Michael found Morgan in his study. Morgan's fingers flew over the pages of a book. Michael cleared his throat to announce himself. Morgan slid a pagemarker near his finger and closed the book. He placed it on a small table and indicated the seat next to him. Michael sat down and breathed loudly to indicate he was thinking about something. Morgan spoke first. “You are going to entreat me to be home this year.”
Michael nodded noisily. He looked at the several shelves worth of braille books and wondered idly if Morgan had bought any since their mother had tried burn his collection. “The only gift I want this year is to see you smile on Christmas Day.”
“A simple request,” Morgan responded. “Yet, it is one that I am profoundly at odds to give.”
Michael made a keening noise while shaking his head. “I think after thirty years, she can let us have this one special day together again. I can bind her tongue myself, if necessary.”
“It will not be necessary,” Morgan said plainly. “She has not forced me away since Father passed on. It was from him she was keeping me.”
“Then, where have you been all these years?”
“I have been trying not to force myself into the excessive cheeriness of the season. It does not ring true for me. And I would not rob you of your happiness and love of it by sitting about melancholic and ineffective. All this time of year does... is make me wish I could have spent it with Dad.”
As Micheal reached out to embrace him, Morgan stood and walked out of the room with a haunted expression on his face. Michael did not sense an incipient attack, so he let him go, wondering.
December 13, 2008
December 12, 2008
Michael's Wish, part 1
Year 35: Michael picked tinsel off his clothes as he went to find Morgan. The festive December spirit that overtook the household every year grew as the children did. Michael loved it. However, there was always one shadow that fell over it, and Michael found himself every year wishing that Morgan could spend Christmas Day home with him and their family. There was a very old photo of them when they were four or five sitting with their father in the large drawing room. Morgan was actually smiling in it. Michael could not remember another December twenty-fifth when Morgan was present. He presumed that their mother would drag him away just to deny him the innocent joy of the season.
As they grew older, Morgan would show up on December twenty-sixth beaten and bloody. The wounds grew progressively worse over time. The effect on Morgan's spirit was noticeable. He stopped partaking in the festivities leading up to the holiday. He'd become morose at the end of November. Any attempts to engage him in activities would lead to a stilted, almost mechanical, participation.
There was one small, but salient, exception. As practicing Anglicans, they often were willing to aid their congregation. Their parish was never short funds. So, on Christmas Eve, Morgan traditionally sang for the evening mass. They would then go back to the small church at the barony and he would repeat his performance in a common mass. Then, at some point between compline and midnight, he would disappear.
As they grew older, Morgan would show up on December twenty-sixth beaten and bloody. The wounds grew progressively worse over time. The effect on Morgan's spirit was noticeable. He stopped partaking in the festivities leading up to the holiday. He'd become morose at the end of November. Any attempts to engage him in activities would lead to a stilted, almost mechanical, participation.
There was one small, but salient, exception. As practicing Anglicans, they often were willing to aid their congregation. Their parish was never short funds. So, on Christmas Eve, Morgan traditionally sang for the evening mass. They would then go back to the small church at the barony and he would repeat his performance in a common mass. Then, at some point between compline and midnight, he would disappear.
December 11, 2008
He's Got the Whole World
The elven community kept on with its daily routine despite Michael's presence. They spared him a glance, maybe even a short stare, but no more than a brief stop. He continued walking through until someone recognized his aura as Scafir. When they started gathering around, he was unsure of exactly what they wanted. He listened closely and they seemed to be whispering about whether he was friendly or maleficient. He distractedly pressed forward. A child tried to tug on his leg. He stopped and asked in Elven, “What do you need?”
The child made a hand gesture. Michael had no idea what he was gesturing. He wrote the question on the ground. The child gave a quizzical look. The child drew a small four-legged animal. He made more hand gestures. Michael clearly mouthed out the word for 'lost.' The child nodded. Michael return the nod with a quiet 'aaah...'
Michael walked with the child a short while away. He made a bowl shape with his hands. The rest of the community looked at him in wonder. Michael kindly requested a bowl and some water. When they hesitated, he sighed and went to a well. He pulled up water and motioned the young boy over. Michael positioned the child's hand so his fingertips gently touched to water. Michael put his own hands underneath the child's and started chanting. The crowd watched in wondrous awe. A vision appeared to both of them. The child gratefully reached up and hugged him and ran off.
Michael stood up and the village elder said, “You are unlike any Scafir we've seen. Who are you?”
Michael smiled at the old woman and said, “Just a humble man who can talk to dragons.”
She bowed. The crowd followed suit. “Then, you deserve your birth more than any I've seen.”
The child made a hand gesture. Michael had no idea what he was gesturing. He wrote the question on the ground. The child gave a quizzical look. The child drew a small four-legged animal. He made more hand gestures. Michael clearly mouthed out the word for 'lost.' The child nodded. Michael return the nod with a quiet 'aaah...'
Michael walked with the child a short while away. He made a bowl shape with his hands. The rest of the community looked at him in wonder. Michael kindly requested a bowl and some water. When they hesitated, he sighed and went to a well. He pulled up water and motioned the young boy over. Michael positioned the child's hand so his fingertips gently touched to water. Michael put his own hands underneath the child's and started chanting. The crowd watched in wondrous awe. A vision appeared to both of them. The child gratefully reached up and hugged him and ran off.
Michael stood up and the village elder said, “You are unlike any Scafir we've seen. Who are you?”
Michael smiled at the old woman and said, “Just a humble man who can talk to dragons.”
She bowed. The crowd followed suit. “Then, you deserve your birth more than any I've seen.”
December 10, 2008
World Mechanics 4
Bloodline major:
The'pf: draconic, mental, compulsive
Scafir: ley, elemental, enhancing
Gemen: latent, creative, imputive
Magir: djinni, inherent, evocative
Human: none, technological
Bloodline minor:
dracon = the'pf/scafir
ogre = the'pf/gemen
orc = the'pf/magir
dwarves = scafir/gemen
elves = scafir/magir
gnomes = gemen/magir
Arcana:
divination, essence, illusion, manifestation, nullification, portation, projection, restoration
The'pf: draconic, mental, compulsive
Scafir: ley, elemental, enhancing
Gemen: latent, creative, imputive
Magir: djinni, inherent, evocative
Human: none, technological
Bloodline minor:
dracon = the'pf/scafir
ogre = the'pf/gemen
orc = the'pf/magir
dwarves = scafir/gemen
elves = scafir/magir
gnomes = gemen/magir
Arcana:
divination, essence, illusion, manifestation, nullification, portation, projection, restoration
December 09, 2008
The Teachers' Pet
Year 37: Valerie stood within the circle of the court. Everyone had varying degrees of self-interest on their face. She had been anticipating this meeting for awhile. Poker faces and subterfuge are not the mages' best areas. As Valerie waited, an arcanum formed in her mind...
(Valerie: “What is arcana?”
Morgan: “Most spellcasters use magic that is natural and intuitive to themselves. It's called bloodline magic. It requires a little instruction early in life and then one can discover abilities on their own. Arcana is magic that has to be learned. One may have a gift for numbers, but one cannot just naturally know calculus. It is that way with arcana. Many avoid it because it is difficult. And at your age, even bloodline magic will take work to learn.”
Valerie: “Then, teach me both.”)
“You have failed to impress us as a leader,” they started. They were using a shared mind technique that few mages liked using. She must be seen as a bigger threat than each other individually was seen. She kept her incant silent and hid her hands in her skirts. “As such we do not think an inexperienced and weak caster should lead us.”
(Michael: “Fighting as a caster requires being able to cast quickly and you need good grip on evocative casting. However, fighting a caster physically is a better option, as it can buy you time for slower spellcasting. And pain is a great way to keep a less physically fit person from casting at all. So, first I will teach you to fight. Then, we'll work on incorporating spells with swordplay and martial manoeuvres.”)
“Are you sure?” she asked passively. “Experience I may lack but are you absolutely sure I am weak?” The arcana pattern stood brightly in her mind as her hands steadily worked.
(Morgan: “Silent spellcasting requires intimate knowledge of your spells and your technique. And it requires lots and lots of practice.”
Valerie: “I have the time.”
Morgan: “Then, let us have at it.”)
In unison, they all pointed at her and declared, “You are deposed.” As they did so, a brilliant set of sigils flared in the air and flashed about the room. Valerie's hands completed the movements necessary and the brilliance faded. She removed her crown and let it fall hollowly to the ground. “Bite me,” she snapped.
(Michael: “Ideally, you should never engage in a fight that you don't have at least an even chance of winning. If conditions aren't ideal, force them to be.”)
All the illusions they carefully maintained, all their personal protections, and all the enchantments and wards about the room failed as her last spell suppressed all magic in the council chamber. She bared her sword, kicked off her shoes, and said, “Now, who wants to fight me for the crown?”
(Valerie: “What is arcana?”
Morgan: “Most spellcasters use magic that is natural and intuitive to themselves. It's called bloodline magic. It requires a little instruction early in life and then one can discover abilities on their own. Arcana is magic that has to be learned. One may have a gift for numbers, but one cannot just naturally know calculus. It is that way with arcana. Many avoid it because it is difficult. And at your age, even bloodline magic will take work to learn.”
Valerie: “Then, teach me both.”)
“You have failed to impress us as a leader,” they started. They were using a shared mind technique that few mages liked using. She must be seen as a bigger threat than each other individually was seen. She kept her incant silent and hid her hands in her skirts. “As such we do not think an inexperienced and weak caster should lead us.”
(Michael: “Fighting as a caster requires being able to cast quickly and you need good grip on evocative casting. However, fighting a caster physically is a better option, as it can buy you time for slower spellcasting. And pain is a great way to keep a less physically fit person from casting at all. So, first I will teach you to fight. Then, we'll work on incorporating spells with swordplay and martial manoeuvres.”)
“Are you sure?” she asked passively. “Experience I may lack but are you absolutely sure I am weak?” The arcana pattern stood brightly in her mind as her hands steadily worked.
(Morgan: “Silent spellcasting requires intimate knowledge of your spells and your technique. And it requires lots and lots of practice.”
Valerie: “I have the time.”
Morgan: “Then, let us have at it.”)
In unison, they all pointed at her and declared, “You are deposed.” As they did so, a brilliant set of sigils flared in the air and flashed about the room. Valerie's hands completed the movements necessary and the brilliance faded. She removed her crown and let it fall hollowly to the ground. “Bite me,” she snapped.
(Michael: “Ideally, you should never engage in a fight that you don't have at least an even chance of winning. If conditions aren't ideal, force them to be.”)
All the illusions they carefully maintained, all their personal protections, and all the enchantments and wards about the room failed as her last spell suppressed all magic in the council chamber. She bared her sword, kicked off her shoes, and said, “Now, who wants to fight me for the crown?”
December 08, 2008
Based on an Actual Conversation:
Morgan: Do you know about Berlioz?
Michael: I know he's a composer, otherwise je ne c'est qua.
Karen: What does that mean?
Michael: Berlioz?
Karen: Jen nay say qua?
Morgan: I don't know what.
Karen: I don't know either. What does that mean?
Michael: I don't know what.
Karen: The French you just said.
Michael: Je ne c'est qua?
Karen: Yes, that.
Michael: I don't know what.
Karen: But you just used the phrase.
Michael: Yes, I don't know what.
Karen: The French phrase.
Morgan (getting amused): Je ne c'est qua?
Karen: Yes.
Morgan: I don't know what.
Karen: Neither of you knows what it means?
Michael: Yes, we both do.
Karen: And?
Michael: I. Don't. Know. What. Ne comprenez-vous pas?
Karen: What did he just say?
Morgan: Don't you understand?
Karen: No, I don't.
Morgan: That's what he asked.
Karen: What?
Michael: No, don't you understand?
Karen: Of course I don't understand! I don't know what ...
Michael: Je ne c'est qua.
Karen: Argh! I don't know what! Don't you understand?
Both: Elle l'a fait! (She got it!)
Michael: I know he's a composer, otherwise je ne c'est qua.
Karen: What does that mean?
Michael: Berlioz?
Karen: Jen nay say qua?
Morgan: I don't know what.
Karen: I don't know either. What does that mean?
Michael: I don't know what.
Karen: The French you just said.
Michael: Je ne c'est qua?
Karen: Yes, that.
Michael: I don't know what.
Karen: But you just used the phrase.
Michael: Yes, I don't know what.
Karen: The French phrase.
Morgan (getting amused): Je ne c'est qua?
Karen: Yes.
Morgan: I don't know what.
Karen: Neither of you knows what it means?
Michael: Yes, we both do.
Karen: And?
Michael: I. Don't. Know. What. Ne comprenez-vous pas?
Karen: What did he just say?
Morgan: Don't you understand?
Karen: No, I don't.
Morgan: That's what he asked.
Karen: What?
Michael: No, don't you understand?
Karen: Of course I don't understand! I don't know what ...
Michael: Je ne c'est qua.
Karen: Argh! I don't know what! Don't you understand?
Both: Elle l'a fait! (She got it!)
December 07, 2008
And With This Sword...
Valerie appeared in a princess gown. The clicking on the floor suggested she was wearing heels. Michael stared in consternation. “Does this mean you're skipping your lessons today?”
“No,” she said with relish and unsheathed her sword.
Michael quickly jumped back as she lunged. She moved well, even with the natural impediments. Michael had to dodge her sword tip several times before he managed to free his saber. He put his hand up for her to stop. “Wait. Think about this. If you're seriously going to fight in that dress, do it more intelligently. You will tire out far faster than I will with all that added bulk and, from what I can tell, you can't breathe very heavily in it.”
She was already making straining breaths and only nodded in response. He retracted his hand and exhaled, “En garde!”
He let her control the the flow for a minute and was pleased to find she was steering him towards obstacles and a wall, restricting his reactions. He counted strokes, then pressed, breaking her rhythm. The same restricted space that she had been using to control his actions, became a problem with his longer reach. He stroked low at her legs. The dress took a lot of rents. She wasn't giving much ground, but was having problems moving in. Finally, she kicked out, reaching Michael's ribs. She enhanced the kick. He could feel the magical touch. Impressed, he was flattened to the wall, unable to say so. He incanted himself to get out of the position.
He swept up at her beltline and she shot electricity at his face. He let a reflexive incant and his sword take it. The residual shock made him drop his sword. She lowered her blade to a neutral position. Rubbing his numb arm, he said proudly, “I don't think I have anything else to teach you. Now you just need a lot of practice.”
He wiped his brow with a pocket cloth. “And different sparring partners. Not everyone is going to fight the way I do, or as clumsily.”
“And they told me girls can't fight.” She sheated her blade, straining for deep breaths against the dress stays.
“I certainly never said that,” Michael smiled. “You've earned your name.”
December 06, 2008
No News Is...
Year 20: “Morgan, disappearing days after you've been released from Greystone is not the most reassuring way of telling me I've done the right thi-... What is that?”
Morgan held a heavily swathed body to him. He walked with it down the hall and went down a side stair to the guest rooms on the story below. He carefully unfolded the tarp and a young waif of a female with peroxide blond hair with brown highlights and a semi-Asian face was revealed. Morgan carefully checked her pulse and her breathing before removing her shoes and tucking her into the bed. Then, he removed his cloak and folded it.
Michael just stared. “There is an explanation for this, right?”
Morgan walked away. “Contract for the Court of Mages. They wanted me to collect her.”
Michael tried to keep pace with him. “So, what are you doing with her here?”
“I am awaiting further instructions.”
“Where did you find her?”
“She was walking the streets. She apparently worked as a street con.”
“That still doesn't answer why you stashed her here.”
They had reached Morgan's office. He reached into his desk, cajoled open the false bottom of a drawer and pulled out a folio. He walked silently back to the girl.
He passed the packet to Michael and whispered something as his fingertips touched her cheek. She awoke with a start. “Do not be frightened,” Morgan said gently. “I have no intention of harming you.”
Morgan put his hand over her mouth as she attempted to scream. “You are in my home, screaming is not a good idea. I assure you, you will not be harmed here.”
She bit him. He did not release his grip, even as blood started to seep from the wound. “Michael, hand her that packet you are holding.”
Michael wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but he stepped forward and let the folio fall onto her stomach.
“I know you are frightened, but I am not going to harm you. If I wanted to kill or harm you, I would have done it already. Now, relax and take a look at that packet. I was told it was for you alone.”
She looked down at it, and slowly released her teeth. Morgan drew back his hand just as slowly. When she didn't scream, he cradled the wound in his other hand. He got up and went off to cleanse his hand. She picked opened the folio. Loose papers and a couple charms fell out. She picked some up and looked at them. “These are written in gibberish,” she said.
Michael cleared his throat. “Mind if I look at those? I know several languages, I might be able to help.”
She threw him a dirty look. Then pushed the pile away. “Yeah, whatever.”
Michael picked up one of the loose charms. It contained a sigil for Grand Duke Stephen III, ruler of the Court of Mages. He picked up the other one. It was a Magir symbol. He looked at the document that was sitting at the top. He translated out loud. “These papers are meant and held as proof that the owner of these sigla are Crown Prince Valerie Anne Winmere, heir designate to Grand Duke Stephen III, who will ascend to the throne upon majority of years and marriage to an appropriate male of ability and station...”
Morgan said from behind him. “All hail the future Queen of the Mages.”
“Are you sure, Morgan?”
“Quite.” He flipped another sigil in his hand that glowed brighter the closer he walked to the girl. As he did, a faint hum also became noticeable. “I did not know who she was, only they were looking for the one that resonates to this.”
Valerie looked at them. “All right, who put you up to this? This is a great joke, but really...”
“I did not grab you off the streets for the sake of a joke. I am a mercenary that was paid to find you and hold you until further instruction. I was also told to make sure you were comfortable and to give you those papers. I did not have any idea I was going after His Grace's heir.”
Morgan held a heavily swathed body to him. He walked with it down the hall and went down a side stair to the guest rooms on the story below. He carefully unfolded the tarp and a young waif of a female with peroxide blond hair with brown highlights and a semi-Asian face was revealed. Morgan carefully checked her pulse and her breathing before removing her shoes and tucking her into the bed. Then, he removed his cloak and folded it.
Michael just stared. “There is an explanation for this, right?”
Morgan walked away. “Contract for the Court of Mages. They wanted me to collect her.”
Michael tried to keep pace with him. “So, what are you doing with her here?”
“I am awaiting further instructions.”
“Where did you find her?”
“She was walking the streets. She apparently worked as a street con.”
“That still doesn't answer why you stashed her here.”
They had reached Morgan's office. He reached into his desk, cajoled open the false bottom of a drawer and pulled out a folio. He walked silently back to the girl.
He passed the packet to Michael and whispered something as his fingertips touched her cheek. She awoke with a start. “Do not be frightened,” Morgan said gently. “I have no intention of harming you.”
Morgan put his hand over her mouth as she attempted to scream. “You are in my home, screaming is not a good idea. I assure you, you will not be harmed here.”
She bit him. He did not release his grip, even as blood started to seep from the wound. “Michael, hand her that packet you are holding.”
Michael wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but he stepped forward and let the folio fall onto her stomach.
“I know you are frightened, but I am not going to harm you. If I wanted to kill or harm you, I would have done it already. Now, relax and take a look at that packet. I was told it was for you alone.”
She looked down at it, and slowly released her teeth. Morgan drew back his hand just as slowly. When she didn't scream, he cradled the wound in his other hand. He got up and went off to cleanse his hand. She picked opened the folio. Loose papers and a couple charms fell out. She picked some up and looked at them. “These are written in gibberish,” she said.
Michael cleared his throat. “Mind if I look at those? I know several languages, I might be able to help.”
She threw him a dirty look. Then pushed the pile away. “Yeah, whatever.”
Michael picked up one of the loose charms. It contained a sigil for Grand Duke Stephen III, ruler of the Court of Mages. He picked up the other one. It was a Magir symbol. He looked at the document that was sitting at the top. He translated out loud. “These papers are meant and held as proof that the owner of these sigla are Crown Prince Valerie Anne Winmere, heir designate to Grand Duke Stephen III, who will ascend to the throne upon majority of years and marriage to an appropriate male of ability and station...”
Morgan said from behind him. “All hail the future Queen of the Mages.”
“Are you sure, Morgan?”
“Quite.” He flipped another sigil in his hand that glowed brighter the closer he walked to the girl. As he did, a faint hum also became noticeable. “I did not know who she was, only they were looking for the one that resonates to this.”
Valerie looked at them. “All right, who put you up to this? This is a great joke, but really...”
“I did not grab you off the streets for the sake of a joke. I am a mercenary that was paid to find you and hold you until further instruction. I was also told to make sure you were comfortable and to give you those papers. I did not have any idea I was going after His Grace's heir.”
December 05, 2008
Cats Don't Make Good Brakes
Year 32: “Micheal Winmere, I am charged by Queen Valerie of the Court of Mages to collect you to stand trial for rape.”
Morgan inwardly winced at the jumbled mess of a declaration. It wasn't one he was used to making.
“I don't suppose,” Michael Wallace whispered to him, “that you knew he could change into a cougar?”
Morgan didn't waste his breath answering. Winmere intended to flee. His first shot missed. Morgan broke into a run.
Winmere ran into the center of town. An ocean of people split as he ran through, but the edges reclosed after he passed from people staring after him. Morgan ground to a near halt. Michael grabbed his brother's arm and ran up and across using the sides of the buildings as a running surface. Morgan flatly commented, “It would be a lot easier if I wasn't specifically told to bring him back alive.”
It was Michael's turn to be too busy to reply. He avoided signs, windows, flagpoles, and was occupied maintaining his speed and accuracy. Winmere's cat form turned ninety degrees away from them. Michael cursed in elven and German, then sprang away from the buildings and shot towards that alleyway.
The next three seconds were a jumble of one manifestation, deceleration trauma, failed dexterity checks, successful fort saves, several broken bones, two concussions, and a spell backlash. All three came out of it alive, more or less.
Michael regained consciousness lying in Morgan's cabin. He forced open his eyes and turned over to see Morgan lying next him. Morgan was wearing his pants and had a bandaged hand, an eyepatch, a brilliant purple bruise on his forehead, and stitches in his cheek. He checked himself and realized that he, too, had stitches and a sizeable bruise on his face. His legs and arms hurt as if they were all sprained. When he sat up, pain exploded in his head. His groan of agony awoke Morgan.
Morgan quietly said, “I apologize for my reflexive reaction, but it was that or someone was going to die.”
Michael eased himself back down to prone and asked, “What happened?”
“When you shot off the building at around thirty-five miles per hour, M. Winmere was waiting to pounce us. At our speed, his fangs and claws would have been several inches into one or both of us. So, I put a shield in front of us. It formed around my arm. I yanked back on you as best I could, but did not realize that would cause us to carom off a wall and into another. Winmere's head met my shield at thirty miles per hour, breaking my wrist and cracking his face . Our meeting with the walls caused both our faces to bounce off causing contusions, abrasions, and a bruised eyeball. Our speed also swept him into a wall at the end of the alley, giving him a concussion on top of the fracture. Neither of you were conscious afterwards. Valerie expended a lot of healing to put your legs and arms back together. She has decided not to fix her brother's burst eyeball, as an object lesson. She wondered if my life has ever suffered from boredom.”
Michael rolled over singing, “You may have been a headache, but you've never been a bore....”
Morgan inwardly winced at the jumbled mess of a declaration. It wasn't one he was used to making.
“I don't suppose,” Michael Wallace whispered to him, “that you knew he could change into a cougar?”
Morgan didn't waste his breath answering. Winmere intended to flee. His first shot missed. Morgan broke into a run.
Winmere ran into the center of town. An ocean of people split as he ran through, but the edges reclosed after he passed from people staring after him. Morgan ground to a near halt. Michael grabbed his brother's arm and ran up and across using the sides of the buildings as a running surface. Morgan flatly commented, “It would be a lot easier if I wasn't specifically told to bring him back alive.”
It was Michael's turn to be too busy to reply. He avoided signs, windows, flagpoles, and was occupied maintaining his speed and accuracy. Winmere's cat form turned ninety degrees away from them. Michael cursed in elven and German, then sprang away from the buildings and shot towards that alleyway.
The next three seconds were a jumble of one manifestation, deceleration trauma, failed dexterity checks, successful fort saves, several broken bones, two concussions, and a spell backlash. All three came out of it alive, more or less.
Michael regained consciousness lying in Morgan's cabin. He forced open his eyes and turned over to see Morgan lying next him. Morgan was wearing his pants and had a bandaged hand, an eyepatch, a brilliant purple bruise on his forehead, and stitches in his cheek. He checked himself and realized that he, too, had stitches and a sizeable bruise on his face. His legs and arms hurt as if they were all sprained. When he sat up, pain exploded in his head. His groan of agony awoke Morgan.
Morgan quietly said, “I apologize for my reflexive reaction, but it was that or someone was going to die.”
Michael eased himself back down to prone and asked, “What happened?”
“When you shot off the building at around thirty-five miles per hour, M. Winmere was waiting to pounce us. At our speed, his fangs and claws would have been several inches into one or both of us. So, I put a shield in front of us. It formed around my arm. I yanked back on you as best I could, but did not realize that would cause us to carom off a wall and into another. Winmere's head met my shield at thirty miles per hour, breaking my wrist and cracking his face . Our meeting with the walls caused both our faces to bounce off causing contusions, abrasions, and a bruised eyeball. Our speed also swept him into a wall at the end of the alley, giving him a concussion on top of the fracture. Neither of you were conscious afterwards. Valerie expended a lot of healing to put your legs and arms back together. She has decided not to fix her brother's burst eyeball, as an object lesson. She wondered if my life has ever suffered from boredom.”
Michael rolled over singing, “You may have been a headache, but you've never been a bore....”
December 04, 2008
Author Note 3
I have told some of my private universe's stories over the course of twenty plus years. The stories have mutated and changed and their focus has become sharper as I became older. My original protagonist was Valerie and she was very much a Mary Sue (at 14, my writing was still very self-centered). But over time, after meeting other, far more interesting people, I added to my stable of regulars in the symphony. Michael and Morgan are the amalgam of, and homages to, some of the interesting men I've met. Their very existence is based on two 'men' I met while traveling in my dreams, although they are far less 'nice' than the fictional versions of themselves. The originals are a mated pair and I can never remember their names after I've awoken, so I attached names of people I knew in real life to them. As their race only has one gender, calling them homosexual, while technically correct, would also be a bit misinforming.
The fictional Morgan is named for Morgan Pellowski, a charismatic friend of a friend who unfortunately had his young life snuffed out in an auto accident. He was studying to be an actor and playwright and I liked watching how he could transform himself onstage into a very different persona.
Michael is a little more confusing. The surname Wallace is a faux-Anglicization of Mike Wallach, a classmate from high school. Wallach was from a different neighborhood and far different upbringing than I was. He was often seen as buffoonish by the students from Branchburg (which is from whence I came). I changed Wallach to Wallace to sound more English. It actually isn't, but I liked the more Norman sound of the name (which technically made it less English). Michael Wallace was originally going to be a more diffident, less relaxed character, but for the influence of another Michael – Michael Pipher.
Mr. Pipher was another 'march to the beat of a different drummer' person. He would show up each day to public school in a business suit. The rumors had it that his father was wealthy and this was his way of showing it off. Their were other whispers about his mental faculties. I didn't know much about him, but for a year I saw him every day, first period, strolling by in a suit. He always seemed to have the fictional Michael's dashing smile and devil-may-care attitude towards what everyone else thought of him. I personally think he cut a handsome profile and admired him for being different. And I think he knew the truth about himself (that he liked the way he looked and was confident in himself) despite all the whispers.
And, lastly, I was myself in a cross-dressing phase and sometimes wore a men's dress shirt and tie to school, with even nastier whispers attached. My parents and peers disapproved of my outright display of faux masculinity with the usual result of their disapproval validating my choice. Where am I in that mishmosh of the fictional brothers' heads? Well, Morgan's catatonic schizophrenia is based off my time in a mental institution. I am also the source of his ridiculously high pain threshold. And, Michael? Strangely enough, I come out in his sexuality. His archaic but modern approach to women was partially cultivated by my posing online as a man and having cybersex with women. As Michael would put it: “Only go an inch beyond what she will obtusely let you.” He will also never be the one to suggest sex. If she brings it up, he will say yes, but only then. Michael masturbates a lot, too, but he'd rather relieve his sexual frustration alone than be thought of as anything less than a gentleman. His reputation as a ladykiller is just that: a reputation.
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