Weekend yay!!!
Sep. 15th, 2006 07:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrGlad the week is over. Let the drinking begin. Though I wouldn't mind getting out of the house for a bit, but we're going to go see Black Dahlia tomorrow, I guess that'll work.
Oh! Told Sammie all, but did not tell here. Your cheap amusement for the day:
I went to UDF yesterday after work to get a few things, including beer, and on my way home tripped and went CRASH to the sidewalk. Killed my freakin' knees, one bled all over my work pants, I was very annoyed. But here was the gist of my thoughts as I fell and wound up in pain:
'Goddammit that hurt! FUCK IS THE BEER OKAY. Goddammit are my pants ruined now?'
My priorities might possibly need some work.
Now to write. I think I might attempt to work on stories long owed people this weekend. Sky, Stardance are each owed one, Tygati is owed several, and I think owe Tsaiko one as well. Hmmm...we shall see what gets done.
In the mean time, would you like to read a bit of Neikirk?
Seeing the look on the Captain’s face, Neikirk took pity on him and simply asked several questions about the storm, bowing low when there was nothing left to ask and he’d reassured himself his trunks would in fact be safe in the midst of a storm.
He made his way back to Cerant’s side, walking slowly so that he could steal a few seconds to look his fill.
Broad-shouldered, strong from hunting and constantly honing his swordsmanship, eyes the very color of the ocean they traveled, clad in understated dark blue, Cerant was every inch what Neikirk thought a prince should be. Not like the indolent, silk-clad figures that stuffed the royal palace back home. Cerant didn’t need those things to be a prince – his bearing said everything, and none of those things was arrogance, or laziness, or selfishness…or a desire to control and misuse.
The sort of man who could have anything or anyone he wanted – including the alchemist of his choice. Yet he’d settled on a fresh-from-lessons experimental alchemist.
He hadn’t even realized Prince Cerant was going to be at that auction. All the alchemists up for bid that night had been informed of the attendees, which had been a collection of wealthy merchants, lesser nobles and a handful of higher nobles. No one had bothered to tell them of the Prince’s attendance. When it was his turn to go up for bid, and the clamoring over one of the bidders let him know who that particular bidder was, Neikirk had wanted badly to turn and run.
Running was out of the question of course, ands so he’d stood silently as the bidding was rapidly concluded. He’d learned later the Prince had barely even looked at the other, far more impressive, offerings. Several had tried to talk him out of his purchase, both during and after the auction, but for reasons unknown the prince had remained adamant. In the end, Neikirk decided he could do nothing but strive to make himself worthy of having Prince Cerant for a sponsor.
He tried and tried to make himself useful, important…and in the South he’d thought he had been doing well. Over the past few years he’d done a great deal of work to improve the casting speed of all manner of elemental incantations – including frost, one of the trickier. His reputation as an expert had been growing, and he’d even been asked to assist a couple of more proficient alchemists in the palace.
Only necromantic alchemy completely eluded him. He’d even mastered a few of the lesser holy incantations, which was almost as rare as necromantic alchemy, and while they were nothing like the magic he knew Cerant could use…he’d thought his efforts were most impressive.
Cerant had never seemed displeased with him. He’d even taken pains to understand what precisely Neikirk did, about alchemy in general. Not once did he questions the things Neikirk requested, more than once simply handing over the necessary gold and bidding Neikirk do as he please. When he heard of his accomplishments, Cerant never failed to praise him, ask questions, and encourage him to continue.
Yet Neikirk constantly had the impression Cerant wasn’t entirely satisfied either, as if Neikirk always fell short of expectations.
He wasn’t sure what else to try – he’d slowly and steadily built a reputation as a well regarded experimental alchemist, sponsored by a foreign prince, had achieved much in that field, his marks in school had been all but perfect…and no one could fault his manners and behavior.
Still Cerant never appeared content.
Perhaps he’d never be good enough – yet what could he do but keep striving toward perfection? At least Cerant had not set him free as he’d offered. Eventually though, if he didn’t manage to become good enough, Cerant would force the issue and get rid of him.
On top of all that, now he had to make himself worthy of Cerant in a foreign country. Completely out of his element, away from what he knew…and up against people Cerant had grown up with, people he knew well. All manner of people he would have to struggle to stay even with, and impress, if he wanted to be deemed worthy of being Prince Cerant’s alchemist. Still, alchemists strove constantly for perfection. He would do so, and someday perhaps Cerant would be pleased with his purchase.
Stopping just behind and to the right of Cerant, who was again gazing out at sea – and the coming storm – Neikirk spoke up quietly, keeping his voice even, relaxed. “The Captain says we would be wise to seek our cabin.”
“Just what I want,” Cerant said, "to spend hours getting knocked about my cabin like a stray potato at the bottom of a cart.” The prince smiled softly in the way he always did when dragging himself from his perpetually gloomy thoughts. Honestly, Cerant seemed to delight in depressing himself. “Captain said your trunks would be all right?”
“He assured me that should the ship flip upside down my trunks would not budge from their straps.”
“Let us hope we do not have to see his words proved true,” Cerant said, making a face.
Neikirk perked up at the words, and wondered that he didn’t think of it sooner. “Shall I cast a weather incantation, Master? It wouldn’t require more than a few of the basics I keep on my person, and I should be able to tell you how bad the approaching storm will be. This close there is very little room for error.”
“If you want,” Cerant said, and Neikirk stifled his disappointment. “It shouldn’t be necessary though. Better to save everything you’ve got until we can be certain of having ways to replace them. Doesn’t weather incanting require those leaves…what are they called…I know they don’t grow in the North, except maybe along the Borderlands…”
“Dried whisper-leaf,” Neikirk answered, and conceded that of course Cerant was correct. How sloppy of him not to recall that he needed to conserve all his supplies – if he hadn’t been in such a rush to impress…Stifling a sigh, he moved to his small bed and sat down, picking up the book he’d been reading, a collection of reports by an experimental alchemist who had focused all his efforts on holy necromancy.
“We’ll have to see what it’s called back home.” Cerant smiled at him. “Then you can cast every weather incantation you like – perhaps even outstrip the priests’ ability to foretell the weather. Which isn’t saying much, for they’re not very good at it and I’ve seen your weather incantations before, my dear. You’ll outstrip them easily.” Cerant started to say more, but was suddenly pitched forward and fell hard to the floor when the ship jerked roughly to the side. “Looks like the waters are finally turning rough.”
Neikirk set his book aside and stooped to help Cerant up, barely managing to keep his expression blank. “Master, perhaps you should sit before the floor attempts to renew your acquaintanceship.”
“What a cute way to say ‘before you fall on your face again,’ my dear.” Cerant sat down beside him, the old bed creaking. “Perhaps I should have chosen full pomp and splendor for the journey home after all.”
For reply, Neikirk only looked at him, blinking slowly. Cerant said he did it every time he thought someone was being stupid, and he’d tried to break himself of the habit…but Cerant always grinned when he did it. He couldn’t even remember when he’d acquired the habit.
Cerant laughed. “You’re right. I would have hated it.”
That was the other reason he didn’t lose the habit – Cerant always heard what he wasn’t saying. It felt like maybe he had some chance of eventually being good enough, if Cerant understood him even when he wasn’t speaking. Like maybe Cerant had seen potential in him, and Neikirk had only to live up to it.
At least he hoped that’s what it meant, because try as he might he could find no other reason that Cerant would have picked him that night. He was an excellent alchemist, but he knew the auctioneers had anticipated selling him to one of the wealthier lesser nobles, easier for the government to watch and control. No one that night had thought Prince Cerant would want him.
“What are you reading?” Cerant asked, reaching across him to snag the book from where it lay on Neikirk’s pillow. “Still pushing holy alchemy? Oh, I see…” Cerant fell into nonsensical muttering as he perused the book. “I think you’ll have an easier time of this when you’re where the word ‘holy’ actually means something.” He winked and handed the book back. “Though I warn you now, if you someone manage to show up the Paladins, they won’t be very happy with you.”
“Paladins?” Neikirk asked, then made himself stop. This was the first time, in the years he’d been with Cerant, that he’d mentioned the most legendary part of his homeland. Men who it was said wielded the power of the gods, dared to say they understood the gods…the Goddess, as Cerant was forever saying. Neikirk had always wondered what it really was that made Paladins as powerful as they were rumored to be.
“Yes,” Cerant answered. “I’m sure Paladin Sorin will be more than happy to help you, as will the High Priest for that matter. Perhaps I can teach one of you silly southerners that there’s a lot to be said for faith.” He reached out and flicked Neikirk’s nose, a gesture Neikirk had never once understood.
He wrinkled his nose to get ride of the weird feeling left by the flicking. “You imply that there is something wrong with alchemy.”
“Alchemy has no heart, no soul, it often seems. Many incantations you cannot master come naturally to those of us who swear by the Goddess…does it not make you think?”
So he had no heart? No soul? Neikirk struggled for something to say, fighting to keep his level tone. He would not succumb to emotion and let it cloud his thinking. “Perhaps alchemy is what calls to my heart and soul, Master.”
Cerant frowned. “I’ve upset you.”
“No, Master. You know I do not understand your devotion to your Goddess. The south is a land of alchemy. I make a poor conversant on matters of faith. My apologies.”
“I did upset you,” Cerant asserted. “Neikirk, I did not mean to imply that you lack a heart and soul. Never that. I should – and do – offer my apologies. I’ve seen you at work in your labs, my dear, you put more heart into your work than anyone I’ve ever met.” He flicked Neikirk’s nose again, smiling faintly. “If you did not have a soul, you would hardly be sitting in front of me trying not to pout.” He winked, then stood up and stumbled over to his own bed, hitting it with a hard thump as the ship rocked violently again. “I guess we’re not getting our evening meal for some time, if at all.”
Neikirk set his book back down and lay down on his bed to better reach beneath it, sitting up again with his knapsack in hand. From it he pulled out two red apples, and tossed one over to the prince. He set the other one aside to give him later. “I am certain the storm will abate before too much longer. Despite the rocking, it does not seem to be especially bad.”
“Meaning I won’t starve to death, so stop whining.”
“I neither said nor implied any such thing, Master.” It would be futile. Cerant was always hungry, though Neikirk didn’t know where he put it all. He’d seen Cerant devour banquets of food and yet he never seemed to gain anything but more muscle.
Cerant snickered and winked. “It’s what you meant, all the same.”
Neikirk said nothing and went back to his book, pouring all his energy into the experiments so meticulously recorded, noting flaws, changes he could make, further experiments he could do, not looking up until Cerant spoke again.
“I think the storm is abating.”
Blinking as he shifted his thoughts from alchemy to Cerant, Neikirk looked across the small cabin to where Cerant was stretched out on his own bed. He was just the slightest bit too big for it, though if it bothered him he had not mentioned it, and at some point he’d discarded all but his breeches, shirt, and boots. “The captain said he would inform us when all was clear and we were free to return topside.” He reached down and snagged the second apple, tossing it over as he sat up.
He ran his hands through his hair to make sure the wretched curls were still smoothed out. It was bad enough he was eight years younger than Cerant; when his hair curled he looked as though he should still be taking lessons. Most vexing.
Cerant stood up and restlessly paced the small space, moving to the porthole to look at the waters. “It’s gotten dark,” he said, “so we probably shouldn’t go out again anyway.”
Neikirk ducked his head until he could restrain his smile, but he couldn’t resist a gentle prodding. “I am certain, Master, that it would be just as easy to contemplate your thoughts in here as it would be out there.”
“Yes, Neikirk,” Cerant said, and turned to grin at him, “but I like looking at the ocean while I sulk and brood.”
“I did not say—” Neikirk was cut off by a knock at the door, and a moment later a handful of sailors entered bearing a table followed by several trays of food.
“From the Captain. Says you’d best keep to quarters,” one of the sailors said gruffly. “Storm is gone, but more are coming.”
“Thank you,” Cerant said, smiling at the sailors, and Neikirk wondered if he ever noticed the effect his smiles and manners had on people. Truly, Cerant was a prince in every sense of the word.
Stowing his book, smoothing out his rumpled tunic, Neikirk moved to the table and sat down to eat, though he knew he’d spend most of the meal watching Cerant, who seldom noticed anything once there was food to be devoured.
Oh! Told Sammie all, but did not tell here. Your cheap amusement for the day:
I went to UDF yesterday after work to get a few things, including beer, and on my way home tripped and went CRASH to the sidewalk. Killed my freakin' knees, one bled all over my work pants, I was very annoyed. But here was the gist of my thoughts as I fell and wound up in pain:
'Goddammit that hurt! FUCK IS THE BEER OKAY. Goddammit are my pants ruined now?'
My priorities might possibly need some work.
Now to write. I think I might attempt to work on stories long owed people this weekend. Sky, Stardance are each owed one, Tygati is owed several, and I think owe Tsaiko one as well. Hmmm...we shall see what gets done.
In the mean time, would you like to read a bit of Neikirk?
Seeing the look on the Captain’s face, Neikirk took pity on him and simply asked several questions about the storm, bowing low when there was nothing left to ask and he’d reassured himself his trunks would in fact be safe in the midst of a storm.
He made his way back to Cerant’s side, walking slowly so that he could steal a few seconds to look his fill.
Broad-shouldered, strong from hunting and constantly honing his swordsmanship, eyes the very color of the ocean they traveled, clad in understated dark blue, Cerant was every inch what Neikirk thought a prince should be. Not like the indolent, silk-clad figures that stuffed the royal palace back home. Cerant didn’t need those things to be a prince – his bearing said everything, and none of those things was arrogance, or laziness, or selfishness…or a desire to control and misuse.
The sort of man who could have anything or anyone he wanted – including the alchemist of his choice. Yet he’d settled on a fresh-from-lessons experimental alchemist.
He hadn’t even realized Prince Cerant was going to be at that auction. All the alchemists up for bid that night had been informed of the attendees, which had been a collection of wealthy merchants, lesser nobles and a handful of higher nobles. No one had bothered to tell them of the Prince’s attendance. When it was his turn to go up for bid, and the clamoring over one of the bidders let him know who that particular bidder was, Neikirk had wanted badly to turn and run.
Running was out of the question of course, ands so he’d stood silently as the bidding was rapidly concluded. He’d learned later the Prince had barely even looked at the other, far more impressive, offerings. Several had tried to talk him out of his purchase, both during and after the auction, but for reasons unknown the prince had remained adamant. In the end, Neikirk decided he could do nothing but strive to make himself worthy of having Prince Cerant for a sponsor.
He tried and tried to make himself useful, important…and in the South he’d thought he had been doing well. Over the past few years he’d done a great deal of work to improve the casting speed of all manner of elemental incantations – including frost, one of the trickier. His reputation as an expert had been growing, and he’d even been asked to assist a couple of more proficient alchemists in the palace.
Only necromantic alchemy completely eluded him. He’d even mastered a few of the lesser holy incantations, which was almost as rare as necromantic alchemy, and while they were nothing like the magic he knew Cerant could use…he’d thought his efforts were most impressive.
Cerant had never seemed displeased with him. He’d even taken pains to understand what precisely Neikirk did, about alchemy in general. Not once did he questions the things Neikirk requested, more than once simply handing over the necessary gold and bidding Neikirk do as he please. When he heard of his accomplishments, Cerant never failed to praise him, ask questions, and encourage him to continue.
Yet Neikirk constantly had the impression Cerant wasn’t entirely satisfied either, as if Neikirk always fell short of expectations.
He wasn’t sure what else to try – he’d slowly and steadily built a reputation as a well regarded experimental alchemist, sponsored by a foreign prince, had achieved much in that field, his marks in school had been all but perfect…and no one could fault his manners and behavior.
Still Cerant never appeared content.
Perhaps he’d never be good enough – yet what could he do but keep striving toward perfection? At least Cerant had not set him free as he’d offered. Eventually though, if he didn’t manage to become good enough, Cerant would force the issue and get rid of him.
On top of all that, now he had to make himself worthy of Cerant in a foreign country. Completely out of his element, away from what he knew…and up against people Cerant had grown up with, people he knew well. All manner of people he would have to struggle to stay even with, and impress, if he wanted to be deemed worthy of being Prince Cerant’s alchemist. Still, alchemists strove constantly for perfection. He would do so, and someday perhaps Cerant would be pleased with his purchase.
Stopping just behind and to the right of Cerant, who was again gazing out at sea – and the coming storm – Neikirk spoke up quietly, keeping his voice even, relaxed. “The Captain says we would be wise to seek our cabin.”
“Just what I want,” Cerant said, "to spend hours getting knocked about my cabin like a stray potato at the bottom of a cart.” The prince smiled softly in the way he always did when dragging himself from his perpetually gloomy thoughts. Honestly, Cerant seemed to delight in depressing himself. “Captain said your trunks would be all right?”
“He assured me that should the ship flip upside down my trunks would not budge from their straps.”
“Let us hope we do not have to see his words proved true,” Cerant said, making a face.
Neikirk perked up at the words, and wondered that he didn’t think of it sooner. “Shall I cast a weather incantation, Master? It wouldn’t require more than a few of the basics I keep on my person, and I should be able to tell you how bad the approaching storm will be. This close there is very little room for error.”
“If you want,” Cerant said, and Neikirk stifled his disappointment. “It shouldn’t be necessary though. Better to save everything you’ve got until we can be certain of having ways to replace them. Doesn’t weather incanting require those leaves…what are they called…I know they don’t grow in the North, except maybe along the Borderlands…”
“Dried whisper-leaf,” Neikirk answered, and conceded that of course Cerant was correct. How sloppy of him not to recall that he needed to conserve all his supplies – if he hadn’t been in such a rush to impress…Stifling a sigh, he moved to his small bed and sat down, picking up the book he’d been reading, a collection of reports by an experimental alchemist who had focused all his efforts on holy necromancy.
“We’ll have to see what it’s called back home.” Cerant smiled at him. “Then you can cast every weather incantation you like – perhaps even outstrip the priests’ ability to foretell the weather. Which isn’t saying much, for they’re not very good at it and I’ve seen your weather incantations before, my dear. You’ll outstrip them easily.” Cerant started to say more, but was suddenly pitched forward and fell hard to the floor when the ship jerked roughly to the side. “Looks like the waters are finally turning rough.”
Neikirk set his book aside and stooped to help Cerant up, barely managing to keep his expression blank. “Master, perhaps you should sit before the floor attempts to renew your acquaintanceship.”
“What a cute way to say ‘before you fall on your face again,’ my dear.” Cerant sat down beside him, the old bed creaking. “Perhaps I should have chosen full pomp and splendor for the journey home after all.”
For reply, Neikirk only looked at him, blinking slowly. Cerant said he did it every time he thought someone was being stupid, and he’d tried to break himself of the habit…but Cerant always grinned when he did it. He couldn’t even remember when he’d acquired the habit.
Cerant laughed. “You’re right. I would have hated it.”
That was the other reason he didn’t lose the habit – Cerant always heard what he wasn’t saying. It felt like maybe he had some chance of eventually being good enough, if Cerant understood him even when he wasn’t speaking. Like maybe Cerant had seen potential in him, and Neikirk had only to live up to it.
At least he hoped that’s what it meant, because try as he might he could find no other reason that Cerant would have picked him that night. He was an excellent alchemist, but he knew the auctioneers had anticipated selling him to one of the wealthier lesser nobles, easier for the government to watch and control. No one that night had thought Prince Cerant would want him.
“What are you reading?” Cerant asked, reaching across him to snag the book from where it lay on Neikirk’s pillow. “Still pushing holy alchemy? Oh, I see…” Cerant fell into nonsensical muttering as he perused the book. “I think you’ll have an easier time of this when you’re where the word ‘holy’ actually means something.” He winked and handed the book back. “Though I warn you now, if you someone manage to show up the Paladins, they won’t be very happy with you.”
“Paladins?” Neikirk asked, then made himself stop. This was the first time, in the years he’d been with Cerant, that he’d mentioned the most legendary part of his homeland. Men who it was said wielded the power of the gods, dared to say they understood the gods…the Goddess, as Cerant was forever saying. Neikirk had always wondered what it really was that made Paladins as powerful as they were rumored to be.
“Yes,” Cerant answered. “I’m sure Paladin Sorin will be more than happy to help you, as will the High Priest for that matter. Perhaps I can teach one of you silly southerners that there’s a lot to be said for faith.” He reached out and flicked Neikirk’s nose, a gesture Neikirk had never once understood.
He wrinkled his nose to get ride of the weird feeling left by the flicking. “You imply that there is something wrong with alchemy.”
“Alchemy has no heart, no soul, it often seems. Many incantations you cannot master come naturally to those of us who swear by the Goddess…does it not make you think?”
So he had no heart? No soul? Neikirk struggled for something to say, fighting to keep his level tone. He would not succumb to emotion and let it cloud his thinking. “Perhaps alchemy is what calls to my heart and soul, Master.”
Cerant frowned. “I’ve upset you.”
“No, Master. You know I do not understand your devotion to your Goddess. The south is a land of alchemy. I make a poor conversant on matters of faith. My apologies.”
“I did upset you,” Cerant asserted. “Neikirk, I did not mean to imply that you lack a heart and soul. Never that. I should – and do – offer my apologies. I’ve seen you at work in your labs, my dear, you put more heart into your work than anyone I’ve ever met.” He flicked Neikirk’s nose again, smiling faintly. “If you did not have a soul, you would hardly be sitting in front of me trying not to pout.” He winked, then stood up and stumbled over to his own bed, hitting it with a hard thump as the ship rocked violently again. “I guess we’re not getting our evening meal for some time, if at all.”
Neikirk set his book back down and lay down on his bed to better reach beneath it, sitting up again with his knapsack in hand. From it he pulled out two red apples, and tossed one over to the prince. He set the other one aside to give him later. “I am certain the storm will abate before too much longer. Despite the rocking, it does not seem to be especially bad.”
“Meaning I won’t starve to death, so stop whining.”
“I neither said nor implied any such thing, Master.” It would be futile. Cerant was always hungry, though Neikirk didn’t know where he put it all. He’d seen Cerant devour banquets of food and yet he never seemed to gain anything but more muscle.
Cerant snickered and winked. “It’s what you meant, all the same.”
Neikirk said nothing and went back to his book, pouring all his energy into the experiments so meticulously recorded, noting flaws, changes he could make, further experiments he could do, not looking up until Cerant spoke again.
“I think the storm is abating.”
Blinking as he shifted his thoughts from alchemy to Cerant, Neikirk looked across the small cabin to where Cerant was stretched out on his own bed. He was just the slightest bit too big for it, though if it bothered him he had not mentioned it, and at some point he’d discarded all but his breeches, shirt, and boots. “The captain said he would inform us when all was clear and we were free to return topside.” He reached down and snagged the second apple, tossing it over as he sat up.
He ran his hands through his hair to make sure the wretched curls were still smoothed out. It was bad enough he was eight years younger than Cerant; when his hair curled he looked as though he should still be taking lessons. Most vexing.
Cerant stood up and restlessly paced the small space, moving to the porthole to look at the waters. “It’s gotten dark,” he said, “so we probably shouldn’t go out again anyway.”
Neikirk ducked his head until he could restrain his smile, but he couldn’t resist a gentle prodding. “I am certain, Master, that it would be just as easy to contemplate your thoughts in here as it would be out there.”
“Yes, Neikirk,” Cerant said, and turned to grin at him, “but I like looking at the ocean while I sulk and brood.”
“I did not say—” Neikirk was cut off by a knock at the door, and a moment later a handful of sailors entered bearing a table followed by several trays of food.
“From the Captain. Says you’d best keep to quarters,” one of the sailors said gruffly. “Storm is gone, but more are coming.”
“Thank you,” Cerant said, smiling at the sailors, and Neikirk wondered if he ever noticed the effect his smiles and manners had on people. Truly, Cerant was a prince in every sense of the word.
Stowing his book, smoothing out his rumpled tunic, Neikirk moved to the table and sat down to eat, though he knew he’d spend most of the meal watching Cerant, who seldom noticed anything once there was food to be devoured.
