell, where the elf busied himself with sniffing out his quarry. Bungo passed the time by sending Largo on tedious errands and coiffing his golden hair. Despite three thunderstorms and a host of skeeters, Bungo remained immaculately groomed. For the umpteenth time, Largo wondered why his cousin had agreed to the jaunt at all. It certainly wasn't to share his bed roll. Largo had ruined his with four barmaids and a stable boy and had subsequently slept on the ground. "Keep you out of trouble," had been his sole reason and Largo was getting nothing else out of him.
Suddenly Nevcristion came sprinting through the woods, his elvish blade drawn. Bungo leaped up, his small sword at the ready. Largo had lost his club to the stable boy, so he grabbed some floss and stood at the ready.
"I smell an orc!" hissed the tall elf. The three of them stood with their backs to the fire. Every sound seemed magnified... the wind in the trees, the rustle of the leaves, the bird-calls, the giggling...
They looked at each other. The giggling?
At that moment, a stumpy looking orc with an orange baldric and long, sharp claws jumped out of the bushes.
"Hi!" he giggled.
Nevcristion was not amused. "Foul beast! Get you gone from here!"
Largo cocked his head. "Say, you look familiar."
The snaga roared. "I am Bâshkrísh the Cleaver!"
"No, doesn't ring a bell."
"Well, I'm from south of the Entwash. Maybe you know one of my relatives!"
"Or slept with them," muttered Bungo.
"Silence, dark spawn!!!" Nevcristion drew himself up, displaying the full might of the Valar.
Bâshkrísh reached in his pouch and produced a hideous yellow weed. "Flower?"
"You dare...!" growled the elf. "Poison us with your deceitful visions and foul herbs, eh? Well, you're not fooling anyone!"
"But--"
Nevcristion bopped him on the head.
"Ow! That bloody hurt! Skai, you'll pay for this!" Bâshkrísh hopped away. "I'm telling Urkdúsh! And wait till Shagdreg hears of it! You'll be sorry then!" The snaga disappeared into the woods.
Nevcristion sheathed his ancient blade, the light of the Valar shining on his brow. "I kicked his ass."
Largo sweatdropped.
The Vala turned his grey eyes on the two hobbits. "Apparently the Dark Powers are protecting this treacherous Avari. We must be wary at all times. The elven pools at the Last Homely House may be our only respite."
"...pools?" said Largo. Elven pools usually meant elven youths and elven maids, and even elven masters.
Bungo just smirked. And Largo began to wonder just how virtuous his cousin was.
~60K of graphics :: Koani by
Alice in Wonderland :: Scorpion by Ushikai Background and buttons by Triple Orbit Graphics ~ Sadly it's no longer at its former website.
